Ghost warrior, p.8
Ghost Warrior, page 8
‘The…? The resting place of the father of the aeldari?’ Yvraine took a step towards Iyanna, and reached out to touch her arm, forgetting that she was not there. Her fingers passed through the image with a flicker of purple sparks. ‘You think that the last of the croneswords might be found in Eldanesh’s tomb?’
‘A reasonable assumption,’ Eldrad answered for Iyanna, earning himself a glare from the spiritseer, who hated it when others chose to speak on her behalf. The seer had done much in Ynnead’s cause, but he was not the fulcrum of every event that turned fate to one path or another.
‘I am inviting you to join me on this expedition, Yvraine,’ she said. ‘The council of Iyanden want to assemble a taskforce for me, but I think the Ynnari would be of more assistance. If Zaisuthra really has a means to reach the Well of the Dead, your particular… properties and abilities would be very useful.’
‘I had no plan to linger on Ulthwé, my ships are ready to depart within the next cycle,’ Yvraine replied. She glanced at Eldrad. ‘What of our mutual ally?’
‘No.’ Iyanna’s answer was emphatic, causing the farseer to flinch as light rippled from her projection. ‘Dhentiln and the rest of the council will complain at your arrival, Yvraine, but will not intervene. If they think they are being manipulated by Eldrad, and let us be honest, they will if he comes, then they will stand in direct opposition to us.’
‘I am sure I can find other matters to occupy myself,’ said the farseer, petulant as only the very young and very old can be.
Iyanna and Yvraine shared a look of agreement. The spiritseer nodded, and then gestured her thanks to Eldrad.
‘Your counsel is welcome, even when your presence is not, seerlord,’ she said. ‘I am sure the archives of Ulthwé can shed further wisdom on Zaisuthra and the Well of the Dead, and such as you can prise from its vaults before Yvraine’s departure might prove invaluable.’
Mollified, for age is never a barrier to flattery even amongst the wisest, Eldrad nodded his own support. Then, with a flick of fingers and a mental twist, he severed the psychic link, and a heartbeat later the room disappeared and Iyanna opened her eyes back within her own chamber.
She lay looking at the ceiling for some time, adjusting to the physical weight. It was not the dysjunction that caused her heart to beat faster, but the prospect of what was to come.
‘We have much to prepare,’ Eldrad said, pushing himself to his feet. The Staff of Ultramar, which had rested against the back of his chair for the duration of the exchange, floated to his grip as he made for the door. He moved with more purpose than Yvraine had seen since her arrival, invigorated by the fresh challenge and the prospect of taking another step towards fulfilling his prophecy of Ynnead’s return.
Alorynis jumped from the couch and landed next to Yvraine, rubbing himself against the softness of her gown, contentment taking the edge off her troubled thoughts. She lingered after Eldrad left, searching the room for something, a memento of the occasion.
Her eye was finally drawn to a small figurine, carved from a wax-like substance. It looked like the master of something that would then be moulded for castings, of a naked girl kneeling, a hand laid on the body of a fawn beside her, its chest open, heart missing. She recognised it immediately as an interpretation of Lileath, maiden of the moon. Goddess of dreams and portents, Lileath had foreseen the destruction of Kaela Mensha Khaine, at the hands of her mother’s mortal offspring, the aeldari. The fawn represented them, and more specifically Eldanesh, the First, murdered by the vengeful Bloody-Handed God.
There had been a time when she had scoffed at talk of myths and legends, before she had felt the touch of the Whispering God. Children’s tales, morality plays and parables wrapped in mystery and portentous language for the sake of dramatic effect.
Yvraine took up the figurine and carefully wrapped it in a silken scarf, pondering the cycles of gods and mortals. Cycles that would end forever with the rise of Ynnead.
CHAPTER 7
THE ARRIVAL OF THE YNNARI
A sense of anticipation – or more accurately, apprehension – permeated the atmosphere of Iyanden. Just as an empty hall echoes with the slightest sound, so the half-deserted infinity circuit resounded with the slightest tremor of collective thoughts. And the collective thoughts of the seer council were firmly fixed upon the return of Zaisuthra. The uncertainty that accompanied this unlikely re-emergence was deepened by the news that a sizable fleet was approaching via the webway. The vibrations of future deeds came like a bow wave before the ships, setting the runes of the seers jangling with images of the dead.
In the Ghost Halls the spirits stirred, their laments heightened by the coming of their god’s messengers. A psychic dirge thrummed through the minds of the living, numbing them to joy and light and warmth, so that it seemed the entire craftworld was bathed in a chill twilight of the departed.
Iyanna avoided the company of the other seers, despite several requests for her to attend the council. Preparations were underway to assemble enough living crew for a flotilla to set out for Zaisuthra. The spiritseer declined to be involved, and instead busied herself with repairs far from the hub, clouding her thoughts with the shroud of the nearby Ghost Halls, in order that she might keep secret her machinations to bring the Ynnari to Iyanden until it was too late for Dhentiln and his companions to prevent it.
Even so, when the web portal that followed astern of the half-empty craftworld dilated with power, Iyanna felt the call of Ynnead’s chosen, as did others across Iyanden. She made her way to the Theatre of Becoming, a dome that adjoined the remnants of the docks set aside for the purpose of welcoming – and potentially containing – visiting contingents.
She was not alone in her interest. Many Iyandeni thronged the pale grey steps of the hall and meandered through the tree-like columns that held up a roof of green and blue crystal. Thousands had come to witness the arrival of Yvraine and her cohort, for there was little enough spectacle to amuse in the day-to-day existence of Iyanden since its invasions and woes.
The atmosphere was mixed, partly a celebration, a gathering not seen for some time. For all their aesthetic disdain, the Iyandeni were as garrulous and social as any other aeldari. It was natural that old friendships were renewed on the occasion, and fresh acquaintances made. Such was the devastation wrought by successive attacks and invasions, the Iyandeni were a microcosm of the shattered aeldari kindreds, geographically and emotionally divided by the wasteland that had been left of much of the craftworld. Isolationism had taken root in their thoughts, but the prospect of outside stimuli roused all but the most quixotic inhabitants.
Arrayed against this were the council and a crowd of Iyandeni filled with misgivings at the return of the Ynnari. Before the grand silver gates waited the seers, clad in their yellow robes, faces hidden behind their ghosthelms, their poise sombre. An entourage of warlocks and bonesingers formed a dark knot in the heart of the gathering crowd.
The dead moved among the living, as had become their wont. Some were clad in wraithbone constructs, others appeared as incorporeal mists and half-seen spectres, formed of energy leaked from the broken infinity circuit. On entering, Iyanna immediately found herself surrounded by these formless ghosts, her presence a siren call, her mind an amplifier that focused their fractured thoughts into a semblance of mortal coherence.
So it was that as she descended a long, curving flight of shallow steps to the floor of the immense hall she was followed by a parade of animated artificial bodies and swirling apparitions. The living turned at her approach, their reactions a reflection of the wider atmosphere – some grateful for her arrival, others afraid and sceptical. The spectral dead seemed as a cloak that billowed from her shoulders, and the wraith constructs formed up like an honour guard, slow, long strides pacing alongside her as she descended with an assumed air of serenity as she passed through the parting assemblage.
In truth her thoughts were in turmoil, and it was this agitation that had drawn the attention of the disembodied Iyandeni. The council turned as one to watch her approach, their body language conveying their hostility as sure as any words. There was no doubt that they suspected – knew – that she had been complicit in the coming of the Ynnari. It was her hope that confrontation could be avoided, but only a small hope.
With a thought she settled the dead, commanding them to wait. The constructs halted, becoming as statues without her senses and thoughts to guide them. The flitting ghosts disobeyed at first, like moths about a flame, unable to curb their self-destructive instinct, until she sent them scattering with a psychic rebuke. They fled, clustering about the upper tiers of benches and the capitals of the columns, a formless cloud of the dead.
‘I do not look kindly on this,’ Dhentiln told her. These words were intended as a grave pronouncement but simply reassured Iyanna that he was not prepared to effect a more dolorous indictment. A sensible position, which took into account the simple fact that Yvraine and her several hundred Ynnari companions about to alight on Iyanden would look equally unkindly on any retribution against Iyanna.
‘No offence was intended,’ Iyanna said, seeking to calm the troubled waters between them. ‘Nor challenge to your position. I thought the assistance would be useful. Iyanden and the Ynnari can achieve more in cooperation than Iyanden alone.’
‘Yes, I am sure that was your only motivation.’
A shudder through the infinity circuit announced the docking of the first Ynnari ship. A disembodied sigh passed across the hall, a collective exhalation of the living and psychic release from the dead.
The tall gates opened inward silently, revealing a figure in long gown and ornate headdress, a feline carried in the crook of one arm, an open fan in her other hand. A heartbeat later she was joined by an armoured warrior, the pelt of an exotic animal tumbling from one shoulder, gleaming blade bared in his fist.
Yvraine appeared to glide across the tiled floor, her elaborate courtly dress barely moving, head held just a fraction up and away from the contingent awaiting her, a measured pose of aloofness. A few moments after she crossed the threshold, the Visarch sheathed his sword and followed, helmed head turning left and right as he watched the silent crowd.
Others appeared at the gate, Asuryani of the craftworlds and drukhari from the Commorraghan webway and beyond, each marked or coloured in some way to denote their allegiance to the cult of Ynnead – either the rune of the Whispering God or the scarlet of his sect. They did not encroach far, but assembled within the gateway as their lady gracefully made her way to the seers.
She stopped several paces from Dhentiln and bent low. Her eyes never left his throughout the duration of the bow, the act of politeness conducted in such a way that it masked, but did not wholly conceal, her deadly potential. As a bowstring taut in the hand, the finger upon the trigger, Yvraine teetered upon a moment of release, yet appeared utterly relaxed in poise and expression.
‘My lady of Ynnead,’ Dhentiln said softly, returning the bow with a perfunctory dip of his own. He threw a glance towards Iyanna before he continued. ‘Let us not waste words on enquiring what brings you to Iyanden.’
‘I seek help,’ Yvraine said, her voiced pitched to carry throughout the hall. ‘Help only Iyanden can give. Ynnead has need of your dead.’
At the invitation of the seers, Yvraine departed with them and Iyanna. The Visarch moved to follow, but was summarily instructed to remain behind by a hard look from the Opener of the Seventh Way. The warrior watched her depart, eye lingering on the archway while more of the Ynnari moved into the hall, to be met by a drift of the crowd coming towards the silver gates. A shadow fell over the Visarch and he looked around to find a wraithlord towering over him, its featureless face turned in the same direction as he had gazed.
‘All wisdom, from parents to their children, meets deaf ears.’ The voice was a calm, bass thrum in his thoughts as well as in his ears.
‘You speak of Yvraine, or Iyanna?’ asked the Visarch. He laid a hand on the pommel of his sword and raised the other as a fist in salute to the massive construct. ‘Well met, Althenian. You haven’t aged a cycle.’
‘Words for both,’ the wraithlord replied, wistful. ‘Life is wasted on mortals, is it not?’
‘You have it wrong. It was we that wasted our lives. We fell in love with war, allowed Khaine to rule our hearts.’
‘With death’s touch, both of us are now released, to freedom,’ said Althenian. With an open hand, he gestured for the Visarch to move ahead, as more of the Ynnari disembarked through the docks behind them. The Iyandeni did not approach the strange pair, the crowd opening up as they walked further into the hall, respectful of the wraithlord, wary of the Sword of Ynnead.
‘I am not dead,’ said the Visarch.
‘Are you sure?’ replied the ancient one. ‘Which part of you is mortal, Laarian? The Visarch? I can see what is in you. Many souls. The name changes, but an exarch you remain, in your mind. Destiny, even if you change your armour, follows still.’
‘That is my name no more, a mantle I have shed. I am the Sword of Ynnead, blade of Khaine no longer,’ the Visarch contested hotly. His outburst immediately put the lie to his words and he growled in irritation. ‘And what of you, dead one? There is a suit of armour lying abandoned in the depths of Iyanden, yearning for the return of its spirits. A shrine that requires a priest. Pupils absent their teacher. A squad that needs a leader.’
‘You are right. We are both aberrations, Laarian,’ admitted Althenian.
They stopped at the first bank of steps. The Visarch sat upon a stone bench, sword angled from his hip, cloak swung aside. With a quiet hum of artificial fibres, Althenian lowered to a knee beside him, arms rested on extended thigh.
‘Nothing changes, history haunts our new lives,’ said the wraithlord. ‘As it should. A rare thing, an exarch thinking too much, seeing truth. To what end? We should not be as we are, yet we are. From others, the touch outside of ourselves, turned us thus.’
‘In my case, the whisper of a god,’ the Visarch pointed out.
‘And for me? Could Iyanna have been moved by a god?’
The wraithlord’s gesture swept the hall, indicating the scores of Ynnari mingling hesitantly with the Iyandeni. Former Commorraghans hung back, uneasy in the presence of the craftworlders, distrusted in return. Harlequins moved alone and in groups through the mass, their antics causing consternation and delight in equal measure. Corsairs and rangers, outcasts of every stripe kept to their company, interacting only when offered food and drink, eyeing their surrounds like caged animals. Those of other craftworlds seemed at ease, though a step removed from their former kindred, their allegiance to Ynnead setting them apart from those that still remained squarely upon the Path.
‘No such thing, a typical Ynnari, none the same. What binds you, so disparate a people, to your cause? All alone, kin of the Whispering God. Outsiders.’
‘You know the purpose of our visit?’ asked the Visarch, no longer comfortable with the train of their conversation. ‘Of Zaisuthra?’
‘A little, gleaned from Iyanden’s circuit, in passing,’ answered Althenian. ‘So to say, enough to see the danger, that is all.’
‘In that we have agreement. Not idly do the shadows of the past return. That the craftworld comes now when all is sundered speaks of a deeper purpose.’
‘Many and strange are the things beyond the sight and knowledge of our people, and Zaisuthra has travelled into that darkness.’
‘Let us hope they bring nothing of darkness back with them.’
They stayed in silence for some time after, both knowing that hope of any kind was a rare commodity for the aeldari.
Accord was found between Yvraine and Dhentiln, and by extension the Ynnari and Iyandeni. Jointly they would reach out to the aeldari of Zaisuthra. The seer admonished Iyanna for what he saw as duplicity, and insisted that Iyasta and Telathaus would accompany the expedition to ensure the interests of Iyanden were represented.
The discussion took place in the great Hall of Truths, intended for the open debate of thousands, massive for the handful who negotiated the agreement. Streams of undulating wraithbone fell from ceiling to floor like frozen waterfalls, usually glimmering with the light of the dead, now muted and grey, the spirits banished by Iyanna for the duration of the meeting. As soft-footed as only the aeldari can be, subtle of gesture and voice, still it seemed that every step resounded like an iron-shod boot, each sigh of cloth or creak of leather echoed in the empty vastness.
It was a reminder of what had once been, now lost, and in mind of that the discussions had proceeded swiftly, all disagreement spoken in muted tones, emotions kept firmly under control. When last the Ynnari and Iyandeni had spoken together here, they had elected to raise a demigod from the past of mankind. The matter at hand seemed equally laden with history and portents, and Yvraine noted a particular absence.
‘Should not Prince Yriel know of this quest?’
‘Be thankful he is not here,’ said Dhentiln. ‘His spirit is restless as ever, and he has no love for your cause. Though your power – Ynnead’s power – brought him back through death’s gate, he remembers that it was the fault of the Ynnari that he passed through it.’
‘He bears a cronesword, and has done for some time,’ said Yvraine. ‘Whether he likes it or not, he is bound to Ynnead in spirit and body. He settled for a time in Iyanden, but his heart has always remained out in the cold void between stars. That is why he is not here.’
‘I’ll lose no more of my people to your cult,’ said Dhentiln as the conclave drew to its conclusion.
‘Your people?’ Iyanna’s glare would have made any lesser-ego flinch, but Dhentiln was unabashed.
‘I am of Iyanden, these are my people, but I do not claim ownership of them.’
