A Thousand Sons

by Graham McNeill

  “Would you hang it on your wall?”

  “A Kallimakus original?” asked Lemuel, taking a seat. “Of course. I’d be mad not to.”

  Mahavastu chuckled dryly.

  “You always were a terrible liar, Lemuel,” he said.

  “It’s what makes me such a good friend. I’ll always tell the truth, because you’ll always know if I don’t.”

  “A good friend and a great remembrance,” said Mahavastu, taking Lemuel’s hand. The old man’s fingers were like twigs and without strength. “Stay awhile if you have the time.”

  “I’m meeting Kallista and Camille for lunch later, but I always have time for you, old friend. So, leaving aside your obvious talent, what’s brought the artistic urge out in you?”

  Mahavastu looked down at the sketchpad and smiled ruefully. He flipped it closed, and Lemuel saw a look of aching sadness on the old man’s face.

  “I wanted something for myself,” he said, with a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Something I knew I had done. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” said Lemuel guardedly, remembering the panicked words they had exchanged on Aghoru before the Thousand Sons’ dreadful battle with the Syrbotae giants in the Mountain.

  “I remember leaving Prospero with the restored Legion so long ago,” said Mahavastu. “It was a glorious day, Lemuel. You would have wept to see it. Thousands upon thousands of warriors marching through the marbled processionals with rose petals falling from an empty sky and the cheers of the populace ringing in our ears. Magnus honoured me with a place in the triumphal march, and I have never felt such pride as I did that day. I could not believe that I, Mahavastu Kallimakus, was to chronicle the annals of Magnus the Red. There could be no greater honour.”

  “I wish I could have seen it, but I doubt I was even born then.”

  “Most likely not,” agreed Mahavastu, with tears in his eyes. “A Legion on the verge of destruction had been reunited with its lost primarch. He had saved them from the abyss. I treasure that memory, but the time since then feels like another has lived my life. I remember fragments, but none of it feels real. I have filled a library’s worth of books, but they are not my words. I cannot even read them.”

  “That’s what I came to tell you, my friend,” said Lemuel. “I think I may be able to help you with that. Remember I said I had a partial copy of the Liber Loagaeth in my library back on Terra, but how I’d never been able to source the Cloves Angelicae, its twin book with the letter tables?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “I have found a copy.”

  “You have? Where?”

  “In the library of the Corvidae,” said Lemuel. “Ever since we returned to Prospero, Ahriman has stepped up my training. He’s had me practically chained to a desk under the tutelage of Ankhu Anen, who is a scholar quite beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. I have to admit, I didn’t care for him when I first met him, but he’s been of immense help in my studies. I asked him about the book and he had a library servitor fetch it as though it was nothing at all.”

  “Then you intend to translate what I have been writing?”

  “In time, yes,” said Lemuel. “It’s a difficult language to crack, even with the letter keys. There are whole word groups that don’t look like real language at all. I’m going to see if Camille can use her psychometry to help me with it.”

  Mahavastu sighed and said, “I wish you wouldn’t.” Lemuel was taken aback.

  “You don’t want to know what you’ve been writing all this time?” he asked.

  “I think I am afraid to know.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “I am a scribe, Lemuel. I am an exceptional scribe, and I do not make mistakes. You of all people know that. So why appoint me as a scribe only to prevent me from knowing what it is I write. I believe the words I have written are not meant for mortal eyes to see.”

  Lemuel took a deep breath, shocked at the fear he heard in Mahavastu’s voice.

  “I am an old man, Lemuel, and I am tired of living like this. I want to leave the crusade and return to my homeland. I want to see Uttarpatha before I die.”

  “The records of the crusade will be poorer for your absence, my friend.”

  “Come with me, Lemuel,” urged Mahavastu, keeping his voice low. “There is a curse upon this world, you must know that.”

  “A curse? What are you talking about?”

  “This world was destroyed once before through the arrogance of its people, and all human history tells us that men do not learn from their mistakes, even those as advanced as the Thousand Sons.”

  “The people back then didn’t understand their abilities,” said Lemuel. “The Thousand Sons have mastered their powers.”

  “Do not be so sure, Lemuel,” warned Mahavastu. “If they had truly mastered their powers, why would the Emperor forbid them to wield them? Why would he have ordered them back to Prospero except to more fully dismantle their Librarius?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lemuel, “but how galling must it be to be told that all the great things they’ve done and all the knowledge they’ve accumulated is worthless and forbidden?”

  “That is exactly what I mean,” said Mahavastu. “They have been forbidden to pursue their esoteric leanings, yet they do so regardless. Your continued instruction is in defiance of the Emperor’s edicts! Had you thought of that?”

  A hot flush settled in Lemuel’s belly at the thought of defying the word of the Emperor. He hadn’t thought of it like that at all, for he saw no harm in the skills he was acquiring. The long journey back to the Thousand Sons home world had been a time of rest for the remembrancers, but upon arrival on Prospero their training had been, if anything, more intensive than ever.

  “This Legion is doomed,” said Mahavastu, taking Lemuel’s hand once more and surprising him with its strength. “If they continue down this path, it will not be long until their defiance comes to light, and when that day comes…”

  “What?”

  “Be anywhere in the galaxy, but do not be on Prospero,” said Mahavastu.

  THE MEETING WITH Mahavastu had unsettled Lemuel, and his thoughts were troubled as he made his way through the city towards his rendezvous with Camille and Kallista. Tall buildings of white and gold lined wide boulevards of pollarded trees. Luscious green fronds hung low over the streetscape, heavy with fruits of yellow and red.

  As usual, the sun was warm, and balmy ocean-scented winds sighed through streets busy with people. The inhabitants of Tizca were tall and uniformly attractive. They had welcomed the return of the Thousand Sons elements of the 28th Expedition, and the remembrancers that came with them. Lemuel had found much to like on Prospero, not least its people.

  Tizca was a wondrous city of glorious architecture, open spaces, lively theatres and beautiful parklands. The White Mountains and Acropolis Magna provided a stunning backdrop to the city, and the great pyramids and silver towers of the Thousand Sons cults towered over everything. In any other city, such dominating architecture would have been oppressive, but such was the harmony with which the pyramids were constructed that they seemed as natural a part of the landscape as the mountains themselves. Even the pyramid of the Pyrae, with its titanic guardian and burning finial blended with the city’s aesthetic.

  The months he had spent on Prospero had given Lemuel a good grounding in the city’s geography, and such was the intuitive design of its layout that it was possible to navigate its many streets after only a short time.

  Currently, he was heading east towards the Street of A Thousand Lions and Voisanne’s. Tucked away in one of Occullum Square’s radial streets, Lemuel had discovered Voisanne’s on one of his morning walks, a modest bakery-cum-restaurant that did the most incredible confectionaries. Though he had kept off most of the weight he had lost since Aghoru, he still liked to treat himself to something sweet when he felt in need of comfort.

  Today was one of those days.

  Mahavastu had picked a scab Lemuel hadn’t
even realised was there. Like everyone within the Imperium, he had learned of the Edicts of Nikaea and the ramifications they would have. Though these edicts had come directly from the Emperor, dissenting voices already wondered how many of the Astartes Legions would actually obey the ruling.

  That was a problem for someone else to deal with, and Lemuel hadn’t been surprised when Ahriman continued his training on the voyage back to Prospero.

  Lemuel had simply taken the fact that the Thousand Sons were continuing their education of the remembrancers to mean that they were utterly certain of their abilities. Now he wondered if that were true. Were they meddling with powers that ought to be abhorred?

  Lemuel had heard the story of Prospero’s fall, but he hadn’t really given any thought as to why it had fallen. Ahriman spoke of Old Night as an unavoidable catastrophe, but was that really true? Might those millennia of horror been avoided had humanity left well alone the powers that he used with such familiar ease?

  He looked towards the water-locked Pyramid of Photep, the glittering spire immense and shimmering with heat haze reflecting from its mirrored skin. Primarch Magnus dwelt within this mighty structure, its gold and silver embellishments shining as though afire in the noonday sun.

  Lemuel entered a street lined with statues of rearing silver lions. Each was subtly different in pose and size from the others, as though a vast pack had been gilded then brought to Tizca and placed upon tall plinths of polished marble. He touched the leftmost lion for good luck, smiling at the notion that one particular lion could be luckier than another.

  Two particularly regal beasts framed the entrance to a small area of parkland, and Lemuel paused to watch a group of Tizcan citizens practicing taijiquan under the watchful eye of a warrior of the Thousand Sons. He found calm in the slow, precise movements, letting the soothing repetitions and graceful unity ease his troubled mind.

  Lemuel took in deep breaths as the class breathed, finding his hands moving in unconscious imitation. He smiled and his grim mood vanished. Lemuel moved on down the street and emerged into a vast square, though such a term was misleading for the open space was perfectly circular.

  Numerous streets, eighty-one to be precise, radiated from Occullum Square, and the centre was taken up by a tall column in the Doric fashion with a flaming urn at its summit. A great relief carved on its square plinth depicted a personification of Prospero grieving for her lost civilisation, while an armoured figure with one eye lifted her up. Some said the tower was all that remained of a device once used by the ancients of Prospero to communicate with Terra in the days before Old Night, but no one had been able to make it work again.

  It was market day, and the square was packed with stalls, traders and good-natured bartering as the people of Tizca haggled for silks, produce and handmade ornaments. It reminded Lemuel of home, and he had a sudden pang of nostalgia for the heaving, bustling, sweating markets of the Sangha commercia-subsid.

  He threaded the crowds, politely declining offers of food and drink while stopping to purchase two crystal vials of scented oil. Lemuel headed south, taking Gordian Avenue until it cut east into a narrow street overhung with trellis and hanging fruit.

  Voisanne’s was at the end of the street, and he saw Camille and Kallista waiting for him. He smiled and waved at them. They waved back, and he bent to plant chaste kisses on both womens’ cheeks.

  “You’re late,” said Camille.

  “My apologies, ladies,” said Lemuel. “I was purchasing gifts for you from the market, and it took longer than usual to haggle the merchant down from his ruinous prices.”

  “Gifts?” asked Kallista, brightly. “Then you’re forgiven. What do you have for us?”

  Lemuel placed a crystal vial before each woman and said, “Fragrant Boronia oil. I have no doubt your quarters are equipped with oil burners, so two droplets in water will fill your rooms with sweet floral undertones and a light, fruity scent that will refresh you and revitalise your creative energy. At least that’s what the merchant assured me would happen.”

  “Thank you, Lemuel,” said Camille, unstoppering the vial and sniffing its contents. “Chaiya will love it. She loves our rooms to smell pretty.”

  “Very nice,” added Kallista.

  “It’s nothing, ladies,” said Lemuel, “just a trifle to apologise for my lateness.”

  “I thought you were late because you bought us these?” said Camille.

  “Actually it was Mahavastu that made me late,” said Lemuel with enforced levity. “You know how the old man likes to tell an endless, rambling story.”

  Camille looked askance, but Kallista nodded, and Lemuel was about to turn and ask for a menu when a waitress arrived bearing a tray of food. She placed a bowl of fruit before Kallista, a crème-filled pastry in front of Camille and frosted confections of spun sugar, sweet pastry and fruit for Lemuel.

  The waitress went back inside, and Camille took a bite of her pastry.

  She sighed with pleasure.

  “Wonderful,” she said, “but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them knowing what I’m going to order before I even ask for it.”

  “I know,” said Lemuel. “I’d be worried if it wasn’t for the fact they bring what I absolutely want every time.”

  “True,” agreed Camille. “I’ll let them off then. So, how was he?”

  “Who?”

  “Mahavastu, you said you saw him earlier.”

  “Oh, he’s, well, he’s fine, if a little homesick, I think. He was talking about wanting to go home, to Terra, I mean.”

  “Why?” asked Kallista. “Why would anyone want to leave Prospero? It’s paradise.”

  “He’s getting old, I suppose. He wants to go home before it’s too late.”

  “I’ll miss the old man,” said Camille. “He has interesting tales.”

  “Yes,” agreed Lemuel, uncomfortable with keeping the conversation on Kallimakus, as though it revived an old itch. “Still, how are you two fine ladies getting on?”

  “Good,” said Camille, taking another bite of her pastry. “I’ve catalogued most of the ruins around Tizca, and Khalophis is taking me further out into the Desolation soon. He’s taking me to one of the older cities. One of the first to be lost when Prospero fell, so he says.”

  “Should be fascinating, my dear,” said Lemuel, “but please be careful.”

  “Yes, father,” smiled Camille.

  “I’m serious,” said Lemuel. “You don’t know what might be out there.”

  “Okay, okay, I will.”

  “Good. And you, my dear Kallista? What progress have you made recently? Is Ankhu Anen still working you hard in the Athenaeum?”

  Kallista nodded enthusiastically. She had blossomed since coming to Tizca, and even in a city of handsome people, Kallista Eris still stood out. Rumour had it she was being courted by a rakishly handsome captain of the Prospero Spireguard. Not that Lemuel was short of offers of companionship, but he had his own reasons for maintaining his solitary lifestyle.

  Since Nikaea, the frequency of Kallista’s nocturnal seizures had steadily lessened to the point they dared hope they had ceased altogether. She still carried her bottle of sakau, but had not needed it for months.

  “Yes, Lemuel, he is. The Athenaeum is filled with texts said to pre-date Old Night, but they’re written in ancient Prosperine, which no one speaks anymore. I can help with the translation by linking back to the minds of the writers. It’s slow work, but it’s shedding a lot of light on what society was like before it collapsed. You should pay us a visit, I’m sure you’d find it fascinating to see how the planet’s developed since then.”

  “I’ll do that, my dear,” promised Lemuel. “Ahriman has me very busy, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me calling on you.”

  “I’d like that,” said Kallista, finishing her fruit and taking a sip of water.

  They chatted of inconsequential things for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the warm sunshine and conversing as friends do. Some wine was b
rought, a crystal-white blend that Lemuel laughed to see was the vintage developed by Ahriman. As Lemuel poured the last of their second bottle, Camille brought the subject around to their hosts.

  “So, how much longer do you think we have before the Thousand Sons redeploy?” she asked.

  It was a question lightly asked, but Lemuel saw the undercurrent of anxiety behind it. Normally, he did not use his ability to read auras around his friends, understanding their need for privacy, but there was no mistaking Camille’s desire to stay on Prospero.

  “I don’t know,” said Lemuel honestly. “Ahriman hasn’t said anything, but with the other Legions earning glory in battle, I know they’re eager for a tasking order. The Emperor’s Children on Laeran, the Luna Wolves on One Forty Twenty, the Ultramarines at Mescalor; it’s been over two years since Ark Reach and yet the Thousand Sons are idle while their brothers make war.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with Nikaea?” asked Kallista.

  “I think it must,” said Lemuel. “From what I hear, the Crimson King couldn’t leave Nikaea fast enough. According to Ahriman, the primarch has had all his warriors buried in their cult’s libraries since they got back.”

  “I heard that too,” said Kallista with a conspiratorial smile. “I even overheard Ankhu Anen talking to Amon about it.”

  “Did you hear what they were looking for?”

  “I think so, but I didn’t really understand what they said. It sounded like they were looking for ways to project a body of light farther than ever, whatever that means.”

  “What do you suppose that’s in aid of?” asked Camille.

  “I have no idea,” said Lemuel.

  HORROR. SHOCK. DISBELIEF. Anger.

  All these emotions surged through Ahriman’s body as he listened to his primarch’s words. Together with the other eight captains of the Pesedjet, he stood upon the labyrinth spiral of Magnus’ inner sanctum within the Pyramid of Photep. Slatted shafts of late afternoon sunlight cut the gloom, yet he could feel only oppressive darkness pressing in on him. He couldn’t bring himself to believe what he had just heard. Had anyone other than Magnus said these treacherous words, he would have killed them.