Thank you," the young mother said again. "Thank you." "The Black Tower protects," Logain heard himself say. "Always." "I will send him to you to be tested when he is of age," the woman promised, holding her son. "I would have him join you, if he has the talent." The talent. Not the curse. The talent.

The only way was forward, whatever lay at the end.

Duty is heavy as a mountain, death is light as a feather.

On the heights, all paths are paved with daggers. -Old Seanchan saying

There are no clear paths. Only pitfalls and tripwires and darkness.

If it's not forbidden, then it's allowed

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades 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 past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.