by C. S. Goto
Yseult's honour guard marched behind the palanquin. They had their cloaks draped respectfully over their shoulders, despite the seared and scratched state of their battlefield armour. None had been given the opportunity to change into ceremonial dress. Iden had been so incensed by the loss of the farseer and so grief-stricken by Yseult's passing that he had proceeded directly into the shrine once the victory parade had reached the Plaza of Vaul. Because of his unseemly haste, he had not given the Knavir any opportunity to join the cortege, and so none of them were in attendance. Unlike the case of Lady Ione's Ceremony of Passing, Iden did not even stop to think about the possible, political repercussions of such exclusions.
Finally, at the back of the procession came Morfran. He hobbled on his shuriken-shredded leg, struggling to keep up with the others, the mark of his father's hand still raw and red across the side of his face. Iden climbed the steps to the Tetrahedral Altar in silence and dropped to his knees. Four of the shrine-keepers accompanied him, two on each side, chanting quiet and potent incantations to purify his way and to prepare the Fluir-hearn for the passing of Yseult. With a simple, austere lack of ceremony born of his warrior heritage, Iden placed Yseult's spirit stone in the little tear-shaped slot on the altar and nodded a bow of respectful parting. He muttered a vow of vengeance and then rose slowly to his feet. Even the shrine-keepers seemed surprised by the terse and abrupt manner of his conduct, normally a Ceremony of Passing for such a distinguished eldar would take several hours, not a mere instant. It was supposed to be a ceremony, a rite of passage for those left behind as much as for those departing. For Iden, it seemed, it was simply a functional activity: Yseult's dhamashir must be committed to the sanctity of the Fluir-hearn. Turning to face the rest of the cortege, he signalled that the shrine-keepers should retreat back down the steps and leave him to stand alone. Then he peered towards the back of the aisle over the heads of the exarch, Oriana and the honour guard, picking out the reddened eyes of Morfran and holding them in determined disgust. He could still remember the drooling excitement that his son had shown the last time that they had been in the shrine, and he snarled involuntarily at the thought that this was his own heir. What had he done wrong? Had Morfran always been such a decadent and self-indulgent tureir-iug, or had he changed since the Teirtu had made the Sentrium into their home? For a moment, Iden realised that many things had changed in House Teirtu since they had come to the court, and those changes were not necessarily for the better. They were richer and more comfortable, of course. They had more time for the finer, artistic and sensuous pursuits that had so gratified and characterised the Knavir for eons of Kaelorian history, but they were losing the disciplined austerity of the Warrior Way; he could feel it slipping from his fingers like melted ice. In that instant of clarity, he realised that a type of hysteria was lurking in his mind. An unhinged and suddenly undisciplined lust for war was beginning to devour his soul. He still had enough self-control, but he could feel it slipping, and he was reflective enough to wonder whether the fulfilment of his ambitions to become the farseer's Zhogahn was simultaneously the seed of his own insanity.
'Today we have witnessed a great change on Kaelor, the likes of which we have not known since the glorious and terrible days of the House Wars,' he announced, letting his voice resonate and echo though the shrine and out into the Plaza of Vaul beyond. He kept his eyes locked fiercely on Morfran. 'Today we lost a great warrior and a powerful soul. Yseult Teirtu-ann, daughter of vengeance, was an immaculate and worthy eldar, the likes of which we have rarely been privileged to see. I regret...' He paused, glowering at his son in front of everyone. 'I regret that she pledged herself to my house and that I did not adopt her into my own line, so that I might have called her my heir. Although today was a great victory for the House of Teirtu and for the Radiant Court of the Ohlipsean in whose name we vanquish the sins of Kaelor, today we also lost...' He wasn't sure how to put it. The gravity of the loss went beyond his ability at words.
'We also lost our farseer.' He had always found simplicity the best way for warriors and, although he was aware that the Knavir would find this vulgar, he had no other tools at his disposal. As the whispers of suppressed shock rippled through the cortege and out into the crowds outside, Iden proceeded with the practicalities of the situation in which they now found themselves. 'The Radiant Rivalin, in whose name I have been appointed as the Zhogahn of Kaelor, has not passed out of this realm, but is merely lost to this domain. He was forcefully abducted,' he continued, glaring an accusation at Morfran, 'by the treacherous Warp Spiders from the domain of Ansgar. I vow to you that he will be recovered from the sinners, and that the sinners will be vanquished by my own blade. In the mean time, to demonstrate our piety and devotion to the Rivalin dynasty and the glorious institution of the farseer, we will confer upon our own heir the title of farseer, so that we might continue to march in his name in the battle to come.' There was another ripple of shock, louder this time and more hostile. Meanwhile, Morfran's eyes bulged with stunned delight. He could hardly believe how well things had worked out. He had thought that his father was genuinely mad at him for losing the farseer, but it seemed that it had been a pretence for the crowds and that he was to be rewarded with the greatest of all possible prizes. After all, how could Iden really object to the removal of the last obstacle to the absolute power of the Teirtu on Kaelor.
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
First they had dealt with Kerwyn, and now with old Ahearn. He had done his father a favour! He started to push his way through Yseult's honour guard, stumbling and bumping his way along the aisle towards the altar. 'In this sacred Shrine of Fluir-haern, in the sacred name of the Radiant Rivalin, of which I am now the ranking representative in the Sentrium,' announced Iden, signalling the shrine-keepers into action, 'I hereby confer on young Turi the title and privileges of farseer, and I vow to serve as his Zhogahn for as long as Asuryan deems it fateful.' Like the Knavir, Iden knew that he could not keep control of Kaelor without the name and symbolism of the House of Rivalin behind him. One member of that house must always be the patron of the Teirtu, just as Ahearn himself had been during the House Wars. Now that Kerwyn was gone, perhaps his own bumbling and stupid son had actually opened the doors for Turi to take the throne: a Teirtu of the Rivalin line. Even if he could not recover Ahearn alive, Iden might have the cards he needed to win this game.
Morfran stopped in his tracks and looked up at his father's thin, calculating smile with humiliated hatred in his eyes. Meanwhile, the rush of rumour, whisper and conspiracy spread through the Sentrium like water through oil.
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
CHAPTER SEVEN: KHUKULYN
STANDING AT THE bottom of the cracked steps of the Spider Temple looking up at the broken crescent doors, Khukulyn waited with trepidation in his heart. The injured and unsteady weight of Scilti still hung from his shoulder, and other eldar of the domain were already beginning to gather around them. Rumours of the arrival of the farseer had spread quickly through the forests, and many had heard the violence that had shaken the temple. Dozens of eldar from different dhanir had gathered in the clearing below the crumbling temple, and more were joining them all the time. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation, as though the crowd knew that something momentous was about to happen. Like the others, Khukulyn had been told the stories of the Wraith Spider - the fabled Lhykosidae - in his youth. He knew the myths about the fantastical origins and the fatefulness of the appearance of the strange entity, but he had never really believed them. He had always preferred to trust in the real, material strength of his own witchblades. He had followed Bedwyr into uncountable battles without the need for anything mythical or supernatural to strengthen his arm. Devotion to one's lord and his house was a reward in itself, and to place one's faith elsewhere was either a mistake of vanity or fear. Loyalty was earned by valour and action, not merely by the appearance of shimmering golden armour. The youthful Scilti had earned his place at the head of the hous
e in his battle with the Guardians of the Reach. The infantile Naois had proven nothing, and this was not the time for chasing ghosts, no matter whose ghosts they were. He was not sure what had happened to Bedwyr's son in the sanctum, but he was not about to bow to a fiction just because of the compelling aesthetic of the legend. He would require some kind of proof. He chastised his own weakness when he realised that he had dropped to his knees when Naois had taken his place on the throne. He had been awed by the spectacle, but he was not one of the effete Knavir that would dote merely because of beauty or the emotional resonance of a tale. Truth was to be found at the tip of a sword, not scraped out of a mythical history with an artisan's chisel. A hush descended on the crowd as Naois and Ela walked out of the ruined gates. The inspiring figure of Exarch Aingeal emerged from the interior of the temple behind them, and beside him, leaning heavily on his staff as though on the point of collapsing shuffled the farseer. In a triumph of theatre, the four figures halted on the top step, bathed in the scene before them. Khukulyn could feel the will of the assembled eldar; they wanted to believe that these childlings were their saviours. There was desperation in the air, born of years of deprivation and a new panic caused by the ruination of the Spider Temple and the sudden arrival of the farseer. Emotions were high, and they were searching for direction. The eruption of hope flooded out into the clearing, mixing into a potent force that sought to swamp the minds of all. It was the kind of crowd hysteria of which only the eldar were capable, their emotions having such intensity that they could affect a shift in the fabric of reality. Given a significant number of sufficiently focused eldar souls, they could change the galaxy, as they had done once before, at the time of the Fall. Tragically and fortunately, there were no longer enough of the children of Isha remaining to affect change on such a scale, although the Fluir-haern contained a potent force for one able to wield it. Naois said nothing as he surveyed the mass of eldar that had assembled before the steps. This was the first time that he had passed out through the crescent doors since he had been brought from the Sentrium following his father's execution. The domain looked different, but his eyes were different too. He stepped forwards, leaving Ela alone with Aingeal and Ahearn, and placed his armoured boot slowly down onto the next step. As he did so, the crowd that had assembled before the shrine dropped down onto its knees. A low, almost silent chant arose from the clearing, wafting up towards the shrine like a tide drawn by the moon. It was the spirit of dedication. Only Khukulyn and Scilti remained on their feet, staring up at the terrible, golden figure. Ignoring the adoration of the remnants of the Ansgar eldar, Naois's attention was drawn immediately to the fringes of the clearing. He swept his silvered eyes around the perimeter, as though he had seen flickers of movement on all sides. Tiny reflective bursts flashed from the shadows of the thin forest, showing the presence of eldar who preferred not to be seen. The glint of polished weapons and the faint sheen of aged but well-kept armour pricked the shade. For a long moment, nobody moved. The devoted crowd was waiting for a sign or a word from their messiah. They craved it, and their minds cried out in the silence, begging Naois to admit that he had come to lead them to salvation. Naois showed no signs of having heard their calls, and no sign of concern for their show of devotion. His eyes continued to scan the forest, searching for the shimmering threats that lurked in the shadows. In the lull, Scilti struggled free of Khukulyn's shoulder and climbed three steps towards the crescent doors, studiously avoiding lifting his gaze from his own feet. He stood, bleeding freely into the stairs of the temple from which he had emerged so recently, with his armour cracked and broken. The contrast with the gleaming golden myth above him could not have been more stark, and not for the first time Scilti found his heart simmering with resentment towards the prodigal son of Bedwyr. Turning back towards the crowd, he struggled to contain his emotions. 'Your eyes are your judges,' he said, only vaguely audible. 'The farseer has returned his blessing to the House of Ansgar, and the heir of Bedwyr has found himself in the temple of his forebears. Once, not that long ago, Lady Ione of the Hidden Joy made a prophecy that saved the lives of Naois and Ela. We must assume that this prophecy is coming to pass.' He paused, suddenly aware that something didn't make sense. How could Ione's prophecy have saved Naois and Ela from Iden's vengeful wrath if it had spoken of the resurgence of Ansgar under their leadership? 'I kneel before the rightful heir,' he continued, putting the thought aside as though it had been a contrivance planted in his mind to deliberately skew his purpose. As he spoke, he turned back to the temple, lifting his eyes up at the golden armour that stood
С. S. Goto « Eldar Prophecy»
magnificently above him, and flinched when he realised that Naois wasn't even looking at him. It was as though Naois had not even noticed him. He was gazing out into the forest like a sailor viewing the horizon. There was a murmur through the crowd as the eldar appreciated the weight of Scilti's concession, giving up his recently awarded position of house leadership to his younger kinsman. It was a bold and honourable act. 'I do not recognise this vulgar pup!' The low voice rang out with confidence and defiance. 'I will not follow this childling just because he has such pretty armour! He must prove himself, as Lord Scilti has done, and as his father did before him. We are not the Rivalin; we are a house that rests on strength and merit, not on elaborate shows and rituals.' Naois turned his head slowly, finally looking away from the trees and bringing his silver eyes around to face the defiant and proud figure of Khukulyn, around whom the other eldar had parted to leave him standing alone in a circle of space. Silence descended like a sudden snowfall, blanketing the scene with baited breath as the crowd tried to anticipate how the challenge would be received. Most of them knew Khukulyn. They knew that he did nothing without good reason, and that his defiance could not be without purpose. He was a warrior of honour. An air of disbelief settled quickly over the crowd, for if Khukulyn had a reason, they could not tell what it was. From his position on the steps, Scilti spun to check that his ears where not deceiving him. He could not believe that Khukulyn had spoken in such a way, especially after his own public capitulation. Khukulyn had been with them in the sanctum of the temple when the metastasis had occurred. He had seen Naois's transformation. What could his purpose possibly be? Was there really any room for doubts?
He will be killed, Scilti thought, as though the conclusion were already foregone. In a moment of panic, he scanned around the edges of the clearing from his elevated position, looking over the heads of the crowd to see whether there was some way to extricate this honourable warrior from the situation. There was nothing, but in the shadows of the tree line he saw the glint of metallic equipment: weapons in trained hands. He squinted, trying to make out more detail, and then realised that the eldar in the trees wore the tattered colours of Ansgar. There were dozens of them. Perhaps hundreds more were hidden in the forest beyond sight.
What are you doing? he asked, returning his attention urgently to Khukulyn. How can you hope to survive?
If I survive, there is nothing worth living for. If I die, I will have shown the Ansgar how to live, replied Khukulyn, his eyes flashing
with the promise of death.
Suddenly, Naois sprang from the top of the stairs, turning a slow, spinning summersault as he arced over the steps and landed in the clearing amongst rapidly scattering eldar. He face Khukulyn and nodded a curt bow, giving the veteran the respect due to his years. Their eyes met for a moment, and Khukulyn saw the horror that lurked in the heart of the black webs in Naois's gaze. WITH THE ANCIENT diresword held horizontally before him like a precious relic, Iden stood in the middle of the central quadrangle of the Temple of the Dire Avengers. The space was dark with faint purple light, and Iden breathed in the atmosphere like a withered plant soaks in water. For the first time in many years, he felt alone and at peace. His ridiculous son was back at the Farseer's Palace and his honour guard had left him at the temple's main gates, knowing that there were few places more secure anywhere on Kaelor than the Shrin
e of Vengeance.
It is a beautiful blade, is it not? The thoughts came from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Iden smiled, but he did not turn or look around. It had been a long time since he had been at the mercy of Exarch Lairgnen, and he savoured the helplessness of prey for a moment. Lairgnen had a special talent for humbling even the most exalted of visitors to his shrine, in which he was the undisputed master, and Iden felt his own vulnerability like a bracing blast of arctic air. It thrilled him. The stodgy, luxurious safety of the Sentrium had almost made him forget what it felt like to fear death. He had almost forgotten what it meant to be alive.
It was a gift to my finest student.
'It was a rare gift indeed, quihan,' replied Iden, addressing his former master as a pupil. There was a delicate but definite sound behind him, and Iden knew that Lairgnen had just dropped down from one of the balconies that ran around the inside of the hollow spire above the quadrangle. It was one of his characteristic greetings, and it never failed to impress.
It's been a long time since last you graced these halls.
'I have come to return the blade to you,' continued Iden, turning to face the exarch. 'The diresword is an emblem of your Aspect, and it belongs here with you.'
Without a word, Lairgnen reached out and took the sword from Iden, inspecting it lovingly, as though it were a lost childling. I am grateful that you would make such a journey at such a time as this just to return a sword. The exarch's tone bordered on
incredulity. He had nothing to fear from this Zhogahn, and his direct manner was tinged with only the most minimal and formulaic of honorifics.
It is a beautiful blade, he conceded, as though that explained Iden's motives. It once belonged to your father, Iden, and it is said