My mind extends across this chamber that others call the Throne Room, upwards to the cloth-of-gold baldachin suspended above the Throne, a vast canopy embroidered with the contradictory yet intertwined principles of concordia and discordia that frames the electric-blue aura of my great lord’s light; outwards from the Throne’s massive plinth, carved from the psychoreactive material known on the craftworlds as wraithbone, and inset with psycurium and dark glass panels, tourmaline and aerolithic moldavite; past silent Uzkarel and Caecaltus at their posts, past the gleaming ranks of their Hetaeron companies at attention beyond them; out, like a rushing tide across the lustrous floor of sectile marble and ouslite; across the susurrating banks of stasis generators, archeotech regulators, and psykanic amplifiers that surround and feed the Throne, prophylactic mechanisms brought here in haste and urgently set to work when the folly of Magnus cracked the harmonised serenity of this adytum; past the diligent conclaves of the Adnector Concillium in their cowls and chasubles, standing amid the fat snakes and intestinal loops of power cables, ministering to the operation of these murmuring devices; then further out, along the frightful height and breadth of the cyclopean nave itself, a canyon turned upside down; between the soaring auramite columns rising like the trunks of mature Sequoiadendron giganteum, the Solomonic pillars of twisted bronze, the acanthus-headed colonettes, the gargantuan scissor arches; beneath the shining, ornate electro-flambeaux strung like stalactite pendants from the dizzying ceiling, and between the lumen orbs that float like infant suns; on, past echelons of burnished automata maintaining talismatic psycho-systems; past empty, scarlet-cushioned stalls where once the High Lords of the Council gathered, and the void-manic worthies of the Navis Nobilite awaited audience; past the golden pulpits of the cataleptic astropaths, adrift in algolagnic fugues; around the clattering dream-dynamos and stegosaurian oniero-looms; past the hypnostatic augury kilns breathing steam and dripping myrrh, and the affirmatrix prognometers leaking synthetic plasma, and exhaling the smell of industrially recovered nightmares; past the scriptorums of the noctuaries; past brass reliquaries and vitrodur grails; past mother-of-pearl loggia where bewitched diviners and incanting prognostipractors sift and read the ribbon-tapes of transcribed glossolalia spilled from the chattering indifference engines, searching for morsels of meaning; past prophesires swinging thuribles, and technoseers wheeling scrimshandered feretories; past mendicants in penance at their kneeling desks and anchorites bearing electro-generative monstrances; on, through the sound of melismatic antiphon and canticle welling from the mouthless choirs in chantry niches, screened by lace-pattern iconostases so they cannot catch sight of him and forget the words; past regiments of catachumen observants, seeking expiation and brimming with eucharistic ardour; along the walls of porphery and mica mosaic, frescoes of death’s-head putti and cackling ephebes that conceal hidden figures of alchemy; past engraved genealogies, and past the blazoned armorial hatchments of the twenty Legions, all but eight now shrouded in amaranthine drapes of mourning; past the iron tabernacles of the chimerical brethrendae composing, as rapidly and ceaselessly as they can, via feverish automatic writing, new variations of the material truth in a frantic effort to mediate and divert the impending bow wave of fate; past flocks of scurrying serfs and deferential abhumans, all blindfolded so they can remain present and sane at the same time, all rushing to deliver reports that no longer matter; past Zagreus Kane, the Fabricator-in-exile, with his coterie of adepts, weeping for the decimation of his battle engines, and plotting the deployment of the few that remain; past acres of empty marble floor where one day we will have to place tombs; past the great banners of liberty and victory that hang like waterfalls from the high walls every step of the nave’s six-kilometre length; beneath the vaulted gloom of the ceiling, wrought of Peruvian gold and tromp l’oeil and crystal mined on Enceladus, a ceiling a kilometre high; past the silent, waiting companies of the refulgent Custodes Pylorus who make their motionless vigil at the door, whispering their ever-mantra of by His will alone, to the ceramite and adamantine door itself, the Silver Door, the innermost gate of eternity.
26.02.2023, 05:09
Ну так а чем ваха не война и мир?
Война и ересь.
Сомневаюсь что он читал Льва Толстого, оно и к лучшему.
Абнетт - русский Ванька, дело раскрыто !
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