Path of the Outcast

by Gav Thorpe

  Agitated, Aradryan left the Bridge of Yearning Sorrows and fled for the sanctuary of the docks at the Tower of Eternal Welcomes.

  He could not stay on Alaitoc.

  Dislocation

  The Well of Harmonies – All things have a beginning, and for the webway that beginning took place at the Well of Harmonies. Some legends claim that this world was where Eldanesh first sired the eldar people, and where Khaine cast down his bloody spear to create the War in Heaven. There are some philosophers who say that the Well of Harmonies never existed, except as a metaphor, for everything is a cycle and begins nowhere, never ending. The truth may never be known, whether once there was a single place from which sprang the existence of the eldar empire, or if ever it was so, born into tragedy and reborn again and again in every subsequent generation.

  The lower levels of the Tower of Eternal Welcomes gave a second meaning to the name. It was amongst these twilight corridors that the eldar of Alaitoc made fresh liaisons, most of a temporary nature. Starship crews from other craftworlds mingled with pleasure-seeking Alaitocii, while the young and the naive moved from drinking establishment to eateries to apartments seeking congress with like-minded spirits.

  Aradryan had never been drawn to this place before, occupied as he had been by the more existential delights of the Dreamrooms, but he hoped to find someone from the Lacontiran that he would know. It was not entirely unpleasant to walk along the curving passageways and flame-lit balconies, just one stranger amongst many, as lost as the Ulthwénese, Saim-Hannian and Biel-Tani traders and crews who shared the space with him.

  As he walked past the open doors of the tower’s various concerns, Aradryan was greeted by a melange of different moods. Songs and poetry, laughter both delicate and uproarious, music and silence played out, accompanied by the smells of cooking and fine spirits, perfumes and incenses. If there was anywhere on Alaitoc where it was possible to feel free from the Path, this was it, but still its presence could be felt. Attendants who trod the Path of Service moved from patron to patron with trays of sweetmeats and wines, while those on the Path of the Merchant came to terms with their greed and materialism through hard haggling and double-dealing.

  In just a short time, Aradryan saw dozens of different costumes and fashions, some old, some so new they had freshly arrived from other craftworlds. Colours in dazzling rainbows fought against bleak monochromes. Pale visages stared at him amongst crowds of highly painted faces, while all manner of exotic pets – feline gyrinx, sinuous silversnakes, bipedal sconons and many others beside – purred and yowled and yapped as a backdrop to the constant conversation.

  In contrast to the cloying crowd of his family, the throng of the Tower of Eternal Welcomes did not intimidate the steersman. Aradryan felt comfort in his anonymity, and with his courage bolstered by this, he ventured into a drinking hall. The interior was lit with a glow of bright neon blues and pinks, low couches forming broken circles around fountains encircled by constantly refreshing glasses.

  Aradryan spied a gap at one of the drinking benches and crossed through the room to sit down. After inquiring with the eldar already seated whether the space was intended for an absent occupant, Aradryan was assured that it was truly available. He gingerly sat down, slightly embarrassed by his lack of experience at such things.

  He looked at the glasses close at hand. They were like upended bells in shape, upon a belt that slowly but constantly travelled from one couch to the next. The silver liquid of the central fountain splashed into each glass, diluting the elixir already in the bottom, filling the glasses with blues and reds and oranges. Hesitantly, Aradryan snared a glass filled with an amber fluid and raised it to his nostrils. It smelt like burned honey, not altogether pleasant.

  ‘I would avoid that one, if I were you,’ said a voice to his right. He looked up and saw a female eldar sitting on the bench next to him. Her hair was black as night, save for a stripe of gold tucked behind her right ear. Golden too was the paint above her eyes, which were a piercing violet, and sable was the colour of her lips. Unlike many that Aradryan had seen since arriving, she eschewed colour on her cheeks, leaving her almost white skin unmarked. She was dressed in a high-necked robe, which clung tightly to the curves of her body as she leaned forwards and plucked the glass from Aradryan’s trembling grasp. She replaced it with another, filled with a vermillion drink. Aradryan caught the scent of kaiberries and slightroot.

  ‘This is my favourite,’ the female eldar said, her dark lips forming a warm smile. ‘Try it.’

  Aradryan did as he was told, sipping the drink. It was sweet but not sickly, the liquid evaporating in his mouth as it was warmed by his breath, creating a swirl of flavour across his tongue. His eyes widened in appreciation and his companion laughed quietly.

  ‘My name is Athelennil,’ she said, touching her fingers to the back of Aradryan’s hand. ‘That is a good one, but do not drink it all, there are some other delights worth savouring.’

  ‘I am not sure I should get intoxicated,’ Aradryan said, feeling self-conscious. Athelennil smiled again.

  ‘There is no fear of that here,’ she said. ‘Only taste and sensation from these drinks, nothing more. You can drink until you weep or your heart is contented, whichever you prefer.’

  ‘Why would I weep?’ Aradryan said sharply.

  ‘I do not know, stranger,’ Athelennil said pointedly. ‘If we were to get to know each other, perhaps you would tell me.’

  ‘My apologies, I have been very coarse. I am Aradryan, recently of Lacontiran.’

  ‘A steersman, yes?’ said Athelennil.

  ‘Yes, how can you tell?’

  The eldar waved a hand at Aradryan’s hair and dark ensemble.

  ‘The morose always feel drawn to steersmanship. It gives one a sense of control, yet brings untold wonders.’

  ‘You speak as if out of experience.’

  ‘Not of being a steersman. I was a navigator, though, for many passes.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now? Now I am outcast,’ said Athelennil. She grinned at Aradryan’s shocked reaction. ‘Of Biel-Tan, originally, though it has been some time since I trod upon the decks of my home. Do not look so shocked, Aradryan of Lacontiran. I would say a third of those around you are outcast, one way or another. There has been a bit of an impromptu gathering on Alaitoc in recent cycles.’

  ‘Outcast tells me that you do not tread the Path,’ said Aradryan, recovering his composure, ‘but it does not tell me what you actually do with yourself, when not recommending drinks to strangers.’

  ‘See? You can be charming when you try. I am mostly a ranger, my friend. I have spent the last three passes out amongst the Exodite worlds of the Falling Stair, learning about their ways.’

  ‘An odd people, for sure,’ said Aradryan. ‘I myself have been along the Endless Valley, and so did not encounter Exodites, but all that I have heard marks them as a strange people.’

  ‘The Alaitocii are a strange people,’ said Athelennil, seeming to take no offence. ‘When viewed from far enough away, that is.’

  ‘Once I would have disagreed, but I have travelled enough to know that what you say is true,’ said Aradryan. He took up a pale blue drink and offered it to Athelennil, before seizing a ruby mixture for himself. He held the rim of the glass to his lips in toast and then lifted it to eye level so that he looked at his companion through the translucent contents, turning her pale flesh scarlet and her eyes to deep purple. ‘By our differences are we judged, by our shared heritage are we known.’

  ‘A fine sentiment,’ said Athelennil, one eyebrow raised in amusement. ‘Though not one I feel you composed yourself.’

  ‘I must confess the words belong to an old philosopher, called Kysaduras the Anchorite. You may have heard of him.’

  ‘He is somewhat discredited on Biel-Tan, I must tell you,’ said Athelennil. ‘His Introspections Upon Perfection are sometimes dismissive of the role played by Asurmen in the forming of the Path. Biel-Tan has many Aspect
Warriors, and they did not take kindly to such treatment.’

  ‘You have been a Warrior?’ asked Aradryan. He took a gulp of his drink when Athelennil nodded. It was delicately spiced, leaving a warm aftertaste that slowly seeped into his gums and down his throat. ‘I have a friend who has also suffered the wrath of Khaine. She has moved on now, but perhaps it would be good for me to discuss it with her, do you think?’

  ‘I would not,’ Athelennil said, her mood becoming sombre. ‘We don our war-mask for a reason. It is not wise to pry beyond that mask.’

  The pair sat with that uncomfortable truth for a little while, until Athelennil raised a more humorous topic. Soon they were laughing as they shared old exploits and scrapes. Athelennil was a fount of tales from across the known galaxy, and there was a richness to her stories that intrigued Aradryan. He longed to know more about the life of the outcast, but Athelennil grew tired. To his surprise, she invited him back to her quarters.

  To his further surprise, Aradryan accepted.

  It was late in the cycle before Korlandril’s grand unveiling of his latest masterpiece when Aradryan realised he had not been in contact with his friends since he had first arrived; nor his family, though that was of less concern. The previous few cycles had been a welcome distraction, spent in the company of Athelennil. They had shared a bed frequently, but also made a more telling acquaintance with each other in the establishments of the Tower of Eternal Welcomes and a few other well-chosen spots that Aradryan had used for romantic encounters prior to his departure.

  He had remembered the unveiling as he had left Athelennil’s apartment and a sudden guilt filled him at the thought. Firstly, he knew he should mention the event to Athelennil. It was, he had come to realise, something of a society occasion amongst the artistic circles of Alaitoc, and to be on good terms with a sculptor of Korlandril’s renown was a matter of high regard. For all that she had shown him over the previous cycles concerning the underbelly of the Tower of Eternal Welcomes, Athelennil deserved an invite to this noteworthy celebration.

  Secondly, he felt guilty because he knew he would never offer that invite; he would accompany Thirianna. Athelennil was vivacious and engaging, but on more than one occasion in her company Aradryan had caught himself wondering what it would be like to share a similar experience with Thirianna. As a Warrior she had intrigued him; as a Poet she enticed him. The time he had shared recently with Athelennil had reawakened in Aradryan a desire for closeness; not the harmonious friendship he shared with his fellow steersmen, but something of a less temporary nature, a bonding with a kindred spirit. Athelennil was good company, but Thirianna stirred his heart in a way he had not felt for a long time.

  So it was that he left Athelennil’s apartment as Alaitoc settled a false twilight over its inhabitants. Not far away was a node for the infinity circuit, as could be found all over Alaitoc. Aradryan had not yet interfaced with the psychic network of the craftworld, and remembering the brief contact he had felt when Lacontiran had docked, Aradryan approached the terminal with a little trepidation.

  He placed his palm upon the gently pulsing gem, and at the instant of his touch the node came to life, glowing energy filling the crystal threads that ran up into the slender pedestal. Immediately Aradryan was connected to all of Alaitoc, and felt its immensity surrounding him. He blocked out the surge of signals, the chatter of countless eldar exchanging information, and settled himself, fearing to be overwhelmed by the rush of flowing data.

  He concentrated, focusing on Thirianna. The infinity circuit responded, his thought rippling across the crystalline matrix. No more than two heartbeats later he felt a connection with the poet, though it was only a faint echo of her spirit, imprinted upon the psychic circuitry of her chambers. Still cautious of the wider network, Aradryan feared to search further for her and instead left an impression upon the matrix expressing his desire that they meet.

  Taking his hand away, Aradryan broke the connection. He stepped back, wondering what to do next. It was still almost a full cycle until Korlandril’s unveiling and he felt no desire to do anything in particular. It was tempting to return to the embrace of Athelennil, but he resisted the urge. Instead, he made his way up to the pinnacle of the Tower of Eternal Welcomes and from a viewing gallery there watched the procession of ships coming and going through the swirling webway gate that lay astern of Alaitoc, wondering where those vessels came from and where they were going.

  Not long after mid-cycle, Aradryan entered the Dome of Silence Lost. He had never come here before, it being one of the smaller domes on Alaitoc, situated away from the main habitation domes and thoroughfares. He was to meet Thirianna, who had responded to his message with the location of their rendezvous: the Bridge of Glimmering Sighs.

  Most of the dome was made up of golden-grassed hillsides, the artificial sky coloured as if lit by pale dawnlight. Slow-moving aerethirs glided on thermals rising from concealed vents, their four wings utterly still, craning long necks to the left and right as they snapped at high-flying insects with their slender beaks.

  Bisecting the dome was a wide river, its banks steep and filled with fern fronds. As he made his way towards the gurgling water, Aradryan spied solitary figures elsewhere in the semi-wilderness: poets sitting or meandering in contemplation, seeking inspiration from the sigh of the wind and the flitting shadows that passed across the undulating hillsides.

  At the heart of the parkland, a silver arc crossed over the ribbon of white-foamed water that cascaded through the Dome of Silence Lost, its span curving as it rose to the crest high above the river. Green and blue snapwings and red-crested meregulls trilled and squawked as they dived beneath the bridge and swept along the banks, skimming just above the water.

  There were no other eldar nearby and no sign of Thirianna, so Aradryan walked up the Bridge of Glimmering Sighs, its surface reflecting the cloudy twilight above. There was no wall or rail on either side, but such protection was not needed by the sure-footed eldar. Aradryan reached the crest and took in a deep breath, catching the subtle fragrance of the winter grass far below.

  He stepped to the edge of the bridge, leaving only his heels on the span. Looking down between his feet, Aradryan saw the swirling waters far below. Turquoise and azure, flecked with foam, the river sped past jagged rocks, the silver and gold of fish glinting beneath the surface.

  All Aradryan had to do was step forwards.

  He sneered at himself for the thought. There was no resolution here. In purely physical terms, Alaitoc would not allow him to be dashed upon the foam-sprayed boulders. The craftworld would act to save his life, dulling the artificial gravity or perhaps generating a buffer field to smooth his fall.

  Even if that were not the case, to throw himself from the bridge would be a pointless act. His fate was the same, whichever way he died. His spirit would be absorbed by the waystone hanging on his chest and in turn would be interred into the infinity circuit, to be trapped in the limbo of undeath forever.

  ‘Aradryan!’

  He looked over his shoulder at the sound of Thirianna’s voice. She was not far away, striding purposefully up the bridge. Her smile was enchanting and instantly dispelled his morbid thoughts. Though there was no sign that Thirianna had guessed his self-destructive intent, Aradryan felt like a child who had been caught doing something forbidden. He smiled and waved at Thirianna, disguising the knot of guilt that tightened around his stomach.

  The gesture reminded him of the time when he had left. Korlandril had been unable to bear the thought of him leaving, so it had been Thirianna who had accompanied Aradryan to Lacontiran, waving him goodbye as he had boarded the starship, happy for him yet her eyes betraying concern. Now those eyes looked at him with a questioning gaze.

  ‘A very pleasant location,’ he said, stepping back from the edge of the bridge to face Thirianna. ‘I do not recall coming here before.’

  ‘We never came here,’ Thirianna replied. ‘It is a well-kept secret amongst the poets of Alaitoc, and I tru
st that you will keep it so.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Aradryan. He looked out over the edge again and the thought that he might simply step from the bridge returned. ‘It reminds me a little of the gulfs of space, an endless depth to fall into.’

  ‘I would prefer that you did not fall,’ Thirianna said, reaching out a hand to Aradryan’s arm to gently tug him back. ‘You have only just come back, and we have much to talk about.’

  ‘We do?’ he said, delighted by the thought. ‘Perhaps you have a verse or two you would like to share with me, now that Korlandril does not intrude upon us.’

  ‘As Korlandril told you, I do not perform my poems.’ Thirianna took her hand away from Aradryan’s arm and cast her gaze into the distance. Aradryan did not know what she looked at, but her lips parted gently. Her face in profile was remarkable, as if drawn by an artist’s hand.

  ‘I thought perhaps they were written for a very select audience,’ said Aradryan. ‘It must be such a gift, to compose one’s disparate thoughts – to embrace them and order them in such a way.’

  ‘They have an audience of one,’ said Thirianna, still not meeting Aradryan’s gaze. ‘That one is me, no other.’

  ‘You know that we used to share everything,’ said Aradryan. ‘You can still trust me.’

  ‘It is myself that I do not trust. I cannot allow any fear that my compositions might be seen by another to restrict my feelings and words. I would be mortified if my innermost thoughts were put on display to all-comers.’

  ‘Is that what I am?’ said Aradryan, hurt by her words. How could she not trust him? He reminded himself that she remembered him as a Dreamer, and knew nothing of the bond and mutual faith he had formed with his fellow steersmen. He took Thirianna by the arm and turned her towards him. ‘One of many?’