Malcador did not know the nature of the truth that called to him, but he saw the monstrosity of its strength, and so he resisted. He struggled with all his psychic might to stay above the storm at the same time as he tried to perceive what lay beyond its centre. Somewhere, in an almost forgotten corner of reality, his body arced in the agony of the strain. The thread that tied him to himself, that kept his identity whole, stretched thinner, grew taut, thrummed. Malcador looked for a secret, and he looked away from secrets. The paradox grew teeth. It took on its own form in the warp. It grasped him, and surrounded him. In another heartbeat it would pull him in two and hurl his broken self into the maelstrom.
But then what he needed was before him, a tiny glimpse beyond the storm, a fragment of a secret. He snatched at it, and with a cry he pulled away from the warp. What began as a psychic howl ended as a drawn-out groan from his body.
Weak, on the edge of collapse, Malcador pushed himself up from the throne. The hexagrammic runes glowed an angry red, then faded like dying embers as the touch of the warp ebbed away. Malcador staggered from the Vortex Chamber, away from temptation and the dreams that lingered against the walls.
He had what he needed. He had a name: Thawra.
‘There has been battle here,’ said Collatinus. The stern, patrician features of the Legio Custodes shield-captain were impassive, but Malcador saw the faint narrowing of his eyes as he took in the state of the orbital regions around Thawra. They were standing on the bridge of the cruiser Sol Tenebris, watching the planet grow larger in the main viewport. The closer the ship approached, the clearer the extent of the damage became. The defence platforms were blackened ruins. Scores of merchant vessels were gutted and smashed, and floated by each other, tombstones scorched by fire.
Malcador thought of the extent of the warp storm he had witnessed, and wondered if his voyage might be in vain. The tempest’s impact on the materium, either directly or indirectly, had been massive.
But the auspex officers reported a normal degree of vox activity on the surface of Thawra. That was cause for optimism.
‘Open command channels,’ Collatinus ordered. The officers complied, and he hailed the government, if there still was one, of the world below. ‘Attention, citizens of Thawra, this is Shield-Captain Collatinus of the Legio Custodes, commanding the Sol Tenebris, escorting Malcador the Sigillite, First Lord of Terra. Greetings in the name of the Emperor. Acknowledge.’
The hail was returned almost immediately. ‘Acknowledged, Sol Tenebris. This is the governor’s palace. Please stand by. Acting Governor Arkanasia is on her way.’
‘Acting governor,’ Collatinus muttered under his breath.
‘That does not bode well for Governor Vasra,’ said Malcador. He turned to the scribe standing a respectful three steps behind him. ‘Who is Arkanasia?’ he asked.
The scribe tapped at a data-slate, then said, ‘She is chief councillor.’ He read for another moment. ‘She has served in this position since Governor Vasra was installed.’
‘So the continuity of government has been preserved,’ said Collatinus. ‘That is a hopeful sign.’
Malcador took the data-slate from the scribe and scrolled through the notes. ‘It seems Arkanasia was an early and energetic advocate of compliance on Thawra.’ That, too, was hopeful.
A few moments later, the acting governor was on the vox. ‘First Lord Malcador,’ she said. ‘Thawra is honoured by your visit. I only regret that you find us in difficult circumstances.’
‘It is those circumstances that bring me here,’ said Malcador. ‘And what has become of Governor Vasra?’
‘She is dead, first lord. She died nobly, fighting for Thawra and its loyalty to the Emperor.’
‘What is the nature of the uprising?’ Collatinus asked.
Arkanasia hesitated. ‘What happened is no simple matter,’ she said. ‘I will try to explain when I see you.’
‘The governor’s palace is secure?’
‘It is, shield-captain. The worst of our troubles are over.’
Collatinus turned to Malcador, visibly reluctant to bring the Sigillite into a warzone.
‘I must know what has happened, shield-captain,’ Malcador said. ‘This is not a matter of choice.’
Collatinus nodded. ‘Very well,’ he replied to Arkanasia. ‘Prepare for our arrival at the palace.’ He ended the vox-mission. ‘At the least, she sounds confident in her evaluation,’ he said to Malcador.
‘Let us hope her confidence is not misplaced.’
‘The uprising was a surprise,’ Arkanasia admitted a few hours later. She was a tall woman and very thin, the tendons standing out on her neck, suggestive of a lifetime of being held taut. A narrow brush of black hair ran down the centre of her scalp. Her eyes were guarded, but burned deeply. She was a psyker, the aura of her power as clear to Malcador as a violet sunrise.
They were in the map hall of the palace. Each wall was given over to a single hemisphere of the planet, and covered by a relief chart six metres high and thirty metres long. Tactical maps took up long tables in the centre of the hall, with hololithic projectors marking troop dispositions and territory held. Only one region, about a hundred and sixty kilometres south of the capital, Statheros, was still red.
‘It spread very quickly,’ Arkanasia said, ‘and with considerable force.’
‘So we saw from the Sol Tenebris,’ Malcador said.
Arkanasia nodded. ‘The rebels planned well. The uprising began in orbit, so we lost most of our communications in the first few hours.’
‘A well-armed and well-organised force, then,’ said Collatinus. ‘How was it possible a threat of this magnitude developed without being noticed?’
‘It should have been noticed,’ Arkanasia admitted. ‘And I believe that if anything similar happens again, it will be seen. We have learned from our mistakes, and from our victory, shield-captain. But it was the nature of the uprising that helped keep it hidden.’
‘You are being cryptic,’ said Malcador.
‘I crave your pardon, first lord. That was not my intent.’ She drew a breath. ‘The rebels are psykers,’ she said.
‘All of them?’ Malcador asked. So high a number could explain the warp storm, but only to a point. The tempest had been heavy with the possibility of events more massive than had already taken place.
‘Perhaps not all, but a high proportion, as best as we can determine.’
Malcador looked at the troop movements outlined on the maps, and at the summaries of the cost of the war thus far displayed by a cluster of pict screens mounted above the far end of the table. ‘For them to have had the strength to cause an actual war, their numbers must have been high.’
‘They were. This has always been so on Thawra. The proportion of psykers in our population is much greater than the norm.’
This is why I needed to come here, Malcador thought. This is the crux of so many matters. He did not know if the vortex he had seen in the warp was caused by the psykers of Thawra, or if it was the reason for their multitude. He suspected it was possible both circumstances were true. The cause is not the issue. It is our response that matters. He thought again of all the possibilities, temptations and dangers he encountered in the warp. There is so much we could do, he thought. But if this is the price…