Wheels and Levers

[James]

“Woah,” a voice said from behind them, “not even a mother could love that face."

“If you are a referring to me,” Damion snarled, “I’d just like you to know that I hate you.”

Duram would have laughed if there weren't people missing. As it was, he simply smiled because if Damion still had some fight in him, he was alright. The others also looked worse for wear, and there were two people amongst them that he didn't recognise. The woman was unmistakably Sharan, and unmistakably shocked when she found herself shielded. Duram didn't know who she was, and he was most certainly not going to leave someone he didn't know able to weave willy nilly. The ragged man displayed a great deal more caution by not grasping for saidin. Though, having said that, Duram wondered whether the man even could he looked so miserable.

"Glad to know some of you made it. I've been probing the warding for the past hour to try and find a way in. I see some faces missing, and I see two new faces." Looking to Damion, Duram added. "Report."

“You will come to no harm, Shaai’tk” Damion muttered. Except if his nausea didn’t go away and he vomited on her boots. That would be unpleasant for both of them. “Report . . . yes. Well. See those columns of fire over there? Most of your men are probably on those, and if you run fast and have a big bucket it may be possible to catch the little bits that fall. I still don’t understand fully, but Marius here may prove useful in that,” he indicated the unknown man.

“Very few of us made it beyond that area. We met a mutated monster bent on vengeance and creating for himself a mate, as well as a Sharan envoy sent to investigate disturbances in the area. Cue Shaai’tk. Once we got into the structure everything went wrong and we were forced to kill basically everything. Including the structure itself. We made it out alive and the structure ate itself, including the ter’angreal. It gets a little more complicated than that, but the next thing out of my mouth on the subject won’t be words, and it’ll be all over your trousers.”

"Tsag." Frowning, Duram turned to the woman. "I'm patient, but I am not that patient. You keep pushing at that shield and I'll drop you off the first mountain I can find."

That was better. "Well, we're moving location again. We do not want to be here when people come to investigate. Good weather at the Crescent Isle."

The means to leave availed itself as silver spun into existance. Watching as they filed in one by one, except Shaai`tk who required Damion's coaching, Duram followed them last after leaving something behind for anyone who wished to follow . . .

[James]

Crescent Isle was the sort of place that Duram had retired to for weeks at a time in another age. He wasn't actually sure what the real name of the island was, or if it even had one, but he had named it so for it's shape. The beach in the middle of the crescent was particularly heartening, enough so that he'd shaped a home from the earth itself. Power-wrought for the most part, he wondered how Leon would find it considering the man's initial attempt in the Mountains of Mist. Probably taking notes for altering his home when he went home, which would no doubt impress Mina to no end.

A two storey building, glass for the windows had been easy to make with the ready sand and it was solid enough to withstand a tsunami. That had been a particularly well learned lesson when his first home had been washed out to sea while he had been absent.

The first few years after his emergence were spent here, trying to catch up with three millenia of history, language, culture, all of it. Before he had even first settled into Cairhien, this had been it, and it still remained a handy meeting place though he barely used it now. Simply a repository of knowledge when it came to the world at large, and a place to bring people who did not owe their allegiance to him.

Like the woman infront of him.

Duram had elected to bring her and Damion with him outside in the sun to a bench where they could talk while they ate the meal that he'd set Leon and Mina to cooking. He was aware that they had sandwiches in this age, but a real burger was something that had taken a bit of instruction. Still, Duram was quite happy with the result that was sitting on his plate. He'd be happier if he could remember how they'd made some of the drinks he had once enjoyed, but that was another treasure lost to the age past.

Taking his burger in one hand, Duram decided to say a few words to the woman who was still shielded. "I'm going to release your shield. I'm going to trust you not to do anything foolish, seeing as you're out in the middle of the ocean with no way to return home until we've had this chat we're going to have over burgers. Yes, I am going to take you back. But, I'm guessing that you have some questions that you need answers to, and I have a few of my own."

Releasing the shield, Duram added. "Ask what you would, and I will answer as best I can."

Taking a bite of his burger, Duram decided that it wasn't bad for Leon's first try. Not that it was a difficult thing in itself, but it seemed to be a foreign concept in this age all the same.

[Sam]

Shaai’tk did indeed have questions. Like when could she go home? She was sitting in the middle of a foreign land. No, there was barley any land. She was in the middle of nowhere, with a plate of some foreign food on her lap and enemies surrounding her. And why was that strange little man sitting next to her as though she required—even wanted—his presence! She did not know him and this was highly improper behaviour. Okay. That was a little harsh . . . he did make her feel a little better. What was his name . . . Damion?

His hands were covered in ink, and so was his face. No one with ink smudges could be taken seriously. He was also careful to point the clumsiness. He had not touched his food, though some of the colour had returned to his face. He really did not look well. What kind of a master would allow his servant to be so ill? IT would never have taken place in Shara! She folded her tattooed hands in her lap.

“I am unused to addressing someone whose name I know not . . .” she said quietly, her kohl-shadowed eyes glancing briefly in Damion’s direction. He had the impression she was smiling and couldn’t help doing the same.

Raising an eyebrow at the look that Damion was given, he was glad that the man had seen fit to fully brief him since their arrival. The comment might have otherwise been lost. "I have a number of names, but for now we shall settle on Duram. I don't suppose that you have a better name than Shaai`tk to offer?"

“Suppose I do not?” she asked.

"Well, I could just rip it from your mind, but that would be rather rude and I'm not predisposed to that sort of thing unless it is absolutely necessary. While your name isn't necessary, it would be polite considering that you're on an island with people who saved your life as much as you saved theirs." Terrible, he was already a third of the way through his burger. Nowhere near satisfied either, he'd have to call to the house for Leon to make him a second one.

“Ah . . . in that case you may call me Nasmah.” Her posture was far tenser now.

"Excellent. So, now that our introductions are complete, we can now address each other freely. What would you like to ask?" Taking another bite of his burger, it occurred to Duram that Damion hadn't touched his burger yet. Maybe he could just have Damion's if he hadn't touched it by the time Duram was done. See how he was travelling after his own burger was finished.

“How is the threat of forcing me any different from forcing! Why am I here?” She was struggling. In her society just improper occasions would not arise. Not even in Shara could this man, powerful as he was, treat her so out of hand. There were forms . . . and customs. She was Ayyad! But this was not Shara and she was not feeling at all courageous.

"You're here because you did my people a good turn even as they did so for you. I thought it might be a poor move to leave you there to be found by whoever was sent to find out what had happened. You don't really believe that it was a coincidence that every single Ayyad sent with you served another power do you? So, you are here because this is an opportunity to get answers, a time that would be better spent asking questions to get those answers rather than whining about me giving you the opportunity to ask what you wish. As opposed to leaving you to die, kicking you off a very steep mountain or dumping you in the waves about thirty miles thataway." Pointing vaguely to the east, Duram added. "So, do you want to know what is going on? Or not?"

Nasmah was too stunned to be properly incensed. She nodded her head mutely. Her eyes flicked to Damion once more for reassurance and she found him carefully studying the backs of his hands. Great.

Duram smiled. "This is usually the part where you ask a question."

“Who . . . who are you? I have never met a da’inde so strong.”

Why not? The reactions were always interesting. "You still haven't, I am not one who is nothing, I am one who is. My name is Duram, but that is a name only a few know. You might have heard of one of my other names, one that was given to me. Be`lal."

Nasmah gasped. “I’m sorry!” she said. Then froze. No she wasn’t. She wasn’t sorry at all. Why should she be sorry? The name Be’lal . . . familiar. She rubbed the back of one hand with the fingers of the other as she—The Judge! Nasmah leapt from her seat and raised her hands before her face, palms up, a ward against evil. She began to recite oaths, almost hysterically, and averting her eyes.

It wasn't often, but occasionally, someone would react in a manner similar to Nasmah. Oaths and prayers for help or this or that. If he were a nicer person, he would have felt bad for triggering such a reaction. As it was, he was highly amused and able to finish off another third of his burger before he decided it had really run its course. "Are you done yet? Your burger is getting cold."

Now she not only felt frightened, but also stupid. Her oaths were not working and he just didn’t care. If she sat she would look a coward, but if she remained standing she would look offensive. She lowered herself into her seat. She could not eat anything he offered. He was treachery. Creator’s might! And she had been fresh with him! But he had to do something. Say something. “I . . . have . . . n-n-no more questions.” Was that a tremble in her voice? Damn!

"Really? Because I think you should ask questions." Smiling as a thought occured to him, Duram nodded to her plate. "I also think that you should eat your meal. It would be very impolite to not partake in our meal. I might even find that . . . offensive.”

Her hands actually trembled as she reached out for the strange food. He was enjoying it, but a devil’s food was not fit for mortals. She took a small bite. And bit her tongue. Tears came to her eyes but she continued eating anyway. Questions. She needed questions. So long as her mouth was full she wouldn’t have to supply any. She took a larger bite. But she didn’t have any questions. She took a deep, burger-heavy breath and tried to slow her heart down and swallowed. Something to draw attention away from herself. . . . “Your men spoke of an artefact within the structure. They came all the way from the Westlands to d-destroy it?” And only one quiver. Success!

It wasn't particularly nice, but it still made Duram smile wider. "Yes. Next question."

“Well . . . why did you send them? I do not wish to cause offence but if you are powerful as the histories say then you could easily have accomplished the task alone. Probably blindfolded.” Was that last part necessary? Stupid!

"That is an interesting question . . . Nasmah. Keep eating." Putting the remnants of his burger down, Duram snuck a glance at Damion's, still untouched. That burger was definitely his if Damion didn't touch it in the next few minutes. "The answer to that is that your histories are a pack of lies. For example, I am human. Same as Damion, same as you except for a few very obvious anatomical differences. I eat, I bleed, I even occasionally laugh. I just happen to be an exceptionally strong channeler, one of the strongest of my generation. I've lived for over three thousand and six hundred years, for nearly three thousand of them I spent in stasis in the Bore where the Great Lord of the Dark is sealed. I am now free, I have been for sometime, as have my fellow Chosen."

"Marius was a follower of Aginor, he had allied himself with Osan`gar. Osan`gar is the new name of Ishamael, and it was his followers who killed Marius' companions after Aginor himself was slain by followers of the Light from the Westlands, men who can channel. Those Ayyad who accompanied you to the tower were also Osan`gar's followers."

Nasmah blinked. “I . . . see.” She didn’t really. He could be lying and most likely was, but why would anyone lie to make themselves more of a target? It didn’t make sense to her but she wasn’t known for her deviousness, either. Maybe he only said that since people would expect it to be a lie and thus less likely to attack him. Or, maybe she should just have another bite of her meal. Yes indeed. Once she had swallowed another bite she said, “I don’t know what else to say. The meal is nice?” she offered.

"That is very nice of you to say that." Looking over at Damion, Duram added. "Speaking of which, Damion, use it or lose it. Thats good food." Turning back to Nasmah, he said. "You truly have no more questions? Perhaps your mind isn't as inquisitive as I would have hoped. One would have thought you would ask why some of your fellow Ayyad would follow a Chosen? Why did they turn on you? Why is your history wrong? Why haven't you finished your burger yet?"

Damion rolled his eyes and handed his plate over. He wasn’t hungry anyway. Nasmah stared for a moment before responding. “I am sorry. Yes. Those are good questions and I should have asked them . . . I am just a little over-whelmed. It is not ever day I come face to face with . . . well, one of the Light’s Chosen . . . even if they did turn to darkness.” The last part she muttered more to herself.

"I always found that bit about Sharan lore rather odd, perhaps you can explain it to me later." Finishing his burger, Duram sat Damion's plate ontop of his own and stood. There was little point continuing for now, not when she had this much to process. "We'll leave you be for awhile. Wander about, stay here, whatever you'd like to do. When you're ready to talk, we will talk more. Come and find me when you are ready, talk to anyone else if you want to. Keep in mind that I am relatively busy though, and I do have other things that I need to do as do the others."

"Come along my saucy minx." Directed at Damion rather than Nasmah, Duram stepped around the table and proceeded to the house with his faithful follower in tow. "Did I ever tell you about the time that . . ."

[Sam]

Nasmah sat for a long time, her eyes closed in the face of the sun. It was so hot! Her black cloth, suited for the Sharan heat, was stifling here. She removed her veil, and exposed her skin to the breeze. Better. She wiped her forehead with a hand and sighed, her knuckles grazing the ‘scars’ upon her cheek: a very old tradition and outlawed mark of beauty so easily attributed to wild animals or incidents. But she did not mind. She could not feel the tattoos but knew they were there. She would have discarded more clothing . . . but Sharans, as a rule, wore very little beneath their clothing.

"I always found that bit about Sharan lore rather odd, perhaps you can explain it to me later." This The Judge had said and odd it truly was . . . although she knew of no truly adequate explanation. The Thirteen were . . . not gods, but more than mortals. They were champions of the light fallen to night, a testament to the dangers and powers of the dark one. The Sharans remembered. They would not forget. But in time The Thirteen were deified, they obtained godhead. They were reviled, but respected, abhorred but worshipped, for what they had been and what they could have been. It was a strange dichotomy . . . and as she had seen, it left her ‘strong’ people vulnerable to superstition. She, one of the ayyad, was reduced to fear by the utterance of a name.

Shara was an openly matriarchal society. They did possess the rough equivalent of a king or queen but it was in the hands of women that power lay. Men could not be trusted. The threat of da’inde kept them passive and controlled. And of those women, the ayyad, the wealthy ruling class—the channellers, were supreme. The diarchy was an absolute force. But the advisory council, appointed by and chosen from the ayyad were the true influence. Every seven years either the sh’boan or sh'botay would perish and so the centuries of knowledge and lore within the ayyad became indispensible for governance.

Nasmah removed the scarf from her hair and shook it free. She was alone enough, so it would not matter. The Sharan culture was one of privacy. There was no rule that stated she could not show her hair, or her face, but she chose not to. Black was not a traditionally dominant colour in Sharan fashion, but for the purposes of her mission, Nasmah had chosen it for its prudence. Her clothing, too, was not billowing and formless robe, nor curvaceous. She was a woman, and had a right to be known as one, but there was no need to overdo it.

But there were flaws within the ayyad . . . was that why she had spared them? Their power was difficult to gage by the standards of Kigali and they were outsiders. By rights she should have punished for their intrusion with death. That was the law. But they had saved her, these outsiders who owed her nothing. She could have killed them as ordered. She should have killed them as ordered. But she had not. In hindsight it may have been a far wiser course for her to do so.

The ayyad suppressed all things that were not from them. All knowledge was based not in the common tongue and not in the old tongue, but in a dialect shared only among themselves to that the histories of the people remained in their hands. It was the ayyad way, to stop potentially harmful knowledge from harming their eutopian society, but why would they lie about The Thirteen?

The Judge had told her he was human but she was young and there was so much she did not know. She should believe the ayyad histories and yet she found herself curious where she should not be curious. A good Sharan did not dispute the lore of her elders but accepted and believed. Maybe that was why they had tried to kill her. A good Sharan would not give her true name nor touch an outsider. A good Sharan would not find herself drawn to them and their foreign ways.

The ayyad preached total seclusion and separation from the Westlands and the savages . . . why then, would they consort with any of The Thirteen, why would they go against their own teachings? Were they hypocrites? Were they evil? There were so many questions about her people. It made no sense. They were Sharans!

But before she accused her sisters she needed proof of The Judge’s mortality. She would go and find him. She rose and walked into the manor . . . just in time to see Leon flicking Mina on the backside with a washcloth. It made a loud noise and she stepped louder than she’d have liked. Both Mina and Leon looked in her direction and she realised she’d forgotten her veil and scarf. She said a very naughty word in the ayyad dialect, turned to the side, and covered herself in one practised movement. “I apologise,” she said, “The Ju—your master told me that I could talk to you . . .”

"Really? That was magnanimous of him." Casting a sidelong glance at Mina to make sure that she wasn't trying to find a washcloth to repay the favour, Leon said. "So, what's a pretty face like you want to talk about?"

“Wh—?” she blinked in surprise, not quite sure how to take that. These foreigners said strange things. Not necessarily unpleasant things, because she quite liked that and she smiled briefly beneath her veil. “Well . . . forgive me if this sounds silly but you two are, according to our histories, supposed to be evil. Yet you don’t . . . I mean you look . . .” she was struggling for a word, “happy?”

"Really? But deep down I am really miserable. My happiness is just a facade that I use to cope with the horror of my daily ex- AAAH!" Grabbing his arse where Mina had just obtained sweet revenge, Leon pointed to her. "The source of my discontent, you wouldn't know it to look at her, but deep down she is really really evil. More evil than life time commitment.”

Smacking his bottom just didn't feel sufficient enough after comments like that. "I can end your misery right here if being married to me is no longer desirable. Till death do us part and all that. As for you", she turned to look at the Sharan "we are people just like everyone else. We love and we have compassion. World is not black and white and we have our reasons to follow Duram.”

Nasmah locked eyes with Mina and said seriously, “In Shara you could have him punished for that, you know.” Okay, it wasn’t really serious. It was her first attempt at a joke, although . . . men were routinely punished in Shara so that part was truth. “So . . . you two are not evil, but Duram is?” Her strange accent faltered on Duram’s name, “. . . and Damion? He seems so harmless.”

"If everything were as simple as good and evil, it would be a very simple world to live in. I think you can appreciate that the world isn't quite so simple. For example, your male Ayyad." Leon leaned against the bench as he spoke. "One of the reasons you kill them off is because they can go mad. The choice that Damion made to serve has allowed him to escape the madness, the rot, he can function normally. So can I, so can every other man that channels and follows Duram. If we didn't, we could turn upon our loved ones as easily as our enemies without any thought. For someone like Damion, someone who will only use violence if there is absolutely no other alternative, it becomes a very easy choice."

She ignored the unintentional insult of ‘male Ayyad’. Was it not cowardice, then, that ruled their lives? They gave in to evil rather than embracing the challenges that The Creator gave to them? No. She was talking like an ayyad. She had seen the rot and decay but never felt it, or the madness. She could not judge such a thing. It was said that The Dragon himself could not forbear the madness. What hope then, did any man have? She said instead “I never thanked you for saving my life. Thank you.”

"You're welcome, and thank you for saving ours in turn." Smiling, Leon shrugged. "By the way, I wouldn't worry about Duram overly much. Yes, he's one of the Chosen and one of the most powerful channelers in the world, but as far as evil harbingers of the apocalypse go, he's rather nice. I hit him in the crotch with a lathe when I was a child and he didn't incinerate me on the spot. Not a story that just anyone can tell, let me tell you."

Nasmah didn’t bother to tell Leon that in Sharan fables Duram had been known to eat the heads off small babies. In fact, most of The Thirteen were known to be terrifying and barbaric. What an odd tale to hear. Mina was rolling her eyes and she guessed that she was not one of the first to hear it. “I was asked to go and see him when I was ready. Might you please point me in the right direction?”

"Follow the beach to its southern point, Duram's out there with Marius. Marius didn't really have much of a future in that Tower, so the boss is seeing what he can do to fix that. Don't worry about interrupting anything though, he said to send you over when you were ready regardless." Pointing out which crescent was south, just in case there was any confusion, Leon added. "Remember, just be relatively polite and you'll be fine. Oh, and do not lie. I've yet to see someone ever fool him and that never, ever, ends well. He prefers a truthful answer he disagrees with to a lie that he might like."

“Thank you again. I am pleased to have met you, Leon, Mina.” Nasmah gave a formal bow and headed in the direction she’d been given, stopping only to remove her boots on the sand. No one could blame her for that, Shara was a port city, and what little beach it has was always crowded. It felt good. Her feet were tattooed also, much like her hands, only no one ever saw them.

She found Duram and Marius both standing toe-deep in the surf. It looked to Nasmah—who was no expert—that Duram was attempting to instruct Marius on the proper fishing technique. It also looked as though he’d cast his hook and sinker a very long way off and perhaps being taught to fish by him wouldn’t be a bad thing.

“Excuse me,” she interrupted quietly, “I am ready to continue our discussion.” She looked for Damion, who did not appear to be anywhere upon the beach.

"Marius, we should continue this another time." That was all that needed to be said, and Marius was on his way back to the home. His back was a little straighter than before, hope tended to do that to a person. But he wasn't who Duram was focused on now. "Well? Where would you like to start? Also, it is rather inconvenient to carry on a conversation with someone who is standing behind you."

“Sorry, I was told not to worry if I interrupted but I did not wish to disturb,” and you’re so tall! She now stood beside him, feeling very small. “Damion does not appear to be here . . .” she said obviously. Subtle, but having someone her own stature around was comforting.

"Damion just learned that someone who he was once close to died." Sighing, Duram added. "I was of a mind to keep it from him for a few days, but in the end I think he preferred to know now. He has left to pay his respects now."

“I am sorry,” and strangely, she was. How infuriating that she could care about a foreign da’inde. Oh, how her sisters would mock her. Or whip her, one of the two. But it seemed the appropriate thing to say and it was honest. Leon had told her to be honest. “I have thought a lot about what you said. And I apologise for my earlier behaviour. This is awkward for me. It is a lot to happen at once.”

"It is and don't worry about it, and we're only just started. I'm pretty sure that by the time our chat is finished, you're going to be even more thoroughly confused than you are now." Laughing, Duram added. "Foreshadowing. Very bad form. At anyrate, where would you like to pick up from?"

“You said you were mortal . . . and I . . .” she paused, “want proof.” She winced at how that sounded, but there was nothing for it. “I promise I don’t want to hit you with a lathe” she added after some thought.

Nasmah reached out a hand tentatively to touch his palm. The blood was real. She said another naughty ayyad word, followed by an Old Tongue oath that translated roughly to ‘bloody hammer of The Judge’. Subsequently, she remembered who it was she was speaking to, stammered an apology and opened herself to the source, closing the wound. She, an ayyad, had just healed one of The Thirteen, who bled like any man. She could have killed him, but the thought had not crossed her mind. At all. No. More importantly, the ayyad had lied. Or they were misled. “But who has the power to mislead the Ayyad?” she said out loud. She looked at her fingertips, still stained red, and back to Duram. Her mind was beginning to unravel the answer.

Crouching down slightly so he could wash his hand in the water, Duram straightened as he flicked his hand dry and took hold of the rod again. "Who do you think? Who benefits from Chosen being so revered? Who benefits from a country that is so controlled? Who benefits from a place that is so isolated that it can never encounter different ideas that might conflict with what every Sharan is taught?"

“The Thirteen . . .” she cringed, “but I healed you. I helped your people! Why would you . . .” she stepped back, becoming more and more angry.

Rolling his eyes, Duram just came out with it. "Don't be so retarded. If I were the one in charge and responsible, why would I be explaining it to you? Or letting you live knowing that something was amiss? Also, your Ayyad companions turned on my followers. Thiiiiiink."

She was being forced to suppress a life’s time of education. It was so hard. “Aginor is dead . . . Raf said so and his people—gone. Osan’gar, The Betrayer of Hope was working within our lands, but . . . surely not for so long as that? He must be stopped. My people are proud, they will take much convincing. I need to go home!”

You're almost right. But Osan`gar hasn't walked these lands for quite so long, he's just assumed the work of another. In the lore of your people, who is most eminent of our number?" Duram chuckled. "I'll give you a hint, a man. Peculiar for a culture where the majority of the power is vested in woman like yourself."

“Demandred. Of course.” She looked up at nothing for a moment, running through what she knew of the histories. “That bastard!”

Now they were making progress, at least as far as Duram was concerned. "Very good. Basically, your entire society, your people, all of it, engineered. Natural geography that isolates you from everyone else, inherent superiority of your race to all others, especially that of the Ayyad. Killing non-Ayyad for breeding with Ayyad, and the Ayyad too if they consented, it only served to remove the Ayyad from the people. That crap about the Will of the Pattern with your Sh`boan and Sh`botay, lies. Why do you think some of them die before their seven years are up? They discover that something is wrong, they get the chop. It’s a fragile and weak thing, and the only reason it works is because you're completely cut off. You have no idea what the world outside is like, that’s why merchants and the like are not permitted in, and dealing with outsiders is restricted to a very few."

“Then . . . I must do something.”

"That’s part of why you are here." Duram smiled, he was sure the inevitable question would come to her eventually.

“You are offering to help me,” she sighed. “But the cost to my people. What would I be unleashing upon them?”

"Depends how successful you are." A tug on the rod, only a nibble. "Probably civil war, maybe worse. Of course, the alternative is doing nothing and leaving your nation within the grasp of the shadow. Osan`gar, no less, and there is no end to what he can do if he decides to. You already know that your armies are being massed on the border with the Aiel. He plans to use your armies to reave the Aiel while most of their spears are in the Westlands under the Dragon Reborn. Where they are helping him consolidate the Westlands in preparation for Tarmon Gaidon, the final battle. If he succeeds, it is possible that many of those spears will desert the Dragon, they will return to their homes to save their families, those that are left."

“The Dragon is . . . here?” she asked faintly.

Duram laughed. "Well, not right here. He's somewhere in that direction, many many miles. But if you mean that he is born and walking the earth, oh yes. He killed Ishamael first, that was why he was reincarnated as Osan`gar. Most of the Aiel follow him, as do half of the Westland nations. Tear, Mayene, Cairhien, Andor, Illian and Altara, and more are following suit, not that you would know these names. Both men and women who can channel follow him, and the final days are upon us. Of the Chosen, several are dead. Ishamael and Balthamel both died and rose again, but Rahvin and Aginor have suffered the final death. Demandred is dead yet alive, unless something has been done with him. Lanfear has also died and risen anew."

Nasmah didn’t know what to say. There were prophecies and . . . divinations but the ayyad were still waiting for him to come. But if he was here already and they did not know then they could never truly enter the fight. Her expression became bitter. If what Duram said was correct then they had entered the battle centuries ago and simply did not know it.

She was feeling emotionally overwhelmed but would not cry . . . if she could help it. “The answer seems so obvious, to accept your aid and drive Osan’gar from my home. But I know you have designs for my people, even if it is to use us against your brothers and sisters, and you care about us only so much as we affect your plans. I cannot help but look for the hidden payment. I am young and the answer obvious. That is why I cannot accept your offer. I must discover more. I must know and see it for myself. I cannot risk the destruction of all we are—even if it is a malevolent design—on a whim. I cannot.”

"It wasn't my expectation that you would do so. Do you like fishing?"

“I . . . not really.” She said, confused.

"Fishing takes a lot of patience." Duram explained rather amiably. "I could, for example, use my powers to get fish in different ways. I could charm them so they threw themselves on the shore, I could use a large scoop of air to haul them out, I can even make the water boil so they floated to the surface. Power has its uses, but patience does as well. It isn't only a matter of getting what you want, it is also how you get it."

"I could wipe your will away and replace it with my own, but I'm not interested in that. Instead, I'm offering you something that you want, that you need, knowledge. Does this mean that I will hook you? Maybe. But maybe you aren't the prey, maybe you are the hook. One that I can cast into Shara and that I can allow to float freely. You can go this way and that, you can choose to do nothing or you can choose to see things with your own eyes. As far as I'm concerned, as long as Shara is free of Osan`gar, I am happy. I have no interest in the place beyond denying it to others, in the end it will not be Shara that decides the outcome of Tarmon Gaidon, but the Dragon and the weight of prophecy."

"Maybe when you are in Shara, you will fish for the truth. But as any fisherman knows, when you toss a line in the water, you create a disturbance. So a good fisherman will toss their line wide, and they will slowly work their way to where they want to be. It leaves their prey unaware of what they are doing, and it is that patience that allows the fisherman to make their catch. Do you understand?"

Nasmah nodded. “I do.”

Duram nodded, simple and easy. "Good. Because I will give you this for free, your Ayyad is compromised. The inner echelon is converted to the last. I suspect the main reason you were sent was so you could be converted, either through choice or force. Your power makes you a target, and after what has happened, it will be difficult to see how you could be presumed innocent of what has happened, that you still know nothing. But perhaps my companions didn't save you, maybe they waylaid your fellow Ayyad and killed them all, leaving you for dead. Maybe you have news to bring of Shara being infiltrated by outsiders, and maybe there will be so much focus on you that you cannot simply be squirreled away."

"Or perhaps you need not reveal yourself at all, but ghost from place to place and observe for yourself. Either path is open to you, but there are three gifts that I will give you to assist you. The first is advice, if you wish support and companions, look amongst the juniors of the Ayyad and those who are not of the bloodlines of your ruling Ayyad. They are least likely to be compromised. The second gift is mobility, seek out Mina and ask her how to show you how one skims and how one travels. Those who have been turned will know how, arming you with that knowledge will be useful."

"Lastly, ask her how to invert one's weaves. This will allow you to create weaves that others cannot see. You may need to create wards that other Ayyad cannot see, those who are not friendly to you. With these tools, seek out the truth and make your decision."

Nasmah nodded mutely—sort of nodded. The latest twist was too much for her. She didn’t understand why and wasn’t in a position to question. She just accepted. Sharan inculcation was handy after all. “I would like to go for a walk now,” she whispered, and turned to leave.

"Wait." Pause. "Now you can go. Oh, and I want to see you before you leave as well."

Nasmah stared and then left. She felt very lost and longed for something familiar, but there was nothing of home to be found here. She walked along the sand and tried to clear her mind. She was going to go and find Damion if she could. He was safe and might walk with her awhile. Maybe he needed it as much as she did.