The sonic boom of teleportation faded, as did the rush of displaced air.
In the wake of Magnus’s thunderous departure, Lorgar stood unfazed. His robe fluttered in the evening wind, and he spared a moment’s consideration for his scripture scrolls and parchment notes blowing out into the city. His crystal glasses were as annihilated as the reinforced glass dome, and his writing desk was stained by an expanding pool of bitter wine.
After an unknowable time of staring down at Vharadesh, he became aware of a pounding on the iron door set in the only remaining wall. Distracted, he paid the sound only a little heed.
‘Enter,’ he said.
Ascending the spire temple had been an exercise in frustration, with Covenant priests frantic about both the Blessed Lady’s presence and the explosion almost ten minutes before, in the master’s observatory. On several occasions, the Word Bearers had threatened panicking clergymen, forcing them aside to clear the way.
‘He will not open the doors!’ one wailed with a flagellant’s desperation.
‘We will speak with the primarch,’ Xaphen assured the Covenant ministers. ‘He sent for the Blessed Lady, and our lord will open the door for us.’
‘What if he is wounded?’ one of them whined, an obese creature with shaking jowls in the layered white and grey robes of a deacon. ‘We must attend to the Urizen!’
‘Control your emotions, and move aside,’ Argel Tal growled, ‘or I will kill you.’
‘You cannot mean that, lord!’
Faster than human eyes could follow, the swords of red iron came free in hissing rasps. The tips of both blades rested against the fat priest’s three chins before he’d even had time to blink. Apparently, the lord did mean it.
‘Yes,’ the deacon stammered. ‘Yes, I...’
‘Just move,’ Argel Tal suggested. The priest took the suggestion, trying not to burst into tears. As he moved, an animal scent tainted the air; stronger than the fear-sweat and sour breath from the priests around them.
‘Sir,’ Torgal switched to vox, rather than speaking aloud. ‘The priest pissed in his robes.’
Argel Tal grunted, and lifted Cyrene over the warm puddle on the wooden stairs.
With the last of the clergy sent scurrying, the warriors ascended the wide, spiralling stairway with their ward guarded between them.
‘Enter,’ the voice called.
Argel Tal hadn’t sheathed his swords. He led the group into the primarch’s observatory, which was now little more than a stone platform exposed to the night’s breeze. Scrolls and books lay scattered across the floor, the former gently nudged by the wind, the latter having their pages turned by it.
The primarch stood by the platform’s edge, staring down at the city below. His shaven, tattooed head was bare, seemingly unmarked by injury, and the grey-white robe of Covenant hierarchs was free of bloodstains.
‘Sire?’ said Argel Tal. ‘What happened here?’
Lorgar turned slowly. Faint confusion marred his features, as if he’d expected someone else.
‘Argel Tal,’ he said, his voice rumbling. ‘Captain of the Seventh Assault Company, Subcommander of the Chapter of the Serrated Sun.’
‘Yes, lord. It is I.’
‘Greetings, my son.’
The captain fought to keep the unease from his voice as he replied. ‘Sire, the vox-network is aflame. May I inform the Legion that all is well?’
‘Why would all not be well?’ the primarch asked, his face still unresolved from distracted confusion.
‘The explosion, sire,’ said Argel Tal. ‘Nine minutes ago.’ He gestured around. ‘The dome,’ he added lamely.
‘Ah,’ Lorgar smiled. It was a magnanimous and entertained smile, crooked as if sharing a joke. ‘I will have to discuss the matter of teleportation inside sensitive structures with my beloved brother in the future. Captain, do you intend to murder me?’
Argel Tal lowered his blades, only then realising he held them en garde.
‘Forgive me, sire.’
Lorgar laughed, the feyness dissipating completely. ‘Please inform the Legion I am well, and apologise
for my lack of contact. I was quite lost in thought.’
On shrieking engines, two gunships drifted out of the night, hovering close to the tower-top. Their engine wash sent the remaining scrolls scattering off the edges, and spotlights stabbed down to illuminate the primarch with Argel Tal’s coterie.
Argel Tal blinked at a flashing icon on his retinal display. ‘This is the Seventh Captain. Stand down, stand down. False alarm.’
The tower-top fell dark as the stab-lights cut out.
‘By your word,’ one of the pilots said. ‘Disengaging.’
Lorgar watched the gunships cruise away, back to their landing pads on the city’s outskirts. All sky-freight – most notably the Legion’s own military outposts – were situated in the desert outside the city walls. Vharadesh would not be defiled by warfare. Never again. Not after the civil war that crushed the Old Ways and brought the planet under Lorgar’s rule so long ago.
‘My lord,’ Argel Tal ventured. ‘You requested the presence of Cyrene, the Monarchian.’
Lorgar seemed to notice the others for the first time. A warm smile lit his features, and he stepped closer.
‘I was just musing, captain, on whether I have thanked you yet.’
Argel Tal sheathed his blades and removed his helm. The warm air felt good on his face and sweating neck.
‘Thanked me, lord?’
‘Yes,’ the primarch nodded. ‘Were you and your Chaplain not the two who lifted me from the perfect city’s dust, and set me on my feet once more?’
‘Yes, lord. That was us. With respect, we didn’t expect you to recall it.’
‘Kor Phaeron professed not to remember your names. The old man has a black sense of humour. But I recall the moment all too well, and I thank you for it. I will arrange for my gratitude to be shown in a more significant way soon.’
‘No, sire...’ said Xaphen.
‘That’s not necessary, lord...’ said Argel Tal.
Lorgar raised a hand to stall their protests. ‘Ah, ah. Enough of that foolish modesty. Now, this must be the Blessed Lady. Come forward, child.’
Torgal and Malnor, who’d been kneeling in their lord’s presence, rose to their feet and guided Cyrene closer.
In the presence of a primarch, most mortals were gripped by the immensity of just what they were seeing. Here, in physical form, stood majesty incarnate. The biological manipulation, flesh-smithing and genetic rewriting that goes into the construction of one of the Emperor’s sons was a unique and unrepeatable practice, with its roots hidden beneath layers of ubelievable secrecy, for even if another sentient being could glimpse the Emperor’s gestation laboratories, they would never understand what transpired within. Every mote of biological matter in their bodies was painstakingly shaped – forged on the quantum level to contribute to the whole. It was beyond science, beyond alchemy, beyond psychic sorcery, and yet drew from all of these and more.
Humans had suffered strokes and heart attacks in the presence of primarchs. Almost all, without exception, abased themselves upon first meeting one. Many wept without intention or reason.
Cyrene stood where she was led to stand, and she smiled at Lorgar. Directly at him – directly at his face.
‘Hello, Blessed Lady,’ the god’s son chuckled. She was just tall enough to reach his waist.
‘I... I can see you,’ she almost laughed. ‘I can see your smile.’
Lorgar saw his warriors begin to come closer, ready to examine her, to see if her sight was returning. He gestured them back with a hand, and shook his head.
+Argel Tal+ The primarch’s voice was sibilant in the captain’s mind. Despite the gene-link between them, it was unpleasantly invasive – a spike of cold cutting right to the brain. The captain felt his muscles bunch, and both hearts beat faster.
The Word Bearer nodded, hoping his liege didn’t detect his discomfort, but
knowing he almost definitely did.
+It is said she was abused on Khur+ came the primarch’s voice.
The Word Bearer nodded again.
+What a creature is Man+, Lorgar’s silent voice seemed to sigh. +So much of life is wasted seeking dominance over all around us.+
Emboldened by his father’s familiarity tonight, Argel Tal tapped two fingertips beneath his eyes, one after the other.
+No+ Lorgar’s silent voice was weighted by emotion. +She cannot see me. She senses me, my aura, and her mind misinterprets it as sight. But her eyes are still dead. They will always be. Guilliman’s incendiary rage blinded her forever.+
All of this transpired in three beats of Argel Tal’s twinned hearts. Lorgar hadn’t even glanced in his direction.
‘Yes,’ the primarch said to Cyrene, and lowered himself to one knee. It brought his face almost level with hers. Her sightless gaze followed his movements, and he smiled to see the effect he had on her. ‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘You can see me.’
‘As bright as the sun,’ Cyrene whispered, crying now. ‘I see gold, and gold, and gold.’
A hand the size of her head touched her with a ghost’s softness, thick fingertips brushing her cheeks, drying her tears. She breathed out a sigh without meaning to, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
‘Cyrene,’ Lorgar’s voice was resonant and low in her ears. ‘I am told you are something of a talisman to my warriors. A lucky charm, if you will.’
‘I couldn’t say, my lord.’
‘I am not your lord,’ Lorgar gently stroked her features, fingertips smoothing along her nose, her cheekbones, her jawline. It was as if he were the blind one, needing to touch her to imagine her features. ‘Your life is your own, not mine – not anyone’s – to claim.’
She nodded, unable to speak through the mask of tears shining on her face.
‘Do you know why I wished to see you, Cyrene?’
‘No,’ her voice was strengthless and breathless. She merely mouthed the word.
‘To ask you for something. A gift only you can give.’
‘Anything,’ she mouthed. ‘Anything.’
‘Will you grant me forgiveness?’ the primarch asked. He took her tiny hands in his own, the golden fingers enveloping hers completely. ‘Will you forgive what I did to your world, to your perfect city, to your precious eyes?’
She managed a nod, looking away from the golden light she thought she could see.
Lorgar kissed her knuckles, the barest touch of his lips against her skin. ‘Thank you, Blessed Lady. My soul is lighter in the wake of your words.’
He released her hands, and rose to his feet, moving away.
‘Wait,’ she called out. ‘Let me serve you. Let me serve your Legion. Please.’
Argel Tal repressed a shiver. Cyrene’s words were achingly similar to the vow he’d made himself upon first seeing the primarch. How curious it was, when the past reached through to the present with such clarity.
‘Do you know,’ Lorgar asked her, ‘what a confessor is? Did they have such positions on Khur?’
‘They did, master,’ Cyrene said. She’d still not recovered her voice. ‘They called themselves the Listeners. They would hear our sins, and forgive them.’
‘Exactly,’ Lorgar chuckled. ‘Your life is your own, Cyrene Valantion of Monarchia. But if you wish to walk with my warriors and journey through the stars, then there is the perfect role for you to fill. You have heard my sins, and forgiven me. Would you do the same for my sons?’
Her answer was to kneel, abasing herself in thankful prayer. Instead of replying, her whispering voice spoke invocations of piety, straight from the scriptures she studied as a child.
The primarch cast a last affectionate look at Cyrene, before turning to Argel Tal. ‘Captain,’ he said.
‘My lord.’ Argel Tal saluted, fist over his chestplate.
‘Erebus had much to say about you in the month I was secluded. When I recalled who pulled me up from my knees before my brother Guilliman, Erebus spoke of you.’
‘I... am surprised to hear that, lord.’
Lorgar wasn’t deaf to the hesitance in Argel Tal’s tone. ‘I had assumed your discomfort with Erebus had faded with time. Have I erred in that belief?’
Argel Tal shook his head. ‘No, lord. Forgive me a moment’s distraction. Our difficulties are in the past. The trials were long ago.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ Lorgar chuckled. ‘To be trained by Erebus himself, and choose the blade above the crozius. You walking another path is a great blow to his pride, and a disappointment that cut him to his core. But he has forgiven you. I wondered – could the same be said for you? Have you forgiven him?’
Choosing another path. That, Argel Tal thought, was putting it very delicately.
‘There was nothing to forgive,’ he said. ‘His anger at my decision was understandable.’
Lorgar watched him closely, the primarch’s grey eyes forever judging, despite the affection that lay within them.
‘Your compassion has always done you great justice, Argel Tal.’
‘I am honoured you believe so, sire.’
‘So now we come to the crux of why you were summoned.’
‘I stand ready.’
‘There will be some changes to the Serrated Sun when you return to the Great Crusade. I have chosen four Chapters to play host to our Custodes sentinels – each Chapter dealing with five of the twenty. It is with regret that I inform you the Serrated Sun is one of them. I understand you met Aquillon in the city of glass? I have granted his request that one of the Custodes groups travel with the Serrated Sun. I saw no harm in throwing the Emperor’s watchdogs this one bone.’
‘By your word,’ said Argel Tal.
‘There’s more, I’m afraid.’ Lorgar smiled again, every inch the charming, golden hierarch who led a revolution on this very world. ‘I trust you above and beyond the call of duty. You lifted me from shame, dragging me from the dust, and I thank you for it. So I would ask, in all humility, if you would grant me a favour, Seventh Captain Argel Tal.’
The words, and the tone in which they were spoken, drove Argel Tal to his knee in supplication. What other primarch – what other godlike being – would be so humble as to ask one of his own sons for the gift of a favour? It humbled Argel Tal to be born into this being’s bloodline.
Lorgar laughed, the sound melodious in the night’s faint breeze. A dozen metres away, Cyrene heard the sound and felt the threat of tears again.
‘Rise,’ Lorgar said through the smile. ‘Have you not knelt enough, Argel Tal?’
He rose, but kept his eyes at the primarch’s feet. ‘Ask anything of me, sire. Anything, and it will be done.’
‘I have travelled with thousands upon thousands of my warriors, decade after decade, acting the general, playing the admiral. I grow weary of such games. While the Legion scatters across the stars, I have no wish to cross paths with my brothers now. Their righteous indignation will grate on my last nerves. You could say I wish to hide, but that would be a lie. I simply wish not to be found. There’s a beautifully subtle difference between the two.’
‘I understand, lord.’
‘Tell me: your expeditionary fleet – which was it, again?’
‘The 1,301st, sire. Commanded by Fleetmaster Baloc Torvus, currently engaged in the Atlas subsector.’ And awaiting reinforcement, he didn’t add out loud.
‘Yes,’ Lorgar nodded. ‘The 1,301st. I have journeyed with eighteen of my Chapters since the dawn of the Great Crusade. This time, as we face our uncertain future, I would ask your permission to travel with the three hundred warriors of the Serrated Sun.’
Argel Tal looked over his shoulder at Cyrene, then Xaphen, before turning back to Lorgar. The Chaplain nodded once. The confessor had her hands over her mouth as tears streamed down her face.
‘Pardon me, sire?’ Argel Tal asked. ‘I am not sure I heard you correctly.’
‘I am asking this favour of you, my son. Kor Pha
eron will lead the 47th Expedition in my absence. I may not be able to outrun the Occuli Imperator – he will follow me wherever I go – but I can seek the empyrean far
from my brothers’ eyes. And that is enough for now.’
‘You will... travel with us?’
‘I would be honoured to,’ said the primarch. ‘I could ask this of any of my fleets, I know. But you were the one to raise me back to my feet, when my ignorance had murdered a world. So I am asking you.’
‘I... Sire... I...’
Lorgar laughed again, his golden hands reaching to prevent Argel Tal from kneeling a second time. ‘Is that a yes?’
‘By your word, Aurelian.’
‘Thank you. It’s a new age, Argel Tal. A new age of vision and discovery. Every Word Bearer fleet will be cast to the winds of fate, sailing where they will. We will reach farther from Terra than any other Legion, pushing the Imperium’s boundaries with each world we take.’
Argel Tal knew where this was leading. It could only be going one way. He sensed Xaphen approaching from behind, though the Chaplain elected to say nothing.
‘We are seekers,’ Lorgar smiled, enjoying the word on his tongue. ‘We seek the place where gods and mortals meet – seeking divinity in a galaxy my father believes is godless.’
Lorgar clasped his hands together, and lowered his head in readiness for prayer.
‘The Legion will undertake the Pilgrimage.’
III
The Faceless Tarot
The cards are faceless, devoid of illustration. This is intentional – it’s what makes them so valuable, for they respond to the touch of an unseen sense, never relying on a lesser artist’s imagery to limit the human consciousness.
The crystal wafers are cored by a psychoreactive liquid, the images taking shape in the celadon resin as the tarot reader holds each card in his hands.
He had hoped, in time, that every psychically gifted soul in his father’s Imperium would come to learn this tarot. Instead, their creation had been scorned – even by Magnus (who had no need of such foci for his powers) and Leman Russ (who derided them even as he cast runestones and knucklebones in a bid to see the future).
The First Heretic Page 15