A sombre mood had fallen upon the thousands gathered within the crater of the volcano, in stark contrast to the ebullience that had filled it as Magnus had spoken.

“Why do I feel like I have already been condemned?” asked Magnus, looking over at the dais at the opposite end of the amphitheatre, where Malcador conversed with the Emperor.

“Maybe we have,” answered Ahriman, seeing Mortarion’s look of triumphant vindication. Sanguinius had ashen tears painted on his cheeks, and Fulgrim could not look at them, his sculpted features tormented with guilt.

“I care not anymore,” hissed Magnus. “Let us be done with this and begone.”

The atmosphere hung on a knife edge, like a bubble stretched to the point where its surface tension could no longer maintain its integrity. Not a single voice could be heard, only the rustle of hessian robes and bated breath.

That silence was broken when Malcador stood and moved to the front of the Emperor’s dais, rapping his staff three times upon the marble.

“Friends, this council is almost at an end,” he began. “We have heard learned discourse from both sides of the divide, but the time has come to pronounce judgement and restore our harmony. With great solemnity has this matter been weighed, for it is an issue that could tear us asunder if we are not united. I ask now, would any here gathered add their voices to what we have already heard? Speak now or forever keep your counsel.”

Ahriman scanned the crowd, hoping either Sanguinius or Fulgrim or some as yet unrevealed ally might emerge from beneath a falsehood to stand with them. No one moved, and he had all but given up hope of salvation when he saw a power-armoured individual bearing a long, skull-topped staff rise from his seat in the high tiers.

“I, Targutai Yesugei, of the Borjigin Qongqotan clan would speak,” said the warrior, his voice gruff and heavily accented with the distinctive final obstruent devoicing and vowel shortening of a native Chogorian.

Targutai Yesugei’s armour was winter white and trimmed with crimson, the shoulder-guard bearing the golden lightning bolt of the White Scars. His staff marked him out as a one of the Khan’s Librarians. His scalp was shaven, save for a long scalp lock worn like a topknot, and a crystalline hood rose from the shoulders of his armour, framing a tanned, weather-beaten face crisscrossed with ritual scars.

At a nod from Malcador, Yesugei made his way to the floor of the amphitheatre, walking with the calm dignity of the noble savage.

Nor was he alone.

From scattered positions all around the amphitheatre, robed Astartes Librarians made their way to join the White Scar warrior, and Ahriman’s heart leapt as he saw the heraldry of the Dark Angels, the Night Lords, Ultramarines and Salamanders.

The twelve Librarians congregated before the Emperor’s dais, and Ahriman instantly knew that none of these warriors had ever met, just as he knew that their choosing to speak at this moment had not been planned.

“Twelve of them standing before their king,” said Magnus with a soft smile. “How apt. As all the ancient gods were attended by twelve knights, so too are we.”

The Librarians knelt before the Emperor, their heads bowed, and Ahriman studied the symbols stitched on their surplices.

“Elikas, Zharost, Promus, Umojen,” said Ahriman, “these men are the chief Librarians of their Legions.”

“And they side with us,” said Magnus in wonder.

Targutai Yesugei rose to his feet, and the Emperor gave a brief nod that spoke volumes.

The warrior of the White Scars mounted the plinth, and Ahriman was impressed by the solemnity he saw in Yesugei’s eyes, a profound wisdom won through centuries of study and hard-fought battles.

“I am White Scar, Stormseer of Jaghatai Khan,” he said, “and I speak with truth as my guide. This I swear on honour of my clan, may my brothers cut out my heart if I lie. I listen to words said by honourable men, but I not see as they see. They look with eyes blind to world around them. They understand with minds not willing to see truth of this galaxy.

“The warrior chosen by Stormseers is not evil, and nor is power he wields. He is weapon, like Land Raider and bolt gun. What fool casts aside weapon before battle? Like all weapons, it is dangerous without much training, and all here know danger of rogue psyker; Lord Mortarion tell us of it. But what is more danger, a trained warrior who understand his powers or a warrior with power who knows nothing of its use? Like all things, power must be yoked to its true purpose before it can be unleashed. The psyker must be moulded by men of great skill as a sword is crafted by forger of steel. He must be taught way of the Stormseer and must prove his worth many times before he may bear the skull staff of the warrior-seer.”

Yesugei lifted his staff and aimed it towards the green-robed Choirmaster of Astropaths and black-suited Master of Navigators, sweeping it across the width of the dais. The gesture was subtle, for it also included the Emperor.

“To damn psykers as one evil is to forget how Imperium depend on them. Without mind-singers each world is adrift and alone, without star-seekers there is no travel between them. Men who speak against Primarch Magnus speak with the blurred vision of ancients. They do not see consequences of what they seek. What they ask for will doom us all. My truth, I pledge on this oath-sworn staff. If any doubt me, I stand ready to cross blades with them.”

Targutai Yesugei bowed once more and stepped from the podium, returning to the ranks of his brother Librarians. Ahriman looked over at Magnus. Like him, his primarch was moved by Yesugei’s words, captivated by their simple honesty and by the recognition of the hypocrisy inherent in the accusations levelled against the Thousand Sons.

“Surely the council cannot find against us now,” said Ahriman.

“We will see,” replied Magnus as the Emperor rose from his throne.

THUS FAR, THE Emperor of Mankind had viewed the conclave’s proceedings from afar, an observer who hears all and deliberates without giving any clue to his thoughts. Now he moved to the edge of the dais, his armour shimmering in the light as the stars shone brightly once again. Ahriman tried to shift his consciousness into the Enumerations to keep his perceptions clear, but the power of the Emperor was too great and too magnificent to ever truly allow clarity of thought.

Every soul in the amphitheatre stared in wonder at this paragon of all that was good in humanity, the apotheosis of mankind’s dreams and hopes. His every word was seized upon and written in a thousand places, like the words once transcribed as the faithful recitation of a god from the forgotten ages. The scrivener harness of Mahavastu Kallimakus clattered to life in anticipation.

Thoughts of Kallimakus were forgotten as a warm sensation of approbation washed over him. Ahriman recognised this feeling for what it was, the influencing of another person by instilling a measure of your psyche into their aura. Ahriman could perform a similar feat, though on a handful of people at most. To reach out to so many thousands at once spoke of power beyond measure.

The Emperor’s sword was drawn, and his gaze locked with that of Magnus, as though they engaged in silent communion unheard by any others. Ahriman tore his gaze from the Emperor and saw that Magnus was pinned to his seat, his body rigid and his skin pale. His eye was tightly closed, and Ahriman saw an almost imperceptible tremor in his flesh, as though powerful currents of electricity were tearing through him.

“If I am guilty of anything, it is the pursuit of knowledge,” hissed Magnus through clenched teeth. “I am its master, I swear it.”

Ahriman could hear no more, for Magnus suddenly drew a gasping breath, like a drowning man upon finding the surface of an ocean.