[Path of the Eldar 01] - Path of the Warrior

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  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 that 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 purple
s 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 anymore. 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.”