‘Is that what I am, just a bulwark against the predation of the Clan Icewhisper?’ He railed at the use of ‘pointless’ but was in no mindset to justify his decisions regarding the Ynnari.
‘You are my nephew,’ she replied sharply, making Nuadhu regret his petulance. ‘Blood of my brother. But you are also the clan heir, and I would miss both the body and the position if they were not returned to me.’
‘It is nice to be wanted, I suppose.’
‘You are a Wild Rider and these tantrums are to be indulged, but that does not mean you have free rein to drag this clan into disrepute and ignominy.’ She paused at a narrow window and he stopped beside her. The scene outside was of the open moorlands that bounded the tower, their fiery hue merging with the stylised dusk twilight. ‘I have two daughters. Do not think that if you persist I will not make the case that one of them should be named clan heir in your place. Caelledhin is not the only alternative. Your father is stubborn but has moments when he might be amenable.’
‘Manipulated,’ said Nuadhu, stepping away. ‘Moments when you can manipulate him.’
‘Do not conflate your best interests with those of Clan Fireheart, Nuadhu,’ his aunt told him as she caught up.
The Wild Lord gritted his teeth to prevent any further word slipping free, unsure if his aunt was genuine or simply baiting him for petty revenge. Politicking with the other clans was enough of a distraction; the thought that he would have to fend off usurpers from within his own family left him cold.
In silence they took a gravitational chute into the height of the tower, to the chambers of the chieftain. Four others stood at the closed doors to Naiall’s suite, one of them his half-sister. The other three were the rest of the clan’s representatives on the council, robed and solemn as they watched the heir approach. It was clear that they had despatched Marifsa to ensure that Nuadhu attended to his father at the instant of his arrival.
‘Did you fear that I would abscond to my chambers without chaperone?’ he said as he reached the group of worthies. Nuadhu avoided Caelledhin and addressed his eldest cousin, Neamyh. ‘Do you think so little of me?’
‘You delight in shirking responsibility, heir-lord,’ replied another cousin, Feidhinna. She stepped back, leaving a gap to the chamber doors. The last of the group, an uncle by marriage named Husarthas, touched fingers to the control panel and exerted a little will to command the door open.
Taking a long breath, the eyes of his peers like weights upon his back, Nuadhu stepped inside.
Suppressing his growing anxiety, Aradryan watched the Commorraghan – he’d caught the name Verkhainsza earlier – slip slowly to the floor like a droplet down a cliff of melting ice. His gaze flicked to Mainadrethiena, who still looked at Yvraine as though she had come upon a beautiful flower, examining its exquisite details.
The Whisper felt like a prickle of heat inside his thoughts, and the Opener of the Seventh Way a white-hot element from which that heat emanated. He feared to approach closer lest he was scorched from existence, but at the same time felt himself drawn to the power. His eyes slid to Mainadrethiena once more, not just to the happiness in her face but the whole lightness of her being that seemed to carry her as she stepped away from Yvraine.
The lure was irresistible.
‘Who wishes to be next?’
There was no hesitation in Aradryan as he strode forwards, bearing the stone upon his chest as though presenting his heart to be pierced. The longing stirred inside him by the sight of his fellow craftworlder’s transformation was nearly unbearable. He knew that Yvraine held the secret he had been seeking for his whole life, a secret that all the teachings of the Asuryani Path had failed to reveal.
Death.
Death had weighed so heavily upon him since his earliest memories. He had tried to elude the dread as a Dreamer, but the cold hand of ceasing had gripped him in his dreams. He had travelled to the far corners of the galaxy as a ship’s navigator but it had followed him, waiting for him in the cold between stars when he arrived. As an outcast his attempts to face his fear had brought bloodshed to thousands and near ruin to his craftworld. As a Mourner for those that had died… That had brought him to Yvraine.
He was not sure of what she did, the movements that brought her next to him. All he knew was that she became a star within him, the light and fury and life that reached into his soul.
Aradryan experienced being born.
Not the meagre physical birth that had seen him eased from the body of his remembered bearer, but the very moment of his beginning. From nothing came existence. Out of the ether of emotion a particle of spirit was brought into being. As the elements were forged in the furnace of the stars, so he was wrought in the storms of the warp.
From destruction, creation.
It was freedom unparalleled, to fly upon the waves of unfettered desire, a mote on a river of timelessness.
He grew aware of the stream that carried him, and that he was part of the stream also. Other spirits existed, around and about him, forming the creation into which he had been introduced.
All of this came only as vague awareness, for there was nothing physical by which it might be measured. Impressionistic, instinctual knowledge rather than the perceptions of senses sketched understanding into his budding consciousness.
He revelled in the company of his fellow souls, feeling the warmth of their massless presence, himself reflected a thousandfold and more, and in turn reflecting them back to themselves.
The joy was impossible to describe, of fulfilment without limitation.
Without death.
Shadows fell upon existence and the stream splintered beneath the cold darkness.
Panicked, Aradryan-that-will-be tried to flee the encroaching umbra, to follow the flow of his companions away from the turbulence that raked through their existence. Yet he had nothing to move, for he was formless, and there was no action against which to react.
A predator that had lurked long out of sight suddenly thrashed through their midst, casting the shadow and being the shadow at the same time. Impotent horror, powerless rage burned from the iota of existence that was to become Aradryan, fuelled by the concept of ending.
Light entered the ether, for a time shepherding the thought-atoms from their peril. Their efforts were not enough. Aradryan-yet-to-be knew that he had not yet reached his full potential, that fleeing the shadow-maw had drained him of vitality.
And then from existence came life.
As though a godly hand had scooped up the impermanent froth of the waves and set it upon a shore in lasting form, Aradryan came to be, clad in physicality. With eyes he saw a bright sun. With ears he heard a crash of water on a rocky coastline. Smell was virgin air and the scent of his brothers and sisters clad in their own bodies. With taste came the saltiness of the sea. Touch… Touch was warmth and coldness, and the awareness of the billions of particles ordered together to comprise his being.
And he felt alone.
There were countless others of his kind close at hand and he felt their thoughts in his, and yet the space between atoms separated him from them. They were no longer as one.
The loss might have been impossible to bear had not the sensation been accompanied by a memory of what-came-to-be. Aradryan-that-is recognised himself, and though purity of spirit had been sacrificed, there was a perception of what was missing.
The curse of She Who Thirsts.
The overbearing presence of the Great Enemy had not laid upon his lightness. The eternity for which his spirit craved was still possible, albeit through a succession of mortal incarnations. A clumsy necessity of the physical experience, but one that granted other benefits.
Excitement welled up through him at the opportunities that lay before his immortal self.
And there was no fear of death, for it was but the temporary cessation that reset the cycle. A thousand lifetim
es… A million lifetimes! Some only infinitesimally different, others massively divergent, exploring the entirety of creation for the length of its countless aeons. The cycle would never break.
Gasping, Aradryan fell into his current senses to find himself in a foetal self-embrace at Yvraine’s feet.
Aradryan felt something hard in his fist and opened his fingers to see an oval gem. It took a short while until he recalled that it was the spirit stone of Diamedin. He laughed at the thought of her soul inside the jewel, remembering the bodiless sensation that had accompanied his soul-birth. Was that how it would feel to be severed from his body again?
He longed to return to the purity of spirit, but mortality impinged. However, where dread had once dogged his every movement, the weight of She Who Thirsts a burden upon every limb and thought, now he felt… nothing.
Not emptiness, just himself. Aradryan. Aeldari.
Free.
Chapter 5
AN AILING CHIEFTAIN
The first chamber was small but well appointed, furnished with low couches and small tables, such that might make visitors comfortable for a short while. Nuadhu did not stop, but continued through the large door opposite, into the main apartment. The broad chamber was walled on three sides by crystal windows, seemingly open to the elements – in fact actually open on one side, where the large panes had been slid aside to allow access to a balcony, through which a chill wind blew.
The rest of the space was sparse: a long table for meetings, some white wooden cabinets with shelves filled by ornamental bottles and vases. The floor was covered in a thick carpet, woven in a pattern that suggested the fallen leaves of autumn. Someone had arranged small bouquets of yellow and red flowers from the gardens in strategic places in an attempt to brighten the room, but they seemed lost in the dour emptiness.
Nuadhu suddenly became aware of his armour. It felt heavy and out of place here, as was perhaps his family’s intent in ushering him away from his dormitories. The spear in his hand was even more out of place, and he set it to one side, glad to be free of its weight. Though he was unmarked by stain – a rarity after battle – he felt the bloodshed inside. He carried it within rather than on his armour, and its presence was no less a taint for being invisible.
Nuadhu was about to continue on through to the bed chamber when he noticed a figure upon the balcony, hands on the rail, staring out across the Flameglades.
His father.
Equally surprised and concerned that Naiall Fireheart was out of his bed, Nuadhu hurried to the open window-doors. The wind cut at his skin this high up, dragging his hair from his face.
‘Father, the cold…’ he said, stepping out onto the balcony.
The chieftain turned at his son’s words. His robe – black with flame motifs about the hem and cuffs – hung in unsightly folds from a frame that was more bone than flesh. Eyes and cheeks sunken, head devoid of hair, hands little more than skin-wrapped phalanges, Naiall looked even more wasted away than when Nuadhu had left, though only twenty cycles had passed during the journey to and from Agarimethea. Upon a thick chain around his neck, the chieftain’s spirit stone glimmered fitfully with a wan green light.
Nuadhu tried to hide his shock, but something in his expression must have revealed it, for the chieftain sagged even more, disheartened by his son’s reaction to his continually worsening condition.
‘What are you doing out here?’ Nuadhu asked the question casually, but he worried for the answer. As well as the physical ravaging caused by his father’s malaise, of late there had been growing bouts of insensibility. Naiall looked cogent enough as he replied.
‘I cannot see the slopes of the Duskmoors from my room.’ The chieftain lifted a finger towards the distant hillside, its stream-cut flanks filled with low-growing bushes that were now in bloom, a riot of purples and dark blues. They were well-named, almost mirroring the twilight of the cloudy skies above.
Nuadhu looked over the rail of the balcony to the gardens far below. He saw figures moving along the grey paths between beautifully cultivated hedgerows and lawns, disappearing under the permanently autumnal leaves of the copses dotted between the bridges and towers.
‘You will be warmer inside,’ he said, laying a hand upon his father’s back. He forced himself to keep his hands there, though inwardly he cringed at the touch of protruding ribs and shoulder blades beneath the light garment.
‘Do you feel the cold sting your eyes when you ride upon the winds?’ Naiall asked, a hint of a smile on bloodless lips.
‘No,’ admitted Nuadhu. ‘My blood runs hot and guards me against any chill from air or fear.’
‘My blood runs hotter still, my son. It burns me from within.’ A vague gesture indicated the chieftain’s face and hairless head. His gaze sharpened and he knitted his fingers together, clasped to his chest. ‘I am still master of this realm. Your relatives think that I do not know what passes, but I do. They may keep their secrets, but I can hear and feel. I am connected still to the spirit of Clan Fireheart.’
‘What secrets, father?’ Nuadhu moved closer.
‘Conspiring, of course,’ snapped Naiall. ‘Chatter and gossip, to oust me.’
‘I will not let that happen.’ Nuadhu hated to say it, but it was impossible to avoid voicing the promise he had held in his heart for some time. ‘There may yet be hope for us all. I have a new associate. Druthkhala, she is one of the Ynnari. If anyone might understand what besets you, some way of reversing it, Yvraine will.’
Naiall shook his head, lips pursed.
‘I will not be an outsider’s puppet, Nuadhu.’
‘That’s not what will–’
‘Power borrowed from others has to be repaid later. Whatever Yvraine can grant us, she will take back twofold when she desires it.’
‘I already have what she desires, father.’ Nuadhu stepped away from the rail, gloved fingers fidgeting with the mesh of his under-armour at his waist. ‘My expedition, it was a success.’
‘Remind me…’ The request was plainly made, but spoke of diminishing faculties.
‘Do you not recall?’ The thought worried Nuadhu. ‘We spoke on the matter not more than twenty cycles past.’
‘Indulge me,’ his father said before another coughing fit took hold for several heartbeats.
‘Druthkhala, the herald of the Ynnari, father,’ Nuadhu replied, unsure if his father was covering for the lapse or seeking something else. ‘She came seeking allies to travel to Agarimethea. We went there and found that it is no maiden world, but a tomb vault of the necrontyr.’
‘The Deathless? Good consort for the Ynnari, I would say.’
‘They had something locked away. Something from the time of the dominion.’
‘And you recovered this for Yvraine? What did you find?’
Nuadhu deflated, and looked away.
‘You do not have it?’ His father sighed. ‘What, then, do you think to offer Yvraine for her assistance? The prize given already is no prize at all.’
Nuadhu ground his teeth, frustrated by his father’s dismissive words.
‘We will help her recover the artefact, and then our fortunes will improve.’
He continued to look at the dusk-touched horizon and felt his father move closer. The chieftain’s next question was a whisper on the wind.
‘How many of my warriors have I lost, my son? What price have we paid for Yvraine’s uncertain friendship?’
Swallowing hard, Nuadhu forced himself to look at Naiall. His trembling lip and tearful eyes were all the answer the chieftain needed. Yet when Nuadhu desired most his father’s understanding he saw Naiall’s cadaverous face twisted in an expression of disappointment.
‘Perhaps it would be better if I let your aunt and her conspirators have their way.’
‘No!’
‘What alternative is there?’ Naiall became animated in his a
nger, pacing along the balcony, his robe fluttering in the wind. A hand swept out towards the landscape. ‘This will all diminish until there is nothing left, Nuadhu. We need alliances of substance.’
‘We need to remain true to each other and not tear ourselves apart!’
A ghost of a smile danced across Naiall’s lip.
‘Is that leadership I hear in your voice?’ The clan chieftain rubbed spindly hands together and then interlaced his fingers. ‘Perhaps your time in the Wild Riders is coming to a close if you are capable of such thoughts.’
‘Is that what you desire? Do you think I have been avoiding my responsibilities?’
‘That is perhaps the intent of the Wild Riders, is it not? To let us distance ourselves from concern?’
Nuadhu absorbed this without comment, in part because he knew his father was right. To hear his own fears spoken so plainly by Naiall was something of a shock. Nuadhu focused on the positive to be drawn from the exchange – that his father’s mental capacity was clearly not compromised.
‘I spoke of alliances,’ the chieftain continued. ‘I regret that of late I have not kept abreast of developments in the council.’
‘We have nothing to offer the other clans, father. Even those joined to us by kinship make only word-oaths, their deeds do not match our needs. Only Caelledhin and Clan Icewhisper speak out of any true intent.’
Mention of Nuadhu’s half-sister brought a forlorn look to Naiall’s face, but Nuadhu knew that the unspoken lament was not for Caelledhin but for her mother, dead now for more than half his lifetime. The heir took refuge in formality, an unfamiliar place.
‘I need you to summon a council, father.’
‘Nobody will come.’ Naiall walked back to the window-doors and stepped inside. Nuadhu followed and a heartbeat later they closed with a sigh like a last breath. Immediately he started to feel warmer, but any comfort was drained by the coldness of his father’s despondency. ‘When I was young, your grandfather would have to utter only a few words and the clans would fight among themselves to dine at his table. Now we are the ones that must feed on scraps left by others.’
Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe Page 5