by Gav Thorpe
‘I understand,’ said Thirianna. ‘I remember seeing the skein itself.’
‘And the coming battle will provide us with a great opportunity to return there,’ said Kelamith.
‘Battle?’
‘Surely, child,’ replied the farseer. ‘In battle the skein is a stark, living thing. It will be an excellent introduction for you. Where else do fate and chance come into such vivid contrast? A battle narrows the score of the skein, revealing the myriad twisting ways of destiny in a confined space and time. You are fortunate.’
‘Fortunate?’ Thirianna laughed with bitterness. ‘I have tasted battle, and though I do not remember it, a sense of fortune is not my recollection.’
‘Your protests are tiresome, child,’ said Kelamith. He shrugged dismissively. ‘We both know that you will accompany me. I know this because I have seen it. You know this because in your heart you desire to become a seer and this is what you must do.’
‘You think I should just accept what you decide?’ snapped Thirianna. ‘I am a slave to your instruction because you have seen the results?’
‘Never succumb to fatalism, child,’ said Kelamith, growing concerned. He approached Thirianna and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘There are rarely no choices. As a seer you will find that there are too many decisions to make, not too few. In time you will have a power that lesser creatures dream of possessing; you will be able to shape the future consciously and not be a powerless leaf on the river of time.’
The farseer’s words conjured up vistas of possibilities in Thirianna. She was momentarily suspicious that Kelamith seemed to know the right thing to say when it mattered, but her doubt faded as she envisaged the power he described. It was the desire to have that power and control that had brought her to the Path of the Seer and it would be foolish to be fearful now of the obstacles she would have to overcome.
With great trepidation, Thirianna walked along the corridor that led to the Shrine of One Hundred Bloody Tears. It had not changed since she had quit the Path of the Warrior; had not changed in ten lifetimes of the eldar since it had been founded. The portal to the shrine was a pointed arch at the end of the corridor, of blue metal embossed with runes in gold, like etching on crossed sword blades. One hundred tear-shaped rubies decorated the edge of the metaphorical swords, symbolic droplets of blood, their tiny facets each reflecting ruddy images of Thirianna as she approached the shrine.
The gate opened as she stepped up to it, revealing a landscape of wooded hills. Over the trees soared the pinnacle of the temple tower, its summit lit with silver light, its walls a smooth ochre. The only light came from the tower, bathing the woodlands in an odd twilight that seemed to hang on the edges of narrow leaves and clung to the deep ridges in the bark.
Taking a step across the threshold, Thirianna felt a surge of different feelings. She remembered her fear when she had first come here, mind awash with rage at her father. Other recollections danced in her thoughts as she followed the strip of golden slabs that led to the tower: learning the mantras of the Dire Avengers; taking up her armour for the first time; the hiss of the shurikens the first time she fired her weapon.
Deeper memories, of acts committed while she wore her war-mask, edged into consciousness but were held back by the mental barriers she had put in place. Her war-mask writhed inside her subconscious, brought into life by the growing presence of Khaine’s Avatar, awakened by her coming to the shrine.
Eventually she came to the base of the tower.
The doorway was open, golden light spilling from within. Thirianna walked into the light, feeling its warm touch envelop her like the arms of a lover, caressing the memories that were hidden away behind the locked doors of her mind.
Thirianna swiftly ascended a spiralling set of stairs to the armouring chamber in the upper reaches. She could hear the soft chants of the Aspect Warriors as they prepared themselves for battle, but blocked out the urge to speak them herself.
Coming to the main hall, Thirianna found eight Dire Avengers half-dressed in their armour. The rune of the shrine was already upon their foreheads, written in the blood of each warrior, and between the two lines of Dire Avengers walked Nimreith, her voice leading the chant. Thirianna recognised the glazed looked in the eyes of her former squad members, and another memory, a longing for acceptance and harmony, wriggled in her mind.
Nimreith paused in her ceremony, eyes falling upon Thirianna. The exarch said nothing, but waved a hand towards an archway to Thirianna’s right. It had always been closed when she had been a Dire Avenger, but now the portal lay open, the room beyond dark.
Nimreith had taken up the chant again, turning her back on Thirianna. Realising that she would receive no further instruction, Thirianna stepped through the open doorway and into the room beyond.
There was no light save that which glowed from several objects hanging upon the far wall. A deliberate rumble and a hiss of air caused Thirianna to turn around. The door had closed behind her, leaving her alone in the antechamber.
Crossing the small room, Thirianna examined the glowing objects. There were three triangular breastplates, wrought from silver wraithbone, formed into rune-shapes and inscribed with tiny sigils from which the light was glowing. The psychic energy emanating from the rune armour was palpable, connecting with Thirianna as she held out her hand towards the closest piece. Above each set of armour was a helmet, studded with gems, the eyepieces seeming to glint with their own power as they reflected distorted images of Thirianna.
Between the armour and helmets were several swords. An aura of menace surrounded each one, leaking thoughts of death into Thirianna’s mind. Her war-mask quivered in response, rising from the depths of her unconscious like a hunter scenting prey, eclipsing her other thoughts.
Thirianna moved to the armour on the far left, drawn to its organic form. She lightly drew her fingers along its lines, feeling the small indentations of the runes and a surge of psychic energy.
She realised she was chanting, whispering the mantra that would bring forth her war-mask. Part of her wanted to stop, knowing that pain and suffering was waiting for her beyond that bloody veil. Another part of her, a stronger part, wanted to embrace the oblivion of the death-dealer, to shred away conscience and remorse and become Khaine’s Bloody Hand.
She lifted the armour from its hooks and turned it around so that she could slip it over her shoulders. Bands and belts writhed like tentacles, wrapping around Thirianna’s body, drawing the armour tight to her chest. It felt reassuring to be in the armour’s embrace and its protective energies flowed through and around Thirianna, surrounding her with a dim gleam of power. The armour melded around her waystone, drawing it from its brooch to move it over Thirianna’s heart. The waystone was bright with power, throbbing in time to her racing pulse, hot to the touch.
The matching helmet came next, resplendent in the blue and gold of the shrine. Still chanting, Thirianna brought the helm over her head, taking a deep breath as the darkness consumed her. Flashes of memory were surfacing now; glimpses of battle and death. Looking through the eyepieces was like seeing with fresh eyes.
Lastly she took up the accompanying sword. As Thirianna’s fingers curled around its hilt, the blade glimmered, every rune glowing blood red for a moment. It felt like taking the hand of a child, uplifting and comforting yet bringing a sense of responsibility. The witchblade’s murmuring desires for blood trickled into Thirianna’s consciousness, pushing back the last of the barriers holding her war-mask in check.
She felt complete.
She stood in the centre of the room and held the witchblade in front of her at the salute. From this pose she began a series of slow movements, the memory of her ritual fighting stances coming back to her. The sensation was strange. She had practised countless times with a shuriken catapult, but now every gesture and manoeuvre seemed to match perfectly with a blow or defence with the sword. Something was subtly different. With a mixture of surprise and happiness, Thirianna realised that it was
the witchblade that moved her, teaching her its unique style of fighting, directing her limbs and body in the way of war imbued within the weapon.
Faster and faster she practised, her muscles, her instinct, remembering everything. She whirled and chopped, spun and sliced, sidestepped and parried. An age ago the witchblade had been given its purpose and now it had another vessel through which it could act.
She allowed her mind to drift from its anchors as she had learnt with the infinity circuit. Mind detached from Being, Being detached from Form, leaving her as a single moving entity of pure thought. The sword was no less a part of her than an arm or a foot or even her heart. Its edge shone bright as Thirianna allowed herself to be drawn into the blade, her own essence powering its lethal energies.
Thirianna and witchblade became one.
‘It is a simple enough task,’ said Kelamith, betraying no sign of impatience.
The same could not be said for Thirianna. She glared at the witchblade lying on a purple rug spread out across the floor of her room, where it had been for the best part of the last cycle.
‘Lift the sword, child,’ said Kelamith.
Gritting her teeth, Thirianna held out her hand towards the hilt of the witchblade and tried to imagine it in her grasp. She pictured it floating gently upwards, blade downwards, and gliding across the room to her waiting hand.
The sword did not so much as twitch and sat on the rug with what Thirianna thought was a defiant expression, if such a thing could be said of a sword.
‘It won’t move,’ she snapped, letting out an explosive breath and letting her hand drop to her side.
‘Perhaps it is not the sword that needs to move, child,’ said Kelamith.
‘If I am allowed to move, then I would simply cross the room and pick it up!’ said Thirianna, exasperated by Kelamith’s tone and cryptic suggestions. She was sure the farseer spoke in improbable riddles simply to prove himself superior.
‘I did not say to move your form,’ Kelamith replied. ‘You are a seer now, a mystic with limbs not made of flesh. The sword is not of your form but it is now part of your being, linked to you by the power of mind. You are bound together, sharing your travels along the skein.’
‘I cannot do it,’ said Thirianna. ‘It will not come.’
‘The paralysis is in your thoughts, just as paralysis in your arm would stop you from lifting your hand. Do that now. Lift your hand.’
With a sigh of reluctance, Thirianna did as she was asked, holding her right hand up to Kelamith.
‘Was there any difficulty?’ asked the farseer.
‘Of course not,’ said Thirianna. ‘My hand is attached to me by my arm. I do not feel this link you speak of.’
‘You ignore it,’ said Kelamith. ‘You allow your warrior-self to intrude upon the mind. The warrior is a creature of Form and Being and no thought. The warrior cannot lift the sword, only the seer can.’
Thirianna turned back towards the witchblade, sneering at its reluctance to be commanded. She was not going to lose a battle of wills with an inanimate object.
She extended her mind, focussing her thoughts again on the lifting of the blade. She visualised as Kelamith had instructed, imagining the witchblade to be as light as a feather, gently wafting across the room at her beck and call.
Nothing happened.
‘How much longer are you going to force me to do this?’ Thirianna snarled, folding her arms petulantly. ‘I promise I will not drop my witchblade.’
‘Perhaps you would rather I tied it to your wrist?’ Kelamith replied, with no hint of mockery. ‘It is not the blade that you require; it is the act that you need to perform.’
He delved a hand into one of the pouches at his belt and brought out three runes. With a flick of his fingers he cast them into the air. As they fell the runes slowed and veered, coming together in a group to spin around the farseer’s pointing finger. Two of them continued to circle slowly and the third sped up, passing around twice for each rotation of the others. One of the others then began to move up and down, describing an undulating wave in its orbit.
‘The mastery of our minds is an exercise in control, child,’ said Kelamith. He moved his hand to his nose and the runes changed their route, circling around his head. As Kelamith lifted his hand away a rune took its place, gently turning end over end in front of his nose like a propeller. Thirianna laughed, the ridiculousness of the scene puncturing her annoyance.
In the next moment, the runes flashed across the room, darting past Thirianna’s face. She ducked out of instinct and it was Kelamith who now laughed.
‘Grab one,’ said the farseer as the runes started to weave around Thirianna’s body.
She swept her hand towards the closest, but it darted between her fingers as they closed, pinging gently from her forehead. She tried again, lunging after the next, but it swerved away from her hand and took up a fresh orbit around her leg. Thirianna kicked at the rune out of irritation and instinct, but missed once more, almost unbalancing herself.
‘Mind is quicker than Form,’ said Kelamith. ‘In the time it takes your thought to move to your arm, to your fingers, to your knee and toes, I can have five thoughts.’
The runes spun faster and faster, circling around Thirianna’s head. In quick succession they bobbed against her nose, her lips, her ear, like a group of especially irritating flies. Thirianna glared at Kelamith and saw a brief smile of amusement.
‘Pick up the sword,’ he said, bouncing a rune from the back of Thirianna’s hand.
She reached out towards the witchblade. She did not will it into her grasp, did not visualise its movements. She simply desired it in her hand so that she could swat away the annoying runes.
With a screech, the witchblade flew from the rug and slapped into Thirianna’s open fingers. She closed her hand quickly and turned on her heel, looking to knock the runes out of the air.
The runes were already back with Kelamith, dancing to and fro from outstretched fingertip to fingertip.
‘When you move your arm, you do not think about it, you simply do it,’ said the farseer. ‘When you are hungry you feel it. When you fall asleep, it happens without consent. Form must conform, but Mind is free, bound together by Being. Try it again.’
Heartened, Thirianna returned the witchblade to its place on the rug. She walked back to her position and flung out her hand.
The sword did not move and Thirianna’s exasperated sigh filled the chamber.
The time to depart was fast approaching. For six cycles Thirianna returned to the Shrine of One Hundred Bloody Tears. For six cycles she and her witchblade became accustomed to one another, learning a little bit more about the other with each encounter. For six cycles she practised the exercises taught to her by Kelamith, seeking to refine her psychic control so that it came as easily as breathing and walking.
In contrast to her worries before going to the One Hundred Bloody Tears shrine, Thirianna found no difficulty in letting her war-mask slip away when she had concluded each session. It was as if she had moved that part of her into the witchblade, allowing it to take possession of the anger and the hate, soaking up the merciless desire for death that came from the war-mask.
The next time she put on her rune armour and took up her sword, Thirianna would not be removing it again for some time. She and Kelamith would be amongst the Aspect Warriors of the strike force being assembled. She would be returning to battle.
The rune projected from the crystal consisted of three glowing loops, bisected by two crossbars. The image turned slowly in front of Thirianna as a female voice spoke quietly.
‘The Sign of Daitha was first configured by Nemreinthera of Iyanden and its use spread quickly to other craftworlds, coming to Alaitoc during the Fourth Pass of the Wintering in the Age of Hallowed Dusk. It was first adopted by Kordanrial Alaineth, who introd–’
The recording paused as it detected the door chime. Thirianna realised she had been so intent upon her studies that she had not noticed the app
roach of a visitor. She cast her mind into the infinity circuit – feeling a moment of pride that she could do so now without physical contact with a node or interface – and suddenly recoiled in surprise at the identity of her guest.
She thought open the door and plucked the crystal from the floor, stowing it in a pouch at her belt.
‘Aradryan!’ she said, turning towards her visitor. ‘This is unexpected.’
He was dressed in a tight-fitting suit of greens and blues that were constantly shifting, masking his form. It was a holo-suit, frequently used by rangers, though there was no sign of the heavier cloak or coat that such eldar usually wore. Thirianna noticed a long knife was sheathed at his hip, and he wore a belt laden with packs and pouches.
‘Hello, Thirianna,’ said Aradryan, stepping into the apartment. He smiled and offered a palm in greeting. Thirianna laid her hand on his for a heartbeat, still nonplussed at her friend’s arrival. ‘Sorry I could not warn you of my return.’
‘I did not expect to see you again for much longer,’ said Thirianna. She sat down and waved to a cushion for Aradryan to sit but he declined with a quick, single shake of the head.
‘I cannot stay long,’ he told her. ‘It seems my attempt to get far away from Alaitoc was destined to be thwarted. The Irdiris intercepted a transmission from Eileniliesh. It’s an Exodite world that has been attacked by orks. We thought it wise to return to Alaitoc with the news.’
‘Preparations are already under way for an expedition,’ said Thirianna. ‘Farseer Latheirin witnessed the impending attack several cycles ago.’
‘Such is the way of farseers,’ Aradryan said with a shrug. He laughed. ‘Of course, you are becoming a seer now. Perhaps I should choose my words more carefully?’
‘I do not take any offence,’ replied Thirianna. ‘They are an enigmatic group, that is sure. I have been around them for some time and I do not yet understand their ways.’
