The Emperor loves no one man, thought Guilliman. He cannot afford affection – that is the honest practical for the impossible task that faces the Master of Mankind. He did not love His sons, He does not love men, but He does love mankind. I find it hard to forgive Him. Did His solution have to be built on lies? Lies upon lies?

Mathieu’s question pushed Guilliman deeper into melancholy. More than anything, he yearned to speak with his foster father Konor one more time. He had been a noble soul, one who could be trusted. A true father.

Had you not died before the Emperor arrived in Ultramar, would I have abandoned you as quickly as my brothers abandoned their adoptive families? he asked himself.

He knew the answer to that, and it shamed him. No one is immune to the effects of such power, he told himself, but that did not make the truth any more palatable.

He understood. He knew what his father wanted to achieve, and why. Facing things like Qaramar brought it home to him time and again. Knowing what opposed mankind made him see the utility of lies. Could Guilliman honestly say he loved all the men who called himself his sons? He barely knew them, especially now – Cawl’s blasphemous hordes in particular. They, too, were a means to an end. He and his ‘father’ had that in common. The mantle of rulership was weighty, and moulded the man that bore it.

I never wanted to be a tyrant, thought the primarch. Perhaps my father did not wish to be so either. History has roles for us that cannot be denied. We are but pieces on the board of eternity.

‘My lord,’ said Mathieu into the primarch’s silence. ‘Please tell me, does the Emperor love us?’

We are so much more like you than you ever intended, thought Guilliman. You gave too much of yourself to us. Without realising, in your arrogance, you made yourself a father in truth. We are your sons, in every way. Did you see that?

‘My lord?’ said Mathieu

‘The Emperor loves us all,’ lied Roboute Guilliman. He looked over the broken statue and the few remains of the clock. ‘Now leave me be, Mathieu. I must consult with the tribune and the tetrarch.’

Guilliman left Mathieu kneeling in the dust, and went to the gates of the cathedral where Tribune Colquan, Tetrarch Felix and the rest gathered. Upon the steps outside, he unlocked his helmet, revealing his face to Espandoria Tertio’s muggy day. He breathed air free of taint other than that of honest decay. The Plague God’s influence had receded. He closed his eyes, and let the sun dry the sweat on his skin.

‘It is done,’ said Guilliman. ‘We leave Espandor tonight.’

‘What are our plans, my lord?’ asked Colquan.