by C. S. Goto
stronger... I am stronger! His thoughts thundered around the arena like a physical Shockwave. It should be me!
Sitting in the shadows around the edge of the arena, hidden in the darkness, Ela flinched under the onslaught of fury. There was an anger in her brother that she had not seen before. It was a resentment. It was a violence. It was a passionate sense of injustice. It was like a breath from Khaine.
Reaching down, he gripped the broken shafts of his umbhala staff and ripped them out of the ground, sending showers of sand and shards of metal scattering across the arena. Then he whirled on the spot, spinning the two sticks around his turning body in an intricate pattern that Ela had never seen before. She watched in fascination at the creative destruction that Naois was defining in the arena before her.
He spun and sprang into the air, rotating like a gyroscope as though he had suddenly become the only balanced point in the galaxy. Landing, he drew his broken staff around his body, dragging it through the air with such fury that it seemed to burn against the resistance. As he moved faster and faster, a field of silvering energy started to flicker around him. It was faint at first, but its vague glow gradually grew into an intense halo, as though his skin were burning with passion. Ela looked on in astonishment. She could feel the energy of the arena being drained, as though it were all been sucked into the centre where Naois danced the furious form of the wolf spider. It was as though Naois himself was a vortex, dragging in the psychic residues that touched everything in the temple, pulling the power around him like a new and luminous skin. As she watched, she realised that the effect was also working on the material realms. She could see the grains of sand on the floor start to tremble and then move, skittering like iron-filings towards a magnet. After a few moments, the sand started to run into little streams, trickling towards the leaping and spinning feet of Naois in the centre of the arena. The intricate runnels shifted and changed direction, breaking into branches and tributaries in attempts to track the motion of the dancing warrior. After a while, larger things started to move. The posts that defined the perimeter of the arena began to lean towards the middle. Ela could feel the pull being exerted on her in the shadows, and she performed an effort of will to maintain her position. The great crescent doors started to creak, as though being forced back against their hinges. With a sudden abruptness that shocked Ela, Naois widened his arms in the middle of a spin and released the shafts of his broken staff. They flashed through the arena like lasfire, and ploughed into the back of the web-encrusted crescent doors, punching into them and penetrating nearly all the way through. At the same time, Naois dropped into a crouch in the centre of the arena. His halo blinked out and he was breathing hard after the exertion. It is not fair. The thought floated freely, like an exhausted, gliding bird.
From her hiding place in the shadows, Ela watched with wide, sapphire eyes. Her amazement was caught partly by the awesome display of power, but mostly because of the aesthetics of the scene before her. The sandy ground had formed into an incredibly intricate pattern, dragged and pulled into trails and gullies by Naois's furious exertions. The floor of the whole arena had been transformed into a giant spider's web, the threads of sand defining the elaborate web from the outer perimeters of the arena and focusing in the centre on Naois's crouching form. For a moment, Ela thought that she could imagine how the sisterhood of Yuthran had felt as they had watched her pass through the Rite of Alastrinah. For the first time, she thought she could understand the term vaugnh: the abomination. She had always known that the seers of House Yuthran had feared her, but she had never experienced the thrill of that fear. The excitement and terror that had glimmered in Cinnia's sharp, green eyes whenever they had spoken about the future and Ione's prophecy suddenly made sense to her.
She watched Naois get back to his feet in the centre of the web and saw the little rain of spontaneous wraith-crystals crack off his skin and scatter onto the ground like diamond-dust. Was this what Ione had meant when she had spoken of the nascent power of the future that was held in the hands of Bedwyr's heirs? If so, how could Iden of Teirtu have been convinced to show mercy on these Ansgar vaugnh? A new vista of myriad futures suddenly opened up in Ela's mind.
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
The crescent doors cracked open to reveal the towering form of Aingeal, accompanied by the Arachnir Adsulata. A dim light silhouetted them from behind and a wave of noise from the gathering outside washed inside with them. They peered at the umbhala shafts that were rammed through the structure of the doors, glanced over at Ela, and then stared over towards Naois, who remained standing in the centre of the arena. Despite herself, Adsulata gasped at the sight. She took in the destruction, the sprinkling of wraith-crystals, and the incredible sand patterns all at once. She could see the exhausted fury burning in Naois's silver eyes as they fixed on her and Aingeal from the shadowy arena.
THE FARSEER WAS folded into meditation in his tower. His eyes were closed and the atmosphere was heavy with concentrated silence. The air was tinged with incense from a simple bowl full of smouldering umbhala chippings. He let his thoughts pass, feeling them begin to slip out of his conscious control, sliding towards the place of nothingness where farsight resided. It had been a long time since he had caught more than a glimpse of a possible future. Not since the end of the House Wars and the entrenchment of the Teirtu had his mind found enough peace for its dangerous journey. He had not even been able to see the glimmering trace of his own son amidst the myriad possibilities. It was as though something had clouded his vision or blocked him from the place where he needed to be. He knew that there were whispers in the Ohlipsean about his waning powers. There had been rumours even before the House Wars that his psychic control was slipping. He had seemed unable to prevent or even foresee the Wars, and he had allowed Kaelor to drift dangerously close to the fringes of the great warp Maelstrom, closer to peril than it had been since its unavoidable encounter with the craftworld of Saim-Hann in the Craftwars so long ago. Even now, the Maelstrom roiled and raged outside and Kaelor seemed unable to move away from it. Some had suggested that the great Rivalin farseer was too preoccupied with other things to focus his mind properly on the paths of the future, as was his hereditary duty. It was not only the austere warriors of the great houses that looked on the Rivalin dynasty as effete and decadent. Indeed, not everyone had agreed with the old-fashioned Knavir that the rise of the Teirtu had been unwelcome. For some it was at least a measure of meritocracy. At least Iden Teirtu had won his place of power in an open contest. Despite the isolation of the craftworld, it was not unknown that the hereditary system on Kaelor was slightly idiosyncratic and hardly ever employed amongst the eldar of other craftworlds. The eldar were an emotional species, and resentment always simmered just under the surface of their cool exteriors. It was part of what it meant to endure the eldar condition. It was the foundation of the Eldar Path. A farseer should be beyond such considerations, however, and Ahearn felt his faltering concentration like a dull, painful pounding in his head. There had been a time when he had been able to sit in a trance for days without end, and now he could hardly even manage to get into the place of nothingness. His mind was all over the place, and he stumbled over himself, distracted by noises, thoughts and the faint buzz of intoxication from the Edreacian, which of recent he had been partaking rather more of. The worst of it was that he knew that some of the rumours were correct: he did seem to be losing his gift, and he had never heard of that happening to a farseer before. Never in the uncountable eons of eldar civilisation had a farseer been known to fall back from his sight, plunging back into the partial blindness of the ordinary eldar dhamashir-soul. The Path of the Farseer, the most immaculate manifestation of the discomforting Path Stalkers, led only onwards into the future, yet his own path seemed to have become lost. Gradually he became aware of the noise that was rumbling up through the floor, and he struggled to block it from his mind. He could hear the mumbling sound of distant voices raised in mirth, and he could fee
l the resonance of heightened emotions pulsing through the conductive structure of the palace. Instinctively, he knew that Iden Teirtu was holding a feast, and his mind lurched towards recrimination. He wanted to blame that styhx-tann warrior for his own troubles and to lay everything on those broad, strong shoulders, but he knew that it would not be fair. His problems had started before the House Wars. The rise of Teirtu had been contingent upon them and was merely a symptom of his own fall, not a cause. Ahearn felt the tragedy of his own demise more intensely than ever. If he was honest with himself, he knew that he didn't really care about the way Iden had taken over effective control of Kaelor. He had always found the actual business of ruling rather tire- some. It had been a useful way to ensure the continuation of his dynasty, and he had been able to do many things to increase the affluence and beauty of the court, but he had never had any real interest in the concrete business of governance, and the styhx-tann that comprised the majority of the population didn't interest him at all. They had repulsed him, and they repulsed him even more since they had started to get noticeably dirtier and less cultivated just before the House Wars. One of the problems with this hereditary system, reflected Ahearn morosely, was that a sense of duty could not be passed on genetically, even if political power, good taste and psychic gifts could be. Ahearn did resent that his beautiful palace had been desecrated by the dirty, clumsy and artless feet of the Teirtu, and it pained him to the depths of his soul to think of his Oriana caught in the midst of such ugliness. Iden could have the rest of the craftworld, if only he would leave Ahearn's Sentrium alone. The scent of burning umbhala shavings curled around his body, filling his senses with the hint of forgotten faces and the suggestions of those that might yet be to come. They mingled inchoately, curdling through his thoughts like ghosts in the night. In the mist behind his closed eyelids, he could see Lady Ione's face floating in the smoky darkness of his mind. Her beautiful, aging face smiled at him weakly, but he saw something patronising in her look, as though she were amused by the bumbling efforts of a loved child. He could see what he had always suspected: that she knew something that he didn't. The realisation was disturbing but it was also distracting. His mind wandered off on a tangent in pursuit of the past, turning his concentration away from the future altogether and towards events that had already been. What had he missed? Despite his efforts at concentration, Ione's face started to dissipate and shift. The image fragmented and then hazed, fizzling gradually into a new visage that Ahearn recognised immediately. It was Bedwyr. Still the past. He had watched the patriarch of House Ansgar die in the Plaza of Vaul, executed for his treachery during the House Wars.
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
The connections between the two figures were myriad, and it was not immediately apparent to Ahearn why his mind had conjured them to his attention now. Given the context of the memory - with Bedwyr standing in the centre of the plaza awaiting the signal from Iden for the execution - the connection might well have something to do with the Ansgar heirs, on whose behalf the Lady Ione had begged Iden for mercy.
In fact, Ahearn himself had not been terribly concerned about the fate of the infants, and he was not entirely sure what had happened to them. He had heard reports from Cinnia of Yuthran that the little female had been banished from the Seer House where Ione had placed her in trust, but he had not been interested enough to ask why or where the girl had gone. He was aware that the male, the young Naois, had been sent back into the ruined and desolate domains of Ansgar, and presumably he was rotting there with the rest of the styhx-tann. It had seemed to him that the warrior house had met with the natural justice that its actions had placed in its future, and he had been beyond caring about the fates of the uncouth progeny of these distasteful thugs.
Rather, that day had been marked by twin tragedies that had struck to the kernel of Ahearn's soul. On that day he had lost Kaelor. Iden Teirtu had marched victoriously into the Sentrium, flying his green and gold banners alongside the claret and gold of House Rivalin, claiming his triumph in the name of the farseer. It had been a clever and even cunning piece of theatre that had guaranteed his acceptance by the Knavir, at least until they started to realise who this styhx-tann warrior was, but by then it was already too late. After many eons of peace and prosperity, it took time for the Knavir to understand the nature of warriors. On that day he had lost his only son. Kerwyn had stood against him with the Ansgar, giving that traitor Bedwyr the banner of Rivalin to fly alongside the blue and silver colours of House Ansgar. For a while before that, Kerwyn had held his own court, claiming that his father had lost his farsight and accusing him of decadence and inappropriate indulgences. Even worse, not everyone had disbelieved him. Worse still, somewhere in his soul Ahearn also suspected that Kerwyn might not be completely mistaken.
Despite his apparent treachery, Ahearn had not wanted to see his son die with the vulgar warriors in an uncivilized public execution. At the time, he had been most concerned with the vile aesthetics of the spectacle, but in hindsight he realised that keeping Kerwyn alive had been politically useful. With his oldest heir dead, all rights of succession would have passed to Oriana, setting up the nauseating possibilities of a political pairing of Iden's Morfran and his own daughter to produce a Rivalin-Teirtu heir. Such were the vagaries of the hereditary system that had served Rivalin so well since Gwrih the Radiant. In all its long history, the dynasty had never once been forced to bring non-Knavir blood into the family line. Perhaps Iden's decision to banish Kerwyn rather than execute him had been a rare moment of political short-sightedness by the warrior lord. The spectral face of Kerwyn wisped into Ahearn's mind, morphing out of Bedwyr's steady gaze. His eyes were vacant and staring, like voids through the warp, but there was something different in the quality of the image - it was somehow sharper and more vivid, more present. The ghostly mouth opened slowly, as though about to speak. 'Radiance, I await your leisure.'
The voice seemed heavy and concrete, audible, and it took Ahearn a moment to realise that it was not coming from the smoky vision of his son but from a kneeling figure at the entrance to his chambers. He opened his eyes slowly, letting his frustration about the inadequacies of his farsight fade into frustration about not having noticed the approach of the young Guardian. He turned his head, looking back towards the doorway, gazing through the smoke that continued to rise out of the bowl of umbhlala. It was Lhir, as he expected, but the Guardian was not alone. THE CHORUS OF voices was so beautiful that it was painful. Scilti had heard nothing like it for a long time, not since the long down- phases before a great battle or a raid during the House Wars. He could remember sitting in the Ansgar camps, feeling the thrill of anticipation, tasting the promise of blood on the spirit-breeze of faerulh. He could remember Bedwyr's seriousness, sitting in quiet contemplation in advance of the combat, as though playing out its moves in advance. This time, the choir was sparser and unspeakably melancholy.
The ragged but once magnificent warrior Khuku-lyn led the voices, sitting cross-legged before the others, behind the smoking embers of umbhala. His eyes were focused somewhere in the past, and Scilti could see the kaleidoscope of memories cycling through his open mind. There were visions of blood, of flashing blades and sprays of shuriken fire. There was death and the passionate embrace of life, emotions so intense that even their distant echo moved the listeners beyond their own experiences, as though the memories were their own.
Down-phase had come and the ambient light was dim. The embers of umbhala sent a warm, reassuring glow into the air, spitting sparks of light in tiny bursts of life. Looking around the gathering in the clearing before the temple, Scilti could recognise only a few faces from that glorious and tragic time. Most of them had died in battle, or had been executed after the final defeat. The Chronicles of the House Wars recorded them as traitors, but history was rarely that simple and such judgments were usually
political rather than truthful. Some had simply disappeared, vanishing into the vast Coolant Wastes or dropping out o
f sight in the midst of their brethren. One or two of the younger ones, like the prodigy Naois and Scilti himself, had been whisked away by the Warp Spiders, hidden in the sanctity of their temples, and trained in the ways of their Aspect to control and shape the blinding thirst for blood that touched the soul of many eldar at some point in their lives. Meanwhile, the Teirtu had used their dominance in the Sentrium to squeeze the domains of Ansgar, as though slaughtering its sons had not been punishment enough. Iden was a vindictive and shrewd eldar. He knew the danger of hate and the value of fear. More than most, he understood the ways of vengeance. He had established a permanent garrison of Teirtu Guardians in the Reach of Guereal, in the adjoining sectors, effectively blockading the Ansgar into the peripheries. Nobody was permitted into or out of those domains without the Zhogahn's express permission. The Ansgar were effectively banished into their own domain, cut off and excommunicated. Only the Warp Spiders could pass unnoticed across the borders.
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
The suffering of the eldar of Ansgar had been severe. Just as Iden had intended, some had gradually turned against the ruling house, blaming the actions of Bedwyr and his warriors for bringing the domain to its knees. How quickly those eldar had forgotten the suffering that had led them to rise up in the first place. Despite their long lives and cultivated minds, an eldar's memory was shaped largely by his emotions, hence the past changed shape at least as often as the future did. The past had always been easier to control.
For Scilti the difference in the spirit of Ansgar was shocking. 'Why did you not fight?' he asked, letting his words drift between the eldar like a breeze. 'How could this have happened?' For a few moments, there was no response. The choir continued their ballad, as though the tragic melody should have been an answer to the question, but then, as the music slowed to a halt, Khukulyn drew his gaze back into the present and turned his eyes on Scilti.