Ghost warrior, p.16
Ghost Warrior, page 16
The secondary mediator, who had been introduced by the outlandish title of Scion-Elaborate Nasithas, handled the vast majority of the interaction. She wore the high-collared attire that seemed the fashion among the higher echelons of the Houses, her gown a silvery-red that reminded of a fish one moment and a laser blast the next. A carefully considered choice of attire that allowed a twist of the ankle, straightening of an arm or flick of a hand to send a shimmer of movement through her garb.
Nasithas was in constant motion, always adjusting her posture, leaning first on one elbow and then the next, a hive of agitated action that threatened to dazzle or mesmerise.
She frequently consulted with a choir of monosyllabic associates that had been swiftly introduced as chamberlains of the various Houses, whose outlook seemed that of mourners at the remembrances of the craftworld’s greatest hero, or perhaps parents chaperoning their only and much beloved child on a tryst with a most precocious and rebellious adolescent suitor. Their stern looks and disapproving head shakes absorbed the vehemence of many of Yvraine’s offensives, just as the flares and decoys of an aerial fighter lure the seeking projectile or confound the optical systems of a pursuing foe.
Occasionally the chief of the delegation, Monsattra, who had been announced with no rank, would deploy an intervention to shore up a failing or flailing defence. He was that rarity among the aeldari, capable of matching deed and word and thought simultaneously.
That is to say, he actually spoke his mind, an act considered the height of barbarity in many craftworlds, Iyanden included.
When such naked opinion was offered, there was little that Yvraine could do; either retreat before the open advance or respond in kind with a deeper truth to hold her ground. Monsattra also assisted his aides in an ongoing capacity, deploying various moods, demeanours and expressions to reinforce Nasithas’ arguments or deflate Yvraine’s assertions. On two perfectly timed occasions he deployed a brief smirk with all the precision and devastation of a sniper’s shot.
In such circumstance one would think progress was slow, but remarkably much was achieved in the first quarter-cycle following the Zaisuthrans’ arrival. Iyanden and Zaisuthra shared a common ancestral language, but both had developed a vernacular since their cultures had separated. Much effort was expended establishing a common frame of reference for the discourse – the webway, the craftworlds and the passage of time – before anything of note could be agreed.
The next salvos focused upon the synchronicity of the delegation’s appearance not long after Iyanna’s departure, until Yvraine was assured that the spiritseer was in safe hands, on her way to meet the estranged members of the House of Arienal. Yvraine let free nothing of Iyanna’s loss and history in that regard, despite several attempts to loosen her tongue.
Iyanna did not have to go far before she came upon a cavern in which she and others of the Ynnari had been deposited by low-sided skyskiffs. Several of the transports were still there, docked against the rough wall. One moved away at her approach, rotating to bring its boarding platform to bear against a step by the front of the cave. She climbed aboard and sat near the front, arm resting on the gunwale.
The craft hovered there, bobbing gently as though a ship beside a gently shoaling shore, awaiting her command. Unlike the groupmind, she could feel the psychic resonance of the machine, but had no point of reference from which to direct it.
A hiss and a metallic scrape drew her attention to a door that lifted away on the hillside, forming a ramp into a dimly lit tunnel. The fact that the aperture had made any noise at all stood testament to poor maintenance, but the thought was only fleeting as she recognised the figure that stepped from within.
Sydari.
She had become accustomed to his similarity to her father – almost. It still took a heartbeat before she remembered that it was not a spectre of Arctai that kept appearing before her.
Iyanna remembered the warnings of her companions, and though their doubts irked her, she possessed enough self-awareness to remain on her guard in the High Lord-Guardian’s presence.
‘An unexpected encounter,’ she said, knowing full well that there had to be nothing unexpected about it from his perspective.
‘Though the groupmind is closed to you, it is not blind to your movements and moods,’ confessed Sydari. He inclined his head, requesting permission to board the skyskiff. She assented with a glance and blink. Sydari did not sit next to her, but took a place on the opposite side of the aisle down the centre of the skimmer, almost mirroring her pose, though slightly more inclined and relaxed.
‘You have been spying on us.’
‘Yes. If you mean the groupmind of Zaisuthra has been monitoring you, to ensure that you are well and do not stray too far from where you should be.’
‘What does that mean? Are we forbidden to move freely?’
Sydari said nothing. He moved his palm to a gem set into the back of the couch in front of him. It gleamed in recognition and a heartbeat later the skiff rose up to shoulder height. With the faintest murmur of anti-grav engines it slipped out of the cave, accelerating quickly. The wind tousled Iyanna’s hair as she leaned towards Sydari, her voice raised against its increasing rush.
‘Where are you taking me?’ A frisson of excitement set her blood racing a little swifter, though she would be unable to say whether from curiosity or anxiety. Neither emotion was dissipated by Sydari’s reply.
‘To show you what you need to see.’
Unbeknownst to either, beneath the back seat, above the warmth radiated from the main propulsor unit, Alorynis curled up, contented but alert.
There was something not quite right about Monsattra, nor his fellow envoys, the Visarch decided. Their politeness was so sharp as to be weaponised, every gesture and word of gratitude a barb sunk into the flesh to extract recompense. Their manner was relaxed but attentive, a look the warrior had seen many times – the eyes of those awaiting battle. It was not fear or anticipation, not the poise of those expecting peril in an instant, but wariness, foreknowledge of an inevitable clash.
It might have simply been their mood, agitated by the vast changes about to befall them and their craftworld. Though they talked of their return as if it was not of significance, and nodded sagely to each nugget of information about the other craftworlds gleaned from Yvraine, it was clear that they had passed across the edge of a precipice and were wondering if they might fly or fall.
There was hidden desperation, he decided. Their forced smiles, their eagerness to please yet not give away anything of themselves was a mark of dire straits.
It was to be expected. The Great Rift had unleashed many terrible things upon the galaxy and Zaisuthra had clearly not been immune. Distance alone was no defence against the Great Powers. Alone in the darkness, what terrible events had overtaken them? What losses had they suffered?
More importantly, a small thought nagged at him: what pacts had they made?
His body did not move, as immobile as the moment he had taken up position next to Yvraine, but inside his mask his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He felt the flutter of his previous lives, the other souls that had been Laarian the Exarch. Ghost voices, felt but not heard, edged into his consciousness, pricking his distrust. How exactly had such a small craftworld survived for so long, devoid of allies, shorn from the guiding principles of the Path or the spirit vampirism of the Commorraghans?
He thought about their lack of spirit stones. Nothing stood between their souls and She Who Thirsts, unless their groupmind was something akin to the Whisper of Ynnead that bound together the spirits of the Ynnari. Or the soul-leach of the kabalites and wyches… But the Visarch sensed nothing parasitic about the groupmind, though he could feel its looming presence everywhere, permeating the structures around them, seeped into the bedrock beneath the foundations of the manse.
And in this he found the true source of his unease.
The Whisper was all but silenced by its presence, the lack of an infinity circuit cut off anything but the most rudimentary empathic link between Yvraine’s followers. Laarian sensed the brighter fire of Yvraine and the sparks of the two Iyandeni warlocks, souls touched by Khaine that he could feel across the breadth of a continent – but of the Zaisuthrans there was nothing.
His othersouls writhed, making his body feel like a cage for his spirit. Every instinct screamed that all was not well, but he could not act.
The Sword of Silent Screams twitched in its scabbard, or so it seemed. His fingers ached to fold around its grip, to draw it to freedom and unleash its deadly gift.
He longed, how he longed to strike the head from sincere, smiling Monsattra. He wanted to see the envoy’s blood coursing from severed arteries, splashing crimson across the balcony.
Such was the call of Khaine, not the murmur of Ynnead. He quelled his urges. Laarian was gone, the Visarch served a different master.
CHAPTER 18
TRUTHS REVEALED
The skyskiff took them from the moorland dome and down a sweeping series of interconnecting tunnels, heading, as far as Iyanna was able to discern, towards the outer edge at the bow of Zaisuthra. They skimmed past featureless horizons of bare base material unadorned by soil or vegetation, the air thin and barely processed. Other times they zipped through darkness, only the halo of light from the skiff’s navigational lamps breaking the utter blackness of the unlit domes. Iyanna could feel the empty expanse around her, reminded of the moment she had passed into the void on the shuttle.
‘Why can I not feel you?’ she asked. ‘Why have you closed your thoughts, your groupmind to us?’
‘To keep ourselves safe, of course,’ replied Sydari. His deeds ran counter to his words though, as Iyanna felt the faintest contact of his mind, the featherlight brush of his consciousness next to hers. ‘Do not tell me that you would strip away your defences if circumstance was reversed.’
‘Caution is justified,’ she admitted, pulsing a thought into his, reciprocating the psychic gesture. ‘One might feel this borders on paranoia.’
‘Oh, it surely does,’ said Sydari. ‘Although if one is under constant attack, is it really paranoia?’
Before Iyanna could ask what this meant, the skyskiff passed from a transitway into a lit dome. It was not large; the crackle of the field overhead was close enough that she could feel the slightest hint of static from its discharge. It had once been snow-covered forest. In patches icy remains still clung to the substrate, split and twisted trees jutting darkly from the pale drifts. Like swollen veins, the crystal matrix of the craftworld ran through stretches of bare foundation, a bruise-like black and dark blue stained around it.
The outwash of tainted psychic energy nearly made Iyanna gag. She grabbed the side of the skiff to steady herself, her inner senses assailed by putrefaction. It was not just the wash of corrupted psychic power that swept through her, but the invoked memory of Iyanden despoiled, the present and specific recollection of the Lord of Decay’s energy coursing cancerously through the infinity circuit of her home.
‘Get. Me. Away.’ She could barely form the words, her desperation hurled as a psychic imperative at her companion. Eyes screwed closed, she gritted her teeth, trying to steady her breathing, feeling that the cloying presence of decay constricted around her throat and forced itself down into her lungs. Her thoughts were full of vileness, a pounding in her temples, a weight dragging at her limbs.
Startled by her reaction, Sydari froze momentarily, swept up in the wash of her panic. He half rose from his seat, torn between comforting Iyanna and manipulating the controls. She shrank back from him, removing one option, so he placed a hand over the oval gem and willed the craft to take them back out of the dome.
Unseen, the gyrinx slipped over the edge of the skiff as it slowed to turn, landing lightly on the ice-crusted grass below. Ears flat, eyes wide, it slinked away as the buzz of the skyskiff diminished into the distance.
It was, typically, Monsattra that moved the conclave onto its main purpose, with scandalous directness.
‘What do you need of us?’
Yvraine spread the fingers of one hand, gently opening the fan in her lap a quarter-arc, the merest glimmer of the bladed edges a sign of discomfort. She could not allow the question to go unanswered but was loath to launch into a lengthy explanation regarding Ynnead, the croneswords, the Gate of Malice and the Well of the Dead.
‘We, that is my people, are seekers of a greater truth.’ Monsattra raised an eyebrow a fraction, derailing her attempt to obfuscate. ‘Central to our beliefs are a number of artefacts, legendary pieces from the oldest times of the aeldari dominions. Zaisuthra has dwelt long in shadows that we have not yet explored.’
‘And we are happy to share what we have learnt in that time,’ replied Nasithas, taking up the cause of Zaisuthra again. Her hands folded in her lap, indicating the opposite of her words, a gate closed to all inquiry. ‘Five lifetimes is a considerable period, it would help if you could be more specific in what you seek.’
Yvraine leaned forwards and smiled, the expression a lance aimed at Nasithas’ throat.
‘Your welcome to strangers has been overwhelming, and your cooperation in this more than we could expect. If we could have access to your archives we could search for ourselves, for I would not like to drag your people away from their own concerns.’
‘Such access would certainly speed up your investigations, but our recent experience has unfortunately shown the incompatibility of our systems. The groupmind of Zaisuthra does not function alongside… What was it you called your psychic network?’
‘The infinity circuit.’ The words were said easily, but offered with reluctance.
‘Ah, yes, the infinity circuit.’
‘May I refresh your drink?’ Monsattra said suddenly, standing up. Before Yvraine could answer, he stepped forwards, breaching the neutral ground between the delegations, to take up a ewer set on the table before her.
A heartbeat later, the Visarch’s hand was about his wrist, the other gripping the hilt of the Sword of Silent Screams.
‘My apologies,’ Yvraine said, quickly standing up also, a flick of the fan commanding her associate to release Monsattra. The Visarch hesitated for a moment, earning the admonition of a scowl for his tardiness before he relinquished his hold and retreated.
Yvraine picked up a goblet, red liquid just below the brim, and offered it to the Zaisuthran, who made great show of filling it with a few more drops. The metaphor was not lost on either of them and they shared a look.
‘Did anyone speak to you about the Highlands of Distant Repose?’ he asked, turning in such a way that his movement guided Yvraine a step towards the rail. She complied with the unspoken invitation, perplexed but also intrigued. Monsattra did not wait for a reply, but continued to speak as he conducted her to the edge of the balcony. ‘It was the province of House Aedasa, whose fondness for the melancholic bordered on the melodramatic.’
He smiled at his own wordplay, giving Yvraine a moment in which to interject a question.
‘It is no longer theirs?’
‘Alas not, Yvraine.’ The use of her name was overly familiar, eliciting gasps from both contingents, but the pair ignored the ongoing interplay behind them.
‘They tired of their melancholy?’
‘No, such was their addiction to the morose, one might believe it was genetic. I am afraid that the line of Aedasa foundered and is now no more.’
‘A tragedy, for any craftworld.’ Yvraine still could not help but think this was some play to manipulate her and did not comment further, fearing a potential riposte.
‘But you are of no craftworld.’
‘I prefer to think that the Ynnari are of every craftworld, and all other aeldari kindreds too.’
‘Including Zaisuthra? We are divergent, and rather set in our ways.’
‘We are the bridge the aeldari will cross to salvation,’ said Yvraine, sensing honest invitation to espouse her greater mission. She looked at his sigils and amulets. ‘You cleave to the worship of dead gods, I to the awakening of a god of the dead.’
He showed no offence at her declaration, though a flutter of grimaces from the Zaisuthran contingent displayed sufficient scorn for this dismissal of their religion.
‘You think we have need of a god of the dead?’
‘All must become the Reborn, or suffer the death eternal.’ A wave of the fan encompassed the moorlands. ‘House Aedasa is not the only casualty of time, I wager. You are no more immune to the slow decline of our people than any other, though perhaps your isolation has shielded you from the worst of it.’
Monsattra smiled wryly.
Letting the integral animal senses of the skyskiff guide it towards an available berth further out in the arterial conduits, Sydari moved away from the controls and looked at Iyanna. Virtually catatonic, she sat with a blank expression staring unseeing into the tunnel ahead. Her arms clasped tight about her, protective, self-embracing. Her face, even in its slackness, unmistakably that of an Arienal, and to look upon it as the visage of a stranger was an odd sensation. The moment Sydari had opened the hatchway between their shuttles – in the heartbeats before when her questing thoughts had teased upon the shell of the groupmind that shielded his thoughts – he had known she was of the family.
It had been too much to hope for. Rumours, of course. Legends that some of the Zaisuthran Houses had members on other craftworlds after the Fall, either from disparate routs or subsequent intermingling in the short time before Zaisuthra had fled for the Dark Halo. But after all this time, to find one in whom the bloodline was still strong?
