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The Eldar – Extract

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Friendship

In the time before the War in Heaven, Eldanesh, spear-carrier, hawk-friend, lord of the eldar, faced the armies of the Hresh-selain. Eldanesh was the greatest of the eldar, his spear the finest weapon forged by mortals, yet the king of the Hresh-selain had many warriors. Though he was lord of the eldar and knew it to be his burden alone to protect them, Eldanesh knew also he could not gain victory by himself. He turned to Ulthanesh, second greatest warrior of the eldar, sword-bearer, raven-friend, and asked for his aid in battling the Hresh-selain. Together Eldanesh and Ulthanesh fought, and against their skill and strength the Hresh-selain had no defence. ‘Ever shall it be thus’, said Eldanesh, ‘that when we are most sorely tested, our friends shall stand by our side’.

A star was dying.

To the eldar she was Mirianathir, Mother of the Desert Winds. She hung in the dark firmament, a deep orange, her surface tortured by frenetic bursts of fusion and rampaging electromagnetic winds. Particles streamed from her body and fronds of energy lapped at the closest planets, scourging Mirianathir’s children with their deadly touch. They hung barren around her. For a million years she had been dying and for a million more she would continue to die.

Yet in her death there was life for others.

For the eldar.

Bathed in the radioactive glow of Mirianathir’s death throes, a craftworld floated upon the stellar winds; an artificial, disc-like continent of glowing domes and silvery energy sails, arcing bridges and glittering towers. Wings unfurled, the craftworld soaked in life-giving energy, an inorganic plant with mirrored leaves a hundred kilometres long. Surrounded by the ruddy light of the dying star, Craftworld Alaitoc absorbed all that Mirianathir had to offer, capturing every particle and stellar breeze, feeding it through the spirits of its infinity circuit to sustain the craftworld for a thousand more years.

The space around Alaitoc was as full of movement and energy as the star upon which it fed. Ships whirled and swerved, tacking across the stellar winds, refuelling their own energy stores. The webway gate behind the craftworld swirled and ebbed, a shimmering portal into the space between the material and immaterial. Trade ships with long fluted hulls slipped into and out of the gate; sleek destroyers with night-blue hulls prowled through the traffic, weapons batteries armed, torpedoes loaded; slender yachts darted amongst the shoal of vessels; majestic battleships eased along stately paths through the ordered commotion.

With a fluctuation of golden light, the webway portal dilated for a moment and where there had been vacuum now drifted Lacontiran, a bird-like trading schooner just returned from her long voyage to the stars of the Endless Valley. Trimming her solar sails, she turned easily along the starside rim of the craftworld and followed a course that led her to the Tower of Eternal Welcomes.

The dock tower stretched five kilometres out from the plane of the craftworld, encased in a bluish aura that kept at bay the ravening emptiness of space. Like a narwhal’s horn, the tower spiralled into the darkness, hundreds of figures along its length, lining the elegant gantries and curving walkways. Eldar of all Paths had come to greet their long-travelled ship: poets, engineers, autarchs, gardeners, farseers, Aspect Warriors, stylists and chartmakers. Any and all walks of life were there, dressed in the fineries of heavy robes, or glittering skin-tight suits, or flowing tunics in a riot of colours. Scarves spilled like yellow and red waves and high-crested helms rose above a sea of delicately coiffured heads. Jewels of every colour shone in the glow of the craftworld alongside sparkling bands and rings and necklaces of silver and gold and platinum.

Without conscious thought, the eldar made their way around each other: embracing old friends; exchanging pleasantries with new acquaintances; steering a private course, never encroaching upon the private space of another. Their voices rose together, in a symphony of sound as like to the babbling of a crowd as a full orchestra is to the murmurings of a child. They talked to and around and over each other, their voices lyric, every intonation a note perfected, every gesture measured and precise. Some did not talk at all, their posture conveying their thoughts; the slightest raising of a brow, the quiver of a lip or trembling of a finger displaying agitation or excitement, happiness or anxiety.

In the midst of this kaleidoscope of craftworld life stood Korlandril. His slender frame was draped in an open-fronted robe of shining silk-like gold, his neck and wrists adorned with hundreds of molecule-thin chains in every colour of the spectrum so that it seemed his hands and face were wound with miniature rainbows. His long black hair was bound into a complicated braid that hung across his left shoulder, kept in place with holo-bands that constantly changed from sapphires to diamonds to emeralds and every other beautiful stone known to the eldar. He had taken much time to style himself upon the aesthetics of Arestheina, and had considered long the results in a mirrorfield, knowing that his companion was partial to the ancient artist’s works.

She, Thirianna, was dressed in more simple attire: a white ankle-length dress pleated below the knee, delicately embroidered with thread just the slightest shade greyer than the cloth, like the shadows of a cloud; sleeveless to reveal pale arms painted with waving patterns of henna. She wore a diaphanous scarf about her shoulders, its red and white gossamer coils lapping across her arms and chest. Her white hair, dyed to match her dress, was coloured with two azure streaks that framed her narrow face, accentuating the dark blue of her eyes. Her waystone was also a deep blue, ensconced in a surround of white meresilver, hung upon a fine chain of the same metal.

Korlandril looked at Thirianna, while all other eyes were turned towards the starship now gracefully sliding into place beside the uncoiling walkway of the quay. It had been fifteen cycles since he had last seen her. Fifteen cycles too many – too long to be away from her beauty and her passion, her smile that stirred the soul. He nurtured the hope that she would notice the attention he had laboured upon his appearance, but as yet she had made no remark upon it.

He saw the intensity in her eyes as she looked upon the approaching starship, the faintest glisten of moisture there, and detected an excited tremble throughout her body. He did not know whether it was simply the occasion that generated such anticipation – the gala atmosphere was very infectious – or whether there was some more personal, deeper joy that stirred Thirianna’s heart. Perhaps her feelings for Aradryan’s return were more than Korlandril would like. The notion stirred something within Korlandril’s breast, a serpent uncoiling. He knew his jealousy was unjustified, and that he had made no claim to keep Thirianna for himself, but still the precision of his thoughts failed to quell the emotions that loitered within.

Set within a golden surround, the opal oval of Korlandril’s waystone grew warm upon his chest, its heat passing through the material of his robe. Like a warning light upon a craft’s display the waystone’s agitation caused Korlandril to pause for a moment. His jealousy was not only misplaced, it was dangerous. He allowed the sensation to drift into the recesses of his mind, closed within a mental vault to be removed later when it was safe to do so.

Thoughts of Aradryan reminded Korlandril why he was at the tower: to welcome back an old friend. If Thirianna had wanted to be with Aradryan she would have travelled with him. Korlandril dismissed his fears concerning Thirianna’s affections, finding himself equally eager to greet their returning companion. The serpent within lowered its head and slept again, biding its time.

A dozen gateways along the hull of Lacontiran opened, releasing a wave of iridescent light and a honey-scented breeze along the curving length of the dock. From the high archways passengers and crew disembarked in winding lines. Thirianna stretched to her full height, poised effortlessly on the tips of her boots, to look over the heads of the eldar in front, one hand slightly to one side to maintain her balance.

It was Korlandril’s sharp eyes that caught sight of Aradryan first, which gave him a small thrill of pleasure; a victory won though no competition had been agreed between them.

‘There he is, our wanderer returned to us like Anthemion with the Golden Harp,’ said Korlandril, pointing to a walkway to their left, letting his fingers rest upon Thirianna’s bare arm for the slightest of moments to attract her attention.

Though Korlandril had recognised him immediately, Aradryan looked very different from when he had left. Only by his sharp cheeks and thin lips had Korlandril known him. His hair was cut barbarically short on the left side, almost to the scalp, and hung in unkempt waves to the right, neither bound nor styled. He had dark make-up upon his eyelids, giving him a skull-like, sunken glare, and he was dressed in deep blues and black, wrapped in long ribbons of twilight. His bright yellow waystone was worn as a brooch, mostly hidden by the folds of his robe. Aradryan’s forbidding eyes fell upon Korlandril and then Thirianna, their sinister edge disappearing with a glint of happiness. Aradryan waved a hand in greeting and wove his way effortlessly through the throng to stand in front of the pair.

‘A felicitous return!’ declared Korlandril, opening his arms in welcome, palms angled towards Aradryan’s face. ‘And a happy reunion.’

Thirianna dispensed with words altogether, brushing the back of her hand across Aradryan’s cheek for a moment, before laying her slender fingers upon his shoulder. Aradryan returned the gesture, sparking a flare of jealous annoyance in Korlandril, which he fought hard not to show. The serpent in his gut opened one interested eye, but Korlandril forced it back into subservience. The moment passed and Aradryan stepped away from Thirianna, laying his hands onto those of Korlandril, a wry smile on his lips.

‘Well met, and many thanks for the welcome,’ said Aradryan. Korlandril searched his friend’s face, seeking the impish delight that had once lurked behind the eyes, the ready, contagious smirk that had nestled in every movement of his lips. They were no longer there. Aradryan radiated solemnity and sincerity, warmth even, but Korlandril detected a barrier; Aradryan’s face was turned ever so slightly towards Thirianna, his back arched just the merest fraction away from Korlandril.

Even amongst the eldar such subtle differences might have been missed, but Korlandril was dedicated to the Path of the Artist and had honed his observation and attention to detail to a level bordering on the microscopic. He noticed everything, remembered every nuance and facet, and he knew from his deep studies that everything had a meaning, whether intended or not. There was no such thing as an innocent smile, or a meaningless blink. Every motion betrayed a motive, and it was Aradryan’s subtle reticence that now nagged at Korlandril’s thoughts.

Korlandril held Aradryan’s hands for a moment longer than was necessary, hoping that the extended physicality of the greeting might remind his friend of their bond. If it did, Aradryan gave no sign. With the same slight smile, he withdrew his grasp and clasped his hands behind his back, raising his eyebrows inquisitively.

‘Tell me, dearest and most happily-met of my friends, what have I missed?’

The trio walked along the Avenue of Dreams, a silver passageway that passed beneath a thousand crystal archways into the heart of Alaitoc. The dim light of Mirianathir was caught in the vaulted roof, captured and radiated by the intricately faceted crystal to shine down upon the pedestrians below, glowing with delicate oranges and pinks.

Korlandril had offered to drive Aradryan to his quarters, but his friend had declined, preferring to savour the sensation of his return and the casual crowds of eldar; Korlandril guessed from the little Aradryan said that his had been a mostly solitary journey aboard the Lacontiran. Korlandril glanced with a little envy as slender anti-grav craft slipped by effortlessly, carrying their passengers quickly to their destinations. A younger Korlandril would have been horrified by the indolence that held sway over Korlandril the Sculptor, his abstract thoughts distracted by mundane labour of physical activity. Such introspection was impossible though; he had put aside self-consciousness in his desire to embrace every outside influence, every experience not of his own body and mind. Such were the thoughts of the artist, elevated beyond the practical, dancing upon the starlight of pure observation and imagination.

It was this drive for sensation that led Korlandril to conduct most of the talking. He spoke at length of his works, and of the comings-
and-goings of the craftworld since Aradryan had left. For his part, Aradryan kept his comments and answers direct and without flourish, starving Korlandril of inspiration, frustrating his artistic thirst.

When Thirianna spoke, Korlandril noted, Aradryan became more eloquent, and seemed keener to speak about her than himself.

‘I sense that you no longer walk in the shadow of Khaine,’ said Aradryan, nodding in approval as he looked at Thirianna.

‘It is true that the Path of the Warrior has ended for me,’ she replied, thoughtful, her eyes never straying from Aradryan. ‘The aspect of the Dire Avenger has sated my anger, enough for a hundred lifetimes. I write poetry, influenced by the Uriathillin school of verse. I find it has complexities that stimulate both the intellectual and the emotional in equal measure.’

‘I would like to know Thirianna the Poet, and perhaps your verse will introduce me,’ said Aradryan. ‘I would very much like to see a performance, as you see fit.’

‘As would I,’ said Korlandril. ‘Thirianna refuses to share her work with me, though many times I have suggested that we collaborate on a piece that combines her words with my sculpture.’

‘My verse is for myself, and no other,’ Thirianna said quietly. ‘It is not for performance, nor for eyes that are not mine.’

She cast a glance of annoyance towards Korlandril.

‘While some create their art to express themselves to the world, my poems are inner secrets, for me to understand their meaning, to divine my own fears and wishes.’

Admonished, Korlandril fell silent for a moment, but he was quickly uncomfortable with the quiet and gave voice to a question that had scratched at his subconscious since he had heard that Aradryan was returning.

‘Have you come back to Alaitoc to stay?’ he asked. ‘Is your time as a steersman complete, or will you be returning to Lacontiran?’

‘I have only just arrived, are you so eager that I should leave once more?’ replied Aradryan.

Korlandril opened his mouth to protest but the words drifted away as he caught, just for a moment, a hint of the old wit of Aradryan. Korlandril smiled in appreciation of the joke and bowed his head in acknowledgement of his own part as the foil for Aradryan’s humour.

‘I do not yet know,’ Aradryan continued with a thoughtful expression. ‘I have learned all that I can learn as a steersman and I feel complete. Gone is the turbulence that once plagued my thoughts. There is nothing like guiding a ship along the buffeting waves of a nebula or along the swirling channels of the webway to foster control and focus. I have seen many great, many wondrous things out in the stars, but I feel that there is so much more out there to find, to touch and hear and experience. I may return to the starships, I may not. And, of course, I would like to spend a little time with my friends and family, to know again the life of Alaitoc, to see whether I wish to wander again or can be content here.’

Thirianna nodded in agreement at this wise course of action, and even Korlandril, who occasionally succumbed to rash impulse, could see the merits of weighing such a decision well.

‘Your return is most timely, Aradryan,’ he said, again feeling the need to fill the vacuum of conversation. ‘My latest piece is nearing completion. In a few cycles’ time I am hosting an unveiling. It would be a pleasure and an honour if both of you could attend.’

‘I would have come even if you had not invited me!’ laughed Thirianna, her enthusiasm sending a thrill of excitement through Korlandril. ‘I hear your name mentioned quite often, and with much praise attached, and there are high expectations for this new work. It would not be seemly at all to miss such an event if one is to be considered as a person possessing any degree of taste.’

Aradryan did not reply for a moment, and Korlandril could discern nothing of his friend’s thoughts from his expression. It was as if a blank mask had been placed upon his face.

‘Yes, I too would be delighted to attend,’ Aradryan said eventually, animation returning. ‘I am afraid that my tastes may have been left behind compared to yours, but I look forward to seeing what Korlandril the Sculptor has created in my absence.’

Masterpiece

In the first days of the eldar, Asuryan granted Eldanesh and his followers the gift of life. He breathed into their bodies all that they were to become. Yet there was no other thing upon the world. All was barren and not a leaf nor fish nor bird nor animal grew or swam or flew or walked beside them. Eldanesh was forlorn at the infertility of his home, and its emptiness made in him a greater emptiness. Seeing his distress, Isha was overcome with a grief of her own. Isha shed a tear for the eldar and let it drop upon the world. Where it fell, there came new life. From her sorrow came joy, for the world of the eldar was filled with wondrous things and Eldanesh’s emptiness was no more, and he gave thanks to Isha for her love.

A snarl of frustration rose in Korlandril’s throat and he fought to stifle it before it came into being. He glared at the droplet of blood welling up from the tiny puncture in his thumb, seeing a miniscule red reflection of his own angry features. He smeared the blood between thumb and finger and turned his ire upon the small barb that had appeared in the ghost stone, tipped with a fleck of crimson.

It was an affront to every sensibility he had developed, that tiny splinter. It broke the precise line of the arcing arm of his sculpture, an aberration in the otherwise perfect flow of organic and inorganic. It was not meant to be and Korlandril did not know how it had come to be.

It had been like this for the last two cycles. Whenever he laid his fingers upon the ghost stone, to tease it into the forms so real in his mind, it refused to be held sway by his thoughts. It had taken him all of the last cycle just to get three fingers perfect, and at this pace the piece would be far from ready when the unveiling was to be held in just two more cycles.

The pale ochre of the ghost stone sat unmoving, dormant without his caress, but to Korlandril it had developed a life of its own. It rebelled against his desires, twisting away from the shapes he wanted, forming hard edges where soft curves should be, growing diminutive thorns and spikes whenever his mind strayed even the slightest.

He knew the ghost stone was not at fault. It was possessed of no will, no spirit. It merely reacted to his input, shaping itself under his gentle psychic manipulation. It was inert now, but Korlandril sensed a certain smugness in its unwillingness to cooperate, even as another part of his mind told him that he was simply projecting his frustrations onto an inanimate object.

His mind divided, all concentration now gone, Korlandril stepped back and looked away, ashamed at his failing. The shimmering of the holofield around him, erected to conceal the work from admirers until it was unveiled in its finished glory, played a corona of colours into Korlandril’s eyes. For a moment he was lost gazing at the undulating view of the forest dome beyond the shimmering holofield, the distorted vista sending a flurry of inspiration through his mind.

‘I almost dare not ask,’ said a voice behind Korlandril. He turned to see his mentor, Abrahasil, gazing intently at the statue.

‘You need not ask anything,’ said Korlandril. ‘It is Aradryan’s return that perturbs me, but I know not why. I am happy that my friend is once again with us.’

‘And what of your thoughts of Aradryan in relation to your work?’

‘I have none,’ replied Korlandril. ‘This piece was started long before I knew of his return.’

‘And yet progress has been slow since you learnt of it, and almost non-existent since it happened,’ said Abrahasil. ‘The effect is clear, though the cause remains obscured to you. Perhaps I might help?’

Korlandril shrugged his indifference and then felt a stab of contrition at Abrahasil’s disappointed sigh.

‘Of course, I would appreciate any guidance you can give me,’ said Korlandril, forcing himself to look at the statue. ‘I see it clearly, all of it, every line and arc, as you taught me. I allow the peace and the piece to become one within me, as you taught me. I direct my thoughts and my motion towards its creation, as you taught me. Nothing I do has changed, and yet the ghost stone is rebellious to my demands.’

Abrahasil raised a narrow finger at this last comment.

‘Demands, Korlandril? It is desire not demand that shapes the ghost stone. A demand is an act of aggression. A desire is an act of submission. The thought shapes the act which shapes the form. Why has desire changed to demand?’

Korlandril did not answer at first, startled that he had not been aware of such a simple distinction, subtle as it was. He repeated the question to himself, searching his thoughts, sifting through his mental processes until he could locate the point at which desire had become demand.

‘I wish to impress others with my work, and I feel the pressure of expectation,’ Korlandril said eventually, pleased that he found an answer.

‘That is not what is wrong,’ said Abrahasil with the slightest pursing of his lips, spearing through Korlandril’s bubble of self-congratulation. ‘Always has your work been expressive, intended to impose your insight upon others. That has not changed. Remember something more specific. Something related to Aradryan.’

Again Korlandril drifted within his own memories and emotions, massaging his thoughts into order just as he manipulated the ghost stone into its flowing shapes. He found what he was looking for, visualised the moment of transition and gave a quiet gasp of realisation.

He looked at Abrahasil and hesitated, reluctant to share his discovery with another. Abrahasil waited patiently, eyes fixed not on Korlandril but on the statue. Korlandril knew that if he asked his mentor to leave, he would do so without complaint, but until then Abrahasil would await a reply. Abrahasil did not need to remind Korlandril that he could be trusted, that the bond between mentor and student was inviolate; that in order to explore and engage the passions and fears Korlandril needed to express himself as an artist, anything he told Abrahasil was in the strictest confidence. Abrahasil had no need to say such things, his patient waiting and the understanding between the two of them was all the communication needed.

‘I wish to impress Thirianna out of competition with Aradryan,’ Korlandril said eventually, relieved at unburdening himself of sole knowledge of this revelation. He had never spoken of his feeling towards Thirianna, not even with Abrahasil, though he suspected his mentor saw much of Korlandril’s thoughts that he did not comment on. After all, Abrahasil had observed them both together on many occasions and Korlandril knew he would not have been able to conceal every sign of affection from his mentor’s studied gaze. ‘There is a fear within me, and anger that I feel such a fear. Aradryan is a friend. Not a rival.’

Abrahasil turned his head and smiled. Korlandril felt another layer of connection falling into place between them, as if he had stepped across a threshold that he had been poised upon for a long time.

‘That is good,’ said the mentor. ‘And how will you control that fear, that anger?’

Now it was Korlandril’s turn to smile.

‘That is simple,’ he said. ‘This sculpture is not for Thirianna, but for me. My next piece… that will be for her. These thoughts have no place in this creation, but they will be the inspiration for another. I can put them aside until then.’

Abrahasil laid a hand upon Korlandril’s arm in reassurance and Korlandril gave him a look that conveyed his deep appreciation. Abrahasil stepped out of the holofield without further word and Korlandril watched his wavering form disappear into the miasmic vista of trees.

Feeling refreshed and invigorated, Korlandril approached the sculpture. He laid his hand upon the raised arm he had been working on, delicately running his fingertips along the accentuated flow of muscle tone and joint, rebuilding his mental vision of the piece.

Under his touch, the barb flowed back into the ghost stone and was no more.

There was an air of excitement and anticipation in the Dome of the Midnight Forests. Across meadows of blue grass and between the pale silver trunks of lianderin trees, many eldar gathered to await the unveiling of Korlandril’s latest creation. Through the invisible force field enclosing the ordered gardens, the ruddy twilight of Mirianathir glowed. The lilt of laughter and the chime of crystal goblets drifted on an artificial breeze that set the jade leaves of the trees rustling; a perfect accompaniment to the swish of grass and the soft conversation of Korlandril’s guests.

Some three hundred eldar had gathered for the unveiling, dressed for the occasion in their most fashionable attire. Korlandril mingled with the crowd, remarking upon an elegant brooch or particularly pleasing cut of skirt or robe. For his grand moment, he had decided to dress himself in an outfit that was elegant but austere, out of a desire not to upstage his sculpture. He wore a plain blue robe, fastened from waist to throat with silver buckles, and his hair was swept back with a silver band ornamented with a single blue skystone at his brow. He kept his conversation short, eluding any questions concerning the nature of the piece until he was ready to reveal all.

As he wandered amongst the guests, Korlandril felt a thrill running through him. With each beat of his heart his waystone reciprocated, the double-pulse quivering in his chest. He absorbed excitement from the guests and projected it back to them. He was pleased with the attention, a salve to his pride after the tribulations he had faced completing the sculpture.

Exchanging pleasantries, Korlandril scanned the crowd for Thirianna and spied her with a group of three other eldar in one of the lianderin groves not far from where the shimmering holofield concealed Korlandril’s exhibit.

Korlandril allowed himself a moment to admire her beauty from a distance, delighting intellectually and emotionally in the close-fitting suit of red and black she wore. The curves of her arms and legs mirrored those of the branches above her, a natural elegance accentuated by her delicate poise and precise posture. Her hair, pigmented a deep yellow, fell in a tumble of coils down her back, woven through with red ribbons that hung to her waist.

As she stepped to one side, Korlandril saw Aradryan. He was smiling, in the deliberate way maintained by those not entirely comfortable with their surrounds. Korlandril felt the serpent of envy quiver ever so slightly within him, which disturbed him. He thought he had put aside that haunting doubt, that fear lingering at the very edge of his awareness. Seeing Aradryan with Thirianna brought his concerns into stark view and Korlandril’s pulse quickened and his thoughts raced for a moment.

Korlandril directed his gaze away as he walked across the meadow, allowing the calm of the garden dome to still the turbulence in his thoughts. Lianderin blossom was just beginning to bud, like golden stars in a deep green night, and the scent of the grass rose up from beneath his tread, cleansing and pure. By the time he reached the group, Korlandril was composed once more, genuinely happy to see his friends in attendance.

Aradryan extended a palm in greeting and Korlandril laid his hand upon his friend’s in return. The welcome was repeated with Thirianna, her touch cool and reassuring. As he pulled back his hand, Korlandril allowed his fingertips to brush gently over those of Thirianna, and he allowed his eyes to meet hers for a heartbeat longer than was normal.

‘We are all quivering with anticipation,’ said one of the group, another sculptor called Ydraethir. He wore a half-gown of deep purple across his waist and left shoulder, cut short on the thighs, exposing skin that had been bleached almost pure white. Ydraethir followed the school of Hithrinair, which saw the sculptor as much a part of the work as the sculpture itself. Korlandril had dabbled with its aesthetic for a few cycles but had quickly found himself to be a dull subject and preferred to express himself through his work at a distance. Korlandril searched for a hint of irony or rivalry in his companion’s comment and pose, but concluded that Ydraethir was being sincere.

‘It is my hope that such expectation is warranted,’ replied Korlandril with a grateful bow of the head. He turned and greeted the fourth eldar, the renowned bonesinger Kirandrin. ‘I am very grateful for the interest and enthusiasm you have all shown in my work.’

‘I have watched your development closely since I first came upon one of your early works,’ Kirandrin said. ‘I believe it was The Blessing of Asurmen, a life-size piece displayed in the atrium of the Tower of the Evening Melodies.’

‘My second ever piece,’ said Korlandril with a warm smile of remembrance. ‘I am still privileged that Abrahasil saw fit to show my works so early on in my time upon the Path. I have kind regard for that particular sculpture, though my work has moved so far beyond such simplistic formulae now, it feels as if it might have been created by someone else!’

‘Is not that the purpose of the Path?’ said Ydraethir. ‘That we change and grow, and shed that which was before and transform into something new and better?’

‘Indeed it is,’ said Korlandril. ‘To strive for the perfection of body and spirit, craft and mind, that is what we all desire.’

‘But is it not the case that we also lose some of who we are?’ said Aradryan, his tone one of mild dissent. ‘If we are forever moving forward on the Path, when do we stop to admire the view? I think that sometimes we are too keen to discard that which made us as we are.’

Silence greeted Aradryan’s remarks. He looked at the other eldar, his face betraying a small measure of confusion.

‘Forgive me if I have said something out of place,’ Aradryan said quietly. ‘It was not my intent to question your opinions, but to merely voice my own. Perhaps my manners have strayed a little while I was away from Alaitoc and the niceties of civil society.’

‘Not at all,’ Kirandrin said smoothly, laying a hand upon Aradryan’s arm in a gesture of reassurance. ‘It is simply that such questions are… rare.’

‘And the answers far too long to be addressed here,’ Korlandril added quickly. ‘We shall continue this discussion at a later time. At this moment, I must make my grand unveiling.’

‘Of course,’ said Kirandrin. Aradryan gave a slow, shallow nod and dipped his eyelids in a gesture of apology.

Korlandril smiled his appreciation before crossing quickly to the holofield and stepping within. Obscured from view, he let out a long breath, releasing the tension that had unexpectedly built up within. There had been something about Aradryan’s manner that had unnerved Korlandril. He had again felt that otherness he had encountered when Aradryan had first returned – a subtle desire to be elsewhere. Sheltered within the holofield, Korlandril’s waystone was again warm to the touch, reflecting inner assurance rather than anger or embarrassment.

The distraction had taxed Korlandril and with a stab of guilt he realised he had said nothing to Thirianna. He had all but ignored her. He wondered for a moment if he should apologise for his offhand behaviour but quickly dismissed the idea. Thirianna probably had not noticed any deficiencies in his attention and it might be unwise to highlight them to her. If she had recognised any affront at all, she would surely understand the many demands conflicting for his attention on an occasion such as this. Korlandril resolved that he would seek out Thirianna after the unveiling and lavish as much attention as possible upon her.

His mind upon Thirianna, Korlandril’s thoughts were awhirl in many different directions, his heart racing, his skin tingling. Ideas flashed across his mind, crashing against the excitement he felt at the unveiling, blending with the disturbance caused by Aradryan, colliding with the apprehension that had been building since he had completed the sculpture.

Korlandril whispered a few calming mantras. As he did so, he ordered his thoughts, pushing some aside for later reflection, drawing on others to reassure himself, focussing on his confidence and experiences to steady his worries. He stood in silent repose for some time, until he was sure he was ready to address the crowd.

When the mental maelstrom had become a still pool, Korlandril stepped out of the holofield to find that his guests had gathered in the clearing outside. Most of the faces were familiar, a few were not. All seemed eager to see what Korlandril had created.

‘I am deeply honoured that you have all come to witness the unveiling of my latest piece,’ Korlandril began, keeping his voice steady, projecting his words to the back of the crowd without effort. ‘Many know that I draw great inspiration from the time before the War in Heaven. I look to our golden age not with regret of a paradise lost, nor with sadness that such times have passed. In the first age of our people I see a world, a universe, that we can all aspire to recreate. Though the gods are gone, it is up to us to make real their works, and through our desire to rebuild heaven bring about the peace that we all deserve. Our civilisation is not lost whilst we still sing and paint – and sculpt – of those times that none of us now remember save in myth. We all know that legend can become truth; that the line between myth and reality is not clearly defined. I would take myth and make it reality.’

Korlandril continued at some length, citing his influences and dreams, expounding upon the schools of thought and aesthetic that had led him to create his sculpture. He spoke smoothly and with passion, giving words to the thoughts that had been streamlined and refined through the long process of sculpting. He talked of the complexities of the organic and the inorganic, the juxtaposition of line and curve, the contrast of solid and liquid.

His eyes roved freely over the crowd as he spoke, gauging their reaction and mood. Most were held rapt by his oration, their eyes fixed upon Korlandril, their minds devouring every syllable. A few stood with expressions of polite attendance, and Korlandril felt a moment of dismay when he realised that one such viewer was Aradryan. Korlandril did not falter in his delivery, sweeping away his concern with his enthusiasm even as he searched for Thirianna. He saw her at the front of the crowd, eager and expectant, her eyes constantly flicking between Aradryan and the holofield that shielded his work.

When he was finished, Korlandril allowed himself a dramatic pause, savouring the anticipation than he had created in his audience. He walked to a small table that had been set to one side, circular and stood upon a spiralled leg, a single crystal goblet of deep red wine set in its centre. He sipped at the drink, relishing its warmth on his lips, the spice on his tongue and a sweet note of aftertaste in his throat, even as he relished the hushed calm that had descended in the wake of his speech.

As he placed the glass back upon the table, Korlandril slipped a thin wafer from his belt and let his thumb run over the rune upon its silvery surface. At his touch, the holofield disappeared, revealing the statue in all of its glory.

‘I present The Gifts of Loving Isha,’ he announced with a smile.

There were a few gasps of enjoyment and a spontaneous ripple of applause from all present. Korlandril turned to look at his creation and allowed himself to admire his work fully since its completion.

The statue was bathed in a golden glow and tinged with sunset reds and purples from the dying star above. It depicted an impressionistic Isha in abstract, her body and limbs flowing from the trunk of a lianderin tree, her wave-like tresses entwined within dark green leaves in its upreaching branches. Her face was bowed, hidden in the shadow cast by tree and hair. From the darkness a slow trickle of silver liquid spilled from her eyes into a golden cup held aloft by an ancient eldar warrior kneeling at her feet: Eldanesh. Light glittered from the chalice on his alabaster face, his armour a stylised arrangement of organic geometry, his face blank except for a slender nose and the merest depression of eye sockets. From beneath him, a black-petalled rose coiled up Isha’s legs and connected the two together in its thorny embrace.

It was – Korlandril believed – breathtaking.

Most of the guests moved forward to examine the piece more closely, while Kirandrin and a few others surrounded Korlandril, offering praise and congratulations. Amongst them was Abrahasil, who must have remained out of sight during Korlandril’s address. Mentor and student embraced warmly.

‘You have nurtured a fine talent,’ said Kirandrin. ‘It is a masterly work, and one that graces the dome with its existence.’

‘It is my privilege to guide such a hand in its work,’ said Abrahasil. ‘I am very proud of Korlandril.’

His mentor’s words brought a flush of happiness to Korlandril and a concomitant throb from his waystone, and he accepted the plaudits of his peers with a gracious bow.

‘If my hands have created wonders, it is because others have opened my eyes to see them,’ he said. ‘Please excuse me. I must attend to my other guests. I am sure we will have many cycles to further discuss my work.’

Receiving smiles of assent, Korlandril sought out Aradryan and Thirianna. They were stood side-by-side in a knot of eldar admiring the statue from a short distance away, the majestic Isha towering above them.

‘She is so serene,’ Thirianna was saying. ‘Such calm and beauty.’

Aradryan made a small gesture of dissent and Korlandril stopped, staying a little distance away from the pair to listen to what they said.

‘It is self-referential,’ Aradryan explained and at his words the serpent within Korlandril coiled around his heart and gripped it tight. ‘It is a work of remarkable skill and delicacy, certainly. Yet I find it somewhat… staid. It adds nothing to my experience of the myth, merely represents physically something that is felt. It is a metaphor in its most direct form. Beautiful, but merely reflecting back upon its maker rather than a wider truth.’

‘But is not that the point of art, to create representations for those thoughts, memories and emotions that cannot be conveyed directly?’

‘Perhaps I am being unfair,’ said Aradryan. ‘Out in the stars, I have seen such wondrous creations of nature that the artifices of mortals seem petty, even those that explore such momentous themes such as this.’

‘Staid?’ snapped Korlandril, stepping forward. ‘Self-referential?’

Thirianna looked in horror at Korlandril’s appearance, but Aradryan seemed unperturbed.

‘My words were not intended to cause offence, Korlandril,’ he said, offering a placating palm. ‘They are but my opinion, and an ill-educated one at that. Perhaps you find my sentimentality gauche.’

In the face of such honesty and self-deprecation, Korlandril’s anger wavered. A rare moment of humility fluttered in his breast, but then the serpent tightened its coils and the sensation disappeared.

‘You are right to think your opinion ill-informed,’ said Korlandril, his words as venomous as the snake laying siege to his heart. ‘While you gazed naively at glittering stars and swirling nebulae, I studied the works of Aethyril and Ildrintharir, learnt the disciplines of ghost stone weaving and inorganic symbiosis. If you have not the wit to extract the meaning from that which I have presented to you, perhaps you should consider your words more carefully.’

‘And if you have not the skill to convey your meaning from your work, perhaps you need to continue studying,’ Aradryan snarled back. ‘It is not from the past masters that you should learn your art, but from the heavens and your heart. Your technique is flawless, but your message is parochial. How many statues of Isha might I see if I travelled across the craftworld? A dozen? More? How many more statues of Isha exist on other craftworlds? You have taken nothing from the Path save the ability to indulge yourself in this spectacle. You have learnt nothing of yourself, of the darkness and the light that battles within you. There is intellect alone in your work, and nothing of yourself. It might be that you should expand your terms of reference.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Get away from this place, from Alaitoc,’ Aradryan said patiently, his anger dissipated by his outburst. Now he was the picture of sincerity, his hand half-reaching towards Korlandril. ‘Why stifle your art by seeking inspiration only from the halls and domes you have seen since childhood? Rather than trying to look upon old sights with fresh eyes, why not turn your old eyes upon fresh sights?’

Korlandril wanted to argue, to snatch words from the air that would mock Aradryan’s opinion, but just as the serpent within stifled his heart, it strangled his throat. He satisfied himself with a fierce glare at Aradryan, conveying all the contempt and anger he felt in that simple look, and stormed away through the blue grass, scattering guests in his flight.

Fate

At the start of the War in Heaven, all-seeing Asuryan asked the crone goddess Morai-heg what would be the fate of the gods. The crone told Asuryan that she would look across the tangled skein of the future to discern what would become of the gods. Long she followed the overlapping threads, following each one on its course to the ending of the universe, and yet she could find no answer for the lord of lords. All paths took the crow lady into a place of fire and death where she could not venture further. To find the answer she sought, the crone followed Khaine the bloody-handed killer who would wage war on the other gods and the mortals, and took from him a thimbleful of his fiery blood. Returning to her lair, Morai-heg set the burning blood of the war god upon her balance. Upon the other side of her scales she coiled up the thread of fate belonging to Eldanesh. All was equal. The crone returned to Asuryan and he demanded the answer to his question. Morai-heg told the lord of lords that the fate of the gods was not his to know. The mortal Eldanesh and his people would decide if the gods survived or not.

Rose-coloured water lapped at the white sands, each ripple leaving a sweeping curve along the shoreline. Korlandril followed the ebb and flow, mesmerised; every part of his mind was directed towards memorising every sparkle, every splash, every grain. Sunwings flashed above the waters, darts of yellow skimming the surface, bobbing and weaving around each other. Korlandril absorbed every flight path, every dipped wing, every extended feather and snapping blue beak.

A sound disturbed his concentration. A voice. He allowed part of his consciousness to depart the scene and recall what had been said. He remembered himself at the same time, sitting crossed-legged on the golden grass of the lawns in the Gardens of Tranquil Reflection, listening to his companion.

‘I am leaving Alaitoc,’ Aradryan said.

Shocked, Korlandril turned all of his attention upon his friend; sea, sand, sunwings all put aside in a moment. Aradryan was sat just an arm’s length away from Korlandril, lounging on the grass in a loose-fitting robe of jade green. He lay on his back, arms behind his head, while his bare toes, seeming possessed of a life of their own, drew circular designs in the air just out of reach of the lake’s pale waters.

‘You are leaving Alaitoc?’ said Korlandril. ‘Whatever for?’

‘To become a steersman,’ replied Aradryan. He did not look at Korlandril, his gaze directed over the waters to the shining silver towers of their homes, and beyond even that, to some vista that only he could see. ‘It is time that I moved onwards. I am filled with a curiosity that Alaitoc cannot satisfy. It is like a hunger growing within me, that no sight or sound of this place can sate. I have taken my fill of Alaitoc, and many splendid feasts she has offered me, but I find my plate now empty. I wish to go further than the force shields and domes that have protected me. I feel coddled not safe, stifled not enriched.’

‘How soon will you leave?’ said Korlandril, standing up.

‘Soon,’ said Aradryan, his eyes still distant. ‘Lacontiran leaves for the Endless Valley in two cycles’ time.’

‘Lacontiran will be gone for more than twenty passes,’ said Korlandril, alarmed. ‘Why must you leave for so long?’

‘She sails on her own, far from Alaitoc,’ replied Aradryan. ‘I wish for solitude so that I might reflect on my choices so far, and perhaps divine something of where I should head next.’

‘What of our friendship? I am at a loss without your companionship,’ said Korlandril, crouching beside Aradryan, an imploring hand reaching out. ‘You know that I would be adrift without you to steer me.’

‘You will need to find another to guide you,’ Aradryan said softly. ‘My mind wanders all of the time. I cannot be trusted to watch over you while you dream any more. I cannot walk the Path of Dreaming with you any longer. I am tired of living within myself.’

Korlandril could say nothing, lost as he was in his thoughts. As he dreamt, as he wandered the paths of his subconscious, it was Aradryan that provided his anchor; a reassuring presence at the edge of his mind, a warmth to which he could return when he came upon the chill and dark places in the corners of his spirit.

‘You will find another dream-watcher,’ Aradryan assured him, noticing his distress. He stood and took Korlandril’s arm, pulling him upright. Now he directed his eyes upon his friend, filled with concern. ‘Perhaps Thirianna will join you on the Path of Dreaming?’

‘Thirianna the Warrior?’ replied Korlandril, aghast at the thought.

‘I spoke to her yesterday,’ said Aradryan. ‘She feels the time is approaching when she will change Paths. You should speak to her.’

A gentle chime broke Korlandril’s reverie and he opened his eyes to see a winding road of silver far below him, cutting through gently sculpted terraces. The softest of breezes brushed across his skin and teased his hair. For a moment he thought he was floating far above the landscape. Sliding completely from memedream to reality, he recognised himself on the balcony outside his chambers, bathed in the dying glow of a constructed twilight. He was leaning on a fluted balustrade, looking down at the vineyards that surrounded the Tower of Starlight Majesty.

It took him a little longer to fully recover his bodily control; blinking rapidly, stretching his limbs, quickening his pulse to ease blood back into numbed fingers and toes. He felt a lingering stiffness and wondered how long he had spent exploring his memories, walking back along the Path of Dreaming. He felt an edge of thirst and licked his lips instinctively though there was no moisture in his mouth.

Recalling the alert chime that had roused him, Korlandril turned slowly and reached out his fingertips to a grey, slate-like panel on the wall beside the archway that led into his home. At the moment of contact with the chill slab he felt the presence of Abrahasil outside his chambers and with a brief psychic impulse bid him to enter.

Breaking contact with the infinity link, Korlandril stepped into the shadowy lounge area inside the archway. It was very much like being inside an egg. The wall was a bluish-white, gently speckled with pale green. Curving couches with high backs were arranged facing the centre of the room, and under his feet he felt the thick ply of a heavily woven mat. Sculptures, by Korlandril’s hand and others, stood on plinths around the wall. As he looked at each in turn Korlandril felt a flicker of recognition, his mind still tied to the processes of his memedreaming: memories of how they were made or acquired; of conversations concerning them; of moods he had felt whilst looking at them. As each thought bobbed to the surface of his mind he pushed them back, away from direct contemplation. Moving to another infinity terminal, he thought the lights into a soft blue and raised the temperature a little; he felt strangely chilled.

‘Perhaps some clothes would warm you quicker,’ said Abrahasil, entering the room through the arch from the main foyer.

It was only Abrahasil’s observation that allowed Korlandril to realise that he was naked. His nudity caused him no self-consciousness; in his current state of internal awareness – or rather his utter lack of it – such thoughts were impossible.

‘Yes, that would probably be for the best,’ said Korlandril with a nod. He gestured through another arch to the dining area. ‘Please take whatever refreshments you desire, I shall return swiftly.’

Korlandril strode into his robing chamber, still somewhat out-
of-synch with himself following his long dreaming. He absent-mindedly touched a hand to a panel on the wall. A door slid aside, revealing a wide selection of attire, from skin-tight bodysuits with glittering metallic sheens to voluminous shirts and long gowns. Korlandril chose a green robe, tight at the waist and flared at the shoulders. He selected a broad belt without thought, his aesthetic instinct guiding his hands to a choice that matched his robe. As he cinched it around his waist, he walked barefoot across the rugs of the lounge area and joined Abrahasil in the dining quarters.

‘Six cycles,’ Abrahasil said as Korlandril entered. The room was dominated by a long, narrow table extruding from one wall, between eight single-legged stools in a row on either side. Abrahasil sat at the far end. Korlandril saw that he had taken nothing to eat or drink.

‘Six cycles of what?’ asked Korlandril, opening a crystal-windowed cabinet door. From within he pulled out a blue bottle and two silvered goblets.

‘No drink for me, thank you,’ said Abrahasil. Korlandril brought both cups to the table nonetheless, in case his mentor had a change of mind. He poured himself a generous helping of icevine juice, keenly aware of the dryness of his mouth and throat.

‘Six cycles have passed since the unveiling,’ Abrahasil explained. ‘I was worried. You left in a hurry. Thirianna explained that you had a disagreement with Aradryan.’

Korlandril sipped his drink, his thoughts of Aradryan fixed on distant memory, another part of him savouring the taste of the icevine with its immediate tang and warm afterglow, while yet another part of his consciousness watched Abrahasil carefully. Korlandril shifted the focus of his memory, replaying events from when Aradryan had returned, reminding himself of what had occurred. After remembering the argument, Korlandril felt the serpent in his gut writhing with anger, hissing and spitting at Aradryan’s words.

‘Calm yourself!’ warned Abrahasil.

‘It was to calm myself that I went into my dreams,’ Korlandril replied with annoyance. ‘Dreams you have disrupted.’

‘Six cycles is too long to wander in your mind,’ said Abrahasil. ‘It is dangerous to indulge in such self-contemplation when treading the Path of the Artist. It can lead to clashes within your spirit – over-analysis of self, confliction between real observation and imagined memory. I have told you this before.’

‘I could not think of any other means to hold back the pain, except to return to those times with Aradryan that were more pleasant.’

‘You are an artist now, you must express your thoughts, not conceal them!’ said Abrahasil. He leaned along the table and poured himself a drink. ‘What is the point of creating such great works as you are capable of if you are not going to learn the lessons that underpin them. The Path of the Artist is not about painting or sculpting, it is about controlling your means of expression, of filtering your influences and observations so that you can avoid falling prey to unfortunate stimuli. This argument with Aradryan is a fine example of what you must learn to deal with. You cannot just wander into your dreams and forget the real universe.’

‘You think I am juvenile?’ said Korlandril, dispensing with all memories of Aradryan as he finished the cup of icevine juice.

‘Not juvenile, just rash,’ said Abrahasil. ‘I have not trod the Path of Dreaming, so I do not know what solace it brings to you. I know that in retreating from your observations you are stepping back from the Path of the Artist. That cannot be healthy by any consideration.’

Korlandril contemplated Abrahasil’s warning as he poured himself more drink. The agitated snake within writhed and clamoured for Korlandril’s attention and he washed away its nagging with more icevine, for a moment tuning every fibre of his spirit towards savouring the drink, driving away his darker thoughts with a tide of stimuli.

‘I need to engage myself in another work,’ said Korlandril. ‘If I must expunge these feelings with expression, it is best that I not allow myself to dwell on them for long.’

‘That would be good,’ said Abrahasil.

‘I should seek out Aradryan, and listen to him so that I might extract what it is that continues to plague me about his presence.’

‘Be careful, Korlandril,’ said the mentor. ‘You may find Aradryan in an uncertain state, a destabilising influence on your psyche. I sense that you are at a critical stage upon the Path of the Artist. It is my joy to guide you further, but these next steps must be taken with caution. You are on the cusp of realising the full potential of expression, but you must choose wisely those emotions you choose to put on display.’

Korlandril smiled, calmed by Abrahasil’s gentle tone. A surety settled in his mind, as if a light had sprung into life to show him the way forward. Under the glare of that light, the devious serpent of his jealousy shrank back into the shadows, cowed for the time being.

Now fully recovered from his dreaming session, Korlandril was filled with purpose once more, his thoughts fixed firmly upon what was to be, the past hidden away where it could do no more damage. Choosing to forget his disagreement with Aradryan, Korlandril lingered for a moment on the happier memories and then allowed those to drift into shadow as well, leaving him nothing but the present and the future.

Korlandril took a skyrunner across the dome, delighting in the rush of air against his skin, the flash of terrace and tree beneath the one-pilot craft as it soared upon the winds, its wings angling and curving in tune with his thoughts. For a short while he allowed himself free rein, forgetting his intent to see Aradryan. Powered by his psychic urging, the dart-like vehicle climbed rapidly, wings tilted back, Korlandril laughing with exhilaration. In his mind his path sculpted a complex web of interleaving arcs and loops and the skyrunner responded, twirling and swooping at his whim.

As the sensation receded and he returned the skyrunner to a stable flight, Korlandril captured the essence of his experience and stored it away. He briefly imagined creating a work of art out of air and fluid, a piece of constant motion illuminated from within, held in slowly uncoiling stasis.

Thinking of his art brought Korlandril back to his current errand. The thoughtwave sculpture was a fine idea, but it could wait. He needed to unburden his spirit of the passion roused by Aradryan’s return, and so he angled the skyrunner down towards the silver ribbon of the road, swerving down between the red-leafed icevines on the terraces, darting beneath other craft that zipped to and fro across the dome’s artificial sky.

Anticipation grew within Korlandril as he sped through the connecting hub between the Dome of New Suns and out into the Avenue of Starlight Secrets. Here there was more traffic. It was one of the main thoroughfares of Alaitoc where hundreds of eldar moved between the many domes and plateaus that made up the bulk of the craftworld. Some strolled languidly by themselves or with friends, others on skyrunners like Korlandril, many on drifting platforms that eased serenely from one place to the next guided by the group desires of those on board.

Korlandril allowed himself a little amazement at the scene. Rather, not at the scene itself, but at Aradryan’s incomprehension of the inherent beauty and intricacy of the craftworld. Aradryan did not look upon the same things as Korlandril with the eyes of the artist, and so perhaps missed the precision of geometry at subtle odds with the inherent anarchy of a living system. He had not developed the senses to appreciate the cadence of life, the ebb and flow of the living and the immaterial and those things that lay in-between.

A hope sprang to mind and Korlandril studied it for a moment, slowing the skyrunner slightly so that its navigation demanded less of his attention. It occurred to the sculptor that he might persuade Aradryan to join him on the Path of the Artist. If Aradryan sought new vistas of experience, then none compared with opening up one’s mind to every sensation without hindrance. It bordered on intoxication for Korlandril, and the thought of sharing such delights with Aradryan filled him with energy.

Engines pitching to a constant note that sang in Korlandril’s heart, the skyrunner sped onwards. Veering left, Korlandril cut into the Midnight Dome, plunging into near-blackness. His eyes immediately adjusted to the lack of light, seeing shades of dark purple and blue amongst the deep grey. The laughter of lovers lilted above the song of the skyrunner but he ignored them, fearing that to contemplate their meaning would lead him towards thoughts of Thirianna; thoughts he did not want to explore at that moment. He allowed the whisper of the wind to carry away the treacherous sound and instead dwelt on the sensation of motion and the blur of dark trees washing past.

Exiting the Midnight Dome into the twilight of the Dome of Sighing Whispers, Korlandril slowed once more, the engine of the skyrunner falling to a pleasant hum. In respectful quiet he skimmed between the columns that soared up towards the dome roof. While he banked left and right without effort, he pondered how he might broach the subject of Aradryan joining him as an artist.

Slowing further still, Korlandril allowed the skyrunner to drop to ground level and swerved down a tunnelway that led deeper into Alaitoc. Here all pretence of the natural was set aside as he followed the long passage that led towards the docking towers. Oval in cross-section, the tunnel glowed with a warm orange light, flutters of energy pulsing along infinity circuit conduits embedded within the material of the wall. Korlandril felt their ghostly presence all around him as he dived deeper into the craftworld’s interior, the psychic energy of the craftworld’s spirits merging and dividing around him, whispering at his subconscious.

It was with some relief that Korlandril exited the passageway into the Tower of Infinite Patience, where Aradryan had taken quarters since his return. Leaving behind the psychic susurrance of the infinity circuit, Korlandril brought the skyrunner to a halt not far from a spiralling ramp that led up into the tower.

Dismounting, he allowed the craft to slip away towards an empty mooring niche and with considerable effort focussed on himself. He smoothed crumples in his robe and adjusted his belt, and with a flick of his fingers tamed his wind-tossed hair into something less unruly. Satisfied that he was presentable, he ascended the tower ramp, his long legs carrying him swiftly up to the eighth storey, momentarily revelling in the physical effort after so much recent inactivity.

Finding the Opal Suites, Korlandril touched the infinity plate to announce his presence. He waited for a moment and no response came. Allowing his fingers to linger longer on the psychically conductive slate, he sought for the presence of Aradryan but could not detect it. Only a residual impression of Aradryan remained in this place.

Adjusting his thoughts, Korlandril found that the adjoining apartment was occupied and he made an inquiry to the eldar within. She appeared at the archway a little later. She was of considerable antiquity, surrounded by an aura of wisdom and solemnity. From the brief contact he had shared with her on the infinity circuit, he knew that she was Herisianith, a shuttle pilot.

‘How might I help you, Korlandril?’ she asked, leaning a shoulder against the archway. Her eyes roved quickly up and down Korlandril, looking at him the same way he looked at others. At some point in her long life, Herisianith had been an artist.

‘I am seeking my friend, your neighbour, Aradryan,’ said Korlandril. ‘He came back aboard Lacontiran nine cycles ago.’

‘Your friend has not returned in two cycles,’ Herisianith told him. Korlandril did not know why she had used the past-sarcastic form of ‘friend’, though perhaps she had seen some tiny reflection of doubt in his manner. ‘He departed with a companion, Thirianna. Since then I have not seen him or felt him.’

‘Did you have any sense of where they were going?’

Herisianith flicked a finger in dismissal, her turn of wrist indicating that she considered such inquiry importune. Not wishing to impose upon her longer, Korlandril gave a nod of departing and turned away. He walked slowly down the ramp, wondering what could have occupied Aradryan for two cycles. Had he spent all of that time with Thirianna?

Korlandril was drawn into a memedream, a small part of his mind guiding his body to a curving bench not far from Aradryan’s quarters while the waking vision occupied the rest of his thoughts. His waystone throbbed dully, but he ignored its nagging and delved deeper into the dream.

Sineflower perfume mingled with merecherry blossom. Chatter and laughter. Thirianna standing next to her father, resplendent in a long dress of gold and black, her bronze hair caught up in a floating net of sapphire-blue air-jewels. Her eyes were green with flecks of gold and fell upon Korlandril as soon as he entered the domed chamber. Korlandril felt the warmth of Aradryan by his side: physically and emotionally. His friend had been correct, the daughter of Wishseer Aurentiun was beautiful, a radiant star in a galaxy of light.

Aradryan introduced them. Thirianna smiled and Korlandril melted under her gaze. She complimented him on his moontiger patterned cloak. He muttered a reply, something stupid he had chosen to forget. They danced, exchanging partners, to the skirl of Aradryan’s scythe-harp. Korlandril played his light-flute, dazzling the party with the sound and colours conjured by his nimble fingers and playful mind.

A hot cycle followed, the three of them enjoying the artificial sun and lilac beaches of the Dome of Rising Hope. Korlandril revelled in their innocence, reliving the unabashed joy they had shared. Each of them musicians, delighting and teasing each other with their melodies, coming together upon the rhythm of their thoughts and feelings.

The serpent intruded once more, tearing Korlandril from his reverie. Had Thirianna and Aradryan ever been more than just good companions? Quivering slightly from the shock of departing the memedream so suddenly, Korlandril reapplied himself to his current purpose. It would be easier to find Thirianna than Aradryan, and if his wayward friend was not actually with her she might have some better idea where he might be found.

Korlandril found an infinity terminal in a small grove of whisperleaf not far from the apartments. He made a gentle inquiry, seeking Thirianna. She had been on the craftworld longer than Aradryan and her presence in the psychic matrix that powered Alaitoc was stronger. Korlandril concentrated on Thirianna and felt the after-shadow of her spirit moving around the craftworld over the previous two cycles: here, where she met Aradryan, his spirit also registering strongly; the Boulevard of Split Moons, along the arcades of the fashion-sellers and jewelsmiths; her own quarters – alone, Korlandril noted with some satisfaction – for half a cycle; then to the Bay of Departing Sorrows, where Aradryan was present again, his presence lingering alongside hers for just the shortest time. Now she was back in her quarters, silent, perhaps meditating or composing. Korlandril voiced thoughts of companionship and directed them towards Thirianna. He waited for her to respond. He allowed the background vibrations of the infinity circuit to occupy him: celebration in the Dome of the Last Sunrise, a disturbing darkness emanating from the Shrine of the Ending Veil.

At this Korlandril withdrew, repelled by the taste left in his mouth from the Aspect Warrior shrine. He had little to do with warmakers, but the Ending Veil was home to one of the Dark Reaper sects; his friends Arthuis and Maerthuin counted amongst their number. He did not pay much attention to military matters, finding it a disagreeable influence on his creations. There was no place for bloody-handed Kaela Mensha Khaine in his work. That his friends might be involved did interest him and he passed on his observations to the dormant Thirianna.

She roused almost immediately, sending him a vision of his Isha statue. The scene was an imagination of the two of them standing beneath it: an invitation. Korlandril reflected the vision back to Thirianna, with a slight adjustment. The night shields were active, dimming the light of the dying star to the twilight of early evening. Thirianna responded in kind and the rendezvous was agreed.

Korlandril broke from the infinity circuit, satisfied with himself. He returned to the Opal Suites and took another skyrunner back to his chambers. His exuberance was muted on his return journey, the lack of Aradryan’s touch upon the infinity circuit preying on his thoughts.

Thirianna was at the statue, sitting at one end of a curving bench, her eyes directed to the dim glow beyond the dome. Korlandril crossed the grass quickly and Thirianna turned at his approach, a smile hovering on her lips for just a moment.

‘Aradryan has left Alaitoc,’ Thirianna said quietly when Korlandril was seated beside her.

Korlandril was taken aback and it took him a moment to readjust his thoughts; he had been ready to open the conversation with an inquiry about Thirianna’s wellbeing. A flurry of emotions warred within Korlandril: shock, disappointment and, worryingly, a small degree of satisfaction.

‘I do not understand,’ said the sculptor. ‘I know that we had a disagreement, but I thought that he planned to remain on Alaitoc for some time yet.’

‘He did not depart on your account,’ said Thirianna, though an unconscious asymmetric blink betrayed conflict in her thoughts. She was not lying, but neither was she wholly convinced that she spoke the truth.

‘Why would he not come to see me before he left?’ Korlandril asked. ‘It is obvious that some distance had grown between us, but I did not think his opinion of me had sunk so low.’

‘It was not you,’ Thirianna said, her tone and half-closed eyes indicating that she believed it was her fault their friend had fled the craftworld.

‘What happened?’ asked Korlandril, trying hard to keep any tone of accusation from his voice. ‘When did Aradryan leave?’

‘He took aboard Irdiris last cycle, after we spent some time together.’

Korlandril had heard the name of the ship in passing but could not place it immediately. Thirianna read the look of questioning on his face.

‘Irdiris is a far-runner, destined for the Exodites on Elan-Shemaresh and then to the Wintervoid of Meios,’ she explained.

‘Aradryan wishes to become a… ranger?’ Incredulity and distaste vied with each other in Korlandril’s thoughts. He stroked his bottom lip with a slender finger, stilling his thoughts. ‘I had no idea he was so dissatisfied with Alaitoc.’

‘Neither did I, and perhaps that is why he left so soon,’ confessed Thirianna. ‘I believe I spoke hastily and with insensitivity and drove him to a swifter departure than he might otherwise have considered.’

‘I am sure that you are no–’ began Korlandril but Thirianna cut him off with an agitated twitch of her finger.

‘I do not wish to speak of it,’ was all the explanation she would offer.

That sat in silence for a while longer, while littlewings darted amongst the branches of the trees above them, trilling to one another. Deep within the woods a breezemaker stirred into life and the leaves began to rustle gently: a calming backdrop.

‘There was something else about which I wish to speak to you,’ said Korlandril, having put aside his thoughts on Aradryan. ‘I have a proposal to make.’

Interest flared in Thirianna’s jade eyes. She indicated with a raising of her chin that they should stand.

‘We should discuss this in my chambers, with something to drink, perhaps?’

‘That would be most agreeable,’ said Korlandril as the two them made their way towards the dome entrance.

Neither spoke as they crossed the dome. They walked a little way apart, the distance a compromise between companionship and decency. Korlandril’s heart beat a little bit faster than usual. He tried to contend with a mounting excitement, having not expected such an accommodating response from Thirianna.

It took some time to reach the dome entrance on foot and the night cycle was midway through when they came upon the silvered archway that led into the main thoroughfare around the rim of the craftworld. Here twilight was also in effect, the darkness broken only by a faint red reflection from the dying star and the will-o’-the-wisps of the infinity circuit around them.

The wide passage was quiet; they passed perhaps a dozen other eldar before they reached the turning towards Thirianna’s apartments. She had taken up rooms in a poet’s commune in the Tower of Dormant Witnesses. It was a place noted for its contemplative atmosphere, with views out to the stars and back across the whole of Alaitoc.

They were about to step onto the sliding walkway up to the towers when a large group appeared from the gloom ahead. Sensing something dark, Thirianna strayed closer to Korlandril, who put a protective hand upon her shoulder even as his own mood dropped, filled with foreboding.

The group were Aspect Warriors, and an aura of death hung about them as palpable as a stench. They were clad in plates of overlapping armour of purple and black, their heavy tread thunderous in the still twilight. Korlandril could feel their menace growing stronger as they approached, waystones glowing like eyes of blood. They had taken off their war-helms and carried them hooked upon their belts, leaving their hands free to carry slender missile launchers.

Dark Reapers: possessed of the War God in his Aspect of Destroyer.

Though their helmets were removed, they still bore the rune of the Dark Reaper painted in blood upon their faces. Thirianna and Korlandril shrank closer to the edge of the passageway as the Aspect Warriors passed, seeking the faces of their friends. Korlandril realised he had inadvertently pulled Thirianna in front of him a little and the realisation brought a small wound to his pride. For her part, Thirianna was calm but apprehensive. Korlandril could feel her trembling under his palm. It was not fear, it was something thrilling. She had walked the Path of the Warrior, did Khaine even now call out to her? Did the presence of the Aspect Warriors resonate with some part of her buried beneath the layers of civilisation the eldar worked so hard to maintain?

Thirianna pointed, directing Korlandril’s attention to Maerthuin. Arthuis walked a little way behind. The brothers stopped and turned their eyes upon Thirianna and Korlandril. Their gazes were empty, devoid of anything but the remotest recognition. Korlandril repressed a shudder as he smelt the blood upon their faces.

‘You are well?’ asked Thirianna, her voice quiet and respectful.

Arthuis nodded slowly.

‘Victory was ours,’ intoned Maerthuin.

‘We will meet you at the Crescent of the Dawning Ages,’ said Arthuis.

‘At the start of the next cycle,’ added Maerthuin.

Korlandril and Thirianna both nodded their agreement and the two warriors moved on. Thirianna relaxed and Korlandril gave a sigh of relief, glad to be free of their friends’ blank yet strangely penetrating gazes.

‘It is inconceivable to me that one should indulge in such horror,’ said Korlandril as the two of them stepped upon the moving walkway, still feeling a small aftercurrent of fear from the encounter.

They made a spiralling ascent, languidly turning upon itself as the sliding ramp rose around the Tower of Dormant Witnesses. Korlandril felt a thrill as they emerged into the starlight-bathed sky, nothing more between him and the void than an invisible shield of energy. For a moment he thought he understood something of the lure of the stars that so enamoured Aradryan.

‘It is not an indulgence,’ said Thirianna.

‘What is not an indulgence?’

‘The Path of the Warrior is not an indulgence,’ she repeated. ‘One cannot simply leave anger in the darkness, to fester and grow unseen. Sooner or later it might find vent.’

‘What is there to be so angry about?’ laughed Korlandril. ‘Perhaps if we were Biel-Tan, with all their talk of reclaiming the old empire, then we might have a use for all of this sword-waving and gunfire. It is an uncivilised way to behave.’

‘You ignore the passions that rule you,’ snapped Thirianna.

Korlandril felt a spear of guilt and embarrassment.

‘I meant no offence,’ he said.

‘The intention is not important,’ said Thirianna, her eyes narrowed, lips thin. ‘Perhaps you would care to ridicule the other Paths on which I have trodden?’

‘I did not mean…’ Korlandril trailed off, unsure what he did actually mean, his glibness burned away by Thirianna’s sudden scorn. ‘I am sorry.’

‘The Path of Dreaming, the Path of Awakening, the Path of the Artist,’ said Thirianna. ‘Always self-indulgent, always about your needs, no sense of duty or dedication to others.’

Korlandril shrugged, a fulsome gesture employing the full use of both arms.

‘I simply do not understand this desire some of us feel to sate a bloodlust I do not feel,’ he said.

‘And that is what is dangerous about you,’ said Thirianna. ‘Where do you put that rage you feel when someone angers you? What do you do with the hatred that burns inside when you think upon all that we have lost? You have not learnt to control these feelings, merely ignore them. Becoming one with Khaine, assuming one of His Aspects is not about confronting an enemy, it is about confronting ourselves. We should all do it at some time in our lives.’

Korlandril shook his head.

‘Only those that desire war, make it,’ he said.

‘Findrueir’s Prophecies of Interrogation,’ said Thirianna, lips twisted in a sneer, brow furrowed. ‘Yes, I’ve read it too, do not look so surprised. However, I read it after treading the Path of the Warrior. An aesthete who wrote about matters she had never experienced. Hypocrisy at its worst.’

‘And also one of Iyanden’s foremost philosophers.’

‘A radical windbag with no true cause and a gyrinx fetish.’

Korlandril laughed and received a frown in reply.

‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I hope that is not an example of your poetry!’

Thirianna vacillated between annoyance and humour before breaking into a smile.

‘Listen to us! Gallery philosophers, the pair! What do we know?’

‘Little enough,’ agreed Korlandril with a nod. ‘And I suppose that can be a dangerous thing.’

Korlandril stood attentively beside Thirianna while she mixed her preferred cocktail of juices and ground ice. She passed a slender glass to Korlandril and waved him towards one of the cushions that served as seats in her reception chamber. She had rearranged and recoloured her rooms since Korlandril had last visited. Gone was the holographic representation of Illuduran’s Monument to the Glories of Impudence and the pastel blue scheme. All was white and light grey, with only the hard cushions as furniture. Korlandril looked pointedly around the room.

‘It’s a trifle post-Herethiun minimalist, is it not?’ he said, reclining as best he could.

‘You had a proposal?’ said Thirianna, ignoring the implied accusation.

Korlandril hesitated. The mood did not feel right. Though they had made up their differences before arriving at the chambers, the comfort he had shared with Thirianna in the garden dome had all but gone. He needed her to be receptive to his idea. He would start by finding some common ground: Aradryan’s departure.

‘I am sorry that Aradryan has left us again,’ he said, meaning it sincerely. ‘I had hoped that I could have persuaded him to join me on the Path of the Artist. Perhaps we might have rekindled something of what we shared on the Path of Dreaming.’

Thirianna gave a flick of her hair, a momentary gesture of annoyance.

‘What is so wrong with that?’ Korlandril asked.

‘It was not for Aradryan’s benefit that you wished,’ said Thirianna, sitting opposite the sculptor. ‘As ever, it was because you want him to become an artist, not because it would be the best thing for him.’

‘He is directionless and lonely,’ argued Korlandril. ‘I thought that if he could learn to see the universe as I do, with the eyes of the Artist, he might learn to appreciate what the craftworld has to offer him.’

‘You are still annoyed that he didn’t like your sculpture!’ Thirianna was half-amused and half-scornful. She sighed in exasperation. ‘You think that if he learnt to “see” things the proper way he would appreciate your genius all the better. You think his criticisms are invalid simply because he has not shared the same education as you.’

‘Perhaps that is the case,’ Korlandril said in a conciliatory tone, realising he had chosen the wrong tack. ‘I do not want us to be divided by Aradryan’s absence. He will return one day, of that I am sure. We have both coped without him, and we will do so again. If we stay close to each other, that is.’

‘Your friendship has been important to me,’ said Thirianna, warming Korlandril’s hopes. He pressed on.

‘I have a new piece of sculpture in mind, something very different from my previous works,’ he announced.

‘That is good to hear. I think that if you can find something to occupy your mind, you will dwell less on the situation with Aradryan.’

‘Yes, that is very true! I’m going to delve into portraiture. A sculptural testament to devotion, in fact.’

‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Thirianna. ‘Perhaps something a little more grounded in reality would be good for your development.’

‘Let us not get too carried away,’ said Korlandril with a smile. ‘I think there may be some abstract elements incorporated into the design. After all, how does one truly replicate love and companionship in features alone?’

‘I am surprised. I understand if you do not wish to tell me, but what inspires such a piece of work?’

Korlandril thought she was being coy for a moment, but a quick reading of her expression confirmed that she had not the slightest idea that she was to be the subject. That serpent in Korlandril’s gut, hissing with annoyance, uncoiled itself. What had been the point of all of his overtures? He had not been obvious in his affections, but neither had he been too subtle in his intent. Was she playing some game with him, wanting him to say aloud what they both understood to be true?

‘You are my inspiration,’ Korlandril said quietly, eyes fixed on Thirianna. ‘It is you that I wish to fashion as a likeness of dedication and ardour.’

Thirianna blinked, and then blinked again. Her eyebrows rose in shock.

‘I… You…’ She looked away. ‘I do not think that is warranted.’

‘Warranted? It is an expression of my feelings, there is nothing that needs warranting other than to visualise my desires and dreams. You are my desire and a dream.’

Thirianna did not reply. She stood and took a couple of paces away before turning to face Korlandril, her face serious.

‘This is not a good idea, my friend,’ she said gently. ‘I do appreciate the sentiment, and perhaps some time ago I would not only be flattered but I would be delighted.’

The serpent sank its fangs into Korlandril’s heart.

‘But not now?’ he asked, hesitant, scared of the answer.

She shook her head.

‘Aradryan’s arrival and departure have made me realise something that has been amiss with my life for several passes now,’ she said. Korlandril reached out a hand in a half-hearted gesture, beckoning her to come closer. Thirianna sat next to him and took his hand in hers. ‘I am changing again. The Path of the Poet is spent for me. I have grieved and I have rejoiced through my verse, and I feel expunged of the burdens I felt. I feel another calling is growing inside me.’

Korlandril snatched his hand away.

‘You are going to join Aradryan!’ he snapped. ‘I knew the two of you were keeping something from me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Thirianna rasped in return. ‘It is because I told him what I am telling you that he left.’

‘So, he did make advances on you!’ Korlandril stood and angrily wiped a hand across his brow and pointed accusingly at his friend. ‘It is true! Deny it if you dare!’

She slapped away his hand.

‘What right do you have to make any claim on me? If you must know, I have never entertained any thoughts of being with Aradryan, even before he left, and certainly not since his return. I am simply not ready for a life-companion. In fact, that is why I cannot be your inspiration.’

Thirianna took a step closer, hands open in friendship.

‘It is to save you from a future heartache that I decline your attentions now,’ she continued. ‘I have spoken to Farseer Alaiteir and he agrees that I am ready to begin the Path of the Seer.’

‘A seer?’ scoffed Korlandril. ‘You completely fail to divine my romantic intents and yet think you might become a seer?’

‘I divined your intent and ignored it,’ said Thirianna, laying a hand on his arm. ‘I did not wish to encourage you. To admit your feelings for me would be to bring them to the light and that was something I wished to avoid, for the sake of both of us.’

Korlandril waved away her arguments, pulling his arm from her grasp.

‘If you have not the same feelings for me, then simply say so. Do not spare my pride for your comfort. Do not hide behind this excuse of changing Paths.’

‘It is true, it is not an excuse! You love Thirianna the Poet. We are alike enough at the moment, our Paths different yet moving in the same general direction. When I become a Seer, I will not be Thirianna the Poet. You will not love that person.’

‘Why deny me the right to find out? Who are you to judge what will or will not be? You are not even on the Path and now you think you can claim the powers of the Seer?’

‘If it is true that you feel the same when I have become a Seer, and I feel the same too, then whatever will happen will come to pass.’

Korlandril caught an angry reply before it emerged, his mind catching up with Thirianna’s words. Hope blossomed, bright flowers stifling the angry serpent.

‘If you feel the same? You admit that you have feelings for me.’

‘Thirianna the Poet has feelings for you, she always has,’ Thirianna admitted.

‘Then why do we not embrace this shared feeling?’ Korlandril asked, stepping forward and taking Thirianna’s hands in his. Now it was her turn to pull away. She could not bring herself to look at him when she spoke.

‘If I indulge this passion with you, it would hold me back, perhaps trap me here as the Poet, forever writing my verses of love in secret.’

‘Then we stay together, Poet and Artist! What is so wrong with that?’

‘It is not healthy! You know that it is unwise to become trapped in ourselves. Our lives must be in constant motion, moving from one Path to the next, developing our senses of self and the universe. To over-indulge leads to the darkness that came before. It attracts the attention of… Her. She Who Thirsts.’

Korlandril shuddered at the mention of the Eldar’s Bane, even by euphemism. His waystone quivered with him, becoming chill to the touch. All that Thirianna said was true, enshrined in the teachings of the craftworlds; the whole structure of their society created to avoid a return to the debauchery and excesses that led to the Fall.

But Korlandril did not care. It was stupid that he and Thirianna should be denied their happiness.

‘What we feel is not wrong! Since the founding of the craftworlds our people have loved and survived. Why should we be any different?’

‘You use the same arguments as Aradryan,’ Thirianna admitted, turning on Korlandril. ‘He asked me to forget the Path and join him. Even if I had loved him I could not do that. I cannot do that with you. Though I have deep feelings for you, I would no more risk my eternal spirit for you than I would step out into the void of space and hope to breathe.’

There were tears in her eyes, kept in check until now.

‘Please leave.’

Korlandril’s anguish was all-consuming. Fear and wrath in equal measure tore through him, burning along his veins, churning in his mind. Dropping beneath it all was a deep pit of shadow and despair, down which he felt himself falling. Korlandril wanted to faint but held himself upright, forcing himself to breathe deeply. The serpent inside him wound itself tight around every organ and bone, crushing the life from him, filling him with a physical pain.

‘I cannot help you,’ Thirianna said, staring with misery at the anguish being played out in Korlandril’s actions. ‘I know you are in pain, but it will pass.’

‘Pain?’ spat Korlandril. ‘What do you know of my pain?’

His whole psyche screamed in torment, honed by his practice as an Artist, thrashing for expression. There was no outlet for all of the pent-up frustration; passes upon passes of suppressing his emotions for Thirianna threatened to erupt. Korlandril was simply not mentally equipped to unleash the torrent of rage that whirled inside him. There was no dream he could go to for solace; no sculpture he could create to excise the pain; no physical sensation he could indulge to replace the agony that wracked his spirit. Incandescent, his waystone was white hot on his chest.

Violence welled up inside Korlandril. He wanted to strike Thirianna for being so selfish and shortsighted. He wanted to draw blood, to let his pain flow out of deep wounds and wash away the anger. Most of all he wanted something else to feel the agony, to share in the devastation.

Wordless, Korlandril fled, his anger swept around by a vortex of fear at what he had unleashed within himself. He stumbled out onto the walkway and stared up into the endless heavens, tears streaming down his face, his heart thundering.

He needed help. Help to quench the fire that was now raging in his mind.

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Path of the Warrior first published in Great Britain in 2011.
Path of the Seer first published in Great Britain in 2011.
Path of the Outcast first published in Great Britain in 2012.
The Curse of Shaa-dom first published in Great Britain in 2013.
Nightspear first published in Great Britain in 2013.
Sky Hunter first published in Great Britain in 2013.
Spirit War first published in Great Britain in 2013.
Howl of the Banshee first published in Great Britain in 2014.
The Path Forsaken first published in Great Britain in 2013.
Farseer first published in Great Britain in 2002.
Valedor first published in Great Britain in 2014.
Wraithflight first published in Great Britain in 2014.
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