10 - The Codicier
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With his eyes closed, the Librarian took a shallow breath. Fingers brushed across the cards, searching for any sign of power. Of pull or push.
But there was none. No sway. No direction. Nothing.
Only darkness.
For the first time since his Trials, Zorael could not manage to read the Tarot. He was blind to the golden, guiding hand to which he so often turned.
“My Lord, we are docking now.”
The pilot's words broke his stupor. Merciful, really. He had spent days lamenting and pouring over the cards. Trying to make sense of omens that weren't there. But an absence such as this… The silence was deafening.
The aged Thunderhawk gave a nearly imperceptible rumble as it pierced the ship's docking bay. Zorael had spent much of his transit trying to discern any insignias or markings, but it seemed the vehicle had been nearly entirely rebuilt a multitude of times around various catastrophic rents and blast holes. The floor under the spot he stood appeared to be three different patch jobs alone, and he had been unable to place the vehicle. While the repairs were done well, the age of the craft was undeniable for someone used to their interior.
Once a venerable thing, it now seemed relegated to the trophy case of this Rogue Trader.
Perhaps he’d soon find himself alongside it.
Touching down, the pilots bowed low as the Astartes stepped back. He wanted to thank them, but it would only startle the poor men. He always did. Silence was the easiest option, and instead, he merely paused. When they peaked up to see if he’d moved past them, a small bow was instead returned.
Shocked, the two returned to their own prostrations. As Zorael moved away from them out the ramp, he did hear their quick, whispered conversation. The notes of excitement were unmistakable.
The twisting aura of the Ship and her crew were alight with emotions. Fear, hope, excitement, less dread than he had been expecting given the gravity of their situation. There were several bright spots aboard. Their presence in the warp was palpable this close. Auras of gravitas, of purpose, force of will. Not those with the gift, but who would undoubtedly be targeted in times like these.
While times were dire, Zorael was delighted to know he’d at least be facing them in interesting company. One more bland and uninspired Inquisitor for company and he’d have been at his wits end.
A full grand parade awaited in the hangar. Guardsmen in perfect rank and file, uniforms pressed and gilded, lined the way. Striding through the mass were two figures who immediately caught the eye.
One must be the Rogue Trader, judging from bearing alone. A tall, broad man, fiery hair and pristine attire of fine make. A large Ork skull adorned one pauldron, while a cape of lush white fur trailed behind.
The other, a towering Astartes. Green armor, scaled cloak, the heraldry of Vulkans sons. A great hammer hafted over one shoulder, he cut a grim figure next to the preening man beside him.
As Zorael walked closer, he couldn’t help but reach out. Softly, like a breeze, he tried to judge how the meeting might go. The Trader was an open book, Zorael was greeted with the images of gold and gelt, wine and expense, the clatter of swords, and the smell of blood. The Imperial creed rang loudly as a throughline.
Delightful.
Of the Salamander… nothing could be gleaned. His mind was inscrutable to Zorael without pushing well past polite bounds. Images of a great obelisk of obsidian stone and shaped metal, brimstone, and sweat, but images which had been cultivated to provide no hints or details. There was, however, the nonmaskable and unmistakable sense of age surrounding the facade. Of something old. Someone old.
The Salamander perked up, locking eyes with the Librarian. More intently than before did he watch as the two groups met between the sea of honor guards.
“My Lord” From behind the two far more imposing men, a cowed form emerged. A buglike man with a raspy voice, some form of servant from his attire, began a rattling introduction “May I introduce to you, oh Honorable Astartes, the Esteemed Lord Herschel Conswain Lockheart the Three hundred and Sixty-Ninth.”
A smirk pulled at the lips of the Rogue Trader. Zorael inclined his head, careful to keep his expression stoic. The enjoyment rolling off the man was palpable, warp senses or not.
“And, ah, his guest, the honorable Sergent R’tan Estar-”
The Salamander nodded at his name, stepping forward. His smile did not reach his eyes. A quick flicker, now that they were closer, down to the unmended rent in Zoraels chestplate. The smile dimmed for a moment, then his free arm extended outwards. “Well met, my brother.”
Zorael accepted the hand and was promptly pulled face-first into a rough embrace. Wheezing under the contact, he was relieved to hear laughter booming in his ears. The Salamander placed one, two, three hearty thumps on his back. Had he not been in his armor, Zorael was sure the embrace would have winded him.
Soon enough, hearing no response, R’tan pulled back. He waited a beat for any words, but none came. Zorael tilted his head, enough to point out the edges of the scarring that laced his neck.
Mercifully the Salamander seemed to understand, and finally, the barest form of connection was mustered between them.
++I apologize, I am not fond of vox implants.++
“I understand, Brother…”
++Zorael. It is an honor to stand beside you.++
“Lockheart is quite averse to those with your talent.”
++Will my presence be a problem?++
“No, he will adjust quickly I am sure.”
++If you would translate on my behalf, then.++
Quick seconds and the exchange was over. A sense of relief and thanks washed over Zorael, and flowed forward through the link.
“Lockheart,” The deep voice of the Salamander cut the silence “This is Zorael.”
“Well, no need for whispers! We are all friends here.” Herschel, oblivious to the nature of their exchange, extended a hand. “Please, Herschel is fine. I am delighted to host the Imperiums finest! You are welcome here aboard my vessel for as long as you need.”
The Librarian was not the largest Astartes, but he still nearly wrapped his entire gauntleted hand around the Rogue traders. The grip was surprisingly firm, and the glint of immaculately polished gold peaked out between sleeve and glove where one would expect skin. Zorael was surprised as well at his speech, the accent could be placed closer to the Golden Worlds than he might have expected.
The Librarian flicked his eyes between his two hosts. This ship was indeed full of all sorts. The presences Zorael had felt were indeed an interesting group.. It was a reassuring fact. While unlikely, the cascading events which brought him here might have been explained away with a personal failing. A lapse in strength. Acknowledging that this went beyond him brought out larger and more uncomfortable questions, but at least he was still whole and his gifts usable.
“Zorael is one of the Librarians of our orders,” R’tan spoke up, gesturing for the trio to begin walking into the ship proper.
“Ah, a bookish type! Too bad, really, I’m more of a fighter myself.” The jowly speech was quick, but merry. “But I am sure our facilities will entertain you, and if you intend to stay I shall have them upgraded to suit whatever your needs might be.”
Zorael laughed, a wheezing whisper to Hershel's ears. R’tan barely contained his own amusement. How many times had Zorael done this dance? Every other meeting with humans was the same. The same disbelief, the same disillusionment. Unless necessary he no longer introduced himself.
While the Inquisitor who told the Librarian to his face that the ‘Emperor's most glorious Angels would never have need of such foul tricks’ was still his most memorable introduction, he was still always delighted in seeing the reactions. The distrust, first in him, then in the creed. It was his greatest source of entertainment in his lonely vigil, that his presence could evoke such emotions. Such heated words and curses.
There was fight left in the common folk, sometimes they just needed reminding where to direct it.
“While I do believe most Librarians are also scholars, they are more renowned for their mastery of the warp, Master Trader.”
The Salamander honeyed the words, but still their weight crashed down, and the crumbling of the Rogue Traders facade began. Zorael felt the scrambling madness of uncertainty grip his mind.
“You…” First to R’tan, then he turned to Zorael “You… You’re a witch?”
++I prefer Zorael.++ He sent the words freely, without a tether, in hopes of not further upsetting the man. The Trader recoiled slightly as they reached him ++Though if that is what you must refer to me as, I will suffer it.++
He would not. But there was no need to press that fact yet.
The cogs turned. Connections made and broken. The essence of doubt permeated his thoughts.
“Well” Finally, after an impolitely long pause the Trader managed to compose himself “That is a… an interesting thought.”
++I assure you, my exploits are not confined to books, Herschel. I have many stories to share.++ Playing on the previous comments of the Trader, Zorael gestured to his own broken chestplate ++My most recent endeavors included.++
His own name caught the Trader's attention, and the turmoil in his thoughts eased, if only slightly. “I do… I look forward to hearing them. I am curious how we come to rescue one such as yourself.”
“I too am curious as to your presence” R’tan added, resuming the meandering pace.
It would have been easier to explain all of his recent past with the art. Feelings and images were always faster than speech. However, maintaining a sense of balance aboard the ship and with the Trader required time wasted.
Zorael gestured to his left pauldron. The Deathwatch insignia likely had not gone unnoticed, but it seemed the best place to start. ++I was deployed far into the reach with my brothers when we were separated. Teleportations gone awry, it seems. Wherever I have ended up, that you have found me…++
Zorael could still hear the frantic calls over the vox. The confirmation of his brother's return to the ship. But as he had stepped into the warp… Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. The churning maelstrom of combat from which they’d sought to flee from seemed terribly mundane compared to the whaling chorus of madness. It had taken every ounce of strength to eventually pull free of the tumbling pull, and hurdle out onto a planet… somewhere.
That the Astropath aboard this ship even considered his frantic singing into the warp was a miracle. That they’d been near enough to retrieve him, another. He expressed his genuine gratitude as eloquently as he could manage.
So many coincidences. So many pieces falling into place. And yet…
His hands brushed the cards at his waist, but he felt nothing.
“Well, it seems you’ve had quite the adventure.” Herschels boots clicked rhythmically. The trio had moved steadily through the ship as Zorael told his story, occasionally stopping as the Librarian found his attention drawn to ancient pieces they passed. Art, statues, marks of old craft, this vessel was… Ancient. “I certainly hope you have a bit of fight left in you, though. Our work is not nearly done.”
“It seems we are…” R’tan hummed, searching for words.
“Cut off!” The Trader piped up, a sparkle in his eyes “Forging ahead on our own adventure.”
“I believe your Astropath and Navigator phrased it as ‘in the dark’, Herschel.”
He waved the Salamanders clarifying statements away “In the dark, on a grand adventure, it makes no matter. I intend to conquer whatever madness we’ve found ourselves in. It simply won't do for this to be my end.”
In the dark?
Zorael pulled at his deck. Perhaps… if it wasn’t really just him, if there was a chance. A hope. A spark. Something.
The cards slide easily through his gauntleted hands. He shuffled reverently. Gently. Just like he did before every mission, in the hangers, or at the droppod doors, he ran his fingers over the fan of cards. He closed his eyes. He waited.
A faint glimmer. A slight breeze.
He stopped and revealed the card.
A wheel stared back at him, a great gilded structure adorned with the aquila. A card he had penned while completing his trials. One associated with cycles. Fate. Change.
Zorael smiled. ++I do not believe it will be our end either, Herschel.++
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