Nicodemus had been three years older than Cor, built like one of the Adeptus Astartes and twice as mean. He’d looked out for Cor ever since their parents, a captain and a strategos savant, had been killed when their Aquila crashed over the ash wastes.
His older brother had put out three of Big Augie’s teeth when he kept stealing Cor’s water ration, and had gone in search of two uphive nobles who’d thought it was funny to throw rocks at Cor and his friends when they’d been walking by one of the exterior lifters.
And now he was gone. The ash-blight had gotten into Nicodemus’ lungs and he’d deteriorated fast, his skin losing what little colour it had and his eyes filling with black fluid. A hacking cough had bent him double until he was retching blood onto the sheets every day. Counterseptics didn’t help, nor did any of the medicines Sister Caitriona was able to obtain from her Order.
Nicodemus had rallied over the last few days and had been able to keep down some moist bread and soup. Cor had heard of folk who’d recovered from the blight and his heart had soared at the prospect of his brother beating this sickness like he’d beaten everything else in life.
Now he was dead and Cor was truly alone.
He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a tiny mechanical toy he’d been given by a pretty girl on the day his parents had died. A tiny clockwork dancer, he’d treasured it all through the years, but now he just wanted to smash it to pieces. Tears spilled down his cheeks, but instead of breaking the dancer, he placed it in Nicodemus’ palm and closed his cold fingers over the warm metal.
‘You take her. I hope she dances for you at the Emperor’s side.’
‘He was your brother?’
Cor pulled the filthy sheets up over the dancer and turned on his stool. The old man they’d brought in was awake. He’d drifted into unconsciousness almost as soon as Strang and Pasco laid him down, and Sister Caitriona had warned them he might not wake up. Zara had cleaned the blood from his head wound and Sister Caitriona stitched it closed before wrapping the man’s hairless head in clean bandages.
‘Yeah, he was.’
‘The… What was it you called it? The blight?’
Cor nodded and the old man let out a wheezing sigh. ‘You have my sympathies. I have seen many people succumb to all manner of sicknesses over the years. It is never easy.’
Cor wanted to tell the old man to shut up, to stop talking, but Sister Caitriona had taught him better than that. The man was a guest in their house, and guests were always to be treated with courtesy.
‘I wish he hadn’t died,’ said Cor, hating the childishness of his words as the tears flowed all over again. ‘I wish I had him back again. I miss him.’
The old man swung his legs out from his bed, and Cor was struck by how wiry and muscular they were. The one that had been bent strangely was swollen and purple at the joint, but didn’t seem to be giving the old man too much pain. The man reached over and handed him a square of soft cloth.
‘To wipe your eyes,’ he explained. Cor dried his tears and handed the cloth back to the old man, who neatly folded it and placed it under his threadbare pillow.
‘What’s your name, boy?’ asked the old man.
‘Cor. It’s Cor.’
‘Is that short for something?’
‘Corvus. Sister said he was some important man from history.’
The old man nodded. ‘He was one of the Emperor’s Primarchs. A hero, they say. Didn’t your parents teach you any history?’
Cor shrugged. ‘I don’t remember. They died when I was little.’
‘Ah, well, one should always pay attention to history. Those who don’t will only repeat the mistakes of the past,’ said the old man, reaching up to touch the wound on his scalp.
His fingers came away tipped with blood.
‘Does that hurt?’ asked Cor.
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘I imagine it should, but I do not feel anything. Is that a good or a bad sign, do you suppose?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bad, I should think,’ said the old man. ‘Pain should be embraced, it keeps us alive and teaches us valuable lessons. It tells us not to be so stupid the next time we think of trying something reckless.’
The old man twisted around to take in his surroundings.
‘Tell me, boy, where am I? I don’t recognise this place.’
‘Saint Karesine’s,’ said Cor, wiping his eyes dry again.
‘A schola progenium?’
Cor nodded.
‘How did I get here?’
‘Me and the others found you in a sump pool at the edge-drifts. Looked like you’d been attacked or you’d fallen from higher up the spire.’
‘Like I’d fallen?’
‘Yeah, maybe from one of the commercia levels.’
‘How curious,’ said the old man.
‘Hey, do you remember your name yet?’
The old man looked thoughtful for a moment, his brow furrowing as he chewed his bottom lip.
