But Argel Tal said none of this. He was weary of such explanation.
‘I remember your words after Monarchia died in the Emperor’s fire. You told me it was the day you truly began to believe that gods were real, once you had seen such power unleashed. I felt the same when I saw the power at work in this storm. Can you understand that, Cyrene?’
‘I understand.’
‘I thought you would.’
And with those words spoken, he walked from her room.
Aquillon found him in the practice cages.
Both warriors were aware of each other long before either said a word. Aquillon watched in silence, respectfully waiting until Argel Tal finished his round of exercises, while the Word Bearer graced the Custodian with a perfunctory nod, saying nothing as he worked through his sword work routines. Finding balance in his weakened physique was a torturous affair. The deactivated sparring blades cut the air in dull sweeps – a poor shadow of the lost swords of red iron – and he was breathless with exertion as his hearts thudded to keep up with the demands he placed upon his emaciated physique.
At last, Argel Tal lowered the blades. His muscles ached from only two hours of training. Before his journey into the Eye, such a poor performance would see him doing penance for a ritual ninety-nine nights.
‘Aquillon,’ he greeted his friend.
‘You look as though you died and forgot to lie down.’
The Word Bearer snorted. ‘I feel like it.’
‘A shame. You’d managed to last almost four minutes against me last time we stepped into these cages together.’
‘I see you are not in a merciful mood.’ In better times, this banter would have come easily to Argel Tal. ‘Did you come to speak of Ven?’
Aquillon opened the force cage and took up a practice blade twin to the one Argel Tal still held. The sparring cage’s hemispheres closed around them both. Both warriors wore robes: one, the white of Terra’s palace servants, one, the grey of the XVII Legion.
‘I wanted to hear it from you.’ He raised the blade in a two-handed grip, mimicking his favoured weapon. His warriors carried the traditional glaives, but Aquillon’s antique
Argel Tal raised his own swords in a defensive cross, feeling the burn of lactic acid in his muscles. The two warriors tended to play to their strengths in the past: Aquillon was ferociously offensive in his blade work; Argel Tal remained consummately defensive.
‘So will you tell me what happened?’
Aquillon was indeed not in a merciful mood. Before the Word Bearer could even answer, Argel Tal’s blades were knocked from his hands and the captain found himself on the floor, breathing against the Custodian’s sword point. It scratched the dirty skin of his throat, and Aquillon shook his head.
‘Pathetic.’ He offered his hand to help Argel Tal rise. ‘Try again.’
The Word Bearer rose without the offered hand, retrieving his blades. ‘I do not like the pity in your voice.’
‘Then do something to get rid of it. But at least answer my question.’
The next clash lasted several seconds, but ended the same way. The Word Bearer backhanded Aquillon’s sword away from his neck.
‘Have you read the reports?’ he asked the Custodian, again refusing his friend’s offered hand and rising unaided.
‘Yes. They are vague, and I am being generous when I say even that.’
Argel Tal had read them as well. The surface of Cadia... The journey into the Eye... The reports of each event were loose and evasive fictions that almost moved him to laughter. ‘They are vague,’ he conceded, raising his blades again. ‘But they are accurate. I will enlighten you where I can.’
This time, Argel Tal attacked. Aquillon disarmed him in two swings of his blade, and a boot to the solar plexus sent the Word Bearer back down to the floor.
‘Begin with Vendatha. He told me that Lorgar was attending a heathen ritual and several of the officers would be with him.’
‘That’s true enough.’
‘You are still blocking the feinted thrust, by the way.’
‘I know.’
‘Good. Now speak.’
Something burned in his blood. Something reactive, unwilling to be dominated. Argel Tal bit back a sudden need to curse at the Custodian in a language that was and was not Colchisian.
‘It... was not a ritual in the sense that we feared it would be.’ He rose to his feet as he continued. ‘A tedious recital of ancient texts. Prayers to spirits of ancestors. Dances, drums and herbal narcotics.’
Blades in hands, Argel Tal attacked again. Another
‘Lorgar sent you into the storm based on this? A... theatrical performance of old lies?’ This time, Aquillon didn’t offer to help Argel Tal stand. A doubting scowl passed over his features.
‘Don’t be foolish.’ The Word Bearer rolled his shoulders, wincing at the crackle of abused muscle and
