“YOU SQUANDER FORTUNE in slumber, Vhy’liethe of the Reborn. Awaken.”
The dispassionate voice, though whisper soft, roused Vhy’liethe from unconsciousness. Awareness returned, no hint of disorientation. Eyes snapping open, he was greeted by an impenetrable darkness, but he wasn’t alone. He sensed another’s presence sharing the void with him.
“Reveal yourself.” His breath was a hiss of warning.
“I stand before you,” came the monotonous response. “To see, remove your shroud.”
Vhy’liethe blinked once, confused, then alarmed, knowing there was no shroud covered him. Not physically. Fury simmered. “You have blinded me.”
“You are in error, Reborn. You would perceive if you would but shed yesterday’s today.”
Maddened by this enigma of insanity, Vhy’liethe surged to his feet. Energy fluxed around him in a potent wave as he grasped for the aether. Harnessed it. He didn’t need his sight to know ethereal sparks danced across his right palm, nor to find the source of his ire with his left. As he wrapped his fingers around a slender neck, he felt the shocking sensation of fine fabric. Against his bare hand.
A powerful shudder shook him.
He never left himself so exposed, hating the sensation of anythingbut the smooth interior of his gloves against his skin. All at once, his concentration fractured, the aether slipping from his grasp, as insubstantial as mist. His loss of control was inconceivable. He was a warlock. His psychic prowess was renown. Shame burned in his chest. Along with anger. With the unexpected loss of his precious gloves, the desire for violence was provoked. Only prudence kept him in check.
Questions demanded answers. Foremost being, “Where am I?”
The last he remembered, he’d just returned to his private chamber aboard the battleship Ynnead’s Dream, when the shadows had converged around him, too fast for him to react. Before succumbing to dark oblivion, he’d heard a voice. “Forgive the intrusion, Warlock. Your hour has arrived.” Followed by maniacal laughter, chasing him into thedeep well of unconsciousness.
He knew that voice… That laugh…
Vhy’liethe sucked in a harsh breath, recognition sparking an older memory—several moon cycles past.
One of their maiden worlds had fallen sway under a capricious god’s amusement. Fearing the spread of corruption, their exodite cousins had sent out a psychic signal, desperate for salvation. Craftworld Varantha had answered their call. Many of the exodites had been safely ferried off world. Unfortunately, there’d been those who’d become ensnared within the Great Deceiver’s temporal misalignment, a time vortex that prevented all attempts of escape—and rescue.
Unable to extract their entrapped kin, the warriors of Varantha had taken the exodite refugees and left, vowing to return. Their captured kin were not without hope. Varantha would recover what was lost, when the appropriate time drew near. Including a treasure of great import. Beneath the mountains, sequestered within the exodite’s hidden temple, lay an artifact.
Unfortunately for Varantha, their farseers were not the only ones to sense its presence.
The Ynnari had come, perceiving an obsessive want, a dark force’s insatiable covetousness. The artifact. Shrouded in mystery. Not even their most skilled farseers could pierce the veil to reveal its true nature. Intrigued, the prophetess, Yvraine, had been adamant for the Ynnari to take possession of this unknown.
It was to Vhy’liethe she entrusted the artifact’s retrieval.
Soon after Varantha’s departure, a small band of Ynnari made planetfall, where they came upon mutation. The behemoth mon-keigh had stumbled into the Deceiver’s tangle, offering the Ynnari a fortuitous distraction. While Chaos fought the barbarian Astartes, the Ynnari sought a hidden entrance into the bowels of the mountain, far below the source of the Changer of Ways illusions closer to the peak.
With his kin guarding the concealed entrance, Vhy’liethe journeyed through the unfamiliar labyrinthian passages with the aid of his guide. Upon his person he carried several spirit stones, each containing the soul of an ancient aeldari. By far his most powerful asset, Vhy’liethe syphoned the abilities from the powerful Farseer Zhyrael Sae’lan. Vhy’liethe not only located the mysterious treasure but successfully navigated the potent safeguards protecting the ceremonial chamber.
Within, he found the artifact resting upon an ornate stand. A tome, scarred by time and covered in runes of Chaos. Expecting an aeldari relic of great import, he was stunned to recognize the hideous scrawls of the mon-keigh.
An error? Had Farseer Zhyrael led him astray? Impossible.
Even more unbelievable was being caught completely unaware. A voice came from behind him.
“Not the treasure you were expecting, Warlock? I daresay, you positively exude disappointment.”
The intruder wore the honourable black and white colors of Craftworld Ulthwé, but the laughing figure was not one of the mighty warriors of Ulthanash Shelwé. Waving his right hand, gloved in black, he magnanimously offered, “Allow me to relieve you of that which you find so…repugnant.” In his other hand, gloved in white, he gripped a fusion pistol held loosely against his thigh, his pants matching the alternating colors of his gloves.
A white rune was stamped on the figure’s black thigh, a four-pointed star depicting the dark troupe of the Harlequin. Moreover, the rune was bordered by curved arcs. This was no ordinary Harlequin player.
“State your purpose here, Troupe Master,” Vhy’liethe commanded. Had Yvraine sent aid? The Ynnari had many followers, even those amongst the Harlequin, but when he identified a third rune etched onto the troupe master’s left knee guard, he frowned. “The Masque of the Shattered Mirage. You are not Ynnari.”
The troupe master guffawed. “Poor, misguided, Warlock. You place your hope in a falsehood. Your Whispering God is impotent, unlike our Cegorach.”
Cognizant of the Shattered Mirage’s blatant disbelief—their ridicule—in the Ynnari’s god, Vhy’liethe opened his mouth to issue a scathing rebuttal, but the troupe master continued.
Menacing shadows wavered across the Harlequin’s gold mask, its expression…unsightly. With a grin stretched impossibly wide, curling upwards towards large, bat-like ears, the nose was elongated and curved like a scythe over serrated teeth, along with brows pulled low in a vicious scowl.
A false face Vhy’liethe would not easily forget.
“You know of me, Troupe Master? Then you should know not to cross me. This tome is marked for the Ynnari.” Detestable book in hand, Vhy’liethe lifted his witchblade, sparks dancing along the sharp edge. “Unless you seek to challenge the Ynnari’s claim.”
The troupe master’s next words surprised him, causing Vhy’liethe’s breath to catch and his heart to stutter in his chest. “There is another, calling. If you have ears to listen.” Then came the impossible invitation. “The Black Library whispers.”
Thememory of the artifact and the exodite’s temple faded, and Vhy’liethe’s awareness returned to the present. To the stranger he could not see but held securely by the throat. The recollection lasted no longer than two heartbeats.
“Troupe Master Iayaniar,” Vhy’liethe murmured. A realization. A curse. “He was the one to spirit me away.” The one who’d accosted him in his own chambers aboard the Ynnead’s Dream.
Then Vhy’liethe spoke to his captive. “Yet you are not he.” His grip flexed dangerously around the stranger’s neck, anger smoldering at the Harlequins’ audacity to play tricks on him. “Who. Are. You,” he demanded softly, tempering violent urges.
All at once, his sight returned, burning in its intensity. Tears spilled down his cheeks. Vision blurred, he made out a white visage with small eyes and nose, but no mouth. Not a face, he realized. A stark mask stared back at him.
“One of the many,” the Harlequin before him answered, impassive. “A guardian-scribe of the Black Library. I am Nameless.”
The Musing of R. L. Frymire 
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