branch of a stooping tree, a greenish pool below him mottled with leaves and algae. A moment’s loss of concentration and he would fall into the water.
“The Whisper of Death, and then into Surging Wave, end with Rising Claw,” instructed Kenainath.
Korlandril shifted position with controlled slowness, bending almost double while he eased his left foot forward yet kept his weight on his back leg, left arm raised above his head, right arm crooked by his side. Taking a pace forward, he shifted his balance, thrusting forward with his right arm, sweeping outwards with the left hand. To finish, he straightened, left arm curving up in front of him, right arm held back.
The exarch continued and Korlandril obeyed, moving forwards and backwards along the branch as dictated by Kenainath, making mock strikes and defences as he did so. The motions were effortless, remembered by instinct rather than conscious thought. Korlandril moved gracefully through all twenty-seven basic poses. The branch buckled and swayed beneath him, but his balance remained perfect.
Even as his body moved, Korlandril’s mind was still. Seventy cycles now had passed and Korlandril could barely recall his life before coming to the shrine. He knew there were memories inside somewhere, but no longer knew where to look for them. He was little more than a physical vessel moving along a branch, waiting to be filled by something else.
When the exercise was complete, Kenainath signalled for Korlandril to follow him. Korlandril hid his surprise as he leapt lithely down to the path beside the pool. It was early yet in the cycle and it was unexpected to take a break so early.
Kenainath offered no explanation as he turned back up the creeper-crossed path and headed towards the shrine. Korlandril followed close behind, intrigued by this change of routine. The pair plunged into the cool shadows of the temple and then took a turn to the left, down a passage Korlandril had never trod before. It brought them into a long gallery, high and narrow. Along each wall stood five suits of aspect armour, fashioned from many overlapping plates of deep green edged with gold, the red lenses of the helmets dull and lifeless.
Beside four of the suits stood the other warriors of the shrine.
Korlandril recognised Elissanadrin and she smiled in reply to his quizzical glance. The others he had seen around the craftworld, but did not know their names.
“Now to make your choice, to meet your companions, Striking Scorpion,” Kenainath intoned solemnly, taking his place at the far end of the gallery in front of the much heavier exarch armour he had been wearing when Korlandril had first arrived.
Korlandril looked around, wondering which suit to pick. At first they seemed identical, but there were subtle differences; in the placement of gems, the hang of the hair-like sensory antenna-crests of the helmets, the brightly coloured ribbons tied about the armoured limbs.
His first instinct was to stand beside Elissanadrin, seeking the familiar, but he dismissed the urge. It was change and renewal that he needed, not the comfortable. Out of the corner of his eye, Korlandril thought he saw a momentary glitter in the eyes of one suit. He turned towards it. There was nothing to distinguish it from the others, but something about it tugged at Korlandril.
“This one,” he said, striding towards the armour. He stood beside it and turned to face the exarch.
“That is a wise choice, a noble suit you have picked, which has served us well,” said Kenainath. “You are now ready, in body if not in mind, to don your armour.”
A thrill of elation shivered through Korlandril. For the first time since coming to the shrine he sensed a moment of achievement. He had been dimly aware of the progress he had been making, so subtle had been the changes wrought in him by Kenainath. Now that he was stood beside his armour, Korlandril looked on what had passed with fresh eyes. Just as he had learned to control
“The Whisper of Death, and then into Surging Wave, end with Rising Claw,” instructed Kenainath.
Korlandril shifted position with controlled slowness, bending almost double while he eased his left foot forward yet kept his weight on his back leg, left arm raised above his head, right arm crooked by his side. Taking a pace forward, he shifted his balance, thrusting forward with his right arm, sweeping outwards with the left hand. To finish, he straightened, left arm curving up in front of him, right arm held back.
The exarch continued and Korlandril obeyed, moving forwards and backwards along the branch as dictated by Kenainath, making mock strikes and defences as he did so. The motions were effortless, remembered by instinct rather than conscious thought. Korlandril moved gracefully through all twenty-seven basic poses. The branch buckled and swayed beneath him, but his balance remained perfect.
Even as his body moved, Korlandril’s mind was still. Seventy cycles now had passed and Korlandril could barely recall his life before coming to the shrine. He knew there were memories inside somewhere, but no longer knew where to look for them. He was little more than a physical vessel moving along a branch, waiting to be filled by something else.
When the exercise was complete, Kenainath signalled for Korlandril to follow him. Korlandril hid his surprise as he leapt lithely down to the path beside the pool. It was early yet in the cycle and it was unexpected to take a break so early.
Kenainath offered no explanation as he turned back up the creeper-crossed path and headed towards the shrine. Korlandril followed close behind, intrigued by this change of routine. The pair plunged into the cool shadows of the temple and then took a turn to the left, down a passage Korlandril had never trod before. It brought them into a long gallery, high and narrow. Along each wall stood five suits of aspect armour, fashioned from many overlapping plates of deep green edged with gold, the red lenses of the helmets dull and lifeless.
Beside four of the suits stood the other warriors of the shrine.
Korlandril recognised Elissanadrin and she smiled in reply to his quizzical glance. The others he had seen around the craftworld, but did not know their names.
“Now to make your choice, to meet your companions, Striking Scorpion,” Kenainath intoned solemnly, taking his place at the far end of the gallery in front of the much heavier exarch armour he had been wearing when Korlandril had first arrived.
Korlandril looked around, wondering which suit to pick. At first they seemed identical, but there were subtle differences; in the placement of gems, the hang of the hair-like sensory antenna-crests of the helmets, the brightly coloured ribbons tied about the armoured limbs.
His first instinct was to stand beside Elissanadrin, seeking the familiar, but he dismissed the urge. It was change and renewal that he needed, not the comfortable. Out of the corner of his eye, Korlandril thought he saw a momentary glitter in the eyes of one suit. He turned towards it. There was nothing to distinguish it from the others, but something about it tugged at Korlandril.
“This one,” he said, striding towards the armour. He stood beside it and turned to face the exarch.
“That is a wise choice, a noble suit you have picked, which has served us well,” said Kenainath. “You are now ready, in body if not in mind, to don your armour.”
A thrill of elation shivered through Korlandril. For the first time since coming to the shrine he sensed a moment of achievement. He had been dimly aware of the progress he had been making, so subtle had been the changes wrought in him by Kenainath. Now that he was stood beside his armour, Korlandril looked on what had passed with fresh eyes. Just as he had learned to control
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