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.

34. Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

The Avatar of Khaine was gone. Those were the words that were repeated throughout the craftworld. The Avatar was gone, and Khaine's temple lay in ruins. The effect that it had upon the eldar aboard the craftworld was grim. Though the eldar had always held their blood-thirsty god in low regard, He was a singular symbol of the martial might of the eldar, an assurance of victory in battle, and the eldar drew a certain comfort in the knowledge of His protection.

And now, at the eve of the Rhana Dandra, their war god has withdrawn His blade from their side.

Illiawe did not take the latest turn of events well. It seemed to her that the sacrifice of the eldar trapped within Spiorad was now wasted. Without their war god to assist them, Illiawe no longer had the comfort of probable victories that Khaine's avatars will bring in the coming conflict.

And as the minutes went by, news from the other craftworlds came to Ulthwé, telling of destroyed temples and pillars of fire before an empty throne. The farseers of the craftworlds, of course, searched the skeins for some clue as to the fate of the Avatars, but they found nothing. Taeryn spent the next few days in the libraries and repositories of the harlequin cities, though what she hoped to find there, Illiawe did not know. Balelath returned to the work of the autarchs with a new resolve, and Illiawe spent her days exploring the skeins, hoping, though she knew that it was in vain, that she might stumble across an answer.

And all the while the Aspect Warriors trained for war, and the Guardians trained with them.

The hardest part were the questions. The eldar of Ulthwé were not particularly pious, but they wanted to know, quite reasonably, if the disappearance of the Avatars of Khaine was the work of the enemies of the eldar. Illiawe wanted to ease their fears, but the skeins remained obstinately unhelpful. Illiawe soon grew to shun the streets of the craftworld even outside her robes of office, and she spent the days meditating within her house.

Then, one day, Ethorach stopped by. As was his custom, he showed up unannounced and entered her house uninvited. Illiawe had been making breakfast when he walked in, and she waved for him to sit himself.

"I don't suppose you have any idea what happened to the Avatars, do you?" she asked him.

Ethorach's expression grew pained. "Not you too, Illiawe."

"I was just making conversation," she objected innocently.

"Talk about something else, then. If I had uncovered any information, you would be one of the first to know." He looked closely at her. "How are you holding up?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I know why you came to Ulthwé, Illiawe. Unfortunately, I don't think that even the spiritseers could help you with your problem."

"How can you be sure?"

"Trust me on this, Illiawe." He looked penetratingly at her. "Have they been able to help you yet?"

Illiawe shook her head once, and Ethorach grunted.

"I didn't think so. I don't know why you're getting so upset about this, Illiawe."

She fixed him with a flat stare.

"Everything that we've ever done has always been about the sacrifice of the few for the many, Illiawe."

"Do you really think that trapping all the eldar who have ever lived in isolation for the rest of eternity is saving the many, Ethorach?"

"Eternity is a very long time, Illiawe. As for your question, I do. Your anguish is a good price in exchange for the freedom of all those souls from Slaanesh, isn't it?"

"It's not really freedom if they are trapped inside that artifact, is it?"

"You really need to stop with that, Illiawe. Wherever did you get the absurd idea that the eldar cannot be freed?"

Illiawe stared at him. "You know how to free them?" she asked incredulously.

"I do, yes."

Illiawe ran her fingers through her hair. "Why didn't you say so before?" She looked around for her cloak. "I'll go get Spiorad, and you can get them out."

"Cegorach has it, you know."

"I know. I figured that if I asked Him, He might lend it to me for a few days."

Ethorach laughed then. "This is a lot more amusing for me than you know, Illiawe. You are not going to ask Cegorach about anything. In the first place, you don't know where to find Him. In the second place, He is not going to allow you to take Spiorad. Trust me on this. In the third place, even if you did convince Cegorach to let you have Spiorad, I will not help in releasing the eldar trapped within."

"Why not?"

Ethorach sighed. "You really need to think these things through, Illiawe. If the eldar were released, they will just return to the Othersea, and Slaanesh would be right there waiting for them."

"We could trap them in soulstones and release them into the infinity circuit."

"We could, but remember that the daemons of Slaanesh could see the souls of the eldar. Her minions will be all over us before we know it. Trillions upon trillions of souls is positively irresistible to the minions of Slaanesh. There will be nowhere to hide for whichever craftworld whose infinity circuit we released the souls into, whether here, in the webway, or on the other side of the universe. Will you place the living eldar of a craftworld at risk?"

Mutely, Illiawe shook her head.

"It is better this way, Illiawe. Not even Slaanesh has found Cegorach yet." He stood. "I'm glad we had this talk, Illiawe. I'll leave you alone now." He paused. "You really should not be unhappy now. The time is coming when the many are going to be sacrificed for the sake of the few."

"The Rhana Dandra, you mean?"

"No, but it's a close guess." He went toward the door. "Take care, Illiawe."

Taeryn returned shortly after that, bearing the look of one who has returned from a fruitless search.

"What a pointless waste of time," she muttered darkly as she walked in through the door.

"That sounds familiar," Illiawe suggested slyly. "I take it that things didn't go so well?"

Taeryn made an indelicate sound. "That's putting it lightly. Not even the keepers of the Black Library know what could have caused the disappearance of the Avatars. They suspect that it might not be the doing of our enemies, though."

"Are you sure?"

"They seem to be, anyway. From what I understand, there is an obscure piece of writing regarding this event. Apparently no one actually believed that it will come about, so it has lain forgotten for all this time."

"That's something, anyway. Do the keepers know what this is about?"

"No. They are still working on it."

"That is the best that we could hope for, I guess."

Taeryn nodded. "In the meantime, we should return to our preparations."

"Are you planning on returning to Kenaleith, then?"

"Do you have someplace better to go?"

"Don't be clever, Taeryn."

"Someone's in a sour mood today."

"Sorry. The disappearance of the Avatars has got me a little on edge, that's all."

"I'm sure it's more than just a disappearance," Taeryn assured her.

"How would you know that?"

"I don't think that you're ready for the answer, Illiawe."

"Taeryn," Illiawe said slowly, her eyes narrowing. "Have you been spending too much time around Cegorach lately? You're starting to sound like Him."

Taeryn shrugged. "It's only natural, I suppose. He is my god, after all." Then she laughed shortly. "Actually, I don't really know why they've vanished."

"Why didn't you just say so?" Illiawe asked in irritation.

"We do have a reputation to maintain, Illiawe. I'm sure you understand."

News of the disappearance had spread to Kenaleith long before they reached it. The Exodites, who were not as oblivious to the affairs and nature of their cousins aboard the craftworlds as they seemed, were already gathering their beast herds. Vaults of laser weapons were opened and emptied. Some of their number went out to shape the lands and skies of the world beyond Mar-Kenaleith into more suitable defenses, and energy ran like veins all throughout the vines and the trees and the ground itself of the city and beyond.

"What's going on?" Illiawe asked a passing autarch.

"Don't you know that the Avatars on board the craftworlds disappeared?" The autarch seemed surprised.

"We know about that," Illiawe said shortly. "What's happening here?" She waved an arm around her.

"Oh. The Exodites have declared that they will join us in the Rhana Dandra. They seem to think that they could match the might of a few hundred Avatars of Khaine."

"That's insane!" Illiawe exclaimed.

"I know it is, but the Exodites seem supremely confident about their military prowess."

"I am not talking about that. The Exodites could fight in the Rhana Dandra if they were so inclined. They're just not supposed to do so. They are to rebuild our civilization when this is all over."

The autarch shrugged. "You could try telling them that, but I rather doubt that they will listen." He dipped his head slightly by way of farewell and strode off.

Illiawe looked after him helplessly.

"You can't do anything about it, Illiawe," Taeryn said. "Let's go see what the autarchs and the farseers are up to."

"The autarchs?" Illiawe asked in surprise.

"Is that a problem?"

"No, it's not. I didn't think that the autarchs would allow us into their meetings."

"How are they going to keep us out?" Taeryn asked with a mischievous smile. She led Illiawe through the Exodite city until they came upon a glade that was strangely silent. Autarchs were gathered there, all impressively dressed in ornate armor that had been buffed until they gleamed – no mean accomplishment for the stone like surface of wraithbone – and with cloaks that were prominently fastened with symbols of their craftworlds and emblazoned with their honors and titles along the hem. As far as Illiawe could tell, the autarchs were concentrating on posing as much as they were on making plans. The whole affair was a riot of color and posturing and not much else.

"They're like a bunch of birds, aren't they?" Taeryn observed.

"The farseers will never waste their time with this," Illiawe agreed.

"You're right. The farseers would much rather be childish in another way." She grinned briefly as Illiawe's expression became outraged and turned back to the autarchs.

An autarch with yellow and white armor had just concluded a long-winded speech. Another autarch had replaced him before he had even walked out of the center of the glade. Illiawe recognized his colors and symbol as being those from Alesnar. He turned once, slowly, allowing the audience to get a full view of his wardrobe. When he spoke, his voice was studied.

"Our enemies lie beyond the barrier that divides this place from the Othersea. Prudence dictates that we make our peace with the humans so that we may both face this threat together." He paused, a small frown creasing his brow. "The autarchs of Alesnar stand with those of Biel-Tan. There will be time enough to rebuild when our enemies have been eradicated."

"What is this?" Illiawe heard Taeryn mutter. Illiawe thought that she knew, but she chose not to say anything.

"The farseers claim that none of the craftworlds will survive this war," the Alesnar autarch continued. "If that is the case, then Alesnar is prepared to abandon the moral reservations that have clouded our conceptions of tools of peace and war. Biel-Tan has used the implements with which we sculpt worlds in war. If we are to give up all our lives, then Alesnar will follow their example – without the restraints that Biel-Tan placed upon their tools. Alesnar will see whole fleets consumed down to nothingness before we give our own lives." He looked around him. "I am aware that you have among you tools of art and things that tradition forbids the use of, but these should be set aside for the coming war."

"What do you ask of us?" a voice rang out. The first autarch walked out of the crowd to stand beside the one from Alesnar. "We do not need to reduce ourselves to the level of the humans and the other uncultured races to go to war. Biel-Tan and all those with Biel-Tan forget that restraint keeps us from becoming like the orks, curbing of our desire to turn things of peace into weapons of war keeps us from becoming like the humans, and tradition holds us back from the brink of consumption by She Who Thirsts. Turn tools of creation into weapons that scour planets if you wish, but you will be fighting this war as no better than the Commorrites. You know as well as I do that the Rhana Dandra will be fought to preserve the eldar race, and has to be fought as true eldar and not the frenzied creatures that our ancestors became in the final millennia of our empire or the savages that the Commorrites now are." Then he looked directly at the Biel-Tan representative and sneered. "Or has the enmity between the seers and the martial leaders on that craftworld grown so wide that you think to know the future better than they do? Perhaps our bloodthirsty kin have devolved far more than we had thought and exchanged rationality for cruel and violent abandon?"

Illiawe gasped. "Why would he say that?" she exclaimed. "It was going so well before."

Taeryn shrugged. "It looks like some of the discontent between craftworlds have finally surfaced." She peered for a moment at the autarchs before them. The spiteful comments had caused an uproar of protests, and insults flew through the air this way and that like volleys of gunfire, but the abuse appeared to be limited strictly to the verbal kind. "Come on, Illiawe," she suggested. "This will most likely go on for quite a long while."

"I hope that it will not cause any problems later on," Illiawe muttered, chewing on her bottom lip in worry.

"Probably not. Battle always tend to make everyone jumpy. It looks like the autarchs are no exception."

"I hope you're right."

"Trust me, Illiawe. I've seen war meetings descend into a lot worse things than a few insults before. In Commorragh, whole raids could be called off because the cooperating archons couldn't agree on who among them gets the best spot to watch the battle."

"That doesn't seem so bad."

"It is when the reason the raids are cancelled is because the kabals are busy discussing politics."

"Politics?"

"Someone has to fill the position of archon when it is vacant. That tends to happen when the whole section of Commorragh collapses into an event horizon."

Illiawe sniffed. "Commorrites are idiots sometimes, but we know they are unreliable. I don't know why you think that a few inconveniently placed weapons are all that bad when it involves Commorrites."

"You don't know much about the Commorrites, do you? There are usually general truces when a raid is called. Physical violence before a raid is generally frowned upon, let alone assassinations." She grabbed Illiawe's arm. "Come on. Let's go to the Fields of Meeting. I want to see how the farseers are coming along in their discussions."

"You really are very passionate about this, aren't you?" Illiawe was quite irrationally amused. Taeryn was almost childish in her eagerness, and her mood appeared to be quite contagious.

"Be quiet, Illiawe," Taeryn said dismissively.

Illiawe laughed helplessly and let Taeryn lead her along. It took them quite a while to reach their destination, but the day was pleasant, the sky clear and the sun warm, and so Illiawe did not mind.

The vines at the entrance of the dome within which the Conclave gathered moved aside for them and they entered without breaking stride. The farseers of the Conclave were seated row upon row along the tiered seats, their attention fixed upon one of their number standing in the center of the floor. The farseer's face was set carefully in an expression of indignation. Illiawe did not take that to be a good sign.

"Perhaps some of us here require reminding of the behavior of the Commorrites," he was saying as they walked in. "What have the Commorrites ever brought us? All of us know that they do not fight alongside even us without some ulterior motive or to satisfy their own perverted desires. Why then would they fight with us now? We have all looked into the skeins, and there are few threads that say the Commorrites will stay with us to the end. We are farseers, and the eldar look to us to guide them to the best possible future. Must we go now to them and inform them that some among us are children? Why, if not childishness, would the farseers before me even seek to consider the possibility that the Commorrites might have a change of heart when they lack any? Why else would we be entertaining the idea that the remotest of threads amongst a million other dooms could come to pass, and cling on to that hope to the exclusion of all else? I refuse to consign our race to a course of action with an improbable outcome. We must retain our rationality even when some among us are too delusional to do so, and I shall pursue only those threads that we could with great plausibility make come about. I shall not chase fantasies, appealing though they may be."

A psychic wave rolled out from the gathered farseers, heavy with approval.

Then another farseer stood, and Illiawe recognized her as Elbera, the farseer of the craftworld that had close ties to the Commorrites. Her crimson and silver robes were pulled tight around her, as though it could protect her from the opposition that she quite obviously expected to face. "I wonder if I have to remind the farseer of Melaeyn that the manipulation of events is not beyond our power. I daresay that I am not the only one who had on occasion caused the improbable to become certainty. Chance obeys our touch, and not the other way around. It is true that the task that lies before us is greater than anything we have each individually done, but is not the outcome worth the effort? You know as well as I that the rewards are plenty should we secure the loyalty of the Commorrites. Is this not worth the dedication of some small amount of effort to?"

The Melaeynian farseer gazed flatly at her. "It is no secret that your craftworld consorts with Commorrites, farseer. Your impartiality in this matter is suspect. You speak of the advantages that an alliance would provide, but you speak not of the woes that will befall us should the Commorrites turn away from us as they are wont to do. You can secure their allegiance no more than any of us here could, and I refuse to place Melaeyn upon a course over which the Commorrites have more control than we do. It is perhaps true that the Commorrites hate the gods of the Othersea greatly, but they will fight not for our cause or our survival, but their own. Deal with the Commorrites if you must, but expect no aid from Melaeyn should they turn their backs on you."

There was a slight disturbance at the back of the dome, and Ethorach made his way down the steps. He stepped out onto the central floor, ignoring the farseer there. The Conclave was silent, waiting to hear what he was going to say.

"The points of the farseer of Melaeyn is well taken," he started slowly. "And were this any other situation, I would agree with him. But this is not a matter that the farseer councils can decide. The fates will it, and you can fight, but you cannot win. Why then would you waste time dwelling upon this matter when we could be planning for the coming war? Would you squander eldar lives in the coming battles by acting as you do now? Would it not be simpler to save yourselves anguish both now and later, and do as the fates decree?"

"I have seen no such decree," the Melaeyn farseer said from beside him.

"Then you have been struck blind. The portents are many and not hidden. If you do not think that fate has a hand in this matter, then look to the gods. The harlequins have mobilized. Even now they sweep toward the first battlegrounds of the Rhana Dandra."

"The gods?" the farseer sneered. "The gods have fallen silent millennia ago. Those of us who are old enough have grown weary of waiting for them to speak again."

The Conclave grew still. Illiawe looked covertly around. More than a few farseers were shifting uneasily, and a few had expressions of shock or outrage on their faces. The eldar gods no longer walked among Their children, but Their names still carried weight upon the craftworlds.

"Do you truly have so little faith in the gods?" Ethorach asked softly.

"Only in the patron of the harlequins," the farseer replied. "Khaine watches our battles, and Isha watches our souls, though They are both unable to aid us to Their fullest. But what of Cegorach? He is whole, but He hides and refuses to speak."

"You go too far!" an eldar shouted. "Do you seek to bring a calamity upon us by thus insulting the Laughing God?"

"Why would He care for words if He had not cared when our lives were lost?" the farseer retorted.

"Do not tempt the gods!" another farseer shouted. He looked slowly at those around him. "The point of the chief farseer of Melaeyn is well-taken, however. The difference between the demands of fate and the gods and the path that we think is the demand of fate is great indeed. Perhaps the gods demand that we seek an alliance with the Commorrites, but if they indeed do, such an alliance will come about no matter what we do to prevent it. But I shall not accept such a course of action if the possibility remains that this is not the choice of fate but simply what we think fate requires of us."

There was a general murmur of approval.

"Enough!" Ethorach thundered. He looked slowly around him, and there was a look upon his face that Illiawe had never seen before, a look that was almost contemptuous. "Do you find yourselves so great that you could go against fate? Do you think yourselves so powerful that you could do as you pleased? Do you think that you could go against fate if it brings you into an alliance with the Commorrites? You will join with them in this war, whether you do so willingly or not. Must you throw away eldar lives before you realize this?"

"And you, then," the Melaeyn farseer asked in an insulting tone, "do you think yourself above us? The Commorrites no longer hold morals. We will suffer more greatly if we ally with them than we will if we do not. You know this to be true."

"And you know that this can be changed."

"And why is that, farseer? Do you know something that we do not? Did the gods, perhaps, speak to you while you were asleep and showed you the paths with which to take? You consort with harlequins, but their goals are unknown to us. They have always been close to the Commorrites, however, and I am inclined not to believe that they lack an ulterior motive in this proposal of an alliance."

"The goals of the harlequins are unknown, and therefore you are afraid of it," Ethorach said quietly.

"That may be true, Ethorach, but my mind on the matter is made up." He looked around him. "My craftworld will fight the Rhana Dandra, but we will not do it alongside the Commorrites. Those of you who agree with Ethorach and Elbera can join them in talking to the Commorrites, but only the gods can change my mind." He looked slyly at Ethorach. "You don't happen to have the Phoenix King up your sleeve, do you?"

Ethorach gave him then a look that was almost sad. "If it is the orders of a god you wish, farseer, then it is the order of a god that you shall receive."

At first it seemed as though the shimmer was a trick of the light, but it grew quickly more and more pronounced, the air wavering around Ethorach, rolling out along the ground like a wave of heat, until the walls of the dome seemed to move. Like shadows rearing up out of the vines a darkness fell across the Fields, and the light of the vines overhead grew dark and faded away. The Conclave had fallen silent and now sat still, the air growing tense. Illiawe tore her eyes away from the walls and looked back to Ethorach, but the farseer was there no longer. The shadows moved then, growing larger, pressing in upon the Conclave. The farseers shrank back, apprehension rippling through their ranks. All around her Illiawe could feel the farseers drawing upon the energies of the Othersea, but the skeins moved and shifted around them and the energies eluded their grasp. The collective psychic feedback of the farseers became tinged with a hint of fear.

"Thou callest for the instruction of the gods," a voice came then from some unknown source. It was not a singular sound but a chorus of millions upon millions of voices, reverberating through the dome. "Thus, then, sayeth the gods. Go thou unto Commorragh and seek there the aid of thy kin that dwelleth within, for it is by this, and only this, that the Rhana Dandra shall be won."

"Very impressive, Ethorach," the Melaeyn farseer said dryly, "but do you really think me gullible enough to believe some cheap illusion?"

The shadows moved then, contorting, seeming almost to grow, and what little light that remained went out, as though suddenly obscured. Something in the center of the Fields of Meeting moved, and then the light came back, dimly illuminating the dome. A single figure stood there next to the farseer of Melaeyn. He was barely more than a silhouette, untouched by the flecks of rainbow light that swirled erratically around Him. A mask covered His face, fixed in an exaggerated grin. His eyes were bright and wise, and Illiawe wondered how she had never noticed them before. As though He knew what she was thinking, He looked up at her, His eye closing slowly in a sly wink. Illiawe swallowed. There seemed to be knowledge without limit within those eyes, a wealth of wisdom and lessons told from the foolishness of mortals and gods alike.

The Conclave had fallen silent, the air thick with their psychic emanation of awe and an ancient reverence.

Slowly, Cegorach turned to look at the farseer standing trembling before Him. "Look upon Me, then, with thine eyes and thy mind and thy soul, and call Me again a conjuration." Even as He spoke, His presence grew, spreading heavily upon all within the dome.

The farseer of Melaeyn groaned and clasped his arms before him, his head bowed. "Forgive me, Cegorach."

"Nay, son of Isha. I have given little guidance thee and thine, but thou speekest of things that thou knowest naught of. There is reason most good for Mine absence. The harlequins have served Me most faithfully, and it is from them that Mine instructions are given. It would behoove thee to do as they sayeth." Cegorach straightened, and the lights around Him spun dazzlingly. "Asked thou of the instructions of the gods. I tell thee now to go unto Commorragh and make alliance with thy kin. The time will surely come when thou wouldst be most grateful that thou hast done so." Cegorach's form wavered then, becoming fuzzy and indistinct, and then He was gone.

A stunned silence filled the dome at His departure.

"I take it you've had a change of heart?" Ethorach asked. He stood once again by the farseer of Melaeyn. Illiawe had not seen him return there.

The farseer nodded. "If the gods want this to come about, then it shall. I shall pick out a suitable emissary to Commorragh."

"Don't bother. I have a candidate in mind. In an action that was strangely reminiscent of Cegorach, he looked directly to where Illiawe sat with Taeryn. "You will talk to them, won't you?"

Taeryn nodded wordlessly.

Ethorach smiled beatifically around him. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, why don't we move on to something a little more useful?" He paused, collecting his thoughts. "The forces of the Othersea Gods will come out through the rift, but it is likely that Chaos cults will summon daemons into this realm. The humans are well aware of the threat from the rift, but it is the summoning of daemons that they cannot anticipate. We must make this our priority. The autarchs are able enough to direct the opposition to the forces that will come through the rift. We must turn our attention to the skeins and discover from whence the daemons will enter this realm so that we may strike before the threat arises."

"The humans will oppose us," a farseer pointed out.

"Undoubtedly," Ethorach agreed. "Just as we must work with the Commorrites, so too must we work with the humans. The humans have a method for dealing with the threat of Chaos, cruder than ours. Their discipline is not that of willingness, but of imposition. There are forces within their midst that watch for the threat of Chaos. We will inform these forces of our findings."

"It is unlikely that they will listen to us."

"Then their worlds will fall to Chaos, and they will soon enough learn."

"And how long will we have to wait while they learn? How many worlds must fall to Chaos before the humans lumber into action?"

Ethorach smiled. "We will have to put our faith in Cegorach, then, wouldn't we?" He pursed his lips. "I am well aware that not every craftworld here wants to dedicate a warhost to the aid of the region around the rift to the Othersea. To these craftworlds I charge with the care of daemonic incursion into this plane. Should the humans fail to contain in any timely manner the daemons that will undoubtedly be called upon, we must respond with the desolation of corrupted worlds before the Othersea gods gain any foothold in this realm."

"Come on, Illiawe," Taeryn said. "That's all I wanted to hear."

"All right." Illiawe stood. "Come on, then." She started off toward the entrance of the dome.

"You don't sound too happy."

"I'm not, Taeryn."

"Would you care to share what's bothering you?"

"No, Taeryn. It's most likely silly and irrational anyway."

"Illiawe," Taeryn said seriously, "I have probably seen a great deal more irrational things than you have ever imagined." She stopped just outside the entrance to the Fields of Meeting and turned to look at Illiawe, her lips pursed. "Is this about Cegorach?"

"No. At least, not entirely. How was Ethorach able to call upon Cegorach so quickly?"

"What makes you think Cegorach was called upon? He wants the alliance between the Commorrites and those of the craftworlds to come about just as much as we do, and Ethorach gave Him a very convenient opening." She smiled. "In case you haven't noticed, Cegorach has a flair for the dramatic."

"That makes sense, I suppose."

"Of course it does, Illiawe. But you suspect that there's more to it than that, and I suspect that you know the real reason to what you saw in there." She tilted her head to the dome in a light gesture, but her gaze was piercing as she looked at Illiawe.

Illiawe chewed upon her lip. A great number of things fell into place, and her suspicion seemed more and more plausible. "He's the Laughing God, isn't he?" she asked softly, hesitantly.

"You know that that's the truth," Taeryn said, smiling.

"How long have you known that for?"

"Not very."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Illiawe demanded.

"It never came up. Besides, it's more fun this way. The joy of discovery is nice, and I am too good a friend to deny that to you."

Illiawe glared at her, and Taeryn grinned impudently back.

"Cegorach had better have a very good explanation the next time I see him," Illiawe muttered darkly.

"An explanation for what?"

"All of it, Taeryn. Why would He want to pretend to be a farseer?"

"He explained that to me once. Apparently, you are something in the way of an experiment."

Illiawe stared at her in bafflement.

"Cegorach had an idea, and He picked a number of farseers to train. You are one of them. I'll explain it later, if you want."

"I would like that, yes."

Taeryn placed a hand upon Illiawe's arm. "Come on, Illiawe. Let's go for a ride to take your mind off this matter."

"A ride?" Illiawe echoed, baffled.

Taeryn winked slyly. "I was gifted one of the lizards that the Exodites use," she explained, her tone nonchalant. "I'm sure we could find one for you as well."

"I don't think that I know how to ride a lizard, Taeryn."

"It's not too much different from a skyrunner, Illiawe." She made a face. "That isn't quite true. It is very different from a skyrunner, but I'm sure that you'd pick it up in fairly short order."

The lizard that Taeryn acquired for Illiawe was a placid beast, sleek and powerfully muscled. She was a little smaller than Taeryn's steed, with an intricate saddle upon her back. Taeryn would not tell her how she came by the lizard, and Illiawe was not sure if she wanted to know. The lizard reared up as Illiawe approached, looking at the farseer with one large eye, her head cocked curiously to one side. Illiawe reached out with her mind, touching that of the lizard. Her thoughts were at first curious as she probed Illiawe's memories in turn, testing her allegiance, and eventually grew accepting. She made a small clicking sound and stretched her neck out, her head forming a nearly perfect horizontal line to the tip of her tail, patiently waiting for Illiawe to mount. Somewhat nervously, Illiawe slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung herself up, shifting for a while in an attempt to make herself comfortable. The Exodite saddle was well made, sturdy and well-padded, and when the lizard moved, her gait was steady and smooth, and Illiawe grew a little more confident.

Taeryn led them out of the west gate of Mar-Kenaleith at a leisurely walk. The day was a beautiful one. The sun was bright, the sky clear, and the air pleasantly warm. Large shapes moved in the distance, giant beasts the size of small mountains that lumbered around, their heads barely distinguishable upon their long serpentine necks.

"Come on, Illiawe," Taeryn said, laying a hand upon the neck of her lizard. "Kaleer wants to run."

"Kaleer?" Illiawe asked in amusement.

"That's his name."

"Did he tell you that?" Illiawe teased.

"Yes, actually, he did," Taeryn replied without any hint of irony. She gestured with a flick of her eyes at the lizard Illiawe was on. "Her name's Maer, if you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

Taeryn shrugged. "It's a good thing to know." She pointed with her chin. "I'll race you to that hill." And she bent low in her saddle and sped off.

A single pulse of thought sent Maer in pursuit of the laughing harlequin. The lizard was fast, her muscles bunching powerfully under Illiawe, and they kept perfect pace with Taeryn. Side by side they raced, the wind whipping their hair back. All at once a great sense of freedom descended upon Illiawe and she laughed for sheer joy. They went effortlessly up the side of the hill and stopped at its crest. Illiawe was breathing heavily, and she was grinning. Taeryn grinned back at her.

"Invigorating, isn't it?" her friend asked.

Illiawe nodded. "I suppose that the emphasis craftworld life places on restraint has taken root a little too deeply in me."

"Stuffy," Taeryn corrected. "The word that you're looking for is "stuffy". If you think that ride felt great, wait a little while longer."

"What do you mean?"

"I wouldn't want to spoil it," Taeryn said, winking. She nudged her lizard into a walk, going down the other side of the hill. Illiawe followed, curiosity nagging at her. She cast a sidelong glance at Taeryn and gathered the energies of the Othersea to cast her mind into the skeins. Her thread lay out before her, clear and unclouded save for a single length in the thread of her immediate future. She pushed against that barrier for a while, but it refused to relent. She moved then on to Taeryn's threads, and that, too, was clouded.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Taeryn asked pleasantly.

"Stop that, Taeryn."

"No. You'd just have to be patient, Illiawe." She turned away to admire the scenery around her, seemingly oblivious to the glare that Illiawe levelled at the back of her head.

They came eventually to a lush valley with a crystal stream flowing merrily down its center. Taeryn led her some distance along the stream, then she turned and disappeared into a hidden path at the foot of the mountains. Illiawe followed her, her curiosity growing stronger. Then there before her was a grove with a single tree in its middle. Gathered there was the light troupe of the Darkened Moon. Troupe Master Esarlyth stood beneath the tree, with a harlequin in a mask in the shape of a skull on his left. Before Esarlyth were gathered the rest of the troupe. They stood in two rows, forming a path that stretched out toward Esarlyth. The harlequins wore their full costumes, their masks blank, serene.

"What's this?" Illiawe asked Taeryn.

"A formality. Every new harlequin is welcomed into their troupe in a certain manner. We usually hold this sort of event in someplace a little more formal. You aren't replacing anyone, so we can be a bit more lax with the observance." She smiled slyly at Illiawe. "We are harlequins, after all, and you didn't think that you were going to join our troupe without ceremony, did you?" Taeryn's face was calm, though there was a small smile upon her lips, and her eyes glittered. "Stay here," she instructed before moving away to stand by Esarlyth's side.

The song of the harlequins began softly, almost too soft to hear. The words were strange – not the eldar tongue, certainly, but it was nonetheless tantalizingly familiar. The song quickly grew in strength as each harlequin, his face upraised, added a different tone, until the song was a complex harmony of two dozen different melodies and ranges.

Without knowing how she knew to do so, Illiawe stepped forward, moving between the troupe toward Esarlyth. Taeryn caught her eye and smiled a mischievous little smile. She stretched her arm out. Held in her hand was a featureless silver mask. Within its depths Illiawe could make out shifting colors and hazy images. Illiawe recognized the psychic imprint of the mask. It was the one that she had worn while masquerading as a shadowseer. It seemed to her as though that fact was somehow important, significant, even. Some small part at the back of her mind nagged at her, presenting a simple and obvious answer, but Illiawe found that she neither comprehended it, nor did she really care. She took the mask from Taeryn and, as though the gesture was in itself symbolic, the vast presence of Cegorach welled up within her. The harlequin song stopped abruptly and Illiawe was left alone with the presence of the Laughing God. There was wisdom there, and an eternal watchfulness, and love and guidance. There was also an unspoken question, and so Illiawe gave her reply with neither word nor thought. She took up the Paths that the eldar of the craftworlds followed and in a moment forsook them. And all at once the Paths that she had walked before, Paths that she had kept separate all her years as she had been taught to do, came together, and in their coming together so too came the memories and the individuality of those Paths. The memories of the warrior mingled with that of the healer, the seer with the emissary, the carer of the craftworld's animals with the record keeper. On instinct, Illiawe fought the merging of the thoughts. The eldar of the craftworld kept their civilian lives from their warrior lives with good reason. She clenched her jaw and did her best to ignore the teachings that had been instilled into her dozens of centuries before, letting her memories merge into each other. As she did so, a sense of wholeness settled over her, and with it came vulnerability from the mixing of the raw emotions that all eldar had the potential to feel. Then Cegorach's presence was there around her, as were the presence of the harlequins, providing security and assurance.

"Hence is Illiawe of Ulthwé no more," Taeryn intoned to Esarlyth.

"Welcome, then, Illiawe of the Darkened Moon," he replied formally.

At that the harlequins burst once more into song, filling the grove with the sound of their chorus.

Taeryn grinned at Illiawe. "And now are you truly one of us." Her eyes flicked to a spot somewhere behind Illiawe and she smiled.

Illiawe did not have to turn to know who was there. His presence was very familiar. But she turned anyway. Ethorach stood almost hidden in an unusually dark part of the grove, his lined face as serene as Taeryn's had been, but it was not exactly the face that Illiawe knew. The age seemed to have gone out of his face, and his lips were curled in a roguish little smile. His eyes twinkled, as though there was some vast joke that only he knew and understood. He did not move or speak, only stood, and then his eye closed in a sly wink. Something flickered at the edge of Illiawe's vision and she turned for just a fraction of a second. When she looked back, her former mentor, and now a lot more than simply that, was gone.