This is my first fanfic. It was started last summer when I had far too much time on my hands, and then forgotten about until I happened to be reorganising my computer last week. I decided that I should post it here, rather than leaving it to gather dust on my hardrive for the remainder of time.

So.. constructive criticism welcome. And compliments, of course. If you have a desperate urge to tell me how awesome I am, don't feel shy. Also, let me know if the chapters are too long; I couldn't decide whether to cut them down, so left them as they are. I'm not sure how good it is, or if I'll finish it. If enough people like it, I can probably summon the motivation to give writing the rest a shot; it's all already planned out somewhere. If not, no worries.

Games Workshop owns the galaxy of the Imperium, and most things therein and thereof, obviously. Along with lots of other stuff. They're a big company. The characters in this work, however, are mine. Any resemblance to anyone else, fictional, historical or real, is coincidental. Basically, don't sue me. I'm pretty poor.

Hope you enjoy it.

-Somin.


****CHAPTER 1****

The winds of the dream are trapped by the walls of stone.
-Excerpt from 'The Dreamer Awakes'

The sun had just set. The streets of Arintor were full of multicoloured lamps, strung along between the low roofs. Beneath them, the pilgrims and citizens thronged purposefully, setting tables along the centre of the streets, turning entire graxx on spits above snapping fires, and dragging immense barrels of scrap to where they would serve, in a few short hours, as impromptu bars.

Tonight was the Feast of the Years, a celebration held every half century in memory of the liberation of the planet in the final years of the God-Emperor's great crusade, and of the planet's first governor, Ancion the Ancient. The streets were full of smoke and music and laughter. Colam Benin had found himself a place to sit upon the eaves of the scholam he had once attended, where he could look across the dark, tiled roofs to the fortress-palace shuttle pad. Usually a quiet black square amidst the glow of the city, tonight it was ablaze with activity.

Having finished his appointed tasks earlier that evening, Colam had clambered up to his old haunt to hopefully catch a glimpse of some of the de Valliards themselves, as their shuttles dropped them from orbit. He was out of practice; several times he had to backtrack to find near-forgotten handholds. When he finally reached the roof, he had found several other citizens sitting in small groups spread across the tiles. A few he recognised from his days at the scholam. All of them were watching the shuttle pad and the palace, and talking amongst themselves excitedly.

Colam had sat by himself, and thus far had seen little of interest. A single atmospheric flyer had landed in the last ten minutes, carrying, according to a loud dismissive man to Colam's right, a dignitary from Pellagon, one of the minor cities on the southern continent of Ancion's End. Arintor was the planet's capital, and any number of important figures were converging on the city for the Feast of the Years. For Colam, however, planetary dignitaries were of little interest. Away on the parade ground he could see the tiny figure of the Pellagon dignitary being escorted past lines of de Valliard house troops towards the towering bulk of the palace itself. From this range they looked like hundreds of toy soldiers, unmoving in the white glare of the shuttle pad illuminators.

'That's power, that is,' said the loud man to Colam's right. He seemed to be of the opinion that everyone near him cared what he thought. 'That many troops to welcome a representative of a minor city? They'd be better use over there.' He nodded across the city to the Cathederal St. Evienne. From this angle, they could just see the immense open doors, and the light from within flooding out across the heaving sea of pilgrims who filled the steps and the Cathederal square in their thousands.

Every feast, hundreds of thousands of the faithful journeyed to Ancion's End, in the hope of being one of the ten thousand chosen by the Ecclesiarchy to be allowed to see the Warrant itself. The loud man sniffed. 'Poor bloody Arbites must be having a devil of a time over there, keeping all those scum in line.'

'Scum?' A grey-haired stocky woman, sitting with two children across the roof from Colam interrupted angrily; 'some of those pilgrims have travelled half the galaxy for this chance. Have a little respect for them.'

'Why should I?' he turned towards her, his tone rising in anger. 'We don't get to see it. I'll live my whole fething life here and never see it. I'll work and die, and watch a bunch of dirty scavengers walk past me every fifty years to see the single most holy thing in the subsector, and never get to see it.'

A thin man sitting in front of them turned around. Colam recognised him from the year above him at the scholam. Colam thought he worked for the ministorum now. 'It's their reward for their sacrifice. What have you sacrificed? You can always hand in your citizenship and join them, if you want to see the Warrant so badly. You'll be given an equal chance to be one of the ten thousand as any of them.'

The loud man purpled into fury, and responded. Other citizens on the rooftop joined the argument, on either side. Their voices drifted out, to mingle with the smoke and coloured lights and hubbub from the streets below.

'Hush, all of you.' Colam had been watching the evening sky. 'Look.' He raised his hand and pointed. High up in the sky above them, set against the bluish curve of the upper atmosphere and the red cratered surface of the planet's only moon, a star was falling. Vertical at first, it began to curve towards Arintor as it descended, a contrail lit by the set sun feathering out behind it as it dropped into thicker layers of air. Soon it was visibly slowing, winding around the city like a hawk circling a mouse. Around Colam, a quiet had fallen upon the watchers, their argument forgetten.

'Is that..' someone started, and then trailed off.

'Well it's from orbit, so it's likely. The Old Woman is already planetside, but I don't think any of the others have arrived yet.' The loud man's voice was considerably quieter than it had been before.

'One of the de Valliards!' One of the children with the grey-haired stocky woman piped up, and Colam could hear his own excitement mirrored in the child's voice.

One of the de Valliards. The legendary Rogue Trader family who had ruled Ancion's End since the earliest days of the Imperium. Every half century, at the Feast of the Years, they returned to Ancion's End to celebrate, along with their citizens, the liberation of the planet and the award of the Warrant of Trade to then-Admiral Ancion by the primarch Sanguinius himself. Colam hadn't been born at the last feast, but he had learned the names of the family and their ships by rote at the scholam beneath him; he had grown up with their legends around him. The Imperator Lux, the Admiral Ancion, the Spiritus Imperialis. The knowledge that such ancient ships were drifitng in the heavens above his head, waiting to ferry their masters to his world, filled Colam with a heady mix of fear and excitement and anticipation.

The light of the orbital shuttle was much closer now, tracking along a route that would take it almost directly over their heads. As it glided across the city, the lights beneath illuminated a squat, bulky shape, angular against the sky. Around Colam the people scrambled to their feet, and began to cheer and wave. He stood up more slowly; something felt wrong. As the shuttle passed above them, downdraft rattling the tiles, the cheering died away around him. Completely black, the only mark upon it was the insignia stamped on the side; a white stylised I, illuminated eerily by the cheerful multicoloured lights of the city below.

'Feth' muttered the grey-haired woman quietly. Sensing the change in mood of the adults, one of the children began to cry.

The Inquisition had come to Ancion's End.


'The Inquisition?' Danton de Valliard inquired, flattening his epauletted dress greatcoat against himself and eyeing his profile in his wall mirror.

'Yes, my Lord,' Quinlus was standing, as always, precisely three feet from the front of Danton's desk, gazing at the data slate in front of him. 'It would appear that Lord Dochius de Valliard invited the Inquisitor to observe the Ceremony of the Warrant.' Danton could hear the capitals dropping carefully into place in the seneschal's prim, scratchy voice.

'He did, did he?' The greatcoat, heavy as it was, did not completely hide the growing paunch that graced Danton's waistline. 'Trust that old bastard to ruin a perfectly good party. Aren't most Inquisitors a little too busy to go on pilgrammage?'

'As I understand it, Lord' said Quinlus, the tiniest suspiscion of reproach for 'that old bastard' entering his voice, 'the Holy Inquisitor is making a study of relics relating to the primarch Sanguinius. Your late father's brother thought it wise, perhaps..'

Danton turned sharply, and the seneschal paused. 'Do I look fat in this?' He asked, and spread his arms. Quinlus wavered for a moment, thrown.

'My Lord looks.. noble' he offered.

'So yes, then.' Danton shrugged, and crossed to his desk, opening the box of rings already placed there. Quinlus remained in his place, staring at the streams of figures running across the data slate in his hands. Danton sometimes wondered if the seneschal gazed more at his figures than at his master because it made it easier to pretend that he still spoke to the father, not to the son. Quinlus had been passed on to Danton, along with the command of the Spiritus Imperialis, after his father's untimely death, eight years previously.

Quinlus cleared his throat, a sure sign, Danton knew, that he wished to return to the topic he had been discussing. The ageing seneschal still thought his master, at 52, was slightly too young to understand the world. He would insist on explaining every political nuance unless instructed otherwise.

Danton ran his fingers over the rings in front of him. 'I understand why Uncle Dochius would have made the offer, Quinlus. An inquisitor makes a powerful ally, and a more powerful enemy. To invite one to our most sacred of rituals leaves him indebted to us and creates a sense of openess which is.. valuable.. when dealing with the Inquisition.' He selected an emerald signet, and slid it onto his index finger. Now he thought about it, his fingers were starting to look a little wider than they once had. He frowned.

'Precisely, my Lord.' The seneschal looked up from his data slate and gestured slightly toward the box of rings. 'If I may, my Lord, perhaps the topaz?'

It wasn't an aesthetic suggestion. The several rings lying on the velvet in front of Danton would have been worth a small fortune had they merely been the metal and gem combinations they superficially appeared to be. Each, however, was an archeotech marvel. The emerald, which Danton had already chosen, incorporated a digi-laser as powerful as a las-pistol, triggered by a neural impulse from its wearer. The topaz suggested by Quinlus was a stun device; a miniature version of a synapse grenade, it would, when activated, trigger a blast which would temporarily disable the higher brain functions of every sentient within twenty feet other than its wearer. Danton had always thought it a bit cowardly, but he slipped it on anyway.

'You do know Symonne is accompanying us?' It was mostly a rhetorical question. The seneschal knew everything.

'The master-of-blades is formidable, my Lord.' Quinlus smiled, very slightly. 'In matters of your personal safety, however, I know she errs as much on the side of caution as I do.'

He was right, damn his wrinkly old face. If Symonne Evian had her way, Danton would barely be able to ever see anything over the shoulders of a hundred or so of his personal armsmen. His desire to wander around unknown worlds and stations with a handful of his closest subordinates never ceased to annoy her. That said, it might be wise to be a little cautious. The last time he had attended the Feast, he had been two. Security had been someone else's concern. Now, however, he was the master of the Spiritus Imperialis, and seventh in line to the warrant itself. Whatever the glorious history told of them in the scholams of Ancion's End, the de Valliards had, like most noble dynasties, occaisional periods of internal strife. The Feast of the Years had played host to several high profile assassinations and a few coups over the millenia.

He picked a small jet and gold ring from its velvet bed and screwed it over his little finger, then closed the box. 'Anything else?' He couldn't resist going back over to the wall mirror for another look.

'Perhaps my Lord might consider a dress sword?' Danton could see the seneschal watching him in the mirror. 'To give a more military impression?'

'And to counter-balance my stomach? Damn the family's opinion of me. And damn you, too. I command the Spiritus. You think I need to wear a silly little dress sword to look impressive?' Danton turned angrily, and then recollected himself at the sight of the motionless Quinlus. He sighed. 'My apologies, seneschal. I haven't seen most of the family in years. This feast has me on edge. Meet me at the shuttle please; and inform Thanon the ship is his. Tell him not to break anything.' Thanon Lucius was Danton's calm and reliable second; the joke had become a tradition between them.

'Of course, my Lord.' Quinlus turned and left, his mouth a thinner line than unusal. Danton was left alone with his thoughts, and a growing sense of shame. It wasn't usual of him to snap at his seneschal, however much the old man's attitude irked him from time to time. Clearly the prospect of being watched and judged by the family in a few hours was getting to him.

Perhaps what his reflection was missing was a sword. As a replacement for actual excersise. But a dress sword? Danton's eye was drawn to the alcove behind his desk, and what was hanging there. Now that was a sword. If he was going to carry a blade, it might as well be one he could do some damage with. The power blade behind his desk had been given to him at nineteen by Eleana de Valliard herself in recognition of his first command. He had called it, with youthful bravado, Veritus. Taking it down, he turned it over in his hands. He hadn't held it in years, but the hilt still felt familiar to his palm. Back then, he had been something of a swordsman.

He buckled Veritus over his hip and left his quarters, acknowledging the salute of the two armsmen outside his door with a brief nod. Besides, he thought, with some amusement, he would enjoy Symonne's reaction no end.


'And what do you plan to do if someone more than three feet away from you has a gun?' Symonne Evian was a small, wiry woman with an apparently endless supply of energy that made Danton feel quite tired. She was standing in the centre of the shuttle as it dropped through the atmosphere, balancing on the balls of her feet and swaying as the craft shuddered through the turbulence of re-entry.

Danton smiled up at her from his seat next to one of the shuttle's small carb-glass windows. Below them Ancion's End was revolving majestically nightwards. 'I thought perhaps you could shoot them through the head for me?' He guessed it must be about evening in Arintor; the planet's capital was currently a cluster of lights a mile below them and to the west.

Symonne scowled, and rubbed the butt of one of her bolt pistols with her thumb. Dressed in grey combat armour, with twin compact bolt pistols holstered under her arms, and a slim powerblade on her hip, her only concession to the occasion was a greatcoat in the light blue of Danton's personal guard worn open to allow her access to her weaponry.

'The sword imbues my lord with an air of regality' remarked the scratchy voice of Quinlus from the other side of the shuttle. That was about as close as the seneschal would come to an 'I told you so', Danton reckoned.

'Pity about the rest of him' said Maracoth, with a smile. A tall, ageing man, with something of the air of a schoolteacher about him, the fourth occupant of the shuttle was watching their descent out of the window with a practiced eye. As Voidmaster and commander of all of Spiritus Imperialis' squadrons, he would have selected the shuttle pilots for the flight personally. Dressed simply in a brown coat with Danton's blue crest on the collar, he carried, as always, no visible weapons.

'Thanks Marac.' Danton waved at his master-of-blades impatiently 'And sit down, Symonne, for feth's sake. You're making me uncomfortable with all that standing.' Symonne grunted and subsided into the nearest seat.

'I'm on edge. In a worst case senario, I'm your only line of defense for as long as it takes for Spiritus' shuttles to reach us.' She forestalled Danton's objection by gesturing towards his hip. 'I've never even seen you touch that. You wearing it today doesn't reassure me about the safety of this family reunion.'

'In fairness, Lady Evian, the last incident at the Feast of the Years was 150 years ago.' Quinlus was examining his data-slate again. 'Since Eleana de Valliard's custodianship began, what frictions there are in the family have been kept strictly non-violent.'

'I can't say I'm surprised,' muttered Maracoth.

Danton nodded. The last time he had met his grandmother had been eight years ago, at his father's funeral. He still shivered every time he recalled her piercing blue eyes boring into his. 'A great man, your father' she had said. 'I hope you follow in his wake.' Her expression had suggested she thought it unlikely, at best. Not a woman to cross, Eleana de Valliard.

The shuttle had descended far enough into the atmosphere that it was now night around them; in the sky on either side flashing lights marked the paths of the escorting PDF Lightnings which had met them as they descended. Maracoth was watching the nearest Lightning with all the focus of a pilot who had been Voidmaster on the Spiritus for over half a decade. Judging by the twist of his mouth, he was evidently unimpressed by something.

'Marac?' Symonne had seen his expression too. 'Not a fan of our escorts?'

Maracoth shook his head. 'They're showy, for sure. But watch the engine burn of the one to port. See that slight flicker, every four seconds or so?' Danton stared for a moment, and then saw what the Voidmaster meant. The blue cone of the Lightning's engine would fade slightly every few seconds.

'So?' As master-of-blades, the mysteries of the machine were not Symonne's forte.

'It's been blessed badly. Try to pull a high-g at the wrong moment in that and you'll stall.' Maracoth sounded slightly disappointed, as though let down by a pupil with promise.

The shuttle was low now, skimming the rooftops of Arintor. Below them, in the streets, Danton could see coloured lamps and the smoke of street bonfires. Thousands of people thronged even the smallest streets, and he could make out the faces of individuals waving from the rooftops. Moments later, they decelerated hard, and the city passed beneath them to become the flat plane of the family shuttlepad. A gentle bump announced their arrival on Ancion's End, and the Lightnings lifted away with a scream of engines, their duty done.


'Children. Honoured guest.' Eleana stared coldly at the forty or so people standing before her. It amused Danton greatly to see some of his more insufferable cousins, with whom he had already been forced to spend several hours, stiffen indignantly around him at being called 'children'.

'Once again we come together. Tomorrow shall be the true Feast of the Years, when the pilgrims pay their respects, but as is traditional, I have called you down here tonight to witness the opening of the vault, and to take part in the Ceremony of the Warrant.'

The air in the vault's ante-chamber was icy, and Danton was glad of his greatcoat. Around him the misting breaths of the de Valliards rose to the high vaulted ceiling, watched on either side by statues of Holders of the Warrant so old their features were no longer visible. He doubted that any but the recorders in the Hall of Years even remembered their names. In front of them, behind his grandmother, an immense bronze circular door was sunk into the bedrock the Fortress-Palace was built on. Etched onto its surface were images of the liberation of Ancion's End, and the Ancion the Ancient himself receiving the gift of the Warrant from the winged Primarch. This whole hall dated from that period, and mounted on the walls were other bronze etchings detailing the early years of Ancion's End; the discovery of the bedrock tunnels, the building of the vault, and the terrible betrayal which led to the planet's name taking on a new meaning. Eleana was speaking again, and Danton dragged his attention from a beautiful and terrible depiction of the final fiery death of the Angelicus Lux.

'This feast is unusual. At the invitation of my son Dochius, we are graced by the presense of a member of the Holy Inquisition. He will of course not be taking the oath of Allegiance.' A few sycophantic titters were stared icily into silence by Eleana. She continued 'You have been afforded a rare honour, my Lord Inquisitor Copelan. I trust you will respect our ceremony.' Danton would have bet his ship that his Uncle Dochius had been reprimanded quite severly for his invitation. Whatever the advantages of an Inquisitorial favour, Eleana had very strict views on the privacy of the Ceremony of the Warrant.

A figure stepped forward, and Danton was afforded his first proper view of the intruder in their midst. The inquisitor was tall and slender, a with a thin face and a shaved head. Across his skull, a lattice of silvery lines and ridges suggested some type of cognitive enhancement. When he spoke, his voice was soft and damp. 'My thanks, Lady de Valliard. I am indeed aware of the honour done me. I merely wish to observe the relic. I shall not intrude more than is necessary.' Danton disliked him instantly.

Eleana nodded shortly, and then turned to the figure beside her. 'If you would, Domin?' Domin Carrus, Arch-Seneschal of the family, handed her an immense golden disc. She crossed to the vault door and placed the disk into a space left for it, then placed her hand on it. As Danton understood it, the vault would only open if it recognised a descendent of Ancion. There was a clicking and grinding, and Eleana stepped back.

Slowly, very slowly, the bronze door began to open upwards. The assembled de Valliards craned closer. Inquisitor Copelan, Danton noticed, was amongst them. His expression was one of palpable lust, and Danton suddenly felt uneasy. He fingered the jet and gold ring on his little finger for a moment, and then shook his head. Foolish. Of course the Inquisitor was excited; he was about to see a relic touched by the hand of a primarch.

The bronze door slowly ground to a halt. The chamber within was lit only by the lights from the ante-chamber. Carved simply from the bedrock, it contained a single pedestal. Upon the pedestal lay a long gold cylinder, inscribed with spirals of characters Danton did not recognise. He did not need to; this was the case of the Warrant - the parchment itself lay within. Both had been the gifts of the Primarch, who had charged Ancion with their protection.

As Eleana entered the chamber, Danton saw the Inquisitor shift slightly. He appeared to have something in his hand. Something wasn't right. Danton opened his mouth to shout, to warn, to something, and Copelan tossed the object lightly onto the floor in front of them.

Danton could hear screaming. He wasn't sure if it was him. His eyes could still see, but his mind no longer explained the images to him. It was as if he was a fish in a tank, with inexplicable monsters looming beyond the walls. Synapse grenade. The thought twisted and faded in his head. He could feel his sanity trickling out of his eyes. Around him the non-shapes were twisting and grasping and falling. He pressed the jet ring on his little finger, and blacked out.