by Gav Thorpe
‘In your absence, Sar Zahariel, it occurred to me that I had done you a disservice,’ Luther said after several seconds. ‘Lord Cypher is as much a part of the Order as Aldurukh and the furniture within it. I have granted Astelan, not even a native of Caliban, the title of First Master and with that authority over most of our warriors. But you, a noble son of the forests, born and raised in sight of the Angelicasta and trained within its walls, have been dismissed. Your title, Librarian, is a Terran shackle, laid upon you by Israfael and the other Imperials. The Librarius is a name empty of meaning, defunct. You have been left in the cold rather than warmed at the hearth of the Order.’
‘I desire nothing, Grand Master, save to return to my studies and to continue to monitor the recruits for signs of psychic talent as is my remit.’
‘I will make no greater demand of you, but will give you the resources you deserve to push further into the darkness of ignorance so that you might return with the light of knowledge for us all.’ Luther opened a drawer and pulled out an iron ring, on which hung three large keys. He held them easily in one hand, the metal clinking gently. ‘In the days before we were born, before our great-grandfathers first laid eyes on the green of the forests, the Order was charged with seeking out those with the talent you possess. Just as now, the risk of sorcery, the threat posed by witches and warlocks, was of concern to the Grand Masters. Amongst their number were the Mystai, possessed of psychic power. These keys belonged to the Master of the Mystai. They are now yours – I have never used them, nor has any other for more than a hundred years. I do not know which doors they unlock, or what lies behind those portals, but I see even now that you detect something from them.’
Zahariel nodded and held out a hand, looking at Luther for permission to take the keys. The Grand Master nodded and handed them over. The psyker’s eyelids fluttered and a brief spark of gold appeared in his pupils.
‘I know their home,’ Zahariel said with a smile, the evidence of his power vanishing as quickly as it appeared. He gripped the keys in his fist.
‘Brothers, welcome the new Master of the Mystai into the ranks of our council,’ Luther said, bowing his head to Zahariel. ‘I am sure he and his disciples will serve the Order well.’
Astelan and Lord Cypher added their own acknowledgements, neither particularly pleased with the turn of events.
‘Let me not delay you from your duties any longer,’ said Luther. Dismissed, the three Space Marines saluted and left without further word, no doubt to speak to their confidants and peers about this fresh development.
When they were gone, Luther moved to the closed door and slid the thick bolt across to bar it. He then took a chain out from under his robes, another key hanging upon it. Unlocking the chamber’s side door he stepped into the library, feeling the pulse of the books welcome his return. He locked the door behind him and stepped up to the lectern.
The book he had been studying was still open where he had left it, a slender dagger holding down the pages. The left-hand leaf was covered with a neat, rounded script in the ancient language of Caliban. On the right was a diagram of interlocking circles, a line of intricate runes spiralling around the edges and into the centre. It reminded him of the spiral used to train the recruits in personal combat, and of the organisation of the Order with its overlapping circles of responsibility and hierarchy. Structures that had existed since the earliest days of Aldurukh’s founding.
All was surrounded by a more pictographic symbol, of a serpent swallowing its tail.
Luther read the caption inscribed below the diagram.
Of the nature of Order and Chaos; the Ouroboros.
ELEVEN
A cursed vision
Ultramar
Even to the Lion’s superhuman eyes, the Library of Ptolemy was dark. Guilliman gestured for him to enter, stepping aside, and quietly closed the leather-lined doors behind them. The room was not large, not by the standard of the castrum, perhaps twenty metres by ten, and three high. Shelves and reading desks cluttered the gloom.The only illumination came from an ash-covered skylight that filtered the low winter sun.
Through the shelves of a bookcase the Lion saw a figure sitting hunched in a large chair at the far end of the library. Only his outline could be seen against the dim reflection on a glass-fronted cabinet behind – a noble face in profile and the pale smear of white wings draped over the back of the chair.
‘A darkened library,’ the Lion said, stepping around the obstacles as his eyes clarified the darkness into something he could navigate. The floor was carpeted but worn by much use, and he could smell the moisture and dirt that had been repeatedly trailed in from the gardens directly outside. ‘Is this supposed to be a metaphor? Since when did the Lord Sanguinius dwell in the shadows?’
The regent emperor shifted, leaning forward so that his face came into the hint of light. He lifted a book that had been on his lap.
‘I have been reading,’ said the new Emperor of Mankind. ‘My ears still ring, and my eyes still burn – I have not yet fully recovered from the proximity to the blast in my throne room. Sometimes it helps to come here.’
He closed the book and set it aside.
‘Not everything has a dramatic reason, brother.’
‘And you are otherwise unharmed?’ the Lion stepped closer, examining every part of Sanguinius that he could see, searching for any sign of a wound.
‘Aside from the eyes, physically untouched,’ the emperor assured him. ‘It was not on the outside that Curze wished to injure me.’
‘Not on the outside?’ Guilliman came up beside the Lion. ‘What do you mean, brother? What did he do?’
‘As I told you before, we spoke, at length. He did not listen.’ Sanguinius looked away for a moment, his expression darkening. ‘I needed to speak to you both at the same time.’
‘I am here now,’ said the Lion. ‘What did Curze say?’
‘Do not interrogate our brother!’ snapped Guilliman, interposing himself between the two other primarchs. ‘Remember your place.’
The Lion was shocked by Guilliman’s sudden vehemence. He lifted his hands in surrender and stepped back, looking past Guilliman to Sanguinius. There was something about the emperor that had changed. Faded, perhaps. He had admitted by omission that the Night Haunter had dealt him some kind of invisible blow.
‘I meant no interrogation, brother.’
Sanguinius nodded, accepting an apology that had not been explicitly made.
‘Curze wanted me alone. He wanted you dead, of course,’ a flash of a smile, swiftly gone, ‘but that’s understandable. He seemed to think I might understand him better than any of my brothers.’
‘Why?’ Guilliman asked quietly. ‘What could he possibly think he could say to interest you?’
‘We share a certain gift,’ replied Sanguinius. ‘A reflex, you might call it. The visions he has spoken of, the knowledge he has been granted ahead of its truth. I have shared glimpses of the future too. He chooses to see the worst.’
It seemed as though the Blood Angel was going to move away from the topic, but he sighed and looked squarely at the Lion.
‘I choose to see something else. To believe in warnings, not fate.’
‘But what of Curze, what did he tell you?’ said the Lion. ‘Did he let slip some clue as to where he might have been, where we can hunt for him now?’
‘Yes, but I will speak of that in a moment. He wanted to talk about chance and fate. To see if I believed one or the other swayed our lives.’
‘In what way?’ Guilliman was frowning, though whether it was Sanguinius’ story or the simple thought of Curze that vexed him was impossible to know. ‘Why such an elaborate plan for such a pointless conversation?’
‘Because he is insane, brother!’ snapped the Lion. ‘We must stop garbing him with a rationale he does not wish to possess. Curze probably could not tell us why he does the things he does, not in any way we understand.’
‘No, he was quite lucid for much of the co
nversation,’ said Sanguinius, his expression showing that he did not appreciate the interruption. ‘He wants to understand himself, to know what our father intended, to relieve himself of his guilt by apportioning it to the Emperor.’
The silence of the other primarchs betrayed their incomprehension so he continued.
‘Curze blames the Emperor for making him the way he is, as though our father intended to create a genocidal, nihilistic monster.’
‘Of course he did not,’ scoffed Guilliman. ‘What pettiness, to blame the Emperor for His own failings.’
The Lion said nothing. Curze was certainly insane, a shadow of what he might have been, but the question was not a simple one. What had made him – the Emperor, the forests of Caliban, or Luther and the Order? The truth was that many things had created the warrior called the Lion. But what of the likes of Angron, lobotomised to be a furious berserker, or even Lorgar, chastised for too much faith in the Emperor?
Even so, it made no difference. Choices had been made and sides chosen. Many of his brothers had chosen to oppose the Emperor and that invalidated any fraternal bond or empathy they might have deserved. Curze’s continued persecution complex was simply guilt manifesting.
‘You look deep in thought, Lord Protector.’ Sanguinius’ words were softly spoken but shattered the Lion’s focus. ‘Care to share your mind?’
The Lion shook his head.
‘He never left Macragge,’ Sanguinius said firmly. His expression saddened. ‘I know why he really came to me. He came seeking something he cannot get from the Emperor any more. Something none will give him. Forgiveness.’
‘Forgiveness?’ snarled Guilliman. ‘I would throw the rafters of my house on the flames that burn him if it helped! Forgiveness?’
He stuttered into a red-faced silence. The Lion looked away, hiding the sneer he had felt creeping across his lips.
‘Exactly,’ said Sanguinius, but the Lion was not convinced by his tone. ‘Curze is deranged. He thinks he is good. That he is doing the Emperor’s work, even now, perhaps. He wants to believe the Emperor made him a broken puppet so that he can convince himself he was right all along. Vindication, my brothers. He knows he cannot be forgiven, but he thinks his actions can be vindicated.’
‘And he thought you would agree?’ The Lion had to wonder why Curze might be led to believe that. He was mad, but in his madness he was shrewd and observant. He had manipulated events and his brothers far too smoothly to be underestimated on that count. ‘Why so, my lord emperor?’
‘He thought I would kill him.’
‘I am sure you tried,’ Guilliman said with a bitter laugh. ‘Or considered it.’
Sanguinius shook his head. ‘I did not. I could not. How could I kill something so wretched?’
‘Mercy, for that creature?’ The Lion took in a deep breath to reign in his ire. He let it out before continuing. ‘Did he offer you his neck? You suspected a trick, yes? You did not strike because the offer was not true?’
‘He was sincere. But you are also right. It would have granted him absolution. He would have taken it as a righteous death.’
‘But he would have been dead, brother, all the same,’ said Guilliman, and the Lion nodded in agreement.
‘No, that is not the way the universe works.’ Sanguinius moved his gaze away and stared into the shadows. ‘Stones in the water. Ripples that spread and touch others. Motion and reaction. All acts have consequences. Had I slain him in cold blood, the murder would be upon me.’
‘Execution, not murder,’ the Lion had to point out.
‘Murder. There can be no execution without trial.’
Sanguinius stepped into the darkness, raising a hand to his temple as though pained.
‘This is too much,’ the Lion said, grasping Guilliman’s arm. His anger was at Sanguinius but he could not vent his frustration at the Imperator. ‘You let Curze get this close?’
‘Let?’ Guilliman looked down at the Lion’s grip on his wrist and back up to the primarch, an eyebrow raised. The Lion did not release his arm.
‘Do not quibble over words. We were all agreed, each to our role. Neither you nor I can lead the new Imperium. Our brother is the Imperator Regis, the new leader of mankind, the seed of the future.’ The Lion’s voice rose to a snarl. ‘And you allowed Curze to lay hands on him!’
Guilliman wrenched away.
‘I allowed nothing! I was protecting the beacon at Sotha. What Imperium would we have if we allow the ruinstorm to bring back the division of the Old Night? Where was the Lord Protector? In theory you are the guardian, but in practical terms you were of no use.’
‘Insult me again, brother, and theoretically I will punch you in your practical face,’ snapped the Lion, raising a fist.
‘I am here, brothers.’ Sanguinius rose from his chair, his face a whiteness in the dark, moving silently and swiftly to stand beside them. He looked at each in turn. ‘Do not treat me as a precious ornament.’
‘You are no ornament, Lord Sanguinius, but you are precious,’ said the Lion. ‘We have staked everything on Imperium Secundus, and invested in you that power once held only by our father.’
‘For all his mistakes, in this our brother of the First is correct,’ said Guilliman. ‘Your survival is key to the continuation of Imperium Secundus.’
Sadness crossed Sanguinius’ face and he looked so forlorn for a moment that the Lion felt an emptiness in his gut. Guilliman reached out a hand of comfort but the Blood Angel avoided it, brushing a hand across his brow to smooth away his hair.
‘Then we will fail,’ said Sanguinius.
‘What do you mean?’ the Lion demanded as the Blood Angel turned away.
‘I…’ Sanguinius bowed his head, weighed down by his thoughts. After a few seconds he straightened, squared his shoulders and turned back to them. ‘I shall die at the hand of Horus.’
Guilliman and the Lion looked at each other, trying to gain some meaning from the words.
‘How can you know this?’ asked Guilliman.
‘Lies of Curze, I warrant,’ said the Lion. ‘His lips are fuelled by spite and nothing more. He tried to get into my head on Tsagualsa too.’
‘I have seen it.’ Sanguinius clasped his hands, wings folding around him like a cloak. ‘I have felt it. Not from Curze, not a delusion. I have foreseen the confrontation. A waking dream, a nightmare echo from the future. Horus will come to Imperium Secundus and he will offer me a place at his side. I will refuse and he will cut me down.’
The Lion did not know what to say to this and Guilliman was struck equally dumb. Eventually Sanguinius smiled, though with little humour.
‘There is still a little hope for us. Two hopes, in fact.’ Sanguinius turned and picked up the volume he had been reading. It was a heavy tome that looked like a child’s jotter in the primarch’s hands. The Lion wondered why his lord needed a distraction, a reason not to look at his brothers at that moment. ‘The first is that I am wrong. I do not think I am, but we cannot fall prey to the sentimentality of predestination. The second is that I am right but my sacrifice is not a vanity, but to a purpose. I do not meekly submit to Horus’ deadly blow. Perhaps by my resistance he is undone, or one of you is able to finish what I begin.’
It was clear that he did not consider either of these a strong possibility, but it was so like Sanguinius to hold to the thought of hope wherever he could. It was the reason his brothers admired him, and the source of his humility that made him an effortless lord of lesser mortals. The Lion felt a rare moment of genuine love for his lord and brother, knowing that if he had been confronted by such a dark truth he would have been far less accepting of his fate.
In fact, he was not prepared to accept it even on behalf of another.
‘This will not happen,’ the Lion declared. ‘It is a trick of the enemy, a ploy to unnerve us and weaken our resolve. We have suffered two insults of late, we shall not suffer a third.’
‘There is nothing th–’ Sanguinius began, but the Lion would n
ot be rebuffed.
‘Forgive me, lord, but it is not for you to say what can and cannot happen. You are the emperor, and your command is law, but I was appointed the Lord Protector and unless you wish to relieve me of that duty I will protect you.’
Sanguinius said nothing and Guilliman simply nodded his agreement.
‘A shame that we do not have any spoor to follow,’ said the Lion. ‘Tell us more, perhaps something can be gleaned from the encounter.’
‘More than gleaned,’ said Sanguinius. ‘Curze hid in the Illyrian quarter. He confessed as much to me. Taunted me with the knowledge that he had never left Macragge, had been here in the city all of the time we sought him.’
‘The Illyrian quarter?’ The Lion stared at Guilliman. ‘That would be the same Illyrians that conspired against your liege-father and continue to rabble-rouse against your rule and the Imperium? Curze would find no shortage of supporters and hiding places amongst their kind.’
‘I have already re-evaluated our defences and protocols,’ Guilliman said quickly when the Lion rounded on him. ‘He most assuredly is not in Macragge Civitas now.’
‘Your forgiveness also, Roboute,’ the Lion continued, though there was no longer any apology in his tone, ‘but I care nothing for your assertions of security. It is not so much the case of locking the stable door after the horse has bolted, as entrusting the same ignorant stablehand with repeating the task he performed so insufficiently before.’
‘Ignorant stablehand?’ Guilliman restrained his temper with obvious effort, his hand strayed towards the hilt of the blade at his waist and then rose to point accusingly at the Lion. ‘You were not here! I had to protect Sotha! I destroyed their fleet, and an army of Night Lords there! Enemies that you, Lord Protector, were supposed to keep from our gate…’
‘You are right,’ said the Lion. ‘You are right. I should not have left. Even I underestimated his insanity. Which of us in our right mind would have stayed on Macragge with all the wrath of three Legions upon him? But Curze is of no right mind and here he is, not a thorn in our side but a dagger poised above our heart.’