The Dream Stone (Short Story)

[The Neverborn]

Craftworld Yiel-Yan
The Halo Stars
Circa M34
 

Farseer Valdrien checked his Ghosthelm for a second time.

Its weight was reassuring—but only when it rested against the plates of his neck in precisely the manner to which he was accustomed, its pressure distributed evenly across his collarbones. It was a minor ritual, one he had observed since first being permitted to wear the helm. A habit shared only with his partner.

Superstitious?

No. Valdrien was meticulous.

He rose and left the meditation chamber. As he crossed the threshold, he raised one index finger by the smallest fraction.

The gesture was almost imperceptible, but its meaning was clear.

The two Guardians waiting outside reacted instantly. Though they had caught only a fleeting glimpse of the motion through the opening chamber door, they straightened to attention and fell into position behind him. Together, they began the walk towards the warhost awaiting his command.

Valdrien had already scried the skein. He had not been surprised when the mon-keigh first set a clumsy boot upon the maiden world. Every preparation had been completed months before the first of their vessels entered its atmosphere.

The warhost was small, scarcely two hundred strong.

It would be enough.

Valdrien was certain of it.

A needle, placed with precision, was all that was required.

A beacon that would never be activated.

A record that would never be entered.

A settlement that would never be founded.

A stronghold that would never be raised.

A world that would never be defiled.

That was the way of things.

He had seen it.

The hallway was long and silent, tranquil in precisely the manner Valdrien preferred.

There was space enough for twenty Aeldari to walk abreast, though it had never been intended to accommodate more than five. Such was the design of the craftworld: generous without waste, elegant without excess, shaped according to principles that lesser minds might mistake for extravagance.

Even through his Ghosthelm, Valdrien could hear the air moving along the corridor.

The walls were formed in muted greys, blues and greens, their surfaces flowing into one another like stone beneath deep water. Teal curtains hung between the sweeping arches, stirring gently in the artificial breeze.

Here, at least, he had time to think.

Time to compose himself in peace.

Personally, he would have preferred the curtains removed.

He had considered doing so for some time. Their constant movement interrupted the tranquillity of the corridor. Perhaps he would have them taken down when he returned.

Valdrien smiled faintly.

For all the breadth of his intellect, he could no longer remember precisely how many times he had entertained the thought.

He had been bonded to his partner for five hundred and sixty-one annual cycles. The idea had first occurred to him sometime between their union and the birth of their first child. Of that, at least, he was reasonably certain.

His firstborn would reach three hundred and fifty-five cycles at the next turning.

So perhaps he had been considering the matter for four centuries.

There was no need to rush.

Brash action made his stomach turn.

For a moment, he contemplated reaching into the skein to determine whether the curtains would ever be removed—and, if so, when.

No.

That, too, required consideration.

It would be foolish to consult the skein over so trivial a matter without first devoting sufficient thought to the consequences. Better to reflect upon it further before resorting to such excess.

Valdrien centred his mind and continued onwards.

He was almost halfway to his destination.

There was just enough time remaining to empty his thoughts of such distractions before he reached the end of the hallway.

 

 

[The Neverborn]

“Farseer.” 

Valdrien knew the speaker before he turned. 

Jsistal. 

The Autarch had a way of pronouncing the title as though it rhymed with mud, despite the two words sharing no such resemblance. 

Valdrien did not like Jsistal. 

The feeling was mutual. 

He was wise enough to recognise that neither of them had ever wronged the other in any meaningful fashion. They simply did not sit well together. There were souls whose temperaments met and flowed around one another without effort. 

Theirs collided. 

Valdrien composed himself before turning. 

“Jsistal.” 

He made every effort not to descend to the Autarch’s level of pettiness. 

Nevertheless, when he spoke the name, he contrived to make it rhyme with waste. 

“Did you remember to appraise the four new Warlocks following their latest progression along the Path?” 

It was a valid question. 

It was not discourteous, and as Autarch, Jsistal had every right to ask it. 

Even so, the manner in which he asked made the fine hairs at the back of Valdrien’s neck rise. 

Valdrien had not completed the appraisals. 

He already knew the accusatory look that would follow. No consultation of the skein was required. 

One of the four Warlocks might soon be assigned to a Guardian squad without Valdrien having judged whether they were prepared. For three of them, this would be their first experience beyond Yiel-Yan since taking the Path of the Seer. 

For all four, it would be their first battle. 

Valdrien braced himself. 

“No,” he said. “I have not.” 

Jsistal gave him the look. 

Nothing more was required. 

The two Guardians accompanying Valdrien were fully unhelmed. They exchanged a brief, uncomfortable glance. 

“I shall attend to it when we return, kinsman.” 

Valdrien inclined his head by precisely the amount required to suggest either deference or mockery. 

One of the Guardians tightened his mouth in an effort not to smile. 

Jsistal looked at him. 

The expression vanished. 

They continued into the adjoining chamber. 

Two hundred Aeldari knelt around the Shrine of the Harvest of Souls. 

Only fifteen were Dark Reapers, but such numbers were not unusual aboard Yiel-Yan. The craftworld maintained several shrines dedicated to the Path of the Destroyer, and many of its people chose to walk beneath their shadow. In some warhosts, the Reapers outnumbered even the Dire Avengers. 

In this host, there were no Dire Avengers at all. 

Every Aeldari within the chamber had walked either the Path of the Seer or the Path of the Destroyer. Those who presently followed neither path had taken up arms as Guardians, their armour painted in the cold, icy blue of Yiel-Yan. 

The chamber fell silent as Valdrien entered. 

He passed between the kneeling warriors and approached the raised platform at the shrine’s centre. 

When he ascended its first step, every gaze settled upon him. 

The time had come.