He nodded and said, ‘Ah, yes, young Master Grayloc, a terrible business. Lost his mother the same night we lost the temple.’
The significance of his latter remark escaped me at the time.
I still did not know how the colonel had died, but I sensed the soul of a gossip within Mister Gant and suspected he would be all too ready to share what he knew.
‘May I ask how the colonel died?’
‘A terrible business,’ said Gant again. ‘A boatman found her body broken on the rocks below her mansion when the storm abated. Poor woman.’
I vaguely recalled friends in Servadac Magna telling me of a brief and intensely powerful storm ravaging the western coasts last month, but I had been adrift in the fog of Teodoro’s loss at the time and had cared little for anything beyond my misery.
‘The storm?’ I asked.
‘Indeed. Thunder and lightning such as I have not seen in all my days. Biggest storm to hit the Amethyst Coast in seventy years.’
‘Most likely she was taking the air and slipped while too close to the edge…’ I said.
He hesitated before answering. ‘That’s certainly what the local authorities concluded.’
‘You don’t sound particularly convinced by that. Do you believe foul play was involved?’
‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ replied Gant.
‘Throne!’ I said with extra drama. ‘You don’t think she was… pushed?’
‘I don’t know, Mistress Sullo,’ said Gant. ‘Not the done thing to give air to idle speculation, is it?’
‘No, of course not,’ I agreed. ‘Though the mysterious circumstances surrounding the colonel’s death have all the ingredients of grand melodrama performed in the Theatrica Imperialis, don’t you think? A devoted Imperial servant potentially murdered under the cover of the biggest storm to hit the region in nearly a century. A grieving son newly returned from off-world.’
‘Truth is often stranger than fiction,’ he answered.
‘How so?’ I asked.
Perhaps he sensed the intensity of my interest, for his gossiper’s soul would say no more. So I thanked him for the conversation, settled my bill and went on my way. Fortified by a hot mug of caffeine and a sugared pastry that was deliciously sweet, I passed through the centre of the town, where I came upon a single wall of basalt atop a raised plinth.
Upon this wall were inscribed hundreds of names, some dating back thousands of years. I paused to read them, and quickly realised this was not a monument to memorial, but of honour. These were the sons and daughters of Vansen Falls, young men and women who had been called to fight for the Imperium. I did not linger, but simply made the sign of the aquila and bowed to the wall before moving on.
The curve of the bay took longer to circumnavigate than I had expected, and the gradient of the streets made the climb steeper with every step. By the time I reached the windswept promontory I had climbed a considerable distance and three hours had passed, but my limbs were filled with such energy that I felt I might have ascended yet further.
Clearly the sea air was working wonders upon my constitution.
A path of black flagstones crossed the wild grass of the promontory.
At last I beheld my destination.
Now I understood the significance of Mister Gant’s remark about the temple.
From the road, en route to Grayloc Manor, the temple had appeared quite normal, but now I was closer I saw it was a ruin. I had thought it constructed of black stone, but that blackness was not the natural quality of any material, rather the effects of searing fire. I approached the building, casting wary glances up at its crooked spire as the wind howled over the headland and a light smirr of rain began to fall. The dark clouds I had seen at daybreak gathered in sullen thunderheads on the horizon, but I could not tell if they were advancing or retreating.
The fire had scorched the masonry to its very bones. Nothing timber remained and the heath surrounding the ruin glistened with reflective motes of coloured glass. The temple had been roofed with steel trusses and stone tiles, less than half of which had survived.
For all intents and purposes, the building’s shell was intact, but looking through the yawning portal where only splintered fragments of its doors remained, I saw the interior had been comprehensively gutted. I crossed the threshold, feeling a dank chill seep into my bones. The temperature within the temple was markedly colder than without, so I pulled my long coat tighter about myself.
Smashed timbers littered the interior, pews for the faithful charred to ash and ruin.
Alcoves that once contained reliquaries were now filled with melted wax from votive candles like glistening pools of blood.
Drizzling rain drifted down through the broken roof and wind sighed through the empty window frames. It whistled mournfully around the destroyed temple, and sadness touched me at the thought of this house of worship lying abandoned and forgotten.
That emotion was swiftly replaced by anger as I saw a blackened statue of the Emperor lying fallen across the altar. The Master of Mankind lay in a pool of light shining through the temple’s last remaining window.
The sight so distressed me that I hurried out.
By now the weather had worsened, but even the cold rain and bitter wind was better than remaining in the dark of the temple’s ruin. I could not bear to re-enter the temple, so walked a dispirited circle around its perimeter.
On the far gable looking over the endless ocean was a glassaic window. The rest of the temple’s windows had been destroyed, but this one had somehow survived. It depicted the Emperor of Mankind atop a burning mountain of Old Earth. His holy primarchs surrounded Him, armoured demigods in crimson, gold and cobalt.
It must have been magnificent in its day, but the fire’s heat had warped the glass, distorting the Emperor and the figures around Him. Once they had been glorious and inspirational, but the glass had run molten, twisting their faces into hideous leers and making them monstrous.
I could not bear the sight of them so transformed, and turned away as the sensation of being observed crawled up my neck.
I looked around, but could see no one nearby.
Only when I turned towards Grayloc Manor did I catch sight of my observer.
Standing on the opposite headland, a solitary figure shrouded in white.
Distance and the fine rain drifting in off the ocean hazed the abyss between us. Scraps of damp mist coiled about my ankles as I took a step towards the hooded figure. Something in the way it held itself made me think it was a woman, but I could not be certain.
The low sun prevented me from seeing a face in the shadows beneath the hood, and some ancient, primal part of me was grateful for the mercy of that.
Its head tilted to the side, like a bird on a branch curiously regarding its next meal.
I felt a chill travel the length of my spine as the angle of its neck passed beyond what any human bones ought to be capable of. I saw the back of its hood was stained red, and lines of crimson bled slowly down the length of its shrouded body as I watched.
I wanted to step back, but a warm sigh brushed across my cheek, like the intimate breath of a loved one. Reaching up, I felt the sensation of callused fingertips slipping down my neck. The feeling traced the line of my collarbone, and my heart beat a little faster. I could not move, and the cold of the promontory faded as a pleasurable warmth spread through my body, tingling along my limbs and into my loins. My lips parted and I let out a shuddering breath as the most potent of my recent dreams surged in my memory.
A voice in my head was telling me to avert my gaze from this woman, but the youthful vigour infusing my body smothered it.
The warmth was too welcome. The memories too powerful.
I closed my eyes and took another step forwards.
‘Ma’am!’ cried a voice, and my eyes snapped open.
; A dizzying sense of vertigo seized me as I looked down and saw my feet were at the very edge of the cliff. But for this shouted warning, I would have stepped into thin air and fallen hundreds of metres to a grave of jagged rocks below.
Just like Colonel Grayloc…
I stumbled back from the edge, and the healing warmth fled from my flesh. The day’s cold – hard and piercing – stabbed painfully into my limbs. I turned to face the source of the cry that had undoubtedly saved my life.
A figure, as dark as the one across the bay was light, stood in the doorway of the temple. He was tall, broad of shoulder and powerful, carrying something long and club-like.
The figure took a step from the temple, and the breath eased in my chest as I saw it was a heavyset man dressed in threadbare priestly vestments. The object he carried was no more threatening than an umbrella.
My breathing began to return to normal and I turned back to Grayloc Manor.
The figure was gone.
I struggled to find both my composure and my voice as the preacher came towards me.
‘Did you see it?’ I said at last.
‘Ma’am?’
‘The figure across the bay,’ I said. ‘A figure in white.’
He shook his head, and I could see he thought me quite mad.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, his voice a mixture of concern and wariness. ‘Please, come away from the edge.’
I was only too happy to put greater distance between myself and the sheer drop.
‘My thanks, sir,’ I said as I set foot on the flagstone path again. ‘The mist confounded me. I fear I would have stepped to my death but for your warning. You have my thanks.’
‘I am at your service,’ he said with a slight bow. ‘I am Father Calidarus, the preacher here. Or at least I was until last month.’
I shook his hand. The skin of his palm was rough, the hand of a worker.
‘Teresina Sullo.’
‘A pleasure, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Are you visiting Vansen Falls?’
‘I am undertaking some archiving work at Grayloc Manor,’ I said, nodding towards the temple. ‘Can you tell me what happened here?’
‘Ah, yes, a terrible business,’ said Calidarus. ‘It happened during last month’s storm. A bolt of lightning struck the steeple in the middle of the night. The flash started a fire that gutted the temple before anyone could lift a finger to save it.’
‘How awful,’ I said. ‘Will it be rebuilt?’
‘In time, yes. We have secured some funds locally, and the diocese is securing donations from neighbouring parishes. All being well, Militarum pioneers will soon arrive to demolish the old structure in readiness for the new.’
‘And this happened on the same night Colonel Grayloc died?’
‘I believe so, yes,’ said Calidarus.
I spoke with Father Calidarus for a little longer, affording my racing heartbeat the opportunity to slow, while learning more of the history pertaining to the temple. None of which is germane to this record so I shall omit it for the sake of brevity. Though, looking at the length of this missive so far, achieving brevity may already be impossible.
My return to Grayloc Manor took considerably less time than my ascent to the temple, and by the time I arrived I had reserves of energy I had not expected. The rain that threatened to fall in waves did not come, but the clouds overhead remained looming and low, a taste of what was in store.
I reached the headland opposite the temple, and paused to look back over the bay.
Strangely, the temple still looked intact. Encroaching night and distance conspired to render it completely normal, as though the lightning had not hollowed it out. Thinking back on that moment, I wonder at how easily we are taken in by the desire to see things the way we would wish them, and how wilfully we ignore the reality of what only becomes obvious with the benefit of hindsight.
As I entered the vestibule of the manor, Kyrano was waiting for me with a linen towel.
The material was freshly warmed, and was at first welcoming, but something in the quality of its texture made me curiously reluctant to press it to my face. As I patted my arms and skin dry, Garrett Grayloc descended the stairs.
He smiled to see me and enquired after my time in Vansen Falls.
‘It was most instructional,’ I said. ‘I sampled the sweet delights of Zeirath Gant’s establishment, then visited the temple across the crater.’
‘Ah, yes, a terrible business,’ he said, and the oddly echoing sentiment, which so closely recalled Gant’s earlier remarks, sent a curious frisson over my skin. He seemed distracted, and excused himself with a curt bow of his head.
As he departed, I handed the towel back to Kyrano and said, ‘Garrett?’
‘Yes?’
‘Is there anyone else staying at the manor? A woman perhaps?’
A shadow passed over his features, so swiftly I cannot to this day be certain I saw it.
He shook his head and gave me a bemused smile that was not at all convincing.
‘No, Teresina,’ he said. ‘It’s just us.’
I returned to my room and locked the door behind me. The bed had been made and fresh water placed in a ewer on the dresser. Fresh flowers, vividly red-leafed Fireblooms, stood proud in a vase and filled the air with a heady, musky bouquet.
A little too potent for my tastes, but not unpleasant.
The day’s excursion had left me tired, though not so much as I had expected. The chill damp of the fine rain still clung to me, so I stripped off and took a warm shower in the adjacent ablutions cubicle, taking the time to wash my hair and massage the cold from my bones. By the time I emerged, the space was filled with warm steam and the mirror opposite was fogged with condensation. Soldiers often speak of the simple pleasure of a warm meal on the campaign trail, but for me there was no greater comfort than a warm shower and the feeling of once again being clean.
Wrapping the towel about myself, I wiped a patch of the mirror clear and began applying a moisturising cream to my face. After a few minutes I leaned in, pleased by what I saw. I was no youngster, but I was still a striking woman, and did not feel aggrieved at what time had wrought upon my features.
But… was I imagining it, or were the crow’s feet at the edges of my eyes marginally less pronounced? My fingertips traced the line of my jaw. The skin felt tighter to the bone, taut and vital. I ran a hand through my hair, and my eyes narrowed. During my seventieth year, my hair had swiftly turned from a rich auburn to the silver it is today.
My roots were tinted the faint brown of my youth.
I have never been overly concerned with the visible effects of ageing, but the sight of smoother skin and my natural colour returning was far from unpleasant. I have had only mild juvenat treatments over the years; procedures to maintain bone density, neural regeneration, and transfusions to counteract the natural degeneration of vital tissues, but nothing cosmetic. I did not know how this was possible, but to see an echo of the young woman I had once been was pleasing in a way I can scarcely describe.
My vain contemplation was cut short as I heard the sound of my door closing.
Was there someone in my room?
I eased to the door and pressed my ear to the wood. I could hear nothing save the patter of rain on the window glass and the creaks and groans of an old house settling for the night. Warmth evaporated from my skin, and I shivered as cold air seeped in from the room beyond.
Gingerly, I pressed open the door a few centimetres and peered through the crack into my room. I glimpsed the lace curtains at the window twisting and dancing, blown and billowed by soft wind through the cracked glass. I altered the angle of my head to see that the door to my room was closed. I breathed a sigh of relief.
I knew I was being ridiculous and pushed the door open, stepping boldly into the room.
At first it appeared as though e
verything was just as I had left it, but that initial impression was soon dispelled.
The damp tunic and undergarments I had left wadded in a bundle on the floor by the bed were gone. Laid on the bed were fresh clothes, but they were not mine.
The fresh-pressed uniform of an Astra Militarum colonel was laid out with the precision of an officer’s boatman. A worn battle-jacket of deep green lay next to a pair of faded fatigues and a peaked cap of black and red. Leather boots polished to a mirror finish sat with the toes tucked under the low-hanging bedspread.
A tray of food was set upon the antique desk opposite the bed. A plate of rich, pinkish meat, brightly coloured vegetables, and a cut-crystal decanter of what looked like amasec. I have been vegetarian for most of my life, and the meals Kyrano had served me at Grayloc Manor had respected this.
Why now was I being served rare steak?
Next to the decanter was a worn and tattered book, like something an officer might carry to record their thoughts on the campaign trail. The leather of the spine was cracked as though it had been bent back many times, its pages curling up at the corners.
The cover was a faded red, and bore the monogram M.R. in faded gold leaf.
I lifted the book and opened it to a random page.
It was not, as I had first dared hope, the colonel’s monograph; rather it was a journal of sorts. I immediately recognised what I was looking at: a plan to organise, categorise and order the collection of books in Colonel Grayloc’s library, the first entry of which dated back thirty years at least. I had been preparing plans just like this in the month I had spent here.
I pushed the tray of food away and poured a drink from the decanter. As I had suspected, the liquid within was amasec. A fine vintage, too. I flicked through the book, seeing references to numerous books I had already catalogued. Some were books I had not yet encountered, while yet others were ones that appeared to be in languages I could not read.
I lit the desk lumen as night finally closed in.
Isolated in my little island of buzzing light, I lost myself in the intricacy of the writer’s process. His handwriting was meticulous (the tone and style of writing made me reasonably confident the author was a man), the methodology impeccable, and his singular devotion to the task at hand reminded me of my own perfectionism.
The Colonel's Monograph Page 4
