Chapter 245: Blue and Red and Blue
Outside the castle, the honor guard still played their hymns, and the red and blue sea flowed slowly.
Magnus felt pleased.
Teaching and the pursuit of knowledge were both virtues—the former leading the way, the latter chasing after hope.
The sun had always been there, blazing fiercely. As one who had witnessed the light, Magnus had sworn countless times to bring humanity out of its ignorant cave.
Mankind deserved to live beneath the sun, not within the long darkness of the old world.
But the wise were always lonely. Even brothers—rarely did anyone truly understand Magnus's burning fervor.
Superstitious savages. Overbearing braggarts. Dull-witted ignoramuses.
Perhaps the last could still be saved, for not everyone was born with the keen eyes to gaze into and comprehend the wondrous Immaterium.
And so Magnus, with goodwill, answered Guilliman's questions patiently and with understanding.
The two Primarchs moved slowly through the ranks of the honor guard, their sons surrounding them. The weather was fine, and the sunlight shimmered brightly upon their ornate armor.
Generally speaking, the Crimson King Magnus had little to do with Roboute Guilliman.
Apart from the wise Khan or the all-knowing Perturabo, Magnus had always kept a deliberate distance from his brothers. They did not understand the world as he saw it. They lacked the spark of psychic brilliance.
Yes, Magnus was unique. Among his brothers, only he wielded the true authority of the Warp. The Father himself had promised him his uniqueness, his singularity.
Perhaps Sanguinius knew a thing or two about psychic arts, but his was only a shallow probing. Sanguinius lacked the necessary curiosity, and without that motivation he could not delve deeper.
At all times, a heart ablaze with the hunger for knowledge was essential and irreplaceable.
Magnus would never turn away a seeker of knowledge who approached with humility and restraint. To acquire knowledge was their right.
Magnus would not refuse—
Not even Roboute Guilliman, who bore not a single spark of psychic brilliance.
The understanding of the Warp required passion, imagination, a richness of thought. Guilliman was the very opposite of all these things.
Father of the Ultramarines, Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds—Guilliman lacked certain vital qualities of sensibility. He was a politician, a man who waged war with ledgers and tables. Such a man was ill-suited to the Warp.
Even if he were his brother, Magnus could only sigh helplessly. They were destined to remain strangers.
Yet on the way to the banquet, Guilliman stopped him with his politician's smile. Just as Magnus expected a stream of meaningless platitudes, Guilliman instead asked him about the psychic realm.
To be clear, Magnus disapproved of Guilliman's usual ways. The man was ambitious. While other Legions bled for the Imperium, Guilliman invested his strength and his Legion's efforts into the construction of the Five Hundred Worlds. Such arrogance could hardly be ignored.
Magnus was disinclined to speak with politicians. Even though the Lord of Macragge had read widely, Magnus doubted that a man who fought wars with an abacus could find much passion within books.
Yet Guilliman inquired about the Warp. His carefully measured question slithered like a serpent's tongue, hissing and tempting, making the Crimson King's heart itch.
"My brother, Magnus, you are the one among us who understands the Warp best. Would you have any interest in easing some of my confusions?"
At times, the urge to teach was harder to resist than the thirst to learn.
It seemed his brother wished to reform the Ultramarines' Librarius, but the Lord of Macragge was utterly ignorant of the Warp. He needed knowledge. He needed a teacher—
And who could better understand the psychic arts and the Immaterium than Magnus the Red?
Unless it was their Father himself, Guilliman could not possibly find a more suitable teacher than him.
Magnus answered Guilliman's questions with patience. Some of them were almost childish, but for someone who was not even a beginner, they were already deep enough.
Attending this banquet had been the right decision. After walking through the long honor guard, they would be able to sit in the spacious hall and continue their discussion. Even if Guilliman had no gift for it, Magnus was still willing to reveal to him the wonders of psychic power.
Seeing the two Primarchs talking happily, Ahriman—walking at Magnus's side—subtly let out a breath of relief, though even he did not know why.
In truth, before they had set out for this banquet, his tutelaries had shown signs of anxiety. Peok's once-brilliant wings had dimmed, while Hathormaat had curled himself into a corner of the chamber, shivering.
Under the guidance of the Crimson King Magnus, the Thousand Sons, versed in psychic arts, could summon their own tutelaries. These small beings, formed entirely of psychic energy, Ahriman had once believed to be angels.
His little angels appeared whenever he needed them, swarming like shoals of fish in the air, glimmering like sunlight on water—like eagles carved from miniature suns.
Later, in scholarly discourse, the term "angel"—laden with particular religious meaning—was discarded. Only the ignorant still used words like "angel" or "demon."
Even if they were not angels, they were beautiful enough.
But now his tutelaries were anxious. Ahriman knew what that meant: misfortune, failure.
They wanted to warn him of something.
Whatever it was, he would tread carefully in everything that might occur at the banquet.
Compared to his father, Ahriman was clearly far more worried.
Something was about to happen, and he had no idea what it was.
The servants bowed. The great doors opened slowly. The two Primarchs stepped inside. With their arrival, the guests of the banquet were now complete.
Hades set down his fork with practiced grace and rose to salute. But when he saw who entered, his right eye twitched violently.
The first to enter was the Lord of Macragge, Father of the XIII Legion Ultramarines—Roboute Guilliman.
His splendid royal-blue silk shimmered in the firelight. Upon his golden hair rested a wreath of green olive leaves. Guilliman was smiling—that flawless smile. He seemed like a wise monarch from antiquity, or perhaps like the perfect ideal printed on a campaign poster that could never exist in reality.
But most important of all—he looked like a perfectly normal man.
A normal man.
Hades would never admit that, in his heart, he cursed bitterly for a moment that he had not been born upon Macragge.
Then Guilliman smiled and turned back. Behind him was—
Magnus!
Hades froze for several seconds. In those few seconds, it felt as though he had already glimpsed thousands of tragic fates.
Slowly, with despair, he realized that today's banquet seemed to be a mistake.
His gaze shifted. He saw the Angel, still oblivious, drawing Mortarion along to greet their two brothers.
The only good news, perhaps, was this: if they did come to blows, the Angel would be able to overpower them all and keep order.
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