January 22, 2013 by Amie M
The Wheel of Time turns, and ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legends fade to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an age long pass, a wind rose in the drumlin field surrounding Guelph. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings or endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
The wind swept tempestuously through the streets of the sleepy, wintry city. It followed the course of the River Eramosa, gaining speed as it played with the surface waters. The wind blew past the ice skaters at City Hall, who gripped their jackets closer and muttered into the wind in awe at its force. Through the downtown of the winter wonderland it blew. It blew, and grew, as it forced its way to a humble house. It rammed its force against the brick walls, defiant and searching. A quick gust of cold air gained access through the unused chimney, stirring and kicking up dust of fires long past.
Amie and Paul gripped their cosy wool blankets closer as they sat on their chesterfield. They refused to break their concentration away from the voice in the room. The voice was regaling a wonderful, fantastic story. The story wasn’t being told in High Chant. No, no one in this Age knows the art of storytelling that way. The story was told in Low Chant, but with careful inflection, and interesting pronunciation of words they always thought were said differently.
The couple was listening to the last book of an Age, A Memory of Light. They’ve been entranced by this story for two weeks now. Little acknowledgement of the world outside their house was made. Aside, of course, from their days toiling away at their respective places of work. The story was so enthralling that any attempt to otherwise occupy their hands or minds during the telling was quickly put aside. What if they missed something because they had to slip slip knit pass two slipped stitches over and Egwene, the Amrylin Seat, the Watcher of the Seals decided to break the Seals.
Oh, the Seals. They were what was holding everything back. The Dark One was still able to touch the world, but only just. Imagine what was possible if he was able to break through his prison and touch the world fully, free! No, breaking the last seals on the prison was out of the question.
Their breaths caught as Egwene, once the almost betrothed to the Dragon Reborn, agreed with him to break them. But she would only do that when she thought the timing was right. But was Rand, the Dragon, right? In order to create a new prison for the Dark One, you had to first clear away the rubble and build it anew. Was this the right way to go about it? Letting the most foul of all of creation, but not of creation for he was outside of the Pattern, free in order to capture and seal him away again? The original Dragon knew the Seals and the prison was flawed at the time he created it three thousand years ago. Four of the seven Seals had been broken in the past two years, leaving only three to hold the Dark One’s touch away. Those Seals were brittle, far too fragile. Made of the unbreakable substance cuendillar, yet they had been flaking and peeling as of late. Not good.
Amie and Paul gasped when the countries of the world met at the Field of Merrilor and signed a treaty. They listened as they feasted on the Seals. One half of the cookies they ate was a white flame, representing the pure, flowing, illuminating female half of the True Source. The other half was black, and called the Dragon’s Fang. A superstition that until recently meant the bearer of the mark was touched by the Dark One. The Fang represented the male half of the power. Channeling this power was said to be like wrestling with fire, lava, and a tornado at once. Until recently this part of the power was tainted, evil, and prone to making the men who used it grow mad. This was a punishment to the male channelers for sealing the Dark One away the first time.
The cookies were made from a wonderful recipe, from Joy the Baker, and were black and white cookies. The cookies were a sidebar, a delectable but minor distraction from the main event. Amie couldn’t resist making them to commemorate the final fourteenth book.