Chapter 70

Scorio had never seen the basilica so packed. The balconies teemed with spectators, ranging from dour dignitaries to wealthy nobles from the four Houses to the privileged and lucky commoners Praximar had invited to attend. Every torch was lit, so that the undergrowth that had spread amidst the peripheral biers and the thick ivy that climbed the walls was cast into sharp relief, making the scene all the more surreal.

Flocks of birds flew in confused vortices from one balcony to the other, seeking refuge from the sound and activity and finding none. Great Souls mingled across the floor, while the far stage was crowded with the elite from all four Houses, their ceremonial regalia glinting in the light.

The very air felt crisp, electric, charged with expectation and nerves. Moving forward with his companions, all of them dressed in ceremonial robes crafted for this very occasion, Scorio felt a rising sense of wonder. Couldn’t stop his eyes from ranging over the packed throngs, the House tutors who advised their sponsored students with last-second advice, the older Great Souls who mingled with the Cinders and Emberlings, wishing them luck with cynical smiles and gruff encouragement.

All of this was for them. The five hundred souls who’d been rebirthed into this world, given a new lease on life and a chance to defend Bastion and their kind from the predations of hell. The energy, the resources, the time, the expertise, the sheer scale of the expenditure spent on grooming them, training them, preparing them for this one moment was stunning.

Humbling, almost.

Or it would have been if Scorio hadn’t seen the other side of the curtain. The realities behind the performance, the rage simmering in the streets.

But studying the faces of his fellow cohort-mates, he saw how taken in they were. Some smiled foolishly, charmed and awed by the spectacle. Others fought to present a tough exterior, feigning indifference to the pageantry. A rare few were truly focused, their gazes stabbing through the crowd into some invisible middle distance as they mentally prepared themselves for what was to come.

A massacre.

Every member of their cohort would soon die. Some sooner, some later, but pain and death were the sole universal constants that united them all. But few of his fellow classmates appeared worried; they’d been swept along by the momentum of it all, saw their imminent death as natural, part of the process.

As did Scorio.

If anything, the scores of times he’d died in the old Gauntlet had prepared him for this in more ways than one. Not only had it helped hone his skills, allowed him to catch up with his more privileged classmates, but it had stolen the sting of death from the process. Time and again, he’d died, clutching at his slithering entrails as they slid free, stabbed, clubbed, beheaded, or lacerated to such an extent that he was claimed by the blood loss.

He’d paid a toll. Had walked a fine line between spiritual destruction and personal growth, but he’d paid the price unflinchingly.

All for this, this day, this moment, this chance to show the Academy, Praximar, Jova Spike, that he could not only compete with the best of them but defeat them all.

Were it not for his broken wrist, he’d feel positively combative.

Instead, he pressed the swollen and aching limb to his chest. He’d wanted to lower it by his side, but doing so increased the pressure and pain.

No matter. Victory in the Gauntlet came down as much to teamwork and determination as it did personal talent.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

“Look at them,” said Naomi, her upper lip curling into a sneer. “So excited to sell themselves to the highest bidder.”

“To continue their education,” said Lianshi. “Nobody wants to be cast out of the Academy. Even the poorest performing Cinder dreams of making it just far enough to be invited back.”

“To what end?” Naomi glared at her contemptuously. “So that they may excel further, earn greater attention and resources, and be yoked to a golden harness?”

“Sure,” said Lianshi. “What alternative is there?”

To which Naomi had no ready response.

“Lianshi!” A bright call from a few biers over, and Scorio saw Juniper raise a hand in a wave. “Good luck!”

Lianshi’s face paled, then flushed, and then she ducked her head only to raise her chin and brush her hair back, all in such rapid succession that if Scorio had blinked he’d have missed it.

“Thanks!” Lianshi gave a tentative wave back. “You, too!”

“You talk to her?” asked Leonis, his voice a low rumble as they finally reached their biers.

“I did. Um.” Lianshi looked so unsure of herself that Scorio was about to tell Leonis to leave the matter alone, but then she continued. “I, ah, well, we were in line together at the quartermaster’s to collect our new robes. And she just turned and stared at me and said we needed to talk. I wanted to die, but I agreed, and then we stepped aside once we’d been given our robes and sat down to drink tea though I don’t think I took a sip the whole time we spoke—”

“Deep breath, Lianshi,” said Naomi, tone long-suffering.

Lianshi did just that and gave Naomi a tight-lipped smile. “Right. Sorry. But yes. We spoke. Compared trials, ultimately. And… well. She’s amazing. She forgave me.”

“Forgave you?” asked Leonis, brows knitting together. “For what?”

“For what I did to her, or might have done, or probably did.” Lianshi placed her hands on the jeweled edge of her bier and stared down at her fingers. “One way or another, I clearly had the capacity to betray her. So she forgave me, and I cried, and it was wonderful and awful and…” She took a deep shuddering breath, then looked up with a painfully raw smile. “So yes. We talked.”

“Good for you,” said Naomi, and bumped her shoulder against Lianshi’s own. “Well done.”

“Juniper didn’t really give me much of a choice,” said Lianshi, voice small.

“Still. You could have run. You didn’t. Well done.”

Lianshi blushed and looked away.

The crowd rippled, a presage of an approaching presence, and Scorio saw Kuragin’s shaggy head looming over those who walked with him. For a wild moment, Scorio thought the group was coming his way, but their angle of approach was wrong, they were simply passing by. Amidst the crowd, he caught sight of Jova Spike walking arm in arm with Zala, Chloe a step beside, chatting with another woman.

The great, oceanic murmur that filled the basilica seemed to fade away, and Scorio felt his stomach knot, his breath still.

Kuragin, sensing his stare, turned and met his gaze from over all the heads. Grinned with cruel mirth, and then drew his thumb across his neck.

But Scorio wasn’t watching him.

Instead, he studied how Jova walked, measured her self-assurance, her poise, her utter, inviolable confidence. Even in her ceremonial robes of white and gold, she looked dangerous, other, more mature, more everything. She’d ringed her eyes with the same dark kohl, had her dusty black hair raked over to hang down over one shoulder, the other side shorn near to the skin.

A Tomb Spark. The only one in their whole class. There’d been rank speculation that a half-dozen others might make it, but none of them had.

Jova walked by, and Scorio was sure she’d not even look his way. That he was so beneath her notice that she might even have forgotten their bet. But at the last moment, her gaze slid across to fix him where he stood, unhesitating, unsurprised, as if she’d known he’d be there and had no doubt that he’d be watching her.

Scorio clenched his jaw, clenched his healthy fist, and raised his chin. For one searing second their gazes met, and in the depths of her dark eyes, he saw an emotion he couldn’t read. But then she was gone, swept on by, moving to their biers along with their host of hangers-on.

“Easy,” said Leonis, resting his elbow on Scorio’s shoulder so that he could lean on him. “Stay focused.”

“If I were any more focused, I’d catch on fire,” Scorio muttered, which made Leonis chuckle.

“Remember,” said Naomi, rounding on them so that they formed a small huddle. “We’re looking to win the highest team average. That’s our true strength. If Scorio can beat Jova, all well and good, but if he’s part of the team that makes it the farthest, collectively, then he has a real chance of earning a reprieve regardless.”

“You hear that, Scorio?” Lianshi poked him in the gut. “Team score. No stupid heroics.”

“But I’m a stupid hero,” said Scorio, half-distracted. “What can I do?”

Leonis snorted again, then pushed off Scorio and slapped him gently upside the head. “You’re many things, my friend, but that’s not one of them.”

“Remarkably,” continued Naomi, as if she’d not been interrupted, “we’re the only team here to have had over twenty Gauntlet runs. Everyone else has had but the one. They’re anxious, nervous, overwhelmed, even, by what they now face. Whereas we’ve done this enough times to make it feel almost routine.”

“Different Gauntlet,” said Leonis.

“Same principles. And the one we ran was tougher.” Naomi stared at each of them in turn. “You’re unrecognizable from the Cinders or Chars I first met. Each of you has overcome incredible obstacles to reach this moment—”

“Hey, she’s pretty good at this motivational thing,” said Leonis, then raised his hands defensively as Naomi took a threatening step toward him. “No, no, I’m just saying, it’s kind of shocking, given how negative you usually are—”

“Leonis,” warned Lianshi. “You’re actively lowering your chances of doing well by asking Naomi to break one of your bones before the Gauntlet starts.”

“Don’t compliment the Nightmare Lady,” said Leonis with a grin. “Got it.”

Both women rolled their eyes.

Praximar was mounting the distant stage, dressed so resplendently that he looked like a mobile treasury. Behind him came the instructors, the final chief dignitaries, and other important-looking people.

“We’re almost out of time,” said Scorio, cutting into the banter. “But I just want to say one thing before this begins.” He paused, and suddenly the words were gone, stolen from him as he looked up at Leonis’s bluff, honest face, at Lianshi’s open expression, at Naomi’s suspicious stare. A great emotion began to arise within his chest, like a drowning swimmer trying to reach the surface. He felt his eyes prickle, his face flush, and a tremor shook his jaw till he clenched it tight.

“No need for words,” said Leonis, tone soft, wrapping one arm around Scorio’s shoulders and gathering Lianshi in with the other. “We know what you’re going to say, and you’ve no need to say it.”

“Agreed,” said Lianshi. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done with my full heart. I’m so proud of you all. What we’ve accomplished. What we’ve become.”

“A killer team,” said Naomi, tone harsh. “Top competitors, whether anybody recognizes it or not.”

Scorio inhaled sharply and bowed his head. It was too much. The words were there, just out of reach, words of gratitude and love. His heart thudded in his chest; his breath caught tremulously in his throat. He wanted to tell these three how much they meant to him. How they had changed everything for the better, made all this possible. The sheer force of his gratitude was overwhelming.

But in the end, he only managed a couple of words, simple but so raw with emotion that they said it all. “Thank you.”

Leonis pursed his lips and gave a sharp nod. Lianshi’s own eyes filled with tears as sympathy and affection suffused her expression, and he felt Naomi squeeze his shoulder painfully hard.

Then Praximar began to speak, and the moment passed, the four of them separating to turn and stare at the distant stage.

“Greetings, friends, colleagues, and distinguished visitors.” Praximar’s voice, as always, rolled out over the entirety of the basilica with practiced ease. “Though I have been chancellor of the Academy for more years than I care to remember—and if you recall the exact number, pray, don’t remind me—I never cease to feel a terrible excitement when this day comes. A day in many respects like all others, but in one, singular manner utterly unique. For though the ten layers of hell go about their infernal business as always, here, in Bastion, we gather to celebrate the labors of five hundred adamantine souls. We gather to honor their efforts, their talents, and to witness the culmination of everything they have learned. We gather, dear friends, to pay witness to greatness in the making.”

Praximar lowered his arms and beamed out over the crowd. “Now, many of you may think the results of this final, grand test to be predetermined. But it is never so. As everyone is aware, the upper fifty percent of the class will proceed to greater training, but this does not mean those who are currently Cinders or who fared poorly in the tournament are without hope. For each year comes with its crop of surprises, men and women who rise to the occasion, seize their luck, wrest every ounce of advantage from their circumstances, and pass those whom all others had deemed assured of winning through.”

A murmur passed through the cohort, some looking reassured, others frowning.

“Yet in the whole, those who have dedicated their days and nights to training, to bettering themselves, to developing their powers will have their reward today. The spoils of victory more often than not go to those who train the hardest, and the harder you train, the luckier, you’ll find, you become. So I salute every moment you spent laboring through the long cycles of the day and into the night. Each drop of sweat, each moment when you pressed on, thinking you had nothing left. That fight when you summoned your last reserves to wrest an unlikely victory against a superior foe. The hours you spent studying when your body cried for sleep, the long, timeless moments sunk deep in meditation—meditation that no doubt often seemed nothing but a fruitless, frustrating task with no reward.”

He scanned the crowd, expression grave, nodding slowly as if in agreement with his own words. “You have labored greatly, and your instructors speak of each one of you with admiration and respect. Your work, students, your efforts, are noted, seen, and appreciated. For outside these halls a war is being waged, a millennia-old conflict that is finally drawing to a close. Our Imperators inhabit the tenth layer of hell, and with dauntless courage now face the Pit itself. And though their battles take place in dimensions we cannot fathom, in realms we cannot understand, still, it is being waged, and we are closer to victory than we have ever been. Closer, my friends, to finally seeing the Infernarch rise from the ashes of the Pit, and lead us all to the one place we’ve yearned for but never known: home.”

More murmurs, mostly from the balconies.

“And this is a war into which you will be stepping. Your efforts here at times may even have seemed academic, a game: work hard, win the next round, earn another reward. All to what end? Patronage, a good position in one of the Houses, the esteem of your peers and instructors. The vague hope of one day being a hero akin to the mighty legends whose example inspires us even today. But soon, dear friends, you shall step out into hell, lift up your own arms, and take part in that eternal war. Perhaps amongst your number today stands the Great Soul who shall push the war to its terminus point. Perhaps amongst your number stand brave men and women who shall one day be studied by future students. You are all legends in the making, and today, this day, is perhaps but the first great moment in your own, personal story.”

Even Scorio felt a frisson of excitement at these words; he fought it, scowled, but felt his spirit rise.

“Bastard’s damn good at this,” he muttered, earning a scowl from Lianshi and a wry shake of Leonis’s head.

“But let us come to the matter at hand. Each one of you will activate your crystals at the same time. Think on your teammates as you do so, and you shall be transported to the Gauntlet in unison. Remember that there is great glory in your individual accomplishments, but that your team score is of great importance as well, speaking, as it will, to your ability to elevate your peers, fight intelligently as a group, and indicate your own potential as a team player for the organizations that fight deep in the bitter wars of hell. Strive to do your best! Leave nothing behind, no ability untapped, no ounce of resolve unused. This Gauntlet run is your second, and while you are assured to do better than your first, you do not compete against your old record, but against each other! Strive to best them! Win that glory, win that honor, and wrest the admiration and astonishment from the Houses that have come to witness your deeds today! For you represent the best of us, the final arrow in our depleted quiver, our hope for an end to war, to freedom from hell, and to epitomize the peak that our exalted kind can reach. You are Great Souls, and on behalf of the Academy, I demand that you show us your worth!”

Praximar’s voice fairly rang off the balconies and domed ceiling above, and elicited wild cheers from the spectators, a great cry that echoed like waves from the ocean, crashing about Scorio and causing his pulse to race, his breath to catch.

Praximar, who had raised his hands again at this last, stepped back so that Helminth could take his place. Her voice, steady, forceful, wry, brought Scorio back to earth from the soaring heights to which Praximar had sent him. And in that moment, his heart pounding, his mind fired with exhilaration and ambition, Scorio couldn’t find it in him to hate the chancellor. Instead, he felt a steely determination to show the older man how mistaken he was about him, to excel in such manner that Praximar would have no choice but to bow his head as he accepted being proved so terribly wrong.

“All right, Great Souls of the class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three: you know what to do. Keep your teammates in mind, activate your crystals, and prepare yourself for your second Gauntlet run.”

Everyone began moving to the foot of their biers, Scorio amongst them. Helminth continued talking as he placed his palm over the great crystal.

“Remember what you have been taught. Self-control, patience, and a flexible mind will get you further than a headlong flight into the unknown. Further, the Gauntlet will show the final moments of the Great Soul who makes it the farthest to those who reach the same chamber. That means if you see no one else but your teammates before you die, either you’ve made it the farthest thus far or you’re dying way behind the victor.”

Scorio hopped up onto the bier. He exchanged glances with his friends one last time before lying back, and then stared up at the interior of the distant dome, his hands resting on his chest.

Now that the moment had come, he could hardly think. His mind was a great blank canvas, devoid at the last of intentions, anger, determination, ferocity, anger. He felt himself a vessel, empty, calm, even numb, perhaps. His wounded fist ached distantly, as if the intensity of the moment lay between him and the pain like a pane of glass.

Helminth was still speaking, but her words faded behind the rush that filled his ears. Back to the Gauntlet. Back to the very first experience he recalled. Back to that terrible hall of beaten copper with its horrors and pain.

Scorio took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He was ready.