by Gav Thorpe
‘Yes, let us go back a while and revisit our youth,’ Aradryan said. ‘A return to happier times.’
‘It is a truth that as we progress, our grief increases and our joys diminish,’ said Thirianna.
The two of them started down the slope of the bridge towards the coreward bank.
‘It does not have to be so,’ said Aradryan. ‘The universe may have grief in plenty to heap upon us, but it is in our power to make our own joy.’
Thirianna was about to argue that the greatest grief came from one’s own making, but stopped herself. Such thoughts led to a place she was not willing to visit. Not yet. Not ever again, perhaps.
They walked on a little further and she considered what Aradryan had said and her reaction to it. Had she become morose, she wondered? Aradryan’s return was a cause for celebration, a positive event. It was up to her to make the most of it.
‘Yes, you are right,’ said Thirianna, cheered by his words. ‘Let us recapture the past and create some new happiness.’
‘She is so serene,’ Thirianna said. ‘Such calm and beauty.’
Korlandril’s creation was remarkable, stirring dormant thoughts within Thirianna’s mind. The Gifts of Loving Isha it was called. She was struck by the simplicity of the sculpture, which hid a very complex web of themes.
The statue was bathed in a golden glow and tinged with sunset reds and purples from the dying star above. It depicted an impressionistic Isha in abstract, her body and limbs flowing from the trunk of a lianderin tree, her wave-like tresses entwined within yellow leaves in its upreaching branches. Her faced was bowed, hidden in the shadow cast by tree and hair. From the darkness a slow trickle of silver liquid spilled from her eyes into a golden cup held aloft by an ancient eldar warrior kneeling at her feet: Eldanesh. Light glittered from the chalice on his alabaster face, his armour a stylised arrangement of organic geometry, his face blank except for a slender nose and the merest depression of eye sockets. From beneath him, a black-petalled rose coiled up Isha’s legs and connected the two together in its thorny embrace.
It was a monument to love, and the grief that it brought; a motif with which Thirianna was all too familiar of late.
Aradryan did not seem to share her opinion, flicking his fingers slightly in a sign of disagreement.
‘It is self-referential,’ Aradryan explained, his gaze moving from the statue to Thirianna. ‘It is a work of remarkable skill and delicacy, certainly. Yet I find it somewhat… staid. It adds nothing to my experience of the myth, merely represents physically something that is felt. It is a metaphor in its most direct form. Beautiful, but merely reflecting back upon its maker rather than a wider truth.’
Though the criticism was evenly spoken, Thirianna sensed tension in her companion, as though his critique was directed at something more elemental than a sculpture. Intimidated by what Aradryan might have made of her verses had she shared them, Thirianna sought to defend Korlandril’s work.
‘But is not that the point of art, to create representations for those thoughts, memories and emotions that cannot be conveyed directly?’
‘Perhaps I am being unfair,’ said Aradryan. ‘Out in the stars, I have seen such wondrous creations of nature that the artifices of mortals seem petty, even those that explore such momentous themes such as this.’
Thirianna felt a surge of anger close at hand and turned in time to see Korlandril, his face twisted with a sneer.
‘Staid?’ snapped Korlandril, stepping forwards. ‘Self-referential?’
Her stomach lurched with sudden shared guilt at Aradryan’s words, which the sculptor must have overheard. Aradryan seemed unperturbed, his posture calm, expression radiating sincerity.
‘My words were not intended to cause offence, Korlandril,’ he said, offering a placating palm. ‘They are but my opinion, and an ill-educated one at that. Perhaps you find my sentimentality gauche.’
Korlandril hesitated, blinking and glancing away in a moment of awkwardness. The pause lasted only the briefest heartbeat before Korlandril’s scowl returned.
‘You are right to think your opinion ill-informed,’ said the artist. ‘While you gazed naively at glittering stars and swirling nebulae, I studied the works of Aethyril and Ildrintharir, learnt the disciplines of ghost stone weaving and inorganic symbiosis. If you have not the wit to extract the meaning from that which I have presented to you, perhaps you should consider your words more carefully.’
Thirianna stepped away from the pair as Aradryan folded his arms.
‘And if you have not the skill to convey your meaning from your work, perhaps you need to continue studying,’ Aradryan snarled back. ‘It is not from the past masters that you should learn your art, but from the heavens and your heart. Your technique is flawless, but your message is parochial. How many statues of Isha might I see if I travelled across the craftworld? A dozen? More? How many more statues of Isha exist on other craftworlds? You have taken nothing from the Path save the ability to indulge yourself in this spectacle. You have learnt nothing of yourself, of the darkness and the light that battles within you. There is intellect alone in your work, and nothing of yourself. It might be that you should expand your terms of reference.’
Horrified, Thirianna wanted to intervene, but found herself helpless. She looked from Korlandril to Aradryan and back again, torn between her two friends. She detected animosity deeper than was being revealed, and wondered at its cause.
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Korlandril.
‘Get away from this place, from Alaitoc,’ Aradryan said patiently, his anger dissipated by his outburst. Now he was the picture of sincerity, his hand half-reaching towards Korlandril. ‘Why stifle your art by seeking inspiration only from the halls and domes you have seen since childhood? Rather than trying to look upon old sights with fresh eyes, why not turn your old eyes upon fresh sights?’
Korlandril parted his lips for a moment, but then shut his mouth firmly. He directed a fierce glare at Aradryan, before stalking away through the blue grass, scattering guests in his flight.
As if realising for the first time that Thirianna had been witness to the confrontation, Aradryan turned towards her, hands raised in apology.
‘I am sorry, I d–’
‘It is not I that deserves your apology,’ she said curtly, her feelings hurt more by Aradryan’s treatment of Korlandril than his disregard for her. ‘Perhaps such behaviour is tolerated on a starship, but you are back on Alaitoc. You are right, you have become gauche.’
With that parting remark, she left Aradryan, ignoring his call after her. She fought to retain her composure as she made her way through the dispersing audience, smiling at those who met her gaze though inside she felt like screaming.
She had been content with her life. Aradryan’s return had thrown that into turmoil and she worried what that would bring. She had sought serenity and calm through her poetry, but it seemed that matters beyond her control were about to make her life far more turbulent.
After little sleep, Thirianna woke before the next cycle had begun. She lay in the twilight of her apartment and thought about what she should do. It was unlikely that Korlandril and Aradryan would reconcile of their own accord. The prospect of choosing one of her friends over the other or, worse still, losing both of them, stirred her to action. Neither would be happy for her to interfere, but Thirianna was sure that if she was subtle she could bridge the sudden divide that had come between them.
It was not something she could attempt alone. She knew well the peril of unintended consequences when trying to steer the course of others’ lives. Yet it was not an insurmountable obstacle. There were older, wiser minds that could be brought to bear on the problem.
As the darkness lightened into the glow of a new cycle, Thirianna ate a swift breakfast, cleansed herself and dressed in simple attire. She left the tower in which she lived and, along with a handful of other early wakers, crossed Alaitoc on a grav shuttle. The few eldar with whom she shared the carriage sat
quietly, keeping to themselves. Thirianna was glad for their recognition of her desire for solitude and spent the time considering the changing nature of her relationships with Aradryan and Korlandril.
So wrapped up did she become in these thoughts that she almost did not notice her arrival at the Dome of Golden Sanctuary. There were no other eldar alighting from the shuttle as she stepped down to the curving platform, but she could feel the presence of many others close at hand: the infinity circuit.
Close to the heart of Alaitoc, the Dome of Golden Sanctuary was a maze of chambers and corridors, its walls gleaming with the energy of the craftworld’s psychic energy conduits. Flickers of colour flashed past along the crystal matrix, each bringing a brief buzz of life to the empty rooms and tunnels.
It was in this place that the farseers conducted much of their esoteric work. All of the eldar aboard Alaitoc knew of it, though few ventured here. It was the first time Thirianna had visited, and she wondered if it was true that the layout of the dome’s winding streets and soaring towers did indeed change over time, reflecting the will and whim of the infinity circuit and the farseers that used its power.
She came upon a broad space that at first glance appeared like any of a thousand other parklands that could be found across Alaitoc’s many domes. In many ways it was quite mundane; the grass was green, as were the leaves on the trees, and the water that glittered in a pool at its centre was clear and filled with fish. There were certainly more exotic plants and habitats elsewhere on the craftworld; where gravity was inverted and waterfalls poured upwards; where species of birds extinct off-world continued to fly the skies; where pools of liquid silver reflected clouds of coloured gases.
Yet first impressions were deceptive. Walking along the narrow path of white stones, Thirianna could sense more than could be seen with the naked eye. Here the power of the infinity circuit was being used to weave a landscape across more than the usual number of dimensions, and the results could be felt rather than touched or heard. She passed across a bridge and was filled with a gentle melancholy; stopping beneath the wide boughs of a tree Thirianna felt a moment of adoration for the beauty and complexity of life.
Distracted, she wandered the park for a while, enjoying the changes of mood and emotion that the different areas brought. Thirianna found a bench that looked out at a tumble of rocks and boulders at the bottom of a grassy slope. There was a blue-robed eldar sitting on the bench, a number of rune pendants hanging on golden chains across his chest, his wrists laden with gem-clad bracelets and intricately crafted charms. His hands were sheathed in soft velvet-like gloves of pure black.
‘You are late,’ said the eldar, turning purple eyes to Thirianna. His expression was one of pleasant surprise rather than admonition, which further confused her.
‘I did not know I was expected,’ she replied. The eldar gestured for her to sit next to him and she did so.
‘I am Alaiteir,’ said the eldar. ‘I have been waiting for you a little while.’
‘You are a farseer,’ Thirianna said, laughing at herself for foolishly asking if she had been expected.
‘You are right,’ said Alaiteir. ‘Your coming here has been known to me for several cycles.’
‘And do you know what I wish to ask?’ Thirianna said, her smile fading.
‘No,’ admitted Alaiteir. ‘Physical things, the interactions of beings, can be foreseen with practice, but their purposes and desires are far harder to discern. The will of an individual is a fleeting, capricious thing that is hard to locate.’
Thirianna accepted this explanation with a shallow nod. She looked at Alaiteir for a moment, wondering if she was doing the right thing.
‘All that you say shall be kept in confidence,’ Alaiteir assured her. ‘You may ask without regret or shame. It is the burden of the farseer that we see and hear many things, but only few can we even discuss.’
Taking a deep breath, Thirianna steadied her thoughts and launched into her tale. She explained to Alaiteir how she had come to know Korlandril and Aradryan, and her changing feelings for both of them. She talked about her own life, the Paths she had walked that had brought her to this place. She finished with the story of Aradryan’s return and the disruption it had caused. All the while Alaiteir said nothing, but listened patiently with the occasional nod of understanding or a brief smile to Thirianna to persuade her to continue.
When she was done, Thirianna asked the question that had been on her mind since Aradryan had stepped off Lacontiran.
‘What is going to happen to my friends?’
Alaiteir laughed, earning himself a shallow scowl of annoyance from Thirianna. The farseer held up a hand in apology and he seemed genuinely contrite.
‘A question that is so simple to ask, yet so difficult to answer,’ he said. He moved closer to Thirianna and laid a hand on her leg: a bold intrusion of her space but well meant and a gesture of assurance. ‘What you ask cannot be answered. Not by me and not in the way you have asked it. Could I see what will happen to them tomorrow? Possibly. The cycle after? Very likely. A pass from now? To the ends of their lives?’
Thirianna sighed, realising the enormity of what she had hoped and the futility of hoping for it. She moved to stand up but a gentle pressure from Alaiteir stopped her.
‘Did Anatheineir give up so easily on the quest for the Silver Star?’ said the farseer. ‘I cannot see these things for you, but there is another way. It is this that truly brought you here.’
‘You have seen something?’ Thirianna asked, her excitement growing. ‘Something about Korlandril or Aradryan?’
‘No,’ said the farseer, deflating Thirianna’s mood. ‘I know nothing more of these individuals than that which you have just told me.’
‘Why can you not simply tell me what you have seen?’ said Thirianna, annoyance replacing her anticipation. ‘Why not give a straightforward answer?’
‘You have not yet asked the right question.’ Alaiteir held up a hand to quell Thirianna’s next outburst. ‘I do not speak riddles out of choice, but necessity. We each ask ourselves and others a myriad of questions in every cycle. Some are trivial, and some are not. Which are the trivial ones and which are important? We do not know until we hear the answers. I cannot give you a truthful answer to a question that has been unasked but I can tell that you have not yet divined your inner purpose in coming here.’
‘Inner purpose?’ Thirianna was sure she knew exactly what she wanted to know and said as much. ‘I just want to know if things will be better between Korlandril and Aradryan.’
‘And now we start to get to the heart of the matter,’ said Alaiteir. He stood up, took Thirianna’s hand and gently pulled her to her feet. The two of them looked down the slope towards the broken rocks. ‘By what measure can “better” be defined? Better for Korlandril? Better for Aradryan?’
Thirianna knew the answer immediately but hesitated in saying it, suddenly ashamed of the realisation. She glanced at Alaiteir, who was studying the rocks below.
‘Better for me?’ Thirianna said quietly. Alaiteir nodded but did not look at her. Thirianna thought some more, working out what she meant by the statement. It was strange that her conclusion came as no shock to her. The farseer had been right, she had known all along what she really wanted to know. ‘How will this division between Aradryan and Korlandril affect me?’
‘That is good,’ said Alaiteir. He looked at Thirianna, his expression stern. ‘It is perhaps the first and last question we ask of any person or situation. Our selfishness is inherent and nothing that should bring you shame. Turmoil and change is upon you and you fear for what the future may hold. That is entirely natural.’
‘And my wish is for Aradryan and Korlandril to mend this wound between them for my benefit,’ said Thirianna. ‘Surely it is to their benefit as well?’
‘Who can say?’ said the farseer, his necklaces swaying as he gave a shallow shrug.
‘I thought perhaps a farseer could say,’ said Thirianna, smiling again.
‘You seek answers, but I cannot give them to you,’ said Alaiteir. ‘All I can do is steer you to the right questions. The answers you will have to find for yourself. The time is upon you to make a choice, Thirianna. It is this choice that I saw; this choice that persuaded me to come to you in this place at this time.’
‘I must choose between Korlandril and Aradryan?’ said Thirianna, dismayed by the prospect. ‘How could I do such a thing?’
‘Or perhaps choose neither,’ said Alaiteir. ‘Perhaps you must choose yourself over both of your friends. If you truly wish to know what the future holds, there is only one decision you have to make.’
Thirianna looked at Alaiteir for some time, trying to discern any extra meaning from his expression, seeking further guidance, but none was to be found. The farseer obviously intended that she must come to this decision entirely without direction from him.
It was only after much thought that the answer came to Thirianna.
‘You think that I should move to the Path of the Seer?’ she asked quietly.
‘What I think is irrelevant,’ replied Alaiteir. ‘All I can tell you is that every cycle we each stand upon a branch in the threads of fate, every decision we make shaping the future we will live in. Some cycles the choices we face change little of what will happen. This cycle, this moment, is not such a day. What you decide to do next, free of coercion or persuasion, guided by your own mind and heart, will set you on a new trail, whether you stay a poet or become a seer.’
‘I cannot take such a decision now,’ said Thirianna.
‘I would not expect you to do so,’ said the farseer. ‘If I am to be honest, I must tell you that you have already made the decision. Now you must spend some time finding out what road you have chosen.’
Thirianna nodded and took a few steps along the path. She stopped and turned back to Alaiteir.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘What should I do if I choose to follow you on the Path of the Seer?’