The Emperor's Legion (Watchers of the Throne #1) - Chris Wraight Page 0,39

I did not know how many names he had inscribed on the interior of his armour, but I guessed there were a great number. ‘We have become too used to regret, I think,’ he said. ‘We have become too used to thinking that the time before was so much greater than our own. And yet, you are reading ­Diocletian. You can see that even before the Failure, there were doubts.’

‘When I think what has been lost–’

‘–then you do not remember what has been gained.’ Navradaran placed a heavy gauntlet on the polished wood between us. ‘They lived in a time of plenty, and we in a time of strife. Consider how much greater our faith must be, compared to theirs.’

The words did not bring me much comfort, though neither did I wholly disagree with them.

I looked up at him. ‘I could not pass. I saw what lay within, and I could not pass.’

‘I know.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Take it as a sign you are unworthy, and you only harm yourself. We are so ready to believe that we are not good enough.’

‘Because once we–’

‘Once! Once, ten thousand years ago, we were faced with an impossible task, and we performed better than any could have ever demanded.’ He laughed. ‘Do you know, there is some advantage to spending time outside this place? I have met men with no discernible talent who believe themselves kings. I have met the sick who think themselves healthy, the wicked who think themselves righteous. They are so weak, all of them, weak as chaff, yet they do not torture themselves with our doubt. They live, they squabble, they laugh, they blaspheme, and I have come to think that this, somehow, is the greatest sense of all.’

I could not help but smile. ‘You will go back out there, then,’ I said.

‘I find it invigorating.’ He looked around him. ‘More so than these places.’

I could not agree with him then. Here, surrounded by the oldest words, the heavy-set parchments, the theology of the long ages, I felt at my greatest peace. The universe outside was like an inchoate sea, ephemeral and ever-shifting, but in these sites were the eternal verities, warded and preserved forever. There could be no more sacred calling than to keep this safe.

‘Go in His will, then,’ I said, reaching to clasp his hand.

‘As you, brother,’ he said, returning the gesture. ‘And do not read too much.’

As it turned out, that did not prove a danger. From that point onwards, I had precious little time for any kind of study.

I remembered my meeting with the mortal Tieron. He had been agitated when we had spoken, no doubt with much reason. What I did not appreciate immediately was quite how far that agitation had spread.

We, in our privileged echelons, knew of the worsening war at the Cadian Gate. Piece by piece, we became slowly aware of the disaster on the Planet of the Wolves. The Captain-General was detained much with consideration of both great battle zones, as well as many other older campaigns, and it was said then that he spoke at length with the serving High Lords on the provisions made to contain them. The two tribunes were kept informed, and in their own ways made preparation for what might come next.

I do not know how word of this spread beyond the walls. We live in a galaxy of uncertain communication, where the screams of a billion voices might disappear into the void while a single whisper travels securely to its destination. Even the greatest were capable of having their judgement blunted by such extreme variations in transmission failure, and yet I never failed to be astonished at how the rumour of war could spread even among the least educated. Like rats, the populace somehow knew. We did what we could, as the guardians of the species, to ward our charges from hearing harmful tidings, but our efforts failed more often than not.

Of course, it was certain that the Enemy had a hand in such dissemination. We were not so blind that we discounted the presence of seditious cells on Terra. However many inquisitors we deployed, though, and however many pyres they constructed, there were always more traitors waiting to take their place. For all Navradaran admired the mortal human spirit, it was also capable of truly pathetic weakness.

And so, almost as soon as we knew it ourselves, word of the worsening state of the war began to filter, by some strange process of osmosis, into