Graham McNeill: Fulgrim: Visions of Treachery

Short and with the kind of attractiveness that completely eluded her as to why men found her desirable, Serena d'Angelus was perhaps the greatest painter of the Remembrancer order. Others favoured the landscapes of Kelan Roget, who travelled with the 12th Expedition of Roboute Guilliman, but Ostian felt that Serena's skill was the greater.

Even if she doesn ' t think so, he thought, stealing a glance at the long sleeves of her dress.

For Bequa Kynska's recital, Serena had chosen a long, formal gown of cerulean silk with an unfeasibly tight gold basque that accentuated the swell of her breasts. As always, she wore her hair unbound, the long, raven-dark tresses reaching to her waist and framing her long, oval face and dark almond-shaped eyes perfectly.

'You look beautiful, Serena,' he said.

'Thank you, Ostian,' said Serena, standing before him and fussing with his collar. 'You, however, look as though you've just woken up in that suit.'

'It's fine,' protested Ostian as she undid his necktie and painstakingly retied it.

'Fine, darting, is not good enough,' said Serena, 'as well you know. Bequa will want to preen once this damn recital is over and I won't have her saying we artists embarrassed her by looking shabby and bohemian.'

Ostian grinned. 'Yes, she does have rather a dim view of the practical arts.'

'It comes of a pampered upbringing in the hives of Europa,' said Serena. 'And did I hear you say that you were ready to begin sculpting?'

'Yes,' nodded Ostian, 'I am. I can see what's inside now. I only have to set it free.'

'Well I'm sure Lord Fulgrim will be glad to hear that,' said Serena. 'I hear he had to ask the Emperor personally to have that stone shipped all the way from Terra.'

'Oh, well no pressure then…' said Ostian as Serena turned away from him, satisfied that he was as presentable as he was going to get.

'You'll be fine, darling. You and your hands will soon have that marble singing.'

'And your work?' asked Ostian. 'How are you getting on with the portrait?'

Serena sighed. 'It's getting there, but with the pace Lord Fulgrim is setting for the fighting, it's a rare day I get him to sit for me.'

Ostian watched as Serena unconsciously scratched at her arms as she continued, 'Every day it sits unfinished I see more and more I hate about it. I think I may start again.'

'No,' said Ostian, prising her hands away from her arms. 'You're exaggerating. It's fine, and once the Laer are defeated, I'm sure Lord Fulgrim will sit for you as much as you need him to.'

She smiled, but Ostian could see the lie behind it. He wished he knew how to lift her from the melancholy that weighed upon her soul, and undo the harm she was doing to herself.

Instead, he said, 'Come on. We shouldn't keep Bequa waiting.'

Ostian had to admit that Bequa Kynska, former child prodigy of the Europa hives was now a beautiful woman. Her wild blue hair was the colour of the sky on a clear day, and her features were sculpted by good breeding and discreet surgery though she wore an overabundance of facial cosmetics that, to Ostian's mind, only detracted from her natural beauty. Just beneath her hair, he could make out aural enhancers and a number of fine wires trailing from her scalp.

Bequa had been educated at the finest academies of Terra and trained at the newly established Conservatoire de Musique - though, in truth, the time she had spent at the latter institution had largely been wasted, as there had been little the tutors there could teach her that she did not already know. People the length and breadth of the galaxy listened to her operas and harmonious ensembles, and her skill in creating music that could lift the soul and raise the rafters with its energy was second to none.

Ostian had met Bequa twice before aboard the Pride of the Emperor, and each time had been repulsed by her monstrous ego and intolerably high opinion of herself. But, for some unknown reason, Bequa Kynska seemed to adore him.

Dressed in a layered gown the colour of her hair, Bequa sat alone on a raised stage at the far end of the recital hall, head down and perched before a multi-symphonic harpsichord linked to a number of sonic projectors spaced at regular intervals around the hall.

The recital hall itself was a wide chamber of dark wood panelling and porphyry columns illuminated by subdued lumen globes bobbing on floating gravitic generators. Stained glass windows depicting purple-armoured Astartes of the Emperor's Children ran the length of one wall and a row of marble busts said to have been carved by the primarch himself lined the other.

Ostian made a mental note to examine them later.

Perhaps a thousand people filled the hall, some clad in the beige robes of remembrancers, others in the sober black robes of Terran adepts. Others still wore classically fashioned brocaded jackets, striped trousers and high, black boots that marked them as Imperial nobility, many of whom had joined the 28th Expedition specifically to hear Bequa play.

Amongst the crowd were soldiers of the Imperial Army: senior officers bearing feathered helmets, cavalry lancers in golden breastplates, and discipline masters in red greatcoats. A profusion of different coloured uniforms circulated through the recital hall, the click of sabres and spurs loud on the polished wooden floor.

Surprised at the sheer number of uniforms he saw, Ostian said, 'How can all these army officers afford the time to attend events like this? Aren't we at war with an alien species?'

'There's always time for art, my dear Ostian,' said Serena, procuring two crystal flutes of sparkling wine from one of the liveried pages that passed quietly to and fro among the crowd. 'War may be a harsh mistress, but she's got nothing on Bequa Kynska.'

'I don't see why I have to be here,' said Ostian, sipping the wine and enjoying the refreshing crispness of the beverage.

'Because she has invited you, and one does not refuse such an invite.'

'But I don't even like her,' protested Ostian. 'Why would she bother to invite me? '

'Because she likes you, you silly goose,' said Serena, nudging him playfully in the ribs with her elbow, 'if you know what I mean.'

Ostian sighed. 'I can't imagine why, I've barely spoken to the woman. Not that she let me get a word in edgeways anyway.'

'Trust me,' said Serena, placing a delicate hand on his arm, 'you want to be here.'

'Really? Enlighten me as to why.'

'You haven't heard Bequa play have you?' asked Serena with a smile.

'I've heard her phonocasts.'

'My boy,' said Serena, theatrically pretending to swoon, 'if one has not heard Bequa Kynska with one's own ears, one has heard nothing! You will need lots of handkerchiefs, for you will cry a great deal! Or failing that, take a sedative because you will be exalted to the point of delirium!'

'Fine,' said Ostian, already wishing he was back in his studio with the marble, 'I'll stay.'

'Trust me,' chuckled Serena, 'it will be worth your while.'

Eventually the hubbub of conversation in the hall began to subside. Serena took hold of his arm and placed a finger to her lips. He looked for the source of the gathering silence then saw that a vast figure in white robes with long flowing blond hair had entered the recital hall.

'Astartes…' breathed Ostian. 'I had no idea they were so huge.'

'That is First Captain Julius Kaesoron,' said Serena, and Ostian caught the smug tone to her voice.

'You know him?'

'He has asked me to create a likeness of him, yes,' beamed Serena. 'It transpires that he's quite the patron of the arts. Pleasant fellow and he has promised to keep me informed of opportunities that might arise.'

'Opportunities?' asked Ostian. 'What kind of opportunities?'