“Hear now the words of my ruling,” said the Emperor, and the amphitheatre filled with the sound of scratching quills. “I am not blind to the needs of the Imperium, but nor am I blind to the realities of the hearts of men. I hear men speak of knowledge and power as though they are abstract concepts to be employed as simply as a sword or gun. They are not. Power is a living force, and the danger with power is obsession. A man who attains a measure of power will find it comes to dominate his life until all he can think of is the acquisition of more. Nearly all men can stand adversity, but few can stand the ultimate test of character, that of wielding power without succumbing to its darker temptations.”
As much as the Emperor was addressing the entire amphitheatre, Ahriman had the powerful sense that his words were intended solely for Magnus.
“Peering into the darkness to gain knowledge of the warp is fraught with peril, for it is an inconstant place of shifting reality, capricious lies and untruths. The seeker after truth must have a care he is not deceived, for false knowledge is far more dangerous than ignorance. All men wish to possess knowledge, but few are willing to pay the price. Always men will seek to take the short cut, the quick route to power, and it is a man’s own mind, not his enemy or foe, that will lure him to evil ways. True knowledge is gained only after the acquisition of wisdom. Without wisdom, a powerful person does not become more powerful, he becomes reckless. His power will turn on him and eventually destroy all he has built.
“I have walked paths no man can know and faced the unnameable creatures of the warp. I understand all too well the secrets and dangers that lurk in its hidden darkness. Such things are not for lesser minds to know; no matter how powerful or knowledgeable they believe themselves to be. The secrets I have shared serve as warnings, not enticements to explore further. Only death and damnation await those who pry too deeply into secrets not meant for mortals.”
Ahriman blanched at the Emperor’s words, feeling their awful finality. The promise of extinction was woven into every word.
“I see now I have allowed my sons to delve too profoundly into matters I should never have permitted them to know even existed. Let it be known that no one shall suffer censure, for this conclave is to serve Unity, not discord. But no more shall the threat of sorcery be allowed to taint the warriors of the Astartes. Henceforth, it is my will that no Legion will maintain a Librarius department. All its warriors and instructors must be returned to the battle companies and never again employ any psychic powers.”
Gasps of astonishment spread through the amphitheatre, and Ahriman felt his skin chill at the absolute nature of the Emperor’s pronouncement. After everything that had been said, he couldn’t believe the judgement had gone against them.
The Emperor wasn’t finished, and thunder rolled in his voice.
“Woe betide he who ignores my warning or breaks faith with me. He shall be my enemy, and I will visit such destruction upon him and all his followers that, until the end of all things, he shall rue the day he turned from my light.”
BOOK THREE
PROSPERO’S LAMENT
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Something of my Own/Paradise/Treachery Revealed
LEMUEL FOUND MAHAVASTU Kallimakus on the edge of the great walls of Tizca. The old man was asleep in a padded chair with a sketchpad open across his lap. Lemuel kept his footsteps light, not wishing to wake his friend if he didn’t need to. The five months on Prospero had been good for Mahavastu, the fresh sea air and temperate climate restoring his ravaged physique and putting fresh meat on his bones.
Prospero had been good for them all. Lemuel had shed much of his extra weight and now carried himself with a confidence born of knowing that he was looking better than he had in decades. Whether that was down to the agreeable lifestyle on Prospero or his growing skills in aetheric manipulation, he couldn’t say.
Lemuel cast his eyes out over the view, alternating with glances down at the charcoal lines on Mahavastu’s sketchpad. The view was one of rugged splendour, high mountains, sweeping forests and a deep blue sky of incredible width. In the far distance, a jagged series of spires indicated the ruins of one of Prospero’s lost cities of the ancients. Mahavastu’s rendition of the view was less than impressive.
“I told you I was no artist,” said Mahavastu, without opening his eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lemuel. “It has some rustic charm to it.”
“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 anda 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 Ihad 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 Loagaethin 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.”