“Tell me again,” Saarin said to his father in a disgusted tone, “why it is that you're ordering us to put on such a show for the former Queen Mother?”

“Careful, Saarin,” Drukh replied, his voice carrying the slight overtone of a reprimand. “I may be much more lenient than other noble families are on their heirs, but do not embarrass me. So you are aware, however, Morathi has the backing of eight provinces in Ulthuan. In the absence of Malekith – in the absence of any sort of succession – she controls the council. And, by extension, she can, to an extent, control us.”

Most of the Vraneth forces had been sent to Elthin Arvan under the command of Kurl, ostensibly so that he would gain battle experience. As far as Saarin knew, Drukh agreed with it in principle, though being subservient to Morathi must have rankled. Following her, on the other hand, was better than being removed from your position as High Prince. Removal in Ulthuan still meant death. Still, Drukh had been allowed to retain his household guard, as well as a small contingent with which to protect the larger Vraneth estates. It was these warriors who now lined up in the great courtyard, waiting for the arrival of Morathi, the current ruler of Ulthuan. Even the servants had been assembled, and they stood diffidently behind the warriors in their grey robes, marked with the insignia of House Vraneth. Notably, Illiria was absent, a strange oddity. She had always stood high within the favour of Morathi, and was a powerful sorceress besides. It made little sense that she would be absent.

Saarin idly allowed his eyes to rove over those servants. It was something he had found himself doing more recently, though he hadn't been able to figure out why. Perhaps it was merely a need to have a greater awareness of his surroundings. Knowing who others were was always, after all, a useful advantage. Frowning, he stopped on one particular elf, and then rapidly tamped down on the shock he felt rising. The elf seemed completely unremarkable, wearing a robe of the same colour and cut as all the other servants. What it lacked, however, most crucially, was the Vraneth symbol. The servant turned as if hearing Saarin's thoughts, and though his eyes were obscured by the shadow of his hood, the mouth twitched into a faint smile. Cursing under his breath, Saarin stepped backwards from his place at his father's side.

“Was there something, Saarin?” His father sounded only mildly curious, as if his son interrupted important meetings between high-ranking political figures on a daily basis.

“I need to go,” he said quickly. “I can't explain why, it's just... I need to go.”

“You were ill,” Drukh corrected him mildly. “Caused by too much consumption of Feyeyes over the past two nights, I should think.”

Saarin nodded, then moved away into the crowd. The servant had vanished from his place among the others, though the young noble spotted a figure vanishing into the house proper.

*

“Stop!” he called to the servant as he pushed open the doors to the mansion's library. The elf finally turned, the hood still obscuring his face. His mouth, on the other hand, moved up into a strangely satisfied smile.

“Well done,” he replied in that oh-so-familiar voice. “You have followed a shadow to a place of wisdom. Now... show me something.”

Shift.

*

Illiria leaned back from her scrying pool, a dark smile playing across her lips. She could track the mage now. She even knew how to counter him, if what she had seen was any indication. Such power could be quite useful to her in climbing further in the cult. She sat on the highest councils, but Morathi had been ruler for a long time now, and another might soon seek to replace her. Why not Illiria?

“Soon,” she purred, “we will encounter one another face to face. But I doubt you will enjoy the meeting. Change is in the winds, and I intend to be at the forefront.”

Tilting her head back, Illiria laughed maniacally. Change was in the winds.

*

They again stood in the middle of that white nothingness. On the one side was Saarin. The transportation had happened to him enough times now that he didn't even react to the change. On the other was the grey-robed elf, who pulled back his hood to reveal Tathel's silently laughing face.

“I was unaware that I was a source of such amusement,” Saarin said idly.

“You've learned to improve your humour, I see.”

“More likely my intelligence has suffered from too many of these... excursions.”

“Unlikely. Dimensional travel was never proven by the sages of the White Tower to have had any detrimental effect upon the minds of those utilising it, excluding the possible implications of faulty spellcasting and failure of the will when unleashing the necessary magical energies to initiate travel. It can be, after all, exceedingly dangerous when not done by one who has an understanding of the required forces.”

Saarin frowned at that. Not at the explanation particularly, though it was confusing, but at the slips. Tathel had just admitted that they had travelled elsewhere, for the one, and he had mentioned a 'White Tower'. Even as he opened his mouth to speak, though, Tathel cut him off with a wave of a hand. Sitting himself down on the endless white expanse, he motioned that Saarin should sit across from him.

“I would not be wrong to assume,” he said carefully as he settled down, “that this is going to be another of your 'lessons'.”

“Something to that effect,” Tathel agreed. “Now, though, I think you will learn about the pursuit of wisdom. You have questions, many of them by now. Some I still cannot answer, some I may answer, and some you already have the answer to already. So. Ask.”

Saarin blinked. It was becoming even more inexplicable. Over the past months, Tathel had been obfuscating, prone to concealing the truth for no other real reason than his own amusement, and all but outright impossible to get a straight answer from. Now he was just going to answer questions?

“This doesn't make any sense,” he finally said. “Why are you answering my questions now and not before?”

“Because, as I said, this is about the pursuit of wisdom. You will, before we are done, need to know things – things that are vital to your continued survival. At this point, it has become necessary to provide you with certain answers.”

“Where are we?”

“We are not, as you have already worked out for yourself, in the material world. In point of fact, we are currently within the Aethyr.”

“You can't be more specific, I am meant to take it, then,” Saarin commented pointedly.

“If you wish. Distance means little here, so our exact position is mutable, and capable of changing. We are within what you could term a bubble, a thought-dream birthed of a person's hopes, wishes and fears. They can commonly occur within the Aethyr – some can contain an entire universe where history is different to what you know it to be. In one, the change may simply be that you were the firstborn son instead of your brother Kurl. In another, history may have changed so radically that the entire population of exiled elves – the ones who founded Sarthailor – were exterminated at the end of what has come to be known as the 'War of the Beard'.”

“And if I am a product of a bubble universe myself?”

“An astute observation, but ultimately incorrect. I have been watching and moving the playing pieces for some time now, Saarin, and I believe I can safely say that you are from the true material world. The state of that world's existence is something else, but then, it is showing a marked tendency to reel from crisis to crisis like a pleasure cultist reels from partner to partner during their orgies.”

“This is your bubble, then.” Saarin felt sure of his answer this time. “This bubble universe is something created from your mind.”

“Correct.”

“Then why is it so empty? Just a white nothingness.”

“I am quite capable of keeping my emotions firmly in check.”

Saarin sat quietly. Time had no meaning here, he knew, so it didn't matter how long it took him to think of a question. He would be released when Tathel decided to release him. He finally decided to ask about something fairly minor. Perhaps the slip had been intentional to push him into asking. “You mentioned a 'White Tower'. What is it?”

Tathel shook his head and smiled. “You're not ready for that particular answer yet, Saarin,” he replied. “It may prove important at a later date, but not yet.”

“Then tell me something about yourself, something I have noticed. I am the son of the High Prince of Saphery – magic is nothing new to me, even though I lack the power myself. But you seem to do things that I can barely even conceive of – that should require such power as to be easily seen – without anybody even being aware of them occurring. How are you strong enough to conceal it?”

“Because I am what I am.” Tathel held up a hand to forestall any further comment, and narrowed his eyes. “I will say this much: I am a... keystone, for lack of a better term. You will know no more on this subject. Nor will you pursue it. I made the necessary choices to arrive at this position, and it will go no further.” His eyes seemed almost to glow with the promise of obliteration, and Saarin flinched involuntarily. Tathel relaxed. “Now, you may continue,” he motioned.

“The first time you brought me here, you removed my memories afterward. You didn't do it after that. Why not?”

“The first time I brought you here was to evaluate you. To see if you were a viable candidate for the purpose I have planned.”

“Then there have been others.”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

Tathel frowned, counting to himself. “There have been eight hundred and forty-four possible candidates that I have examined,” he concluded. “You, Saarin, are the eight hundred and forty-fifth, and you have much to thank your father for. He was somewhat instrumental to your survival thus far, no matter how much he attempts to downplay his part or otherwise deny it. Your next question?”

Saarin frowned, then decided that it couldn't hurt to ask, even if Tathel wouldn't answer. “Magic,” he said. “Illiria – a sorceress – says that the sort of power she uses is stronger than yours. Is it?”

“I know who Illiria is,” Tathel replied, “and no, her magic is not more powerful than mine. It is a common failing, one that has become more and more prevalent in Ulthuan and... elsewhere. Too many are concerned not with the nature of the magic itself, but with what they can do with it as is necessary.”

“Then they are equal.”

“They are different. Hers – and that used by Morathi, other Druchii, and Malekith before his demise – is more destructive. To a novice, that would make it the stronger. But one should never mistake destruction for power. Tell me, Saarin, if you were laying siege to a city with the goal of slaying the king, would you raze the city to the ground and slay him that way, or send a single arrow over the walls to strike him through the eye? The principle is similar. One completes the task with a great deal of collateral damage to the surroundings, and one does not.”

“One is clean, and one is not clean.”

“Very good. Yes, Illiria's magic – and that of many other Dark Elves – could be called unclean. It damages the surrounding area each time it is used, which is why it makes for poor healing. Mine, and the magic used by the Sarthailirim, or other Elves, does not do such damage. Remember, though, that it still doesn't make either of them better than the other.”

“And one is more difficult to master?”

“No,” Tathel said. No hint of exasperation showed in his tone, but Saarin guessed that his teacher was probably feeling it. “They are different when mastering them. One requires serenity, harmony between oneself and one's surroundings. The other requires supreme willpower, and a strength of purpose. Nagash of the humans managed to command dark magic through sheer force of will, but it destroyed his body, and quite probably his mind too. It does the same to all users, given enough time to work, and enough use. Damaging the surrounding area.”

“Then here is my next question. If the waystone network and the Vortex was constructed with high magic, then a lack of that magic is – I think – damaging Ulthuan, no?”

“A theory that bears consideration. Go on. Follow your mind, and see where it leads you.”

“So Ulthuan is dying, then?”

“Yes. And?”

“If Ulthuan is dying because it lacks that harmony, then...” Saarin trailed off. “I'm not sure where to go from there,” he confessed. Tathel nodded sagely, waiting patiently for him to continue. The young noble was by no means sure of his next leap of faith, but he plunged ahead. “Can Ulthuan be saved?”

“You have struck at the core problem,” his teacher said. “I have lived for a long time, and seen many worlds. From what I have seen, yes. Ulthuan could, in theory, be saved. But not by magic alone, per se. It would require something... more.”

“More what?”

“And that, Saarin, is something you are not yet ready to know,” Tathel said calmly. “I am most impressed, though. You are not what I would call wise-” Saarin bristled at the remark “-but you have made significant steps down the path. Well done.” The archmage raised his hand to make a dismissal motion, one that would return Saarin to the world.

“Wait,” the young noble said, half-surprised by his own words. “We are within the Aethyr. Let me see him.”

“See who?”

“Malekith. I want to know for sure that he is dead.”

“Why?”

“Closure, perhaps. Knowledge of what can happen.”

Tathel considered the request, then finally nodded. The white nothingness began to darken, giving way to an impenetrable grey mist that swirled around the two of them. Tathel was all but indistinguishable from the mist, his robe matching the colour perfectly. If not for the fact that his hood had been thrown back, Saarin would have had no point of reference.

“To understand death is one of the most difficult lessons to learn,” the archmage explained. “Largely because it takes so long to wrap one's mind around the concept of what happens afterward. Observe.”

The mists parted – or perhaps they moved through them – and Saarin was abruptly aware of presences surrounding him, endlessly falling into a giant... something. It was huge, monstrous, completely and utterly alien... and evil. He had no other word to describe it. Even as his mind attempted to conceptualise the enormity of the being that seemed to extend endlessly in all directions, as well as come to terms with the fact that despite it being endless, he was above and outside it, he felt an acute sense of compartmentalisation. His mind could not perceive the thing, and just stopped trying. It shut down what it could not recognise. It was a disturbing process, and came with a building headache behind his eyes.

“What... is that... thing?” he finally gasped out.

“That?” Tathel's voice was muted as he replied. “That, Saarin, is a god. Or perhaps as close to perceiving a god's true form as your mind can come. Even now, you view it through a lens created by my own magic, to guard your sanity from obliteration.”

“You mean that... it is worse?”

“Oh yes. Far, far worse.” Tathel's voice had seemingly no emotion, but Saarin thought he could even hear an undercurrent of fear. Perhaps it was just his imagination, though. “These... beings... are so far beyond you, so far beyond me, that without some form of conduit – such as what I create now – by which a safe interaction can be concluded, we would be destroyed. Spells that draw in part from such beings, for example, can be 'safe' when compared to the alternative. But you wished to see Malekith? Look.”

One of the falling souls – that was what they had to be, Saarin realised – seemed to be struggling. Others attempted to resist, but this one was more forceful than most, slowing its descent into a crawl. Even as he watched the endless thing below attempt to drag it to itself, there were other forces, also endlessly huge, acting to move the soul elsewhere, to draw it into them. And then there were observers, there were supporters of either side... his head spun. There were others, some like that one, some not.

“That, Saarin, is Malekith. He was slain by Alith Anar, and now falls. He made alliances with more than one god, and now they fight over who will claim him. It is an excruciatingly painful process, having one's very being torn to shreds.”

“Will he survive?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I honestly could not tell you, Saarin, because I do not know.”

“And this is what waits for all of us. That... pain.”

“Pain is a function of the mind, from a certain point of view. He may be thinking something entirely different. Even what you see now is a function of perception, as you should know.”

“Then I have but one more request. Your magic shields me from the worst of the suffering that the dead can feel. I want... I need to understand the entirety of it. End your spell.”

“No,” Tathel said, shaking his head. “I've devoted too much time to have your sanity destroyed now by whatever it is your mind might interpret from the truer possibilities before you here. Perhaps in the future-”

“Now, Tathel. I need to know now.”

The other looked at him, not even bothering to hide his disquiet. “You realise,” he said quietly, “that once removed, not I nor any living person has the power to draw you away from what you will see. You will see everything, but everything will also be able to see you. Your survival will depend on your own strength of will, your purpose, and...” he trailed off. “Are you truly sure that you wish to do this?”

“I am.”

“Then so be it.” Tathel's voice was resigned, accepting.

Saarin felt the grey mists begin to part, to recede. He braced himself as the last of the shielding disappeared-

Diediepullpullwhatisthiswhatisthislittlecreaturewellwellwhathaveweherekillitkillit! Nononotakeittothemasterwemusthaveitmusthaveitasoul? PapaNurgleloveshisprettiesyeshedoesloveshisprettieswillloveyoutopapaNurglewon'the?
Anewsoulcomeswillinglytous,rendthefleshtearthemeatsuckthemarrow! EatitnownowaitandeatitlateryesyesapartofthewholeSlaaneshTzeentchKhorneNurglekillitkillit! Bloodforthebloodgodskullsfortheskullthronewhatisthislittlethingisitawarriorisitworthy?
PleasureforthesakeofpleasurethisoneismineasareallelvensoulsIwantitselfishnowIwanttheelf!
Selfishselflesschangestagnationnomineminemineitisminewiththebetrayerhewhobetrayedus!
Yeswegavehimpowerabusedthepowergivenbetrayedusdestroytheworldpromisedfreedomdenied!
ChangethefutureadjusttheskeinsoffatelordofchangehisservantarrivesAmonChakaiintheworldtodo?

If Saarin had still had a mouth, if he had been able to see anything other than the blazing energies surrounding him in blasts of colour, light, blackness, darkness, anything and everything, he would have screamed at the sights being presented before him, at the tearing and rending of the souls. The rending of his soul. Only his mind screamed, long and loud as he was dragged into the abyss.

*

Morathi leaned back on the divan, arching her back and purring slightly while Drukh looked on with carefully constructed disinterest. The Queen Mother had removed the more concealing clothes she donned while traveling around Ulthuan, and was now clad in what looked to be a shift consisting of naught but a collar and a thin (oh, so very thin) strip of sheer, gauzy black silk falling down her front and back. She was also barefoot. As enticing as Morathi was, though, he had no wish to commit political suicide by giving the leader of the Cult of Slaanesh – which was becoming increasingly less a secret and more a common rumour – a hold over him.

“Come now, Prince,” she was saying. “Your estates here are ably defended, are they not? Just think. To have the Vraneth warriors at the forefront of the victorious march into the Sarthailorim city of Talienence would greatly boost your political standing at court. And, of course, I would be... indebted... to you.”

Forefront of the dying, you mean, Drukh thought to himself. “It is not so much the political capital I stand to gain, Queen Mother, so much as it is the doubt that such a small addition would grant a great increase in the overall quality of the forces committed there. Most of my warriors are already in Elthin Arvan, battling under the command of my son Kurl. Would it not be more expedient to slightly lessen his armies and in turn supply those elves to your attack?”

“Your son,” Morathi replied, “has proven himself to be an able tactician. I sent a message to him via magical means, and both he and the sorceress Larinth assured me that he required all of what he has in order to accomplish his goals. I do long to trade words with him personally once more – he has a fine mind – but if he is correct, and I trust that he is, then I would need to draw soldiers from a different source. This is Ulthuan,” she pointed out, “and we are quite safe here. Even a token guard would likely be more than enough to watch over your interests here.”

A token force would also leave me defenseless against you, Morathi. “I,” Drukh said instead, “still believe that the contribution of my family to your war effort to be quite sufficient-”

“You would refuse to fight in a war that was begun by the half-breeds of Sarthailor? They are the ones who murdered my beloved son and your king!” To her credit, Morathi managed to sound outraged for all the correct reasons. Whatever her faults, she was a master politician, though he had expected – and known – it to be so.

“Perhaps, then, a better tactician is needed,” he offered. “One who can do more with less would undoubtedly provide the same advantage that more soldiers would, and requires less of a shifting of force.”

“It is possible,” Morathi moved, stretching again in that maddeningly enticing manner. “But I would need to determine what commander should be sent. One with authority, naturally, and who shows promise besides. Perhaps your second son... Saarin, I believe his name is? I would like very much to meet him.”

“You mean the council would need to determine who to send. And my son is currently recovering,” Drukh noted calmly. “He overindulged himself somewhat last night, and I chose to forgo any magical healing. He may only be a second son, but he needs to learn discipline.” He tried to ignore the way Morathi licked her lips at his use of 'discipline'. “In any case,” Drukh continued, “Saarin has had little field experience when compared with the – I am sure – many able commanders elsewhere in Ulthuan or Elthin Arvan.”

“Yes, the council will of course determine who to send. Naturally, as current head of the council, it falls to me to determine the final choice, and I believe Saarin to be the one.”

“You speak for Nagarythe, Lady Morathi,” Drukh said calmly. “The others vote as they choose to vote.”

“The Everqueen of Avelorn-” Morathi paused momentarily, smiling at that, and Drukh shuddered. He had heard of the corruption visited on the descendants of the Everqueen, and in a way, he pitied them. “She has granted me the ability to cast her vote at my discretion. The High Prince of Chrace is quite... eager... to please me, too. The strongest resistance seems to come from Caledor – their natural arrogance is causing them to resist making the right choices – and you, High Prince Vraneth, you who speak for Saphery. Perhaps you are too close to the child to truly evaluate his worth?”

“I think-” Drukh began, then stopped as a scream echoed throughout the mansion. It was a scream of utter despair, loss, hope, rage, anger, pain... and some emotions that Drukh couldn't even name. He also knew that voice. “Saarin!” he half shouted, leaping up from his chair. Everything around him seemed to haze as he raced through the corridors of his home. What had Tathel done?

Finally emerging into the library, he found his son twitching on the floor, gasping and convulsing, eyes rolled into the back of his head. What was he seeing?

“Is there anything we can do to help him, master?” Drukh turned to see who had spoken. It was one of the slaves, a young girl. Idly, he recalled that Saarin had taken her from Kurl's... attentions... and made her his personal servant. His son had strange notions, but Kurl had become more and more uncontrollable in more recent times. Drukh laughed, a short, harsh bark. His mind was attempting to fixate on something, anything, to divert itself from Saarin's pain.

“Carry him to his rooms,” the High Prince finally ordered. Silently, the servants bent to their task, bearing the twitching elf before him as he followed behind. Upon laying Saarin down in his bedchambers, Drukh dismissed the servants, waiting until they had closed the door before drawing forth a magical talisman from beneath his clothing. It was the symbol of the Vraneth household, enchanted in elder days during the first great incursion of Chaos, and each ruler of the Vraneth family had always carried it. It held the highly useful property of shielding the wearer from all forms of magical scrying, and he employed it now, guarding the room from any attempt to eavesdrop. Illiria was becoming more and more interrogative, and he did not want her to hear this.

“Tathel,” he said coldly. “I know you are here, hiding. Show yourself.”

“You called, High Prince?” Tathel's tone held the slightest rebuke, but Drukh ignored it.

“What did you do to Saarin?” he demanded.

“Saarin wished to understand death – the next step in his learning – and took it further than he was ready to go. He looked on the true face of the Aethyr, or a true face, depending on your perspective, and the result is what you see here.”

“His mind is destroyed?” Drukh felt sick to his stomach.

“Not yet, I do not think. But this is perhaps his greatest trial. If he does not overcome the obstacle before him, his mind will indeed be destroyed, yes.”

“Bring him back,” the prince all but begged. “He isn't ready for this. Let him face it when he is.”

“Drukh Vraneth,” Tathel said quietly, “you know as well as I that there is no living force in this world with the power to draw him back into his own mind.”

“Not even...?”

“You know both versions of the history, but no, that is not an option.”

“Then what can we do?”

“Nothing. We watch, and we wait.”

Tathel vanished, the air folding about him to leave Drukh standing at the foot of his son's bed, alone.

*

Morathi sat quietly on the divan, frowning as her farscrying spell rebounded from some form of shield. It was true, then. Drukh did indeed have something that protected him from magical observation when necessary. Interesting, and it would explain why she had never been able to confirm any of the suspicions she had entertained in the past. Idly, her eyes drifted over to one of the paintings decorating the wall of the room. It was an image of a Vraneth ancestor, wielding a flaming sword against the numberless hordes of Chaos. A single warrior, soon to be overwhelmed by that which was facing him.

The High Priestess of the Cult of Slaanesh smiled. Final victory drew closer and closer with each passing day, now, and before long, her triumph would be complete. There was nothing that could stop her. Having assured herself of inevitable victory, she turned her mind to other things. Tonight, there would out of necessity be some form of entertainment. If Drukh and his children were inaccessible, then perhaps one of the servants. It wasn't as though she would need to keep them alive when she was done with them, after all.

*

Pain. Darkness. Pleasure. Horror. Sadness. Anger. Despair. Joy. Rage. Sorrow. Change. Stagnation. Despair. Hope. Nothing. Everything. Light. Dark. He feels everything, sees everything, hears everything, as his mind begins to bend, twisting and warping in response to the incredible strain. Even as he fights to resist, a part of him surrenders, while another part does nothing, merely observing. He was... is... somebody. Who is it? A name. What is his name?

He drifts down, down, deeper into darkness. What is his name?