‘I still don’t see how that helps us,’ said B’sainnad. ‘Unless you think that Yvraine will personally change the minds of the other chieftains.’
‘Not all of them,’ said Nuadhu. ‘But enough of them.’
Yvraine’s arrival will force you to confront not just the necrontyr, heir of Clan Fireheart.+ Illanor could not move his crystallised feet, melded with the veins of the infinity circuit that ran through the floor. Instead he leaned closer, his proximity and direct attention bringing a fresh chill to Nuadhu’s skin. The voice continued though the glassy lips were now still. +Your father stands between the realms of the living and the dead. Before you ally with Yvraine you must consider the assistance you require, and the aid she may give.+
‘I don’t understand,’ said Nuadhu. ‘What does Yvraine have to do with the affliction of my father?’
B’sainnad stepped towards the Wild Lord, excited. ‘Do you think she can help him?’
The seers paused, the gleam of their psychic light dimming for the moment as their crystal incarnations turned their faces to one another. Nuadhu assumed they were communing in some fashion. It did not take long before they resolved their discussion and gleaming dead eyes focused on him once more.
It is not our place to say.+ Lorios held out a hand, palm upwards as though offering something. +You must speak to Naiall of what he did, before you seek Yvraine’s help. You must decide what is to be done in full knowledge of all the consequences. You must choose whether the price is worth paying.+
Nuadhu was about to ask for clarification, and sensed that the conversation had again moved from his original purpose in coming to seek advice for facing the necrontyr. That was the difficulty with seers, they always pursued their own agenda. Before he could speak, the seers turned away, hands rising again, assuming the position they had held when Nuadhu and B’sainnad had entered. The spirit light started to wane.
‘Wait!’ Nuadhu reached out but stopped himself from laying flesh upon the crystal hand closest to him. ‘What price? You mentioned a price. What price?’
The spirit within the shell that had been Yddgara brightened momentarily.
None venture into the domain of the dead and return without paying.+
Dimness flowed through the hall, leaving Nuadhu warmer but more confused than when he had arrived.
‘The realm of the dead?’ B’sainnad looked around. ‘Did he mean here? Or the vault of the necrontyr? Or perhaps the Ynnari?’
It was a good question, one that Nuadhu could not answer.
‘Druthkhala Shadowspite, herald of Yvraine of the Ynnari.’
Those attending to Naiall Fireheart looked up at the call of the door herald, startled by the announcement. Nuadhu’s heart raced, and not just at the prospect of seeing her again. Usually the declaration of such arrivals was purely traditional, the occupants of an apartment or halls made aware of visitors in advance via connection through the infinity circuit. Vary rarely did anyone call on another unexpectedly. Druthkhala was of the drukhari, her psychic sense all but withered to nothing. She made no impression upon the infinity circuit and consequently her appearance came without any warning.
She stood at the threshold dressed in her full battle regalia, though unarmed. As she advanced across the chamber, her gaze roved across the handful of people clustered about the throne of the chieftain, perhaps assessing each. Nuadhu noticed the way she moved with liquid grace, the sight of her not atop her reaver-bike unfamiliar to him. Every step seemed considered in its placement, each stride perfectly balanced as the weight transitioned. She did so without effort, walking quickly towards them.
Marifsa tensed beside Nuadhu and he placed a hand on her arm as he sensed she would move forward to intercept the newcomer. She glanced back at him and then down at his fingers on her sleeve, eyes flashing her annoyance. With a cautioning look, Nuadhu lifted away his hand.
‘My son has told me much about you,’ croaked Naiall, forcing himself to sit straighter, grimacing.
‘When I heard that Naiall Fireheart was again taking audience, I thought it right to seek a conversation.’
‘It is correct that the lord of Clan Fireheart has made several public appointments,’ said Neamyh, moving a step sideways, her defensive manoeuvre unconscious but placing her a little behind Nuadhu even as she continued. ‘No such arrangement has been made with you, Druthkhala.’
‘An oversight on account of the fact that I cannot use the infinity circuit,’ the Bloodbride replied, stopping just out of reach. Nuadhu had never stood this close to her before and realised that she was as tall as him, easily his physical match and far more powerful than any of the others present. Yet it was not simply lean muscle and her generous frame that granted her strength. The way she held herself bordered on the predatory, as though just an instant away from a killing lunge.
He glanced at his father and saw that Naiall met her gaze steadily, though his fingers quivered slightly on the hands of the throne. The last five cycles since the council had convened to discuss the necrontyr issue had taxed him greatly, his sudden re-emergence into the political domain met with a succession of potential and former allies – and a few rivals – using the opportunity to visit the reclusive lord. Doubtless for most it was simply to gauge his health and mood, but for a few it had been genuine happiness or concern that had brought them.
‘Welcome to the Flameglades, Druthkhala of the Ynnari.’ The ailing chieftain stood with some effort and inclined his head, a greeting usually reserved for other clan leaders. ‘Let me introduce my closest family. Nuadhu and Caelledhin you already know…’
Nuadhu’s attention wandered as Naiall continued, as did his gaze. The audience chamber of Clan Fireheart was one of the few remaining sites of grandeur remaining in the Flameglades palace. The long hall was lined with exquisite statuary from twenty different schools of art, collected over time since the founding of the clan. Family history claimed that the oldest had been salvaged from the Fall, taken aboard Saim-Hann in the moments before it departed to flee the depravity that had beset the aeldari dominions. Nuadhu could well believe it, for there was an aura about them that unsettled him, as though the stone still held the pre-birth resonance of She Who Thirsts.
‘I thank you for the honour of this audience.’
The sound of a different voice returned Nuadhu’s attention to Druthkhala, feeling something of the same unease he did around the ancient sculptures. But it was not simply that he sensed no echo of her in the infinity circuit, though that was distracting. He thought perhaps it was the nature of the Commorraghan soul within her – an ever-present taste of the horror and bloodshed she had inflicted on others to stave off the continual assault of the Great Enemy.
It was not that either, he decided. He had spent time among warriors – alongside the exarchs of Khaine who were steeped in death – and not felt the same. It had to be her newer calling, that of being Ynnari. Something about her association with the God of the Dead left an imprint upon her spirit that was unsettling, yet the nature of it also excited him.
‘I have come to you first with important news, in thanks for the services you have already rendered unto the Ynnari,’ Druthkhala told them, her eyes moving from one clan member to the next before lingering a moment on Nuadhu. ‘And for the lives given in that endeavour.’
‘What news?’ demanded Marifsa.
‘A message from Yvraine.’ The Bloodbride returned her full attention to Naiall. ‘She is but a cycle’s journey from Saim-Hann.’
‘She is almost here?’ gasped Neamyh.
‘Who else knows this?’ asked Naiall.
‘You are the first I have told,’ replied Druthkhala. ‘Though the Ynnari fleet comes unannounced, they do not hide their approach. The seers must know of it.’
‘But they have said nothing to the council members,’ added Alyasa. The windweaver had remained silent behind the throne, but n
ow stepped forward, lips pursed in thought. ‘That they have chosen to remain silent means that they consider the knowledge advantageous.’
‘I do not see how,’ said Nuadhu. ‘Within a cycle, everyone will know that Yvraine is here.’
‘If she leaves the webway,’ said Druthkhala. The Bloodbride directed her gaze at each of them once again. ‘She cannot in good conscience enter the territorial space of Saim-Hann without invitation.’
‘Then Clan Fireheart will extend the hand of welcome,’ said Naiall, matching the sentiment with the physical gesture.
‘Uncle!’ yelped Neamyh. ‘You cannot vouch for these untrustworthy vagabonds and strangers! What little reputation we have left will be sullied by the slightest misdemeanour they perpetrate.’
Nuadhu cringed and a heartbeat later Neamyh looked horrified at the insult she had offered to Druthkhala, hand raised to her mouth as her eyes locked to Yvraine’s ambassador. Even so, no apology was directly forthcoming. Druthkhala met his cousin’s shame with a slight smile.
‘It certainly takes more than the will of Clan Fireheart to entice Yvraine from the sanctuary of the webway. We are, after all, untrustworthy vagabonds and strangers. Yvraine desires that you rally such allies as you can to extend the invitation, enough to allow her to personally address the council.’
‘We can do that,’ said Nuadhu, too quickly for the liking of his aunt and half-sister, who both directed scornful glares in his direction. He addressed his father rather than them. ‘If you desire it, of course, my father.’
Naiall said nothing. Nuadhu quelled the urge to ask again, unsure whether his father was contemplating the issue or sliding into the depths of his malaise. Druthkhala took a step closer, fascinated. She lifted a hand, gently, palm out towards the chieftain, eyes narrowed.
‘How did he manage such a feat?’ she asked.
‘What feat?’ replied Marifsa. She moved towards the Bloodbride, who withdrew her hand and retreated. With a delicate frown, Druthkhala turned to Alyasa.
‘Surely you see it?’
The windweaver shook his head with a scowl.
‘How curious,’ said the Ynnari ambassador.
Nuadhu only half considered the exchange, more concerned with his father. He was on the verge of dismissing the others when Naiall let out a long breath and focus returned to his eyes. He looked first at Druthkhala.
‘I must see Yvraine first,’ he said hoarsely. ‘To see the Emissary of Ynnead for myself.’
‘She cannot come to Saim-Hann,’ said Druthkhala. ‘We have few enough allies here and the Opener of the Seventh Way has no wish to earn the enmity of others by arriving without permission.’
‘I… I will go to her, if she allows it.’
‘It is too dangerous.’ Nuadhu’s warning was lost among similar protests from the other family members. When they had finished, he squeezed Naiall’s hand and continued. ‘Even leaving the Flameglades might be too much effort, my father. What can be so important that you cannot give your blessing now?’
Naiall said nothing, but directed a questioning look at the Bloodbride.
‘We can muster support before you make any declaration,’ said Nuadhu, looking to others for agreement. They gave their assurances, though Neamyh and Marifsa both nodded with obvious reluctance. ‘If you wish to bring the Ynnari here, we will help, but please do not risk yourself for these people.’
‘It is not for them,’ said Naiall, gaze still fixed on Druthkhala.
‘I will pass your request to Yvraine, but I can confidently suggest that you prepare for the journey. She will be most intrigued, and happy, to have you call upon her.’
‘Then let it be so arranged,’ announced the chieftain, looking at his closest family. ‘It is my wish.’
And there was no more to be said against it. Nuadhu had reservations but he did not wish to tax his father’s health with debate. He watched Druthkhala depart with a curt bow, distracted for a moment by the alluring sway of hips and hair. When she was gone, his thoughts were dragged back by sharp words from Marifsa, who apparently did not share Nuadhu’s worry regarding the detrimental effect of argument with her brother.
‘What can you possibly hope to gain, Naiall?’ she snapped. ‘Is this a misguided attempt at reclaiming some semblance of your lost vigour? It will kill you if you are not careful.’
Naiall said nothing, gaze distant, though clearly he was still mentally present, just ignoring her. Nuadhu remembered something of the cryptic answers of the Oracles of the Last Truth, about his father standing between life and death. He clarified the memory – they had spoken of the realms of the living and the dead, something different to his personal condition. They had also been specific that if Clan Fireheart attempted to breach the necrontyr tomb vault alone, they would perish, ‘lord and clan together’. That they had singled out Naiall in that statement was significant, but he had no idea what they had hinted at.
‘My father, may I speak with you alone?’
The chieftain shifted at the edge in Nuadhu’s voice. He nodded before addressing the others. ‘I have my reasons, be sure of it. And not vanity, but the future of the clan. Do all that is needed to ready us not only for audience with Yvraine, but to gather about us such support as we might find at home. And for battle against the necrontyr. Remember, if we are successful, it is only to earn the Ynnari as allies for terrible war. A war we cannot avoid, it seems, whether we choose to wage it alone or wait for the terror to come to Saim-Hann.’
Though they were clearly unhappy about the decision, Nuadhu’s aunt and cousin murmured their acquiescence before turning away. Alyasa lingered a few heartbeats longer, a doubtful look upon his face, but he said nothing and followed the others.
‘What do you wish to say, my son?’
Nuadhu waited until the doors were closed, the audience chamber sealed against the keen hearing of his kin. Though his father had, in less lucid times, spoken in paranoid terms about the plotting of his family, hinting even at espionage, Nuadhu was almost certain that they were unheard and unobserved.
‘This is about mother, is it not?’
Naiall drew in a breath, looking sharply at his son. He nodded.
‘There are some that say you are too flighty,’ said Naiall, ‘even for a Wild Rider. But you see the hearts of others well, when you choose to look.’
The clan heir waited, hoping to draw some further admission from his father with silence, not willing to openly ask for more information. Naiall settled into the large chair, apparently content to share nothing further.
‘That is all I needed to know,’ Nuadhu said. He knelt in front of the chieftain with head bowed, one hand upon his father’s knee. The other the heir placed upon his spirit stone, its pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat. ‘Whatever it is, I will be with you, and will bring you success, no matter the cost.’
His father said nothing. When Nuadhu looked up, he saw the chieftain had slipped away again, his vacant gaze raised to the fresco on the ceiling. He stayed where he was, gripping his father’s leg, resolving to remain as long as was needed.
Chapter 8
GHOSTS OF A DEAD PAST
If there is one thing that can be said against the Saim-Hann clans, it is a certain kind of literalism regarding their ancestral names. Even when the craftworld was nothing more than a few domes attached to a fleeing trading vessel, the heir-names of its families were already well established, passed down for generations from nobles and scoundrels alike in the aeldari dominions.
When the cataclysm of the Fall swept across the civilisation of the aeldari, the Saim-Hann fled aboard their small world, taking little with them save terrible memories and the names in their hearts. It was of little surprise that in tumultuous times those names took on great significance, perhaps in the misguided thought that they derived from some older, purer past than the cult-ridden debauchery that had doomed the peo
ple of the dominion.
It will never be known whether there had ever been any common heritage between the clans Frostblood and Iceriver, Flamekin and Sunstalker, Windtide and Cloudwalker. It did not matter. Similarity was reason enough to breed familiarity, and so the first alliances formed along titular lines rather than out of any great political scheme. In cleaving to these last remnants of pre-Fall ancestry, the clans created a new identity to fit the troubled, mysterious world they faced.
Generations later, name was as important as deeds to many in the clans. And repute was a currency more precious than any rare element, polished gem or shining metal. The clans lived for their names, and in doing so they focused everything on them.
Nowhere was this literalism more evident than in the realmdomes of the clan leaders. As the Flameglades of Clan Fireheart were filled with russet warmth and ruddy disposition, so the White Palace of Clan Icewhisper sat among the Wintershards, a tundra broken by jutting icicles that soared like towers, the weather kept ever at the cusp of a frost – never enough to snow, but never warming the flesh either. Like the constant autumnal twilight of the Flameglades, the domesun of the Wintershards never rose to anything much; instead its pale rays lit low across the icy landscape, glinting from rimed clifftops and the ice floe-packed rivers.
Caelledhin’s breath was a mist about her, furred hood tight to her face, cloak pulled about her lap as she sat in the back of the snow carriage. The rider flicked a gentle rod against the back of her spiralhorn and the lithe beast started forward, dark pelt sparkling with freezing droplets. With the runners skidding along the track, Caelledhin sat back and closed her eyes, remembering precisely the last time she had visited the other side of her family. A death, unfortunately, of an aunt.
The recollection was unpleasant, and not simply because of the loss of a loved one. Heated words had been exchanged and tempers lost. A gross display in the eyes of the winter-born clans – as those cold-themed families so grandiosely referred to themselves – who took pride in embodying the cool aloofness suggested by their titles. Clan Icewhisper was no different, lionising the notion of the softly spoken, indifferent comment that would cut to the heart of a matter. Arguments amongst the members of Clan Icewhisper were remarked upon by others for their resemblance at times to snow-serpents engaged in a hissing contest.
Wild Rider - Gav Thorpe Page 9