by C. S. Goto
'You are not welcome here, spiders of the warp,' she muttered, taking a step forward of her own lines until she stood alone. The ranks of house Guardians closed up behind her, erasing her shadow with their sheet of blackness. 'You will turn back.' Her voice carried no volume, which made her tone seem casual and disinterested, but her eyes shone with focus. Her armour was immaculate to the point of appearing ceremonial. She wore no helmet, and her long black hair fell over her deep green cloak of rank, which cascaded down from her shoulders like a silken mane. The long, two-handed hilt of an ancient diresword, protruded from under folds of fabric, fastened to her belt with a golden, serpent-headed clasp. The assembled Aspect Warriors opposite her made no move. There was no answering call from their commander, and not a single eldar stood forward of their lines. They stood immobile and implacable in the face of the Teirtu House Guardians and the flood of light that gushed out of the Sentrium through the great Gates of Rivalin. In the intense brightness, their crimson armour shone like a warning beacon.
Yseult narrowed her eyes slightly, staring across at them. Could it be that they had simply not heard her? She had carefully calculated an appropriately indifferent volume, intending to cause offence not deafness. She sighed inwardly, aware that the protocols for initiating combat differed between the various Aspect Shrines. The rules for battle between the Great Houses had been codified and consolidated during the House Wars over the course of the last hundred years, but it was not clear that these rules should also apply to the Aspect Temples, who had deliberately played no part in that terrible conflagration, or at least no open part in it. During her own cycle of training in the Temple of the Dire Avengers, Yseult had embraced a dignified and honourable etiquette. It was entirely plausible that the deceitful Warp Spiders did not share her code of conduct. However, she realised that she was behaving without the necessary respect.
You are not welcome here, spiders of the warp. You will turn back, or we will turn you back. Realising that vocalising her words
may have been unnecessarily insulting, she repeated herself, this time without giving voice to any of the words. Instead, she pushed them across the intervening space and directly into the minds of the Warp Spiders. Who are you to refuse us welcome, servant of Teirtu? The reply was firm and powerful, and it resonated violently in Yseult's head.
She could not tell whether it was audible to her Guardians. Part of her hoped not. 'I am Yseult Teirtu-an,' announced Yseult, taking another step forward of her own lines so that she could be clearly seen by both sides. She spoke the words out loud, accepting and cultivating the defiance that such a move implied. Whether or not they had intended it, her opponent's words had stung her, even though it was true that she was merely pledged to the House of Teirtu and not part of it by birth.
'I am duly empowered to welcome our friends, and I am more than capable of repelling our enemies,' she added, letting the tone of antagonism float across to the Warp Spiders. It was all part of the ritual of commencement. We have no desire to fight you, Avenger Yseult. The crimson front line of the Warp Spiders parted and a magnificent figure strode
forwards out of the formation. She was a full head taller than her Aspect Warriors and her shoulders were set with power, as the wash of light from within the Sentrium crashed against her armour like water against a rock. Like Yseult, the exarch had no helmet, indicating that the formalities had not yet been exhausted. You are not unknown to us. Yseult smiled, raising one eyebrow in faint amusement. She was surprised to see that the exarch was there amongst her warriors for this encounter, but it certainly explained the psychic power of the voice that had thundered across the no man's land moments before. She was still more surprised by what appeared to be a conciliatory tone. Was Exarch Aingeal really trying to avert a battle, or was this merely part of Warp Spider etiquette?
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
'You honour me, exarch,' she replied, still speaking out loud so that her incredulous tone could be heard by her own warriors. If Aingeal's attempts at conciliation were insincere, Yseult did not want to be caught out. Besides, when given a choice between diplomacy and combat, a Dire Avenger should choose battle every time. She did not come to guard the Gates of Rivalin just to bandy words with this Warp Spider, exarch or no exarch. 'I wouldn't want to fight me either!' There is no need for more Kaelorian blood to be spilt this day, Yseult Teirtu-ann. The hands of the houses are soaked enough
already. We merely seek safe passage to the Shrine of Fluir-haem. That is all.
Yseult's eyes narrowed again as a burst of ruby light flashed off the exarch's ancient armour. This was not how the rituals of commencement were supposed to evolve. During the House Wars, Yseult had become accustomed to striding to the fore, announcing her name, and then launching into battle with a worthy opponent. The champions of each force would fight the first encounter and then, depending on the manner of the victory, the rest of the warriors would charge into the fray. Or they would retreat, conceding the superiority of the opposition. After so many deaths, the eldar of Kaelor had been forced to conceive of a way of battle that would not leave the craftworld bereft of eldar altogether. In the deepest recesses of their dhamashirs, they all knew that the children of Isha were a dwindling light in the galaxy, and none wanted to be responsible for extinguishing it completely.
And yet Aingeal's conciliations irritated Yseult. She saw deceit lurking in their depths, like a deadly snake poised in a flowering umbhala tree. The delay appeared like procrastination or even cowardice. If the Warp Spiders wanted to pass the gates, they should simply make their move. All of this posturing seemed vaguely insulting, and Yseult wondered whether she was being mocked.
'You do not consider me worthy of your blood, Exarch of Khaine?' Yseult found the reason for her rising anger. 'You will not fight me?'
Behind her, from the ranks of the house Guardians, Yseult could feel the bubbling of rising outrage. I do not wish to fight anyone on this day of all days.
THOUSANDS OF ELDAR crowded the streets and boulevards that converged on the Plaza of Vaul in the heart of the stately Sentrium sector, facing which stood the Farseer's Palace and the Shrine of Fluir-haern. The Sentrium was the grandest and most ancient sector in all of Kaelor, seat of the Ohlipsean and home of the Knavir eldar. The thoroughfares were crowded beyond the point of congestion, as individuals pressed up against each other in efforts to catch a last glimpse of the body that had been laid in stasis on the silver, ornamental anvil that marked the geometric centre of the craftworld of Kaelor. The anvil was a monument to Vaul, the smith god, who was thought to have been the favoured god of Gwrih the Radiant himself. It served as a ceremonial altar on grand occasions, but never before had it been graced by the body of one from outside the Rivalin lineage. Despite the pressing throng of eldar, there was a heavy silence hanging over the Sentrium. Like all of their kind, the Kaelorians were hostages to their profound emotions. It was at times of such serious, communal grief that they lost themselves in the solidarity of their craftworld. None muttered even a single word of loss, but each felt the cumulative pain of the others, until the whole sector seemed bathed in grief and remembrance. There had been no public announcement about the Ceremony of Passing, but the gathering of anguish and pain was a beacon that drew eldar from all over Kaelor to participate in the last moments of their beloved Lady. The Kaelorians felt drawn to the outpouring of emotion like moths to a flame, as though they gained strength and solidarity from the shared sorrow. High up on one of the balconies of the Rivalin Palace, which faced into the plaza, Cinnia lifted her head and stole a glance around her. On both sides of her were the other courtiers of the Ohlipsean - the Circular Court - each of them with reverentially bowed heads. One or two had closed their eyes, as though they were consciously trying to attune their minds to the swell of grief that rose out of the plaza below them. The seriousness was oppressive. To her surprise, Cinnia watched one of the other courtiers lift his gaze from the throng below. He glanced furtively around the b
alcony before noticing that Cinnia was watching him, and then he smiled a faint, embarrassed crease into his handsome, dark- skinned face. In that moment, Cinnia saw that his eyes were gleaming with gold, and she noticed the incredible luxuriance of his silk robes. Despite herself, Cinnia returned the smile, like an infant sharing a moment of recognition and daring, and then snapped her eyes away self-consciously.
Down below them, in the centre of the plaza, she could see the empty shell that was once Lady Ione's body. It had been carefully laid across the silver anvil in a theatrical manner that had clearly been designed to provoke heightened emotions from the assembly. The aesthetic was perfect, albeit shamelessly sentimental and manipulative, since the body was little more than a husk. It was a piece of theatre that would have been worthy of the riellietann, and Cinnia was instantly sceptical about whether the aesthetically stunted styhx-tann of House Teirtu could have conceived of this by themselves. For a moment, she wondered whether the farseer had been consulted on the best way to perform the ceremony. Despite his various faults, old Ahearn Rivalin certainly could not be faulted for his artistic good sense, and it was widely known that Ione had been one of his favourites. A feeling of discomfort lapped gently at her face, and Cinnia glanced to the side again to see Celyddon Ossian still watching her with his golden eyes. His persistence was bordering on shamelessness, and it was certainly a breach of decorum at an event such as this. She looked away, not wholly displeased by the attention, but not wanting to encourage anything in this context. This was neither the time nor the place.
Murmurs and movement in the crowd below drew her attention back down into the plaza. A passage was opening through the assembly and a small group of eldar was emerging from the gates of the palace directly beneath her. Bedecked in the green and gold ceremonial finery of his great house, with banners fluttering proudly above them, Iden Teirtu led the contingent out through the crowd towards the podium that had been erected for them next to the anvil. Iden carried before him a folded cloth of emerald green, as though he were cradling a child in his arms.
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
For the first time since the end of the House Wars, Cinnia felt the eldar of the Sentrium respond to the sight of Iden with affection and sympathy. As he climbed the podium, with his son Morfran at his side and with the beautiful young Oriana behind them, Cinnia felt a wave of emotion flood out of the assembly and wash over them. For the first time in many years, Iden was the focus of positive emotion. No matter how painfully the rest of Kaelor felt the loss of Lady Ione, they knew that he must feel it more intensely than anyone. She had been with him even before his bloody rise to power in the Sentrium. She had come with him from the outlying domains of Teirtu when he had marched into the Ohlipsean and wrested effective power from the farseer, and she had given House Teirtu an air of sophistication in the Court. Without her, the gruff Iden might never have been accepted by the cultivated Knavir of the Circular Court. They haven't even noticed that the farseer is not there, thought Cinnia, shaking her head, disappointed and thrilled at the ease with which her fellow Kaelorians could be controlled. She reflected that it was one of the many consequences of the emotional nature of the Sons of Asuryan - as the eldar were sometimes known - and it was not something that could be wholly mitigated by the Eldar Path of Ihnyoh, despite widely accepted assertions to the contrary. Heightened rationality and discipline could not change the essential nature of the eldar dhamashir, they merely obscured it. Looking down at the thousands of eldar assembled in anguish and solidarity, Cinnia was momentarily appalled by their collective weakness for superstition. The quality of the silence that filled the plaza suddenly changed, bringing Cinnia's thoughts back to the ceremony unfolding below her. She watched Iden stride forwards to the end of the podium, flanked on both sides by Teirtu standard-bearers. He approached the husk of Ione and the silver anvil, directly below and before him, with a pale and solemn face. Very slowly, he unravelled the emerald cloth that he had been carrying with such ritualistic care, letting it drop to its full length over the edge of the podium so that its glistening silken sheen could be seen by the entire assembly. The glorious cloth rippled and fluttered like a standard, and the golden serpent of Teirtu shone from its centre. All across the plaza and in the streets that fed into it, thousands of heads bowed in reverence, as though Iden had unfurled an icon of the farseer himself. Without a single word, Iden flourished the cloth into the air and let it settle down over the body of Lady Ione and the silver anvil, covering them both in the colours of House Teirtu. As she watched, Cinnia hoped that at least some of the assembled eldar would realise and resent the political aspirations of Iden's symbolic gesture, as the ostentatious fabric claimed Ione and the anvil for the great house.
As though in organic communion with Iden's movements, a path opened up through the crowd, leading from the anvil to the gates of the Shrine of Fluir-haern on the edge of the plaza, facing the palace. At the same time, a stream of uniformed Guardians flooded out of the gates and formed into perfect lines along the opening in the crowd, transforming it into a passage of emerald and gold for Lady Ione's final procession. Opposite, on the balcony of the Rivalin Palace, Cinnia shook her head in disdain. Turning away from the scene below her, she eased her way between the other courtiers on the balcony, who remained bowed in reverence, and made her way back inside the palace, only to find Celyddon already in the reception chamber with two smoking glasses of blue Edreacian in his hands. With a grateful and relieved smile, Cinnia reached out and took one of the glasses. YSEULT WATCHED THE exarch turn and melt back into the line of crimson Aspect Warriors that stood facing her detachment of Guardians. A flicker of anxiety flashed through her mind as she considered the possibility that the Warp Spiders were simply going to turn around and leave without a fight of any kind. Where would be the honour in that? The rituals of commencement had not resulted in a capitulation, nor even in the demonstration of obvious superiority on one side or the other. To break off would simply be insulting, as though the Warp Spiders did not consider her or her Teirtu Guardians worthy of battle. She could not return to Iden without a victory, and she would not let an insult to her dignity stand unchallenged. She cursed the arrogance of the Aspect Warriors. As Yseult's temper started to rise and her will started to arm itself against the hint of an insult being thrown at her, her hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of her diresword. The cold metallic surface sent a chill of vengeance through her arm, forcing her to fight against an overwhelming urge to draw the blade and charge forwards at the enemy. That sword had been a gift to her from Lairgnen, the exarch of the Dire Avengers. He had presented her with the ancient blade when she had left the temple following the completion of her cycle in the dhanir of the warrior. It represented a material continuity, a permanent and physical connection with the Aspect that she had served so loyally, and which had served her so well. Even now, standing proudly beneath the fluttering banners of Teirtu, Yseult knew that part of her would always be a Dire Avenger. Looking at the arrogant Warp Spiders before her, her mind raced with alternative histories. She might have been an exarch too, had she chosen differently. The shining crimson line of Aspect Warriors had not moved for the last several moments, but Yseult could sense that a decision was being reached behind the front line. The exarch was planning her next move. 'I will not be denied!' yelled Yseult suddenly, fire spitting in her voice. 'Do you slight my name?' Behind her, the Guardians pounded their weapons against the ground, thundering a note of intent, support, violence and warning. I will fight you, Yseult of Teirtu, if you deem me worthy of your blade.
It was a new voice in her mind.
'Speak your name, Warp Spider, so that it may be recorded when there is nothing else left of you.' 'I am Fiannah, arachnir of the Warp Spiders and equal of Yseult.' An unusually slender warrior eased through the crimson line and stood out before her brethren. She held her helmet in one hand and the characteristic deathspinner of her Aspect in the other. Her shoulders appeared unnaturally broad
because of the warp-pack that she wore on her back, which made her exposed face seem small and delicate. Her hair had been cropped short, and it was tussled in the unkempt manner of a provincial warrior who knew no better. Yseult smiled. An arachnir of the Warp Spiders was a worthy prize.
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
'Arachnir Fiannah, you honour me,' said Yseult, bowing slightly before taking another step forwards and unclasping her cloak. She flourished the rich, green fabric into a whirl around her, letting it fly back into the phalanx of Guardians behind her. In the same moment, she dropped low into a fighting stance and touched her fingertips to the hilt of her blade. 'Let us begin.' The Warp Spider nodded matter-of-factly, dropping her deathspinner to the ground and casting her helmet aside. She tilted her head from one shoulder to the other, as though loosening the muscles in her neck, and then she reached up and ruffled her silver hair, as though trying to free what had been matted by the helmet before she had removed it. The last movement drew Yseult's attention, since the gesture sparked a series of light-reflections that shouldn't have been there. Powerblades, Yseult realised, eyeing the arachnir's forearms with a newfound respect. Now that she knew they were there, she could see them clearly: three little barbs running along the back of each forearm, and then long curving talons protruding out past the Aspect Warrior's fists.
The arachnir shook out her limbs casually, as though ensuring that there was no stiffness in her muscles. Then she stopped suddenly and an air of serious dignity descended on her. With a slow and deliberate movement, Fiannah folded her arms across her chest and bowed her head down between the powerblades. Then she vanished.
Yseult blinked and then cursed - the wretched warp-pack! The Warp Spider was gone, leaving the line of crimson warriors standing unphased and implacable.