Hellsreach - Aaron Dembski-Bowden [131]
‘We are not here to be lectured on the state of our souls,’ Grimaldus tried to keep the irritation from his voice.
‘Whether you are or not doesn’t matter, Reclusiarch. Will you dismiss your fellow warriors from the chamber, please? There is much to speak of.’
‘We can speak of the temple’s defence in front of my brothers.’
‘Indeed we can, and when the time comes to speak of such things, they will be present. For now, please dismiss them.’
‘Did you cleanse yourself, by the Stoup of Elucidation?’
This is the question she asks in the silence that descends once my brothers are gone, and the doors are closed.
The stoup she speaks of is a huge bowl of black iron, mounted upon a low pedestal of what looks like wrought gold. It stands by the double doors, which are themselves bedecked in imagery of warlike angels with toothed swords, and saints bearing bolters.
I confess to her that I did not.
‘Come then.’ She beckons me to the bowl. The water within reflects the painted ceiling and the stained glass windows above – a riot of colour in a liquid mirror.
She dips a bare finger into the water after taking the time to detach and remove her gauntlets. ‘This water is thrice-blessed,’ she says, tracing her dripping fingertip across her forehead in a crescent moon. ‘It brings clarity of purpose, when anointed onto the doubting and the lost.’
‘I am not lost,’ I lie, and she smiles at the words.
‘I did not mean to imply that you were, Reclusiarch. But many who come here are.’
‘Why did you wish to speak with me alone? Time is short. The war will reach these walls in a matter of days. Preparations must be made.’
She speaks, staring down into the perfect reflection offered by the bowl. ‘This basilica is a bastion. A castle. We can defend it for weeks, when the enemy finally gathers courage enough to besiege it.’
‘Answer the question.’ This time, I could not keep the irritation from my voice even if I had wished to.
‘Because you are not like your brothers.’
I know that when she looks at my face, she does not see me. She sees the death mask of the Emperor, the skull helm of an Astartes Reclusiarch, the crimson eye lenses of humanity’s chosen. And yet our gazes meet in the water’s reflection, and I cannot completely fight the feeling she is seeing me, beneath the mask and the masquerade.
What does she mean by those words? That she senses my doubts? That they drip from me like nervous sweat, visible and stinking to all who stand near me?
‘I am no different from them.’
‘Of course you are. You are a Chaplain, are you not? A Reclusiarch. A keeper of your Chapter’s lore, soul, traditions and purity.’
My heart rate slows again. My rank. That is all she meant.
‘I see.’
‘I am given to understand Astartes Chaplains are invested with their authority by the Ecclesiarchy?’
Ah. She seeks common ground. Good luck to her in this doomed endeavour. She is a warrior of the Imperial Creed, and an officer in the Church of the God-Emperor.
I am not.
‘The Ecclesiarchy of Terra supports our ancient rites, and the authority of every Chapter’s Reclusiam to train warrior-priests to guide the souls of its battle-brothers. They do not invest us with power. They recognise we already hold it.’
‘And you are given a gift by the Ecclesiarchy? A rosarius?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I see yours?’
The few Astartes singled out for ascension into the Reclusiam are gifted with a rosarius medallion upon succeeding in the first trials of Chaplainhood. My talisman was beaten bronze and red iron, shaped into a heraldic cross.
‘I no longer carry one.’
She looks up at me, as if the reflection of my skull visage was no longer clear enough for her purposes.
‘Why is that?’
‘It was lost. Destroyed in battle.’
‘Is that not a dark omen?’
‘I am still alive three years after its destruction.