by Gav Thorpe
‘It is no slight against you, nor against Korlandril or any other,’ explained Thirianna. ‘I choose to share what I share. The rest is mine alone, for no other to know. Please appreciate that.’
‘Such an attitude does not sit well aboard a starship,’ said Aradryan. ‘One is part of the many, and in confinement with others most of the time. It takes several to pilot such a vessel, and we must each trust the others implicitly. I have learnt that friendship is not the only thing that must be shared. Cooperation, the overlapping of lives in ways beneficial to all, is the key to understanding our place in the universe.’
‘A grandiose conclusion,’ laughed Thirianna. ‘Perhaps there is something of the poet in you!’
Aradryan realised his words had been a bit pompous. He let go of her arm and glanced away, ashamed. She had not responded as he had hoped, and he could tell that there was nothing deeper than friendship between them. It seemed obvious that Korlandril had seen earlier what Aradryan had missed. Trying not to think about that, he looked at her again, hiding his feelings.
‘Korlandril will not be entertaining us until the dusk of the cycle begins,’ he said. ‘If you will not grace me with your poems, perhaps you could suggest other entertainments that will divert us until the unveiling.’
Thirianna did not reply, but looked keenly at Aradryan, trying to penetrate the calm veneer he had assumed. Small twitches at the corner of her mouth and a slight narrowing of her eyes betrayed some internal dissent, but it passed in a moment and she forced a smile. Thirianna laid a palm upon the back of Aradryan’s hand.
‘The Weathering of the Nine takes place later today,’ she said. She spoke of the carnival that took place aboard drifting sky barges, touring the nine great domes of inner Alaitoc. It was a haunt of adolescents and tourists. ‘I have not been for many passes.’
‘Nostalgia?’ said Aradryan, smiling at the memories of the parade, an eyebrow rising in amusement.
‘A return,’ Thirianna replied. ‘A return to a place we both know well.’
Aradryan considered the invitation for a moment, unsure whether it was wise to revisit old memories. If he declined, Athelennil would surely give him welcome instead. Yet that would be unfair on Thirianna. It was not her fault that she only sought friendship. It was the least Aradryan could do to attempt to enjoy some time with her.
‘Yes, let us go back a while and revisit our youth,’ Aradryan said. ‘A return to happier times.’
‘It is a truth that as we progress, our grief increases and our joys diminish,’ said Thirianna.
The two of them started down the slope of the bridge towards the coreward bank. Thirianna’s words seemed to be a general declaration rather than directed at him, but Aradryan felt them like a barb all the same. He could not allow his own depression to infect the happiness of a friend.
‘It does not have to be so,’ said Aradryan. ‘The universe may have grief in plenty to heap upon us, but it is in our power to make our own joy.’
Thirianna looked to reply for a moment, but stayed silent, brow gently furrowed as she considered his words. They walked on a little further, close to each other but not intimately so.
‘Yes, you are right,’ said Thirianna, with a smile of genuine pleasure. ‘Let us recapture the past and create some new happiness.’
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 yellow 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.
‘She is so serene,’ Thirianna said. ‘Such calm and beauty.’
Aradryan’s fingers flicked in agitation at his companion’s words, for he saw nothing of the sort. Korlandril’s creation had the same ostentation as its creator. Its name was no more humble either: The Gifts of Loving Isha, it was called. Aradryan looked at the sculpture, which was perfectly executed, and felt nothing. The weaving of organic and inorganic was intriguing, and the lines were pleasing to the eye, but there was nothing new to stir the steersman’s heart.
‘It is self-referential,’ Aradryan explained, his gaze moving from the statue to Thirianna. ‘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.’
Aradryan found it hard to express himself. The words he sought did not come easily and by the look that passed briefly across Thirianna’s face he realised she thought his opinion scornful. She took a deep breath before replying, obviously choosing her words with care.
‘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, speaking sincerely. He saw movement in the crowd behind Thirianna and out of the corner of his eye spied Korlandril advancing on them. His face was a mask of anger, and Aradryan realised his criticism had been overheard. And not taken well at all. He sought to temper his comments as Korlandril stormed closer. ‘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 next to Thirianna, who turned with a look of shock which swiftly became one of guilt, as though she shared the blame for Aradryan’s critique. ‘Self-referential?’
Korlandril’s childish outburst was embarrassing, but there was nothing Aradryan could do to take back the words; just as there was nothing to stop the Artist feeling the hurt he did. Aradryan tried to offer some advice.
‘My words were not intended to cause offence, Korlandril,’ he said, offering a placating palm towards his friend. ‘They are but my opinion, and an ill-educated one at that. Perhaps you find my sentimentality gauche.’
Korlandril hesitated, blinking and glancing away in a moment of awkwardness. The pause lasted only the briefest heartbeat before his scowl returned.
‘You are right to think your opinion ill-informed,’ Korlandril said. ‘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.’
Korlandril’s accusation was misplaced, and it irked Aradryan that he should be blamed for not being stirred by the Artist’s pedestrian creation. The steersman noticed Thirianna stepping back as he crossed his arms and met Korlandril’s glare with a stare of his own.
‘And if you have not the skill to convey your meaning from your work, perhaps you need to continue studying,’ Aradryan snarled. ‘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.’
The two of the
m had shared a bond of Dreamers, and had left imprints upon each other in ways that simple friends could not. Yet Korlandril had changed beyond recognition. His arrogance was towering, his self-importance colossal. The Artist’s venomous words felt all the more like a deep betrayal because of the past they had shared.
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Korlandril, every syllable spat with anger.
‘Get away from this place, from Alaitoc,’ Aradryan said, trying to be patient, remembering that it was not Korlandril’s fault; he had discarded all self-awareness when he had become the Artist. Aware of Thirianna’s scrutiny, Aradryan made a show of seeking accord with Korlandril, for it did Aradryan no favours to appear the aggressor in the eyes of his would-be lover. ‘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 parted his lips for a moment, but then shut his mouth firmly. He directed a fierce glare at Aradryan, before stalking away through the blue grass, scattering guests in his flight.
Aradryan turned towards Thirianna, hands raised in apology, hoping that she did not attach any blame to him for Korlandril’s tantrum.
‘I am sorry, I d– ‘ he started, but Thirianna’s scowl cut him off.
‘It is not I that deserves your apology,’ she said curtly, the words like barbs of guilt in Aradryan’s gut. ‘Perhaps such behaviour is tolerated on a starship, but you are back on Alaitoc. You are right, you have become gauche.’
With that parting remark, she left Aradryan, ignoring his call after her. As he watched her walking away, the steersman knew that he had made a grave error. His two closest friends had turned from him, and Alaitoc seemed even less like home than it did a few moments before.
Fate
The Deserts of Sain-Shelai – The black sands of Sain-Shelai spread to the horizon, lifeless and bleak. At their centre stands a solitary hill, and in that hill is the opening of a small cave. Inside that cave burns a small fire. The pall of its smoke spreads out across all of the desert, joining it as one with the flames. From the smoke comes the tale of what goes by, and so into the flames stares the one-eyed hag, Morai-heg. Seeing what passes, the Crone weaves the skein of fate, choosing the length of the thread of life for each mortal, binding it to the destinies of others in the great pattern of existence. On occasion, a great storm will sweep the black sands and Morai-heg will be blinded. She throws her weavings upon the flames, casting fate adrift for those poor spirits, until the storms have passed and she can see once more.
Aradryan found Athelennil in one of the vapour lounges of the Tower of Eternal Welcomes. After his confrontation with Korlandril he was in no mood to relax, inhaling narcotic and hypnotic incenses and fumes. Taking note of his agitated disposition, Athelennil bid farewell to her companions and took Aradryan back to her quarters. Seeking some sense of release, the steersman took her arm and stepped towards the bed chamber but she twisted from his grip with a frown and pointed to the low couch that ran along one curved wall of the chamber.
‘You misunderstand our relationship,’ she said. ‘I do not exist solely to salve your troubled thoughts. What we share must be mutual.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Aradryan, taking one of Athelennil’s hands in his, bowing in apology. ‘I meant no offence, my love.’
‘My love?’ her laugh was edged with bitterness. ‘Love has nothing to do with what we have. Do not seek to woo me with false words.’
Aradryan was taken aback by her forthright denial and realised that he had said the words idly, without even considering them. She was right to rebuke him.
‘I am disconcerted and dismayed,’ Aradryan confessed. ‘I have had a sorrowful parting with friends.’
‘Not sorrowful,’ said Athelennil. She took Aradryan by the arm and led him to the couch, pushing him to be seated. From an alcove in the wall she took up a crystal bottle and two glasses, pouring two measures of the lavender-coloured drink. ‘Your agitation is not sorrow, it is something more than that.’
Knowing that the burden of the evening’s events would stay upon him until he confided in another, Aradryan told the sorry tale of the unveiling, and confessed his regret for not taking Athelennil as his partner.
‘Korlandril and I parted with angry words, and I fear I have also lost Thirianna,’ he finished.
‘Ah, sweet Thirianna,’ said Athelennil. She held up a hand to Aradryan to silence his protest about her tone of voice, which was gently mocking. ‘Do not think to deny that you have feelings for her. I say this not out of jealousy, but out of friendship. If you wish to be with her, you will have no complaint from me. I am due to leave Alaitoc in two cycles’ time anyway, so it is irrelevant.’
‘Two cycles?’ Aradryan had known that Athelennil would leave at some point but he had not thought it would be so soon.
‘I travel aboard Irdiris,’ she said, sitting beside Aradryan.
‘Bound for where?’ he asked. ‘Will you return?’
‘I have no answer for either question, and I care for no answer.’ Athelennil stretched an arm along the back of the couch and arched her back, her eyes never leaving Aradryan’s ‘That is the point of being outcast – to have no bonds to fetter one’s travels.’
‘I will come with you,’ declared Aradryan.
‘Will you?’ replied Athelennil, assuming a pose of mock subservience. She flicked her hair from her face in annoyance. ‘What if I do not want you to come with me?’
Aradryan had not thought of such a thing and slumped in the chair, shoulders sagging. He felt fingers on his knee and looked up to see Athelennil smiling at him.
‘You are in such a sorry state, Aradryan.’ She stroked a hand up his leg and then put her fingers to his cheek. ‘Do not make a drama out of circumstance. I would be pleased if you chose to come with me, but be warned that we need no steersman. We are outcasts, not mentors, and if you leave on Irdiris you are choosing the Path of the Outcast too.’
‘I am not so sure...’
Aradryan was changing his mind with every heartbeat. He wanted to see the galaxy, and to spend time with Athelennil; he also wanted to stay with Thirianna. Evidently the conflict was clear to Athelennil.
‘I will take no umbrage if you wish to explore where the water flows,’ she said, withdrawing her hand. ‘Speak with Thirianna. Make inquiries of the other starships if you wish to continue to be a steersman.’
‘There is no reason to contact Thirianna, save to give her fresh opportunity to share her scorn for me,’ said Aradryan, standing up. ‘You did not see the disdain in her face, disdain I deserved.’
‘It is deserved if you think so little of your friends that they would judge you so harshly on a single episode.’
‘You think she would speak with me?’
Athelennil waved a hand dismissively and looked away.
‘It matters not what I think. If you fear further rebuke, then do not speak to her. If you have any courage at all, you will put aside your fear and seek her out.’
‘Then I shall, if that is your feeling on the matter,’ said Aradryan, heading for the door.
He hesitated a step but there was no further reply from Athelennil. Stung by the sentiment of her words, Aradryan headed to the infinity circuit node, seeking to link with Thirianna. As before, she was not to be easily found and so he left his imprint, conjoined with the desire for reconciliation.
Knowing that to return so swiftly to Athelennil would be an invitation for further mockery, Aradryan instead headed into Alaitoc, away from the dock towers and quay spires. The outcast’s words accompanied him, though, distance no object to their pursuit. The offer to leave Alaitoc – properly leave as an outcast – preyed on his mind as he rode a spear-car from the Dome of Tranquil Reservations to the Boulevard of Split Moons.
The proposition filled him with fear for the most part, but in a way the fear added to the thrill of being outcast. It was saf
ety that cloyed and coddled his thoughts, and so perhaps he needed to make the ultimate break from their safety, giving himself no refuge. If the Path was the trap he thought it to be, the only escape was to become outcast: to eschew the teachings of the Path altogether. It mattered nothing if he voyaged far from Alaitoc for the rest of his life if he did so on the ships of the craftworld, which though distant were still merely extensions; detached limbs of the same body.
Aradryan wandered the stalls that lined the Boulevard of Split Moons, named so for in shape the thoroughfare resembled two crescents backed onto each other. There were all manner of small trinkets on sale; gewgaws of pretty gems and polished jewels that caught the light in dazzling rainbows. The traders here were not mercantile in the true sense, but mostly artisans giving away their wares to make room for future projects. When one lived as long as an eldar, there was a great deal of clutter to be periodically cleared.
Some stalls had ancient artefacts that passed from generation to generation, some of them dating back hundreds of passes. Antiquity in itself held little value for the eldar, but some aesthetics, some designs had a timeless quality, and there were those who preferred to possess the purity of their original incarnations rather than objects created in the style of the old schools.
Also on display were clothes, of styles both fashionable and old. Aradryan had given little thought to his wardrobe of late and lingered awhile at these stands, studying the cut and cloth of loose robes and tight jackets, studded leggings and belted shirts. His own attire had earned him a few strange glances and a couple of admiring looks. He wore a wide-shouldered jacket of dark blue, flared at the hips, fastened by a line of tiny buckles from waist to neck and wrist to elbow. A heavy kilt of subtly blended greens and blacks covered his upper legs, above narrow boots studded with golden buttons. It was a style that had not been widely popular even before his departure, and now looked very out of place.
