Saints and martyrs, p.39
Saints And Martyrs, page 39
She intended to bow her head – but the windows flared with His light, and the sight before her was lost.
She stands upon a battlefield, ablaze with wrath and fury. She wields a blade that carves limbs and heads and flesh. She bears a great shield against which the foe shatters, tumbling in dust and fragments. And those fragments fuse together, each one melding with its fellows. They become stones, become rocks, become walls.
Become the crystal glassaic of a great cathedral’s windows.
Fire bathes her; it flares from her armour, from her very heart. She burns, but the pain is good, like the purity of total immolation. In the flame-light, the glassaic windows are brought to life, every one an image. In one: an agri world, rippling with crops. In another: a convent, quiet and secluded. In a third: the kneeling forms of Sisters, robes pooled upon a flagstone floor.
And there are more: a man, radiant with dark power and terrible authority. Trust and truth that char right through, like fluttering pieces of fabric. The sickening lurch of a terrible, soul-devastating betrayal.
And then more: a duel, upon which the galaxy waits.
The windows cannot contain the images. They waver and melt, and their running, puddled colours reflect the clouds. They become steam, and are gone.
And still, she burns.
But now, her agony is glorious. She becomes a hymn, raised to a darkness-filled sky. Buildings burn, pillars of smoke rise as if they hold up the very clouds. Further and further spreads the maze of burning streets, stretching back to impossible distance. It is all about her, but she is its hub and its centre and she stands, she always stands…
The shield is back in her hand, but now, she bears her sword in the other. She slays the rising monster. The young soldier is her brother for whom her mother died, her still-youthful father; he may be but one tiny speck upon the surface of the Emperor’s Hammer, but he matters. They all matter.
Comprehension hits her like a blaze of truth, like a bone spur.
She feels her gorget give, feels that cold spur as it spikes sideways through her throat. As it carves out the side of her neck. Her flame gouts, wild and fervent. Her song hits its crescendo, with power to shatter walls. The monsters cower before her.
The song is her requiem.
She feels her carotid artery as it bursts, feels her lifeblood pouring forth. It is His greatest blessing, His answer, the thing she had come seeking.
‘Thank you,’ says her fiery heart. ‘Thank you.’
She smells the faintest wisp of incense.
Then the flame flares dazzling, and she burns away.
SISTERS
Cool air, the gentle drift of stone dust. A hand on her forehead, the harmonies of a long-familiar hymn.
‘Sister.’
Avra’s throat was dry and her chest burning, her head pounding with pain. In the blur of awakening, her mind was still overflowing with a richness of dreams: with immolation, with the crescendo of hymnal and glory, with melting glassaic-crystals that showed the sunlight of some strange and far-flung world.
With a bone spur, driving hard through the side of her throat.
Uncomprehending, she raised her gauntleted fingers to the hole in her gorget… Metal scraped on metal. There was no hole.
But…
She started to sit up. A strong hand caught her wrist, steadying her. There was a ring on its middle finger, a steel band inscribed with prayers.
‘You are well, Sister. You will find no injury.’
The voice was female, older, both gentle and severe. And it had an odd catch to it, something Avra couldn’t quite define. Was that… curiosity?
A frisson ran through her; she shook off the help and sat up fully. The movement made her belly turn over, made a further slew of images tumble through her thoughts. Sisters, kneeling upon a flagstone floor. A yellow sun, angling slantways through the windows of an ancient convent. Ceramite boots, circling one another in a legendary duel…
Her frisson became a chill, a prayer like pure shock. That had not been a dream. That had been a–
She stumbled on the word vision like it was blasphemy.
From the desire to be extolled, O Emperor, deliver me…
She was only Avra, just a younger member of her Order. She had passed her Trials of Ordination just two Solar years before. She had no rank, no beads of merit, no mighty deeds to her name. She was not worthy.
And yet… had she really seen…?
Her soul shivered at His closeness. Awed, almost fearful, she whispered the prayer in her heart.
‘From the need to be glorified, O Emperor, deliver me…’
‘You do not question His will, Sister.’ The soft, severe voice spoke again, brooking no argument – without realising, she’d spoken the prayer aloud. ‘You are Katherine, ever-martyred and ever-chosen. In our battle today, we lost our beloved Sister of that name, and now you are returned to us once more, to take your place in the sacred march.’
Katherine.
The name went through her like the spur of the monster. Blinking, she ground herself into proper focus. Her helm was already off; her short, brown hair matted with sweat. She turned to see where she was.
Stopped.
Around her, holding her within its bright, mosaicked embrace, was the Sisters’ tiny sanctum. It was hollow, offering no pews, no pulpit, no organ loft, no statues. And it was open to the sky, its roof long gone. Field-emitters kept the soot at bay, though the clouds were lifting now. In places, Kiros’ stars shone down at her, clear as a blessing.
She sat up further, turning, catching her breath. At the head of the altar steps, where the Sol-facing window should have shone in glassaic and glory, was a hanging depicting His sacred presence, His blade in hand, His head haloed in bright thread that caught the pale gleam of something laid below. The hanging was new, had presumably been brought by the Sisters to sanctify their place of rest. But she had seen Him–
That thought was too much. It spiked like a sore tooth, sending sharp sensations thrilling along her nerves. She shied away.
From the hunger for mortal praise, O Emperor, deliver me…
Instead, her gaze found the source of the light. From the top of the altar steps, there fell a cloth. It cascaded down steps of stone like black water, a fiery heart upon it. And there…
From the need to raise myself…
By the Throne!
There, upon the cloth: a casket, shining with its own soft glow. Her awe peaked, breaking over her like the Font of Ordination itself. Her heart hit her chest like a hammer; she found herself staring, tangled in wonder, in the tiniest threads of denial.
O Emperor, deliver me!
The casket was open, its edges hung with banners of the Sisters’ Orders. She could not see what lay within, only that it shone and that the chapel seemed hushed about it, as if the stone had silenced itself in reverence, its walls leaning forwards in veneration. A great, shining banner hung at its head, and red and white petals surrounded it, scattered on the stone.
Reflexively, pulled by strings of pure faith, she stumbled upwards from her pallet, and came to her knees. Her head was already bared. She shuddered as the dream touched her again.
Her heart, burning.
Her chest hurt with remembered pain.
The bone spur. And incense…
There was no incense here. The air smelled of blood and sweat and metal, military smells. But still, she could only gaze. Rapt, captivated.
Saint Katherine.
She bowed her head, her tears overflowing and spilling down her cheeks.
‘Be at ease, Sister.’ Her companion had stepped back, letting her take in her surroundings. Now, she came forwards once more, her boots black on the flagstones. ‘We welcome you, in His name.’
Still not understanding, Avra looked up at the ceramite-clad figure. ‘Why…?’ She wanted to ask, Why am I here?, but she couldn’t finish the question.
The unknown Sister dropped to one knee beside her, also bowing her head. Her armour, too, was fully black, with her red cloak all soot-stained and ragged at the hem. She was older, Avra saw, perhaps in her forties. Her hair was blonde and greying, cut short; her face was soot-stained, lean and lined. And her left eye had been replaced by a sacred augmetic, carved with the same prayers as her steel ring. It whirred gently as it focused.
She saw Avra looking and gave a smile both gentle and edged.
‘You know who we are,’ she said.
‘Of course.’ Avra’s words were a whisper. ‘But I don’t…’
I don’t understand. What has happened to me?
‘He has shown you, child, has He not?’ Answering the unspoken question, the Sister’s words had a faint insistence, like a pointedly raised eyebrow. ‘As He has shown us. The vision of our founding, the duel that shaped the Imperium. It is not your place to doubt His will.’
Avra turned back to the blessed casket. Looking at it, a great well of feeling rushed up in her heart, as if the black flow of the altar cloth was not water, but promethium, fuelling the fire that still burned, burned, in her chest.
You know who we are, Sister.
Of course she did, she knew them like she knew her own name, like she knew the sacred recitations of the schola: Saint Katherine had been martyred by the witch-cult upon Mnestteus, yet she led battles still, borne across the galaxy to wherever the need was greatest. It was her Triumph, her march unending, her sacred coffin carried by six Sisters, each a representative of a different saint…
But this was different – not words upon a slate, not even a statue revered within a cathedral. Avra could feel it, feel the saint’s sacrifice and glory, feel her honour and courage. And layered with those feelings came the monster with the bone spur, cutting sideways through her throat.
Tears stung her eyes, and the images misted, blurred, became one.
‘I am not worthy.’ The words were a sigh.
‘That is not for you to say,’ the Sister told her, with a calm vehemence. ‘Your life as Avra is ending.’ The words were almost intoned; they flowed out through the chapel’s quiet with the delicacy of a choir’s first notes. ‘The Sisters of our march come to us from the Orders Pronatus, but you, child – we are in need, and you have clearly been chosen. From the morning, you will be Sister Katherine, called to replace our Sister of that name who fell to sacred martyrdom at the strike of the ancient foe. She has answered His word and given her life in defence of her Sisters, her saint, and of those who follow where we lead. She stands now in His grace, her duty fulfilled.’ The Sister’s augmetic eye whirred again, a flicker of red in its depths, and her smile deepened. Her other eye was yellow, like Sol’s light, like the precious amber effigy Avra’s father had so loved, passed down from his father and his grandmother before that.
‘My armour…’ Still struggling to assimilate the vision, the dream, the pain, the change, the huge weight of this expectation, Avra looked down at the dents that the beast had left.
‘You bear badges of both combat and distinction,’ the Sister told her. ‘And there will be time for the sacrament of repair. We stand upon the edge of hostile territory, and our Sisters still hold holy vigil. As night deepens, they will come to greet you themselves.’ Her augmetic whirred again. ‘This is an ancient ceremony, and one you will respect.’
Unable to speak, Avra nodded. Prayers flared in her heart, warming her like the Sol-yellow sunlight of that long-lost world. She looked up, daring to raise her gaze to His image.
But He was too much. Shivering, she dropped her chin once more.
‘I am Sister Lucia,’ the Sister went on, ‘of the Valorous Heart. And it is ever my sacred task to greet you, as with shared vision, I honour your pain in mind, and in flesh, and in soul.’ A faint smile. ‘Do not doubt your worthiness, my Sister. Such would be blasphemous, would it not?’ She raised her human eyebrow in an expression that might have been either humour or reprimand. ‘Once again – it is His will that you are here.’
Sister Lucia, she thought, catching up – like Katherine, one of the original Daughters of the Emperor, the companions of Alicia Dominica from the convent of San Loer. They who had faced the heretic Vandire…
His name brought a prayer of shock from her lips, asking forgiveness, even as her mind flashed dream-images.
Sisters kneeling upon a flagstone floor.
Yellow sunlight, slantways through convent windows.
A duel of legend.
I did see..!
She shivered again, soul-deep and awestruck, resisting the urge to scrub the water from her skin. Despite Lucia’s assurance, her own powerful sense of unworthiness remained: no, I cannot possibly! But Lucia’s face bore the same gentle severity as her voice, and it tolerated no uncertainty. There was a long, pale scar down her left cheek, running under the augmetic. And if Avra remembered correctly, her Order would consider the loss of her eye His blessing.
Had not Saint Lucia herself lost both her eyes to torment?
She, too, had been chosen.
From the desire for wealth and glory, O Emperor…
Still praying, Avra steadied herself. She unfolded to her feet, her damaged armour clattering in the chapel’s quiet. For the first time, she became aware of the noise outside – the camp was still out there, the singing thinning now, the Sentinels still patrolling – but this tiny chapel offered blessed sanctuary and they seemed like a world away.
Slowly, her boots thumping like heartbeats, she ascended the steps. Lucia stood back, understanding, leaving her to her moment. Avra stopped before she reached the top; knelt before the bones of the saint, all robed in white and laid upon a bed of scarlet. They shone, their warmth like Sol’s blessing, and He stood above her almost fondly, like a father, defending her repose.
And, though the black sockets of His daughter’s skull stared sightless at the open roof, that same gleam came also from within.
That Avra had been honoured to see this! Her breath caught on more tears.
Cherubim hovered watchful, augmetic eyelids clicking, though they had laid their supporting chains aside. Glinting in the soft light, they carried the faintest edge of menace. Yet she also felt their welcome, and they did not touch her.
You are worthy, they seemed to say. You sought to lay down your life for an infantryman. For the love and memory of your family. For your Sisters. Stand, child, you shall bear sword and shield in strength and faith, the shield that guarded Alicia Dominica herself. And you will not lay it aside.
Avra bowed her head, tears of humility pouring down her cheeks.
‘Remove your armour,’ Lucia told her. ‘It will go to your Order’s sanctum. And you, my new Sister…’ She glanced sideways, smiling. ‘You must attain your clarity.’ Her augmetic whirred, focusing on Avra’s still-pale, tear-smeared face.
Avra nodded, again. She had yet to find words for the sheer scale of what had happened to her.
Lucia smiled, making her scar crinkle. ‘Do you recall the night before your Ordination, Sister? Where you lay upon the floor and you offered your life to Him?’
Avra nodded again. ‘Of course.’
‘Now,’ Lucia said, ‘He calls upon you to do this once more. You will hold your vigil, here and alone. You will reflect upon the vision that has been shown to you, understand it, and contemplate your place as part of our sacred march. As we have said, there will be no room for doubt or unworthiness, come morning and muster.’
Avra nodded a third time, removing her gauntlets so she could reach for the fastenings on the armour.
Still watching her, Lucia continued, ‘At oh three hundred hours, Sister Superior Aliaah of the Order of Our Martyred Lady will step up her squad, and they will take our place as honoured guardians. We will join you for sustenance, and prayer, and to offer you our Sisterhood and support.’ Her smile deepened. ‘And we will embrace the Service of Tales, that you may understand us better, and walk with us across the galaxy.’
‘Tales?’ Dropping her pauldrons, Avra was faintly surprised.
‘What else?’ Lucia told her. ‘You do not face your fears alone, Avra. We have all known what it is to stand in this place.’ She took the pauldrons, the chestplate, each piece of the armour as it was handed over. Two young, black-armoured Sisters, their faces lowered, had appeared at the doorway. They carried a sacred chest between them, marked with the fleur-de-lys and ready to take the items back to the sanctum.
Avra looked at them, realising they were no older than she was, that…
No room for doubt.
With the newly arrived Sisters to help her, she removed her leg-plates, kicked her way out of her boots, then stood there in her padded underarmour, suddenly sweating in the full, thick heat of the Kiros night. Lucia nodded at the young women, and packing the chest, they bowed and vanished, back out of the doorway to the safety of their Order…
Her Order.
Avra paused, feeling exposed and very alone. Her armour had been so much a part of her, she felt acutely vulnerable without it. Yet now, she could feel the presence of the chapel upon her skin, the touch of the saint, and of her glow. They felt like the heat in her heart, like its warmth and light was already reaching out, touching the resting, sleeping, guarding Militarum, all the way across the site.
Bringing them His courage, for the dawn.
With a sudden rush, she found herself anticipating the morning, and full muster. But that rush was not anger – it was new, and strong. It felt more like a great anticipation, flowing up through her body, out through her limbs. As she knelt upon the steps, her face bathed in the casket’s glow, she found herself thinking back to her home. Thinking about her father. Thinking about the medals he’d kept in that tiny steel box, along with their grandmother’s effigy of Saint Celestine. She remembered him crying, though she’d been too young to fully understand why – tears of pride, courage, honour and worship…
