Auric Gods

Chapter Three The Imperial Palace, Tower of Hegemon, Terra

The dominion of the Adeptus Custodes on Terra was absolute, yet if there was one place in the populous districts of the Imperial Palace that could be considered the beating heart of their order, then that place was the Tower of Hegemon.

The Throneworld faced many threats, both within and without, and so vast was the urban sprawl that it rivalled many continents in terms of its sheer size and scale. This, together with its pre-eminent status as the founding seat of all mankind, necessitated unique measures of protection. The tower saw all. It knew all. Through a complex array of data-engines and monitoring systems, the Custodians maintained supreme vigilance over the Palace and its confines. All of its security augurs and scrying devices fed into this one nexus, and from here potential threats were analysed and, if necessary, acted against. Defences were tested and retested. Crisis scenarios were devised and implemented. Blood Games were fought.

Pilgrims flocked to Terra in their billions, every man, woman and child desperate for a glimpse – just a glimpse – of the Immortal Emperor, or at least the fabled Eternity Gate behind which He resided. Few accomplished this holy quest: most perished before they even set foot on Terra’s sacred soil; others died when they encountered the cruel realities of the gangs, the hidden cults and the massive overcrowding. But every day more ships arrived, and every day the population edged closer to a critical mass. Any one of those vessels might harbour a danger to the Golden Throne and so the tower and its incumbents maintained their vigilance.

Yet, although the main function of the tower was to act as the watch station of the Emperor’s Custodians, it had other purposes.

Cartovandis had donned his armour to meet Adio in the cerebratory. Though its halls were not given over to violence and battle training, there was a certain ceremony that required observation in the quietude of this place. It had a peaceful air about it. Relics of Terra’s lost culture could be found in the art and architecture on display. A forum in many respects, its walls and chambers were adorned with tapestries and portraiture; sculpture and the fossilised remains of ancient beasts inhabited its alcoves. Here a Custodian could seek counsel with his fellows, or debate, if he so chose. Others came for solitude or reflection, for war had never been the principal role of the Ten Thousand.

Of his brotherhood, Cartovandis found few. A warrior of the Solar Watch conversed in hushed tones as the grim spectre of a Custodian of the Dread Host listened intently. The Solar Watch were one of the Hykanatoi’s shield hosts, the warrior bands that defined the Adeptus Custodes. They garrisoned the fastness of Sol’s borders at Luna, Jupiter and beyond. They had much in kind with the old VII Legion, praetorians and wall watchers in the mould of Dorn’s own. To have come from the outer strongholds meant tidings of import. Cartovandis assumed those tidings pertained to a matter necessitating the attention of a ready sword, if the presence of the Dread Host was any barometer. The helmed warrior looked up as Cartovandis passed, his regard forbidding. Judgement burned in the eyes behind those retinal lenses.

Cartovandis had no desire to know their business, but knew it must be serious to provoke such a meeting. He pressed on, and overheard the muttered conversation of a cohort of Emissaries Imperatus debating insights derived through mediation, both pertaining to what was known as the speculum certus and the speculum obscurus: the first concerning the Emperor’s words and His meaning, the second concerning His will.

These too Cartovandis avoided, for they reminded him of the silence he now endured. He had almost died at the Lion’s Gate. It was the second time such a desperate battle had been fought in its shadow. The first was over ten thousand years ago; the second, the one at which Cartovandis had stared death in the face, had taken place scarcely more than a century past. Daemons had come to Terra and he, like so many of the Ten Thousand, had taken up arms against them. A Legion still in mourning had mustered for the first time in millennia and cast back the hellspawn of Old Night. It had left Cartovandis with grievous hurts, and so close to death that he felt it still, some one hundred years or so later. Meroved had intervened and turned the hand of fate aside, sparing Cartovandis from his doom but condemning him to this misery instead. The silence had followed not long after. He had feared it meant the Emperor’s death but the Sanctum Imperialis had not been breached. The Master of Mankind endured, enthroned everlasting, His voice denied to Cartovandis.

Despite the pain of his exile, he knew he owed Meroved a debt. Though as the venerable shield-captain had left the Throneworld soon after, together with his rank, his armour and all the trappings that made him a Custodian, Cartovandis doubted it would ever be repaid. Meroved had slipped into obscurity, his watch ended as his body surrendered to the rigours of duty at last.

‘Syr…’

A voice that was not the Emperor’s drew Cartovandis from the bleak reverie. Adio smiled warmly across the softly lit expanse of a statue-lined gallery rendered in umber stone.

‘I had thought you might not come,’ Adio said as he approached, and gestured to a semicircle of stone benches.

‘I almost didn’t,’ said Cartovandis, following Adio to where they both sat down.

‘You prefer the violent solitude of the lower depths then?’

‘There is no shame in preparation.’

‘True, and yet you refuse to leave Terra and join your ­brothers out amongst the stars. What is it, I wonder, that you are preparing for then, Syr?’

It was asked honestly, without agenda, though Cartovandis felt the bite of the question like it was an accusation.

‘Our place is here, Adio, by the Throne, by His side.’

‘And can we not serve Him still by venturing beyond our own borders?’ Adio countered. ‘Should we let His enemies come here, to our sovereign earth, or would you seek them out and kill them before they have even glimpsed at Terra’s light? The galaxy has changed, Syr. Nothing is as it once was.’

‘We remain as we were, as we are. Our role unchanged.’

Adio gave a short, sad laugh. ‘Would that it were true. We can no longer linger here in His gilded tomb, no more than worms creeping through darkened hollows.’

‘It is no tomb!’

‘It is decay and it is decrepitude. I know your belief, Syr Cartovandis. It is not as unpopular amongst our order as you might think.’

‘Are the tongues of the Ten Thousand made bolder the farther they venture from the Throneworld?’

‘Listen, Syr. You can hear it in these very halls. If Lord Guilliman can return from the brink of dissolution… then why not Him? I know you think it.

‘You say nothing has changed. All of it has changed. Long past are the days when we were His confidants, His counsellors, when we shared His wisdom and offered our own meagre insights in return. We were an ideal before He made His lesser creations. Instead we are forced to derive scraps of meaning from the Emissaries Imperatus. I say we are deaf, Syr. I would not also be blind. Unlike you, however, I believe this is the state of things and this will not change. So, we must.’

Cartovandis shook his head, unconvinced.

‘Soldiers over companions, over protectors, is that it? We renege on one oath to embrace another? His blood is our blood. You forget, Adio, I served at His side, amongst the Companions. I felt it, His will, His desire to rise up from the Throne and command the stars anew.

‘The son is reborn, why not the father? Blood will out, blood will bring Him back to us and lift Him from out of this torpor.’

‘You speak of resurrection, of a second coming, Syr.’

‘I speak of revival, of waking from a deathly slumber. The Emperor is Terra, and Terra is the Emperor. The blood-red tear that glows above our heads, Adio, it represents a wound. The Neverborn trod here… here, brother, on this very soil. Their taint extends beyond the physical. It is a malaise of the spirit. Ever since the Lion’s Gate I have not heard His voice. Only silence remains.’

Adio’s expression darkened. ‘I cannot subscribe to this, Syr. The Emperor is absolute. He is all. He is eternal. He is wounded, yes, but it is from a blow struck ten thousand years ago. Few remember it as we do, but it is still the truth. No divine vessel will see this undone. No blood of His can heal it.’ He frowned, suddenly pained. ‘The silence is torturing you, Syr. It is merely His will, and you must accept it.’

‘I cannot,’ said Cartovandis.

Adio sighed, and put a hand on Cartovandis’ shoulder.

‘Then I am sorry, old friend. It is a heavy burden. But do not seek His voice in that place, in the Oblivion Vault. You will not find it in shadow or the gibbering of daemons.’

‘I will not find it beyond the Throneworld either.’

‘Do not be so sure.’

Cartovandis smiled, shrugging off his melancholy like an ill-fitting cloak. ‘Have no concern for me, Adio. I do not seek destructive ends. I am merely a sword unsheathed that wishes to remain sharp.’

‘Those depths have a way of holding on to a man, and dragging upon him. Do not leave a piece of yourself in that cage, Syr, that’s all I’m asking. By severing their chains you unknowingly forge your own. Do not underestimate the Neverborn.’

Cartovandis raised a placatory hand. ‘I heed you, Adio. I acknowledge I was reckless, and vow to be more mindful. There. Does that set your mind at ease?’

Adio raised an eyebrow, suggesting it did not.

Cartovandis gave a dark laugh, full of grim humour. ‘It could be worse. There are direr hollows beneath the Palace than the Oblivion Vault. And terrors more fell than daemons. You know of what I speak, and the one who keeps them. How long has it been, Adio?’

Adio fell silent, his expression one of inner turmoil.

‘How long since you last spoke to your brother?’