The Musing of R. L. Frymire

NAMELESS, DRESSED IN a nondescript, white robe, held out clothe of darkest obsidian. At first glance, Vhy’liethe assumed the garment mirrored those worn by the warlocks of Ulthwé, robes he himself continued to wear despite having departed from his craftworld of birth long ago.

Ulthwé’s commitment in preserving their race ran deep. No cost was too great, no matter how many lives of other sentient beings Ulthwé had to sacrifice in their manipulations to gain the advantage against Chaos. Ultimately, however, those of Ulthwé were shortsighted. Vhy’liethe was one of many who had forsaken Ulthwé and, instead, align themselves with the Ynnari, who’s divine purpose was to awaken Ynnead.

The Whispering God.

The aeldari’s only true hope for survival.

Vhy’liethe’s certainty that he would play a pivotal role in his race’s salvation was unshakable. So, when he noted the onyx mask atop the robe Nameless was offering to him, he sneered. “You presume much, Nameless.”

“The Black Council bids you welcome, and offers a unique opportunity. To continue forward, shed what you once were. The Damned. The Reborn. Open your mind to rebirth.”

“‘Rebirth?’” Vhy’liethe echoed, incredulous.

Nameless nodded sagely. “Re-emerge as one reincarnate.”

“As Harlequin? You jest.”

“Or other. A reincarnate comes in many forms,” the scribe corrected, unperturbed by Vhy’liethe’s disdain.

Nameless gestured at the dark robes Vhy’liethe currently wore. “You adorn yourself in The Eye of Isha’s pride, yet your countenance is cast towards the nascent essence of the dead. Past and present allegiance incumbers future potential. The Black Council offers you a return to an unmarked state, a chance to become something more than you are now.” Nameless held the robe and mask closer.

When Vhy’liethe made no move to take either, the scribe tilted his chin downward, casting eerie shadows along his white mask, transforming the blank face into something sinister. “You hesitate. Yet you have already presented your exchange, which has been accepted.”

Vhy’liethe stiffened. “What do you know of an exchange?”

When Nameless made no answer, sensation stabbed through Vhy’liethe, one he refused to acknowledge, let alone give name to. Memory haunted him. Of handing over a scarred tome to the Harlequin’s Masque of Frozen Stars, to Troupe Master Iayaniar. An acceptable sacrifice for a promise of better. Of true knowledge. Not wasted script of an inferior race.

Vhy’liethe assured himself that, despite having given the exodite’s artifact to Iayaniar rather than Yvraine, he had not been disloyal to the Ynnari. The prophetess had sent him, knowing what he’d find. Or rather, who would find him. Surely, she had not wished for him to return with such a paltry item, not when he could offer her so much more, which could only be had by his accepting the Black Council’s invitation.

And yet, he’d spoken nothing of his findings within the exodite’s temple, nor of his subsequent bargain with the dark troupe master after his return to the Ynnari’s battleship.

“You return empty-handed, Warlock,” Yvraine had said to him in cold observation.

“Apologies, High Priestess,” Vhy’liethe had replied simply.He’d offered no excuses, had given no explanations.

Had he seen a flicker of mistrust staring back at him from Yvraine’s ice blue eyes? Even the overprotective Visarch had grown tense at her side. Already a quiet figure, the drukhari swordsman was an enigma, his face ever hidden beneath the ancient armour of the Bel-Anshoc, yet Vhy’liethe had been certain he’d detected a hint of suspicion from the Visarch—directed at him. But it was the third of the Triumvirate that had given Vhy’liethe the most pause, and the most reason to doubt his impromptu decision to keep silent of his interaction with the troupe master. The Yncarne. The Avatar of the Whispering God. A being too beautiful, too terrifying to be real had stared down at him with the fiery eyes of death’s judgment. Yet, the avatar had remained silent.

No one had questioned Vhy’liethe. Instead, he’d been dismissed to return to his other duties. And as he’d left their presence, he’d assured himself that he hadn’t broken their faith. His loyalty was unquestionable. The Triumvirate trusted him.

As a mark of their confidence in him, Vhy’liethe now stood within the ancient halls of the Black Library, where true treasure was kept. Sequestered.

His fingers itched to possesses that which should never have been forbidden him. For millennia, the Harlequin had withheld the aeldari’s most ancestral of secrets, hoarding ancient knowledge for themselves. Knowledge of the aether—fragmented as it was, of the Ruinous Powers, of the aeldari’s very future was not only for the fiendish dancers to possess! he thought with a flash of passion’s heat.

The Harlequin were unworthy to be the Black Library’s keepers.

Unfortunately, the masked figures were quite adept at hiding the ancient craftworld within the webway, where only the Harlequin had a more complete understanding of the labyrinthine dimension and its complex passageways. Only an expressed invitation from the Black Council could secure an outsider’s admission.

When the silence stretched between him and Nameless, Vhy’liethe warned, “I will not forsake the Whispering God. Only a fool would believe otherwise.”

Nameless dropped his arm, the black robe and mask falling to his side. “The Council will not force you. Self-determination reigns here. Come. We linger too long.”

Tension he had not realized he’d been carrying eased from Vhy’liethe, and though a smile of grim satisfaction threatened to form, his heart yet hammered in residual anxiety. What would he have done had his refusal resulted in his invitation being revoked? Could he have turned his back on the endless possibilities the Black Library represented? Useless speculation.

He was meant for great things. Obviously, the Black Council were of the same opinion.

Despite Nameless’ words of haste, the scribe did not move. Impatient, Vhy’liethe prompted, “Shall we?” and gestured towards the chamber’s single door.

He’d been trying to ignore the sensation for a while now, but the room’s limited space was beginning to affect him in strange ways. He felt…suffocated. As though the walls were closing in on him, too slowly to perceive. Other than the cot he’d awoken upon, the room was barren, with only he and the scribe taking up what little space remained.

“Apologies, but only entrants may traverse the Black Library unimpeded. From here, you must proceed as you are now.”

Not understanding, Vhy’liethe opened his mouth to speak, only to stiffen in shock when a dark hood was shoved over his head from behind.

“Blind,” he heard the scribe rasp, before everything returned to black.