by Darius Hinks
Mephiston continued to look at Antros. ‘Prester Kohath glimpsed the corner of a truth and believed it to be dreadful, but truths are only dreadful when one is unable to understand the entire form.’ He spoke in the same quiet, impenetrable tones he always used, but Antros had the horrible feeling he was being warned, perhaps even threatened.
‘Chief Librarian,’ groaned Zin. ‘Do you realise how you’re tormenting me? You talk of transgressions and schisms, while refusing to give me a direct answer. Can you lead us to Divinus Prime? We cannot simply abandon our brethren to the mysteries of the warp. The vow must be honoured. We must find a way to bring them home.’
For the first time since the conclave began, Mephiston focused all of his attention on the priest. Something flickered in his eyes and he sat upright in his chair. ‘The vow?’
Confessor Zin looked away with an awkward expression. ‘Just like me, those poor souls on Divinus Prime swore a vow to serve the God-Emperor.’
Mephiston fell quiet again, but this was a different kind of silence. He was staring at the sweating priest, his whole body rigid with concentration. He tilted his head back and a crimson sheen washed over his eyes. They became featureless red orbs, giving Mephiston an even more disturbing appearance. Confessor Zin looked anxiously to his unseen advisors for guidance.
Mephiston blinked the blood from his eyes and looked at the two priests who were in the chamber. His whole demeanour had changed. The full, unnerving force of his gaze was now locked on the members of the quorum. It was as though he had emerged from a drug-induced haze.
When he spoke to Zin again, his voice was clear and distinct. ‘The name Astra Angelus is unfamiliar to me, Confessor Zin, and I have never seen the banks of the Esomino, but your visions have not led you astray. I do see the world you have lost. And I may be willing to help. We will talk more when you reach Baal.’
Zin looked panicked as he realised he was being dismissed. ‘Chief Librarian! I have not finished. I beg that you listen to–’
Mephiston glanced at the hololithic projector and it died with a rattle of slowing cogs, ending Zin’s plea mid-sentence.
As their prelate vanished from view, the two hooded priests rose to their feet. ‘Lord Mephiston–’ protested one of them.
Mephiston gave him a dark glance and the priest’s words caught in his throat.
‘This will require some careful thought,’ said Mephiston. ‘Rhacelus will summon you when I am ready.’
The ecclesiarchs backed away from their chairs, alarmed, as Mephiston stood, towering over them. Zin’s brethren muttered anxiously as they were led away from the undercroft, shepherded down the crumbling colonnades of the Carceri Arcanum by one of Captain Vatrenus’ battle-brothers.
Once the priests had left, Mephiston sat down in his chair and stared up through the ragged hole in the ceiling, studying the glittering dust motes again. He remained like that for several minutes and an awkward silence descended over the quorum.
Rhacelus spoke up. ‘Chief Librarian, our failures in the Cronian Sector are no secret. The Wars of Sanctitude have claimed dozens of worlds and we still have no idea who is behind all these absurd schisms. And the Adeptus Ministorum know we are in the dark. Why have they approached you about Divinus Prime?’
Mephiston looked at his circle of advisors, as though noticing them for the first time. Then he shook his head. ‘Rhacelus. What did you say?’
‘Why have these priests approached you about the destruction of Divinus Prime?’
‘Destruction? Divinus Prime has not been destroyed, Epistolary Rhacelus, it has been stolen – plucked from the air like a conjuror’s prop.’ Mephiston clicked his long, tapered fingers and stared at them. ‘And now Zin’s visions have brought him to my door.’
Rhacelus laughed. ‘You mean this Astra Angelus nonsense?’
Mephiston nodded. ‘I do not recognise that title, but I have felt a call. A call similar to the one Zin has felt. I felt something long before Zin petitioned Commander Dante and asked to approach me. And I have seen other things. Other things that seem to concern Divinus Prime.’ He glanced at Antros, as though expecting him to speak.
‘My lord,’ said Scholiast Imola. Her words were relayed through a vox-unit attached to the side of the embryon, emerging as a reedy, metallic whisper. ‘I’m surprised to see Confessor Zin make such a fool of himself. He was practically lecturing you. Whatever affection he holds for this particular Cardinal World, it’s strange even for a priest to behave quite so absurdly. What do you think has driven him to speak like that?’
Rhacelus let out another derisive snort. ‘These ill-bred fanatics have no concept of manners or rank.’ He watched the receding figures of the priests, sneering as they slipped from view. ‘But then who does, these days? There was a time when the lower orders understood their place.’
‘There is more to this Cardinal World than he’s telling me, Scholiast Imola,’ replied Mephiston. ‘That’s why he behaves so oddly. He’s only giving me half a story. Which is why I went to see the place for myself.’ He looked down at his hand, noticing that it was clenched into a fist again. With an odd grimace, he slowly spread his fingers. ‘I must look into this further.’
With that, Mephiston dismissed the quorum. Captain Vatrenus and his men were ordered back to the Ostensorio to continue the slow, careful work of reconsecrating the ruins, while most of the Librarians headed back to their own chambers. Mephiston requested the presence of Antros and Rhacelus in his private quarters.
As they left the undercroft and travelled up through the Carceri Arcanum, heading back towards the upper levels of the Librarium, Epistolary Rhacelus held up a hand to Mephiston, signalling that he wished to speak with him alone. Mephiston waved Antros on and the two old warriors stepped through an archway into a shadowy antechamber at the side of the passageway.
They were in a part of the Carceri Arcanum called the Sacellum of Lineaments: a maze of galleries, designed to illustrate the incredible variety of xenos species crushed by the Chapter since the earliest days of the Great Crusade. Each chamber was lined with rows of marble plinths and on top of each plinth was a bust, carefully sculpted to resemble the head of a bested alien foe. The Blood Angels employed only the most skilled artisans and the busts were terrifying in their realism. Rhacelus and Mephiston came to a halt near the head of a huge, one-eyed raptor, its cruel beak open in an eternal, soundless scream.
Rhacelus looked around the room and when he was sure they were alone, his habitually scornful expression softened a little. He clasped the shoulder pad of Mephiston’s battleplate and leant close to him. ‘Tell me the truth, Calistarius.’ His strange eyes flickered with concern. ‘I have not seen you since Thermia. Is it getting worse?’
Mephiston’s expression remained as impenetrable as ever, but he did not reprimand Rhacelus for using his old name, which Rhacelus took as a good sign.
Mephiston slowly removed one of his gauntlets and held up his hand.
Rhacelus muttered a curse as he saw that Mephiston’s skin was rippling with dark fire. Black, brittle flames danced across his knuckles and sparked between his fingers. In places, the darkness had entirely replaced the skin, turning Mephiston’s hand into a ghostly shadow.
‘What is this?’ asked Rhacelus.
‘The Gift. It has been like this since Thermia,’ said Mephiston. ‘It will no longer leave me, Rhacelus, even when I am calm. It is there, constantly. Even now it is battling within me.’ He closed his eyes and the darkness faded. ‘I can barely control it any more. It grows more powerful by the day but the more I struggle with it, the more I…’ He held up his hand, leaving wisps of shadow in the air as he moved it. ‘The more I try to suppress the Gift, the more it consumes me. And it’s not just my flesh that is changing. My mind is growing darker too. I’m intoxicated by it, Rhacelus. Intoxicated.’
Rhacelus stared at Mephiston’s odd, smouldering s
kin. ‘But what of Divinus Prime? Do you see hope there or not? Did all those visions mean nothing? You told me someone was calling to you.’
Mephiston stared at his hand for a little longer, then muttered an oath and shoved his gauntlet back on. ‘Someone is calling me, I’m sure of it. I hoped to find a clear answer there, or perhaps a clue to the problems in the Cronian Sector, but I knew after just a few hours that I had made a pointless journey. After all these visions and messages, Divinus Prime was just another bloodbath – believers killing believers over some detail of religious doctrine, just as confusing as the rest of the Cronian Sector. I have to admit, I returned here baffled, old friend. Neither of my hopes turned out to be true. I found no link between Divinus Prime and the Gift, and I found nothing that could point us to the architect of all these insurgencies.’
Mephiston frowned. ‘But now, after listening to Zin’s gibberish, I think perhaps the visions do have some worth. Perhaps I missed something on Divinus Prime, something crucial. There might be a way after all.’
Rhacelus shook his head, confused. ‘A way to harness the Gift?’
‘A way to unleash it.’ A rare flicker of passion transformed Mephiston’s face. ‘A way to become the weapon the Angel wished me to be. A way to fulfil my destiny. To truly grasp what I have been given and finally name it friend or foe.’ Mephiston turned his gaze to the stone bust, staring at the one-eyed eagle. ‘Do you remember this?’ he asked. ‘Do you remember the Battle of Khatan?’
Rhacelus laughed, a deep booming sound that echoed through the halls. ‘I’m not likely to forget it. You didn’t show much distinction between friend and foe that day.’
Mephiston nodded. ‘Even then I realised the truth, the possibilities.’ He held out a hand and allowed the dark flames to envelop his gauntlet. ‘I must believe this power comes from the Angel. I have to. But until now, I have never discussed the Gift with anyone but you, Rhacelus.’
Rhacelus blanched. ‘Until now? Calistarius, are you going to discuss this with others? Is that wise?’ He looked around the chamber again, checking they were still alone. ‘Tell me it will not be Captain Vatrenus. Vatrenus is a good warrior, but he is no scholar. Even after all these decades, I barely understand half of what you have told me of the Gift – imagine how it could seem to him. And remember why he has a place in the quorum. If Vatrenus were to put this in one of his reports to the commander, you would be ruined. The last thing Dante wants is to castigate you, Calistarius, but this is just the kind of thing that might force him to.’
Mephiston shook his head. ‘Not Vatrenus. Antros.’
Rhacelus stepped back, incredulous. ‘Why in the God-Emperor’s name would you share such a thing with Lucius? He’s barely earned the right to wear his armour.’ Rhacelus looked around the chamber, ensuring that Antros was not in earshot. ‘How can you expect him to understand? If I am not sufficient to the task, how can he be? If you really need another confidant, there are better options. Why would you choose him?’
Mephiston spoke with an uncharacteristic note of emotion. ‘You are my only friend in this galaxy, Gaius – my only friend. I trust you even when I do not trust myself. I would never have chosen to share this with another, but it was not a choice. He has seen. When I thought everything was lost, on Thermia Five, he saw into my soul. He even saw the skinless woman that has been calling to me. She is the key to all of this, I know it. I think she may be the one infecting that whole sector with thoughts of sedition and heresy. Some champion of the Ruinous Powers, perhaps. And maybe Antros can help me discover who she is. He is…’ He shook his head, unsure how to continue.
‘Calistarius,’ said Rhacelus, ‘he has power, I do not deny it.’ He shrugged. ‘No aspirant ever showed such promise before Insanguination and since then he has been even more driven. But I have doubts about him. He is so ambitious. So eager to race ahead. There is a rebellious streak in him, a lack of respect.’ He shook his head. ‘He should not have even been in the Ostensorio yesterday. And he knows that. I never summoned him to the rite. Neither did you. So why was he there? He lacks discipline, Calistarius. I know he is gifted but–’
‘He is gifted in a way we had not foreseen, Gaius, in a way I still do not understand. Something happened on Thermia that created a nexus between us, joining my thoughts to his.’ Mephiston studied the black flames licking across his battleplate. ‘I cannot tell if it will be for good or ill, but Antros has found his way into my future. Our fates are bound.’
Chapter Six
The Diurnal Vault, Arx Angelicum, Baal
Time was frozen in the Diurnal Vault, trapped forever by the agonies of a dying star. As Lexicanium Antros entered he was left purblind by the majesty of the immense chamber. His Adeptus Astartes eyes quickly adjusted to the glare, but even then he could see little – vast, blazing pillars of light, hanging overhead, so tall that their summits vanished out of sight. The vault was built on a scale that defied physics. It could not, by any normal rules of science, exist within the confines of the Librarium. And yet here it was, existing.
At the centre of the hall was Idalia, beautiful guardian of a million ideas. She burned endlessly, crimson and furious in her stone prison – a caged star, bound by wards so powerful that no living Librarian could untie them. The star was only forty feet across, crushed, it was said, by the will of the Emperor Himself, but she was embedded in the chest of a truly monolithic statue: a towering, winged angel, resting one hand on the pommel of a sword the size of a cathedral, and holding the other aloft, palm upwards. Whatever the truth of Idalia’s capture, she retained enough brilliance to illuminate every inch of the colossal statue. Generators, conductors and valves hummed as they distributed her power through growling banks of voltaic batteries, then out across black, Baalite stone. She pumped crimson fire into a dazzling arterial network and the light was greatest as it reached the statue’s open palm. Hovering above the hand were three enormous red gemstones. These towering slabs of crystal seemed to be merely beautiful, but Antros knew the truth. The Crimson Tears contained millions of texts, visible only to the most potent psykers. Even after his years of training, Antros could barely discern the volumes they contained. Thanks to Idalia, the Crimson Tears floated gracefully through the chamber, attended by flocks of winged servitors, servo-skulls and cherubs who flitted across their facets, cataloguing, studying and reciting, adding their chattering voices to the din.
At the sight of the statue Antros staggered to a halt. It was like meeting Sanguinius himself, so great was the likeness. A powerful mix of emotions washed over him. Once he had recovered his composure Antros looked around, fascinated by the wonders that surrounded him. There was no time to explore, though. Epistolary Rhacelus was right behind him and Mephiston’s equerry was watching him with an even more disapproving expression than usual. Up ahead of them was Mephiston, barely recognisable as he drifted through the tumult, silhouetted before the distant face of the statue, his cloak shimmering in Idalia’s heat haze.
As he stepped further into the chamber, Antros’ feet lifted from the ground. Idalia preserved the books from the depredations of the centuries, but she also played other games. Antros could not help smiling as he slipped the bonds of gravity and swam through the air after Mephiston.
Rhacelus followed as Mephiston led them up past the statue’s chest towards its blazing heart. Antros managed to keep his eye locked on Mephiston as he drifted through crowds of cherubs and passed through an ornate, marble doorway, buried in one of the statue’s wings.
Antros followed him into a much smaller chamber and, as he crossed the threshold, gravity threw him to the floor. He landed easily, with a wheeze of servos and hydraulics.
Mephiston melted away into the shadows and Antros looked around at the gloomy scriptorium they had entered. Hooded servitors were dotted around the edges of the room ensconced in tall, stone alcoves, hunched over flickering screens and scratching away at wax tablets with metal styl
uses. They were transcribing the glyphs displayed on the screens and, as they wrote, the wax tablets slowly reproduced the text on scrolls of illuminated vellum, decorated in vibrant red ink. At first glance, Antros thought the servitors were merely seated, but then he saw that their bodies were meshed with the machines. The top halves were humanoid, but that ended at the waist, where they became one with the whirring, humming cogitators.
Rhacelus dropped into the chamber and looked at one of the alcoves on the far side of the room. It was a pool of shadow, but he clearly saw something of interest. ‘Is that him?’ he asked, his strange blue eyes reflecting the candlelight. ‘The heretic?’
‘I would not use that word.’ Mephiston strode over to the alcove, followed by Rhacelus. ‘But yes, this is my guest.’
Antros followed and saw that the alcove contained an ecclesiarch, chained to an ornate brass rack. His hair had been ceremonially shaved at the front, just like the priests Antros had seen in the Carceri Arcanum, and he clearly belonged to the same order, but his robes were filthy and torn. He had obviously survived some terrible ordeal. His face was as bloodless as Mephiston’s and his tonsured hair was matted with gore. And his trials were clearly not over. The rack was laced with bundles of wires and cables, most of which threaded under his skin. He looked like a diagram of a man, spread-eagled and surrounded by a fan of rubbery black tubing. Dark, viscous liquid was pumping through the tubes into his body. His eyes were closed but he was far from peaceful, muttering and flinching as he slept.
‘What have you done to him?’ Antros was intrigued by the intricate, cosmological symbols drawn over the man’s skin.