A Thousand Sons (The Horus Heresy Book 12) by Graham McNeill

Author:Graham McNeill [McNeill, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2014-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

Seventeen

The desolation of Prospero

The fallen statue

Fresh summons

It seemed like the grossest insult to be seated in the presence of so mighty a being, but no matter how Lemuel tried to rise, the muscles in his legs wouldn’t obey him.

‘My lord,’ he finally managed.

The primarch wore a long, flowing robe of crimson edged with sable, secured at the waist by a wide leather belt with a jade scarab design at its centre. His curved blade was sheathed across his back, and his bright hair was pulled into a series of elaborate braids entwined like the roots of a giant tree.

Magnus filled the library with his presence, though he appeared to be no bigger than Ahriman. Lemuel blinked away a hazed outline of the primarch and stared into his single eye, its amber iris pinpricked with white magnesium. Where his other should have been was blank flesh, smooth as though it had never known an eye.

‘Lemuel Gaumon,’ said Magnus, and the syllables of his name flowed like honey from the primarch’s mouth, like a word of power or some hidden language of the ancients.

‘That’s… that’s me,’ he stammered, knowing he sounded like a simpering idiot, but not caring. ‘I mean, yes. Yes, my lord. It’s an honour to meet you, I never expected to, I mean…’

His words trailed off as Magnus raised a hand.

‘Ahriman was telling you of how I founded the cults of Prospero?’

Lemuel found his voice and said, ‘He was. I would be honoured if you would take up where he left off.’

The request was audacious, but a new-found confidence filled him with sudden brio. He had the distinct impression that Magnus had not arrived here by accident, that this encounter was as stage-managed as any of Coraline Aseneca’s supposedly improvised theatre performances.

‘I shall tell you, for you are a rare man, Lemuel. You have vision to see what a great many people would run from in fear. You have promise, and I intend to see it fulfilled.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Lemuel, though a tiny warning voice in his head wondered exactly what the primarch meant by that.

Magnus brushed past, touching Lemuel’s shoulder, and the sheer joy of the contact swept any concerns away. Magnus rounded Ahriman’s desk and lifted the gold-backed cards.

‘A Visconti-Sforza deck,’ said Magnus. ‘The Visconti di Modrone set if I am not mistaken.’

‘You have a good eye, my lord,’ said Ahriman, and Lemuel suppressed a snigger, wondering if this was what passed for humour among the Thousand Sons.

Ahriman’s words seemed sincere, and Magnus shuffled through the pack with even greater dexterity than had his Chief Librarian.

‘This is the oldest set in existence,’ said Magnus, spreading the cards on the desk.

‘How can you tell?’ asked Lemuel.

Magnus slipped a card from the deck and held up the six of denari. Each of the pips was a golden disc bearing either a fleur-de-lys or a robed figure carrying a long staff.

‘The denari suit, which corresponds to what is now known as diamonds, bears the obverse and reverse of

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