Chapter 14

The next few weeks were spent in a state of constant hunger and paranoia. Scorio found himself a wretched home on the fourth story of a half-collapsed building deep into the ruined zone, the streets blasted out and cracked, the chasm depths showing a fiery red and wafting up eerie heat that caused the air to shimmer.

By day he focused on his Igneous Heart, sought to draw closer to it, to manipulate it, to crack it open, to set it on fire. It defied his every attempt. He worked on the sooty black clouds that had returned, and which he began to associate with the ruins. Sought to become more adept at manipulating them, swirling them about his Heart, envisioning a huge paddle with which he strained against their blackmass.

It was hard work, and ultimately dispiriting. For no matter how hard he strained, he felt little improvement; the breakthroughs he’d enjoyed in the depths of the earth were what he enjoyed now, and despite ceaselessly working at triggering his treasures, here in the ruins he was barely able to make them last longer than the original six seconds.

He constructed theories and abandoned them. The bridge had lasted nearly thirty seconds in the skycrane yard because of that silky, iron-hued smoke. No; it had been his fear for his life that had caused him to imbue the bridge with such durability. Perhaps a combination of both—perhaps neither.

He toiled until he could bear it no longer, and then would leap up to climb to the broken roof and there lie on his back, gazing up at the distant ruins that revolved around Bastion’s interior, watching for movement, for flocks of bat-winged shadows that occasionally flew down the dark corridors during First and Second Clay. Came to know the curious, benign attention of the fiery salamanders, that seemed unceasingly curious about his presence.

Learned to avoid the blocks to his left, where an elongated, six-legged panther with eyes that burned the deepest amethyst prowled the ruins.

Discovered numerous vents that allowed him access to the underworld, but which he shunned for fear of never returning.

Twice he returned to Bastion proper, as he’d come to think of the civilized two-thirds of the city, and hunted for food, not daring to enter in conversation with anyone or even to beg. Instead, he watched, he waited, and when the lines were shortest stepped in to wait and fill one of his large buckets with dark, chunky green gruel that was dispensed by large, ponderous fountains that spewed the thick liquid into a huge basin from which countless people drew sustenance. The lines were continuous and at all hours, such that the basin never filled more than an inch at its base.

After that, it was easy to fashion a cowl from a stolen sheet hung out to dry, and enter in line, head bowed, a stolen bucket in hand. Nobody questioned him, though he caught more than one curious glance sent his way.

The water fountains were similarly busy, and after finishing his gruel, he’d swing by them to wash the remains of his meal down his gullet before heading back into the ruins by means of a tortuously circuitous route, buckets of water and gruel sloshing by his side, pausing frequently to hide and watch to see if he was followed.

He wasn’t.

And at night, lying in his dark room on his stolen sheet, he would hold up one of the blue vials and allow its light to play softly over the walls. For its siren call to tug at his soul, begging him to pop the cork, to inhale its pelagic substance, to risk it all out of desperation and wild hope.

He’d reason—what if this was exactly what he needed to progress? What if he was wasting his time laboring with his dead Heart, when the means to ignition lay at hand? He’d hold the vial, his thumb pressed to the stopper, poised to flick it open, and stare down at its swirling beauty for ages, frowning, arguing with himself, going back and forth, until at last caution won out and he’d put it back.

There was always tomorrow. Always another day in which he could open the vial if he made no progress. But if he did so now? He might lose its potency forever.

Fifteen days. He’d dedicate himself to his barren Heart for fifteen days, and if by then he’d achieved nothing, he’d open the vial.

The days came and went. He became familiar with his little neck of the ruins. The strange court filled with toppled statues, their cracked bodies and stylized faces strangely haunting. The hall whose ceiling still bore traces of a startlingly vivid fresco, one which depicted heroes in battle against a huge, squid-like monster descending from the skies, its form wreathed in black clouds, lightning bolts flying from its eye, easily the size of a city. Narrow streets choked with huge mussels, their shells shiny and tightly shut, but which opened in concert at random times to extend wavering feelers into the air. A small chamber in a random home in which a wooden cradle had survived the years, the wood sere and pale. He’d considered breaking it up for kindling, but some vague sense of pity stayed his hand.

And every day he wrestled with his impatience, his ambition, his need to ignite his Heart, and his constant failure to do so.

Until one night, as he lay in his room, a vial of swirling blue in hand, he had a visitor.

The sun-wire had darkened the equivalent of two cycles ago. The ruins outside were silent. The sun-wire never truly darkened, but instead reduced its glow to a smoky-red refulgence that did little to hold back the night other than faintly illumine outlines and cast the faintest of blood-hued light across the world.

Silence, darkness but for his vial, and a bank of frustration from another day without noticeable progress. Solitude, perfect and still.

And then somebody was there.

The awareness prickled at the edge of his senses, a vague intuition that caused him to glance aside without turning his head, and there crouched in the window was a dark shadow.

Fear slid into his chest like a clear, razor-sharp blade, and he jerked up, almost dropping the precious vial to the stone floor, hand snatching up his chalk as he stared, wide-eyed, at the figure who stepped slowly down into his room.

A woman, possibly. A massive, skeletal tail floated about her, looking to be made of ebon vertebrae, its tip ending in a foot-long triangular blade. She was tall but stood hunched over, as if ready to leap. In the darkness, it was hard to make out what was wrong with her head, but it appeared elongated, perhaps horned, her eyes burning with a noxious, inner green light. Her legs were reverse jointed like those of a wolf, and black hair hung in long, greasy locks about her hidden visage.

His breath locked up in his chest; he couldn’t move, couldn’t scrawl a line of chalk in the stone before him.

He could only watch as she twitched her head to one side and then the other, like a bird examining its prey, and approached slowly, her movements dream-like, her tail gently probing at the air as if knitting an invisible skein.

“Who are you?” Her voice was shockingly normal; that of a young woman, harsh perhaps from disuse, accusing and stern. “What are you doing here?”

Scorio blinked, some of his sense returning. “Scorio. I… I’m not doing anything. Just hiding. What… who are you?”

Her head ticked over, her burning green eyes never looking away. “That vial. Give it to me.”

Scorio closed his fist about the blue light. “It’s mine.”

“Give it to me and I won’t cut you to bloody ribbons.”

Scorio reached back without looking away from the… thing… and took up the velvet satchel. Sliding the vial home, he looped the satchel closed, then placed it inside his robe. He drew forth the chalk and bridge as he removed his hand, and held them at the ready.

“It’s mine,” he said again. “I won’t let you have it.”

“Are they worth dying for?” And with this she took a sudden step forward, causing him to jerk back, chalk held at the ready. “It’s of no use to you. Give it to me. Live.”

He licked his dry lips. Her voice. That of a sullen young woman. It was so at odds with her horrific appearance.

“Who are you?” he asked, playing for time.

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped, temper flaring. “I’ve been merciful thus far. Asked nicely. But try me and I’ll just take what I want.”

“And I already told you,” said Scorio softly, climbing up into a crouch. “I’m not giving it away.”

Her eyes narrowed, the twin green flames turning into slits, the huge tail growing more agitated. “Fool.”

And she leaped at him.

Scorio had been desperately envisioning his Igneous Heart, and now reached for the turgid black smoke, but there was none in the air; it was as if he’d been activating the bridge and steel rod all day and used it all up.

Still, there was barely enough to catch up, a wisp of darkness, and this he hurled into the bridge even as he aimed it up and at her.

He didn’t need the bridge to last six seconds. Just one would suffice.

It burst outward toward the leaping fiend, swelling to its full size in a second.

Yet somehow the creature pulled herself up onto the ceiling, evading the bridge’s destructive expansion, her talons sinking into the stone, burning green eyes opened wide.

“How did you do that?”

Scorio drew forth the iron rod. Began to retreat to the opposite door. “Just a trick I know.”

Again her head canted to one side, the movement almost mechanical. “I don’t sense any power in you. Yet… are you a Char?”

He paused, steel rod raised in the air, ready to activate it and run, though that would mean abandoning both it and the bridge. “What if I am?”

She shoved off the ceiling at an oblique angle and leaped to the far wall. Scorio turned with her, trying to keep up, but she shoved off that with impossible speed to blur in behind him, the huge tail wrapping around to place its bladed tip at his stomach, pricking the skin.

He couldn’t see her, but felt her breath on his ear as she leaned in close. “Answer the question before I decide I’m not really all that curious.”

“Yes,” he said, sweat prickling his brow, his steel rod still held uselessly in his hand. “Sure. I’m a Char.”

One of her talons tapped thoughtfully against his shoulder, delicately slashing open his robe with each flick. “A Char. Out here. With vials of Sapphire mana and toys beside. Scorio.”

“That’s my name, right.” He fought to keep his breath calm. “You never shared yours.”

“That’s right, I didn’t.”

Her hand slid across his body, dipped into his robe, and emerged clutching the black pouch. “Drop everything you’re holding.”

Scorio scowled, but there was no way he could evade her bladed tail with its wicked point already drawing blood.

He opened his hands, and the steel rod and chalk fell to the floor.

One of the long talons curled around to rest lightly against the side of his throat. “I must admit I’m curious. How did a Char come to hide out here with such wealth?”

“You’re the Nightmare Lady,” he said. “But you’re not a fiend. You’re a Great Soul like me.”

“Not like you,” she whispered, her voice throaty, amused. “I’m an Emberling, Scorio, while you’re a pitiful nothing.”

“Emberling. Wait. Not even a Dread Blaze?” The rankings came back to him as he worked it out. “You’re just one level above a Cinder?”

The talon’s edge pressed against the side of his neck, cutting his humor short.

“An Emberling, yes.” Her voice was a dark hiss. “But that’s more than enough. I could kill you, you know. Here in the dark. Cut you into red chunks so quickly you wouldn’t even realize you were dead as you fell to the floor. And nobody would know. The scavengers would eat your remains and then that would be it for Scorio, the Char with the big mouth and a lethal lack of common sense.”

Even though her words were chilling, there was something to her tone, to how she phrased her threat, that made him think that beneath the murderous intent there might be a twisted, dark sense of humor.

“Must be lonely, out here, with nothing but your fearsome reputation to keep you company.”

“I’ve no complaints.”

“But you still haven’t killed me. When’s the last time you had a conversation?”

The tail-blade stirred restlessly against his stomach and rose to his chest, further slashing his robes, but the movement seemed almost absent-minded.

“How about this,” he said. “We’ll make a deal. I’ll sit against one wall, you against the other, and I’ll tell you my story. But on one condition.”

“Conditions?” More of that dark amusement. “Oh, you’re a bold one.”

“You sit against the other wall in your natural form. Your human form.”

Her voice grew sharp. “Why?”

“You’re a scary-looking lady. I’m not sure I’ll be able to focus with you looking like that, all glowing green eyes and weird killer tail.”

There was a pause, and he wasn’t sure his gamble had paid off till she laughed, the sound low and husky; then she pushed him away, the tail undulating as if through water as it retracted.

Slowly, cautiously, he turned around, palms raised, and saw that the monstrous figure was gone, shrunken down to a shadow against the deeper dark. Together, step by step, they retreated to opposite walls, and then simultaneously slid down to sitting.

“There,” he said, crossing his legs and resting his palms on his knees. “This is practically civilized.”

“For now.” And it was surreal how her voice remained the same. “But don’t get ambitious. I can change back faster than you can blink.”

“Must be nice to be an Emberling,” he said. “It takes me about ten minutes to just get my Heart to notice me.”

Was that sharp inhale a snort of laughter? “You poor, poor Char. So go on, Scorio. Tell me your story. The longer you entertain me, the longer you’ll live.”

“You planning to kill me when we’re done?”

Her tone grew indolent. “Right now, yes. But we’ll see.”

“But… why? I’m not bothering you. You’re going to take my vials. Why kill me as well?”

“Keep asking annoying questions and we’ll cut to the chase.” And somehow, despite her frame having shrunken and lost its wicked tail, the woman managed to remain just as intimidating. “Now. How does a no-account Char end up in the ruins with treasures like these?”

So he told her. Hid nothing. About awakening in the Gauntlet, about how far he managed to progress, and then awakening in the Academy’s basilica.

“You made it to the Chamber of Balance?” There was mild skepticism in her voice, but not an outright challenge.

“Sure. Barely. How far did you get?”

“This is your story. So you awoke in the basilica and Praximar gave you his welcome speech.”

“Right. Began calling up those who did best at the Gauntlet. I was something like the eighteenth to be called up.”

“And that is when your fate was sealed. What did it reveal about you?”

Scorio hesitated. “That I was a Red Lister.”

No reaction, or at least, nothing he could make out in the shadowy murk. “No details? For shame. My patience shortens.”

“Sure. I was Scorio, once known as The Scourer, Unmaker of Joy, the Abhorred, Master of Ash and other such things.”

“Impressive list of titles.” Her amusement was back. “You must have been busy during your original life.”

“You seem strangely nonchalant about it.”

A sense of a shrug. “I’m known as the Nightmare Lady and live out in the ruins by choice. Did you expect me to be faint in horror?”

“Ha, no, all right. Anyway, the highest rank I’d ever attained was Blood Baron. And… the weirdest part—to me, anyway—was the fact that it had been over two centuries since I’d last lived. And that I’d only been reborn six times.”

He heard her shift her weight, lean forward. “Now that is interesting. If you’re telling me the truth.”

“I am.”

“Which is of course what you’d say. But regardless, it makes for an interesting tale. Let us assume you’re not lying. I’ve never heard of the like either. Not two centuries, at any rate.”

“Everyone else seemed to have been reborn within five or so years of dying. Why do you think it took me so long?”

“Your tale, remember?”

“If you’re going to kill me, at least satisfy that one curiosity.”

A pensive silence. “The Archspire calls bound souls back into service. They explained that much to you?”

“Something like that. And siphons off some of their power in the process which it then gives to those who did best at the Gauntlet.”

“Making the strong even stronger, yes.” Another pensive pause, but this one seemed almost hesitant, as if she were deciding how much to share. “I’ve heard it said that the mightier the soul, the more they can resist the Archspire’s summons, if they so desire.”

Scorio leaned forward. “So—wait. If you are reborn within a year of your death, you’re weak?”

“Or simply willing. It takes strength and desire both to refuse the call. Supposedly.”

“What about you? Were you a Red Lister?”

“Continue your story, Scorio the Abhorred. You may once have been a Blood Baron, but right now you’re nothing.”

“Right, sure.” He leaned back against the wall. “Praximar had me thrown into a holding cell, where he… well.” Scorio’s throat tightened up. “He took my strength, or something, then had me thrown through the Final Door.”

“Sounds just like that bastard.” Her voice was hard, but he couldn’t tell if there was sympathy in it. “So how did you escape?”

“There were some others in there. They’d been working on an escape plan. It… didn’t go well, at least, not for everyone involved, but I managed to get out of the warrens—that’s what they called the tunnels just outside the Final Door—and into the caverns beneath the ruins.”

“You’re skipping intriguing details.”

So he told her. About Havert and Hestia, Sal and Nissa. Their cave, their plan, the contraption made of ropes and wheels that had allowed them to haul open the Brass Door, and the fiend that had come through.

“A purple mox,” she said. “I can see how that would tear through a bunch of Chars.”

“Because you’d have been able to stop it?”

Her amused silence was all the answer he received.

So he continued with his tale, but when he reached the part involving Radert’s corpse, he didn’t mention the chalk. Just omitted that one detail and kept going, right up to the point where he emerged into Bastion and saw the sun-wire for the first time.

“Your whole story is ridiculously improbable,” said the woman. “And that you accomplished all that as a Char? You’ve been blessed with equally ridiculous luck.”

“Are you saying I was lucky to survive my bad luck?”

“Precisely so.” Again that sense of amusement. “But all right. So how did you come across these vials?”

He moved quickly through the rest of the story, and she made no further comment, not as he spoke of following Helena and Feiyan, of his meeting with Dola, and his ill-fated mission in the skycrane yard. How he chose to retreat to the ruins and focus on trying to ignite his Igneous Heart.

“It hasn’t been going well, has it?” she asked.

“No,” said Scorio, shifting his weight uneasily on the stone floor. “Not yet, at any rate. I had hopes of managing it soon, however, right up till you showed up.”

“Tragic.” Her tone made it clear she thought it was anything but. “But unsurprising, despite your obvious luck and talent. You can’t ignite a Heart without knowing what you’re doing.”

“Then tell me,” he said, leaning forward. “How is it done?”

She rose smoothly to her feet, and in the depths of darkness, her form shifted, growing taller, more angular, skeletal, and terrifying. “Alas,” she whispered. “We’re out of time. Thank you for the entertainment. Perhaps we’ll meet again in a few centuries’ time.”

“Wait,” said Scorio, climbing to his feet. “You don’t need to do this. I can leave the area, I can go into the city proper.”

“You’re right. I don’t need to do this. But I’ve a reputation to maintain. If I start letting people go, people will start thinking I’m really not all that dangerous. And where would that leave me?”

“I’ll obviously keep my mouth shut.”

“Sure you would. No. It’s been… surprisingly enjoyable to meet you, Scorio the Abhorred. But all good things must come to an end.”

“Then—a proposal.”

She paused.

His mind raced. “I’m just a Char, right? You’re a mighty Emberling?”

“Watch your tone.”

“Oh, I am.” He rubbed his sweaty palms on his hips. “You’re bored. Don’t deny it. So, a little more entertainment. A challenge.”

He could barely make out her massive tail as it swayed languorously through the air, and realized almost too late that her silence was permission to speak on. “You’ve got your territory, don’t you? I’m sure it’s a secure location. You know the alleys, the hidey holes. My challenge is this: I’ll take you down within the next three days. And if I do, you’ll agree to teach me how to ignite my Igneous Heart.”

She scoffed. “You’ll simply run the moment I leave.”

“Run where? To do what? I told you, I want nothing from the Dola’s of this world. I want to ignite my Igneous Heart, and you just said it can’t be done without instruction. I need what you know. So I’ll fight you for it.”

“You.” She paused. “Will defeat me.” Not a question. A repetition, as if she were tasting the words, trying them on for size.

“Within three nights. If I’ve failed by the end of the third night, just hunt me down and kill me.”

She straightened from her crouch. “Intriguing. More amazing still, I believe you mean it. Though were I in your position, I’d probably be willing to do the same. All right. Three nights. I’ll be waiting for you, Scorio. And this will be the last game you play.”

“Great.” He fought the urge to exhale in relief. “Then I’ll be seeing you around, Nightmare Lady.”

“Sooner than you think.” And she drifted through the room, a dark, angular mass, and disappeared back out through the window.

For long, aching moments Scorio just stood there, heart pounding, then he hurried to the center of the room and dropped to his knees. He felt around and picked up the chalk.

The bridge and steel bar, however, were gone.