Path of the Warrior (6 page)

The serpent intruded once more, tearing Korlandril from his reverie. Had Thirianna and Aradryan ever been more than just good companions? Quivering slightly from the shock of departing the memedream so suddenly, Korlandril reapplied himself to his current purpose. It would be easier to find Thirianna than Aradryan, and if his wayward friend was not actually with her she might have some better idea where he might be found.

Korlandril found an infinity terminal in a small grove of whisperleaf not far from the apartments. He made a gentle inquiry, seeking Thirianna. She had been on the craftworld longer than Aradryan and her presence in the psychic matrix that powered Alaitoc was stronger. Korlandril concentrated on Thirianna and felt the after-shadow of her spirit moving around the craftworld over the previous two cycles: here, where she met Aradryan, his spirit also registering strongly; the Boulevard of Split Moons, along the arcades of the fashion-sellers and jewelsmiths; her own quarters—alone, Korlandril noted with some satisfaction—for half a cycle; then to the Bay of Departing Sorrows, where Aradryan was present again, his presence lingering alongside hers for just the shortest time. Now she was back in her quarters, silent, perhaps meditating or composing.

Korlandril voiced thoughts of companionship and directed them towards Thirianna. He waited for her to respond. He allowed the background vibrations of the infinity circuit to occupy him: celebration in the Dome of the Last Sunrise, a disturbing darkness emanating from the Shrine of the Ending Veil.

At this Korlandril withdrew, repelled by the taste left in his mouth from the Aspect Warrior shrine. He had little to do with warmakers, but the Ending Veil was home to one of the Dark Reaper sects; his friends Arthuis and Maerthuin counted amongst their number. He did not pay much attention to military matters, finding it a disagreeable influence on his creations. There was no place for bloody-handed Kaela Mensha Khaine in his work. That his friends might be involved did interest him and he passed on his observations to the dormant Thirianna.

She roused almost immediately, sending him a vision of his Isha statue. The scene was an imagination of the two of them standing beneath it: an invitation. Korlandril reflected the vision back to Thirianna, with a slight adjustment. The night shields were active, dimming the light of the dying star to the twilight of early evening. Thirianna responded in kind and the rendezvous was agreed.

Korlandril broke from the infinity circuit, satisfied with himself. He returned to the Opal Suites and took another skyrunner back to his chambers. His exuberance was muted on his return journey, the lack of Aradryan’s touch upon the infinity circuit preying on his thoughts.

Thirianna was at the statue, sitting at one end of a curving bench, her eyes directed to the dim glow beyond the dome. Korlandril crossed the grass quickly and Thirianna turned at his approach, a smile hovering on her lips for just a moment.

“Aradryan has left Alaitoc,” Thirianna said quietly when Korlandril was seated beside her.

Korlandril was taken aback and it took him a moment to readjust his thoughts; he had been ready to open the conversation with an inquiry about Thirianna’s well-being. A flurry of emotions warred within Korlandril: shock, disappointment and, worryingly, a small degree of satisfaction.

“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 an unconscious asymmetric blink betrayed conflict in her thoughts. She was not lying, but neither was she wholly convinced that she spoke the truth.

“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, her tone and half-closed eyes indicating that she believed it was her fault their friend had fled the craftworld.

“What happened?” asked Korlandril, trying hard to keep any tone of accusation from his voice. “When did Aradryan leave?”

“He took aboard
Irdiris
last cycle, after we spent some time together.”

Korlandril had heard the name of the ship in passing but could not place it immediately. Thirianna read the look of questioning on his face.

“
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 in Korlandril’s thoughts. He stroked his bottom lip with a slender finger, stilling his thoughts. “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,” was all the explanation she would offer.

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, having put aside his thoughts on Aradryan. “I have a proposal to make.”

Interest flared in Thirianna’s jade eyes. She indicated with a raising of her chin that they should stand.

“We should discuss this in my chambers, with something to drink, perhaps?”

“That would be most agreeable,” said Korlandril as the two them made their way towards the dome entrance.

Neither spoke as they crossed the dome. They walked a little way apart, the distance a compromise between companionship and decency. Korlandril’s heart beat a little bit faster than usual. He tried to contend with a mounting excitement, having not expected such an accommodating response from Thirianna.

It took some time to reach the dome entrance on foot and the night cycle was midway through when they came upon the silvered archway that led into the main thoroughfare around the rim of the craftworld. Here twilight was also in effect, the darkness broken only by a faint red reflection from the dying star and the will-o’-the-wisps of the infinity circuit around them.

The wide passage was quiet; they passed perhaps a dozen other eldar before they reached the turning towards Thirianna’s apartments. She had taken up rooms in a poet’s commune in the Tower of Dormant Witnesses. It was a place noted for its contemplative atmosphere, with views out to the stars and back across the whole of Alaitoc.

They were about to step onto the sliding walkway up to the towers when a large group appeared from the gloom ahead. Sensing something dark, Thirianna strayed closer to Korlandril, who put a protective hand upon her shoulder even as his own mood dropped, filled with foreboding.

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 twilight. Korlandril 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.

Though their helmets were removed, they 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. Korlandril realised he had inadvertently pulled Thirianna in front of him a little and the realisation brought a small wound to his pride. For her part, Thirianna was calm but apprehensive. Korlandril could feel her trembling under his palm. It was not fear, it was something thrilling. She had walked the Path of the Warrior, did Khaine even now call out to her? Did the presence of the Aspect Warriors resonate with some part of her buried beneath the layers of civilisation the eldar worked so hard to maintain?

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. Korlandril repressed a shudder as he smelt the blood upon their faces.

“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, glad to be free of their friends’ blank yet strangely penetrating gazes.

“It is inconceivable to me that one should indulge in such horror,” said Korlandril as the two of them stepped upon the moving walkway, still feeling a small aftercurrent of fear from the encounter.

They made a spiralling ascent, languidly turning upon itself as the sliding ramp rose around the Tower of Dormant Witnesses. Korlandril felt a thrill as they emerged into the starlight-bathed sky, nothing more between him and the void than an invisible shield of energy. For a moment he thought he understood something of the lure of the stars that so enamoured Aradryan.

“It is not an indulgence,” said Thirianna.

“What is not an indulgence?”

“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.

Korlandril felt a spear of guilt and embarrassment.

“I meant no offence,” he said.

“The intention is not important,” said Thirianna, her eyes narrowed, lips thin. “Perhaps you would care to ridicule the other Paths on which I have trodden?”

“I did not mean…” Korlandril trailed off, unsure what he did actually mean, his glibness burned away by Thirianna’s sudden scorn. “I am sorry.”

“The Path of Dreaming, the Path of Awakening, the Path of the Artist,” said Thirianna. “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, lips twisted in a sneer, brow furrowed. “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.”

“A radical windbag with no true cause and a gyrinx fetish.”

Korlandril laughed and received a frown in reply.

“Forgive me,” he 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.”

Korlandril stood attentively beside Thirianna while she mixed her preferred cocktail of juices and ground ice. She passed a slender glass to Korlandril and waved him towards one of the cushions that served as seats in her reception chamber. She had rearranged and recoloured her rooms since Korlandril had last visited. Gone was the holographic representation of Illuduran’s
Monument to the Glories of Impudence
and the pastel blue scheme. All was white and light grey, with only the hard cushions as furniture. Korlandril looked pointedly around the room.

“It’s a trifle post-Herethiun minimalist, is it not?” he said, reclining as best he could.

“You had a proposal?” said Thirianna, ignoring the implied accusation.

Korlandril hesitated. The mood did not feel right. Though they had made up their differences before arriving at the chambers, the comfort he had shared with Thirianna in the garden dome had all but gone. He needed her to be receptive to his idea. He would start by finding some common ground: Aradryan’s departure.

“I am sorry that Aradryan has left us again,” he said, meaning it sincerely. “I had hoped that I could have persuaded him to join me on the Path of the Artist. Perhaps we might have rekindled something of what we shared on the Path of Dreaming.”

Thirianna gave a flick of her hair, a momentary gesture of annoyance.

“What is so wrong with that?” Korlandril asked.

“It was not for Aradryan’s benefit that you wished,” said Thirianna, sitting opposite the sculptor. “As ever, it was because
you
want him to become an artist, not because it would be the best thing for him.”

“He is directionless and lonely,” argued Korlandril. “I thought that if he could learn to see the universe as I do, with the eyes of the Artist, he might learn to appreciate what the craftworld has to offer him.”