Hall of Whispers
Lethis, Shyish
‘It is decided, then?’ the Hag Queen’s shimmering, translucent image asked Stormcast Command.
Neiros Steinbrech, haunting the periphery of the council gathering and remaining silent – as promised – ground his teeth as an uncomfortable silence yawned before them. Lord-Imperatant Hadrian Antiphon weighed the Khainite priestess’ words as if they portended his own doom.
The others – Knight-Heraldor Calista Plaguesbane, Lord-Aquilor Orennus Tyr, Lord-Veritant Keiser ven Brecht, Lord-Exorcist Helesta Shadeforged and Knight-Draconis Jordaius – exchanged the briefest of glances, a silent agreement to maintain the fiction now agreed upon, a vow so solemn that words did not even need to be spoken to formalise it.
‘It is decided,’ Antiphon finally said. ‘Morathi released the prisoners of her own volition, after years of quiet, surreptitious negotiation with Sigmar himself.’
The life-sized, magically projected image of the Hag Queen – a newly appointed regent installed to govern Anvilgard after Imreth Daemanta’s removal – shimmered ever so slightly, as though it were a pond and a pebble had been cast into it. The Hag Queen met Antiphon’s hard gaze across the immeasurable gulfs between the realms.
Steinbrech wondered idly what had become of Imreth Daemanta. She had been in command when he reached Dauntless Hall, in the aftermath of the battle. She was, in fact, in a fury, having been defied by the Harridynn Malascyra Stormwrack. Stormwrack had struck down Tivrain Greymantle, sending the Knight-Incantor back to the Anvil of Apotheosis, denying Imreth her final prisoner. Stormwrack was, at that time, Daemanta’s prisoner, already being threatened with monstrous depredations and torture in answer for her insolence.
Even now, weeks later, Steinbrech knew nothing of her fate.
‘We have Sigmar’s assurance of discretion?’ the ghostly Hag Queen asked, voice dropping in tone.
‘The God-King himself uttered his vow in my presence,’ Antiphon said. ‘He values the might and valour of Morathi, and those who serve her. He shall keep this secret as long as Morathi honours their alliance.’
The Hag Queen smiled, a chilling expression that filled Steinbrech with palpable dread.
‘Very well, then, Lord-Imperatant,’ the Hag Queen said, squaring her shoulders. ‘Our business is concluded. I bid you good evening.’
The Seeing Stone that allowed the two parties to speak face to face across the spaces separating the realms winked out. The projection of the Hag Queen vanished. Lord-Imperatant Antiphon stared at the darkened stone for a long time, as if to be certain that it had ceased projecting its ghostly image of him and his fellow council members to the queen regent in Aqshy. He finally turned to address his fellows… and Steinbrech.
‘Does everyone understand the agreement?’
‘Sigmar saves face and need not admit that any of his loyal Stormcasts defied him,’ ven Brecht said mordantly, ‘while Morathi plays the magnanimous ally, releasing the Stormcast prisoners she has long held out of the kindness of her black and shrivelled heart.’
‘If I hear those words outside this chamber, ven Brecht,’ Lord-Imperatant Antiphon said, ‘I will see you punished accordingly. I will see any among you punished if the lie we’ve agreed to propagate today is ever exposed as such. So far as our Stormhost brothers and sisters and the world at large know, those hostage Stormcasts were returned to us by Morathi herself.’
He looked to Neiros Steinbrech.
‘Can you accept those terms, Lord-Arcanum?’
‘Your terms are not mine to accept or deny,’ Steinbrech said. ‘Our God-King says this is the truth – the truth, therefore, is hewn in stone. Morathi released the prisoners, to preserve the alliance.’
Antiphon stared, as if awaiting a few more words, a bitter invective or wry utterance. Neither presented themselves.
‘Very well, then,’ Antiphon said. ‘Perhaps now we can put this ugly episode behind us.’
All departed without a word, leaving the Lord-Imperatant alone in the Hall of Whispers.
Over the weeks following the Battle of Anvilgard, Lord-Arcanum Neiros Steinbrech had not escaped random encounters with the Stormcasts he’d been sent to fetch home from Aqshy. In every case, they failed to recognise him. Some paused, certainly – his face or his eyes ringing some small clarion bell of recognition in their minds – but not one of them could speak his name or betrayed any sort of enmity or hatred for him.
He had come to think of them as living gheists, haunting him, their indifference a taunt, their total lack of understanding an insult.
I sought to humble them, he thought bitterly. To teach them lessons, to enlighten and redeem them. And what did I achieve?
They succeeded.
I failed.
He kept his head down. He prayed to let go, to shed himself of desire and pride and to accept that the task was completed, if not in the fashion he had hoped. Over the course of many days, the sting of his failure began to subside. His duties and responsibilities eclipsed his regrets.
That was when Tivrain Greymantle returned to him.
She turned up at the stables one day as Steinbrech attended his dracoline. He was not sure how long she’d been standing there, staring at him, before he finally noticed and acknowledged her.
‘I saw you yesterday,’ she said, ‘and something inside me said that I should know you – I should remember you – and yet, I do not. Might I ask, do you remember me?’
Steinbrech stared at Tivrain. Her eyes made her confusion and disorientation clear. He was familiar with it – he’d felt it many times himself – the subconscious understanding of weapons drills and magical operations and armour care and the like, knowledge seemingly chiselled into one’s mind and heart, immutable, unchanging, while one’s understanding of one’s self, or those around them, failed to make the translation, fractured and reassembled like a broken mirror turned into mosaic art.
Steinbrech sighed. This was what he had wanted all along, was it not? For the Knight-Incantor, so intent on remembering, to simply forget?
She could be one of us again, he thought. This, at last, could be the hour of her return to the Altar of the Scoured Slate, to the truth of our existence, to the holiest abdication we can offer our lord and master.
But staring at her, studying her face – once beautiful, perhaps, now made gaunt and hard by her Reforging as a Stormcast – he felt something new and unbidden stirring within him, an errant, unwanted epiphany that refused to slink back into the darker recesses of his mind.
‘Come,’ Steinbrech said. ‘If you have the time, I’d like to show you something.’
He led Tivrain to the tombs of the Elegium Aeternum, to the Crypt of Remembrance. It was the middle of the day, so no one was present. Breezes from the surface sighed and moaned through cracks in the masonry, and the catacombs smelled of stale incense and dust.
Steinbrech ordered Tivrain to seat herself on a nearby sarcophagus, then went about lighting a number of candles, enough to read by. Once they were lit, flickering placidly in the strange breezes that snaked through the chamber, Steinbrech moved to the crypt that held the books and drew down the Mourning Codex.
As he placed it on the lectern, he stole a glance at the Knight-Incantor. Tivrain studied the tomb around her, curious and confused all at once. Steinbrech could almost see the conflict raging in the haunted corridors of her mind – recognition without understanding, feelings without context.
‘What is this place?’ she finally asked.
Steinbrech opened the codex and began leafing through its many pages in search of a specific entry.
This is sentiment, a hard, pitiless voice inside him sneered. Foolish, misguided indulgence.
Show her the truth, Neiros. Show her the light.
‘I shall,’ he said aloud.
‘Lord-Arcanum?’ Tivrain asked.
‘This sanctuary is yours,’ Steinbrech told her. ‘The tomb lodge that you called home meets here, holds sacraments here. You belonged here.’
Tivrain stared. She appeared to believe him, but she had no understanding of why she should.
Steinbrech found the page he sought. He took up quill and ink and began to scratch each of the names of Tivrain’s companions into the ranks of the fallen. He read each, slowly, reverently, for his own benefit as much as Tivrain’s.
‘Knight-Relictor Ansonnir, Protector-Prime Ordys Stormwall, Liberator-Prime Ibon, Knight-Azyros Rysain–’
Inexplicably, his voice caught in his throat. He forced himself to carry on.
‘Knight-Arcanum Tarros, Judicator Vornus Blackcrown, Hunter-Prime Athelys Grimscar, Annihilator Heldymion Dawnslight, Retributor Barastus Battleborn, Decimator Saran Doomsmaul, Redeemer Liberator Pharena Ashforged… and Knight-Incantor Tivrain Grey-mantle.’
He looked to Tivrain, seeking signs of recognition. He saw none.
‘Those were your companions,’ Steinbrech said. ‘Your friends.’
He saw her distress, the realisation that she should remember but did not, the wound that bloomed from the understanding that names that should have been precious to her were completely and utterly lost.
Neiros cleared his throat and pressed on.
‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘The names of the fallen are recorded, your name among them. Long may you remember, Tivrain Greymantle. Long may you be whole.’
Tivrain continued to stare. None of it was familiar to her.
‘Repeat the words back to me,’ Steinbrech commanded.
‘Long may I remember,’ she said solemnly. ‘Long may I be whole.’
‘We come now to the Time of Recall,’ Steinbrech said.
‘Recall?’ Tivrain repeated.
‘Your lodge – this place – is a place for remembering. Some are content to forget, to let go, and there is no wickedness in that, if that is what they choose.
‘But some choose to remember, Tivrain, to make of remembrance a sacrament, a solemn devotion. And there is no wickedness in that, either, so long as it is what they choose.’
She waited. Her eyes bore in them a strange light – curiosity, even hope.
‘What do you choose, Tivrain?’ Neiros Steinbrech asked.
‘I would like to remember,’ she said.
Steinbrech nodded.
‘Tivrain Greymantle,’ Steinbrech said, reading to her directly across the space that separated them. ‘You remember a paradise that you called home, when your life was done, and eternity awaited you. You remember the devotion of a husband, as well as the love of a child – though it says here that you could not name either, or describe them. It was the feelings you recalled, you see, nothing more.’
She stared. He could tell that even though the words pleased her, she felt no connection to them, felt no recognition or kinship with the person they described.
‘You are respected and admired by your comrades-in-arms, bold and brave in the field, compassionate when face to face with fragile, frightened mortals, and your voice, when raised in song to guide the slain home to the Anvil of Apotheosis, has been described as the keening of a wounded angel.’
He studied her again. Her disorientation was profound. He saw the vague, wet glint of tears in her eyes as she heard more about this person called Tivrain Greymantle yet did not recognise her.
‘There are more memories here that I can share,’ Steinbrech said. ‘But I should like to add one of my own, if I may. It is the thing that I would most like to remember about you, and the thing I would most like you to know about yourself.’
She nodded, though she looked more than a little distressed at the thought of hearing another recollection that meant nothing to her.
‘It is a secret,’ he intoned. ‘A dread secret that can never be uttered outside this place. Are you willing to keep that secret if I share it with you?’
Tivrain, still confused, gave another earnest nod.
Neiros Steinbrech leaned forward on the lectern, looking Tivrain Greymantle in the eye.
‘You defied our God-King,’ he said, and he hoped she heard the pride in his voice, the awe. ‘You defied your commanders. You defied those sent to chain and chastise you, Tivrain – and you did so all for honour, and for the love of those who serve beside you.’