Serena shrugged and said, 'I've been too busy to clean.'

'Well that's just nonsense,' he said. 'I was always far messier than you and my studio's not this bad. Really, what's been going on here?'

He wandered through the smashed wreckage that filled Serena's studio, avoiding a large pool of reddish brown paint in the middle of the floor, and making his way towards the large barrel in the corner of her studio.

Before he reached it he felt a presence behind him and turned to see Serena right behind him, one hand held poised to reach out to him, the other tucked in the folds of her dress as though holding something.

'Don't,' said Serena. 'Please, I don't want to…'

'Don't want to what?' asked Ostian.

'Just don't,' she said, and he could see the tears welling up in her eyes.

'What have you got in that barrel?' asked Ostian.

'It's engraver's acid,' she said. 'I'm… I'm trying something new.'

'Something new?' repeated Ostian. 'Switching from acrylics to oils is something new. This is… well, I don't know what this is, but it's something insane if you ask me.'

'Please, Ostian,' she sobbed. 'Please go.'

'Go? Not until I find out what's been happening with you.'

'Ostian, you have to go,' begged Serena. 'I don't know what I might do.'

'What are you talking about, Serena?' asked Ostian, grabbing her by the shoulders. 'I don't know what's the matter with you, but I want you to know that I'm here for you. I'm an idiot and should have said something before now, but I didn't know how to. I knew you were hurting yourself because you didn't think your talent was worth anything, but you're wrong, it is. It so is. You have a rare gift and you have to realise it, because this… this is not healthy.'

She sagged into his arms, and he felt tears pricking his eyes as her body was convulsed by wracking sobs. His heart went out to her, though the wiring of his male brain could not understand the strangeness of her affliction. Serena d'Angelus was one of the most talented artists he had ever seen and yet she was tormented by delusions of her own inadequacy.

He pulled her tight and kissed the top of her head. 'It's all right, Serena.'

Without warning she pushed him away with a shriek of rage and shouted, 'No! No, it's not alright! Nothing lasts! No matter what I do it won't last. I think it was because he was inferior, no good. His talent wasn't able to sustain it.'

Ostian recoiled from her rage, not knowing who or what she was talking about, or what she meant. 'Serena, please, I'm trying to help.'

'I don't want your help,' she cried. 'I don't want anyone's help. I want to be left alone!'

Utterly confused, he backed away from her, sensing on some instinctive level that he was in danger just by being there. 'I don't know what's wrong with you, Serena, but it's not too late to come back from whatever's eating away at you inside. Please let me help you.'

'You don't know what you're talking about, Ostian. It's always been so easy for you, hasn't it? You're a genius and inspiration comes naturally to you. I've seen you do great things without even thinking about it, but what about the rest of us? What about those of us that aren't geniuses? What do we do?'

'Is that what you think?' he asked, outraged at her dismissal of his skill, as if it was the inevitable result of some intangible force within him spilling from him in a torrent. 'You think it's easy for me? Let me tell you this, Serena, inspiration comes of working every day. People think that my talent rises each morning, rested and refreshed like the sun, but what they don't appreciate is that, like everything else, it waxes and wanes. It always seems so easy for those without talent to look on those who have it and say that it's easy for us, but it isn't. I work every day to be as good as I am, and it annoys the hell out of me when mediocre people assume an air of knowing better than I do what makes good art. Appreciation of others work is a wonderful thing, Serena, it makes what is excellent in others belong to you as well.'

She backed away from him as he spoke, and he realised that he'd let his anger get the better of him.

Disgusted with himself, he stormed away as she reached for him, passing through the shutter and into the corridor beyond.

'Please, Ostian!' wailed Serena as he walked away. 'Come back! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I need your help. Please!'

But he walked on.

Throughout the jockeying exchanges of greeting, Solomon had watched the motionless wraithlord behind the farseer. Its slender limbs seemed incapable of supporting its body and elongated golden head and curving crest. Solomon felt his skin crawl just looking at it, for though he knew such things could move with fearsome speed and agility, he felt no sense of life from the machine, as he did from a Dreadnought.

Even though nothing remained of the Old One within a Dreadnought's sarcophagus, save a ruined body hung in amniotic suspension, there was still a beating heart and living brain at its core. All he could sense from this monstrous creation was death, as though whatever dwelled within was little more than a ghost somehow bound to a lifeless shell.

Fulgrim nodded towards Eldrad and said, 'Very well, Eldrad Ulthran of Craftworld Ulthwe, you may deal with me as a representative of the Emperor of Mankind.'

Eldrad nodded graciously and gestured towards the low table. 'Sit, please, and let us talk and eat as travellers who find themselves on the same road.'

'That would be pleasant,' said Fulgrim, gracefully lowering himself to the ground and indicating that his captains should do the same, introducing each of them as they sat. Solomon adjusted his sword and sat at the table as the skimming tanks pivoted smoothly in the air and a ramp lowered gently to the ground from their rears.

Solomon sensed the tension in his fellow Astartes. He could almost feel the Phoenix Guard tighten their grips on their halberds. But no assault came from the interior of the vehicles, only a group of white-robed eldar bearing platters of food. They moved with such amazing poise and grace that their feet seemed to glide across the grass towards the table.

The platters were deposited, and Solomon saw that a feast had been laid before them: choice cuts of the most tender meat, fresh fruit and pungent cheese.

'Eat,' said Eldrad.

Fulgrim helped himself to meat and fruit as did Lord Commander Vespasian, but Eidolon refrained from eating. Julius and Marius likewise helped themselves, but for once, Solomon found himself in accordance with Eidolon and took nothing from the platters.

He noticed that Eldrad did not touch the meat, but ate only sparingly from a bowl of fruit.

'Does your kind not eat meat?' asked Solomon.

Eldrad turned his large oval eyes upon him, and Solomon felt as though he were a butterfly pinned to a wall. He saw great sadness in the farseer's eyes and, reflected in their ageless depths, he saw echoes of the great deeds he might yet achieve.

'I do not eat meat, Captain Demeter,' said Eldrad. 'It is too rich for my palate, but you should try some, I am told it is very good.'

Solomon shook his head. 'No. What interests me more is why you choose now to reveal yourself to us. It is my belief that you have been shadowing us ever since we arrived here.'

Fulgrim shot him an irritated glance, but Eldrad pretended not to see it.

'Since you ask, Captain Demeter, yes, we have been shadowing you, for it is a curious thing to see your ships abroad in this region of space,' said Eldrad. 'We had thought that it was shrouded from your kind. How is it that you managed to reach it?'

Fulgrim put down his food and said, 'You have been shadowing us?'

'Merely a precaution,' said Eldrad, 'for the worlds you have encountered in your travels belong to the eldar race.'