Chapter 42

A hundred things happened at once. The legion of Sols raised their golden spears as if giving the command for an army to charge, and from the dark clouds overhead flashed down a hundred bolts of golden lightning, all of them angling down to strike at Imogen.

At the same time, every other Great Soul in the room but Scorio leaped to attack the hundred Sols.

The White Queen flared up into her angelic form, wings spread wide, to unleash a blast of white at the original Sol, her own halo flaring.

Grunsch let out a roar as he charged into the wall of Imperators, his form swelling up to massive size, even as Lady Maeve flashed forward in a sweep of searing flame. Havarn caused a score of boulders to rise, each wreathed in green flame, and hurled them forward.

More attacks than Scorio could follow, ranging from Raugr’s fistfuls of crackling energy to Feng sweeping the Imperators with his cone of dust.

It was an explosive, overwhelming moment, but Scorio was snatched away, boiling night sweeping over him. As he fell, however, even he could sense that the attacks had been weaker, underpowered compared to those he’d witnessed before.

But then the floor fell away from under him, and he dropped with a cry into nothingness, to be sucked as if down a wormhole through fluctuating night and emerge on a rooftop on the opposite side of the ruins above the Academy, Imogen by his side.

She stared straight up to where the Academy hung on the far side of the sun-wire, her fists white-knuckled, her own black halo shifting behind her head, her black scepter pressed down the length of her leg.

“I—ah—I mean—” Scorio tried not to stammer, but the darkness yet seethed around him, and he felt the floor slope and change under his feet.

“You wished to witness, old friend?” Gone was the pain and vulnerability. “Then observe. Sol was always partial to this city. The best way to wound him is to destroy it.”

“Or we could—” But he got no further. The legion of Sol’s flew free of the old Academy, and immediately a storm of golden bolts manifested directly above them, striking down with thunderous power.

Darkness swept around Scorio and once more he fell, his stomach pressing itself against his lungs as he stumbled out atop another rooftop. They were halfway across the city now, familiar landmarks rising all around them, people shouting and screaming as they backed away from Imogen and him.

“He never made peace with my being stronger,” said Imogen. She upturned her palm and raised it. “Men. Such fragile egos.”

And around them, the buildings began to change. Shadows bled over walls and rooftops, over balconies and around towers, and the city began to deform, to mutate, to grow. Staircases expanded blindly into the sky, turrets blossomed out of the sides of buildings, rooms open to the sky fruited mindlessly like overflowing bubbles across the blocks around them.

Scorio reached into his robe and clutched futilely at the chalk. He stared in horror as the locals were swept up by the black fog, their expressions turning slack as they turned to race and hurl themselves off the rooftops, falling silently to their deaths below.

Sols sped through the sky toward them, and a score of golden lightning bolts arched out of the sky, splitting the world into bright flashes as they roared down upon where Imogen and Scorio stood.

This time she raised her scepter, and her black sphere sprang into existence. The golden lances slammed into it, driving her down to one knee. Scorio saw cracks appear in the sphere, but these immediately smoothed over.

Again she dragged him into the darkness, and again he fell, a sickening drop that terminated abruptly. They were across the city again, stepping out from a writhing tendril of black fog. Imogen extended her arm and laughed, the sound cracked at its core, as Bastion around them began to change, arches springing up, buildings melting into each other, streets warping below.

But Sol reacted even quicker this time; some thirty of him were in the air above, and at once they hurled golden lances down upon Imogen.

This time she cried out in anger as the bolts near shattered her sphere; she staggered back, clawed hair from her face, and thrust her scepter up on high.

A great black beam leaped forth to slam into one of the Sols’ sphere; it cut straight through, and that Sol disappeared, halo lingering in the air for a few moments after he was gone.

Another thirty lances of golden light flew down at her, and this time she thrust both hands up into the air. Black jets of flame gouted up from the shadow fog to pour over the Sols’ protective spheres, but none of these got through.

Scorio turned to run, but the floor fell out from under his feet again, and they plunged into nothingness, down and down to emerge within a cathedral-like hall, the walls resplendent with ancient paintings, the masses of people within crying out in horror and rearing back until the fog claimed them and they went quiet.

The roof exploded in a golden flash, however, and ten Sols floated down, their faces grim, their halos almost too bright to observe.

“You cannot escape me, Imogen. No matter how quickly you run. Your dominion is circumscribed.”

“You never could contend with my strength,” she snarled. “Why do you think that has changed?” And she hurled up a hand, and with it, her black fog boiled up to wash over the ten Imperators.

Six of which dropped their golden spheres, raised their spears, and called down bolts of gold upon the other four.

Scorio could only gape. The attacks failed to pierce the remaining four’s shields, but when Scorio was hauled away again by Imogen, the sound of her laughter accompanied their drop.

They emerged now atop a magisterial palace which immediately began to warp and grow cancerous offshoots, wild fountains spewing ink erupting from the ground, endless balconies snaking across the gardens, bridges rising to challenge the sky, rooftops sliding down like scabs to smother windows and doors.

“Bastion will be mine!” cried out Imogen, and her voice echoed down the length of the city, seeming to emanate from the great billows of black cloud that wafted about the sun-wire, that drowned entire Wards in darkness. “Learn, Sol, what I can do!”

And from where he stood Scorio saw the entirety of the city began to change. Everywhere the fog touched the architecture grew cancerous, though the mutations were greatly slowed, as if the enormity of the task required greater effort than when she simply attacked her immediate environs.

At the same time, hundreds of bolts of black energy flew from the banks of fog to attack the flying Sols.

Many of them blinked out of existence, but a solid core resisted the attacks. Though their numbers were diminished, these Sols did not seem dismayed; they set to calling their golden lightning down upon the fog, and wherever their bolts fell the black clouds were banished.

Burning lances rained down from the sky like a deluge; the sky was rent again and again by the peals of thunder, and it was as if dusk had fallen early, the sky gloomy, except that the rain was the dance of a thousand lightning bolts.

Imogen snarled, her halo fluctuating erratically. She raised her scepter, about to unleash another attack when a Sol rose into view from the edge of the building, hovering before them.

Not a Sol. Something told Scorio that this was the original. Something in his eyes, that pain, that loss, that grief.

“End this,” he said, voice grave and commanding.

“I shall,” she whispered, her words somehow carrying over the constant dull booms, and raised her scepter to point it at Sol’s heart. “I claim preeminence.”

He raised his golden spear, and a stream of burning light flew forth from each to impact in the center where they burst in a profusion of black and golden light.

Scorio stared, petrified. A terrible wind was gusting out in all directions from the point of impact, causing Sol’s hair to whip around and his robes to snap against his frame, while Imogen narrowed her eyes, her dress plastered back against her body as she leaned into the conflict.

The energies being released were cataclysmic. There wasn’t enough mana in all of Bastion to power this confrontation for even a second.

Yet on and on it went, the beams of light shattering against each other, both Imperators straining, Sol lowering his chin, jaw clenched, while Imogen grinned wildly, baring all her teeth.

And to his horror, he saw that she was winning. Inch by inch her beam of black energy was consuming Sol’s, driving back the gold. A duplicate flew down to join him, then a second and third. Each added their spear blasts to his attack, but they failed to slow down her dark magic’s advance.

More Sols appeared, a dozen, twenty, thirty. Soon a veritable legion floated before them, their beams coming together at a point, so brilliant that Scorio had to narrow his eyes. More Sols flew down, but Scorio saw that they were fading away now, collapsing back into the original, until they were all gone. Leaving just the one man to grimace as he struggled against Imogen’s attack, her progress slowing, slowing, but never quite stopping.

Imogen let out a wild laugh again, her hair whipping about her face. “You cannot stop me, my love! You never could! And now…I… shall have…” She took a step forward, then a second, dragging each word out as if it cost her more than Scorio could ever understand. “…Dominion!”

Time seemed to slow. Her black beam surged forward, consuming almost all of Sol’s power, and in that moment, Scorio sensed that her attention was completely and absolutely fixated on her foe. He drew forth the palm-sized bottle from his robes, thumbed the cork out, and willed the syrup within to fly into his mouth as he threw himself forward.

In his mind, a calm voice worked out the math. Six half-filtered doses at forty volts each is two hundred and forty volts which is a full Silver dose—

Mid-stride, he summoned his Heart. The obsidian stone was near shredded by the vortex that swirled around them, as if it were made of the softest pumice and he was holding it up in a cyclone of metallic shards. Its very substance began to leach away into the air the second it sprang into existence, but Scorio didn’t pause.

The syrup filled him with so much power that he nearly blacked out. Compared to the might the Imperators were wielding, it was beyond insignificant, but to him, it felt as if he’d attempted to swallow the sun-wire whole.

His mind reeling, his thoughts falling apart, he drew his fist back as he willed the terrible mana that was melting his spirit to pour into his Heart. Sheer desperation added strength to his will, and he pulled at it with all his Heart’s remaining power. Pulled and pushed so that the whole, turgid mess of raging Coal mana sank into the pitted and crumbling facets of his Heart.

This won’t work, this will never work, he screamed at himself, but the words sparked a wave of fury within his soul. His Heart ignited as the rage filled him, and he swung his fist and slammed it with everything he had into Imogen’s black scepter.

The scepter didn’t budge. Didn’t even a quiver. Horror drenched Scorio like a massive bucket of frigid water. His gaze darted to Imogen, whose own narrowed glare flickered for just a second to meet his own.

And in that moment, that briefest of contact, he saw shock, disappointment, and confusion. The barest flicker, so transient he might have missed it.

But the distraction was enough. Her attention, which had been absolute but a moment before, had wavered.

Sol roared as he thrust his spear forward, its golden light devouring the black fire, consuming it, and racing toward Imogen’s scepter.

Scorio staggered back, delirious from the power that raged within him, his Heart cracking under the strain. He felt feverish, his body bursting, his skin splitting. His whole body was drenched in profuse amounts of sweat, and a distant voice shouted at him from the depths of his mind to burn it off, burn off the mana, to vent it before he died.

Imogen’s lips writhed back from her teeth as she focused on the onslaught, but Scorio couldn’t forget the betrayal in her eyes. The almost naive shock and pain he’d seen flash through her. He thrust the thought away, focused on breathing. He felt as if his skin were burning off in patches, and lights danced in his eyes. Every breath stoked the flame that raged within him like a wind howling into a furnace. He wanted to laugh, to scream. His muscles spasmed, he ached to break something, to race, to run.

But instead, he forced himself to stand there as Sol rose above Imogen, his chin raised, his gaze brutally cold, his manner imperious. The gold devoured the black fire almost to Imogen’s scepter, and she was forced down to one knee, resisting all the while.

“No,” rasped Sol, the word reverberating with power, his halo expanding to an extraordinary size. “It is I that have preeminence, Imogen. Yield.”

And her black fire died, utterly quenched. With a cry, she threw her scepter aside, and the golden fire blinked out of existence a fraction of a second before consuming her. In its place, Scorio felt an explosive wave of power rush out from Sol, a ring of majesty and might that smoothed out the air, quelled the mana, and robbed Imogen of her own aura of power.

Scorio’s own raging heart seemed to quieten, and he gazed in awe as Sol floated above them both, his robes rippling, his long hair draped over one shoulder. He was justice incarnate, his brow furrowed with the weight of his cares, his jaw stern, his gaze unflinching.

Imogen snarled up at him, diminished, and then a seam of darkness opened behind her.

“You are dead to me,” she hissed, and hurled herself backward.

Sol darted forward, spear outstretched, but the dark seam widened enough for her to plunge into it and disappear.

Sol drew up short, his expression thunderous, but then he sighed.

Across Bastion, the dark fog was lifting. Burning away beneath the sun-wire’s brilliant glow. Scorio let out a choking exhalation, still wrestling with the power that threatened to sunder his spirit, and saw that Imogen’s mutations remained. Everywhere he looked he saw nonsensical construction. Inverted buildings, buildings with their rooms extruded to the surface, upside-down staircases rising to the sky, towers extending perpendicular to the ground.

Not all of Bastion. Not even most of it. But entire swathes. Enough to change the character of the city.

Sol hung in the air, his halo shrinking then disappearing altogether, and the raging might of his aura lightened till Scorio could feel it no longer.

But breathing had become a laborious chore. The air was superheated, thick like honey, and the very act of inhaling was nearly impossible. He felt like he was drowning.

He dropped to one knee, sweat coursing down his face, chest wheezing, locked up. His vision doubled and he felt his Heart straining, straining, on the verge of bursting into a hundred chunks of ruined spirit.

Sol landed before him, his boots silent on the stone. Stood before him, and Scorio raised his eyes with great effort.

“Know peace,” said the Imperator, and extended his hand. The raging mana within Scorio’s Heart flew to the man’s palm, a draining that brought immense relief. Scorio let out a groan as the pressure disappeared, the heat cooled away, and his chest unhitched so that he could breathe deep.

Sol studied him, gaze inscrutable. “You’ve damaged your Heart, old friend. Both before and now. It seems you will never learn moderation, Scorio.”

Scorio forced a grin as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Guess I’ve never been content with the way things are.”

“You never have, no.” Sol brought his golden spear down till its tip rested before Scorio’s breast. “But your abuse has weakened the foundations of your soul. As you are, you’ll never advance beyond Tomb Spark.”

Scorio stiffened, the wickedly sharp spearpoint just barely pricking his robes. “I… I would find a way to deal with that when the time came.”

“No doubt you would.” Wry amusement entered Sol’s eyes. “But you’ve earned better.”

And his spear glowed with golden energy which gathered, grew, then flowed into Scorio’s chest.

It was like having a cool cloth placed upon a burning brow, bringing sweet relief to a discomfort Scorio had learned to ignore. He felt his Heart grow more solid, the huge fractures he’d just dealt it sealing over, and a soothing sensation suffused him.

“There,” said Sol, raising his spear to prop it on his shoulder. “A second chance. I’ve returned your Heart to the way it was before Imogen paid her visit. Only fair, since that’s what you’ve given the rest of us.”

“Thank you.” Scorio hesitated. Should he remain kneeling? But pride pricked him, and he rose to his feet. “Though I fear it won’t help in the long term. I’m a Red Lister. The Academy won’t have me. I’ll be forced to continue training as before if I’ve any hope of advancing.”

“I’ll speak with the Academy,” said Sol. “Hell is better served by your being properly trained instead of going rogue.”

Scorio felt his heart swell as he took a step back. “You can do that? I mean, you will?”

Again Sol allowed himself a smile. “Few are the Great Souls who will deny an Imperator’s request. And this one is made all the more reasonable for your having tipped the balance in our favor. Imogen…” He paused, and Scorio got the impression he was about to say something else. “Imogen was always very strong. The loss of her Heart only unfettered her already terrible power.”

Scorio’s eyes widened. “Loss of her Heart? How—I mean—can you tell me of my past? I know nothing about what I did, who I was. Can you—?”

Sol’s smile grew bitter. “There is much for you to relearn, Scorio. I trust that you will do so quickly. Perhaps in time, we will meet again, deeper in Hell, and then we will speak at length. But for now, you have my thanks. That will have to suffice.”

Scorio bowed his head and bit back his frustration. A thousand questions were welling up within him. What did Sol remember about his past lives? How could one channel mana without a Heart? Where had Imogen gone? Could she have opened the Portal?

But all of them were overwhelmed by a single emotion: gratitude. He took a deep breath, his chest swelling anew, and tears prickled in his eyes as he met Sol’s gaze once more.

Then a thought occurred to him. “Imperator Sol. If I may ask for one more favor.”

The older man’s expression was inscrutable. “You may ask it, though I may refuse.”

“I was trained by another outcast in the ruins. Naomi, known as the Nightmare Lady by those who fear her. She left the Academy of her own will because she was treated unfairly by the staff. She’s native-born to Bastion, ignited her Heart without being tied to the Archspire, and she was never given a fair chance. Please—could you ask for Naomi to be readmitted with me? Without her help, I’d never have survived.”

Sol inclined his head. “I’ll speak with her. What happens thereafter will depend on our conversation.”

Scorio bowed. “Thank you.”

“Bastion and Hell itself owes you a debt of gratitude, Scorio. It’s the least I can do, seeing as you’ve earned the undying enmity of an Imperator.”

Scorio’s smile died on his lips. “Right. Yes. You think she’ll come back?”

“Not any time soon.” He turned to gaze out over the city, and a gentle breeze stirred his hair. “I’ve asserted preeminence over her here. She’ll not return till that fades. But you never know.” He sighed and looked down. “I lost the ability to predict her actions a long time ago.”

Scorio pursed his lips, unsure as to what to say, but was saved from platitudes by the imminent arrival of the White Queen, who was descended from the sky, her golden angel wings beating powerfully.

Sol turned to greet her, and Scorio saw him visibly lock his pain away, so that when the White Queen alighted on the rooftop he was nothing but unflinching majesty.

“You came,” said the White Queen, dropping to one knee and bowing her head. “Thank you, Imperator.”

“Rise, Nova.” Sol’s voice was kindly. “I regret that I couldn’t come sooner. I was almost too late.”

“But you weren’t.” Nova stood straight and smiled, the expression transforming her serene, remote beauty into something vital, making her human. “Thank the ten hells.”

“I will inspect the old Archspire and the Portal,” said Sol. “Ensure that Imogen was unable to destabilize them permanently. Then I must leave. Allies pay for my absence by the minute.”

“Of course.” Nova looked at Scorio with her washed-out blue eyes.

“This Cinder proved instrumental in our victory,” said Sol. “He distracted Imogen at a critical moment.”

“Is that so? Your name?”

“Scorio, Charnel Duchess.” And unsure of what was appropriate he bowed low. Staring down at the ground, he half-expected for her to recognize him, to condemn him, or mention some old memory.

“You have our thanks, Scorio.” Her tone, if anything, was tinged by the same warmth with which she’d addressed Sol. He straightened slowly in wonder, having expected a more complex reaction, but saw no recognition in her eyes. “For a Cinder to play such a role in the disputes of Imperators is unheard of. I look forward to witnessing your rise to power.”

“Scorio is currently banished from the Academy for being a Red Lister,” said Sol. “Will you see to it that he is readmitted? I must hurry.”

Nova’s pale eyebrows rose. “A Red Lister?” For a second Scorio thought she’d protest, but then she bowed her head. “But if you wish it, Imperator, it shall be so.”

“Thank you.” Sol looked to Scorio. His gaze was profound, as if his eye were a well that led to impossible depths in which stars drowned. “Be well, Scorio. We shall meet again.”

And with that, he lifted from the rooftop, inclined his body toward the ruined Academy, and shot away through the air so swiftly that his departure caused a dull boom to shatter the air.

“You’ve done well, to earn the favor of an Imperator,” said the White Queen, still studying Scorio.

“It came at a price,” said Scorio. “I fear that Imogen no longer thinks very highly of me.”

“That’s of no matter. She’s no longer capable of thinking highly of anyone for long. Will you tell me what happened?”

So Scorio did, instinctively omitting his escape into the Gauntlet and instead explaining how she’d recognized him moments before he was taken by the fog. How she’d known him during their past lives, and how he’d convinced her to let him witness her deeds. How at the last, when her attention was fully focused on Sol, he’d managed to distract her for but a single critical moment.

“Creative,” said Nova. “You did well, Cinder. Bastion owes you a debt of gratitude. For all my power, you proved more effective in this battle.”

Scorio stiffened, unsure if he could hear resentment in her tone, but her cordial smile stilled his fear. “Just trying to help,” he said.

“And that you did. Now let us go. The city is in distress. I cannot linger, for like the Imperator I have concerns that need my immediate attention. I’ll bring you to the Academy and ensure that Praximar heeds Sol’s request.”

“Thank you.” Again Scorio inhaled deeply. His mind reeled, his heart pounded strongly, and a deep and pervasive joy suffused him. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

The White Queen laughed and extended her hand to him. “Thank me by walking a path of righteousness, young Cinder. In time, I hope to see you emerge from Bastion, ready to bring the war deeper into hell. But for you, that day is still in the distant future. For now, let’s work on getting you back into the Academy.”

“Yes, Charnel Duchess,” said Scorio, taking her cool, smooth palm in his own. As her great wings spread out wide and they lifted off the rooftop, he felt his heart thrill, and his gaze turned to the new Academy.

He’d done it. Somehow, against all the odds, he’d found a way to both save Bastion and return to the Academy’s vaunted halls.

Now nothing would hold him back from seizing control of his future and learning the truth about his past self.