Eldar Prophecy
Page 7
The movement flickered again, in the same place, and Lhir shouldered his cannon, looking along the barrel and through the sighting array. The stabilising gyroscopes whirred faintly next to his ear and his finger automatically touched down on the trigger, a hair's breadth away from firing it.
The motion flashed again, and then again, first to the left and then back to the right. It seemed regular, like a pendulum. Through the optical enhancements of the cannon-sight, Lhir could see a hint of colour in the darkness between several of the ichor-coated pipes.
There was something swinging from one of the overhead shafts. Lowering his gun, Lhir picked his way forwards through the sludge and debris that was strewn over the ground, ducking under the low-hung pipes and skirting around the edges of those that were ruptured and spilling unknown, toxic effluent onto the slick ground.
As he drew nearer to the pendulum, it gradually became clear what it was. The body of a male eldar was hanging from one of the structural rafters that were supporting the low ceiling. A thin cord had been looped around the hapless eldar's neck and then tied off through a hole in the side of the overhead beam. From where he was standing, it seemed to Lhir that the hole had been drilled or shot out of the rafter with exactly this purpose in mind.
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
The stench was incredible, and Lhir drew his cloak up around his face, whirling it around his shoulders so that it would act as a mask. On closer inspection, he could see that the flesh of the dead eldar was rotting and flaccid. Skin drooped off his skeleton as though it were several sizes too big for the bone-structure. Lhir reached up with his cannon and prodded at the body with the tip of the barrel. It rotated slowly under the pressure and swung slightly, bringing the eldar's face around for Lhir to see. He recoiled in revulsion, withdrawing his gun rapidly, as the tiny jurnaome beetles scurried out of the corpse's vacant eye sockets, disturbed by the sudden motion. The eldar's face was rancid and riddled with sores and bite marks. It was unrecognisable. Looking down at the tip of his gun, Lhir could see that it was coated in a thick, congealed layer of ichor that had simply come away from the body when he had touched it.
Turning away, Lhir inspected the site for clues about what might have happened and who might have done this unspeakable deed, but except for the flesh fragments and bodily waste that had fallen from the corpse, the area around the hanging body was clear and clean. In fact, looking around, Lhir realised that it was unusually clean, as though it had been specifically cleared by someone. There were marks on the metallic floor that showed traces of scrubbing, and an effluent-drenched cloth to one side suggested that someone had used it to clean the floor in a circle around the rafter. Hooking the tip of his shuriken cannon under the cloth, Lhir lifted it from the ground and let it dangle, watching the thick sludge drip from it. To his horror Lhir saw that the cloth was a deep red cloak. Through the slush and muck that had soaked into it, he could see the outlines of patterns and icons embroidered into the fabric, and there, right in the centre of the material was the golden emblem of the Radiant Star, the crest of the Rivalin dynasty. A flash of pain lashed through Lhir's mind as he realised what this meant. He spun, letting the cloak fall back to the ground, and gazed back up at the swinging corpse. There was heavy reddened hair, slightly longer than he remembered, and the wine-red tunic of the Rivalin. A collection of ornate blades and trappings were tucked into the golden belt. A long elegant chain hung around the body's neck, decorated at intervals with jewels that still glinted from under the ichor as the corpse swung and rotated though occasional beams of light, and there, on the end of the chain, swinging freely for anyone to see, was the dull, lifeless waystone of Kerwyn Rivalin, with a clear and perfect crack running through its heart. In a moment of panic, Lhir swept his eyes frantically around the area. He was searching for signs of a struggle, some kind of fight, anything but the site was relatively clean and tidy. Aside from the soaked cloak, he found a ready folded blanket to one side. Stooping to inspect it, he realised that it had been laid on top of a beautiful and ancient shuriken pistol, presumably to keep the weapon clean and properly preserved. The hilt was marked with the Radiant Star. It was Kerwyn's gun. The realisation hit Lhir like a lance: the farseer's only son had committed suicide. He had been abandoned in the Coolant Wastes by the Teirtu Guardians, presumably on the orders of Iden Teirtu himself, and left to die. They had not killed him, reasoned Lhir, inspecting the evidence, so that Iden could tell Ahearn that he had banished and not executed his son. The farseer would have been able to sense a lie. But this was as good as killing him. Mercy of Isha! Lhir could hardly stand to be in that disgusting place, but he had a jetbike standing by to take him back to the Sentrium, and his sensibilities were not nearly as refined as those of Kerwyn. How could they have expected Kerwyn to survive in this place? Surrounded by filth and effluent, knowing that his father had become the virtual prisoner of House Teirtu and that his allies, the noble House of Ansgar, had been executed. How could they have expected him to live knowing that his Kaelor was ruined?
They hadn't expected him to live.
Despite the slime and the sludge, Lhir dropped to his knees at the feet of the corpse and hung his head in shame. The heir of the Rivalin throne hung silently before him, with his waystone, cracked, violated, dull and lifeless still hanging around his neck; it was wasted. Only Isha would know the whereabouts of his soul now or how the stone had been broken. It had certainly not enjoyed the sanctity of the Ceremony of Passing into Fluir-haern. Instead, Kerwyn had cleaned his own death-space on his hands and knees, valiantly trying to pass with dignity from these filthy endings. And at some time thereafter, someone had cracked his spirit-stone.
The Knavir were right: Iden Teirtu was a styhx-tann barbarian, unworthy of his position in the Ohlipsean. This ending was a disgrace to Teirtu and a tragedy for the Rivalin line. Political and military expedience, should not take precedence over taste and good moral conduct. In that moment, Lhir was sure that neither Ahearn, Cinnia nor Celyddon would ever sink to these depths of depravity.
Muttering a series of prayers to Isha and Asuryan, Lhir rose to his feet and spread his own cloak on the clean ground. He cut Kerwyn down and laid him on the cloth. Then he gathered up the Rivalin's other belongings and folded them into the cloak, wrap- ping the corpse in the green and gold emblems of House Teirtu with bitterness and regret in his soul. Hefting the body into his arms, Lhir turned and made his way back to his jetbike. THE BANQUET CHAMBER was bustling with life and Morfran was in his element. He sat in the middle of the long side of the head table, displacing Iden who sat a couple of seats to his left. The chair between them had been left unfilled, symbolically empty as though everyone expected Lady Ione to walk in and take her seat at any moment, but every other chair in the room was taken, and a few of the latecomers had been forced to eat and drink on their feet, or to perch on the edges of one of the congested tables. There was a sudden but gentle sound, like a distant insect. It was perfectly placed to intrigue a developed sensibility, just sufficiently audible to peak the attention of half the eldar in the room, and they were just sufficiently interested to direct the attention of the others. As a wave of quiet washed around the noisy room, the translucent, pearly doors swung slowly open. All eyes turned, but nothing emerged.
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
With an abrupt guffaw, as though unable to contain the tension or his excitement, Morfran laughed, spitting a half chewed lump of bloody tureir-iug onto the table and dribbling a trail of sizzling Edreacian down his chin. He felt the eyes in the room drawn to him, and the mixture of disgust and amusement that tickled his psychic senses made him beam. Today is a glorious day, he began, but then he stopped, allowing a look of theatrical confusion to pass across his face. He peered
down onto the table as though suddenly searching for something. Spying the chewed piece of tueir-iug floating in the top of his glass, he pried it out with surprising dexterity and popped it back into his mouth. Blasts of disgust hi
t him from all sides at once, and he grinned in pleasure, as though feeding on the revulsion of the others. He could see his lovely Oriana at the very end of the table, her face hidden under a light, veil-like hood. She wasn't even looking at him. In the corner, on the far side of the chamber, standing against the wall slightly apart from the festivities, he could see Yseult. Her cloak was pulled around her as though sheltering her from a terrible storm, and he could see the shape of her sword still strapped into its holster. Her face was like stone and, for just a fraction of a moment, it threatened to disturb Morfran's mood. 'Today is a glorious day,' he repeated, this time out loud as though worried that his thoughts may not have reached everyone. He was still chewing the meat, so his voice was mumbling and only vaguely audible. 'Today we celebrate a great victory for House Teirtu!' he announced, glancing over towards Iden, whose face was a confusion of emotions. 'And!' announced Morfran, as though it was itself an exclamation. 'And... and we commemorate the passing of our dear Lady...' He trailed off, leaving his audience to guess whether this was because he was inebriated or because he couldn't remember Ione's name. He drained his glass quickly before continuing. Today, our valiant Yseult Teirtu-ann did battle once again with the cursed Warp Spiders of the domains of Ansgar, and she laid waste to them before the farseer's gates.
There was a chorus of approval from many, a murmur from some, and silence from Yseult herself. 'And... and our very own Zhogahn, Iden of Teirtu, confronted the exarch in the Shrine of Fluir-haern, frustrating her plans to disrupt the Ceremony of Passing, banishing her back to the styhx-tann regions where she belongs. Thus, my dear patriarch saved the soul of our beloved Lady...'
The chorus of approval was louder this time, as befitted the status of its subject, but there were still murmurs of dissent in the background, and it did not pass unnoticed that Oriana remained utterly unmoved by the speech. 'And... and these things are the perfect excuse for a feast, if ever we needed an excuse!' he cried, slurring his speech and lifting his glass for a moment of solidarity. He realised at the last moment that the glass was already empty, so he leant forwards and grasped the carafe, tipping the whole thing over his head in place of a toast. There was enough of a response to keep Morfran happy. He could feel the intoxicated amusement of many of the Teirtu present. The Guardians and consorts loved these occasions. They had still not outgrown the novelty of the wealth and power that they had accrued since moving to the Sentrium, and he could feel the disdain of a number of the Knavir courtiers who had deigned to attend the feast.
Hypocrites, he thought. If they detest me so much, why should they come to my table? I detest their duplicity! But not all of the Knavir appeared repulsed, one or two gazed up at him in amusement from the other side of his table, as though trying to share a moment of understanding with him. Sit down, Morfran, before you fall down. Iden's thoughts were firm and tinged with disapproval, but they were not without
affection. He rose from his own chair, as though to make the point that only one of them should be standing. Morfran teetered for a moment, with frizzing wine bubbling over his face, and then collapsed down into his chair. The Knavir Celyddon Ossian, who was sitting opposite him, quietly reached over and passed him a lush, golden scarf for him to wipe his hands and head on. It is good of you all to attend this little gathering. Iden cast his eyes around the room, taking in the mixture of Knavir courtiers and
the eldar of House Teirtu. It was the kind of mixture that should have warmed his heart, but the differences between the two groups were so clearly evident to him that it made him cringe. He could see why so many of the Knavir wanted to have nothing to do with him or his house, although he found it more than a little irritating that they were more righteous about the ceremony earlier that day than about the feast now. In any case, he was pleased to see the likes of Seer Cinnia of Yuthran and Celyddon of Ossian apparently enjoying themselves at the head table, despite the Morfran's vulgarities. They nodded their acknowledgements as his gaze passed over them.
One or two of the others displayed obvious signs of resentment about their presence, and Iden wondered whether his Guardians had been a little too heavy handed when they had extended his invitation. Uisnech of Anyon, in particular, seemed to be seething. His arms were folded tightly across his chest and he had not touched his drink. Iden was not surprised to see Oriana's disgust hazing like a dark aura around her, but he was faintly surprised to see that the most displeased among the other guests seemed to be Yseult, who appeared unmoved and unimpressed. It is unfortunate that His Radiance, Farseer Ahearn Rivalin, could not be with us this evening, he continued, realising for the first
time that Lhir had not yet returned from the palace. Today's events have been most trying for the farseer, and he is taking some rest. The antagonism of the Warp Spiders has cost him much energy. He is old and frail, as you know.
He wondered how many more times he would have to make similar excuses about the absence of the farseer. He thought that he had done it more than enough already, and, despite its necessity, it displeased him. In spite of all the pomp, ceremony and ostentation that had entered his life since House Teirtu had marched in the Sentrium, Iden was still a warrior in his soul, and he found much of this duplicity and extravagance offensive. Nonetheless, in commemoration of our recently passed Lady Ione, we have a special treat for your delectation. He gestured back
towards the open, pearlescent doors, which most of the diners had already forgotten. May I present the Harlequins of Arcadia, who intend to perform the Cycle of the Avatar for our pleasure and edification.
An excited murmur of anticipation whisked around the room. Kaelor had become such an isolated craftworld that the eldar were thrilled merely to be reminded that there were other Sons of Asuryan in the galaxy. Harlequins were a rare treat. Besides which, Iden was pleased to have the opportunity to expose at least some of the Knavir to the mythic cycles, which invariably made
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
warriors into the heroes of eldar history. Anything that supported the status of warriors was welcomed by Iden. He couldn't help but think that it was precisely this status that lay at the root of all his problems in the Ohlipsean. Military power had been frowned upon for so many eons before the House Wars, and Knavir had only reluctantly acknowledged its importance out of necessity. Necessity breeds hate, and hateful innovation. He knew that he was probably in more danger now than he had been even at the height of the wars, facing the magnificent Bedwyr across the lengths of two great swords. The Farseer's Court held far more subtle dangers than a blade. A good natured cheer arose as the first of the multicoloured Harlequins shimmered into visibility in the centre of the room, singing eerily and dancing with breathtaking grace. Morfran whooped encouragingly, Celyddon drank deeply from his wine, Oriana lifted her hood slightly so that she could see the dance, and Yseult swept straight out the room. THE NOISE RESOUNDED through the crescent doors, pulsing like life and driving Naois to distraction. He stood with his faced pressed up against them, feeling the vibrancy of the atmosphere beyond. He closed his eyes and convinced himself that he could see the events unfolding in grounds of the temple. He could hear the remnants of his father's army chanting their acceptance of Scilti as their new leader, as though they had been waiting for him for all these years. As though Scilti could take up the sword of Ansgar and lead his house back to glory on the ground of battle, as though Scilti could avenge the tragedy done to the great house at the close of the House Wars. As though Scilti could do any of these things! He couldn't even defeat me in a training bout without breaking the rules, fumed Naois, turning away from the gates and stalking back into the centre of the arena. The sound of the commotion outside dimmed slightly, as though the empty shadows around the arena acted to dampen the noise, but the shadows also closed in around him, wrapping him in a shroud of isolation. For a moment, he felt like the only light in a galaxy of darkness, utterly alone. It's just because he's older! That's the only reason he has been passed through the Ritual
of Tuireann before me... but I'm