Time is a turning wheel, the ages its arc between spokes and individual lives like the threads spun out into a greater pattern. In one age, on one rotation, a storm blew through the heart of Manetheren, buffeting frozen trees, dropping precious little snow on the Mountains of Mist.
A wheel is also a turning wheel, and just as capricious as destiny in its way. As the storm pushed through the Two Rivers Valley, Egwene al'Vere found herself concerned most with the wheel under her hands.
"If you want me to take over any time, just pull over -"
"I'm fine. The snow isn't even sticking yet."
"The wind, Eggs -"
"The wind is going to blow no matter who's driving," the younger woman muttered. She darted a glance at her eldest sister before fixing it back to the mountain road. "Am I learning to drive here or not?"
Berowyn didn't respond - technically - but Egwene could practically hear her jaw set. After another minute, it creaked open. "We should be turning back now, anyway."
Egwene managed not to sigh. It wasn't easy. She knew she had plenty of time to practice - her nameday was still closer to half a year away. And there was work to do, back at the hotel - a lot of work, if she wanted to have any time to actually enjoy the festival this year. She knew, and she pulled over - but she really, really wanted to keep going.
Before she could sweep back across the road and head back south, a three-part jointed hauler swept by, much too fast.
"What in the name of -" Berowyn didn't hide her panic, merely transmuted it to self-righteous fury. A Manetheren sterotype in full flower. "Why the outsiders have to send us their biggest idiots, every Bel Tine - have they heard of paying attention?" She cooled, only slightly, to round on Egwene again. "If you want me to drive back ..."
"It's okay. I've got it." She swept back across the road before Berowyn could unhook her lapbelt. Honestly, she understood her sister's stress - she sort of did - but then why did she even agree to the lessons in the first place? Probably so she can stop driving the shuttle from the capital. Foist it off on me.
"Just stay back a safe distance, okay? You don't need to pass the hauler, not on this kind of road in this weather ..." Egwene nodded politely, letting the intermittent stream of advice wash over her for the rest of the drive.
She really was looking forward to Bel Tine, after all.
And to driving. Definitely, that.
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According to Tam al'Thor, Bel Tine was one of the oldest festivals in the world. "Even Firstday is pretty recent," he'd said, some years ago - was she eight that year, or nine? - "not that there wasn't always a start to the new year, but having every place agree on that day ..." He'd trailed off, then. He usually did when he talked about the world outside, and waved off whoever asked with an admonition to go do something more interesting.
Bel Tine belonged to home, though; in ways Egwene hadn't even questioned back then, it seemed to belong to Aemon's Field in particular. Apparently the battle the town was named for had come at the start of spring, or close enough, and they'd turned the holiday into a sort of combined celebration.
And, well, she had to admit that her hometown was traditional about it.
Her parents did their best to keep it that way - having the town's only real hotel, and that right on the Green, ensured that a rustic country festival was good for business. "A few distant cousins down from the City of -" that was Manetheren, which always lost its real name in reference - "down from the City of, and we're solvent until the next spring." It had
only recently begun to bother Egwene that her father could still sound so folksy when he used a word like solvent.
But the family behind the Winespring Hotel - her parents, only three of her sisters now that Alene was studying in Tanchico, and Egwene herself - had plenty to do in the days before. Egwene couldn't help thinking that Berowyn got off lightly, driving the shuttle from the Taren ferry stop for city people who couldn't drive themselves. Egwene had to handle the lobby - meaning Berowyn's guests, when she brought them in in their tired, impatient clusters, as well as deliveries for the festival on the green.
I wonder if that truck wasn't for us after all, she thought idly, scanning the list of reserved rooms again. Or maybe it got here long enough before I did that they finished unloading at the back before we could see it.
She stood up straighter as the delivery bell rang. The door opened immediately after, though, and before she could get out from behind the banister she recognised the voice wafting through.
"She's probably really busy, and -"
"Just tell her I'm here, Rand. I called Marin earlier, so everything's in hand."
"But I can -" Half-stumbling, Rand al'Thor backed through the door.
A shock of red hair suspended two paces above the ground, he spun around awkwardly, like his feet had molded to his father's truck's pedals in the last hour and forgotten how to handle a simple floor. Egwene was jealous - but of course she was. He'd probably told her he was driving their brandy delivery this year just to make her jealous. But he smiled at her.
"Uh, hi." He shifted nervously, as he always seemed to do lately. Like he still wasn't used to his shoulders, and kept having to adjust their fit. "The brandy ..."
In memory the next seconds would slow down, but at the time it was fast: the lobby window lit an impossible orange, she felt the beginning of a shout leave her throat only to disappear into an impossible roar. Through a world gone blurry, and as she tried belatedly to get down, she saw Rand slam into the reception desk. His jacket was on fire.