Hidden? How is such a thing possible?

'I do not know for sure, but I believe that whatever dark forces his Emperor employed in the creation of these primarchs renders many of them as little more than spectres in the warp. I cannot read this one, nor sense anything of his future.'

He is mon-keigh! he has no future but war and death.

Eldrad could sense the contempt the dead warrior had for the humans, for it had been a human blade that had ended his life and left him a ghost in the shell of a mighty war machine. He tried not to let the wraithlord's anger cloud his judgement of the humans, but it was difficult not to agree with him, given the evidence of their blood-soaked history.

Yes, the mon-keigh were a brutal race that lived for conquest, but these humans had behaved in a manner unlike any he had witnessed before, and he fervently hoped that this Fulgrim might be the one with the wit to bear his warning to the ruler of his race.

You know I speak true, urged Khiraen. You have seen it haven't you, the great war that set them at one another's throats?

'I have seen it, great one,' nodded Eldrad.

Then why seek to prevent it? Why should we care whether the mon-keigh destroy one another in fire and blood? I say let them, for the life of one eldar is worth ten thousand of theirs!

'I agree,' said Eldrad, 'but I see a time in the grim darkness of the far future when our failure to art will be our undoing.'

I hope you are right, farseer and that this is not simply arrogance.

Eldrad looked up at the armoured warriors gathered on the hillside and felt a shiver within his soul as he hoped the same thing.

Fulgrim led the way down the hillside without preamble, resplendent in his battle armour and a cloak of bright gold that shone dazzlingly in the fading light. His silver hair was pulled into a number of elaborate plaits and he wore a glittering golden wreath about his brow. Powder had been applied to his skin, rendering it even paler than normal and coloured inks had then been applied to his cheeks and eyes in elegant swirls.

Fulgrim had come armed, the silver sword belted at his waist, and to Solomon's eyes his master was dressed in a manner more akin to some theatrical impresario's vision of a primarch rather than the reality.

He kept his own counsel, however, as the Emperor's Children reached the bottom of the hill, and the eldar robed in black rose smoothly from the ground and bowed before Fulgrim. The faint hint of a smile ghosted across the alien's features, and Solomon tensed as he removed his bronze helmet.

'Welcome to Tarsus,' said the eldar, bending at the waist in a formal bow.

'You are Eldrad Ulthran?' asked Fulgrim, returning the bow.

'I am,' said Eldrad, turning to face the towering war machine. 'And this is Wraithlord Khiraen Gold-helm, one of Craftworld Ulthwe's most revered ancients.'

Solomon shivered as the towering war machine inclined its head curtly, the gesture of welcome rendered as one of hostility.

Fulgrim looked up at the giant wraithlord and returned the gesture, a nod of respect between warriors, as Eldrad spoke again, 'And from your stature you must be Fulgrim.'

'Lord Fulgrim of the Emperor's Children,' put in Eidolon.

Again Solomon saw the ghost of a smile, and his jaw clenched at the insult he felt sure was implicit in such a gesture.

'I apologise,' said Eldrad. 'No disrespect or offence was intended. I simply sought to establish a dialogue based on virtue rather than rank.'

'No offence is taken,' assured Fulgrim. 'Your point is well made, for it is not birth or rank, but virtue that makes the difference between men. My lord commanders are simply anxious that my station be recognised. Although it will make no difference to our parlay, it is still unclear to me what rank you hold among your people.'

'I am what is called a farseer,' said Eldrad. 'I guide my people through the challenges of whatever the future might hold and offer guidance as to how best to meet those challenges.'

'Farseer… ' said Fulgrim. 'You are a witch?'

Solomon's hand itched to reach for his sword, but he fought the impulse. The primarch had expressly forbidden them to draw their weapons unless he did so first.

Eldrad appeared unmoved by Fulgrim's provocative word, but shook his head slightly.

'It is an ancient term, one that perhaps does not translate well into your language.'

'I understand,' said Fulgrim, 'and I apologise for speaking without thought.'

Solomon knew his primarch better than that, and saw that Fulgrim had very deliberately chosen the word to gauge Eldrad's reaction to it.

Against a human counterpart such a ploy might have worked, but the farseer's features gave nothing away.

'So as a farseer, you are the craftworld's leader?'

'Craftworld Ulthwe has no formal leader as such, more a… council I suppose you would call it.'

'Then do you and Khiraen Goldhelm represent that council?' pressed Fulgrim. 'I desire very much to know with whom I deal.'

'Deal with me,' promised Eldrad, 'and you deal with Ulthwe.'

Once again Ostian rapped on the shuttered door to Serena's studio, telling himself he would give her five more minutes to answer before heading back to his own studio. The statue of the Emperor was coming on in leaps and bounds, as though some inner muse guided his hands, though there was still much to be done and this visit to Serena's was taking up much needed time.

He sighed as he realised that Serena wasn't going to answer. Then he heard shuffling behind the shutter and the faint, but unmistakable smell of an unwashed body.

'Serena? Is that you?' he asked.

'Who's that?' said a ragged and hoarse voice.

'It's me, Ostian. Open the shutter.'

Silence was his only answer and he feared that whoever the voice belonged to was simply going to ignore him. He raised his hand to knock once more when the shutter began to rattle upwards. Ostian stood back, suddenly nervous about who he might come face to face with.

Eventually the shutter rose enough for him to see who had opened it.

It was a woman, but one he would have expected to see hawking for loose change from the gutters of a downhive sump. Her long hair was greasy and unkempt, her features gaunt and wasted, and her clothes ragged and stained.

'Who are…?' he began, but the words died in his throat as he realised that this decrepit excuse for a human being was Serena d'Angelus.

'Throne alive!' cried Ostian, rushing forward to take her by the shoulders. 'What's happened to you, Serena?'

He looked down at her arms, seeing scores of cuts and scars crisscrossing her flesh. Dried blood was still crusted on the more recent wounds, and even he could tell that many were infected.

She looked at him with dull eyes, and he all but dragged her back into the studio, shocked at the disaster area it had become. What had happened to the meticulously neat artist who had kept every part of her life organised and compartmentalised? Paint pots were strewn all over the floor, and broken canvases lay around like so much garbage. A pair of easels still stood in the middle of the studio, but he could not see what had been painted on them for they were facing away from him.

Red stains streaked the walls and a large plastic barrel sat in one corner of the room. Even from here, Ostian could smell the rotten, acidic reek from it.

'Serena, what in the name of all that's sane has happened here?'

She looked up at him, as though seeing him for the first time and said, 'Nothing.'

'Well clearly something has happened,' he said, his anger growing in proportion to her indifference. 'I mean, look at this place: paint everywhere, smashed paintings… and that stench? Throne, what is that? It smells like something died in here.'