The Skeins of Fate

by Aphrael1742

The tales of the eldar tell of the Rhana Dandra, the final battle when eldar and Chaos will meet on the field of battle and where both will perish. But all stories must come to an end. Some of the eldar, however, would much rather write the concluding pages than read it as it unfolds.

11. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

They went out from the building the way they had entered it, making their way quickly to the Starweavers before the Commorrites had even begun to leave. The guards were still standing at the doors. Illiawe noticed that the fourth guard had recovered from his earlier discomfort, though he made a point to avoid looking at the troupe, for some reason. Illiawe climbed aboard one of the Starweavers, settling down behind Taeryn. Her friend took the lead this time, angling the craft upward to climb into the upper reaches of Commorragh where the traffic was markedly a lot thinner than it was nearer to the streets.

"Are we headed for Lirys' contact now?" Illiawe asked.

Taeryn nodded.

"Finally," Illiawe muttered. "What did Lirys tell you about this eldar whom we are going to visit?"

"From what I understand, he is an haemonculus who happens to owe High Shadowseer Lirys some favors. She was confident that he will be able to provide us with any assistance that we might need."

"Did she tell you at all whether we could trust him?"

"She would not have instructed us to seek his help if he were not in some way trustworthy," Taeryn replied, then she shrugged. "At least, as trustworthy as any Commorrite could be."

"That does not fill me with the greatest confidence," Illiawe complained.

Taeryn shrugged again. "Does it really matter? The information that we seek is hardly important enough to warrant secrecy."

"That is unwholesomely optimistic, Taeryn."

The shadowseer turned her head. "Perhaps, but if you have got better contacts, I will be happy to go to them instead."

"No, I don't."

"Well, then." Taeryn's tone was almost beatific. "Don't you think you should not concern yourself overmuch with the trustworthiness of our current contact?"

Illiawe chose – perhaps wisely – not to answer that.

Behind them, the mimes' Starweavers, along with another, veered away, streaking down toward the streets and disappearing into the shadows. Illiawe leaned over the hull of their Starweaver, tracking their descent until they disappeared from sight.

"Where are they going?" she asked.

"Why don't you have a look in their thoughts and find out for yourself?"

"Why would I go to all that trouble when I have you here to tell me all about it?"

"You're lazy, Illiawe."

"Yes, I think that is the correct term. So, where are those harlequins headed?"

Taeryn sighed in resignation. "The troupes seldom stay together if one of us has something important to attend to," she explained. "We attract less attention this way. The harlequins in those Starweavers will probably be roaming the streets until we are done." She paused. "Or they could be following us from a distance."

Illiawe turned around to glance at the other three Starweavers behind them. "What about the rest of the troupe?"

"They will probably drop away after a while. Don't let it bother you. We will be able to find each other again when this is over."

"That is not what I am worried about. Would the Commorrites care about half a harlequin troupe walking around their streets?"

"They are not going to say anything. Enough intrigue happens in their own lives for them to know better than to get mixed up in ours, too."

"If you are certain about that."

"Of course I am."

Then a thought occurred to Illiawe. "Do you know where you are going?" she asked worriedly.

"Of course I do. Lirys showed me what to look out for, and how to get there. Why don't you go look into the future?" she asked in the tone one used to instruct an interrupting child to return to his toys.

Illiawe glowered at the back of her friend's head from behind her mask, then sighed and did as she was told.

As Taeryn had predicted, two of the Starweavers dropped away after some moments. Esarlyth, however, stayed with them. Illiawe caught a thought from the troupe master, a decision to stay with them until they reached their destination.

After a while, Taeryn brought the Starweaver to a slow halt, and Esarlyth followed. Taeryn looked around her for a good while, then leaned over the Starweaver's hull to study the shadowy streets below. A dreadful suspicion began to form in Illiawe's mind.

"You are lost, aren't you?" she asked accusingly.

"Of course not. I simply have not figured out our exact position."

"That means the same thing, Taeryn."

"Not quite," she said absently, still intently studying the streets. Then she pointed. "Ah, there it is."

Illiawe followed her gesture. "Our destination?"

"No. One of the things that Lirys told me to look out for."

Illiawe clenched her teeth together to keep in the sounds of frustration. "I thought you knew where to go."

"I do," Taeryn replied in an infuriatingly calm tone.

Illiawe raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Well, it is going to take a while, but Lirys did show me the way, after all."

"She did not do a very good job of it, I see."

Taeryn looked irritably at her. "Do you want to take over piloting the Starweaver?"

"And miss out on the chance to make fun of you for getting lost? Don't be absurd."

Taeryn halted the Starweaver a few more times during the ride, moving from one section of the webway to another, popping up each time in yet another section of High Commorragh, until finally she pushed the craft into a sudden dive, straightening it just moments before it struck the crowded streets. They weaved between a couple of buildings, then, leaving Esarlyth behind, they went through a shimmering portal. Lying on the other side of the portal was not the packed streets that appeared to make up the rest of Commorragh, however. It was rather a vast space, brightly lit by blazing suns hanging overhead, a sort of empty field paved with glittering stones. In the very center of that field was a large pale dome, shiny and glistening with a coating that reflected the light of the suns overhead. Taeryn stopped the Starweaver outside the dome and unhesitatingly walked toward it. There was a sound like grinding stone as a thin slit appeared in the surface of the dome, growing ever larger until it stood open just wide enough for them to enter one at a time. Illiawe stood just inside the entrance, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior.

A thin figure, stooped until his head was almost level with his chest, came walking out of the shadows. Thin appendages like the legs of insects sprouted from his back, stark and many jointed limbs that lifted him a couple of feet off the ground. His head was bald and so pale as to be almost translucent. He regarded them with deeply sunken eyes and a dark scowl.

"What do you want?" he asked in a raspy voice.

"A talk with Ezarvyn."

The hunched Commorrite's eyes narrowed. "As a harlequin, or as a customer?"

"As someone claiming a favor that Ezarvyn owes to High Shadowseer Lirys."

The Commorrite's scowl deepened. Then he abruptly turned and moved to the other side of the dome on his insectoid limbs. He pressed a rune on a small panel, and there was a hiss and a small hatch on the floor slid open. There were steps leading down into a ruddy light below, and, without a word, the Commorrite descended them. Taeryn and Illiawe glanced at each other and warily followed the Commorrite. At the bottom of the steps was a circular room, filled with silent machinery that clicked and buzzed and made strange chirping noises. Row upon row of vats filled with a purplish liquid lay among the machinery, each containing the still form of a Commorrite creature of war. Despite what she had heard of Commorrite society, it was not slaves who attended to the maintenance. Rather, black spherical drones floated back and forth between the vats, polishing their surfaces carefully like prized pieces of art. The ruddy glow that filled the chamber came from exquisite sconces that lined the curved walls, dull balls of crimson that pulsed with organic rhythm.

The dour faced Commorrite gestured for them to stay and went back up the steps. Taeryn went to one of the vats and bent slightly, reading the holographic display beside it and examining the creature within.

"Come away from that, Taeryn," Illiawe said disgustedly.

Taeryn gestured for her to be still, moving around the vat and on to the next one. Illiawe wrinkled her nose as she watched Taeryn.

"Stop that," she said. "How could you look at those things?"

"Don't you like my creations?" The voice came from the opposite end of the chamber. Ezarvyn walked into the dim light. He wore a long flowing robe, his hair tied back in a single lock at the back of his head. He was tall and lean, his shoulders unbowed, his features sharp. His eyes glittered, glowing red in the strange light. There was a smile on his lips - not the malicious ones of most Commorrites, but one that almost seemed to be genuine. He sighed with mock regret. "And I try so hard to create the best specimens that I could." His voice was soft and steady. His gaze flickered to Taeryn. "What do you think of them?"

"I think they are grotesque," she replied, turning away from a particularly lumpen creature.

He inclined his head. "That's the idea." Then he straightened and rubbed his hands together briskly. "Well, Lirys sent word of your problem."

"She did?" Illiawe asked, feigning surprise.

"Yes, she did. I offer the best services that I could, and I work best with time." He gestured for them to follow him, and turned on his heels, leading the way out of the circular chamber. He led them away from the room into an adjacent chamber. There he pressed a rune on the wall next to the entrance, flooding the room with a warm yellow light. The room was furnished with a number of comfortable looking couches arranged around a polished table fashioned from a glistening blue material. He gestured for them to sit, and moved to a side table, taking a crystal decanter and pouring out a drink. He turned and held out the decanter to them. Taeryn shook her head slightly. Ezarvyn shrugged and replaced the lid on the decanter before sitting himself in one of the couches, draping a leg over one of the arms.

"What kind of favor do you owe to Lirys?" Illiawe asked on an impulse.

Ezarvyn shrugged. "Lirys helped me with setting up in Commorragh. We went around handing out bribes, making a few threats, and killing a few individuals. After a while, I gained enough power to spread my own influence. A lot of what I own is in some way built upon her help."

"I can't imagine why she would want to do that."

"Well, it probably has something to do with the fact that I am very good at what I do," he said with no attempt at modesty. He paused, rubbing at the side of his face reflectively. "In exchange, I had to drop whatever I was doing at the moment if she asked for help. I suppose she was expanding her contacts, but she doesn't ask for assistance too often, so I am not too burdened by the terms of the deal." He straightened, and looked around him. "From what I understand, you are looking for the source of a certain psychic manipulation. I have sent some of my people out. With luck, they are going to be able to locate this target of yours."

"How long is it going to take?" Illiawe asked.

"Who knows? From what I understand, the caster is quite adept. However, these agents of mine are the best under my employ, and I have many of them. We are bound to stumble upon something eventually."

"It is crucial that it does not take too long."

"That is out of my control. My agents will try their best, but I cannot guarantee anything."

"That is the best that we could hope for, I guess," Illiawe grudgingly conceded. She had been hoping that Ezarvyn would have some way of quickly finding out the information that they needed, something, perhaps, that only the Commorrites had access to. She was forced to admit, however, that the simple fact that there was now more eldar looking for answers was a great assistance in itself.

"You are welcome to check back in every so often, if it would make you feel better," Ezarvyn offered.

"No, I don't think that I would need to do that. Commorragh is a difficult city to travel around in."

"You just need to get used to it. Is that all that you needed, then?"

Illiawe started to nod, then Taeryn held out an arm. "Have you done any research into toxins and biological agents, Ezarvyn?"

"What kind of haemonculus would I be if I haven't?"

"How extensive are your experiments and research in the field?"

Ezarvyn's expression grew suddenly wary. "Are you asking me this on behalf of Lirys, or as a customer?"

"You can assume, for now, that I am a potential customer, if that makes you happy."

Ezarvyn's eyes brightened. "A paying customer, I hope?"

"Have you ever heard of one who doesn't pay?"

Ezarvyn made a face. "Unfortunately, I have. Quite frequently, too." He abruptly stood. "If you would follow me, I could show you what I have." He was suddenly very businesslike; the amused and even slightly indulgent look was gone from his face, and his eyes became alert. He set his drink down and went to a wall, tapping at a grid of runes there.

"What do you need toxins and viruses for?" Illiawe sent the thought to Taeryn.

"I don't, really. It's nice to see what new concoctions the various haemonculi have invented now and again, however. I have come across some rather interesting things that way."

Illiawe shuddered.

"Ezarvyn is definitely not what I expected from a Commorrite, let alone an haemonculus," Taeryn observed.

"He does seem a little too…" She stopped, groping around for the right word.

"Normal?"

"I wouldn't say that. The word makes too many assumptions."

"How about 'nice'?"

"It is a massive understatement, but why not? I suppose that, in a way, he doesn't seem to fit in Commorragh. I am sure that he has at least a few torture chambers close at hand, though."

Ezarvyn had opened a section of the wall to reveal a dark space. Illiawe stared at it. The empty space that had opened up was the kind of darkness caused not by the absence of light, but by the presence of shadows so dark no light could banish it. Indeed, the light of the room seemed to end precisely where the portal was. Within it the shadows appeared almost alive, its writhing and pulsing growing more prominent the longer Illiawe stared at it.

Ezarvyn beckoned to them, and stepped into the portal. Taeryn shrugged and stepped in after him, with Illiawe not far behind.

It was as though she had been picked up and hurled through some dark pool of water. It lasted only for a moment, then there was a wrenching feeling, and her feet struck solid ground. Ezarvyn was standing only a few feet away from her. He swept his arm in a grand circle around him.

"My laboratory," he said laconically, yet with a certain amount of pride. "Please don't touch anything. I do not need any more test subjects, and I would much rather have a paying customer than a dead one."

Illiawe looked around her. The three of them were standing in a small space surrounded by four walls of shelves. On the shelves lay vials and containers and spheres of a clear material, all carefully labelled and arranged. She frowned. "It's an awfully small laboratory," she observed.

"On the surface, yes. This place is as large as I want it to be, however. It is unconstrained by the material plane – or even the webway. Of course, no one needs to see the full extent of it, least of all my customers. You are here to trade, not to dabble in my work." He looked at Taeryn. "Was there anything in particular that you'd like to see?"

"No."

Ezarvyn frowned, tapping thoughtfully at his chin. "I suppose that you are looking for the more exotic kinds, aren't you? I do have a number of very destructive creations."

Taeryn shrugged. "I suppose that it's worth a look."

"Good," Ezarvyn said briskly. He went to one wall, bending slightly and looking at the labels, muttering to himself. He reached out, pressed a rune next to one of the shelves, and the containers on it shimmered and blurred. When they became clear again, there was a set of new containers sitting there. Ezarvyn muttered again and tapped the rune next to the shelf above the one he was inspecting. After a few minutes of tapping and muttering, he took a small vial off the shelf and came back toward them.

"A particularly potent virus, this one," he said, brandishing the vial like a bottle of fine wine. "Adapted from one of the strange viruses that pop up in Low Commorragh now and then. Within a couple of days, an infected subject becomes incredibly contagious – in a manner of speaking. It does not infect other people. It infects the planet. Everything organic dies within a day, leaving all their possessions lying around free for the taking once the virus dies out in about a week." He turned the vial back to himself and looked speculatively at it. "I am currently trying to make the process last longer, however. Some Commorrite nobles prefer agony over material goods, and the more picky ones keep complaining that the agony doesn't last quite long enough. I keep telling them that they should fight more conventionally if that's what they want, but some of them are just lazy, I guess. Of course, that is not a problem for you, is it?" He shrugged. "I also have one that attacks the neurons – or anything like it – of the inhabitants instead. It kills far more quickly, and with more agony, but, again, some of the nobles want a longer lasting one."

"Your customers are very demanding."

"Tell me about it." He shrugged and replaced the vial upon the shelf. Then he came back with another vial. Ezarvyn was in his element here. It was as though he was selling pieces of particularly fine jewelry. Every new vial or container was presented with a great flourish and a glowing speech rife with details about the delivery method, effects, and after-effects of the biological weapon. He meticulously weighed the cost of the compound against the benefits of using it, and dwelt in great detail upon the type and length of the suffering that the weapon would deal. With each new presentation, the descriptions became more and more grisly, and the effects more and more horrific. There were viruses that ruptured insides and melted brains, and toxins that melted the flesh off bones, and a nasty poison that chipped away at the soul while the target writhed in helpless agony as his body stopped responding. The casual way in which Ezarvyn talked unnerved Illiawe, and she soon found that a chill ran up her spine every time Ezarvyn brought the next specimen forward. Taeryn, on the other hand, appeared to grow more and more interested, almost anticipating the next concoction. Finally, she held up a hand.

"This is all very interesting," she said, "but they are quite ordinary. Have you got anything special that you are working on right now?"

Ezarvyn pursed his lips. "I do have something, but I'm not sure if it is what you are looking for."

"What is it?"

"Well, I designed it as something of an elixir. It reduces a candidate into an easily stored form. The candidate retains most of his mental and emotional faculties, while the compound inflicts various trauma upon his mind and soul. In essence, it becomes a constant source of pain and terror and all these other lovely emotions, easily kept in a small flask, if you so wished." He waved an arm, and the shelves on one of the walls shimmered away. Ezarvyn led them down the hidden corridor. "I've got a test subject under its effects at this very moment. I'll let you have a look at him."

"That sounds like something that would be very popular here in Commorragh," Taeryn observed.

"Yes, it would be. However, this mixture also happens to keep the candidates alive for so long that it might as well be all eternity. It is a necessary measure to counter certain complications, but it would effectively put the haemonculi out of work. No Commorrite would require the services of a good inflictor of pain when a special concoction is all that is needed to do the same thing for the rest of time. We will lose prestige and business very rapidly if this got out."

"Then why tell me about it?"

Ezarvyn shrugged. "I like you and your prudish friend, for some reason."

"He is lying, is he not?" Illiawe asked Taeryn silently.

"I would say so, yes. That revelation was quite deliberate."

"Why would he do that?"

"I do not really know, but the intent does not seem to be malicious."

They came into a room filled with tables and machinery. Pieces of paper and holographic displays decorated the walls, save for one that was filled from top to bottom with cruel looking knives of varying sizes. Ezarvyn rummaged around amidst a pile of paper, and dug up a gold box. He pressed a few runes on its surface, and flipped its lid open. It contained a single thin flask, transparent and filled with a thick green liquid.

The psychic shockwaves struck Illiawe like a hammer. Immense pain and terror emanated from the flask, a blinding agony so powerful it brought tears to her eyes and made her knees go weak. There was a plaintive wail, a psychic cry that resonated through her mind and almost drove her to her knees. It was as though a hundred eldar had been suddenly and violently massacred, and she found herself crying out with the suffering soul trapped in the flask. Unthinking, she stumbled back, desperate to get away from the presence. Through the haze of her thoughts she saw Taeryn jump to her side, then her foot caught on something and she stumbled backwards, through an open doorway. Arms wrapped around her shoulders, steadying her. Then, as if a door had been slammed shut, the psychic shockwaves were gone. Illiawe blinked. Her mind was still numb, though it was quickly beginning to clear.

Ezarvyn placed the now sealed box back in its position, and joined them. "That was a rather dramatic response," he observed.

"She's a little sensitive to the psychic aspects of suffering," Taeryn quickly replied.

"I noticed. I thought only the prudes on the craftworlds were like that."

Taeryn shrugged. "That's quite a large misconception."

"I see that now. Well, it is quite fortunate that the test subject was not an eldar, don't you think? I think that it would have knocked your friend out if it was." He turned to Illiawe, his expression amused. "I must admit, however, that your terror was quite beautiful. It is not often, I think, that harlequins become afraid. Seeing a shadowseer panic was quite the treat." Taeryn turned slowly toward him, and he quickly sketched a quick bow. "No offense intended to either of you, of course." A sly smile, however, still played about his lips.

Illiawe pushed Taeryn's arms away and stood. Her knees still shook slightly, but her stance remained steady. Upon reflection, she realized that she really should have, at least, anticipated and prepared for something like that. She looked around her, trying to keep her movements casual and pushing the embarrassing episode out of her mind. The room that she had stumbled into was filled with holding cells and cages. Small creatures of all kinds filled the cages, spitting and snarling and rattling at the walls of their confines. Drones flew around the cages, subduing the more excitable creatures with gas and needles and little bolts of lightning. Despite the ruckus from the creatures, it was the cells that Illiawe's attention was drawn to. There were easily dozens of them, tiny spaces each filled with one or two captives. There were Commorrites and humans and a number of brutish orks, and even a few snarling tyranids. Illiawe did not need to ask the reason for their captivity. She thought back to the liquid remains in Ezarvyn's golden box, and shuddered. Revulsion built up in her, and she moved to turn away. Then she saw the eldar.

Her skin was not the pallid tone of the Commorrite eldar. She bore herself proudly, not seeming to notice the dozen drones hovering near her cell. Illiawe bit her lip. The eldar was most definitely not from Commorragh, and Illiawe's mind raced, wondering how she could help her. Then the captive looked up, and their eyes locked. Illiawe froze. There was a fire in those eyes, one that Illiawe knew well. She had, after all, came into contact with a number of eldar who bore the mark of Khaine.

Ezarvyn had followed her gaze, and he smiled when he saw whom Illiawe was looking at. "A prized specimen. An exarch of the Howling Banshees. I'm not quite sure which craftworld she is from, however."

Illiawe suppressed the urge to make certain demands that would undoubtedly arouse suspicion. She took a quick look into the threads of the future, and looked to the exarch, trying to appear as casual as possible. "I would think that it would be a waste to use an exarch for a test subject."

"You would be right. Not all the captives here are test subjects, however." He pointed to a growling ork. "That one is a gift for an associate. That tyranid is for sale to willing buyers." He pointed at the exarch. "She will be fighting in one of the arenas later today."

Illiawe tilted her head. "It's a shame, really. The arenas are a dangerous place, and her fate is rather tightly interwoven with some rather momentous events."

Ezarvyn shrugged. "That is not my problem."

"I would think that permanent death and destruction of your soul would be of a greater concern to you."

Ezarvyn looked sharply at her. "Is that what will happen if the exarch fights?"

Illiawe nodded.

Ezarvyn's eyes narrowed. "I have seen a number of the very tales that harlequins dance," he said. "How do I know that letting her go will not trigger this death instead?"

"The craftworld farseers manipulate events," Illiawe replied. "Shadowseers influence fate. In addition, I find that I have a strangely high opinion of those who follow my suggestions in matters such as these." She shrugged and calmly adjusted her tassets. "The choice is entirely in your hands, however."

"You strike a cruel bargain, shadowseer. I need her for a fight in the arena later today. I stand to gain a lot if my fighter wins."

Illiawe shrugged again. "Find another champion."

"I can't." His voice was almost anguished. "An exarch is probably the only fighter skilled enough to match the competition in a duel."

"You seem not to place very great value on your soul," Illiawe observed.

"I would prefer not to lose anything in this transaction. The loss of my soul is not a certainty, anyway."

"Unless the fates are nudged in that direction." She straightened. "How would you feel if I offered another champion?"

"I told you, there isn't one skilled enough for this match."

"Not even a servant of the Laughing God?"

Ezarvyn looked speculatively at her. "That's not a bad idea. Harlequins are skilled fighters. I assume that you are offering to take the exarch's place?"

"Your wellbeing is of some importance to us for the moment, Ezarvyn."

Ezarvyn smiled. "I could take advantage of that fact."

"Unless you would like me to do some of that nudging I mentioned earlier, it is probably best if you do not."

Ezarvyn grinned. "You would have to wear the exarch's armor, I'm afraid. I did a little bragging a couple of days ago. Most of the Commorrites know that my fighter is a Howling Banshee exarch."

"I'm sure the exarch and I can work something out."

Ezarvyn nodded and took a tiny disc from his robes. He tapped it once and a couple of drones flew in, bearing a set of familiar bone white armor. Illiawe went up to the exarch and stood before her, assuming a particular posture that not even the keen senses of the eldar could detect. She removed her mask, and, making sure that her back was turned to Ezarvyn, she held her hands before her, her fingers weaving an intricate symbol in front of her. It was an age old greeting amongst the disciples of Jain Zar, one that quickly allowed them to identify themselves and their shrines. The exarch's eyes widened briefly, and Illiawe reached out with her mind.

The response of the exarch was one of shock. "Farseer," she greeted Illiawe. Then she straightened, her chin raised defiantly. "I cannot allow a farseer to take my place in one of Commorragh's arena. They are a dangerous place, and, even if you should survive, I will not be said to have done such a thing."

Illiawe sighed. "I have already made the deal with the Commorrite. If you continue in your reluctance, he will become suspicious of my identity, and you will have placed my life, my duty, and the very eldar lives depending on its success in jeopardy. Will you have that tainting your name, exarch?"

"No, I will not. I will submit to your decision, honored farseer; but I ask that you pay careful heed in the arena."

"I will not burden you with my death," Illiawe promised.

The exarch stood, the cell door clicked open, and she knelt beside the set of armor. She placed her palms flat on its pauldrons, muttering under her breath.

"What is she doing?" Ezarvyn asked, frowning.

"You Commorrites have forgotten a lot, haven't you?" Illiawe muttered. "An exarch's armor is as much the exarch himself. And one does not hand over a part of oneself so easily, does one?"

Ezarvyn grinned. "I know of more than a few ways to do so. Some of them are even quite pleasant."

Illiawe scowled at him, privately wondering if his ignorant question was asked for the benefit of the one joke.

Then the exarch stood, and stepped away from the armor. "It would be strange to fight in the suit of an Aspect Warrior," she said for the benefit of Ezarvyn. "You might need some time to get used to it. The souls of the previous exarchs will guide you."

"Of course," Illiawe replied. She looked steadily at Ezarvyn, and he politely turned his back. Illiawe quickly removed the harlequin's holo-suit, transferring with a flick of her hand the protective runes onto the Howling Banshee armor. She paused, quickly undid the fastenings of the pouch that held her runes, and selected a few of the more subtle ones. These she concealed in various places on the armor. With the help of the exarch, she strapped the pieces of the armor onto her body, feeling the pieces meld into each other and the exarchs in the soulstones awakening.

"Most unorthodox," one of them said, his thoughts echoing around in her mind.

"Indeed," another said.

"Quiet, the both of you," a third snapped. "She has walked the path of the Banshee before."

"What difference does that make?" the first asked.

"He has a point," said the second. "She has never walked it as an exarch. I am not pleased with this."

"But the three of us are," replied the first. "And since we all are one, the rest of you will just have to deal with it."

"She's on the Witch Path," a new voice said.

"What difference does it make?" the first asked again, somehow managing to sound menacing.

"You are too traditional."

"Blame it on my age."

"Be quiet, all of you," the Howling Banshee exarch's voice cut through their argument. She quickly looked Illiawe over, then tugged on the twin scabbards at her hip. She reached for the banshee mask.

"No," Illiawe said quickly. She glanced at Ezarvyn's turned back. "I am not to don the war mask."

"Very well."

"Are you quite finished?" Ezarvyn asked over his shoulder.

"Quite," Illiawe replied.

"Good." He turned back around. "You look quite the part. I guess being a performer has its uses. Now come along. We will have to present you to the audience quite soon."