Path of the Warrior (4 page)

Korlandril continued at some length, citing his influences and dreams, expounding upon the schools of thought and aesthetic that had led him to create his sculpture. He spoke smoothly and with passion, giving words to the thoughts that had been streamlined and refined through the long process of sculpting. He talked of the complexities of the organic and the inorganic, the juxtaposition of line and curve, the contrast of solid and liquid.

His eyes roved freely over the crowd as he spoke, gauging their reaction and mood. Most were held rapt by his oration, their eyes fixed upon Korlandril, their minds devouring every syllable. A few stood with expressions of polite attendance, and Korlandril felt a moment of dismay when he realised that one such viewer was Aradryan. Korlandril did not falter in his delivery, sweeping away his concern with his enthusiasm even as he searched for Thirianna. He saw her at the front of the crowd, eager and expectant, her eyes constantly flicking between Aradryan and the holofield that shielded his work.

When he was finished, Korlandril allowed himself a dramatic pause, savouring the anticipation that he had created in his audience. He walked to a small table that had been set to one side, circular and stood upon a spiralled leg, a single crystal goblet of deep red wine set in its centre. He sipped at the drink, relishing its warmth on his lips, the spice on his tongue and a sweet note of aftertaste in his throat, even as he relished the hushed calm that had descended in the wake of his speech.

As he placed the glass back upon the table, Korlandril slipped a thin wafer from his belt and let his thumb run over the rune upon its silvery surface. At his touch, the holofield disappeared, revealing the statue in all of its glory.

“I present
The Gifts of Loving Isha,”
he announced with a smile.

There were a few gasps of enjoyment and a spontaneous ripple of applause from all present. Korlandril turned to look at his creation and allowed himself to admire his work fully since its completion.

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 dark green leaves in its upreaching branches. Her face 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—Korlandril believed—breathtaking.

Most of the guests moved forward to examine the piece more closely, while Kirandrin and a few others surrounded Korlandril, offering praise and congratulations. Amongst them was Abrahasil, who must have remained out of sight during Korlandril’s address. Mentor and student embraced warmly.

“You have nurtured a fine talent,” said Kirandrin. “It is a masterly work, and one that graces the dome with its existence.”

“It is my privilege to guide such a hand in its work,” said Abrahasil. “I am very proud of Korlandril.”

His mentor’s words brought a flush of happiness to Korlandril and a concomitant throb from his waystone, and he accepted the plaudits of his peers with a gracious bow.

“If my hands have created wonders, it is because others have opened my eyes to see them,” he said. “Please excuse me. I must attend to my other guests. I am sure we will have many cycles to further discuss my work.”

Receiving smiles of assent, Korlandril sought out Aradryan and Thirianna. They were stood side-by-side in a knot of eldar admiring the statue from a short distance away, the majestic Isha towering above them.

“She is so serene,” Thirianna was saying. “Such calm and beauty.”

Aradryan made a small gesture of dissent and Korlandril stopped, staying a little distance away from the pair to listen to what they said.

“It is self-referential,” Aradryan explained and at his words the serpent within Korlandril coiled around his heart and gripped it tight. “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.”

“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.”

“Staid?” snapped Korlandril, stepping forward. “Self-referential?”

Thirianna looked in horror at Korlandril’s appearance, but Aradryan seemed unperturbed.

“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.”

In the face of such honesty and self-deprecation, Korlandril’s anger wavered. A rare moment of humility fluttered in his breast, but then the serpent tightened its coils and the sensation disappeared.

“You are right to think your opinion ill-informed,” said Korlandril, his words as venomous as the snake laying siege to his heart. “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.”

“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.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“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 wanted to argue, to snatch words from the air that would mock Aradryan’s opinion, but just as the serpent within stifled his heart, it strangled his throat. He satisfied himself with a fierce glare at Aradryan, conveying all the contempt and anger he felt in that simple look, and stormed away through the blue grass, scattering guests in his flight.

At the start of the War in Heaven, all-seeing Asuryan asked the crone goddess Morai-heg what would be the fate of the gods. The crone told Asuryan that she would look across the tangled skein of the future to discern what would become of the gods. Long she followed the overlapping threads, following each one on its course to the ending of the universe, and yet she could find no answer for the lord of lords. All paths took the crow lady into a place of fire and death where she could not venture further. To find the answer she sought, the crone followed Khaine the bloody-handed killer who would wage war on the other gods and the mortals, and took from him a thimbleful of his fiery blood. Returning to her lair, Morai-heg set the burning blood of the war god upon her balance. Upon the other side of her scales she coiled up the thread of fate belonging to Eldanesh.

All was equal. The crone returned to Asuryan and he demanded the answer to his question. Morai-heg told the lord of lords that the fate of the gods was not his to know. The mortal Eldanesh and his people would decide if the gods survived or not.

Rose-coloured water lapped at the white sands, each ripple leaving a sweeping curve along the shoreline. Korlandril followed the ebb and flow, mesmerised; every part of his mind was directed towards memorising every sparkle, every splash, every grain. Sunwings flashed above the waters, darts of yellow skimming the surface, bobbing and weaving around each other. Korlandril absorbed every flight path, every dipped wing, every extended feather and snapping blue beak.

A sound disturbed his concentration. A voice. He allowed part of his consciousness to depart the scene and recall what had been said. He remembered himself at the same time, sitting crossed-legged on the golden grass of the lawns in the Gardens of Tranquil Reflection, listening to his companion.

“I am leaving Alaitoc,” Aradryan said.

Shocked, Korlandril turned all of his attention upon his friend; sea, sand, sunwings all put aside in a moment. Aradryan was sat just an arm’s length away from Korlandril, lounging on the grass in a loose-fitting robe of jade green. He lay on his back, arms behind his head, while his bare toes, seeming possessed of a life of their own, drew circular designs in the air just out of reach of the lake’s pale waters.

“You are leaving Alaitoc?” said Korlandril. “Whatever for?”

“To become a steersman,” replied Aradryan. He did not look at Korlandril, his gaze directed over the waters to the shining silver towers of their homes, and beyond even that, to some vista that only he could see. “It is time that I moved onwards. I am filled with a curiosity that Alaitoc cannot satisfy. It is like a hunger growing within me, that no sight or sound of this place can sate. I have taken my fill of Alaitoc, and many splendid feasts she has offered me, but I find my plate now empty. I wish to go further than the force shields and domes that have protected me. I feel coddled not safe, stifled not enriched.”

“How soon will you leave?” said Korlandril, standing up.

“Soon,” said Aradryan, his eyes still distant. “
Lacontiran
leaves for the Endless Valley in two cycles’ time.”

“
Lacontiran
will be gone for more than twenty passes,” said Korlandril, alarmed. “Why must you leave for so long?”

“She sails on her own, far from Alaitoc,” replied Aradryan. “I wish for solitude so that I might reflect on my choices so far, and perhaps divine something of where I should head next.”

“What of our friendship? I am at a loss without your companionship,” said Korlandril, crouching beside Aradryan, an imploring hand reaching out. “You know that I would be adrift without you to steer me.”

“You will need to find another to guide you,” Aradryan said softly. “My mind wanders all of the time. I cannot be trusted to watch over you while you dream anymore. I cannot walk the Path of Dreaming with you any longer. I am tired of living within myself.”

Korlandril could say nothing, lost as he was in his thoughts. As he dreamt, as he wandered the paths of his subconscious, it was Aradryan that provided his anchor; a reassuring presence at the edge of his mind, a warmth to which he could return when he came upon the chill and dark places in the corners of his spirit.

“You will find another dream-watcher,” Aradryan assured him, noticing his distress. He stood and took Korlandril’s arm, pulling him upright. Now he directed his eyes upon his friend, filled with concern. “Perhaps Thirianna will join you on the Path of Dreaming?”

“Thirianna the Warrior?” replied Korlandril, aghast at the thought.

“I spoke to her yesterday,” said Aradryan. “She feels the time is approaching when she will change Paths. You should speak to her.”

A gentle chime broke Korlandril’s reverie and he opened his eyes to see a winding road of silver far below him, cutting through gently sculpted terraces. The softest of breezes brushed across his skin and teased his hair. For a moment he thought he was floating far above the landscape. Sliding completely from memedream to reality, he recognised himself on the balcony outside his chambers, bathed in the dying glow of a constructed twilight. He was leaning on a fluted balustrade, looking down at the vineyards that surrounded the Tower of Starlight Majesty.

It took him a little longer to fully recover his bodily control; blinking rapidly, stretching his limbs, quickening his pulse to ease blood back into numbed fingers and toes. He felt a lingering stiffness and wondered how long he had spent exploring his memories, walking back along the Path of Dreaming. He felt an edge of thirst and licked his lips instinctively though there was no moisture in his mouth.

Recalling the alert chime that had roused him, Korlandril turned slowly and reached out his fingertips to a grey, slate-like panel on the wall beside the archway that led into his home. At the moment of contact with the chill slab he felt the presence of Abrahasil outside his chambers and with a brief psychic impulse bid him to enter.

Breaking contact with the infinity link, Korlandril stepped into the shadowy lounge area inside the archway. It was very much like being inside an egg. The wall was a bluish-white, gently speckled with pale green. Curving couches with high backs were arranged facing the centre of the room, and under his feet he felt the thick ply of a heavily woven mat. Sculptures, by Korlandril’s hand and others, stood on plinths around the wall. As he looked at each in turn Korlandril felt a flicker of recognition, his mind still tied to the processes of his memedreaming: memories of how they were made or acquired; of conversations concerning them; of moods he had felt whilst looking at them. As each thought bobbed to the surface of his mind he pushed them back, away from direct contemplation. Moving to another infinity terminal, he thought the lights into a soft blue and raised the temperature a little; he felt strangely chilled.