As she watched, the darkness seemed to sense her presence and turn towards her, as though the newly engulfed planet was a single, giant eye. Slowly at first, but gathering speed all the time, it rushed towards her, and she had nowhere to turn. Her mind thrashed about, frantically searching for a place to hide; something, somewhere, anything. But there was nothingness all around and the darkness pressed in rapidly and inexorably.
Screaming, Ptolemea forced open her eyes at last. For a few seconds she was completely disorientated and wracked with pain, as she stared fixedly down into the wet, rough-cut rock on the floor. Slowly, movement returned to her limbs and she pushed her face away from the ground, feeling the blood drip from the abrasions on her cheek where the rock had cut into her skin.
Her cramped surroundings surprised her, but she wasn’t really sure why. Then gradually her memory started to come back: she had been down in the excavation site. She remembered something about dropping down into that odd, tree-lined subterranean chamber. That’s right—she had gone to investigate the site where Meritia had fallen previously. But then what had happened? She couldn’t remember.
Looking around, Ptolemea realised that she was probably in one of the makeshift prison-cells that Jonas had constructed around the base of one of the main towers. The little room was dark, cramped and damp, and the only source of light was a small, barred gap in the wall, high up next to ceiling. The heavy adamantium door beneath it was sealed so perfectly that not even a crack of light pushed in around the edges of it.
Wincing with the pain that suddenly shot through her muscles, Ptolemea struggled to her feet and reached her hand up towards the light. She could not even get her fingers into the beam, so high up was the window and so shallow was the angle of the light-source outside. Judging by the red hue, the light was the sun itself.
Why was she there? Her mind raced with possibilities. Immediately, her brain pursued its first instincts and lurched into suspicion. She wondered whether Gabriel had discovered that she was there to investigate reports that he was having unsanctioned psychic visions of the Astronomican. She knew that the Adeptus Astartes operated at a complicated symbolic distance from the Ecclesiarchy and even, at times, from the Inquisition, and she didn’t find it inconceivable that a Space Marine captain would resort to incarcerating an agent of either body if he felt that she was threatening his reputation or that of his Chapter.
But there was no way that Gabriel could know why she was there. She had told nobody, not even Sister Senioris Meritia, although the older woman must have had her suspicions. After all, this was why the Bethle sub-sector of the Ordo Hereticus had sent Ptolemea to perform the investigation and not a fully ordained inquisitor: the Blood Ravens on Rahe’s Paradise had a long history of cooperation with the Order of the Lost Rosetta, and the arrival of an extra Sister Dialogous should have caused very little concern, despite the happy coincidence of her arrival at the same time as Captain Angelos.
The only person who could have told Gabriel anything was Isador Akios himself, and even he could not have known exactly what course of action the Ordo Hereticus would pursue after receiving the unusual reports that he had filed about his captain from Tartarus. The Inquisitor Lords of Bethle sub-sector were impressed by the librarian’s piety and devotion to the Emperor’s purity, but Ptolemea had been shocked that a Space Marine would betray the confidence of his captain in this way. She had certainly never heard of anything like that happening before. Whatever had happened on Tartarus had clearly had a profound effect on Isador too, before he died.
After prosecution, Ptolemea’s mind raced to a defensive standpoint. If she could discount the idea that Gabriel had locked her up because of the threat he thought that she posed to him, it was conceivable that he had thrown her into the cell because of the danger that she herself appeared to be in. Again, the pivot here was Meritia—if the elder Sister’s coma was accompanied by the kind of visions that had been plaguing Ptolemea since her arrival in the local system, it was not incredible to believe that she had suffered similar visions before, and that she could have told Gabriel that she suspected Ptolemea of having succumbed to some kind of taint, resulting in her experiencing unsanctioned visions.
Cycling her mind back through her memories of recent events, Ptolemea saw once again the look of empathy and understanding on Meritia’s face when the Sister Senioris had awoken her from the cold sweat that had accompanied her first vision of the eldar in the jungle. In hindsight, it certainly seemed possible that Meritia’s empathy was sympathy for the afflicted. All of the Sisters of the Lost Rosetta had seen the gradual, subtle and insidious effects of taint in the past, and Meritia would have recognised the signs at once. And unlike the Adeptus Astartes, the Sisters of the Order of the Lost Rosetta were certainly not above stabbing each other in the back when it came to suspicions of heresy—a long history of intimate relations with the Ordo Hereticus had made the order suspicious and highly political by nature. At least Meritia was in no state to say anything at the moment, reflected Ptolemea with relief.
Ptolemea laughed painfully—she would have turned in Meritia, if she had found evidence of taint in the Sister Senioris, even while she was unconscious and helpless. She should expect no different treatment for herself. If she had any courage at all, she would already have turned herself in or killed herself—she wasn’t sure that her visions were anything more than dreams, but uncertainty is so often the midwife of damnation.
She laughed again, coughing and convulsing as her ribs spasmed in pain. The irony of her situation struck her with full force: she had come to investigate the possible taint of a Space Marine captain and now found herself in one of his holding cells on suspicion of taint herself. Even worse, she was fairly sure that he was right to have locked her up. If he warranted an investigation by the Ordo Hereticus, then she certainly did.
A scratching noise on the wall made her swallow her shallow, aching laughter. She gulped and cackled slightly, trying to calm her nerves, fearful of hysteria: she was a Sister of the Order of the Lost Rosetta, not a battle-sister of the Golden Light—she was not psychologically prepared for the situation in which she now found herself. But she was also a faithful servant of the Emperor, no matter what her own suspicions were about herself, and she retained her faith that her purpose was pure and unsullied. For a moment she wondered whether there might be acceptable degrees of taint or heresy, whether psychological defects might be excusable if one’s soul was pure. She was clutching at straws, perhaps, which, she suddenly realised, is what all of the people she had ever interrogated back in the cells on Bethle II had done.
The scratching returned, louder this time and more rhythmical, as though someone was trying to tap out a message. Ptolemea listened carefully, holding her breath, her eyes wide and wild as she realised that the strangely musical scraping was probably the eldar prisoner in the next cell trying to communicate with her.
“Theorise,” prompted Gabriel, staring at the Marines of his command squad, his back to them as he faced out of the elaborate stained-glass window at the back of the librarium. An aura of red light seemed to surround him, giving his presence a touch of the divine.
“Such events have never been recorded before,” responded Prathios, stating the crux of the problem plainly.
“Whatever power it was,” offered Corallis, “it was clearly unleashed at the call of the eldar farseer.”
“It did not damage us,” added Tanthius, trying to isolate the most important features of the unusual phenomenon as a weapon. “It appeared to be extremely powerful, but its influence was limited to the silicon in the sand itself. It’s not clear that it had impact on any organic matter.”
“Tanthius is right,” confirmed Prathios. “Its effect on our Marines was mostly psychological or perhaps psychical; it brought them all to a standstill.”
“But not just our Marines, chaplain,” interjected Gabriel, still gazing out towards the volcanoes in the distance. “The eldar were also taken by surprise,
it seems.”
“Perhaps,” replied Prathios, “but we must be careful not to interpret the actions of the aliens as though they were human. We can see that the blast gave them pause, but we do not know why—no action is transparent, captain, and the actions of the eldar might well contain a thousand different meanings.”
“You are suggesting that the eldar’s response does not contradict the idea that it was an eldar device?” asked Tanthius.
“I am suggesting that we would be foolish to leap to conclusions about the deceitful xenos creatures—for all we know their withdrawal was designed with some tactical advantage in mind. The blast may have been a signal for them.”
“Prathios is right,” concluded Gabriel, turning to face the Marines. “Until we have evidence to the contrary, we must assume that the eldar were behind the phenomenon. If nothing else, the very fact that it happened during the course of the battle must lend support to this interpretation.”
“Does Father Jonas have an opinion on this matter?” asked Corallis, aware that his former mentor had been based on Rahe’s Paradise for many years. “Has he ever seen anything similar?”
“He is as uncertain as we are,” replied Gabriel. “But the father librarian is also exploring a hypothesis of his own. His theory rests on some of the finds that he and Sister Senioris Meritia made in the excavation below this monastery. As you know, it seems likely that Rahe’s Paradise was an Exodite colony at some point in the past—probably before the destruction of the forests. Jonas seems to believe that the Blood Ravens cleansed the system during a righteous purity sweep of the sector, eradicating the eldar colonists and establishing an outpost on Rahe’s Paradise. There is evidence to support the hypothesis that the eldar did not surrender the planet completely, but that they left a system of traps and automated defences that could be activated when the Biel-Tan returned to reclaim the planet—foresight being one of the eldar’s greatest assets.”
“You believe that this weapon has laid dormant until now, waiting for the arrival of the alien witch to reactivate it?” asked Tanthius, sceptical.
“It is not a matter of belief, Tanthius,” stated Gabriel flatly. “It is a matter of history. We are Blood Ravens, and we must not ignore the evidence before us. Whilst the eldar have the advantage of farsight, we must combat it with scholarship. Father Jonas is confident that this weapon is only the first of a series that we might expect—he calls it the Cry of the Banshee, after a phrase on this tablet.”
Gabriel turned away from the Marines and looked down at the wraithbone tablet that still lay on the old, wooden table under the gloriously coloured windows. “This tablet appears to hold the keys to unlock the secrets of the eldar weapons here. It talks of the Cry of the Banshee at the start, and intimates that there are other things waiting in the depths of the desert and volcanoes. We must be vigilant while Jonas tries to decipher the rest of the alien text.”
“What about Sister Meritia?” asked Prathios, aware of the linguistic skills of the Order of the Lost Rosetta. “What does she make of this tablet?”
“She is dead.”
There was a considered silence.
“I found her in her chamber. She was shot through the head,” explained Gabriel.
“And the young Sister Ptolemea?” pressed Prathios, concerned about the implications of murder within the Blood Ravens’ monastery, but more concerned about the urgency of the matter at hand. “Can she not translate this tablet?”
“She is presently in a detention cell,” said Gabriel, turning once again to face the chaplain. “We suspect that it was she who killed Meritia.”
The red sand swirled around the rangers’ camp in the desert, cloaking the makeshift structures in a veil of dust that rendered the emplacement all but invisible. In the very centre of the camp, an elegant and deceptively fragile structure had been erected. It appeared to be little more than a tent, with a length of fabric stretched over the black, shiny frame in place of a roof. There were no walls. The material and the struts were covered in tiny, silver runes, each of which glowed with an imperceptible hint of power. And the desert sand was not able to penetrate the space within despite the apparently open sides.
Macha sat in the heart of the gazebo, her legs folded perfectly beneath her and her cloak falling into even folds from her shoulders. Behind her were arranged the warlocks from her retinue, each sitting in mirror-images of their farseer, with their faces lowered to the ground and their lips working silently at a gentle psychic chant.
In front of her, Macha had laid out a set of rune stones, placed carefully onto the shimmering surface of a disc of wraithbone. Her glittering green eyes were burning faintly, as the waves of power that were circulating around the pagoda washed through her mind and touched her soul. She was perfectly motionless, and the rune stones lay utterly still.
Laeresh stood in the corner of the ritual space, his arms folded across his chest and his thoughts set defiantly. He was flanked on both sides by two darkly coloured Aspect Warriors from his temple. The three of them stood without moving, staring down at the farseer before them, breathing an aura of resentment into the atmosphere of the purified space.
“Well?” prompted the exarch, his impatience finally overcoming his reverence.
For a moment there was silence, and then Macha slowly lifted her sparkling gaze from the runes, gazing directly over into Laeresh’s soul.
There is nothing, she conceded. I can see nothing, and the runes are deaf to my calls.
“Your uncertainty is not helpful, farseer,” hissed Laeresh.
I have never claimed to be certain, Laeresh. It was you who found certainty in my visions, not me. We are here in the wake of your great passion. Decision and guidance are often separate callings, but wisdom is found in the synthesis of both.
“No more riddles, Macha. We have heard the banshee cry, and we must act now.” Laeresh unfolded his arms and stepped forward, crouching down towards the suddenly fragile figure of the farseer. “We must attack the mon-keigh and drive them from this world. That is why we have come. It is why we are here—you have protected them for long enough—your precious Captain Angelos is an ignorant fool. Even Uldreth Avenger would support me in this, farseer. Even that bloated, vainglorious courtier would support me, so why should I expect less from you? Where is your guidance now, farseer?”
As he spoke, Laeresh reached his arms forward, beseeching the farseer to condone his thoughts. His hands gripped her slender shoulders, as though he believed that he could convince her of his will through the physical strength of his arms. Immediately, the warlocks broke their silent chant and sprang to their feet. Druinir was first, sliding to the farseer’s side with preternatural speed, as though slipping through space without encountering the resistance of physical laws.
The warlock touched his fingers against Laeresh’s outstretched arm and a flash of energy lurched into the exarch’s flesh, making him recoil, snapping back his arms and staggering back away from the unmoving figure of the farseer. As their exarch shrunk back, the two Aspect Warriors behind him stepped forward to his side, shrugging their reaper launchers out of the holsters on their backs and clasping them diagonally across their chests.
No. The thought was calm, even and utterly incontrovertible. The warlocks arrayed behind Macha and the Dark Reapers who were staring menacingly into their burning eyes all stalled. Druinir and Laeresh exchanged a look of understanding, and then the warlock stepped aside as Laeresh knelt down in front of the still-sitting farseer.
I have never commanded you, Laeresh, and I do not seek to control your destiny. I am merely a farseer of Biel-Tan. Your path is your own, Reaper exarch. Your presence here is your own doing, although I can see the echoes of your intent even in the dimness of the past—you were always bound to be here. Lsathranil himself must have seen this. I cannot see the future in this present—the runes will no longer respond to my touch—but the ripples of the past are clear enough in the present. You must act on them as you deem appr
opriate. That is your path; it is the way of the Dark Reapers.
“No, farseer. I am here because of your vision.” Laeresh was adamant.
No, exarch. We are both here because of your faith in my vision, not because of the vision itself. Uldreth also knew what I saw, but he interpreted it differently. He is not here. The Bahzhakhain is not here to reclaim this world for the Biel-Tan. We are here because of you, Laeresh, Dark Reaper.
“I don’t understand,” conceded Laeresh, the passion gradually seeping from his manner as confusion washed through his mind.
Neither do I, Laeresh. Farsight does not make the future more simple, but rather explodes it into myriad possibilities. We must each choose our path—that is the Way of the Eldar, after all.
“Is it also our way to flee from battle? I cannot believe that Lsathranil intended the warriors of Biel-Tan to show their tails to the mon-keigh,” hissed Laeresh, his anger rising once more at the memory of their retreat, his soul raging at the taunts of the huge crimson machine-warrior. “Did you not hear the banshee?”
Yes, I saw the signs. Macha’s thoughts were weary.
“Then we must attack!” snapped Laeresh, jumping to his feet and staring down at Macha. “If you will not condone the honour of the Dark Reapers, then we will act without your sanction, farseer of Biel-Tan. I do not require your permission, and I will not stand by and watch the filthy humans pollute this world further. We must annihilate them before their stench ruins this once magnificent planet forever.”
With that, Laeresh swept his cloak around in a whirl and strode out of the gazebo with his Aspect Warriors in tow, vanishing almost immediately into the eddying sand storms that raged outside.
Macha watched the impassioned exarch leave and then sighed deeply, nodding a signal to Druinir. You were right, old friend. Laeresh is a prisoner of his passions. We must take the fight inside the Blood Ravens’ fortress. Laeresh will provide the perfect distraction—although his passion may do more harm than good. We must be fast and we must be stealthy. Tell Aldryan to prepare the rangers.
[Dawn of War 02] - Ascension Page 19