He comprehended only a fraction of what he saw, but it was enough to press him back into his seat. Breath laboured in his chest and the awful rush of information pouring into him threatened to unseat his reason.

“Stop,” begged Ahriman as more knowledge than had been won by entire civilisations thundered into his mind, squeezing his genhanced faculties to the limits of their endurance. His vision greyed, and blood vessels haemorrhaged in his eyes. His hands trembled, and he felt the onset of a violent grand mal seizure, one that would almost certainly kill him.

Magnus closed his eye, and the raging torrent ceased.

Ahriman gasped as the flood abated, and a drawn out moan escaped his lips. Dread knowledge and buried secrets surged within him, each one a lethally volatile revelation.

He fell from the bench as his overloaded consciousness shut down in an attempt to rebuild the shattered architecture of his mind.

WHEN HE OPENED his eyes, he was lying on one of the padded couches in the vaulted antechamber beneath the amphitheatre. The pain had diminished, but his head felt as though it was encased in an ever-shrinking helmet of invisible steel. Light made his head hurt, and he raised a hand to shield his face. His mouth was dry and a bewildering series of images danced on the periphery of his vision, like a million memories crowding for attention.

“Enter the sixth Enumeration,” said a mellifluous voice that calmed and soothed him. “It will help you restore your thoughts.”

“What happened?” he managed, trying to focus on the owner of the voice. He knew he recognised the speaker, but so many names and faces crowded his mind that he could not sort through them. “I don’t remember.”

“It’s my fault, my son,” said the voice, and Ahriman was finally able to perceive the figure kneeling beside him. “And I am truly sorry.”

“My lord Magnus?” he asked.

“In the flesh, my son,” said Magnus, helping him sit up.

Bright lights pounded behind his eyes and he groaned, feeling like his brain was trying to press its way out of his skull. The Sekhmet were assembled in the chamber, some drinking from silver goblets, others guarding the doors.

“You had quite a shock to the system,” said Magnus. “I allowed my anger to get the better of me and let the walls enclosing my essence fall. No one mortal, not even an Astartes, should drink from that well. You’ll have a monstrously sore head, but you will live.”

“I do not understand,” said Ahriman, pressing his palms to his temples.

“Knowledge is like strong liquor, my son,” said Magnus with a smile. “To imbibe too much, too fast, will get you drunk.”

“I have never been drunk. I don’t think it’s possible for me.”

“It’s not, not really,” said Magnus, handing him a goblet of cool water, “at least not on alcohol. How much do you remember about what happened?”

“Not much,” admitted Ahriman, draining the goblet in a single swallow.

“That’s probably for the best,” said Magnus, and Ahriman was not so far removed from his senses that he didn’t catch the relief in his primarch’s voice.

“I remember the Death Lord,” said Ahriman, “chastising us and twisting facts to suit his accusations, but after that, nothing.”

A sudden thought occurred, and he asked, “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Just over three hours, which was probably a blessing.”

“How so?”

“You were spared the tedious parade of close-minded bigots, superstitious fools and throwbacks naming us heretics, sorcerers, blood-mages and sacrificers of virgins. Wyrdmake and Mortarion have assembled quite a coven of witch hunters to condemn us.”

Ahriman rose to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him as the room spun around him. His enhanced physiology fought to compensate, but it was a losing battle. He would have fallen but for Magnus’ steadying hand. He forced the dizziness down and took a cleansing breath.

Ahriman shook his head. “I feel like I have been stepped on by Canis Vertex.”

“You would,” said Magnus, “but you’ll want to recover your wits quickly, my son.”

“Why, what is happening?”

“Our accusers have said their piece,” said Magnus with relish, “and now it’s my turn.”

EXPECTANT SILENCE FILLED the amphitheatre as Magnus strode towards the plinth. He walked with his head held high and his feathered cloak trailing behind him, looking straight at the Emperor’s dais. This was no walk of the accused, but the stride of the righteous man fighting against unjust accusers.

Ahriman had never been prouder to be one of his Thousand Sons.

Magnus bowed to the Emperor and Malcador then turned to give Fulgrim and Sanguinius bows of comradeship. In a move that spoke of grace in the face of adversity, he also gave Mortarion and Ohthere Wyrdmake courteous acknowledgements. Magnus was every inch the gentleman polymath who never forgot himself, even as his enemies united against him. He mounted the plinth and rested his hands on the wooden lectern.

He paused, sweeping his gaze around the assembled men and women, favouring them all with his attention.

“The fearful and unbelieving, the abominable and the murderers, the whoremongers and sorcerers, idolaters and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burning with fire and brimstone,” said Magnus, as though reading from a text. “Those words are from a book written thousands of years ago in the forgotten ages, ironically from a passage named Revelations. This is what people thought in those barbaric times. It shows what savagery we came from, and how easy it is for our species to turn upon one another. These words of fear sent thousands to their death over the millennia, and for what? To salve the fears of ignorant men who had not the wit to embrace the power of new ideas.”

Magnus stepped from the plinth, circling the amphitheatre like a lecturing iterator. Where Mortarion had hectored the assembly with venom, Magnus spoke as though every member of the assembly, from the lowliest adept to the Emperor himself, were old friends gathered for a good-natured debate.

“If one of us were to walk among the people of those times, they would kill us for the technology we possess, thinking it witchcraft or unclean devilment. For example, before the writings of Aristarchus of Samos, men believed that Old Earth was flat, an unbroken plain where the oceans simply fell from the edges. Can you imagine anything more ridiculous? Now we take the sphericity of planets for granted. Much later, priestly scholars taught that Terra was the centre of the cosmos, and that the sun and planets revolved around it. The man who challenged this geocentric foolishness was tried for heresy, and forced to recant his beliefs. Now we know our place in the galaxy.”

Magnus paused before Mortarion, meeting the hostile glare of the Death Lord with one of quiet amusement.

“From the deepest desire often comes the deadliest hatred,” he said, “and false words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the hearts of all who hear them with evil. Imagine what we will know in a thousand years and think, really think, what we are doing here.”

Magnus turned from Mortarion and walked to the centre of the amphitheatre, lifting his hands out to his sides and slowly turning on the spot as he spoke.

“Imagine the Imperium of the future, a golden Utopia of enlightenment and progress, where the scientist and the philosopher are equal partners with the warrior in crafting a bounteous future. Now imagine the people of that glorious age looking back through the mists of time to this moment. Think what they will know and what they would make of this travesty. They would weep to know how close the flame of enlightenment had come to being snuffed out. The art and science of questioning everything is the source of all knowledge, and to abandon that will doom us to slow decay, an Imperium of darkness and ignorance, where those who dare to pursue knowledge, whatever the cost to themselves, are regarded with suspicion. That is not the Imperium I believe in. That is not the Imperium I wish to be part of.