Voisanne’s was at the end of the street, and he saw Camille and Kallista waiting for him. He smiled and waved at them. They waved back, and he bent to plant chaste kisses on both womens’ cheeks.

“You’re late,” said Camille.

“My apologies, ladies,” said Lemuel. “I was purchasing gifts for you from the market, and it took longer than usual to haggle the merchant down from his ruinous prices.”

“Gifts?” asked Kallista, brightly. “Then you’re forgiven. What do you have for us?”

Lemuel placed a crystal vial before each woman and said, “Fragrant Boronia oil. I have no doubt your quarters are equipped with oil burners, so two droplets in water will fill your rooms with sweet floral undertones and a light, fruity scent that will refresh you and revitalise your creative energy. At least that’s what the merchant assured me would happen.”

“Thank you, Lemuel,” said Camille, unstoppering the vial and sniffing its contents. “Chaiya will love it. She loves our rooms to smell pretty.”

“Very nice,” added Kallista.

“It’s nothing, ladies,” said Lemuel, “just a trifle to apologise for my lateness.”

“I thought you were late becauseyou bought us these?” said Camille.

“Actually it was Mahavastu that made me late,” said Lemuel with enforced levity. “You know how the old man likes to tell an endless, rambling story.”

Camille looked askance, but Kallista nodded, and Lemuel was about to turn and ask for a menu when a waitress arrived bearing a tray of food. She placed a bowl of fruit before Kallista, a crème-filled pastry in front of Camille and frosted confections of spun sugar, sweet pastry and fruit for Lemuel.

The waitress went back inside, and Camille took a bite of her pastry.

She sighed with pleasure.

“Wonderful,” she said, “but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them knowing what I’m going to order before I even ask for it.”

“I know,” said Lemuel. “I’d be worried if it wasn’t for the fact they bring what I absolutely want every time.”

“True,” agreed Camille. “I’ll let them off then. So, how was he?”

“Who?”

“Mahavastu, you said you saw him earlier.”

“Oh, he’s, well, he’s fine, if a little homesick, I think. He was talking about wanting to go home, to Terra, I mean.”

“Why?” asked Kallista. “Why would anyone want to leave Prospero? It’s paradise.”

“He’s getting old, I suppose. He wants to go home before it’s too late.”

“I’ll miss the old man,” said Camille. “He has interesting tales.”

“Yes,” agreed Lemuel, uncomfortable with keeping the conversation on Kallimakus, as though it revived an old itch. “Still, how are you two fine ladies getting on?”

“Good,” said Camille, taking another bite of her pastry. “I’ve catalogued most of the ruins around Tizca, and Khalophis is taking me further out into the Desolation soon. He’s taking me to one of the older cities. One of the first to be lost when Prospero fell, so he says.”

“Should be fascinating, my dear,” said Lemuel, “but please be careful.”

“Yes, father,” smiled Camille.

“I’m serious,” said Lemuel. “You don’t know what might be out there.”

“Okay, okay, I will.”

“Good. And you, my dear Kallista? What progress have you made recently? Is Ankhu Anen still working you hard in the Athenaeum?”

Kallista nodded enthusiastically. She had blossomed since coming to Tizca, and even in a city of handsome people, Kallista Eris still stood out. Rumour had it she was being courted by a rakishly handsome captain of the Prospero Spireguard. Not that Lemuel was short of offers of companionship, but he had his own reasons for maintaining his solitary lifestyle.

Since Nikaea, the frequency of Kallista’s nocturnal seizures had steadily lessened to the point they dared hope they had ceased altogether. She still carried her bottle of sakau, but had not needed it for months.

“Yes, Lemuel, he is. The Athenaeum is filled with texts said to pre-date Old Night, but they’re written in ancient Prosperine, which no one speaks anymore. I can help with the translation by linking back to the minds of the writers. It’s slow work, but it’s shedding a lot of light on what society was like before it collapsed. You should pay us a visit, I’m sure you’d find it fascinating to see how the planet’s developed since then.”

“I’ll do that, my dear,” promised Lemuel. “Ahriman has me very busy, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me calling on you.”

“I’d like that,” said Kallista, finishing her fruit and taking a sip of water.

They chatted of inconsequential things for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the warm sunshine and conversing as friends do. Some wine was brought, a crystal-white blend that Lemuel laughed to see was the vintage developed by Ahriman. As Lemuel poured the last of their second bottle, Camille brought the subject around to their hosts.

“So, how much longer do you think we have before the Thousand Sons redeploy?” she asked.

It was a question lightly asked, but Lemuel saw the undercurrent of anxiety behind it. Normally, he did not use his ability to read auras around his friends, understanding their need for privacy, but there was no mistaking Camille’s desire to stay on Prospero.

“I don’t know,” said Lemuel honestly. “Ahriman hasn’t said anything, but with the other Legions earning glory in battle, I know they’re eager for a tasking order. The Emperor’s Children on Laeran, the Luna Wolves on One Forty Twenty, the Ultramarines at Mescalor; it’s been over two years since Ark Reach and yet the Thousand Sons are idle while their brothers make war.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with Nikaea?” asked Kallista.

“I think it must,” said Lemuel. “From what I hear, the Crimson King couldn’t leave Nikaea fast enough. According to Ahriman, the primarch has had all his warriors buried in their cult’s libraries since they got back.”

“I heard that too,” said Kallista with a conspiratorial smile. “I even overheard Ankhu Anen talking to Amon about it.”

“Did you hear what they were looking for?”

“I think so, but I didn’t really understand what they said. It sounded like they were looking for ways to project a body of light farther than ever, whatever that means.”

“What do you suppose that’s in aid of?” asked Camille.

“I have no idea,” said Lemuel.

HORROR. SHOCK. DISBELIEF. Anger.

All these emotions surged through Ahriman’s body as he listened to his primarch’s words. Together with the other eight captains of the Pesedjet, he stood upon the labyrinth spiral of Magnus’ inner sanctum within the Pyramid of Photep. Slatted shafts of late afternoon sunlight cut the gloom, yet he could feel only oppressive darkness pressing in on him. He couldn’t bring himself to believe what he had just heard. Had anyone other than Magnus said these treacherous words, he would have killed them.

From his position on the spiral, he could see each of his fellow captains. Phosis T’kar’s brow was knotted in fury, his fists bunched in rage. Beside him, Phael Toron ground his teeth, and black mosaic chips wobbled in their mortar beds as their anger manifested around them.

Hathor Maat affected an air of calm, but his anguish was clear to see in the radiant aether light pulsing behind his features. Khalophis and Auramagma glowed with the power of their shock, sparks of flame bursting to life at their fingertips.

Uthizzar looked dreadful, his ashen face crumpled by the weight of unimaginable treachery yet to come as he felt the primarch’s sense of betrayed grief as his own, Ahriman had known something unthinkable was coming. He had felt it for months, knowing that Magnus was keeping a monstrous secret from his captains while he worked feverishly and alone in his private library and the vaults beneath Tizca. Amon and Ankhu Anen had shared Ahriman’s knowledge that something was wrong, but even their combined power was unable to pierce the veils of the future to see what so concerned their primarch.