Chapter 41

Scorio awoke in a tomb of hammered copper and immediately sat up, gasping for air. He clutched at his chest, dug fingers into the muscle over his heart, and just sat there, staring at the wall before him.

“I did it,” he whispered, relaxing his hand as the panic ebbed. He glanced about the tomb, sharpened his darkvision, and ignited his Heart, then leaped out into the endless chamber before the ancient Gauntlet entrance. Landing in a crouch, he stared around the plain of tombs.

No movement.

The distant beam of pale light soared as ever before, but for once Scorio ignored it. “Leonis? Lianshi?”

No response. He took a few steps and swept his darkvision over the tomb entrances, trying to sense any movement. Anything at all.

“Naomi?”

No response.

“Damn,” he hissed, and dropped into a crouch, cupping his hands before his mouth. He alone had escaped the Imperator’s control.

What should he do? His gaze flickered from side to side, unseeing, as he tried to come up with options. A plan. Anything at all.

He could obviously just wait in here until the threat passed. But that would mean abandoning his friends, abandoning the other Great Souls, and abandoning Bastion to Imogen.

Not an option.

He’d return to the bier after he died. But if the death were traumatic enough, it would take him precious minutes to overcome the psychic pain. He had to think of a way to die easily, a death which he could recover from without too much difficulty.

Nothing came to mind, so he set that challenge aside for now. Assuming he could come up with such a death, then what? He’d appear atop the bier, laid out and plainly visible.

What could he do?

Nothing.

If a Charnel Duchess like the White Queen couldn’t pierce Imogen’s protective powers, he had no chance.

But there had to be something.

What did he have on his person? Not right now, but when he’d materialize? His dagger, his chalk, his bridge, his steel bar. All toys compared to Imogen. Even his chalk would fail to stop her, as all she’d need do would be to tear the invisible wall free of the ground on which it was marked.

A protective cube? But no. Even if he could protect himself, what would that accomplish?

Imogen was there, and now she had control over the other Great Souls.

Scorio closed his eyes tight against the rising wave of panic and forced his mind to still.

There had to be a way. Something he could do. He’d have the element of surprise. How could he best use it?

Biting his lower lip, Scorio rubbed at his chin. He had to approach this logically. Fear would just scramble his thoughts forever. He had no ability to stop her physically. To hurt her physically. No powers, no techniques, nothing.

Even if he found a way to trigger his Emberling challenge, he’d still be inconsequential.

He thought back to every exchange he’d witnessed. She’d repelled countless attacks that would have obliterated him… but she’d also spoken to people. She’d spoken with Praximar, with the White Queen.

Could he reason with her? Convince her to relent?

Scorio grimaced and rubbed at his face. He knew nothing about her, just that she wished to go to Ettera and was furious when she found the Portal closed. Could he work with that?

After squatting for a few moments longer, he realized he didn’t have much choice.

He rose smoothly to his feet. Now to die. What was the most peaceful way to go?

An idea came to him, and he began running toward the great beam. Racing over the rough ground, he dodged around the higher ridges and sprinted right at the great shaft of pale golden light.

He hit it at his customary all-out sprint and leaped into a dive.

Punching through into the bladed chamber, he arced gracefully over the downward sweep of the scimitar.

Scorio hit the ground in a roll and came up to his feet. But this time he’d didn’t wait for the blades to disappear—he dashed right back to where the rapier hovered, fixed in space, and edged before it.

Chest heaving, stomach clenching, instincts screaming at him to stop, he lowered his neck to its hovering, stationary tip, and forced himself against it in a wild thrust.

The razor-sharp edge sliced open the side of his neck, and immediately hot blood flooded out of the deep gash.

Scorio sank back against the wall and fought the urge to clamp his hand to the wound. He sank to the ground, the blades disappearing above him, and blinked stupidly at the far wall with its black door.

Sat there, and waited to die.

He grew slowly warmer. The arterial blood spattered over the dirt and drenched his shoulder, his arm, then his side. His heart throbbed, beat erratically, then began to slow.

Scorio felt himself grow drowsy, his body numb, his mind drifting away. He lowered his head, blinked one last time, and died.

Only to come to atop the bier. There was pain in the side of his neck, but nothing paralyzing; he felt weak, but not debilitated.

Forcing his eyes to focus, he turned his head and took in the basilica. The Great Souls stood arrayed about its breadth, all of them watching Imogen with neutral expressions. Within arm’s reach stood Leonis, Lianshi, Naomi. The black fog had dropped to knee height, though it still flowed up the walls, obscuring the balconies and domes.

It was as if they all existed within a hemisphere of perfect, undulating night.

Imogen floated before the Archspire, one hand pressed to its fluted sides, her head bowed.

Scorio didn’t move. Held himself perfectly still for fear that sudden action might draw her attention. His thoughts were woolen, lucidity stealing slowly back, but terror helped sharpen his wits.

He’d have only one chance to gain her attention. If he got this wrong, a tendril of fog would consume him.

A deep, slow breath, and then he sat up.

The Great Souls closest to him turned to stare, though Imogen remained still.

I understand your anger? No, how could I? Her pain? I’m on her side? I’ll help her—no, how could I—?

His thoughts came to a fever pitch and before he knew what he was saying, he opened his mouth and spoke.

“They tried to kill me. The Great Souls of Bastion. They wanted me dead.”

Imogen’s head moved a fraction of an inch to the side, and he felt her attention fall upon him, causing his heart to miss a beat and stutter under the pressure.

“They said I was a Red Lister.” He fought to keep his voice calm. “And that I didn’t deserve to live. They threw me through the Final Door and forgot about me.”

She floated as before for a second longer, then half-turned to regard him, her lips thinned, her brows lowered, her dark eyes thoughtful. “Why are you telling me this?”

Scorio suppressed the sharp spike of excitement, schooled his features into absolute neutrality. “Because I, too, want to change this world. I want to break that which doesn’t work and bring justice.”

Meeting her dark gaze steadily was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But he drew on his will, his desire to help his friends, and forced his lips into a wry smile. “So, on some pitiful, low level, I understand what you’re trying to do.”

The weight upon his shoulders doubled, and he bit back a groan as his spine compressed.

“What could a Cinder know of the goals of an Imperator?”

“Clearly very, very little.” He paused as if pretending to consider, certain manic energy entering his mind. “I mean, incredibly little. But you’re still human, are you not? You feel pain. Anger. Loss.”

Her frown deepened and he quickly changed his tack.

“And I just wanted to let you know that I don’t judge.” Time to play a wild card. “It’s not your fault. What happened to you. You didn’t deserve this. None of it. All your pain, your outrage. I might not be able to understand it, but because of who I am, I can respect it. I can respect what you’re doing, and why.”

Still, she considered him, as if he were a fragment of a puzzle she couldn’t quite decide where to place. “And?”

“And I thought these moments of yours didn’t need to be so lonely.” Another wild conjecture. “You’ve been without someone to witness your brand of justice for so long. I thought I might in some small way provide that audience. Someone to see the greatness you are about to accomplish, and, ah, be sure that it’s never forgotten.”

It was disconcerting to the extreme to have her study him. The shadows coiled and curled above them, and he realized that every Great Soul in the room was staring at him, from the White Queen close at hand to Grunsch and Raugr at the far side of the room.

Scorio forced another dry swallow and held onto his wry smile like a drowning man to a raft.

“You would witness my deeds?” She spoke as if testing the words, tasting them. “Wait.” And her gaze changed. Became more charged, more piercing. “Wait. I know you.”

Her words sent shivers down his body. “You do?”

“Another life. A past life.” She pursed her lips in thought, and then her eyes widened. “Scorio. Bringer of Ash and Darkness. But how reduced you are.”

Scorio spread his arms apologetically. “I was reborn but a few months ago. I am, alas, but a Cinder. But you remember me? How?”

She waved the question aside impatiently. “Imperators regain all the memories of their past lives. But yes, it is you.” Her smile was if anything all the more unnerving for being warm and genuine. “How strange. That you should be here at the end.”

Scorio’s mind raced as he tried to work this revelation into his approach. “Then you know me. The real me. We were friends?”

Imogen’s dark eyes continued to devour him. “Companions, yes. You helped me destroy Ivaskar against the Herdsmen’s wishes. We bent knee together to the Ul-Master, only for you to betray him in his moment of victory.” Her smile turned bleak. “Your titles were always well earned.”

“I see. These memories are lost to me. But I would be your companion again, even if only for the last few moments. To witness your opening the Portal.”

“What a pity you are but a useless, empty Cinder. To come this close and find you so diminished. But such are the cruelties of hell.”

“Too many to count,” said Scorio.

“Too many. Very well. You may witness my final act as an Imperator, Scorio.” And she turned back to the Archspire, bowing her head once more.

Scorio licked his dry lips and glanced down as the dark fog withdrew from the base of his bier. The closest Great Souls continued to watch him, though the others turned their attention back to Imogen.

It was eerie to see his friends so drained of personality and intelligence. Their mute gazes were unblinking. Could she see through their eyes? How much autonomy did they have?

But no matter; he’d won his first victory. She’d not dominated his mind out of hand. But now what? To keep her talking? Her last words had been almost a dismissal. If he annoyed her, she might destroy him sooner than ask him to be quiet.

Carefully, slowly, he slid his legs over the edge of the bier. The black fog retreated farther, and he stood, fighting back a wave of dizziness.

“I lied, before,” said Imogen suddenly, not looking back. “It occurs to me now that you’ve been a constant companion for some time now.”

“Oh?” He tried to sound only mildly curious. “That’s great. But how so, if I’ve been, ah, dead?”

“In my labyrinth,” she said, and he felt something in the air buckle as she pressed mightily against it, like some vast sheet of invisible metal folding before her will. “Accompanying me, watching over me, trailing me.”

“Oh,” he said, taking a step forward. The black fog retreated again. “That’s… wonderful.” Was that why he’d not been reborn in centuries? “That I could be there, in some fashion.”

“You and the others,” she said, voice low. “Eranon, the Milliner, Farice, the Yveque twins… watching me always as I sought… as I sought…”

Her fingers dug into the Archspire’s side, causing the stone to crunch and crumble under her grip. Again he felt something vast buckle and shift, this time deep beneath them, making him want to throw out his arms to steady himself though the actual floor didn’t move.

“Following me, keeping me company in the dark, in the depths of my… in my labyrinth. Sympathetic, I thought, caring. Two-faced, of course, but that shallow duplicity was in and of itself almost endearing. Knowing that I… as a beacon, as refuge, could…”

She trailed off, her shoulders hunching, then she let out a gasp of effort which became a husky laugh. “Ah! Wrestling with Noumenon in this wretched mana desert taxes me! As I’ve not been taxed in years. But you wouldn’t understand, would you Scorio?” And she looked over her shoulder at him, eyes gauging him, hair cascading down over half of her face.

“You know I can’t.” He took another slow step toward her. “What are you trying to do?”

“You couldn’t understand.” Was that pity in her voice? “Once, but not now. But if there is to be change, it must take place at the root.”

And again the very fabric of the world seemed to spasm, and stone crunched as she thrust her hand wrist-deep into the Archspire.

He kept walking slowly toward her, his approach marked by the Great Souls, heart pounding, mind blank of ideas, breath coming shallowly, rapidly.

“But I welcome the challenge.” She straightened, raked her hair back, and smiled predatorily up at the Archspire. “Let us see what it makes of—”

And then she froze.

Scorio froze as well, unsure if he’d come too close, if she’d changed her mind, if she was about to envelop him in black fog.

She stared upward at nothing, expression focused, body tense.

Scorio hesitated, then asked softly, “Is something the—?”

She flung out her hand and he shut his mouth. They stood thus in silence, and he watched as Imogen’s expression flickered from alarm to doubt to confusion to hope. The emotions were raw, unguarded, and he felt strangely guilty to observe them, as if he were intruding somehow on an unwell person’s private debilities.

“He’s here,” she whispered, pulling her hand from the Archspire. “He’s actually come.”

“Oh,” said Scorio weakly. “That’s… good?”

She moved her head, turning slowly as if watching something approach through the walls, her smile nervous, her expression yearning.

“Who, ah, is here?” asked Scorio.

She blinked and turned to regard him with a warm smile. “My husband.”

A man descended unharmed through the darkness that cloaked the ceiling. He radiated power and authority, his expression severe, his brow dauntless, his ash-brown hair long and falling past his shoulders, beard darker but flecked with white about the chin and growing high on his tanned cheeks.

Perhaps in his forties, he had the physique of a man half his years. Dressed in plain robes of the lightest cream tied off with a plain black sash, he descended, eyes fixed on Imogen, his gaze rich with pain and more emotions than Scorio could guess at. He’d simply not lived enough to understand that depth of emotion, he realized. That complex amalgam of love and grief, strength and self-denial.

“Imogen,” said the stranger, coming to a stop some ten feet off the floor. “You must stop.”

“Sol!” She beamed at him, then blinked and took a step back at his obdurate impassivity. “You look well!”

“You mustn’t do this,” he said, voice softening. “You cannot undo the world.”

“Cannot?” She reached out to touch the Archspire gently. “But I can! It’s connected. The arteries still flow. We can open the Portal, Sol. Together. And why not? After all we’ve done, all we’ve sacrificed? Why should we not demand an accounting?”

“Because the Portal cannot be opened from this side,” said Sol wearily. “You know this. Or did, once.”

She slashed angrily at the air. “Accepted truths, passed down to us by whom? Why not verify them, my love? Now, at the peak of our strength, together?”

“Because I will not be party to genocide.”

“Genocide?” She nearly spat the word. “You mean slavery?”

“Others live in Bastion. Innocents. Tens of thousands of them.”

“Ignorants, ants, fools. Their souls will be liberated and sent back to Ettera.”

“That does not make killing them justifiable.” His voice grew hard. “You know this, Imogen. Despair does not justify evil acts.”

She paused, expression turning cunning. “I will agree to this on one condition, Sol.”

His response was calm and utterly final. “No.”

“You would refuse even if it meant genocide and the destruction of Bastion?”

“I will not return to you, Imogen. Things cannot be as they were.”

Her eyes narrowed, and Scorio had to fight the urge to crouch. Instead, he listened, frozen, as still as any of the other Great Souls.

“Then you countenance this,” she said, voice raw with anger. “This is on your head, Sol!”

“No.” He extended his hand to the side, and a golden spear materialized in his palm, small flickers of lightning racing up and down its length. “There will be no genocide or destruction, for I shall not allow it.”

“So you would raise your hand against me at last?” Her smile was raw but did nothing to hide the pain in her eyes.

“Perhaps I should have done so before.” A halo appeared behind his head, a radiant golden disc whose shape fluctuated, sending forth and retracting rods of platinum. “Perhaps that was my greatest failing. To have allowed my love to blind me all these years.”

“It need not be like this,” she whispered, tears brimming and running down her cheeks. “We can still be together, Sol. Please. Return to my side. There is nothing we cannot fix together.”

“I’m sorry, Imogen.” His voice had become almost a rasp, his expression stricken. “There is no returning from what you did. But we need not fight. Agree to leave Bastion peacefully with me. We can negotiate terms. We can find a way toward peace.”

“And be without you forever, my love?” Her laughter was broken. “Who will hold the dances in the hall, who will greet the guests by my side, who will joust with the sun? No. That is no life. I shall continue as before, and I pray by the regard you once had for me that you stay your hand.”

And she turned back to the Archspire.

Sol gazed at Imogen with a forlorn, wounded love which then disappeared behind a mask of iron. His jaw clenched, his heavy brow lowered, and then he multiplied.

For a second Scorio thought he was employing Praximar’s power, creating a half-dozen duplicates, but the power didn’t stop. In a matter of seconds, over a hundred reflections of Sol ringed the Archspire and Imogen, each bearing its own halo, each gazing at her with steel determination.

Imogen raised a hand to the Archspire, and Scorio saw that it was trembling violently.

“Don’t do it, my love,” whispered the original Sol. In the hand of each of his reflections, a golden spear appeared, coruscating with wild energy. “Please. I ask one last time.”

“I love you,” said Imogen, tears running freely. “Since I first saw you on our first Gauntlet run. Always and deeply and truly. I’ve always loved you, Sol, in every life, and always will.”

“Don’t,” croaked Sol.

Imogen flared her fingers wide, then thrust her hand full upon the spire.