“I do,” nodded Ahriman, “though I fear I would make a poor teller of the tale. I am sure others will recount it better than I in times to come.”

Ahriman sat behind his desk, sipping crisp, corn-coloured wine from an oversized pewter goblet. Lemuel sensed there was more to his reluctance to speak of Ullanor than any doubt as to his ability to give a good enough rendition.

There would be little in the way of remembrance; something was preying on Ahriman’s mind, something that had happened upon the surface of Ullanor, but whatever it was, Lemuel would not hear it today.

To see an Astartes troubled by concerns beyond the battlefield was surprising, and he regarded Ahriman with new eyes. Even stripped out of his armour and clad in a crimson tunic and khaki combat fatigues, Ahriman was enormous. Encased in his battle-plate, his limbs were smooth and clean, machine-like, but now Lemuel could see the bulging musculature of his biceps and the undulant ridges of his pectorals. If anything, an Astartes without his armour was morefrightening. His proportions were human, but also alien and gigantic.

Lemuel had come to know Ahriman well since leaving Ullanor; not well enough to yet count them as friends, but well enough to read his moods. Of his remembrancer friends, he had seen little, for Camille and Kallista spent the bulk of their time in the company of Ankhu Anen in the Photep’s library, learning to develop their nascent abilities. As little as he had seen of his female friends, Lemuel had seen nothing at all of Mahavastu Kallimakus.

“Lemuel?” said Ahriman, snapping his thoughts back to the present.

“I’m sorry,” said Lemuel. “I was thinking about a friend and hoping he was well.”

“Who?”

“Mahavastu Kallimakus, scribe to the primarch.”

“Why would he not be doing well?”

Lemuel shrugged, unsure how much he should say.

“He seemed out of sorts the last time I saw him,” he said, “but then he’s a very old man, prone to the aches and pains of age. You understand?”

“Not really,” admitted Ahriman. “I am as fit now as I was two centuries ago.”

Lemuel chuckled and said, “That should amaze me, but it’s astonishing how quickly you become accustomed to the extraordinary, especially with the Thousand Sons.”

He lifted a modest, cut-crystal glass to his lips and drank, enjoying the rarity of a wine that didn’t taste like it had been strained through a starship’s urinary filtration system.

“How are you liking the wine?” asked Ahriman.

“It is a more refined taste than I am used to,” said Lemuel, “flavoursome and forceful, yet with enough subtlety to surprise.”

“The grapes were grown in underground vineyards on Prospero,” explained Ahriman. “It is a vintage of my own concoction, based on a gene-sample I took in Heretaunga bay on what was once the island of Diemenslandt.”

“I never took the Astartes for students of viniculture.”

“No? Why not?”

Lemuel cocked his head to one side, wondering if Ahriman was joking. Certainly the Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons was a man of serious mien, but all too often he would puncture that with deadpan humour. From the hue of his aura, it seemed his question was honestly asked, and Lemuel floundered for an answer.

“Well, it’s just that you are bred for war. I didn’t think that left much room for less martial pursuits.”

“In other words you think we are only good for battle? Is that it? The Astartes are simply weapons, killing tools who cannot have interests beyond war?”

Lemuel saw a glint in Ahriman’s eye and played along.

“You arevery good at killing,” he said. “Phoenix Crag taught me that.”

“You are right; we are very good at killing. I think that is why my Legion encourages its warriors to develop skills beyond the battlefield. After all, this crusade cannot last forever, and we will need to have a purpose beyond that when it is over. What will become of the warriors when there are no more wars?”

“They’ll settle down and grow fine wine,” said Lemuel, finishing his glass and accepting another as Ahriman leaned over to pour. A shiver passed along his spine at the sheer absurdity of this moment. He chuckled and shook his head.

“What is funny?” asked Ahriman.

“Nothing really,” he said. “I was just wondering how Lemuel Gaumon, a sometime academic, sometime dilettante of the esoteric came to share a glass of wine with a genetically engineered post-human? Two years ago, if someone had told me I’d be sitting here with you like this, I’d have thought they were mad.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Ahriman assured him.

“Then let us drink to new experiences,” said Lemuel, raising his glass.

They did, and they enjoyed the strangeness of the moment. When he judged sufficient time had passed, Lemuel said, “You never answered my question.”

“Which question?”

“When you were training me with the trionfi cards,” said Lemuel. “When I asked what kind of diviner you were, one with an innate connection to the aether or one who has to struggle for every morsel of truth? I get the feeling it’s the former.”

“Once I was, yes,” said Ahriman, and Lemuel read pride in his aura, but also regret. “I could pluck the future from the aether without effort, guiding my Fellowship along the most productive paths in war and study, but now I have to work hard for even a momentary glimpse into the patterns of the future.”

“What changed?”

Ahriman stood and circled the table, picking up the deck of cards and shuffling them expertly. He could have been a croupier or a cardsharp, thought Lemuel. The ease and dexterity with which Ahriman flicked the cards around his fingers was incredible, and he didn’t seem to notice he was doing it.

“The tides of the Great Ocean are ever-changing, and its influence rises and fall. What was once a raging torrent can dwindle to a trickling brook in a fraction of a second. What was a gentle wave can rise to an all-consuming typhoon. Each practitioner’s powers rise and fall with its moods, for it is a fickle mistress whose interest flits like a firefly in the dark.”

“You speak of it as though it were a living thing,” said Lemuel, seeing the wistful, faraway look in Ahriman’s eyes. Ahriman smiled and replaced the cards on the desk.

“Perhaps I do,” he said. “The ancient sailors of Terra often claimed they had two wives, their earthly mates and the ocean. Each was jealous of the other and it was said that one or the other would claim a seafarer’s life. To live so close to the aether is to live with feet in two worlds. Both are dangerous, but a man can learn to read how they shift and dance in and out of sync with one another. The trick is to read those moments and crest the wave of power while it lasts.”

Lemuel leaned forward and tapped a finger on the gold-backed cards.

“I don’t think that’s a trick I’ve mastered,” he said.

“No, divination is not your forte,” agreed Ahriman, “though you show some skill with aetheric reading. Perhaps I will schedule some time with Uthizzar of the Athanaens for you. He can develop this area of your psyche.”

“I keep hearing of these cults, but why such specialisation?” asked Lemuel. “The sangomas I learned from were men and women who served the people of their townships in many different ways. They didn’t confine themselves to one area of expertise. Why does your Legion break up its teachings into different cults?”

“The sangoma you speak of skimmed the tiniest fraction of learning from the Great Ocean, Lemuel. The lowliest Probationer of any Thousand Sons cult understands and practices more of the mysteries than even the most gifted sangoma.”

“I don’t doubt that,” said Lemuel, taking another sip of wine. “But, still, why so many?”

Ahriman smiled and said, “Finish your drink, and I will tell you of Magnus’ first journey into the desolation of Prospero.”