A steady, rhythmic hum resonated from the hull of the Wraithship. To Maerys, it felt as though hundreds of sad and silent souls felt excitement for the first time in centuries. Like the first raindrops to fall upon a still pond, such sensations created steady ripples throughout her mind. She reached out, letting her lithe fingers run against the pale bulkheads. Smooth to the touch, the dense layers of wraithbone suddenly softened against her fingertips. She felt a latent sadness, yet, curious delight as well.

  “The Keeper of Sorrow is alive,” said Highkeeper Gloamcrest. “We are attuned to it, as she is to us.” He stopped at a sealed entrance at the end of the corridor and turned around. Gloamcrest’s face was riven with scars, no doubt from countless duels. He was somewhat stooped, beleaguered by an ancient wound, perhaps in the leg or abdomen. Yet, he appeared fearsome, with a snarling mouth and a deathly dark gaze complemented by his midnight armor. “Make haste and disturb it not.”

  With a wave of his hand, the heavy door slid aside and they passed onto a long, railed platform overlooking the portside launch bay. Eagle Bombers and Darkstars lined the deck alongside a number of Vampire Raiders, large and frightful dropships. She had felt dwarfed by them when she and the Band of Kurnous first arrived on the ship.

  Troops marched out of the cruiser’s Wraithgate underneath swaying banners that portrayed their respective world-runs—Ulthwé’s Eye of Isha, Saim-Hann’s Cosmic Serpent, Biel-Tan’s heart, their symbol of rebirth. Even High Count Dryane’s hourglass flag was among them. Although the Black Guardians and the Biel-Tan Aspect Warriors remained stoic, the small fleet of Saim-Hann jetbike riders, attired in bright armor with so many glittering flags, proved boisterous with so many hoots and hollers. But the Swooping Hawks, led by Dochariel who soared through the gate, made a flashy entrance as well. Maerys allowed herself a smile.

  “More Asuryani make a home aboard my ship,” grunted Gloamcrest. “If they are displeased with their living conditions, may they find another, or may they be ejected through our waste disposal.” Lotien, beside Maerys, looked up sharply and his gaze darkened, but he said nothing.

  He turned sharply and led them through a door to the left. They entered a long chamber with a curved ceiling. The white bulkheads shimmered from deep blue lights encapsulated in levitating glass orbs. Gloamcrest waved his hand and the lights brightened, evening out their brightness. Then, the Highkeeper swept his hands to either side. Like curtains, the layers of wraithbone parted and revealed an observational window.

  Many of the Rangers approached the glass. More Aeldari ships, Asuryani and Corsair, sprung from the Webway over Gaoth trí-na Crainn. A gem of emeralds and sapphires, its shine outlined the vessels with a rich, pleasant light. One could see the whole fleet, composed of countless frigates, cruisers, destroyers, and in the center Dryane’s massive Voidstalker, Sandstorm.

  Maerys felt the warhost’s power. From the marching feet vibrating the Keeper of Sorrows’ hull to the flaring engines of the voidcraft above that beautiful Exodite world, she shivered from its magnitude. It rose like the voice of a singer treading upon the Path of the Player, coming ever closer to the crescendo with thundering drums and crackling strings. It was all a tingling in the air, a racing of the heart, electricity snapping within veins. She had never seen so many different Aeldari in one place. Her visions had been different, but the dream unfolding before her was inspiring.

  “All that you require can be found here in this compartment,” said Gloamcrest. “The after cell provides storage for your equipment, the forward cell accommodations for bedding. The center is a communal chamber, and I have afforded you a map of our destination.” He gestured to a square segment in the deck. At first it appeared as a mere patch of dark sand, but with a wave of his hand, it shifted. The sound was akin to a thousand beads rolling over one another. Mountains, ridges, and valleys took shape first, then globs of the sand rose, amalgamated, and formed a rotating planet.

  Maerys bowed, her dark hair flowing over her head. “On behalf of the Band of Kurnous, I thank you for your courtesy and your aid, Highkeeper.”

  “Save your gratitude. I am directed by the High Count and I shall obey. Make no mistake: aboard my ship, you obey my rules. Of which I have only two. Disturb not the harmony of this ship, nor the crew. Commit either and I will jettison you with the rest of the rubbish.” His purple waistcloth flowing behind him, Gloamcrest disappeared through the door and it sealed behind him.

  “I believe he does not take well to the presence of strangers aboard his ship,” said Lotien, slowly.

  “He harbors disdain for any who are not of his keepers,” said Fyrdra the Risible, tiredly. “He is the most dour captain in Dryane’s fleet, but he is at least trustworthy enough.”

  “I wonder if he is as game as his talk,” said Alimia, sitting cross-legged on a pillow by the map. “He would do well to refrain from speaking to me so coarsely, I will give him another scar.”

  “We once parlayed with a band of Drukhari. He threw a Sybarite out of an airlock by himself.” Oragroth sat across from the Shroud Runner and folded his arms across his chest. “You do not frighten him. To defeat him, you would require far more than swords and sharp words.”

  “A maxim we should keep in mind for our upcoming battles with Orks,” said Amonthanil.

  Rangers sat among arrangements carved into the hull, the cushioned ruts in the deck, or the scattered pillows. Some continued to linger by the window or drift across the chamber. Meslith of Ulthwé drifted to the far bulkhead to gaze at the various heads of beasts mounted upon it. There were scaled dragons, tusked and wooly types, and even some manner of leviathan shark.

  “Even here, the High Count makes himself known. His tastes are…exquisite,” she remarked, aloud. “His triumphs are found in every quarter.”

  “You must feign surprise,” grumbled Tirol as he leaned against the window, arms folded. “It is the ship of a Corsair, thus it is given over to conceited boastfulness.” As he spoke, Irlikae passed by. She stopped, offered a wry smile, and poked him in the cheek.

  “I would be astonished to meet any Aeldari not in possession of a dash of conceit, my tall friend.” The Pathfinder batted her hand but she gleefully swiped it away.

  Meslith, still scrutinizing the animals, was approached by Long Livae. The Fate Dealer waited until the Pathfinder caught on to her presence, then scoffed. “If such sights offend thee, then perhaps you should depart.”

  “Enough,” said Maerys, firmly. “Although we are Outcasts, not all of us have become familiar with Corsairs, let alone one another. But keep in your hearts and minds that we are all Aeldari, united in coalition, spirit, and mission. Now, gather round.”

  She approached the map and Irlikae kindly dispersed the sand back into its wide trough. Maerys stood at the edge, folded her hands behind her back, and waited for the band’s attention. “We Rangers wage war differently than the warhosts of the Asuryani or the fleets of the Corsairs. Raids and shock attacks are not our ways. Rather, it is by assassination, ambush, and sabotage. When we strike, it is from a distance, and we are gone before they respond. If we close with the enemy, we move swiftly and cut quickly with the dagger.”

  Maerys made a circuit of the sand map, meeting the many eyes of her band. “We will conduct all and more as the farsighted gaze of this coalition. The slaying of an orkish leader might save one hundred souls; providing information of his forces, defenses, equipment, location, support? That will save one thousand souls.”

  She knelt before the sand and traced her finger elegantly through the banks. She soon traced several Rangers, their coats flowing behind them, gazes fixed upwards, daggers and long rifles in hand. “It falls to us to prepare in all facets of our skills. As the coalition continues to build, we will endeavor to train and build our cohesion.”

  “I see no point in this training,” grumbled Tirol. Pushing off the window, he approached the other side of the sand map. “All of us have fought before. Some of us have spent centuries making war in this fashion. Am I to be led by the hand as if I were some child being forced upon one of the Paths?”

  “Mind your tone with the Pathfinder,” snapped Amonthanil. “Respect your leader.”

  “Not mine, Starstrider. I did not choose her. I have been an Outcast longer than her.”

  “Gloamcrest will be back any moment now,” murmured Fyrdra to Irlikae. “Which airlock do you think he’ll choose; port or starboard?” Irlikae giggled into her hand. Meslith stood up and held up her hand.

  “Maerys is wise and brave, Pathfinder Tirol. She and I have fought beside one another before; she is a leader worth following.”

  “Can there please be calm?” asked Kalvynn. A sharp, shrill, caw from Crúba, upon Oragroth’s shoulder, made them pause.

  “Let there be silence instead of calm,” he said sternly. “Lest this bickering continue.”

  Maerys waited until Meslith and Tirol both sat down. Once the band’s attention was drawn back to her, she quickly surveyed them. Some waited patiently, others with interest, a few with vacant expressions, and a number of scowls. She had more to say—about the coalition, about the Band of Kurnous, about unity. It did not take a seer to sense that such words would not do well for all the present dispositions.

  “Marksmanship. Reconnaissance. Stealth,” listed Maerys. “These are our strengths; let us hone them. Let us acquaint ourselves with Pail Shil-ocht; it’s geography, it’s climate, its intricacies. We must become as intimate with it as we would our families. Irlikae, High Count Dryane speaks of your power. I believe it is with your gifts we may construct scenarios for us to put our training into practice.”

  Irlikae nearly bounced upon the cushion she sat upon. When the others peered at her queerly, she cleared her throat and composed herself. Although, she could not suppress her smile. “All the while, we will draw upon the coalition’s resources to further arm ourselves. I believe you all will need cameleoline cloaks,” she said to Lotien, Fyrdra, and Irlikae, as well as Oragroth.

  Irlikae raised her hand swiftly and Maerys nodded. “Pathfinder, will we begin practicing today?”

  “We have spent the days since our formation awaiting assignment to a ship, drawing equipment, and welcoming new members,” said Maerys. “Tomorrow begins our training. For now, I want everyone to rest. Take time to gather yourselves. Pathfinders, convene with your squads and ensure our newest arrivals are ready. I encourage all of you to share your names with one another, for we must not be strangers on the battlefield.”

  At first, the Rangers hesitated. Then, Livae and the other Fate Dealers stood up. “I think I shall make arrangements for myself and my band out here,” she said. “I do not wish to share the space in which I sleep with those who once called themselves Asuryani.”

  “Oh, might I beg for your most illustrious pardon,” said Alimia sarcastically. Her hand spun elegantly and dismissively as she spoke. “It must be our smell. I wonder how weak your threshold for what you find undesirable truly is.”

  “I have a habit of killing what I find undesirable.”

  “If that is a submission for a clash of blades, I accept,” growled the Shroud Runner as she stood up.

  “I will not permit duels between members of this band,” ordered Maerys, then she pointed at Livae. “Keep the bile which corrodes your words within your gullet.” Livae snorted and rolled her eyes, but said nothing more. As she and her compatriots laid out their bedrolls by the observation glass, the other Rangers dispersed. Some went to deposit their equipment in the storage cell while others gathered with their kindred to speak. A few ventured into the dormitory to claim their beds.

  Maerys waited for the buzz of chatter to rise, perhaps the clinking of drinking glasses as Rangers poured wine to celebrate the trials they would embark on together. At least, to dip into their knapsacks and procure fruit rations to share among themselves. She smiled hopefully as Meslith and her Ulthwé rangers gravitated towards Kalvynn and Amonthanil. They had fought together at Lorn V, and before then, Meslith’s team helped rescue Maerys on Cadia. There had been little time to reunite before their transfer, and the comrades exchanged warm bows, embraced, and touched their foreheads together.

  But there were only quiet murmurs and mutterings between the divisions of the other bands. Instead of speaking, others knelt or sat together in quiet meditation, their backs turned. Some slipped into other chambers while others passed by Maerys back onto the deck. Her brow fell and her eyes sank.

  “If we are to train, we should begin now,” said Oragroth. “Idleness will do us no good.”

  “They must learn to live together if they are to fight together,” replied Maerys.

  Oragroth stared at her without interest or malice. But the twitch of his upper lip, wrinkle of his nose, and flit of his orange eyes told Maerys everything. The Kurnite Hunter departed the chamber with his companion. What he left behind was a thick aura, heavy and unsettling.

  Lotien approached Maerys then, his eyes sparkling. He pointed to the storage room. “Pathfinder, may I make, an armory, of that room?” His speech was stilted from his misshapen tongue. The Bonesinger was forced to make a number of clucks as he moved it in his mouth. His breath hitched, and he’d have to inhale once more.

  “You are free to do as you please, but please do not feel compelled.”

  “Not compelled. Prefer it.” He jumped as Fyrdra coiled her arm around his shoulders. With a hearty smile, she jostled Lotien amicably.

  “Come now, Desrigale has built a home and made a family of us. Do you not wish to spend time with us?” Lotien uncomfortably parted from her and drifted towards the storage cell. But he stopped, turned shyly, and wrung his hands together.

  “You can join me.” Fyrdra’s eyes darted and met with Maerys’s. She smirked, then followed the Bonesinger into the other chamber. Maerys might have been cheered, but she felt pathetic and small standing there now. Her expectations seemed so foolish and childish. The longer she stayed in the center of the chamber, bombarded by contemptuous glares and apathetic stares, the more unwise she felt.

  At the very least, she could deposit her equipment and accomplish something useful. A tour of the ship she would live on for the expedition would be valuable, and she could clear her head. Just as she unslung her long rifle to enter the storage cell, Irlikae slid in front of her. She bounced on her heels once, causing her black hair to wave across her small shoulders.

  “Pathfinder, if I may, and in the spirit of this cooperation, I thought I might speak with you.”

  “Of?”

  “Oh, a great deal and more!” she exclaimed, taking Maerys’s hands. “The way Dryane tells it, the adventures you’ve been on sound so wonderful. The worlds you’ve explored, enemies you’ve battled, people you met…”

  The Maerys’s surprised gaze darkened and her brow steadily sank as the Void Dreamer spoke. “I do not need to be a seer to know you merely wish to know of my capture by the humans.”

  “No, Pathfinder Maerys, that’s not it!” She winced and tilted her head to the side. “Not just it, I must confess. My curiosity about the humans and your time among them is indeed great. But that is not the sole cause for my inquiry!”

  “Let the matter lie, Irlikae.” Maerys pulled her hands away. “I know you mean well, but it is best left alone.”

  Irlikae did not hide her disappointment. Her green eyes, so bright and shining at first, became as deep as an evergreen leaf. She deflated, as if the air in her lungs were snatched away. She nodded understandingly. “Yes, Pathfinder. I shall make plans for the first scenarios for our training.”

  Irlikae pulled away. Maerys squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. When she opened them again, she saw the sand table before her. The sketch of the rangers, each one identical to the other, described in perfect harmony, stared back. Maerys shifted her foot into the table to cast sand over the drawing, but she drew breath and pulled it out.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “Tomorrow,” she told herself.

  The armored door at the top of the rockcrete steps was far smaller than Marsh Silas remembered. Its black, adamantium plating had been so foreboding and cavernous. The windows on either side of the Cross Manse had burned like sinister eyes. Never had it offered comfort or invitation.

  He knew very well it had been those who dwelled inside that had created that malevolent air. He knew they were both gone now. He knew who waited inside, who tended that fire which procured that lovely woodsmoke which poured from the chimney. Yet, Marsh Silas lingered in front of that dark, damnable door.

  Slowly, he drew breath, closed his eyes, and shifted on his feet. The movement caused the snow accumulated on his shoulders and the bill of his peaked cap to flutter downwards. Barlocke’s fragment did not speak—as clever as his old friend was, Marsh doubted he could find words that would soothe him. But the tension in his muscles ebbed when he felt Barlocke’s breath within his mind and the cool air settled in his neck.

  He had dropped and charged into terrible frays and refused to break the gaze of superiors who wished him ill. This door was nothing. Marsh Silas took another sharp breath and raised his fist.

  “Silas, it is your home. You needn’t knock.”

  Marsh Silas looked back at Hyram. He expected his smile to be snide, but found in it all the love and comfort a brother could ask for. Isabella and Sydney clung to his arms, outlined by the glow of Kasr Polaris’s arc-lamps strung across the streets. They bore baskets of liquor, bread, and pastries. Their kind and hopeful gazes brought him much relief.

  “Do I look alright?”

  “What can be said? You can’t fix ugly,” assured Hyram. Both he and Marsh chuckled, but then Hyram flashed him that brotherly grin. “You are home now.” Yes, he was; Marsh recognized every spire, barracks, and reinforced manse from his youth. The same roadblocks and bunkers, commemorative statues of fallen heroes, and training fortresses. Nearly fourteen years later and so little had changed. It was as if Kasr Polaris had been frozen in time.

  Marsh Silas took in the familiar sights one final time, then turned the handle. Click. The door creaked open and stepped inside. A wave of warmth from the roasting fire washed over him, accompanied by the hearty scent of burning wood. Even the old floorboards emitted a familiar, pleasant odor. But stronger than anything else was the prevailing smell of cooked, buttery rice and herbs.

  He blinked away tears as he stepped inside. Lingering on the threshold, he pressed his hand to the closet door just beside him. It was at this very spot his father Dayton had fallen and, despite his youth, Marsh had run to fetch the medical kit. The scene played before him many times before, yet at that very moment he recalled the large, reassuring man towering over him. He would have smiled at the image if the tears did not threaten to give way.

  Another step in. The entrance to the kitchen ahead, dining room to the right, and to the left. He looked into the study, finding the same armchairs, paintings, and Militarum ornaments in display cases. At the far end, the fire roared in the hearth. Kneeling before it was a lithe figure on her knees. She prodded the crackling logs with a fire poker and murmured to them. A cloud of sparks billowed up the chimney and the light made her blonde hair shimmer.

  Marsh Silas’s eyes widened. He took a heavy step into the study but his legs faltered. When his lips parted, there was only a weak croak. Another, staggered step and the weight of his boot made the floorboard squeak. The figure froze and looked slowly over her shoulder. Violet eyes caught the lamplight and glimmered.

  He took a shaky step into the study. Faye Cross set the fire poker down and slowly rose. She wore a simple olive drab sweater and khaki trousers. Her dry, coarse, short hair grazed her shoulders. Those violet eyes were beleaguered and sagging, but not weak. Then, she pressed her hand into her stomach. A flash; Asiah, a mother longing for her missing boy, standing before a campfire, one hand gripping her middle. It was a grasp of the memory of the life that had grown there, the weight, the kicking, the many months of waiting. She had felt it. Faye felt it.

  Marsh Silas felt the tears stream down his face. He tried to speak but his voice was fractured and cracked. His arm felt leadened as he took off his cap. Faye ventured towards him, and he towards her. She was shorter and thinner than he remembered and soon he had to look down at her. Her face was sharp and angular, but the jaw possessed strength. There were faded lines from many scars on her face and hands. Her cheeks were slick with tears and her thin lips trembled.

  “Sy…” she murmured. Marsh dropped his hat and embraced her. He pressed his face into her shoulder and bawled. Faye buried into his cold coat and her body shuddered with each sob. Illuminated in the firelight, they swayed back and forth, locked into one another, their crying muffled.

  It took every ounce of strength to withdraw just enough to look at her. Faye’s hands cupped his cheeks and she smiled wonderfully. “Look at you!” she exclaimed. “Look at you. You are so tall, and strong, and look at those scars—my, aren’t you awfully ugly?”

  Marsh Silas burst into laughter amid his sniffles and sobs. She laughed too, then suddenly grabbed his collar and shook him once. “And why are you an officer!? Have you no self-respect!? Crosses don’t sit behind desks, they work for a blasted living!”

  “Trust me, mama, I rarely sit behind the old thing,” said Marsh, detecting his mother’s familiar humor. “I still sling plenty of lasbolts down range with the rest of them.”

  “Only on the easy ones, aye?”

  “I take only the hard jobs, mama.”

  “So you have made something of yourself after all!” Faye hugged him once more and she rested her head on Marsh’s broad chest. “I knew you would. I knew you would pull through whatever they threw at you. Even if I thought I would never see you again…”

  “I’m sorry it took so long, mama.”

  Faye sniffed back her tears and held Marsh’s cheeks once more. “Most Cadians never know their children. Most mothers never survive to see their sons grow to honorable manhood. I thought I would die on Macharia,” she said. “But you got me out of there, and God-Emperor be praised, you have done so much more. Our name, our home, it’s all ours again.” She made a fist and thumped him several times on his chest. “You’re a real soldier, Sy.”

  Tears rolled down his cheeks. Marsh Silas bowed his head and nodded. He knew if he spoke he would lose all control again. Sniffling from behind him made Marsh turn. Isabella dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief while Hyram’s swiped at his eyes.

  Putting an arm around his mother, Marsh led Faye over. “Mother, this is my brother—”

  “Seathan Hyram,” finished Faye. “Madam Isabella, and Sydney the small. Sy wrote of you all many, many times. It is a joy to finally meet you so you are no longer mere names on a piece of parchment.” She eyed Hyram, smirked, and extended her hand. “I am obliged to salute, but I don’t pull that sh…” she glanced at Sydney. “…nonsense anymore.”

  “I gathered, sergeant major,” replied Hyram, taking her hand. “It is so lovely to meet you.”

  “Lovely? Don’t make me sound too fancy, lad.” Faye turned to Isabella and embraced her. “Welcome, Mama Hyram. It is a hard thing to be a soldier’s wife and a mother too.”

  “I will pray that whatever burdens I encounter I shall be half as brave as you to meet them.”

  Faye knelt in front of Sydney, who blinked at her. She ruffled his hair which earned a giggle. “Ah, so I’m not that frightening after all. Keep smiling, kiddy.” With a grunt she stood back up, looked between the Hyram’s and Marsh, then held up at her arms. “Well, aren’t we bloody fools for standing here? Get yourselves to the blasted dining room! Supper’s ready!”

  Faces cleaned and coats doffed, the party went into the next room. There it was, the long table carved from sentinel wood. The center depicted a large Aquila and there was an Imperialis inscribed in the face below the edge. Dishes and utensils were already arrayed. There was a bowl of steaming white rice covered with crushed herbs, a plate filled with long, thin green vegetables Marsh had never seen before, and a platter with salted grox cutlets. Isabella quickly laid down a bowl filled with freshly baked bread along with the tray of pastries.

  He paused and gazed at the head of the table. Dayton had always assumed that station. Marsh had sat on his left and Faye on his right. Memory carried him to his old seat but Faye caught his arm. He looked over, confused. “You’re the head of this family, Sy. The chair is yours.”

  “It is, isn’t it? My grandsires always told me it would never be.”

  “Now they rot. Sit, sit!”

  “What about you?”

  “If someone takes my chair, I’ll fight them for it.”

  Slowly, Marsh slid into his seat. Hyram sat on the left with Sydney beside him. Isabella sat next to Faye. All hooked their thumbs together and said their prayer, then eagerly filled their plates and glasses. All except for Marsh Silas, who just watched. Their chatter about the passage of time, the journey from Macharia to Cadia, the day to day, all of it faded. But he felt their movement, the energy that radiated from their forms.

  His eyes rested on his mother. Moments ago, she appeared worn out. Now, she glowed like a freshly-minted golden ingot. The light in her eyes shone and her smile had become permanent. She did not seem real anymore. None of it did. He prayed it was not a trick, that some foul form had not deceived him. No, Barlocke’s fragment would have stopped such a thing. It was real.

  “I didn’t teach you to waste food. Eat it before it gets cold.” Marsh stirred as Faye scooped a little bit of everything onto his plate. “It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked for anyone but myself…or cooked something that resembles real food.”

  Marsh Silas looked down at his plate. The smell of the melted butter and salt was so strong he could already taste it on his tongue. “You still enjoy rice, don’t you?”

  “It’s my favorite. We have it every so often when fresh staples manage to find their way here. Thank the Emperor that Cadia is so vital, for it at least gets decent grub. But, it was never yours.”

  He gently slid his fork into the pile of rice. The herbs crushed over it were familiar. They couldn’t be, could they? Gingerly, he lifted it and smelled it once more. He could wait no longer. It was all there; hot butter, delicious salt, and a subtle taste of the sea from the herbs. By the time he swallowed, tears plummeted down his cheeks.

  There was no containing it, and he had to set his fork down. Faye’s hand wrapped around his. “You went down to the docks to pick seaweed,” Marsh said to her when he wiped his face dry. “Just like we used to do before you went to the manufactorum.”

  “It would not have been the same without it,” she said quietly.

  Thud-thud. Faye’s head snapped up. Before she could ask, Hyram jumped up. “Our last guest of the evening was a tad late, sergeant major. I’ll walk him in.”

  “Ah, the mysterious fifth. Why withhold the name? I would welcome just about anybody—”

  Hyram walked around the corner with Commissar Ghent. He was dressed in one of his most immaculate uniforms, the golden epaulets and trim to his coat providing an elegant air. But there were no medals on his chest; it was not the occasion for them.

  Ghent immediately took off his high-peaked hat, clicked his heels together, and bowed his head. Faye stared back, surprised, but her features soon tightened. Slowly, she stood up.

  “Landon.”

  “Sergeant major.”

  “Still alive, I see.”

  “So are you.”

  “It’s a bad habit.”

  “I always thought you were a rotten soldier, Faye.”

  They held their standoff. Marsh glanced between them. Hyram did not even appear to breathe. Faye took a step towards him and swung her arm sharply up as if to strike him, but she merely biffed him in the chest. Ghent shook with the slightest recoil and then he smiled.

  “You flinched, coward,” laughed Faye. The two then locked hands and tapped one another on the shoulder.

  “You haven’t changed at all,” said Ghent. “Although, I thought you would slug me for flogging the boy all those years ago.”

  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten.” Faye squeezed his shoulder tightly. Then, she reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of liquor he had brought. “Fortunately, I am in a good mood. Sit your arse down, Commissar, it’s time to eat.”

  Ghent sat at the opposite end of the table while Faye took her seat. As Hyram sat, everyone continued eating; glasses tinked, utensils clinked, chatter rose and rose. “Sy tells me you run the schola he founded. Quitting the training yard isn’t for you, after all.”

  “It suits me fine. The academy prospers and grows—now that Afin’s Hall of Rhetoric is complete, we would like to open a new wing to incorporate medical training. Giving officers a new skill to draw upon and a more intimate relationship with chiurgeons and medics will only enhance their capacities. Actually, Silas, we should discuss recommendations for NCO medics as staff members.”

  “Seconds, please!”

  “You’re already done, Syd? My word!”

  “The boy eats fast!”

  “I made enough food for thirds, eat hearty!”

  “Oh, I brought some fine tabac for after supper.”

  “You mean after we have my iced cakes.”

  “We have to return to Kasr Proelium soon, would you come with us Faye?”

  “Well, I suppose a little adventure wouldn’t hurt.”

  Smile for smile, plate for plate, they babbled and ate. Sydney hummed the entire time, then laughed when his father attempted to balance the long green vegetables on his lip. Isabella leaned close to Faye and discussed the recipe for the ice cakes while the latter clearly planned to make some of her own. Their conversation was interrupted as Ghent came around the table and refilled their drinking glasses with the prized liquor. Of course, Faye had a quip for him but the Commissar appeared immune to her impudence.

  Marsh Silas did not speak, nor did he eat. He merely watched and smiled contentedly, a faint glimmer in his violet eyes as tears threatened to spill forth once more.

  ***

  Another log on the fireplace created a cloud of sparks. The lazy flames snapped, popped, and fluttered. Marsh Silas sat back, his bare feet just touching the bricks of the heart. He felt full and tired, and the fire’s heat upon his cheeks made him drowsier. But he hadn’t drank much, so his head was clear. He puffed on his pipe and then blew smoke rings up at the ceiling.

  “I can’t believe your father’s pipe has survived all your adventures.” Faye knelt beside him, dipped a sliver of wood into the fire until the end caught, and then held it to the lho-stick between her lips. A thread of smoke rose from the end, she puffed once, then tossed the wood in as she sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Marsh.

  “I still have your sweater, too. Remember the one you gave me, it was your smallest one but it was still so big on me? I grew into it, and it’s survived many battles. Well, I tailored it some…”

  “You must have since you’ve had to squeeze into so many times. When did you get so big?”

  “Before the bio-mods, although those certainly helped.” Faye put her hand on the back of Marsh’s head and her fingers coursed through his hair. It was a pleasant feeling. She then pushed his head forward sharply. “Hey!” he laughed.

  “Kasrkin. If ye lacked that mark on the back of your neck, I wouldn’t have believed you. Knight of Cadia, Lieutenant-Captain, Kasrkin. What a life you have lived in so short a time.”hair

  “And all before thirty. I suppose that makes me an old man to many. It all seems so unbelievable. I’ve met Inquisitors and Astartes, battled daemons and traitors. I even helped capture a xenos. I’ve been wounded many times and survived. It’s been all so surprising.”

  Faye remained silent. To Marsh, she appeared thoughtful, although somewhat sad too. Knees drawn to her chest, one arm wrapped around them, wiggling the lho-stick between her fingers of the other hand. There was a distinct tug at the corners of her mouth and the bags beneath her eyes seemed to sag all the more. Even the violet in her eyes was suddenly muted.

  Marsh put a hand on her back which stirred her. Faye took a hasty puff and looked down quickly. Her blonde hair fell and covered her face. Unsure of what to do, he just kept his hand there, reassuringly. It was all he could think to do. Words seemed so ineffectual.

  Eventually, she looked up and pushed her hair back. Her eyes were watery. “I’m sorry, kid,” she said to him. “Sorry that I was not here for you, sorry that I was far away wiling away in some blasted factorum, sorry that there was nothing I could give you, sorry about those cretins—”

  “There is nothing to apologize for. You have given plenty; you gave me life, mama.”

  “What kind of mother am I to bear a son only for him to suffer the horrors that I suffered when I was young?” murmured Faye. She took a long drag on her lho-stick.

  “I believe no matter where I was born, I was destined to be a soldier.” Marsh Silas turned the pipe around in his hands and ran his thumb over the golden Aquila emblem. “A soldier is what I need to be to commit the great tasks I have been assigned.”

  “Destiny,” repeated Faye. “You build scholas, draft reforms, save lives. Forgive me, I never imagined such things for you.”

  “Neither did I. But it was Barlocke who enlightened me.”

  “Ah, your Inquisitor. Your guide, your mentor.”

  “My friend. It never occurred to me that I could do any of these things. I knew of the flaws but never thought I could do something about them. Never. That’s the word that dogged me for so long whenever I entertained a prospect. Barlocke helped me defy such a word.” Oh, stop it, Silvanus, you’ll make me bashful. He chuckled a little. “I have done so much to spite it. I even fell in love.”

  “I know.” Faye’s arm wrapped around Marsh’s back. “Throne, what a bloody terrible thing to go through.”

  Marsh Silas nodded in agreement, then pulled on leg up and rested his arms on top of his knee. “Lilias, was…” He trailed off. “…it’s hard. I can talk about her, but my voice catches now and again. She was a true hero. Our hero. Sagacious, selfless, strong. She filled up a part of me that I did not know I had. The loss has taken more and more of me as the years have gone by. As long as it has been, life without her seems so unimaginable. Is that what it was like for you after papa died?”

  Faye stared at him for a moment, then she nodded solemnly. “It's a forever-wound, Sy,” she said. “It manifests not as pain but as emptiness. You feel it, don’t you?” Marsh could barely nod. “How you fill that void is up to you.”

  Marsh Silas managed to smile then, and pressed his shoulder into his mother’s. “I have my mama back and that is more than enough for me. It feels like I’ve found a piece of myself that has been missing for a long, long time.”

  “Now I can rest contented,” said Faye. She looked around the walls of the manse, at the lamps, paintings, and old furniture. “It was not the happiest place, but it was ours. I never thought I would be so happy to return to this war-torn rock. But it’s never really about the place, Sy, it’s about the folks you share it with.” Her hand rose to the side of his head and she pulled him down so he rested his temple against her shoulder.

  “Will you really come with us to Kasr Proelium?’

  “You really think I’m letting you out of my sight?”

  He shut his eyes. Everything just felt so normal and right for the first time in many nights.