Ghost warrior, p.11
Ghost Warrior, page 11
The words seemed mild but the effect was profound. It was unthinkable for a House to be turned away in such an extraordinary circumstance. Though the dead, for the most part, cared very little about anything, those that still retained some semblance of their former identities – the revered such as Lady Faenorith and Sophiorith and Agariam and the others that would come – were still aeldari and put great store by reputation, both personal and familial. With little else to distract them from the eon of their existence, save retreat into sullen somnolence, politicking and gossip were as rife among the scions of the Ghost Halls as anywhere else within the aeldari kindreds. Scandal was a constant threat, though the participants were now far removed from day-to-day concern. When one might meet one’s ancestors abroad on the spirit conduits, or conjured into an animated wraithbone body, it behoves one to keep the House name unblemished or suffer a mortifying degree of shame.
Chastened by such thoughts, the wraithnobles said and did nothing, allowing Iyanna to continue.
‘The threat is existential, unyielding if not immediate. Opportunity has arisen, which I shall discuss when all are present, for our people to take a step forwards. Long we have resisted in retreat to the constant assaults of the aliens and daemons, to survive and elude, and elude to survive again.’ She gestured towards Yvraine. ‘One does not need to live to become Reborn. Through Ynnead any can join the cause that will see our peoples finally set free of the eternal curse.’
‘You offer life to the dead?’ Kelmon took a stride, one giant foot almost upon the lowest step, his rune-orbited frame casting a shadow over Yvraine. ‘Be careful of what you desire, for not all things offered are gifts.’
Iyanna was not sure if these last words were directed to her or the wraithnobles, but decided to answer regardless.
‘Death is a surety, that all here have touched and known.’ She stood and raised her hands, commanding psychic wave flowing from her, bidding the dead to remain silent. ‘When all have come that will come, then such matters will be discussed.’
CHAPTER 11
WRAITHCOUNCIL
And discussed such matters were, in much detail and great length. When the advocates for the Houses of Divinesh and the lesser estates arrived, the wraithcouncil began in earnest. Much was said of Iyanna’s right, or lack, to have convened the gathering at all, and though no agreement was reached on that account, with Kelmon’s guidance it was accepted that since they had all been disturbed and gathered, they might as well use the opportunity.
Yvraine fretted for some time, impatient but silent, occasionally calmed by a pulse of reassurance from Iyanna, who seemed content to allow the dead lords and ladies of Iyanden to waylay proceedings to bring up ancient rivalries and slights, unfulfilled oaths and promises only half kept. The aeldari excel at such moral record-keeping, even as they are poor at maintaining their own honour and virtue, and their long memories only deepen such divides on occasion. For the dead, who recalled not only the deficiencies of others for a lifetime but also those of their ancestors and descendants for five generations, some of whom were present if not with the capacity to vocalise their own defence, any large gathering of the Houses was an opportunity to air grievances at wrongs that should have laid to rest with the spirits that had committed them.
Yvraine eventually recognised what was at play, and why Iyanna allowed such circular and pointless discussions to continue. Until the councillors had gone through motions of defending and restoring their honour, of dragging out the details of past misdemeanours, any new business would inevitably get sidetracked.
The Opener of the Seventh Way remembered that even spirits as animated as Kelmon, Sophiorith and Daethos were bound to the rituals established in their lives. Lesser souls stood guard for cycle after cycle, never once straying from their post, or performed attendant duties in the empty halls and chambers, preparing for guests that never arrived or tending to the needs of masters and mistresses that had died three lifetimes previously.
The council was nothing more than a ceremony, to exercise the spirits and exorcise their differences. Stuck within a wraith-locked stasis, the ambassadors of the Ghost Halls could neither deviate nor evolve from their timeworn positions.
Because nothing changed here.
Many times when Yvraine had been upon the Path, following the creed of the craftworlds as first taught by Asurmen and his disciples, she had chafed at the discipline and confines necessitated by strict adherence to the protocols of the system. She had moved from path to path, as a performer and warrior, warlock and pleasure-seeker, but had never felt comfortable. Her time among the corsairs of the Lanathiralle, when she had broken free of Biel-tan under the guise of Amharoc, had shown her a galaxy beyond the boundaries, and that had not been enough.
Only in Commorragh, in the deathduels of the Crucibael and the even more deadly politics of the kabals had Yvraine known, perversely, a sense of peace. In the anarchy and constant motion of shifting alliances, pacts and contracts, there was a centre, an eye of the storm she had come to occupy so that all moved about her while she remained. Her fellow Commorraghans had always laughed at the craftworlders, accusing them of being locked in a prison, unable to affect the universe around them. They were not free, said the folk of the Dark City, and in the thoughtless posturing and argument of the wraithkind, Yvraine saw what the Commorraghans had long suspected.
Even so, she had looked upon the kabalites and wyches and seen them as equally trapped in the race to keep ahead of their own doom. There was no less a self-destructive cycle in the ploys and machinations of the dark lords and ladies as there was the rote and tradition of the craftworlds. Neither saw the cage they had fashioned around themselves, one forced to survive only a step away from She Who Thirsts, the other to remain out of Her sight.
Ynnead would change everything. Had already changed everything.
An age had come and gone between the rise of the Great Enemy and the advent of Ynnead, and the Whispering God could wait a little longer, his emissary told herself. But it was not easy.
‘The wheel of the cosmos has turned,’ Iyanna began, when the sum of the old arguments had settled and the council was ready to proceed onto fresh ground. The fake star of Arienath had passed its zenith, its golden light now spread from the windows on the opposite side of the hall. Long experience had taught the spiritseer that the dead would never be swift, in thought or act, but she had an inkling that once raised her matter would be resolved without delay.
‘An ancient companion, long taken from us, has returned,’ she continued when she felt the psychic buzz of their attention upon her. Even the retainers were able to focus, latching onto the thoughts of the living far more than the ephemeral presence of their fellow dead, no matter how lordly and strong in life they had been. ‘Craftworld Zaisuthra, which once passed beyond the veil of the rim, has returned to the known systems. We, that is the followers of Ynnead, believe that Zaisuthra is home to the Gate of Malice, one of the first webway portals ever created.’
‘I know of this portal,’ said Agariam. ‘Or of its legend, which is older still than any craftworld. It leads to a place of strife, Iyanna. You and your cohorts may cleave to death, but to pass the Gate of Malice is a doom that even Ynnead cannot save you from.’
‘Agariam speaks the truth,’ said Kelmon. Articulated fingers flexed in strange ways, summoning a cluster of runes to circle about the hand. Iyanna recognised several, the most potent and bright of which was the Rune of Khaine, which flickered with orange fire. The seer pointed to Yvraine. ‘You think to open the Well of the Dead.’
‘It is our hope that the Tomb of Eldanesh holds the last of the Fingers of Morai-Heg,’ admitted the Opener of the Seventh Way. ‘Or can lead us to the place where it is found.’
‘We do not know what to expect there, nor if Zaisuthra is willing to allow us entry,’ said Iyanna. ‘The numbers of the Ynnari grow and fade like the seasons, as more come to our cause and some are slain in its pursuit. Even now, in waxing strength, we do not have the power to confront a whole craftworld. We cannot look to the living for aid, for they are blind to the truth that Ynnead will free us all.’
‘So you think to persuade the dead?’ asked Daethos.
‘I persuade nothing,’ Iyanna said quietly but firmly. ‘I demand. The Beacon of Arieach is lit, the call has been put forth. Ancient oaths were sworn on those stones, long overdue.’
‘Oaths given to the House of Arienal,’ contested Sophiorith. ‘Not you. Oaths now of the dead.’
‘I am the House of Arienal,’ Iyanna told them, standing up. A lambent flame played about her body, a ghostfire of pale blue and purple. ‘I lit the beacon, I demand the answer. More than that, I grant the eternal dead this opportunity to stand alongside the Ynnari and receive the rewards of the Whispering God.’
‘Which one of you would not choose to again walk clad in the flesh of a mortal?’ said Yvraine. She stood also and stepped down onto the floor, her gown and cloak flowing behind in undulating waves as she paced between the towering constructs, undaunted by their age and size. ‘What soul desires this neverlife existence forever? Not you, the proud dead of Iyanden. The living cling to the broken promises of the past, that the craftworlds will save them. They will not. The galaxy shudders beneath the torment of the Great Rift, torn asunder by the Dark Gods. No craftworld alone can stand against the storm that has broken. Iyanden…’ She stopped, catching her breath, calming her rhetoric lest she cause insult. ‘Iyanden has already suffered much, and can suffer no more. You can condemn your home to a withering, slow demise, when the dead that guard its halls already outnumber the living. Or you can strike forth. You can raise up your Houses, put forth the call to arms as in the times of the dominions’ height, when even those forgotten within these walls froze stars with a command and lit the void with their thoughts. That power can rise again, the Reborn can claim back what belongs to the aeldari. If we do not, then we surrender, meek and cowardly, and nothing more.’
‘The House of Valor would answer yes,’ said Agariam, taking up a golden spear that was held by one of his retainers. ‘We have died once for Iyanden, we would die a thousand times more if needed.’
‘You misunderstand, you dead fool,’ said Sophiorith. ‘We would be abandoning Iyanden to join these vagrants. She is asking us to lead our Houses from the Ghost Halls, not in defence of some attack against our homes. She would have us choose the Whispering God over our people.’
‘Each House is a power unto itself,’ said Lady Faenorith. ‘The House of Delgari would follow none but me, and I bow to no living liege. There is not a noble here that would say otherwise. One of us may make alliance, but not all. Too many are the slights of the past to put aside, even for you, Iyanna.’
‘Kelmon, I would ask you, battleseer of the highest renown, to lead this host,’ said Iyanna. ‘None is held in higher respect among the Ghost Halls, and alongside Meliniel, the great strategist of Biel-tan, there is no tapestry of victory you cannot weave from the threads of fate. The Houses would not fight for me, nor Yvraine, but for the Whispering God Himself, as guided by the runes of their own.’
‘Your words are flattering, Iyanna, but you ask much,’ said the wraithseer. He turned to the others of the ghost council. ‘I will not speak for all, and to each Ghost Hall is left the choice. To each within the Houses, I say further, for this is not a call of allegiance or test of loyalty. Those that depart with Yvraine cross a threshold. I see a hundred fates severed from Iyanden, a hundred fates tied to the rune of the Whispering God. One is an anchor, the other a current. One will hold you firm, but always within the same place. One will take you into the open waters, to freedom or a treacherous end.’
‘There is another House that has not spoken,’ said Daethos Darkwinter. ‘Eldest of all, most regarded of all. I shall make no decision ere we learn of their mood.’
‘An opinion that we shall learn soon,’ said Iyanna, sensing the approach of another contingent, one that had not been counted among the original House-elect of Arieach.
A shadow fell over the group. The spirit host turned as one, the air thick with sudden energy. Iyanna felt the sensation as a prickling of the skin, a heat from runes, stones and spear. Yvraine shuddered as the cold touch of Ynnead passed through her.
Something eclipsed the light beyond the high windows, moving steadily from the head of the hall towards the doors. The stretch of shade slid across the council first and then danced along the ranks of unmoving attendants, bending across wraithbone limbs, stilled banners and blank domes of their heads.
An aeldari appeared, framed by the light of the doorway, a staff in one hand tipped by the Rune of Ulthanesh. She held up the rod of office, the head of the staff glowing even against the light of the artificial sun. In the illumination she was revealed, clad in many layers of silk that covered her legs and torso, though her arms were bare. The skin there was marked in scarlet and black, with designs of the world serpent wound about the fabled spear of her House’s founder.
‘I am Aedressa, voice-warden of the House of Ulthanesh,’ she called, voice clear and loud, amplified by a system set within her garb. ‘Even in the Halls of the Starlit Citadel the light of the fires of Arieach reach. Though the House of Ulthanesh is not bound by the treaties of Arieach, my Lord Aethon would address the assembled council.’
‘And gladly we will meet with him,’ said Iyanna, though perhaps she did not rightly have the authority to speak for all. None countered her, all the same. She strode down from the raised platform, Yvraine joining her at the lowest step, and down the hall. The wraithnobility followed, their long strides keeping pace without effort. The heads of the wraith-ranks turned and followed as they departed into the square outside.
Stooping through a gateway as tall as a tower, a wraithknight stepped out onto the concourse, its tread no louder than that of the council members.
Lord Aethon was to the wraithlords as they were to the aeldari, full thrice their height, slender limbs fashioned from a wraithbone skeleton beneath bright yellow and deep blue psychoplastic plates, its energy matrix buzzing with the power of a dead soul. A sword twice as tall as one of the wraithblade guards of honour hung at the waist, a scalloped-edge shield upon the left arm. Unlike the revenant lords and ladies of the Ghost Halls, the wraithknight was not simply some ghost warrior, driven only by the will of the passed. Within the curve of the large head was a cockpit with a living pilot, twin brother to the departed soul that traversed the crystal circuits of the massive war engine.
Or so was usually the case, but not with Lord Aethon. Unique among its kind, changed by the blessing of Ynnead bestowed upon it by Yvraine, the Soulseeker’s crew were two spirits in the one mortal shell, the dead twin Ashodh reborn into his brother, Aethon.
‘Soulseeker,’ said Yvraine, breaking ahead of the others with an outstretched hand, a flash of gladness at the arrival of the wraithknight. ‘It is good to see you.’
‘And you also, Opener of the Seventh Way.’ The immense war machine knelt as gracefully as a living aeldari, holding out a palm towards Yvraine. She laid both of her hands upon a huge fingertip. The head, painted with faint swirls in a darker shade against the yellow, turned to Iyanna. ‘Our Lady of Arienath. When I heard that you had lit the fire of Arieach, we had to come.’
‘And we are glad of it,’ said Lady Faenorith. ‘The council was just agreed that the opinion of the heirs of Ulthanesh should be heard before we make a decision.’
‘And to what purpose are the council’s thoughts turned?’ asked the Soulseeker. He withdrew his hand and straightened, plunging them into fresh shadow. ‘Not lightly is the beacon lit, but no alarm has come to us from the seers or autarchs.’
‘A quest,’ said Iyanna.
‘The Ynnari desire us to quit Iyanden and hunt the Gate of Malice on some new-returned craftworld,’ said Agariam.
A shudder of displeased energy pulsed from the wraithknight. Yvraine took a step back, repulsed by the wave, and Iyanna felt it as a hot wind beneath her skin.
‘You seek the Well of the Dead.’ Aethon’s proclamation was laden with sinister undertone, his artificially modulated voice accompanied by a fresh psychic distortion. ‘The tomb of Eldanesh.’
‘That is true,’ said Yvraine. ‘We hope that it might bring us closer to the last cronesword of the Five Fates.’
‘A raiser of the dead desires to enter the tomb of Eldanesh and you expect us to believe you are only looking for a sword?’ The wraithknight pivoted slightly, the next word addressed to the council members. ‘Are not these the very same that plucked from the jaws of death the human primarch? Did they not set him upon a pedestal to rule over a new empire of humans?’
‘That was not–’ began Yvraine, but Aethon continued without any concession to her reasoning.
‘Our own Prince Yriel, high noble of the House of Ulthanesh, knows well the cost that comes with the favours of Yvraine of the Ynnari. He too now has his soul sworn to the Whispering God, though he never asked for such a fate. We would not see Eldanesh returned and set upon a throne above my House, and would urge all others to resist likewise.’
‘The rivalry between your founders is ancient history,’ snapped Yvraine. ‘A legend before even the time of the Fall, predating the dominions and all else of import. Even in myth Ulthanesh and Eldanesh made good their division and their Houses reunited. Pledge to this cause, Aethon, so that the gladness I brought to you with the return of your brother might be given to others.’
‘We did not understand that the boon you gave us was a debt to be repaid.’
‘It was not,’ said Yvraine, losing her patience. ‘But short is the memory of the House of Ulthanesh if it forgets those that so aided it in the past.’
‘Long is the memory of the House of Ulthanesh, that it knows still that Eldanesh turned from their father-lord when he greatest needed a brother-in-spirit. Khaine struck down Eldanesh and sealed the fate of us all. You would unbind that seal and unleash terror and horror unimaginable. The Well of the Dead must remain shut!’
