Sister Melia sat with her back to the old smeltorium’s wall, the rigid metal scraping against the edges of her armour. Beside her, Rayos paid her no further attention, hissing and clicking over the pile of trade-pieces and data-slates that had been left on her table. Some she passed to the little brass analyser beside her; others were carefully measured with callipers and claws. Her cogitator clicked away to itself, presumably keeping some sort of running tally.
Melia watched, oddly fascinated, and wondered what information flowed between the two of them.
In her heart, however, she offered the Litany of Divine Guidance; she prayed for strength, and for clarity.
Domine deduc me mi Imperatoris.
Guide me, my Emperor.
And then, the bar went quiet.
Melia looked up.
A lone figure had pushed through the crowd, stilling fights and rowdy singing both. He was strong and tanned, gold-eyed and brown-haired. He wore no armour, no symbols; he carried no weapons. Yet he commanded his audience with a flourish like pure confidence.
As he came closer, Melia could feel a pressure swelling in her mind, like creepers growing through her ears.
She continued to pray.
As if he could hear her, the man met her gaze. He had a smile that gave him tan-lines, crinkles round his eyes that offered humour, warmth and mischief.
‘Sister,’ he said, as he stopped at the table. ‘How charming.’
She lifted her chin; the pressure in her mind was growing worse. Her skull spasmed with agony, aching like it would split.
Somewhere, she could hear the hissing of the Lautis daemons, feel their flame and fear–
The priest raised a claw. ‘Desist.’
The man laughed, and the pressure was gone.
Witch!
Shuddering with revulsion, Melia was on her feet. She knew what had happened, knew exactly what – who – this man was. And she understood, in the very next instant, that Rayos had betrayed them, that she’d never had any intention of going through with the deal. Melia’s hand went for her flamer; she opened a channel in the vox but the signal was blocked. The bead in her ear crackled static.
Weapon out, she pointed it at the newcomer. ‘Heretic!’
‘Really, Sister.’ The man laughed. His tone was like his clothing, rich and warm. ‘The word is so crass, don’t you think? Please, call me Zale. And you will stand when I say, sit when I say, kneel when I say. Now put that away, and be quiet.’
With each word, Melia’s body jerked in response; she obeyed him like a marionette, her strings in his hands. As he gave the final order, however, she spat a prayer and surged forwards. One hand turned the table clean over, mugs and data-slates clattering to the floor; the other shoved the flamer right in his face.
At the noise, there was an instant of silence, then whoops and cheers erupted around the bar.
The man’s eyes narrowed, as if she’d surprised him.
But he made no attempt to defend himself, or back away.
‘I wouldn’t,’ he told her softly, ‘if I were you.’
His eyes glittered; she could see whole worlds held in them, the sparkle of stars, the vast streams of the empyrean. The screaming, bloody heave of the warp that she’d seen through the mirror in the Lautis cathedral…
Worlds, dying at the touch of Chaos.
Softly, he said, ‘I know you have no fear of death, Sister. I know you would lay down your life to slay me, and everything else in this establishment. But I also know how this ends.’ Moons exploded in her vision; his words stroked her, their truth enthralling. ‘Istrix is a lunatic, you must have realised that by now.’
‘She is a child of the Emperor.’ Melia snarled the words; her flamer hadn’t moved. ‘You spin treachery and illusion to gain your own ends. I will not suffer your life–’
‘Sister, please,’ he said. Smiling, he raised a hand and pushed the weapon down and out of the way. ‘That’s quite enough. If I told you to, you would strip off your armour and bathe in the waters of Lycheate like they were a font.’
Melia reeled, staggering and silent. The words were a lance of pain in her forebrain, a white-hot flare going off behind her eyes. She fell back onto the bench.
Beside her, Rayos had stood up, and a delicate, unfolding claw was picking up her fallen goods. Secreting some of the higher-value pieces in places under her cloak, she said to Zale, ‘Our trade is concluded. You have the item you require. I will depart. I will not return to this location, the percentage chance of retaliation is unacceptable. I will join you at the requested appointment. We will conclude our business.’
‘Of course.’ Zale offered her a bow like a flourish, then turned back to Melia. He extended his arm as if he expected her to take it.
And Melia found herself obeying the gesture, her body moving like a servitor’s, clumsy and painful. She fought to clear her thoughts. She wanted to demand: what appointment, what business? She wanted to pull her flamer, execute this smirking heretic, this betraying tech-priest. She wanted to howl the hymnal aloud, to purge this world of its faithless and its unbelievers…
But she could not; her head hurt and her limbs ground like rust. She tried to pray, struggled to recall the words.
‘Domine… libra…’
They came forth in pieces, in shards of pain through her hard-clenched teeth.
‘I feel your battle,’ Zale told her, smiling. Explosions were still going off in her head – the moons detonating, over and over again, their pieces spinning, spinning in the void. ‘But you’re weak, Melia, unsure of your own strength and position. You know this.’ He chuckled, the sound lush. ‘Please understand, Istrix and I go back a very long way, and I can usually… shall we say, predict… her moves.’ His words were sharply amused, as if at some private joke. ‘But the Adepta Sororitas? Now, that’s a ploy I hadn’t expected. And one that’s interesting, a genuine challenge.’ He picked up one of the metal mugs, drained its contents, put it down again. ‘And so, I had to have you – my security, my coin, my Imperial scrip. The card up my sleeve, if you like.’ His smile grew. ‘And, close-up, I can learn how your mind, your foolish faith, really works, Sister – and understand how to better the rest of your squad.’
Melia’s mind was fraying like old cloth. Her prayers were fading, her vision was full of detonations, and wonder, and beauty, and Ruin, and pain…
She made herself speak, each word like a splinter of agony. ‘My life… will not save you. The Sisters of Battle… will not… be defeated. My squad… will shoot you.’
‘Really?’ he said, and his brown eyes glittered like rusted manacles. ‘I think you’ll find… it’s just not that simple.’
‘Sister Superior, I am under orders…’
Inside the lift, the corporal tailed into an uneasy silence, eyeing the fallen inquisitor. ‘To disobey those orders would be heresy. I would be shot. Or confined to the life of a gun-servitor–’
‘The question is not difficult,’ Augusta said. They were short of time, and she needed Mors’ full story, needed to try to understand why the inquisitor’s behaviour was so peculiar. ‘I asked for your report. Where do you come from, Mors? How do you come to be on Lycheate? And how long have you been with Istrix?’
Leaving Caia and Viola on watch, Augusta and Akemi stood with their backs to the lift wall. Opposite them, on a long metal bench, the four members of the Militarum had stood down, and broken out their rations. They were sharing a canteen of water, and even Lucio had run out of banter.
Rufus, the medicae and the oldest of the four, sat the closest to Istrix. He said, ‘Sister Superior, with all due respect…’
‘Corporal,’ Augusta said, cutting straight across his words. ‘You will answer the question.’
The corporal had removed his helmet; despite the cold air, his dark skin glittered with sweat. He muttered something that might have been a prayer, then let out his breath in a plume like surrender. Swiftly, he explained how they had met Istrix when she had been scouting the planet for her quarry. She had been unaccompanied, working alone, and assaulted at the outskirts of the city. They had gone to help her, and she had immediately commanded their assistance in locating Zale. Several days later, after a short battle during which their lieutenant had lost his life, they’d cornered, and successfully wounded, the psyker.
But Zale’s wound had been an illusion, the corporal told them. The witch had lured them in, and the battle had cost the life of the sergeant and of the other members of the squad.
‘Zale is extremely powerful,’ Mors said. ‘The illusions he creates are truly horrifying. Our squad… barely stood a chance.’ He trailed off into silence, frowning.
‘She didn’t fire.’ Adriene, her legs stretched out across the lift floor, looked up from her ration pack. ‘She had him, at gunpoint, out on the gantry, and she didn’t shoot him. She–’
‘Private!’ the corporal snapped at her, cutting her dead.
Augusta turned back to Mors. ‘Corporal, you will give me your full report, everything you’ve seen while you’ve been with the inquisitor.’ Her gaze did not let him go. ‘The success of this mission may depend upon your information.’
Mors paused for a moment, then he inhaled and straightened his shoulders. ‘Our squad died screaming,’ he said. ‘The inquisitor…’ His voice shook, he swiftly controlled himself. ‘Istrix hesitated, and the gantry collapsed. We lowered a line and pulled her free, but by then, Zale had already gone. Emperor forgive me, Sister, Adriene is correct – she had him at gunpoint, and she did not fire.’
Augusta nodded, but said nothing more aloud. Over their private channel, she continued, ‘Sisters. What do you make of this?’
‘He seems terrified,’ Akemi said. ‘They all do.’
‘He’s not telling us everything,’ Caia commented.
Viola suggested, ‘We can force it out of him.’
Augusta replied, ‘We will do no such thing–’
She stopped as feet raced past outside; they all turned, hands on weapons. The rasp of an engine sounded at the waterline.
‘Very well,’ Augusta said. ‘We have not secured Sister Melia, and I fear we are out of time.’ She eyed Mors for a moment, then looked down at the unconscious inquisitor, her gaze exploring the careful latticework of scars. ‘One last question. You say she did not shoot Zale. So, why did Zale not end her life? He must have had the opportunity.’
Adriene frowned at her rations, Lucio counted his ammo.
‘He used to be her pupil,’ Mors said, and Augusta nodded. ‘And there still seems to be some… strange connection between them, Sister, some compulsion or madness that drives them both–’
‘Corporal.’ Augusta’s voice was steel. ‘Has she fallen?’
At the question, Mors drew in his breath, and the others stopped to stare, their gazes wide. Carefully, the corporal said, ‘I have seen nothing to prove so, Sister. Only her… singular devotion to securing her target.’
Augusta exhaled, her prayer tangling round her exasperation. If the inquisitor had fallen to Ruin, then the Sisters’ path would have been clear, but still they had no explanation for Istrix’s peculiar behaviour.
The Sister Superior had a need for guidance, for His light that had shown her Subul, and the way to the daemon…
Domine deduc…
But there was no clarity, here, no definite answer. Frustrated, she let her hand rest on her chainsword, solid and strong. More than anything, she wanted to hear the song of its rasp, to solve these endless questions with the glory of the litany and the roar of pure combat…
By the Throne!
All her life, Augusta had trusted to two things – her faith, and her weapons. And, all her life, they had been the same – she raised her voice to the God-Emperor, and she slew His foes.
But this!
She was beginning to believe that Istrix did not intend the witch’s death – and everything in the Sister Superior’s training baulked at that knowledge. The witch should be purged. He needed to die. Yet Mors was right, there seemed to be some deeper game here, some twisted, emotional connection that she did not understand.
It made Istrix dangerous, unpredictable – and it brought the entire success of the mission into doubt.
Had Istrix fallen to the darkness? She would not be the first inquisitor to have been consumed by the powers she pursued.
But if Istrix was the presence of the God-Emperor, then her word was law, and to open fire upon her would be pure heresy. Augusta and her entire squad would offer their lives in Repentance.
Somewhere, the Sister Superior could still feel the jagged edges of her darkness – see the stikk-bomb that had slain Kimura, the clang of the axe that had broken Jatoya like a doll.
Melia, volunteering to stay with Rayos.
Upon Ordination, the Sisters of her Order offered a prayer…
‘Imperator illam possedit me precor. In omnibus meis actionibus et officiorum. Omnium cogitationes et opera. Et ego armis exceptus…’
Emperor, I pray that you will utterly possess me. In all of my duties and actions. In all of my thoughts and deeds. I am your weapon and your vessel…
Guide me, my Emperor, she prayed. I cannot get this wrong.
With the words, she lifted her chin, and made her decision.
Yes, she must follow the inquisitor’s orders…
But she did not intend to do so blindly.
‘Corporal,’ she said. ‘You withstood Zale’s mental assault, correct?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘You will run reconnaissance on the smeltorium, and locate Sister Melia. Your squad will stay with me. If you are right about this connection, then Zale will be closer than we think.’
The corporal saluted. ‘Aye.’
‘Remember, corporal, this is recon, not a combat mission. Do not call attention to yourself, and do not engage. Stick to the upper levels. Return to the smeltorium, and watch.’
‘Aye.’
She nodded, approving of this young man, his choices and his discipline. ‘Go with His grace, corporal. And return with His wisdom.’
‘Ave Imperator.’ He offered her a salute.
As he slipped out of the far door of the cargo lift, however, he turned back.
‘Sister Superior,’ he said. ‘I do have… one last suspicion.’
‘Go on.’
‘It is my belief,’ he said, ‘that Zale is up to something. I think he’s here for a reason.’
‘Then we will prevent that reason,’ Augusta told him flatly. ‘One way or another, the witch must die.’
He was in her head.
Like a burrower, like the stain of Chaos. Like the fear wielded by the Lautis daemons. Like a necron scarab, its claws scratch-scratching with the taint of steel and death.
Stubbornly, Melia held to her chant, the litany – like her novitiate childhood – both comfort and reflex. She had been taught this as a girl, kneeling beside her dormitorium bunk and praying to that tiny, carved effigy… she knew how to face fear, how to surpass witchery. And yet it still lingered, like an ache in the back of her skull.
Images tumbled like the edges of rocks.
She was in the belly of the Kyrus, in command of the squad. Kimura was there, and Jatoya; they described a perfect skirmish manoeuvre along the flickering-dark corridor.
Domine, libra nos…
Words lingered like hope, but she could not quite grasp them.
The Sisters moved onwards, the font-waters of Lycheate sloshing at their feet. Bodies bobbed past them – Sister Felicity Albani, the missionary Tanichus, the tech-priest Jencir, his flayed skull all covered in blood. Phantoms rose from her past, and they laughed like Scafidis Zale, lush and rich and warm.
You are to blame, Melia.
Jatoya was twice the warrior you are.
Look at your errors!
Look at them!
In the Kyrus’ corridor, she saw the bomb. She went to cry out, but it was too late – the detonation was colossal, and the flame was livid and hungry for life. The impact of it threw her backwards. Debris creaked and screamed; her visor was smudged with smoke. There was a hole ripped in the side of the ship – it was injured and in pain, crying out. She tried to pray for it, but she was not the priest it needed, and Rayos laughed at her ignorance. The wind shrieked past her, wreckage and bodies all sucked out into the void. She caught a last look at Jatoya’s face as the Sister scrabbled madly at the wounded metal, and was gone.
The woman’s still-armoured body spun outwards into nothing, and her voice cried the Requiem.
Dies Irae, Dies Illa!
+You did this,+ Zale told her. +You failed. You’re weak, inadequate. The Emperor does not want you, Melia. You do not deserve Him. And you know it!+
She held to her hymn, angry, stubborn, refusing to give up. She filled her mind with the chapel on Ophelia VII, with His image, His light. She cried denial, her defiance loud:
‘Thou shalt not suffer the witch to live!’
With a crack like the split in a window, the image splintered, and was gone.
Startled, she blinked.
Her head was pounding. She was still in the bar. Scafidis Zale was before her with his arms folded, and one elegant eyebrow raised.
‘Impressive,’ he said, the word almost a compliment. ‘You’re going to take more of my concentration than I’d realised.’
She faced him, continuing to recite the litany. She repeated the words like a lifeline, over and over, wreathed in anger and defiance.
‘Domine, libra nos.
‘Domine, libra nos…’
‘Makes a change to name, rank, and serial number, I suppose.’ He laughed at his own humour, then chewed the inside of his lip, thinking.
‘Domine, libra nos…’
‘You listen to me, Sister Melia.’ He stepped forwards, cupping her cheek in his hand with a gesture that seemed almost affectionate. He bore several rings and his gold eyes shone like Sol itself. ‘We are going to take a little walk, and explore some of the glories that this planet has to offer. Not its people – you’ve already seen too many of those – but its secrets. Some of the things that the Mechanicus believed broken, and that the heretek Vius, in his cleverness and his determination, managed to discover. The things that Rayos has been… moving… for me.’ He stroked his thumb over her cheek. ‘You may fight me if you wish, Sister, but the outcome will be the same. Your Emperor cannot save you.’ His smile was pure charm. ‘Not from me.’
‘Domine, libra nos.’
Melia kept praying as the images broke over her again.