The Search of Truth
Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Wheel of Time, I am not affiliated with Robert Jordan in any way, etc. And really, how could I be? If you think that Robert Jordan would write fics about his own stories on the net or, even less likely, tell anyone who killed Asmodean, please seek psychiatric help.
Chapter 1: Returned to Serve
You? No!
– Asmodean
Beyond the endless waste of the Blight, separated from the rest of the world by the Mountains of Dhoom, lies Shayol Ghul, the mountain where the Dark One is imprisoned, and has been since the moment of Creation. Three thousand years ago, the seal on his prison was broken, ending the Age of Legends and leading to the War of the Shadow. While he had been sealed back in, along with the thirteen Chosen who had sworn themselves over to him, the world had been left changed. Broken, and in more ways than one.
Perhaps, if anyone could judge the thoughts of the colossal entity that was incarcerated within the mountain, he could have been satisfied with this arrangement. Or perhaps not. Of the few who have ever stood in the Pit of Doom and heard the voice of the Dark One overawing them, saturating them with the agony and ecstasy that came with being in his presence, none have ever questioned him about such subjects. Doubtless, he is willing to wait.
Such thoughts occurred to the man who was examining himself in the mirror of the fine palace room he was in. They were drowned out by the disbelief written plainly across his face at what had happened to him. Here he was, alive again. He had had little time to savour his release from the endless sleep and nightmares when he was forced to suffer one even worse. The sleep of the dead. But he had served, and he had suffered, and he had been rewarded. Still, he could not hide his disbelief.
The face he would have to come to accept as his was somewhat plain, in its middle years and surrounded with thin hair. Not perfect; he expected it was the best of what could be found nearby, but it was better than the alternative, and he was grateful. He knew no other way of reacting to what the Great Lord had given him.
The gift did not end there, however. With his new body and his new life had come a new name, spoken into his head as he had reawakened by the voice he knew and dared not disobey. Osan'gar. The name of a dagger now ancient, used in duels and coated in a slow poison. It was only ever used as part of a pair, and now he suspected the same applied to him, though he was willing to serve the Great Lord so if that was what he intended.
Thinking on that, he turned to face his companion. The other half of the pair, Aran'gar, had been given the body of a gorgeous woman, slender and lush. The beautiful features of her oval shaped face were twisted into an expression of rage alongside the disbelief that she shared with Osan'gar. He smiled, slightly, turning away so she would not see. He supposed he could see why she was angry, but really, it was ungrateful of her. And he had to admit, it was a fine joke. It just probably wasn't a good idea to show her how funny he felt it was. He suspected she wouldn't appreciate it.
It was strange, that. He already was adjusting. But then, the woman before him was not the person he had once known. The person he had known in the Age of Legends, who had been there with him when they stirred from their long slumber, was gone. Now there was only Aran'gar, her previous identity burned away, the thread in the Pattern gone as surely as if balefire had touched it.
He shuddered, at that thought. He didn't like the thought of being balefired. Distracting himself, he wondered what had been happening while they had been gone. The boy who had killed him must still be troubling the rest of the Chosen, he reasoned; if not, the Great Lord likely would have no need of him, and would have left him as he was. Neither thought gave Osan'gar any more pleasure than the original one had, and he shuddered again.
He turned back to study himself in the mirror again, when he saw something blur in the corner of his eye, and whirled around to see who was there. He composed himself when he saw it was a Myrddraal. He was responsible for their creation after all, or so he supposed, even if he hadn't meant to. They were the throwback offspring of his real creations, and seeing them always made him somewhat uneasy.
This one in particular unnerved him more than most, though. For one thing, it was clearly head and shoulders taller than other Halfmen – he had to look up to see its dark, eyeless face, not that he had any desire to do so – but more than that, it seemed to carry itself differently to a normal Myrddraal. Clad entirely in black, with a deathly pale face like its fellows, it seemed to bore its gaze into both of them, although they were standing on opposite sides of the lavishly decorated room. Osan'gar shifted where he stood, and decided to think carefully before speaking.
In her rage, however, Aran'gar had no such compunctions. "What's happened to me?" she demanded of the Myrddraal, who stared back impassively. "Why am I in this body? Why?" She looked as if she was going to burst into tears, although Osan'gar doubted it. More likely, she wanted to take her anger out on someone. Osan'gar reached for saidin just in case, and was shocked when he discovered that the True Source was not there. He felt paralysed, powerless; had he been given a body that couldn't channel? If he had, he might explode the way Aran'gar had. How did they expect him to serve if he could not embrace saidin?
The Myrddraal paid no attention to him, and turned to focus on Aran'gar instead. Osan'gar thought he saw a small smile on its lips, but dismissed the thought as unlikely. Myrddraal had no sense of humour, no compassion, no emotion. Besides which, he was clutching for saidin now, desperately clawing at it, and still finding nothing.
"You were given the best bodies available," the Halfman told them. "If you are ungrateful for the gifts the Great Lord gives you, they can always be returned. Others can be found, who will serve faithfully, while our master finds another use for you." His eyeless gaze fell on Aran'gar, and Osan'gar saw her freeze up slightly with the fear that was characteristic of the Myrddraal's stare. "Perhaps you will be given to my brothers for their sport, if you cannot adjust to your new body. You may even have enough time to wish you had served faithfully before you are driven insane." Its mouth curled in a sneer.
Aran'gar half-screamed and moved slightly, but nothing happened. Osan'gar suspected she, too, had tried to touch the True Source, and failed. So it wasn't just him. That wasn't reassuring. Suddenly, his mind got over his panic and he realised with a start what Aran'gar would probably do. He reached forward to grab her, but it was too late. She had already thrown herself at the Myrddraal with a screech. It grabbed her by the throat and lifted her of her feet until she met its eyeless stare. She struggled to get the Myrddraal to release its grip, kicking out with her feet, but it paid her no mind, instead speaking calmly to Osan'gar, who watched on in horror. "You will not channel unless you are given permission to do so. And you will never strike me."
"Put her down," Osan'gar said quickly, once he found his voice. "Put her down now. Obey me! You're killing her!" It stared at him coldly, paying him more attention that it did the woman struggling in his grip.
Finally it put Aran'gar down, who stumbled slightly and fell back when released. Osan'gar went to help her up, and stepped back again when she snarled at him. He decided he didn't need her any angrier than she was already, and he was more concerned with what the Myrddraal had said. It knew that he couldn't channel. Surely it couldn't be responsible for it, though? He should know better than anyone else what they were capable of. Just what was going on?
The Myrddraal must have seen the confusion on his face, because Osan'gar thought it looked amused. "I serve none but the Great Lord of the Dark, and my commands are as his. You serve me as you serve him. I am Shaidar Haran."
Osan'gar could not help the wry smile that twitched on his lips. Shaidar Haran. In what the people of today called the Old Tongue – or so he thought; much had been forgotten during his two long sleeps, and made him uncertain about the simplest of things – it meant "Hand of the Dark". A Myrddraal being given a name in the Old Tongue, as he and the rest of the Chosen had. So the Great Lord now had a hand with which to hold his two new daggers. This thing surely was something apart from its 'brothers'.
Perhaps Shaidar Haran mistook the expression on his face. "You would do well to show me your respect," it rasped. Its voice sounded like sandpaper. "You stand before me now as you would before the Great Lord himself. I am his hand in this world, but I am also his eyes and his ears. He sees what I see, and hears what I hear. I obey no commands but his."
"I meant no offence," Osan'gar answered hastily. "I am sure it is known that I serve the Great Lord as loyally as any of the Chosen, else I would not have received this gift." He prostrated himself in front of the Myrddraal. He felt somewhat foolish – they were his creation, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they should be grovelling to him – but he wasn't in a position to argue. Evidently the Great Lord had changed a lot while Osan'gar had slept.
When he rose, Shaidar Haran was looking at Aran'gar expectantly. She had only just got back to her feet, holding her throat in pain. She glared angrily back at the Myrddraal, but copied Osan'gar and muttered some words about loyalty. Osan'gar mused to himself that she must be adapting well if she had already developed a woman's stubbornness. He heard almost a giggle in the back of his throat, and stamped it away quickly. He was not mad. He was a genius, not mad at all. His so-called superiors had refused to listen to his ideas, and his creations had taught them the lesson of their pride for millennia. If only they were easier to control.
Aran'gar was just getting up when Shaidar Haran continued, "Now that everything is clear to you, I will give you your instructions. While you were… gone, three of the Chosen were killed, placed outside the Great Lord's reach. Rahvin, killed in his pride. Be'lal, killed in his envy." Osan'gar grimaced. Only balefire could have prevented the Great Lord from giving them new flesh, as he had given them, but… This al'Thor must be even stronger than he had first thought. What did the Great Lord want them to do?
Aran'gar did not seem to care, though. She always had been impatient. "And the third?" she prompted petulantly.
Shaidar Haran's stare did not move. "The third was Asmodean," it said. "He was a traitor. The Great Lord has declared that he has died the final death. But the Great Lord does not know how he died. That is your job."
Osan'gar raised his eyebrows at this. Asmodean, a traitor? Well, he supposed it was not that unlikely given the right circumstances, but he would never have thought any of the Chosen would be foolish enough to try defying the Great Lord, especially not a coward like Asmodean. He was dead; well, that was no surprise. He had always been the weakest, and Osan'gar was more surprised he had lived as long as that. And they had to find out who had killed him. Confusing, but there was no point questioning it.
"How Asmodean died?" Aran'gar questioned. "If he was a traitor, I would have the Great Lord would be responsible for the death, not sending us to find out about it." Osan'gar buried his head in his hands. This was going to prove more difficult than he had thought, if she kept this up.
"The Chosen have proven more difficult to keep in line since their release," Shaidar Haran confessed, shrugging slightly. Osan'gar had never seen a Myrddraal be so conversational. "Several seem to be more concerned with their own schemes than with their oaths to the Great Lord. Ishamael managed to keep them in line, until he died too. I trust that you will not be so unreasonable?" Aran'gar and Osan'gar shook their heads. "Good. You have your instructions. You will be provided with as much information as is available. Now go, and do it. The Great Lord is putting a lot of faith in you. Hopefully you will be able to repay that faith, or else… well, I understand he would not want to waste two perfectly useful bodies." Its expression this time was an undeniable grin, twisted and cruel. "Good luck."
Osan'gar looked across at his partner as Shaidar Haran disappeared. "Well, I suppose we had better get started."
