Lucia had forgotten how unnecessarilylargethe doors of Elias Gurlitt's mansion had been. At least twice her height and wide enough for three to walk abreast, each of the thick double doors bore a bespoke tapestry of carvings venerating the God-Emperor. The intricate imagery chronicled His Great Crusade of millennia past: the galaxy-spanning conquest that had united countless human worlds under the banner, and iron fist, of the Imperium.
Mercator…
The psyker had only ever been to this place once before. She frowned, effortfully tearing her eyes away from those fascinating doors, and turned to Erebus, a question on her lips.
The creature floated silently nearby, its gaze locked on a small party that had been making its way up the long, marble steps. Dovator, Weiss, and the Lucia of three years ago had just reached the top. Behind them, thick, dark clouds rolled in from the horizon, smothering the warm glow of the midday suns. Thunder rumbled. A storm was coming.
Weiss grunted as he carefully lowered a heavy backpack between his feet. "What an obscene number of steps…" He stretched, working the kinks out of his back.
The extravagant doors of the mansion caught his attention. He approached them and looked them over, studying the intricate iconography. He reached out and touched one of the doors, rapped gently. Weiss' eyebrows raised and he let out a low whistle. "Solid wood? Must have cost a fortune…"
Lucia watched her younger self reach out as Weiss had, running her hand gently along the smooth contours of one of the carvings, a wretched looking man fawning at the feet of the God-Emperor.
Erebus floated over for a closer look. "Exquisite." Lucia found herself nodding in agreement.
The carved wood of the doors had been surprisingly warm to the touch, pleasant and soothing in the way that only something organic could be. The psyker reached out, her hand overlapping and in sync with that of her younger self. Their collective hand continued its journey, fingertips tracing the curves, rising and falling over bumps and grooves, and recoiling suddenly as it brushed across the cold, black iron of the hardware. The contrast was stark. Her younger self shuddered, then glanced sheepishly at Weiss. The tech adept met her eyes and grinned reassuringly.
Behind them, Dovator grunted his disgust. "Several fortunes. And certainly not his own. Where there is religious fanaticism, greed and corruption follow.Righteous is he who gives and expects none in return.A laudable sentiment, too often ruined by those that only take. Make no mistake: this mansion is no monument to the God-Emperor. It is a monument to one man's vanity."
Lucia hadn't known what to make of the Inquisitor's remark at the time. To her eyes, these carvings were no different than those in the churches of the Ecclesiarchy. Reflecting on what she had seen of the surrounding town on their way to the mansion, and the multitude of other places Dovator had taken her in the intervening years, places where corruption had run just as rampant, she now understood his meaning. If a man like Elias Gurlitt were anywhere near as virtuous as he pretended to be, he would not be living as he was, a king in his castle towering above the surrounding squalor.
The Inquisitor took firm grasp of the large, ornate knocker in the centre of the right door. He knocked. A thundering bass drum echoed in the still air. The distant storm answered, closer now, but still muted by comparison.
They waited in silence for what felt like an eternity. Dovator glanced over at Weiss and Lucia. Weiss shrugged.
Dovator reached out again. A resoundingclangfrom within stayed his hand. The metalic screeching of a heavy bolt being drawn back made them all wince.
The door creaked open slowly, and a shadowy figure peered out. A flash of lightning illuminated the man's face: optic implants glinted in the gloom of the doorway, a metal cranial plate was barely visible beneath a heavy, hooded robe.
"State your business." The tell-tale monotone of a servitor. It was a sound that had always unsettled Lucia. Despite outward appearances, servitors were an entirely different beast than augmented humans. In fact, and perhaps somewhat ironically, Lucia had encountered a few Tech-priests that looked significantlymoremachinelike than the servitor now peering out at them.
Lobotomized and perfectly tailored for specific tasks, a servitor was a finely tuned machine, its "perfection" tarnished only by its remaining organic components. The psyker often wondered if they still had souls, or if the entire dreadful process had turned them into psychic nulls, as absent from the Immaterium as they were from the material world. The thought saddened her.
Dovator answered: "I would speak with Elias Gurlitt."
Ocular implants clicked and whirred as the servitor examined the uninvited guests. "All audience with Lord Gurlitt must be prearranged. You do not have an appointment."
"I do not require one."
"On whose authority?"
"My own, as—"
The door slammed shut and the bolt fell back into place.
Weiss smirked. "If you ever need totalka daemon to death, we're in trouble."
Both Lucias chuckled. Weiss never missed an opportunity to tease the Inquisitor, but he was also right: diplomacy had never been the Inquisitor's strong suit, and they all knew it. Nevertheless, that had never stopped him from leading with it whenever possible. Lucia admired that about him.
Dovator removed his hat and ran his fingers through his dark hair. The grey of age was finally starting to set in, only a few wisps here and there, but present all the same. Decades of harsh training, of facing horrors that would have completely undone lesser men, should have turned the Inquisitor's hair white as snow years ago. But somehow, his body had stubbornly resisted.Life catches up with you eventually…
Sighing, Dovator withdrew a small, unassuming object from a concealed pouch under his jacket. The Inquisitorial Rosette was presented to all that had ascended to the rank of Inquisitor. Inscribed with verification technology and coded to the individual, it was proof that the bearer wielded ultimate authority across the Imperium, an agent of the God-Emperor Himself.
Dovator pounded on the door again. Once more, the bolt drew back and the door creaked open.
"State your—"
The Inquisitor thrust the Rosette through the gap, holding it inches from the servitor's face; implants clicked and whirred as complex algorithms verified its authenticity.
"My sincerest apologies, Lord Inquisitor," the servitor droned. Whether it was capable of feeling fear or regret, its emotionless voice gave no indication. The massive door swung open fully, and the servitor shuffled backwards to make space for the visitors. It bowed submissively and gestured. "This way, please."
They entered the mansion, Dovator in the lead and Lucia and Erebus following close behind herself and Weiss.
The extravagance of the entryway flowed inside, unbroken. Electric sconces flickered in the gloom, their ghostly light dancing across lustrous marble floors and barely illuminating the high cathedral ceilings. Portraits and sculptures spanning millennia lined the walls of the wide passageways that forked off from the large foyer, and at its centre, an immense staircase spiralled up and out of sight. A flash of lightning through oversized windows revealed the full glory of the ceiling: a mural to the God-Emperor every bit as intricate and enthralling as the carved doors.
They followed the servitor, their footsteps echoing in the silence as they wound their way down one hall and then up another, each one boasting riches enough to feed an entire family for several years.
Lucia squinted into the gloom, taking in the countless artifacts. She remembered feeling in awe of the collection her first time through these halls, but now, she felt only disgust. So much of the town surrounding this monument to vanity, as Dovator had so aptly called it, lay in disrepair: crumbling rockrete foundations, boarded up windows, roofs that were one bad storm away from total collapse. And yet, there, rising out of the middle of all the decrepitude, was this palace of unparalleled wealth.
Why do they tolerate it?Lucia knew the answer, and it was just as Dovator had said earlier: religious fanaticism. Gurlitt's mansion wasn'thoardingwealth, it was agiftto the town, a beacon built long ago and lovingly maintained, directing the God-Emperor's favour upon them all.
The level of zealotry here had once been a common sight across all the worlds of the Trail of Saint Evisser. Centuries had changed that, however. On most worlds, the pilgrims and the martyrs who had spread the word of the Ecclesiarchy across a dozen star systems had faded into obscurity.
But Mercator was not most worlds. Here, the zealotry birthed millennia ago was as full of vim and vigour now as it had been then. Dovator was right to bring them here: a Chaos artifact in their midst was the perfect spark to set off the powder keg.
At last, they came to the great room. The far wall bore yet another extravagant tribute to the God-Emperor: a tapestry of stone extended the full height and breadth of the room, its seamless masonry lovingly crafted ages ago by expert hands. At its centre, a large fireplace radiated a pleasant warmth throughout the room.
Both Lucias breathed deeply. Despite everything that had happened in this place, the psyker couldn't help but repeat the past. Real wood burned in that fireplace, and the intoxicating smell of it had instantly transported her to her childhood. This time was no different, save for the tinge of guilt at the pleasure it gave her.
Elias Gurlitt rose from an armchair near the fire and came to greet them, crossing the room in a few long, confident strides. "_Ave Imperator, Lord Inquisitor." He made the Sign of the Aquila and bowed deeply. "To what do I owe the honour of your esteemed visit?"
Dovator nodded a terse acknowledgement. He had already made up his mind about this man. Lucia could see it in his expression: he understood the game being played, and wanted no part of it.
"I have reason to believe that you are currently in possession of a dangerous artifact. I would remove it from your care at once."
"Oh?" Gurlitt raised his eyebrows. "Dangerous in what way? I receive several shipments of rare artifacts each year, and they are always carefully scrutinized to ensure they pose no threat. Ancient munitions made inert, cogitators isolated or deactivated entirely… The process has been refined and perfected over multiple generations. I assure you that—"
Dovator raised his hand and spoke, his authoritative tone cutting effortlessly through the other man's monologue. "I seek an artifact that has been tainted by the Great Enemy."
Gurlitt frowned, the interruption seeming to bother him more than the revelation itself.
Dovator pressed on. "It would appear innocuous, nothing your security protocols would deem worthy of a closer look. Despite its appearance, this artifact poses a danger more extreme than any munitions or cogitator: through it, the dark gods of Chaos whisper their false promises, corrupting the hearts of men and bringing ruin to entire sectors."
Gurlitt nodded solemnly. "Yes, yes, I see… It is fortunate that you have come, then. Please, allow me to escort you to the family vault. I think it best that you begin your search there." He turned with military precision and led them through a doorway at the far side of the room.
"My family has called Mercator home for a very, very long time," Gurlitt explained, gesturing to the collection of exquisitely framed portraits that lined the walls. "I am the twelfth generation to proudly inhabit these halls…"
He trailed off as his pace slowed, finally coming to a stop before one of the portraits. Gurlitt stared up at it, and a rather regal looking man stared back, the same cold eyes flanking the same hawkish nose; the family resemblance was strong.
"Our reach was not always limited to Mercator, you know. For centuries, every planet in this system wasours, the habitable ones paying their tithes and the others mined, their resources filling our coffers. It was only fair. Our vast wealth built these worlds up from nothing. Were it not for us, there would have been no cause for Saint Evisser to grace us with his presence."
He paused, turning to face the Inquisitor and his retinue. Blank faces stared back at him.
"Surely youmusthave heard of Saint Evisser and his miracles? That he ministered to the sick and dying on Treyptos for months, easing their passing and never once falling ill himself? Or that during the great slave rebellion on Magnos Omicron, he walked unharmed through a war zone and convinced the leaders of the rebellion to lay down their arms? Perhaps you have heard how every flower on Farfallen bloomed with his arrival? And of course, on Mercator, his mere presence ended a drought that had lasted years. You see it yourself outside: a storm comes. Rain. A common occurrence now, but before Saint Evisser blessed us with his presence, Mercator was practically desolate."
Gurlitt turned his gaze back to the portrait.
"So we built monuments, collected artifacts. We spread the good word to all our worlds. And slowly, over the course of several generations, the worlds grew empty. Even members of my own family, it pains me to say, abandoned this place."
He pointed an accusing finger at the man in the portrait. The cold eyes looking back at him seemed defensive now. Defiant.
"My great-great-great-grandfather pulled back to Mercator. No more tithes. He mined out whatever he could from the other worlds and abandoned them too. Mercator remained devout, he made sure of that much, at least. The glorious deeds of Saint Evisser live on here, unlike in the rest of the Trail that merely bears his name. He was a beautiful man, touched by the Hand of the God-Emperor Himself. He should never be forgotten."
Gurlitt shook his head in disgust, still glaring at the portrait. "A complete lack of vision…"
He sighed loudly. "This way."
They continued on in silence for a short time. At last, Gurlitt stopped in front of a heavy double door, half the size of the enormous entryway doors, but every bit as grand.
These doors were not made of wood, however. They were solid plasteel, easily a metre thick. The detail etched into their surfaces was exquisite, but it was not the God-Emperor being depicted here, it was Saint Evisser—or so Lucia assumed.
The imagery of the vault doors matched the miracles Gurlitt had described. Straddling the seam between the two doors was a man wearing Ecclesiarchical robes and draped in scrolls and purity seals. His arms were outstretched, his smiling face pointed skyward. To his right, large clouds appeared to be rolling in, bringing rain to a barren landscape; to his left, an endless field of flowers flowed off to the horizon.
"Here we are."
Gurlitt approached a security system on the nearby wall, submitting to a variety of biometric challenges. Satisfied, the system chimed softly and the doors slid open, revealing the enormous private museum within. He stepped into the vault, beckoning the others to follow.
"This is where we found it." Lucia wove her way hurriedly through the vault, stopping at a small display nestled between two large sculptures. Erebus kept pace silently. Behind them, Dovator, Weiss, and her past self filed in.
"A boot?" Erebus tilted its head; it seemed amused.
Lucia nodded. "One of Saint Evisser's, I'd assume, given how fanatical Elias was about him. Or at least,supposedlyone of Saint Evisser's. You never know with religious artifacts."
The psyker turned to Erebus, frowning her confusion. "This is the artifact, I'm sure of it. But…"
"You do not feel what you felt before."
Lucia nodded.
"You will not. Whatever being reached out from that artifact, it reached out directly to the mind of your past self.Shewill feel it, you will not."
The psyker sighed her relief. It had been a harrowing experience, and she had not been looking forward to reliving it.This will be just like Glanvill then. I'm here to observe, reflect.
"—place to start," Gurlitt was saying, gesturing to a nearby section where the artifacts from his most recent shipment had been stored, some still safely packed in their crates.
Dovator, Weiss, and the younger Lucia fanned out, systematically examining artifacts on shelves, and then carefully opening the crates to search them too.
"If you do not find what you are looking for here, you can continue your search in that section." Gurlitt gestured to a mountain of crates between the searchers and the silently observing Lucia and Erebus. "Following along that wall takes you back through my shipments. How long ago do you suppose the artifact found its way into my possession?"
"I am uncertain. The shipping records I was able to obtain were incomplete, only confirming that the artifact had indeed been sent here."
"I see…"
The younger Lucia moved further into the vault, examining the countless artifacts. Everywhere she looked, some piece of history lined massive shelves, hung from the wall, or was displayed proudly on a pedestal. Trinkets, clothing, paintings, busts; there seemed to be nothing that Elias Gurlitt had not added to his vast collection.
Her eyes traced a path along two sculptures, each seeming to depict Saint Evisser in the midst of performing his miracles. And there, on a marble pedestal nestled safely between the two, was a single, unremarkable boot.
The psyker stared at the artifact, transfixed. Her eyes lost focus. Slow, quick breaths barely expanded her lungs.
"I remember this. It was a really odd feeling. A whisper at the very edge of hearing, a gentle tug at the pit of my stomach. I couldn't move, couldn't breath. I felt like I was drowning."
The Inquisitor frowned: he felt it too. In a few quick strides, he was at the psyker's side. "Steel yourself. We are close."
Freed from her enthrallment, the young psyker nodded. She took the deep breath her lungs yearned for and exhaled loudly. "That one." She lifted a trembling finger. "The boot."
Behind them, Gurlitt took advantage of the distraction, slinking back toward the vault door.
"I am afraid I cannot let you leave this place, Inquisitor. I will send some servitors along to deal with your remains in a few weeks. Do try and keep any damages to a minimum: these artifacts really are priceless, and I would hate to lose them to pettiness."
Dovator was in motion as the first words left Gurlitt's lips, but the distance to the doors was too great. Monologue complete, Gurlitt keyed the panel and the heavy vault doors slammed shut just as the Inquisitor reached them. He cursed, futilely striking the cold metal with his fist.
"Weiss!"
"Yup." The tech adept hurried over to the doors, awkwardly extracting a bundle of tools from his backpack and shoveling the pack into the Inquisitor's arms.
Dovator grunted, the weight of the pack more than he had expected. "Heavy."
"Oh yeah? Try carrying it across town. And up a hundred steps."
Weiss talked quietly to himself as he ran his hands along the seam between the doors and around the frame, looking for some point through which he could access the mechanism. "Ah, there we go…"
The Inquisitor left him to it, heading back over to Lucia. He carefully lowered the pack to the floor next to her, kneeling to withdraw the components for a large device: a null cage. Leveraging the same technology as the null collar he had been forced to wear all those years ago, the cage was a sink for psychic energy, effectively severing the connection between any item contained within and the Immaterium.
"I will prepare the container." Dovator met the psyker's eyes. "You will secure the artifact and place it inside. You are ready for this." He gave her a reassuring smile before returning to his task.
The psyker approached the artifact cautiously, building up her mental walls as Dovator had taught her. She was just out of arms reach when her entire body began to tremble, each step forward more difficult than the last until she found herself completely paralyzed. She gasped and grabbed her head, shutting her eyes tightly. Rivers of tears flowed down her cheeks.
Lucia glanced at Erebus. It floated next to her, studying her past self with the same curiosity it had had for the artifact. A subtle shimmer ran along its body, as it had during her awakening on Glanvill.
"The voices were overwhelming. A thousand of them, speaking all at once. Loud, quiet, angry, terrified. Speaking words in unison, and then talking over each other. I thought I was ready, but I couldn't handle it. I'd never experienced anything like it before, or since." She paused, thought a moment. "At least not until—"
Dovator rushed forward. "Be silent, daemon! You have no power over us!"
Teeth gritted in determination, the Inquisitor snatched up the boot from its place of honour. He turned quickly, and then the world seemed to slow down. Each step back to the container was a struggle, like he was trying to run underwater. His arms trembled.
"Your words… are nothing! I… am a faithful servant… of the God-Emperor. His… are the only… words… that I shall… heed. He shields me… from the darkness. You… will not… break me!"
At last, Dovator reached the container, dragging the artifact as if it weighed a ton.
"Be. Silent!" the Inquisitor roared, bringing all his will to bear as he raised the artifact and slammed it down into the waiting null cage. He collapsed to his knees next to it, breathing heavily.
The young psyker slumped down next to him. Tears still stained her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I tried…"
Dovator put a fatherly arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
The vault shifted and faded. They were back in the foyer now, Dovator and Lucia pointing their laspistols at Gurlitt, mere steps away from the salvation of those heavy wooden doors.
"You have ruinedeverything!" Gurlitt screeched, gesturing angrily at the Inquisitor. "Saint Evisser Himself spoke to me through that sacred relic. He told me,promisedme, a return to glory for the Gurlitt family. Every world across this sector would speakmyname in the same breath as His own. Perhaps restoring the prosperity from a millennium ago is no miracle, but it would be remembered and celebrated all the same, throughout time.Immortality, Inquisitor! You have stolen this from me!"
Dovator's face was stone. "Elias Gurlitt, in the name of the God-Emperor, I find you guilty of possession of a forbidden artifact, of collusion with the Great Enemy, of heresy. The sentence is death. May the Emperor have mercy on your immortal soul."
"Wait… wait!" Gurlitt's expression shifted from one of anger to one of fear, of desperation. He slumped to his knees. "We… we can still make a deal! Take the artifact. It is yours. All I ask is that you leave me to my dreams. Given time, I can rebuild what once was, what was so carelessly discarded. It will be difficult without the guidance of Saint Evisser—"
"You still do not understand. Saint Evisser does not speak to you through this artifact. He never has. The dark gods of Chaos have twisted your mind, driven you to madness. You will only bring pain and misery in your quest for glory. Of this I am certain. I cannot allow this corruption to spread."
Gurlitt stared at the marble floor of the foyer in defeat, the same floor that generations of his family had crossed countless times in their comings and goings. He shook his head in disbelief, redirecting his gaze to the darkness of the ceiling. As if guided by the hand of Providence, multiple flashes of lightning danced across the mural there, giving the wretched man one last opportunity to see the face of the God-Emperor, looking down on him in judgement before being shrouded in darkness once more. The deafening roar of thunder came a moment behind, rattling the windows and those beautiful wooden doors. The storm was upon them now.
His eyes met the Inquisitor's, the hardness of disbelief giving way to the moistness of acceptance. He took a quivering breath. "If this is to be my end, for Emperor's sake, give me a moment."
"Very well."
Dovator turned to Weiss. The tech adept was still panting softly from the effort of keeping up with the rest of them while carrying the artifact in its cage.
"Head back to the ship. Send a message to theAbsolution: mission accomplished, returning shortly. Have them prepare a secure space for our cargo."
The Inquisitor smiled a slight smile. "You can leave the artifact. We will bring it when we have finished here."
Behind them, Gurlitt's eyes met Lucia's. He glared at her, a rekindled refusal to accept his fate hardening his features. His eyes flitted toward Dovator, back still turned.
"Don't…" The psyker's voice was barely more than a whisper. She shook her head, eyes pleading with Gurlitt to listen, to stay down. Her hand trembled. Adrenaline from the mental battle with the artifact and from the long chase through the mansion's endless halls still coursed through her veins, making it difficult for her to maintain her aim. She brought her left hand up to support her grip on the weapon. It didn't help.
A smug grin spread across Gurlitt's face. Lucia had missed it the first time around, but it was clear as day now: he had grossly misread the situation, mistaking her trembling hands for an inability to kill. He roared as he lunged at the Inquisitor, propelled by the fury of generations of Gurlitt men and women that had been, and now would never be.
Lucia fired. The world dissolved.