by Gav Thorpe
‘I do not mean the visions of our own deaths,’ Alaiteir continued. He chuckled. ‘When you have seen the hundredth possible way you might die a gruesome death, the fear tends to have lost its edge.’
The farseer paused and Thirianna sensed that he was inviting her to speak.
‘As a warrior I learnt to accept that all things die,’ she said. ‘I have faced real death many times; what is the phantasm of a possible future compared to that?’
‘Yet none of us wish to truly die,’ said Alaiteir. Without turning, he gestured towards the spirit stone fixed in an ornate brooch upon Thirianna’s left breast. ‘Our spirits pass on to the infinity matrix when our physical forms are spent.’
‘This much I already know, as would any child of Alaitoc,’ said Thirianna. ‘I do not understand how that is so different for a seer.’
‘For a seer one’s spirit retains a greater sense of consciousness after death, but it is not of that which I speak,’ said Alaiteir. He tugged at the fingers of his glove, removing it to reveal a hand that glittered like a diamond. The skin was transparent, slightly edged like a shaped gem, and within shining flashes of colour hinted at veins and capillaries and muscle. He held it up to the light of the dome, each fingertip sparkling like a star. He wiggled his fingers and laughed quietly. ‘To tread the Path to its furthest end, to become a Farseer, is to resign oneself to a different fate. We do not join with the infinity circuit; we become it!’
Thirianna had heard of such a thing, indeed had walked in the Dome of Crystal Seers, but it was a different matter to see the effect first-hand whilst it was progressing. She stared at the jewel-like flesh of Alaiteir’s hand, marvelling at the rainbows of light that danced from the surface.
‘Does it hurt?’ she asked.
‘Not at all,’ replied Alaiteir. ‘It is quite pleasant in a way. It is not the changing of the flesh that I warn against, but the hardening of the spirit. When a farseer becomes part of the infinity circuit his mind is wholly intact. Not for us the half-limbo of the physically dead, dimly aware of the fate that has befallen us. Consciousness is retained, an eternity ahead to spend without form stretched across the reaches of the skein.’
‘The skein?’
‘If you choose to become a seer you will learn more,’ the farseer said, pulling on his glove.
‘If I choose?’ said Thirianna. ‘I have already chosen. You know this or you would not have been waiting for me.’
‘You will reconsider your choice and the two eventualities of that decision still exist,’ said Alaiteir. He stood up and extended a hand to Thirianna, graciously helping her to her feet, a sign of equality. ‘If you choose the Path of the Seer, go to Farseer Kelamith and he will be your guide.’
‘Not you?’ Thirianna was saddened, having already become a little attached to the farseer’s strange but charming ways.
‘No, Kelamith’s thread and yours will entwine if you choose as such. He has more of a gift with novices than I.’
‘Even with your warning, I feel certain of my choice.’ Thirianna asked. ‘Why will I reconsider?’
‘I do not know,’ admitted the farseer. He glanced at Thirianna and smiled slyly. ‘And If I did, do you think I would tell you?’
FATE
The Raven – Messenger of Morai-heg. One of the most powerful runes, the Raven can be used only by the most experienced seers, for it can be a wayward guide to the unwary. The eyes of Morai-heg see all, and the Raven leads the follower to a single point of fate, from which there is no escape. Such nodes of destiny are rare, for the future is eternally mutable, but where they exist, the Raven will find them.
Thirianna was at Korlandril’s statue, sitting at one end of a curving bench, gazing at the dim glow beyond the dome. She wondered what it would be that might cause her to change her mind. As far as she knew herself, her mind was set on taking the Path of the Seer. The possibilities it offered were genuinely endless; the ability to gaze into the furthest reaches of the future and control her own fate.
She felt another approaching and turned to see Korlandril crossing the grass. He was a little late, but she did not mind; their appointment had not been precise. She smiled as he sat next to her, pleased that one of her friends seemed to be in good spirits.
The moment passed, as did her smile, when she turned her thoughts to the news she needed to pass on.
‘Aradryan has left Alaitoc,’ Thirianna said quietly.
Korlandril’s face was a flurry of emotion. Assuming the mantle of artist he had rendered himself incapable of self-critical thought and restraint. Every feeling etched into his features; shock and then disappointment. There was another look, just at the end, and Thirianna detected a small measure of satisfaction. She was not wholly surprised at this. After all, Korlandril and Aradryan had parted on bad terms.
‘I do not understand,’ said the sculptor. ‘I know that we had a disagreement, but I thought that he planned to remain on Alaitoc for some time yet.’
‘He did not depart on your account,’ said Thirianna, though doubtless the disagreement between the two had contributed. She realised that discussing Aradryan’s declaration of feelings for her would not be prudent.
‘Why would he not come to see me before he left?’ Korlandril asked. ‘It is obvious that some distance had grown between us, but I did not think his opinion of me had sunk so low.’
‘It was not you,’ Thirianna said, knowing she could have persuaded Aradryan to stay but had chosen not to.
‘What happened?’ asked Korlandril, a slight tone of accusation in his voice. ‘When did Aradryan leave?’
‘He took aboard Irdiris last cycle, after we spent some time together.’
Korlandril did not seem to recognise the name. That was no surprise; Thirianna had not heard of the starship a cycle ago.
‘Irdiris is a far-runner, destined for the Exodites on Elan-Shemaresh and then to the Wintervoid of Meios,’ she explained.
‘Aradryan wishes to become a… ranger?’ Incredulity and distaste vied with each other across Korlandril’s face. He stroked his bottom lip with a slender finger, calming himself. ‘I had no idea he was so dissatisfied with Alaitoc.’
‘Neither did I, and perhaps that is why he left so soon,’ confessed Thirianna. ‘I believe I spoke hastily and with insensitivity and drove him to a swifter departure than he might otherwise have considered.’
‘I am sure that you are no–’ began Korlandril but Thirianna cut him off with an agitated twitch of her finger.
‘I do not wish to speak of it,’ she said. Her guilt gnawed at her and bringing out the sorry details into the open would do neither Thirianna nor Korlandril any good.
They sat in silence for a while longer, while littlewings darted amongst the branches of the trees above them, trilling to one another. Deep within the woods a breezemaker stirred into life and the leaves began to rustle gently: a calming backdrop.
‘There was something else about which I wish to speak to you,’ said Korlandril, rousing Thirianna from thoughts of Aradryan. ‘I have a proposal to make.’
There was something about Korlandril’s look that excited Thirianna. The passion she could see in his eyes stirred the feelings she had kept secret between herself and her poems. She indicated with an inclination of her head that they should stand.
‘We should discuss this in my chambers, with something to drink, perhaps?’ she said.
‘That would be most agreeable,’ said Korlandril as the two of them made their way towards the dome entrance.
They were about to step onto the sliding walkway up to the towers where Thirianna lived when a large group appeared from the gloom ahead of them. Sensing something dark, Thirianna strayed closer to Korlandril, who put a protective hand upon her shoulder though she felt him tense and could sense his discomfort.
The group were Aspect Warriors and an aura of death hung about them as palpable as a stench. They were clad in plates of overlapping armour of purple and black, their heavy tread thunderous in the still twili
ght. Thirianna could feel their menace growing stronger as they approached, waystones glowing like eyes of blood. They had taken off their war-helms and carried them hooked upon their belts, leaving their hands free to carry slender missile launchers.
Dark Reapers: possessed of the war god in his aspect of Destroyer.
Something in the depths of Thirianna’s thoughts stirred; a memory hidden away, an aftertouch of Khaine on her spirit. It both excited and appalled her, disgust warring with the thrill it brought.
Though their helmets were removed, the warriors still bore the rune of the Dark Reaper painted in blood upon their faces. Thirianna and Korlandril shrank closer to the edge of the passageway as the Aspect Warriors passed, seeking the faces of their friends. Thirianna took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm down, but she felt a quiver running through her as the Aspect Warriors approached. Korlandril’s hand on her shoulder felt heavy and reassuring.
Thirianna pointed, directing Korlandril’s attention to Maerthuin. Arthuis walked a little way behind. The brothers stopped and turned their eyes upon Thirianna and Korlandril. Their gazes were empty, devoid of anything but the remotest recognition. Thirianna could smell the blood of the runes on their faces and suppressed an urge to reach out towards it.
‘You are well?’ asked Thirianna, her voice quiet and respectful.
Arthuis nodded slowly.
‘Victory was ours,’ intoned Maerthuin.
‘We will meet you at the Crescent of the Dawning Ages,’ said Arthuis.
‘At the start of the next cycle,’ added Maerthuin.
Korlandril and Thirianna both nodded their agreement and the two warriors moved on. Thirianna relaxed and Korlandril gave a sigh of relief.
‘It is inconceivable to me that one should indulge in such horror,’ said Korlandril as the two of them stepped upon the moving walkway.
Thirianna said nothing. Horror was not the sensation she had felt, though she was sure it was there, hidden away behind the careful memeblocks erected by her war-mask.
They made a spiralling ascent, languidly turning upon itself as the sliding ramp rose around the Tower of Dormant Witnesses. Thirianna considered Korlandril’s words and as they reached the top of the ramp realised the error in them.
‘It is not an indulgence,’ said Thirianna.
‘What is not an indulgence?’ replied Korlandril, who had been looking at the stars beyond the dome.
‘The Path of the Warrior is not an indulgence,’ she repeated. ‘One cannot simply leave anger in the darkness, to fester and grow unseen. Sooner or later it might find vent.’
‘What is there to be so angry about?’ laughed Korlandril. ‘Perhaps if we were Biel-Tan, with all their talk of reclaiming the old empire, then we might have a use for all of this sword-waving and gunfire. It is an uncivilised way to behave.’
‘You ignore the passions that rule you,’ snapped Thirianna.
‘I meant no offence,’ he said, obviously embarrassed.
‘The intention is not important,’ said Thirianna, still annoyed by Korlandril’s flippancy. ‘Perhaps you would care to ridicule the other Paths on which I have trodden?’
‘I did not mean…’ Korlandril trailed off. ‘I am sorry.’
‘The Path of Dreaming, the Path of Awakening, the Path of the Artist,’ said Thirianna, shaking her head slightly. ‘Always self-indulgent, always about your needs, no sense of duty or dedication to others.’
Korlandril shrugged, a fulsome gesture employing the full use of both arms.
‘I simply do not understand this desire some of us feel to sate a bloodlust I do not feel,’ he said.
‘And that is what is dangerous about you,’ said Thirianna. ‘Where do you put that rage you feel when someone angers you? What do you do with the hatred that burns inside when you think upon all that we have lost? You have not learnt to control these feelings, merely ignore them. Becoming one with Khaine, assuming one of his Aspects is not about confronting an enemy, it is about confronting ourselves. We should all do it at some time in our lives.’
Korlandril shook his head.
‘Only those that desire war, make it,’ he said.
‘Findrueir’s Prophecies of Interrogation,’ said Thirianna, knowing the quotation. It was a trite statement that she had once believed as well. ‘Yes, I’ve read it too, do not look so surprised. However, I read it after treading the Path of the Warrior. An aesthete who wrote about matters she had never experienced. Hypocrisy at its worst.’
‘And also one of Iyanden’s foremost philosophers.’ Amusement danced on Korlandril’s lips.
‘A radical windbag with no true cause and a gyrinx fetish,’ countered Thirianna.
Korlandril laughed. His levity bordered on disrespect and Thirianna allowed her displeasure to show.
‘Forgive me,’ Korlandril said. ‘I hope that is not an example of your poetry!’
Thirianna vacillated between annoyance and humour before breaking into a smile.
‘Listen to us! Gallery philosophers, the pair! What do we know?’
‘Little enough,’ agreed Korlandril with a nod. ‘And I suppose that can be a dangerous thing.’
The two of them reached Thirianna’s chambers. She noticed Korlandril examining the interior in some detail and they made some small talk while she prepared drinks. They discussed Aradryan’s leaving again, though Korlandril turned the conversation around to himself, and it was clear he was more concerned about Aradryan’s low opinion of his sculpture than the fate of his friend, which irritated Thirianna.
‘Your friendship has been important to me,’ said Thirianna, wishing to change the subject.
‘I have a new piece of sculpture in mind, something very different from my previous works,’ Korlandril announced.
‘That is good to hear,’ said Thirianna. It was obvious it was this that Korlandril wanted to talk about. She was a little bit disappointed. ‘I think that if you can find something to occupy your mind, you will dwell less on the situation with Aradryan.’
‘Yes, that is very true! I’m going to delve into portraiture. A sculptural testament to devotion, in fact.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Thirianna. ‘Perhaps something a little more grounded in reality would be good for your development.’
‘Let us not get too carried away,’ said Korlandril with a smile. ‘I think there may be some abstract elements incorporated into the design. After all, how does one truly replicate love and companionship in features alone?’
‘I am surprised.’ Korlandril’s talk of love intrigued her. She watched him closely, trying to discern his mood, but he did not seem to notice her scrutiny. Thirianna thought of her poems, and the love they expressed. ‘I understand if you do not wish to tell me, but what inspires such a piece of work?’
The artist looked perplexed, and Thirianna realised there was more to what he had said than she had seen. Before she could apologise for not responding to his gentle overtures, Korlandril spoke again.
‘You are my inspiration,’ he said quietly, eyes fixed on Thirianna. ‘It is you that I wish to fashion as a likeness of dedication and ardour.’
Thirianna was shocked by Korlandril’s openness, and a little dismayed that it perhaps had come too late. Her infatuation with him, hidden away within her verses, had always been her secret, and in writing her poems she had lessened its power over her.
‘I… You…’ She looked away, not sure what to say. For a moment she wondered if Korlandril knew what she had written about him. Suddenly she was scared by the whole issue and affected an air of distance. ‘I do not think that is warranted.’
‘Warranted?’ Korlandril leaned towards her, his face intent on Thirianna. ‘It is an expression of my feelings; there is nothing that needs warranting other than to visualise my desires and dreams. You are my desire and a dream.’
Thirianna did not reply. She stood and took a couple of paces away before turning to face Korlandril, her face serious.
‘This is no
t a good idea, my friend,’ she said gently. She wondered why he had said nothing before, when perhaps she would have been in a position to reciprocate. She realised that this was the dilemma that would make her reconsider becoming a seer. There was no doubt in her mind, and it was best to disappoint Korlandril as gently as possible. ‘I do appreciate the sentiment, and perhaps some time ago I would not only be flattered but I would be delighted.’
‘But not now?’ he asked, hesitant, scared of the answer.
She shook her head.
‘Aradryan’s arrival and departure have made me realise something that has been amiss with my life for several passes now,’ she said. Korlandril reached out a hand in a half-hearted gesture, beckoning her to come closer. Thirianna sat next to him and took his hand in hers. ‘I am changing again. The Path of the Poet is spent for me. I have grieved and I have rejoiced through my verse, and I feel expunged of the burdens I felt. I feel another calling is growing inside me.’
Korlandril snatched his hand away.
‘You are going to join Aradryan!’ he snapped. ‘I knew the two of you were keeping something from me.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Thirianna rasped in return, trying to hide her guilt that Aradryan had offered to stay for her. ‘It is because I told him what I am telling you that he left.’
‘So, he did make advances on you!’ Korlandril stood and angrily wiped a hand across his brow and pointed accusingly at Thirianna. ‘It is true! Deny it if you dare!’
She slapped away his hand.
‘What right do you have to make any claim on me?’ she snapped. ‘If you must know, I have never entertained any thoughts of being with Aradryan, even before he left, and certainly not since his return. I am simply not ready for a life-companion. In fact, that is why I cannot be your inspiration.’
Korlandril’s trembling lip was a cliché of sadness and it melted through Thirianna’s anger. She took a step closer, hands open in friendship.
‘It is to save you from a future heartache that I decline your attentions now,’ she continued. ‘I have spoken to Farseer Alaiteir and he agrees that I am ready to begin the Path of the Seer.’