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Filiberta had seen to the set up of a new table in Branwyn's office, one with a recessed compartment large enough to fit a regicide board inside of it and with a cover that could slide over the top to let it be used for other purposes without disturbing the game.
Branwyn would have to thank Janris; apparently it and the board were special procurements. She drummed her fingers idly on the lipped edge of the table, feeling a bit like she was looking over a giant stadium. She slid her Empress forward to challenge Heinrix’s Emperor. “Check.”
“Alicia’s Judgement.” He nodded once. “I wondered if that was your plan. For as reckless as you are with her, you rarely take my Emperor with your Empress unless you’re using Saint Celestine’s Sacrifice.”
Branwyn frowned, head canted to the side as she searched her memory. “I suppose I don’t.”
“Ecclesiarch is your most common, after the unique pieces,” he offered.
“I… well. I don't usually see a need, I suppose.”
“You spend so much time using her to shield your other pieces. You might find even more success the other way around.”
Branwyn adjusted her hood. “Perhaps.”
“She’s versatile, but she can’t do everything.”
Branwyn felt the corner of her mouth twitch. “Are we still talking about regicide?”
“Mostly,” he admitted. “You… seem stretched thin, of late.”
“...Is it that obvious?”
“I wouldn’t say obvious, but…” he let the word hang, left space for her to fill.
Instead of answering, she picked up one of the Citizens. “Did I ever tell you, I used to make up stories about the pieces with my sister?”
“You… didn't,” said Heinrix, trying to orient himself in the conversation.
“The Empress was our favorite. We used to find small trinkets to act as pirates or the like, and use the two Empresses to fight them. Allies of convenience, of course.”
“Of course,” he said. “Did they stay allies after the pirates were defeated?”
“Sometimes.” Branwyn turned the Citizen slowly in her fingers. “Others, the differences were too much, and they had to fight each other—very dramatically—to the death. All very tragic, of course.”
“Of course.”
Branwyn exhaled in a soft sigh. “I… hadn't thought about that, not for a long time, but I’ve been dreaming about her since we left that bunker on Quetza Temer.”
Heinrix’s hand settled over hers, stilled her fidgeting.
“And not just her, everyone we—everyone I lost. Before I—before it happened. They aren't bad dreams, per se, just… painful to wake up from.”
“Branwyn?”
“I’m glad, that… that you advised Idira as you did. I don’t want to see her hurting, and—and she seems more at ease, now, even around you,” Branwyn offered him a weak smile, “but I can’t help wondering: if I had something like that device as a child, would… would my sister—our family, all of those other people—still be alive?”
Heinrix didn’t answer right away, considering the question. He brushed a thumb against hers. “Possibly,” he said finally. “There is no way to know. But your sister likely would’ve needed one, too. And those devices would’ve eaten away at both of your souls until there was nothing left. You wouldn’t be you anymore, and neither would she.”
Branwyn shuddered as she lowered her head. “Of course. Never an easy answer, is there?”
“I’m afraid not.” He carefully uncurled her fingers from around the Citizen, setting it back onto the board before he drew her hand up to his lips. “Do you think it would help if I—?”
“Please,” said Branwyn, silently cursing the waver in her voice. “If you can; I know you’ve had a lot of work to get through, especially with what happened to Calligos, but I…”
“I’ll be here tonight,” he said.
She nodded, tugged at her hood. “I’m sorry.”
“Branwyn.” He stood, coming around the table to kneel by her chair. “I want to be here. Please do not apologize for letting me know you also…”
She touched his cheek. “Always.”
He leaned into her hand. “I’ll be here tonight,” he repeated. Gloved fingers brushed over hers and he rose. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Branwyn stood as well. “There are a few things I should attend to on the bridge, if you’d be willing to accompany me that far.”
He smiled faintly. “Of course, Lord Captain.”
Branwyn took his arm, a gesture he accepted without complaint. At least until they were nearly to the bridge, she wasn’t willing to let him go.
After spending a great deal of time in private mulling over what had happened to the Imperial guardsman at Footfall, Heinrix suspected that his own impatience was not the primary point of failure, nor was it likely—despite his initial fears—to be a weakening in the sanctioning process he had endured. His current theory was far simpler and far more likely: that he had collected too many doubts which were now cracking like fault lines, contradictory impulses shifting against each other and creating destruction in their wake.
The Immaterium responded to emotion, after all, and a lack of focus could be deadly with far less metaphysical weapons.
He wondered where legitimate questions and necessary clarifications transgressed into a weakness dangerous enough for the Immaterium to slip through his fingers and out into the world.
But here, now, Heinrix was impatient, and he had no doubts, and so the man he flash-boiled from the inside was a very deliberate choice, and because he had no further questions for the man, he did it quickly.
The man’s anguish was palpable, ragged scream trailing off as his body collapsed, blood bubbling out from his eyes and nose. He twitched a few times and fell still. His autopistol was holstered, unfired.
Heinrix exhaled, his breath visible in the air.
“Emperor protects,” whispered Filiberta, a mixture of horror and awe in her voice as she peered out from behind Branwyn’s desk.
“Emperor protects,” repeated Heinrix.
“Was it… true what he said? About the mutiny? And the Lord Cap—”
“I intend to find out,” said Heinrix shortly, cutting her off. “Do you recognize him?”
Filiberta got up slowly, approached cautiously. A hand flew to her mouth at seeing the twisted form in the middle of Branwyn’s office, but she shook her head. “Nossir, I—I can’t say as I do.”
“And you know all Lady Branwyn’s attendants?”
“Yessir.”
“You all served under Theodora?”
She swallowed, nodded, eyes still on the body. She was shivering.
“For how long?”
“Lady Theodora replaced all of her staff… maybe a few years or so before her passing? I don't mean the Seneschal, but everyone like us.” She gestured to herself and another attendant who was still huddled behind the desk, hugging her knees and praying.
“...Why?”
“Couldn't say, sir. Something happened, I suppose, but anyone like me asking questions about upper deck business isn't likely to get answers, and asking the wrong questions could end with a short walk out an airlock.” Her eyes lingered a bit longer on the body before she finally looked at him. “Or worse. So we don't. We keep our heads down and we serve.”
Heinrix sighed heavily. “Lock off the lift unless the Vox Master gives the all clear. Anyone else coming down that way is probably someone you don’t want to see.”
She rubbed at her arms. “Yes, Master van Calox.”
He headed for the Ablution Chamber and the hidden entrance Filiberta had shown him, hesitated. “Who knows about these side passages, besides Lady Branwyn's attendants?”
Filiberta considered, biting the inside of her cheek. "For that one in particular, I can't say as anyone else does, yourself excepted, sir. Maybe the Second Spinner? Oh, and the Infernus Guild, of course.”
“...The Infernus Guild?”
“Yessir. Those passages’re all over. Not all of them connect anywhere; lot of ‘em are just access tunnels for fuel lines to minor systems in the ship, and where there can be fire, there's Infernus.”
Oh. Oh. He had to find her, had to warn her—
The vox on Branwyn’s desk crackled to life, emergency broadcast interrupted by static and gunfire. “Attention—all officers—been an accident—elevator collapsed—Lord Captain—”
Heinrix swore under his breath, nearly snapping the molding free from the wall in his frustration. “Filiberta, can you block the door from this side?”
Filiberta glanced to Branwyn’s desk and her fellow frightened attendant behind it. “Yes, probably, but—”
“Do it after I'm gone. You’ll be safer here than most other places.”
“...Emperor be with you, Master van Calox.” Filiberta made the sign of the Aquila.
Heinrix returned it before opening the panel in the wall and stepping through.
The freight line was a mess: tunnels cut off by fires, pockets of resistance, Jocasta’s Enforcers holding back the mutinous elements with whatever support they could find, and Branywn’s High Factotum, Janris Danrok, taking rifle shots and tallying the ammunition expenses for unexpected heretics. Janris, at least, was able to direct Heinrix to where Branwyn had come through, injured but alive after the elevator crash, which was as much of a miracle as he could hope for.
Heinrix ducked through a side-tunnel into a larger, open space, spotting Ulfar covered in a prodigious quantity of blood and grabbing a man by the throat.
“Ulfar,” greeted Heinrix warily.
“Calcazar's dog,” Ulfar replied with surprisingly little venom, lifting the mutineer up into the air before spiking him into the ground and driving an axe into him afterwards.
“Lady Branwyn—?”
Ulfar pointed towards a small encampment. A mutineer with a chainsword was running forward to test his luck, but a las shot blinked out from among the barricades surrounding the encampment, putting him down long before he reached them.
Heinrix nodded once. “Good hunting, Ulfar.”
Ulfar made a noise between a laugh and a scoff, wrenching his axe free and pitching it forward into another mutineer.
Heinrix headed for the encampment, several rebels darting out of side tunnels to come after him or charge the barricades. None of them made it more than a few feet before rifle shots found them; he didn’t even have to break stride.
He was not entirely surprised to find Jae and Yrliet behind the barricades, though the fact that they were together did raise his eyebrows slightly.
“Heinrix!” Jae called, informal in her giddyness. “Did you see that last shot? Yrliet caught him through both temples!”
Heinrix inclined his head. “I did.”
“Was it not glorious?”
“Your praise is… unnecessary,” said Yrliet with a sigh.
“She hesitated! That means we are becoming friends,” said Jae, her eyes twinkling.
Yrliet looked up at Heinrix, expression very slightly pained. In spite of… everything, he found in himself a modicum of sympathy, and he gave her a small nod. She responded in kind. “The elantach left us to guard these people,” Yrliet said quietly, guessing at his purpose. She returned her attention to the scope of her rifle. “She went on ahead to reclaim the bridge.”
“Yes! Whatever Ulfar does not destroy, we are to keep from reaching this camp until they can evacuate.”
“Evacuate. Where?” asked Heinrix. There did not appear to be any tunnels along the walls beyond the makeshift camp, although he knew well enough that appearances could be deceptive.
“There is a maintenance lift up to a higher level. It broke down after Lady Branwyn departed, but a few of the people here are trying to get it running again. When they do, we will follow them out.”
“Your optimism is inspiring, Mistress Heydari.”
“It is easy to be optimistic with a rifle in my hands, an expert markswoman at my side, and a Space Wolf tearing through my enemies,” she said, flashing him a smile. “To say nothing of pleasant thoughts regarding a dashing member of the Inquisition in pursuit of our lovely Lord Captain.”
A muscle in Heinrix’s jaw twitched. He suspected he wore a look remarkably similar to the one that had so recently been on Yrliet’s face.
Mercifully, Yrliet opted not to comment. “We will hold this line,” she said. “Until it is no longer needed.”
“I’ll leave you to that, then. Yrliet, Mistress Heydari.”
“Exalted One watch over you, Master van Calox!” For as glib as she was, Jae gave him a cheekily precise military salute. “Go forth to help Lady Branwyn retake her ship so I can get back to mine.”
“As soon as possible,” said Heinrix dryly, and Jae laughed. He gave her a nod before ducking into the camp.
Ramshackle lean-tos and makeshift tents were piled against each other with a main path running between them, and he strode through under scrutiny but with no one inclined to stand in his way. Against the far wall was a small crowd observing or messing with the control pillar for what was, indeed, an old maintenance lift. The sparks flying out and prodigious swearing spoke to some difficulty, and one of the women by the pillar looked up as he walked over. He vaguely recognized her as one of the workers Branwyn had rescued from Mandrakes. “Oh! Jinny, it’s the fella from—”
Jinny—another vaguely familiar face—looked up, shaking her hand out and wincing. “Inquisitor,” she said.
“Interrogator,” he corrected, “though, fortunately for you, I don't believe that's relevant at the moment.”
Several of the observers moved back a little farther, though Jinny just grinned at him, little mirth to it. “Lucky day for me, then.”
Heinrix looked at the smoking pillar and then back to Jinny. “Is it?”
“Better’n being dead on some rock in a pirate bunker,” she said with more genuine cheeriness. “And we got the Motive Force flowing through it again at least, so that's progress. Yoana, take over for a second?”
The first woman who spoke clapped Jinny on the shoulder, taking her place and carefully sifting through the wires inside the pillar.
Jinny rubbed at her hand. “How can we help you, Interrogator?”
“By doing what you’re already trying to do, I suspect.”
The sound of an engine kicking on and a delighted whoop caught both their attention, Yoana back on her feet and throwing her arms around Jinny. “We got it! Let's get these folks the hell out of here.”
“Hang on, there might be trouble at the top.”
“More trouble than me?” asked Heinrix, resting a hand on his sword.
“...Probably not,” said Jinny, looking him over. “And if it is, we're karked anyway. You go with the first batch?”
Heinrix inclined his head. Jinny turned to start directing the observers and some of the people who had scattered out of his way into small groups, the most necessary or precious belongings bundled into their arms or on their backs.
Yoana was operating the lift, and Heinrix moved to stand behind her as a handful of nervous, tired people joined them.
“You have done this before?” Heinrix asked.
“Not under these conditions, but yeah. Mostly.”
“Mostly,” he repeated, and the lift jerked into motion.
It moved steadily, once underway, and Yoana spoke as she worked the controls. “You going to help her? The Lord Captain, I mean.”
“If she'll let me.”
Yoana chuckled. “Yeah, Jinny’s like that sometimes. Took ages to convince her we could stay with the refugees.”
“Refugees?” Heinrix glanced at the people huddling in small groups around them.
“Mm, from Ryker-something.”
“Rykad Minoris,” said Heinrix, “possibly.”
A nod from one of the people answered him.
“Sounds right,” said Yoana. “Anyway, we’ve been trying to fix things for ‘em by way of thanks for taking us in, make it easier to get to other areas for work or rations, you know? Some of theirs defected, joined in with the mutiny—” Yoana spit disdainfully. “And Ed—one of ours—did, too, before the merchant queen on the barricade put a rifle shot through him. Good riddance.”
“The other man who was with you when we found you,” Heinrix asked idly, “what happened to him?”
“Teo, and… Ed happened to him.”
“...Ah.”
Yoana sniffed. “Is what it is. Time to be sad about it later, if I live long enough.” One of the refugees put a hand on her arm, and she answered with a faint smile and a nod.
Heinrix felt—well. He felt that it was a place something should be said, not necessarily that he should say anything. It was a place Branwyn would say something, or extend a hand. A place she would be gentle.
At his best, he could probably only keep from making it more painful, so he said nothing.
The lift slowed, coming to dock in a stretch of tunnel with several Enforcers keeping watch. They started to posture until Heinrix strode forward, his Rosette unmistakable even in the emergency lighting.
“Find a place for them,” he said shortly. "There are more to follow including members of the Lord Captain's retinue.”
“Sir,” said one, and beckoned the refugees forward.
To the other Enforcer, Heinrix added, “What is the most direct path up to the bridge from here?”
“There's one of those Bloodspun Web folks waiting for you just over that way,” the second Enforcer jerked his head farther back along the tunnel. “Emperor protects.”
“Emperor protects,” Heinrix replied, stalking off. He could hear the lift kicking on again as Yoana began her descent back to the lower levels of the freight line.
“How. Dare. You.”
There was a growl to Branwyn's voice, something almost feral. Her left arm was useless, tucked into her robes to keep the dislocated limb out of her way.
The thing sitting on her throne and wearing a psychic mask of her face growled back, low and guttural. Idira could feel it in her bones, rattling in her marrow. Blood poured out of her nose, her eyes, her ears. Her head was throbbing and the voices around her were screaming, a rising firestorm of incoherent wails. She fell to her knees.
Hands were at her back, her elbow, lifting and half-carrying her away from the stairs and setting her against a pillar. Idira wiped at her eyes, blinking up at Kibellah.
The Second Spinner nodded to her once before straightening, unslinging her swords and turning back to face the monster that had dropped the illusion of the Lord Captain and leapt down the stairs from her throne, a creature of sickly purple flesh beneath dark plates of chitin. Six limbs—clawed whether hands or feet—supported a hunched frame, and the body was topped by a bulbous head with a broad, flat face holding a mouth lined in sharp teeth and sporting a lashing tongue.
Idira didn't have to try and parse her voices to hear the chittering chorus of cavernous hunger, the overwhelming focus, the desire to consume every living thing on the ship. There was a humming in her mind, as if from billions of locusts that saw mankind as little more than ambulatory wheat. She could hear nothing else, wondered if her eardrums had burst. She choked back the bile that was rising in her throat, swallowed the blood draining from her nose back into her mouth.
Kibellah darted forward, Branwyn directing her to flank with Abelard and Marazhai. Sister Argenta had swapped her bolter for a flame-thrower, and was using it to discourage the creature from pursuing Branwyn directly. Gold shimmered in the air and thrummed heat in Idira’s chest with the blessing Branwyn was calling upon them all, rounding off the corners of the pain in her still-throbbing head.
Idira worked her jaw, she needed to listen, she needed to see, she needed to help, and as she tried there was a refrain slicing through the tinny, muffled ringing in her mind,
/ Sing, muse, sing the rage of loss and grief / the pull past stars to depths unreached / for nowhere in all worlds that turn / can wake the dead from endless sleep /
Which was very poignant, probably, but not at all relevant to what she was trying to do. And she saw what she was looking for, then, a flicker—two paths for Argenta’s flames, one catching Kibellah and the other only the creature.
She reached out through the Warp, let Argenta see it, too, and a flick of the Battle Sister’s thumb set the flamethrower from a sweeping spray to a narrow one, Kibellah dancing out of the way unscathed while the thing’s exoskeleton blackened and cracked.
It leaped, Branwyn falling back and barely interposing her force sword in time for a clawed hand to grasp it instead of her throat. The veil was thick, every attempt to draw something through it like a reach into a dense bog, but Idira felt the ripples as Branwyn set black and violet Warpfire flickering along the edges of her sword before she tore it free.
The creature—
/ The Sire / the pure / purestrain pure hate pure hunter hunger /
—spewed bright gouts of blood from the palm of a hand, shrieking and sending the psychic insectile chorus into angry crepitations. The lashing tail sent Argenta flying back into a pillar, Branwyn screaming something before looking back to the Sire.
Idira winced, pulling a twist in the winds of fate to shift what looked for a moment to be a fatal bend in the Sister of Battle’s neck to something she would walk off later. At least, assuming any of them got the chance to walk off anything later.
The sword in Branwyn’s hand flared again, deeper black and brighter violet flames dancing along the edge as she directed Kibellah and Marazhai to attack the Sire’s segmented joints. Abelard’s chainsword pinned a forelimb to the ground, grinding away at a wrist, and Branwyn darted in to stab the Sire. A surge of raw Warp flashed along the blade and tore out of the body. The veil held steady, but blood poured out of Branwyn's nose to spatter on her psykana collar, dripping down the wing feathers of the double-headed eagle embossed in the metal. She coughed blood as well, spitting it out onto the flailing form before wrenching the sword free and stabbing into it again.
Where Kibellah’s and Marazhai’s blades had been slipping between plates of chitinous armor, the Warp-sharpened force sword punched straight through, the carapace crackling and burning like rockcrete beneath a plasma cutter. Steam hissed out from spiracles along the Sire’s side, shrieking like water in a kettle left on to boil loudly enough that it cut through the now-fading noise in Idira’s head.
Branwyn stabbed at it again, and again, black and violet energy twisting around the force sword, space condensing further into an edge like an event horizon. There was a faint crack, a spritz of blood from the neural inhibitor in Branwyn's forehead.
Marazhai and Kibellah stepped back, observing her with very different expressions as she sank the blade in a final time, leaning forward to rest her weight against the pommel. A wave of warmth—sharper than usual—washed out from her, rippling among her people, gold tinged in red.
Idira worked her jaw again, realizing after a moment that it was not her hearing that was the problem. Her whispers were audible again, but faint, the familiar susurrus almost soothing in its way, and the bridge was silent save for faint groans and heavy breathing of the injured.
“Sister Argenta?” called Branwyn.
A pained grunt answered her, followed by, “Alive, Lord Captain.” Abelard had stepped around to attend to her, and was helping the Sister of Battle to her feet before returning to check on the helmsman.
Branwyn sagged against the Sire. “Everyone else?”
A slow chorus of answers began, Branwyn looking both smaller and more relieved with each one.
“Lord Captain!” called Jocasta Sauerback.
Branwyn did not raise her head or turn her gaze to her Master-at-Arms. “Report.”
“Abrupt turn in the battles, Lord Captain. Most of the rioters have collapsed, or panicked, or gone catatonic. I believe they could sense that thing’s death, and it hurt.”
“...Monteg?”
“The bastard is with the last of the holdouts in Bay 45-F-1.”
“Do—” Branwyn began, but the servo skull beside Jocasta exuded a burst of static, shuddering to life and projecting a shimmering green image of Einrich Monteg.
“You shouldn’t leave your access psalms open,” he drawled. His words were steady, but even in the flickering light it was clear he was injured, bleeding from a head wound and using his unbandaged hand to light the lho-stick hanging from his lips. “Bad security practice. Were you too busy beginning your celebr—”
“Stop. Talking.” Branwyn planted a foot on the dead Sire, wrenching her sword free. She looked towards Einrich's image slowly, red lens of her broken neural inhibitor catching the light to flicker like a dying ember. Her dislocated arm had slipped out of being tucked into her robes and was hanging loosely at her side, and drying blood was trailing down her face from her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Her voice was low and rough, throat raw, and she spoke slowly. “I have no use for the words of a traitor.”
Idira had never seen her so angry. There were long, wailing howls swirling around her, still singing anguish and sorrow and rage roiling above an undercurrent of fear.
Marazhai was watching her with open interest, almost admiration; Kibellah watched her with a somber reverence.
Einrich’s image regarded her solemnly, a cold hatred replicated in the hologram’s green light. “You have no idea what you've done, what sacrilege—”
“Spare me your pontificating, Monteg. It is a waste of air.” Branwyn spat her own blood onto the deck. “Surrender, or don't.”
“And, what, you'll let us live?”
The affirmative hung on her lips for a moment, almost escaping reflexively; Idira watched it retreat back into her mouth. Branwyn ran her tongue over her teeth. “Would you have let me, if I had gotten on the train with you?”
“If you submitted,” he said easily. “We could've made you one of us, but now…” He sighed heavily.
Branwyn lowered her head, finger tapping against the guard of her sword. “Jocasta?”
“Lord Captain.”
“Pull back your people and vent the entire compartment.”
Jocasta’s eyebrows rose—she was surprised, but pleased, and she grinned with a vicious satisfaction. “Yes, Lord Captain.”
“Branwyn—” Einrich began, startled.
Branwyn's face snapped back up. “The Void will take you, Monteg. That name is not yours to speak after what you've done.”
“You don't even know what I've done, what glory I was trying to—”
“I'm talking about the children,” she snapped. “The orphans?”
He looked genuinely confused. “The…?”
Idira glanced to Sister Argenta, who was glaring at Einrich's hologram with a rage hotter than anything her flamethrower could produce. “From our visit,” Argenta said quietly. “You were charged with their training.”
Einrich looked almost disgusted. “They are impure. They have not heard the blessed angel’s song, nor will any of us again.”
“And am I supposed to take your word for it?” demanded Branwyn. “That has little value at this point, Einrich.”
/ The unexpected seedlings were too green for conversion, left for later harvest, unpruned, untouched, and unknowing. Ignorance can be a shield, sweetling, but not always and not forever. /
Idira's whispers were as clear as Einrich was silent.
“Was anything you said true? Anything at all.”
Einrich took his lho-stick out of his mouth, turned it over in his fingers. “Some of it,” he said. “Does it matter?”
Jocasta coughed once. “My people are clear, Lord Captain.”
Branwyn stared at the hologram. “Do it.”
Einrich snarled as the connection cut.
Branwyn stepped stiffly around the body of the fallen Sire. “Marazhai, if any of the inferni escaped—”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said, a low rumble to his voice that was somewhere between a purr and a growl. “Just say the word.”
“Leave none alive.”
He gave a mocking salute and darted off towards the nearest lift.
Kibellah caught Branwyn’s eye, a slight tilt of her head answered by a nod from the Lord Captain. Kibellah followed him.
“Jocasta, thank you for your vigilance.”
The Master-at-Arms inclined her head. “Of course, Lord Captain.” She had always watched Branwyn with deference, but for the first time Idira could recall there was pride.
Branwyn released the energies around her force sword back into the Immaterium, sheathing the physical blade before raising a shaking hand to her forehead and the blood dripping down into her face.
Idira came to her side, offered an arm. The small smile Branwyn offered in return as she took it was strained.
“Thank you, Idira.”
Idira beckoned Argenta over, speaking quietly once the Sister of Battle joined them. “He spoke true, about the orphans.”
Branwyn stiffened. “You're sure?”
“Sure as I breathe, Lord Captain.”
“Thank you. That is…” Branwyn shuddered, “a needed bit of comfort.”
Argenta was fidgeting with the broken Aquila hanging from her belt. “A miracle,” she said, tremor in her voice from a potent cocktail of adrenaline and hope.
Idira jerked her head in Argenta's direction. “I’m sure Adepta Sanctim—Sister Argenta can make sure they have what they need?”
Branwyn nodded slowly. She sounded far away. “And Janris. Between the two of you—” she inclined her head to Argenta, “—the children should. Should want for nothing.”
Argenta made the sign of the Aquila. “I will speak to him as soon as I am able.”
“Thank you. But perhaps see the chirurgeons first.”
“I… am fine, Lord Captain. Your blessing was—”
“Enough to mend a few minor aches, but no more. Please.”
Argenta lowered her head. “Lord Captain.” She looked to Idira, started to speak, and caught herself. “Mistress Tlass, I think—I think you saved me from a grave error.”
And more, but if the Sister of Battle was going to try to be grateful, Idira didn’t need to discourage it. She nodded once.
“Thank you.” Argenta bowed deeply before straightening, doing the same for Branwyn, and then headed off.
Jocasta cleared her throat. “It would do wonders for morale if you would announce your victory, Lord Captain.”
Branwyn nodded, sighed, and looked to Idira, who patted her hand gently and helped her climb the stairs to the throne. “Vigdis?”
The Vox Master appeared from behind a console, battered but alive. “Broadcasting to all decks, Lord Captain.”
Branwyn licked blood from her lips. “To all who have remained faithful in these dark hours, this is Branwyn MacCionaodha von Valancius. We have retaken the bridge. The ship is ours.” She took a shuddering breath. “Emperor protects.” She looked to Vigdis, who nodded once, and then she leaned a bit more heavily into Idira.
“Branwyn!” Heinrix staggered to a halt upon reaching the bridge, taking in the scene.
“Lady Branwyn,” corrected Abelard, trying to rouse Ravor, but he was too exhausted for it to have much bite.
“I’m here, Master van Calox,” Branwyn replied as evenly as she could. The dead Sire lay at the bottom of the stairs, impossible to miss.
Heinrix strode forward, hand out and then withdrawn. Idira could feel the chill settling in around Branwyn, the fluctuations in the Warp as her injuries started to mend. There was a wet click as her shoulder popped back into place, prompting a hiss through her teeth and a tighter grip on Idira’s arm. His gaze turned to Idira, the chill following and easing some of the headache lingering from the Sire’s presence. Idira offered him a grateful nod, attempting to wipe some of the blood off of her face.
His attention returned to Branwyn. “You can't let any of them—” he began quietly, stopping when she shook her head.
“I had Jocasta vent the compartment with the last pocket of resistance. Marazhai is hunting for any that might have slipped containment.” She sounded more bitter than triumphant.
Heinrix stared up at her, expression unreadable.
“No objections then?” asked Branwyn.
“No, Lord Captain. No objections.”
Branwyn wavered, Idira putting a hand to her back to steady her.
“Hey iceman, you want to help me get her to her quarters?”
“I—” he looked between Idira and Branwyn, stepping around the dead Sire and ascending the stairs to offer her an arm.
She looked at it, then him, almost apologetically. “I can't leave, there's too much to—”
“Allow me, Lord Captain,” said Abelard. “Your injuries require tending. Mine are rather superficial.”
She bit back some objection or other, nodding to her Seneschal. “Thank you, Abelard.”
Branwyn took Heinrix's arm, and together he and Idira helped her off of the bridge.
Once the lift was descending to her quarters and they were out of sight of the officers and crew, Branwyn gave Idira's arm a grateful squeeze before letting go and half-collapsing into Heinrix.
“Lord Captain—” he said, alarmed.
“She's a telepath, Heinrix, she already knows that I—”
“It's true,” said Idira.
“Not my main concern at present,” he replied, worry evident in his voice.
“—and I am in too much pain to pretend I don't need more help,” Branwyn finished, drawing a ragged breath.
Heinrix looked from Branwyn to Idira, slight frown creasing his forehead.
“Just carry her, iceman. I won't say anything.” Except to Cassia, maybe Jae. Kibellah if Idira found her around.
Sister Argenta if she was bored.
A flicker of something—maybe gratitude—and he swept Branwyn up into his arms, murmuring apologies when her breath hitched. The chill in the air was clinging to them and when the lift stopped, he carried her past her bedroom and her office into her Ablution Chamber. A couple of attendants flitted about preparing towels and collecting bandages and fresh clothes.
“Mistress Tlass,” said Heinrix, setting Branwyn gently onto one of the couches, “would—?”
“You want me to strip her?” asked Idira.
“Not.” Heinrix ran a hand over his face. “The way I would have phrased it.”
“Please don't make me laugh,” said Branwyn, “it hurts.”
“I'll help her, since you're shy,” said Idira.
“I'm not—” Heinrix cut himself off. “Thank you,” he said. “I need to confirm a few things, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.” The words came out stiff, but Idira could see a ragged exhaustion was settling over him and he brushed some hair out of Branwyn's face before he stepped outside.
“Come on, Lord Captain,” said Idira. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Branwyn leaned forward, resting her head against Idira's waist. “Just. Let me rest a moment.” Her breath hitched in something that was not quite a sob.
/ The knower of graves misses the raven fair, parted forever no matter what name she wears. /
Idira patted her head awkwardly. “You're alright, Lord Captain,” she said. “You'll be alright.”
Filiberta set a tray of hot recaf on Branwyn’s desk, bringing a cup over to where Heinrix had settled into a chair beside the new regicide table on his return. “I can clean your jacket, if you hand it over,” she said. “Blood’s easier to get out before it sets.”
“I—”
“Just leave it out if you’ve a mind to, Lady Branwyn’s about done. Mistress Tlass says the chirurgeons didn't find any injury that looks like what you described, and Magos Haunemann says the damaged implant needs removed or repaired but isn't doing her any harm for now. He got the broken parts out and cleaned what's left.”
“Emperor's mercy,” Heinrix murmured, rubbing at his forehead and trying to cut off the headache forming there. “I… may impose upon you, for the jacket. I will not be returning to my quarters tonight unless she sends me away.”
“Not to be presumptuous, but I can manage more than jackets, if need be.”
Heinrix looked at himself. Blood was spattered all down his front from his chest to his thighs, and where he wasn’t bloodied there was dirt and grime and soot from the freight line. “That—” He looked up to Filiberta, who was wearing a neutral expression, save for the slight questioning lift of her eyebrows. “I… no. But thank you.”
“Can get you something to wear in the meantime, of course.”
“I… will consider it,” he said dismissively.
Filiberta curtsied, returning to the tray and taking a few more cups of recaf into the Ablution Chamber.
Heinrix leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, and waited. Sometimes it felt like that was all he could ever do.
Kibellah slipped into her Domin’s quarters without a sound. Enforcers were posted near the servant’s entrance in the kitchens, but there were other paths known only to the ones who lived and served in silence, and these were what she walked.
The Interrogator dozed in Branwyn’s office, slumped over in a chair beside her regicide table. Branwyn was watching him from the hall to her Ablution Chamber. Kibellah tapped the wall lightly once, twice, just enough to draw Branwyn's attention her way. The bandage over the implant above Branwyn’s eyebrow had already soaked through, red deepening into a rusty dark brown.
Branwyn gestured into the chamber and Kibellah followed her.
“Marazhai’s hunt continues,” said Kibellah softly. “It has been… productive. I have some of the other Spinners watching him, to make sure he does not stray from your instructions.”
Branwyn sighed heavily. “Thank you, Kibellah.”
“I will join them again soon.” She bowed.
Branwyn took Kibellah's face in her hands, examining a fresh bruise on Kibellah's cheekbone. “Please be careful.”
“Domin’Branwyn?”
“I worry,” she said simply.
“I am a finely honed weapon, Domin. I will not break easily.”
Branwyn grimaced. “I’d prefer you not break at all.”
“I am dear to you,” said Kibellah, a little uncertainly.
There was a small twitch at the corner of Branwyn's mouth. “Yes, Kibellah. You are dear to me.”
There was an ache to the look Kibellah saw in Branwyn when their eyes met, sometimes. It was similar to what Kibellah had seen in some of those outside the Bloodspun Web—some particular flavor of loss whose texture she could recognize but did not quite understand. It was like trying to examine a face through a thick veil—the shape of grief was visible, the details tenuous.
Kibellah put her hands over Branwyn’s, bent until their foreheads were touching. “I will be careful with everything that is dear to you.”
“That is all I ask.”
“And I will not leave you as long as I live.”
Branwyn's breath hitched painfully.
Kibellah frowned. This was not the desired reaction.
“It is… selfish, but I hope you outlive me. Just once, I…”
“The Undying One calls all names in His time, Domin. But I hope you do not ask Him for that. I hope you do not ask Him for my failure.”
Branwyn’s gaze fell and she lowered her hands. “No, I—I do not wish that on you. Forgive me.”
Kibellah straightened, looking down at her. “You are injured because of your service, Domin. It is good for you to rest, to recover.”
“And I shall, as best I can. Thank you, Kibellah.” Branwyn bowed slightly.
Kibellah bowed more deeply before slipping back into the hall and out through the panel door. The night would be a long one, but she found a bit of unexpected warmth accompanying her as she departed into the shadows.
“Heinrix?” Branwyn touched his spaulder lightly, trying not to startle him. He jerked awake, sitting up and blinking at her, focus flicking to the bandage above her right eyebrow.
“Your implant—” he began, voice rough from sleep.
“The, ah. Crystal inside the inhibitor shattered, but I'm alright,” she said. “Painkillers are doing wonders for the headache.”
He took her hand, pressed it to his lips and then his cheek. “What happened? That was a genestealer Sire, they are—” he broke off. Still visibly groggy, he was staring at her as if she had stepped out of a dream.
“When we made it to the bridge, it was… the Sire had convinced Ravor it was me, and that I was the imposter.” She smiled weakly. “I don't blame him; between its powers and the illusion…”
“That… must have been disconcerting,” said Heinrix.
Branwyn shuddered. “More than you know, I think. More than that thing knew, too, though it backfired. ”
“...Branwyn?” He was looking at her with such open worry, such—
Such gentleness.
She felt sick. “It, it meant—I know it meant to look like me, and it did, but it was mimicking me, it wasn't mirroring me, you understand?”
“Not. Really. That is, I do not know why it is significant.”
“It didn't look like what I see when I…” She gestured towards her asymmetrical hair and implants, her scar. “It was backwards, to what I see in the mirror. So I didn't think, ‘oh, that's me,’ I thought—I thought, ‘oh, that’s what my sister would've looked like if she had lived.’ Someone familiar, almost me, but not—” There was a stone inside her chest where her heart should be, scraping against her lungs and making it hard to breathe.
Heinrix stood and pulled her into his arms. “I'm sorry,” he murmured.
She could feel his heartbeat, with her head against his chest, steady and solid. “It was like a betrayal on its own, this—this mockery, this… personal blasphemy, I don't know what to call it, but I've never felt like that before. I wanted to tear that thing out of the universe with my bare hands. I tried—thick as it felt in my head, I tried, and…”
Heinrix said nothing, just held her more tightly for a moment and kissed her hair.
Branwyn shuddered. “And before that, I thought—at the freight line, Monteg—” The words died in her throat.
“Did… he hurt you?”
Branwyn laughed bitterly. “He offered us a ride. I was going to take his hand, he said he would help get us back—” She swallowed. “One of Kibellah's people stopped me before I went with him, got shot for it.”
“Throne.”
“...Giorek. His name was—is—Giorek. The Vizsier said he’ll live, but I'd be dead or worse if he hadn't—”
“You're alright,” Heinrix murmured. “You're safe now; I—” he broke off.
I won't let anything hurt you.
Branwyn let her eyes drift closed. “Heinrix,” she said softly. Another bitter laugh escaped. “It really should’ve been Bran here instead of me. Maybe this whole enterprise wouldn't have been such a comical series of disasters.”
“I think Bedwyr is doing just fine.”
She sighed heavily. “You are the only person in the Koronus Expanse who thinks so, but. Thank you, all the same.”
“One out of two isn't so bad.”
“One out of three, I should think; I doubt Xavier's opinion on me has improved much since the letter opener incident.”
Heinrix said nothing.
Branwyn pulled away just enough to look up at him. “...Heinrix?”
“Unless he sought the report separately, I. Did not mention your old name. It did not seem relevant. According to all administrative records after the Kalation’s hull breach, Branwyn was delivered by the Ordo Malleus to the Scholastia Psykana, Branwyn served on the Noctis Audaciam, Branwyn was delivered to Theodora von Valancius and Branwyn is now the head of that dynasty.”
“I…”
“If the Ordo Malleus didn't seem to think it a concern, I see no reason to dispute their assessment, and it’s certainly not worth starting a fight with the Adeptus Administratum.” A brief wry smile graced his features before he took one of her hands from his chest and lifted it to his lips. “For my part, the name is not as important as the woman wearing it.”
Branwyn stared at him. “That. I…”
“Unless you want it to be.”
“N-no, that's not—” she laughed awkwardly. “I am. Content.”
“Oh?”
“More than content; I'm glad. That someone knows who I was. That it's you.” She looked away briefly. “It's nice to have a secret that can't hurt anyone.”
“...Yes,” he said. “I don't have many like that.”
“You have me,” she said, regretting it almost immediately for the way his expression fell. A quickly added, “That is, if you want to,” only seemed to make it worse.
Rather than consoled, he looked haunted. “It is… still not a lack of wanting,” he said quietly.
“Heinrix?”
“I… My life. Isn't mine.”
“I know… a little of how that goes.” She smiled weakly and brushed her fingers against the edge of the bandage over her implant, carefully trying to banish an itch with a little bit of pressure.
“Here, let me.” Heinrix moved her hand away, his touch featherlight as he eased a pleasantly numbing cold into her forehead.
Branwyn shuddered, sighed. “I'm getting very tired of things insistent on barging into my head,” she muttered. “It’s become a pattern since I arrived on the Voidtreader.”
“Has… the presence you felt after Kunrad wounded you, has it been back?”
“No, thank the Emperor.” Branwyn ran her thumb across the scar on her left palm. “Not since you drove that thing out of my mind at Kiava Gamma. Uralon the Cruel? I don't think it was him, maybe just connected to him, but whatever you did… I haven't felt it in my mind since.”
“What I banished was some poor soul acting as Uralon’s intermediary, most likely,” said Heinrix. “If such a traitor to the Imperium had been directly attacking your mind, I don’t—” his fingers brushed at her temple as his eyes scanned the bloody bandage, “I don't think there's anything I could've done for you.”
“Other than killing me,” she said.
His gaze snapped to hers. “Never,” he said firmly.
She stared up at him. “Heinrix, I wouldn’t want to live bound to something like that, as a prisoner or a slave or worse; the damage I could do, I—” she broke off. “You weren't there, when Edelthrad died, but it was horrible. Like the Bloodletter, like—” Meeting his eyes was too painful; she let her gaze fall and found herself staring ahead at the blood-spattered Inquisitorial Rosette hanging from his neck. “If that happened, or something like Monteg had succeeded, I know, realistically, what you would have to do—”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “Branwyn—”
She continued, “—and I expect that you would perform that duty as swiftly and efficiently as possible.”
Silence, then a soft, “Do not ask that of me.”
“You would choose your remaining ‘debt’ to the Throne over me in everything but this, where I am asking—” Her throat was tightening, as if all the fear that anger had pushed out while she was facing the Sire had returned tenfold and was threatening to drown her in it. She was shaking.
“I—” Heinrix bent to put his forehead to hers, “I am not proud of that,” he said hoarsely.
She found herself clutching at his arms. “I don't need you to be proud. I need to know that the man I love will protect what matters to me, even from me if necessary.”
The words stood between them like a gallows.
“...Please,” he whispered. “Do not ask this of me. It will not come to that.”
Branwyn closed her eyes. “My life up to this point does not give me much optimism in that regard. And besides, ‘a psyker losing control isn't an if, it's a when.’ Does it make much difference if the control is lost or wrested away?”
Heinrix gave a strained laugh. “Do you only remember what I say when it's inconvenient?”
“No, but that's probably when I'm more likely to bring it up,” she murmured. “Or to show I was paying attention. It's not like you generally need the reminder when I agree with you.”
He clicked his tongue, forcing a laugh after. “Insufferably impeccable logic as always, Lord Captain.”
“It makes me very irritating, especially at regicide.”
“Extremely,” he murmured. He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. “But there is no one else I would rather play against.”
“Well, good. I'm not planning to go out in a blaze of Warp any time soon, or let anyone waltz around in my head to puppet me, so you're probably stuck with me until—” she swallowed, “until Xavier calls you away.”
Heinrix sighed softly. “Branwyn…”
“I'm sorry, I know—I know it is a cruel thing to ask of you. Even to consider. But I'm afraid, Heinrix. And every day I find more reason to be—”
He kissed her again, more deeply, and she leaned into it, into him. “I should’ve been with you,” he murmured.
“Heinrix—”
He stopped her with another kiss. “But I’m here now.”
“Yes,” she whispered, finding patches of his jacket that weren’t stiff with dried blood where she could rest her hands.
His mouth returned to hers before trailing slowly along her jaw, placing unhurried presses of his lips against her skin until he could whisper against her ear, “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Branwyn was unable to help the tremble that spread through the whole of her, the hitch in her breath that was more pained than eased.
He noticed, hesitated. “Do you want me to stop?”
She couldn't form an answer immediately and he drew back, looking down at her. Readying himself to let her go. How much was basic decency, and how much was him still waiting for her to change her mind, to push him away? She flexed her fingers against his jacket, her eyes again on his Inquisitorial Rosette. The golden badge of his office was glimmering in the dim light, streaks of darkness marring it with the sticky sheen of dried or drying blood. She wondered how much of it was hers.
“Branwyn?” he said softly.
“I want… a night without this between us.” She traced the edge of the Rosette with her fingers, watched the swell of his chest from a sharp intake of breath.
He moved to tuck the insignia inside his jacket; she stopped his hand.
“Branwyn?”
“Without…” her face was warming. “It could… be a night without anything between us. If you wanted.”
“I… I would. Like that.”
She slipped her arms around his neck, lifting the chain up and over his head before carefully placing the Rosette on the regicide board. She slid the table cover over it, the loudest sound in the room the soft click as it settled into place.
Heinrix was still—terribly still—and watching her intently. She laced her fingers behind his neck and pulled him down into a kiss, slow and deep. His hands found her waist, drew her to him before sliding to linger near the small of her back and he was warm, so warm and close. His fingers flexed as she opened her mouth against his; her hands wandering from his neck down to his shoulders. There was still a tension, certainly, but almost apologetic—there was no frantic desperation, no knowledge of other immediate obligations, no looming interruption.
There was plenty of time for her to entirely ruin the mood on her own, without outside interference.
“I,” she murmured against his mouth, “wanted to play this much more smoothly but I do not understand how your spaulders are attached.”
There was a pause. She could feel Heinrix shaking as he tried not to laugh.
“Your restraint is remarkable, considering,” she said.
He took one of her hands, pressing her fingers to his lips as he composed himself. “How about,” he murmured, voice low and dark in a way that brought even more heat to her face, “I show you how they work, and then you show me what to do with my restraint.”
“...Yes,” she said, when she could organize her thoughts into speech. “I. Like the sound of that.”
He kissed her again. He didn't stop for a very long time.
Heinrix strode into Branwyn's office, swearing quietly to himself for rising so late. True to her word, Filiberta had left his clothing—freshly cleaned and neatly pressed—on top of Branwyn’s dresser. She had even collected what visible gear he'd been too careless to properly store, an oversight he could not afford to repeat even with the inferni purged from the ship, but his Rosette was still hidden in the regicide board. He sighed at himself, buckling a bracer into place, and became suddenly aware that the quiet figure in the corner of the office was not Filiberta or one of Branwyn's other attendants, but Abelard. A stack of paperwork was in his hands, in the process of being placed on Branwyn's desk.
Heinrix froze.
“I… did not hear the lift,” said Abelard, expression unreadable.
“No,” said Heinrix.
“Her Ladyship is sleeping in?”
“Yes,” said Heinrix, seeing no point in pretending he didn't know.
Abelard looked him over, one eyebrow rising slowly. “Perhaps you possess some skill at consolation, after all?” he suggested.
“I…” Heinrix opened the cover on the regicide board and retrieved the Rosette, replacing it around his neck while steadfastly avoiding eye contact. “At the least, I made an attempt.”
Abelard snorted. “What more can any man do?” He returned his attention to the papers. “Good day, Master van Calox.”
“Good day, Master Werserian.”
