Path of the Warrior (3 page)

His mind divided, all concentration now gone, Korlandril stepped back and looked away, ashamed at his failing. The shimmering of the holofield around him, erected to conceal the work from admirers until it was unveiled in its finished glory, played a corona of colours into Korlandril’s eyes. For a moment he was lost gazing at the undulating view of the forest dome beyond the shimmering holofield, the distorted vista sending a flurry of inspiration through his mind.

“I almost dare not ask,” said a voice behind Korlandril. He turned to see his mentor, Abrahasil, gazing intently at the statue.

“You need not ask anything,” said Korlandril. “It is Aradryan’s return that perturbs me, but I know not why. I am happy that my friend is once again with us.”

“And what of your thoughts of Aradryan in relation to your work?”

“I have none,” replied Korlandril. “This piece was started long before I knew of his return.”

“And yet progress has been slow since you learnt of it, and almost non-existent since it happened,” said Abrahasil. “The effect is clear, though the cause remains obscured to you. Perhaps I might help?”

Korlandril shrugged his indifference and then felt a stab of contrition at Abrahasil’s disappointed sigh.

“Of course, I would appreciate any guidance you can give me,” said Korlandril, forcing himself to look at the statue. “I see it clearly, all of it, every line and arc, as you taught me. I allow the peace and the piece to become one within me, as you taught me. I direct my thoughts and my motion towards its creation, as you taught me. Nothing I do has changed, and yet the ghost stone is rebellious to my demands.”

Abrahasil raised a narrow finger at this last comment.

“Demands, Korlandril? It is desire not demand that shapes the ghost stone. A demand is an act of aggression; a desire is an act of submission. The thought shapes the act which shapes the form. Why has desire changed to demand?”

Korlandril did not answer at first, startled that he had not been aware of such a simple distinction, subtle as it was. He repeated the question to himself, searching his thoughts, sifting through his mental processes until he could locate the point at which desire had become demand.

“I wish to impress others with my work, and I feel the pressure of expectation,” Korlandril said eventually, pleased that he found an answer.

“That is not what is wrong,” said Abrahasil with the slightest pursing of his lips, spearing through Korlandril’s bubble of self-congratulation. “Always has your work been expressive, intended to impose your insight upon others. That has not changed. Remember something more specific. Something related to Aradryan.”

Again Korlandril drifted within his own memories and emotions, massaging his thoughts into order just as he manipulated the ghost stone into its flowing shapes. He found what he was looking for, visualised the moment of transition and gave a quiet gasp of realisation.

He looked at Abrahasil and hesitated, reluctant to share his discovery with another. Abrahasil waited patiently, eyes fixed not on Korlandril but on the statue. Korlandril knew that if he asked his mentor to leave, he would do so without complaint, but until then Abrahasil would await a reply. Abrahasil did not need to remind Korlandril that he could be trusted, that the bond between mentor and student was inviolate; that in order to explore and engage the passions and fears Korlandril needed to express himself as an artist, anything he told Abrahasil was in the strictest confidence. Abrahasil had no need to say such things, his patient waiting and the understanding between the two of them was all the communication needed.

“I wish to impress Thirianna out of competition with Aradryan,” Korlandril said eventually, relieved at unburdening himself of sole knowledge of this revelation. He had never spoken of his feeling towards Thirianna, not even with Abrahasil, though he suspected his mentor saw much of Korlandril’s thoughts that he did not comment on. After all, Abrahasil had observed them both together on many occasions and Korlandril knew he would not have been able to conceal every sign of affection from his mentor’s studied gaze. “There is a fear within me, and anger that I feel such a fear. Aradryan is a friend. Not a rival.”

Abrahasil turned his head and smiled. Korlandril felt another layer of connection falling into place between them, as if he had stepped across a threshold that he had been poised upon for a long time.

“That is good,” said the mentor. “And how will you control that fear, that anger?”

Now it was Korlandril’s turn to smile.

“That is simple,” he said. “This sculpture is not for Thirianna, but for me. My next piece… that will be for her. These thoughts have no place in this creation, but they will be the inspiration for another. I can put them aside until then.”

Abrahasil laid a hand upon Korlandril’s arm in reassurance and Korlandril gave him a look that conveyed his deep appreciation. Abrahasil stepped out of the holofield without further word and Korlandril watched his wavering form disappear into the miasmic vista of trees.

Feeling refreshed and invigorated, Korlandril approached the sculpture. He laid his hand upon the raised arm he had been working on, delicately running his fingertips along the accentuated flow of muscle tone and joint, rebuilding his mental vision of the piece.

Under his touch, the barb flowed back into the ghost stone and was no more.

There was an air of excitement and anticipation in the Dome of the Midnight Forests. Across meadows of blue grass and between the pale silver trunks of lianderin trees, many eldar gathered to await the unveiling of Korlandril’s latest creation. Through the invisible force field enclosing the ordered gardens, the ruddy twilight of Mirianathir glowed. The lilt of laughter and the chime of crystal goblets drifted on an artificial breeze that set the jade leaves of the trees rustling; a perfect accompaniment to the swish of grass and the soft conversation of Korlandril’s guests.

Some three hundred eldar had gathered for the unveiling, dressed for the occasion in their most fashionable attire. Korlandril mingled with the crowd, remarking upon an elegant brooch or particularly pleasing cut of skirt or robe. For his grand moment, he had decided to dress himself in an outfit that was elegant but austere, out of a desire not to upstage his sculpture. He wore a plain blue robe, fastened from waist to throat with silver buckles, and his hair was swept back with a silver band ornamented with a single blue skystone at his brow. He kept his conversation short, eluding any questions concerning the nature of the piece until he was ready to reveal all.

As he wandered amongst the guests, Korlandril felt a thrill running through him. With each beat of his heart his waystone reciprocated, the double-pulse quivering in his chest. He absorbed excitement from the guests and projected it back to them. He was pleased with the attention, a salve to his pride after the tribulations he had faced completing the sculpture.

Exchanging pleasantries, Korlandril scanned the crowd for Thirianna and spied her with a group of three other eldar in one of the lianderin groves not far from where the shimmering holofield concealed Korlandril’s exhibit.

Korlandril allowed himself a moment to admire her beauty from a distance, delighting intellectually and emotionally in the close-fitting suit of red and black she wore. The curves of her arms and legs mirrored those of the branches above her, a natural elegance accentuated by her delicate poise and precise posture. Her hair, pigmented a deep yellow, fell in a tumble of coils down her back, woven through with red ribbons that hung to her waist.

As she stepped to one side, Korlandril saw Aradryan. He was smiling, in the deliberate way maintained by those not entirely comfortable with their surrounds. Korlandril felt the serpent of envy quiver ever so slightly within him, which disturbed him. He thought he had put aside that haunting doubt, that fear lingering at the very edge of his awareness. Seeing Aradryan with Thirianna brought his concerns into stark view and Korlandril’s pulse quickened and his thoughts raced for a moment.

Korlandril directed his gaze away as he walked across the meadow, allowing the calm of the garden dome to still the turbulence in his thoughts. Lianderin blossom was just beginning to bud, like golden stars in a deep green night, and the scent of the grass rose up from beneath his tread, cleansing and pure. By the time he reached the group, Korlandril was composed once more, genuinely happy to see his friends in attendance.

Aradryan extended a palm in greeting and Korlandril laid his hand upon his friend’s in return. The welcome was repeated with Thirianna, her touch cool and reassuring. As he pulled back his hand, Korlandril allowed his fingertips to brush gently over those of Thirianna, and he allowed his eyes to meet hers for a heartbeat longer than was normal.

“We are all quivering with anticipation,” said one of the group, another sculptor called Ydraethir. He wore a half-gown of deep purple across his waist and left shoulder, cut short on the thighs, exposing skin that had been bleached almost pure white. Ydraethir followed the school of Hithrinair, which saw the sculptor as much a part of the work as the sculpture itself. Korlandril had dabbled with its aesthetic for a few cycles but had quickly found himself to be a dull subject and preferred to express himself through his work at a distance. Korlandril searched for a hint of irony or rivalry in his companion’s comment and pose, but concluded that Ydraethir was being sincere.

“It is my hope that such expectation is warranted,” replied Korlandril with a grateful bow of the head. He turned and greeted the fourth eldar, the renowned bonesinger Kirandrin. “I am very grateful for the interest and enthusiasm you have all shown in my work.”

“I have watched your development closely since I first came upon one of your early works,” Kirandrin said. “I believe it was
The Blessing of Asurmen,
a life-size piece displayed in the atrium of the Tower of the Evening Melodies.”

“My second ever piece,” said Korlandril with a warm smile of remembrance. “I am still privileged that Abrahasil saw fit to show my works so early on in my time upon the Path. I have kind regard for that particular sculpture, though my work has moved so far beyond such simplistic formulae now, it feels as if it might have been created by someone else!”

“Is not that the purpose of the Path?” said Ydraethir. “That we change and grow, and shed that which was before and transform into something new and better?”

“Indeed it is,” said Korlandril. “To strive for the perfection of body and spirit, craft and mind, that is what we all desire.”

“But is it not the case that we also lose some of who we are?” said Aradryan, his tone one of mild dissent. “If we are forever moving forward on the Path, when do we stop to admire the view? I think that sometimes we are too keen to discard that which made us as we are.”

Silence greeted Aradryan’s remarks. He looked at the other eldar, his face betraying a small measure of confusion.

“Forgive me if I have said something out of place,” Aradryan said quietly. “It was not my intent to question your opinions, but to merely voice my own. Perhaps my manners have strayed a little while I was away from Alaitoc and the niceties of civil society.”

“Not at all,” Kirandrin said smoothly, laying a hand upon Aradryan’s arm in a gesture of reassurance. “It is simply that such questions are… rare.”

“And the answers far too long to be addressed here,” Korlandril added quickly. “We shall continue this discussion at a later time. At this moment, I must make my grand unveiling.”

“Of course,” said Kirandrin. Aradryan gave a slow, shallow nod and dipped his eyelids in a gesture of apology.

Korlandril smiled his appreciation before crossing quickly to the holofield and stepping within. Obscured from view, he let out a long breath, releasing the tension that had unexpectedly built up within. There had been something about Aradryan’s manner that had unnerved Korlandril. He had again felt that otherness he had encountered when Aradryan had first returned—a subtle desire to be elsewhere. Sheltered within the holofield, Korlandril’s waystone was again warm to the touch, reflecting inner assurance rather than anger or embarrassment.

The distraction had taxed Korlandril and with a stab of guilt he realised he had said nothing to Thirianna. He had all but ignored her. He wondered for a moment if he should apologise for his offhand behaviour but quickly dismissed the idea. Thirianna probably had not noticed any deficiencies in his attention and it might be unwise to highlight them to her. If she had recognised any affront at all, she would surely understand the many demands conflicting for his attention on an occasion such as this. Korlandril resolved that he would seek out Thirianna after the unveiling and lavish as much attention as possible upon her.

His mind upon Thirianna, Korlandril’s thoughts were awhirl in many different directions, his heart racing, his skin tingling. Ideas flashed across his mind, crashing against the excitement he felt at the unveiling, blending with the disturbance caused by Aradryan, colliding with the apprehension that had been building since he had completed the sculpture.

Korlandril whispered a few calming mantras. As he did so, he ordered his thoughts, pushing some aside for later reflection, drawing on others to reassure himself, focussing on his confidence and experiences to steady his worries. He stood in silent repose for some time, until he was sure he was ready to address the crowd.

When the mental maelstrom had become a still pool, Korlandril stepped out of the holofield to find that his guests had gathered in the clearing outside. Most of the faces were familiar, a few were not. All seemed eager to see what Korlandril had created.

“I am deeply honoured that you have all come to witness the unveiling of my latest piece,” Korlandril began, keeping his voice steady, projecting his words to the back of the crowd without effort. “Many know that I draw great inspiration from the time before the War in Heaven. I look to our golden age not with regret of a paradise lost, nor with sadness that such times have passed. In the first age of our people I see a world, a universe, that we can all aspire to recreate. Though the gods are gone, it is up to us to make real their works, and through our desire to rebuild heaven bring about the peace that we all deserve. Our civilisation is not lost whilst we still sing and paint—and sculpt—of those times that none of us now remember save in myth. We all know that legend can become truth; that the line between myth and reality is not clearly defined. I would take myth and make it reality.”