Chapter 79

Scorio blinked, focused, then stared up at the interior of the basilica’s vast dome. The light of First Bronze sluiced in through the many small windows that ringed its base, pouring in distinct, oblique shafts to illuminate the balconies and massed guests to its side. Around him he heard the murmurs of awakening Great Souls; sharp inhalations, gasps even, the sound of robes as people sat up.

An entire cohort manifesting and coming back to life.

He expected pain. Had been conditioned by the old Gauntlet to expect the agony of death when he awoke. But instead, he felt comfortable, his body relaxed, as if he’d just taken a refreshing nap. The jewels of the bier were hard pebbles beneath his body, but familiar now. He’d returned. Alive. Whole.

Strong.

Then memories began to flood in. Slowly at first and then all at once: Naomi stabbed by the golden statuette, Lianshi falling into the depths of oblivion at the base of a hidden funnel. Leonis sacrificing himself in one last great charge to drive the fiends off Scorio and afford him a chance to press on.

With a gasp, he sat up, heart pounding, and turned to stare at his friends.

There they were. Leonis lying with an arm draped over his eyes, Naomi rubbing at the back of her head, scowling, Lianshi staring at him, eyebrows raised.

He’d made Tomb Spark.

The thought hit him like a club to the back of the head. He’d passed his second trial. He hadn’t betrayed his brother—at least, not in the way Kuragin had described it. And he’d made it to the—eighteenth room?

Had seen Jova die on the third pentagonal segment, had passed her to reach the fourth.

Scorio’s eyes widened. He couldn’t catch his breath. His heart seemed to freeze, and then began to pound widely as a wave of giddiness washed over him.

Lianshi’s stare flickered right past confusion to a demanding glare. But before she could speak, Praximar’s voice washed over them all.

“Welcome back, brave souls of the class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three! You have struggled, fought, sacrificed, strived. You have won glory, you have suffered ill luck. You have much to celebrate, much to rue. Amongst you are those who achieved far greater success than they might have hoped for, those who felt themselves destined for glory but who stumbled at the last moment. No matter. In this moment, we, the assembled might of Bastion, the Academy, and the far-flung settlements of Hell, salute you.”

Applause broke out from the balconies, the wings of the basilica; thousands clapped and a few even let loose wild cheers. Scorio blinked, looked about himself; saw a sea of faces smiling down indiscriminately at him and the others.

“But though you are all noble, only one of you made it the farthest into the Gauntlet. Amongst your number is a single soul who dared and achieved the impossible. Now, I think I speak for all of us when I say that I believe I know whom it is, but we must obey decorum and seek confirmation from the Archspire. If our guests can be patient for a moment longer, we shall confer.”

Praximar led the procession down from the far stage to make their way toward the central spire. They were a mixture of instructors, heads of Houses, illustrious guests, all of them dressed in their best finery. Praximar met the eyes of students as he went, smiled, muttered blessings, nodded his head.

“What happened?” hissed Lianshi, leaning over as far as she could without toppling off her bier. “Scorio!”

“It must be bad news,” said Leonis fatalistically, lifting his arm off his face to finally sit up. “You don’t think he’d be shouting it to the skies if he’d done well?”

Naomi remained still, staring at him with a subtle frown.

Scorio couldn’t speak. The air was trapped in his lungs. He felt so light he might lift right off the bier and float away.

Praximar climbed up the steps to the platform that ringed the base of the Archspire, and once more raised both hands as he turned in a circle, smiling at everyone who was watching him. He bowed his head as an elderly man leaned in to confer with him, clearly in no rush, enjoying the moment, the pregnant pause before the revelation.

Scorio’s mind was whirling. He couldn’t think. What would he do? He wanted nothing so much as to retreat with his friends to a side chamber, to tell them everything. Instead, he pivoted about, searched the biers, and then saw her.

Jova Spike.

She sat with her knees drawn under her chin, arms wrapped around her shins, ignoring all the covert and overt stares being directed at her. Her expression was severe, closed, brows lowered.

She didn’t know. She had died before him.

Her gaze slid over and met his own, as if drawn by one of those hidden funnel traps.

Jova’s gaze was intense, moody, just shy of defiant.

Scorio had spent endless hours imagining how he might celebrate a victory. Would he grin rakishly at her? Smirk? Make a rude gesture? But instead, he found his expression remained sober.

He couldn’t mock someone so strong. Who’d walked into further pain and against all the odds when her body was so nearly destroyed. It was incredible, to see her whole, healed, her shoulders aligned, her body free of blood.

So instead he nodded respectfully to her and turned back to the stage.

Praximar was nodding to another person but raised a hand in mock protest as a third dignitary went to speak to him. “My friends, my friends, this is not the time to dally! We’ve three thousand honored guests eager to celebrate the victor! And, if I may add a sobering note, this is, after all, a time of great stress for the city of Bastion.”

He turned to gaze out over the students, his expression grave. “Indeed. You brave warriors may not know this, focused as you’ve been on the challenge before you, but even as I speak violence grips our fair city. Ungrateful churls revolt against our authority, convinced—for reasons that only prove their foolishness—that we orchestrated Imogen the Woe’s attack.”

Mutters and murmurs swept across the cohort, but Praximar raised his hands. “Know that the matter is in hand. Each House has sent forth soldiers to deal with the rioters, to clear the streets of blockades, and to bring the rebellion’s leaders together so that they may be peacefully reasoned with. Why do I tell you this now? Because this moment is made all the more important for the events that convulse our city. That Great Soul who won furthest into the Gauntlet will have an unparalleled opportunity to make of herself an emblem, a figure, of our Academy’s good work and success. To go forth and represent the reason we strive as we do, to help quell the madness, and bring peace to our people.”

Everyone had swiveled to stare at Jova, who ignored their looks and glared stonily at where Praximar stood.

“Thus, whoever has won this ordeal, I merely ask that they consider the chaos outside, and finally choose a House so that they can best effect change. Let us crown today’s proceedings with even greater cause for celebration, shall we?”

He smiled brightly in Jova’s direction but was clearly making an effort to not literally stare at her.

More mutters sounded from the balconies, and the sense of unease within the basilica only grew.

“Now,” continued Praximar, turning to the Archspire at last, “please, step aside!”

His voice was jolly, his raillery obvious. Enjoying himself immensely, he stepped up to the Archspire, and placed his hand against it.

The silence that befell the basilica was that of a tomb.

Praximar stood at ease, a light smile playing on his face, one eyebrow raised. And then, violently, he jerked his hand back, his expression one of confusion and alarm.

“Instructor Feng,” he said, voice barely audible. “There has been a mistake. Check the Archspire for me.”

Feng frowned, hesitated, then did as he was bid.

Immediately whispers started up amongst the cohort, along the balconies.

Lianshi turned back to Scorio, eyes widening, eyebrows rising higher and higher.

Feng frowned, withdrew his hand. “The result is clear.”

“It cannot be.” Praximar pushed Feng aside roughly and stepped in once more. “Someone must have tampered with the results.”

“That’s… that’s not possible,” said Feng.

Other officials stepped in close, asking pointed questions. Praximar ignored them all, stared into the Archspire, his brows lowered, his jaw clenched, hand pressed against its side.

“No,” he said, drawing his hand back. “Impossible.”

Voices rose from murmurs to shouts. More than a few of the honored guests called out from the balconies, demanding to know what was going on.

Praximar smiled widely and turned back to the basilica. “Friends! A moment’s patience. There is a little confusion with the results, but nothing to be worried about. We’ll have this clarified in a moment.”

“Scorio!” hissed Lianshi. “You didn’t.”

Leonis blinked, stared at Lianshi, then Scorio, then back to Lianshi. “He… wait. What?”

Light was starting to burn in the depths of Naomi’s eyes. A gleam of pride and a joy so fierce that the sight of it caused Scorio’s skin to prickle, a flush to rise to his face, a smile to curve his lips of its own accord.

Never had he seen such intense happiness on her face.

The group on the stage gathered into a tight knot, and for a couple of minutes conferred furiously with each other. More than one dignitary pressed their hand to the Archspire, and all the while the volume of conversation rose ever louder amongst the students, along with the balconies.

Scorio watched Praximar. Watched him as a hawk might a mouse struggling in the weeds. First, he argued in furious whispers, disagreeing with what was said to him, and then he entered apoplexy, his face turning crimson, his whole body vibrating. But Helminth spoke with him, another two House heads reasoned with him, until the blood drained from the chancellor’s face, and he entreated with those before him, making his case urgently. The others listened but slowly began to shake their heads. Praximar paused, bit his lower lip, then cast his eyes downward, clearly at a loss, searching for something else to say.

Leonis slipped off his bier and padded over to Scorio’s side. “How far did you get, you mad bastard? What did you do?”

“Not what,” said Lianshi, unable to restrain her grin, knees bouncing as she sat cross-legged, clapping her hands rapidly, lightly, “but how?”

Finally, Praximar’s shoulders slumped, and his head dropped. Others continued to speak to him till he raised his hand, cutting them off. Scorio watched. Waited.

Praximar turned back to the front of the stage and dragged his smile back onto his face.

“Friends! My sincere apologies for the delay. You know that I am an inveterate showman—I’ll stoop to the basest tricks to raise the tension.” His eyes flashed with humor, and had Scorio not known better he’d have thought the chancellor in fine spirits once more. “What a contest! Incredible. We shall begin with the student who did the third best. An incredible performance, and a testimony to House Kraken, who had the wisdom to sponsor them. Will Chen She approach the stage?”

The applause was thunderous, and Chen She slipped off his bier with a victorious smile. His grin became especially pointed when he passed Kuragin’s bier, who stared at him with stony indifference.

“Chen She achieved the stunning accomplishment of reaching the thirteenth chamber and earning sixty points. Recall that on his first attempt he only reached the third; what an incredible improvement. House Kraken, you are fortunate to have such a worthy Great Soul under your wing—or should I say tentacle? The Academy is pleased to offer Chen She all the gifts and treasures that third place merits, along with the chance to train here another year. What say you, Chen She?”

The youthful man bowed low to Praximar, his agreement and pleasure obvious. Again the crowd burst out into applause, and after shaking hands with numerous people on the stage, Chen She moved to stand to one side where the head of House Kraken engaged him in quiet conversation.

“In second place! A legend in the making.” Praximar paused to smile, but then his silence drew out, becoming strained, awkward. The seconds rolled by, and still, the chancellor just stood there, beaming fatuously out at nothing. People began to whisper once more until Praximar jolted back to life. “You all know her, the Great Soul who has awed us through every step of her career here at the Academy. The winner of the tournament—”

At this, the crowd erupted into an excited clamor. Scorio could hear snippets of the storm all around him, the shock, the delight, the amazement. Again he turned to stare at Jova, and this time she was already staring right at him.

Her face was ashen, her lips pressed into a line, and then understanding entered her face and she sagged where she sat.

“—promises a great future! Few are the Tomb Sparks that reach the eighteenth chamber and seize the remarkable sum of a hundred and twenty-five points, and though she did not go the farthest, her accomplishment is literally stunning in and of itself.” Praximar’s last words were a shout as he strove to drown out the noise. “Will Jova Spike please come to the stage?”

She unfolded herself from her bier and stalked forward, looking neither left nor right. As much as everyone watched her, however, they were all examining each other, clearly wondering: who had beaten the unbeatable?

Scorio watched as she climbed the stage. She moved woodenly, as if in a dream, and accepted Praximar’s compliments and the shoulder pats from everyone else without looking anyone in the eye.

“She looks… stunned,” said Lianshi softly. “I feel so bad for her.”

“I doubt anyone’s ever felt bad for Jova Spike before,” said Naomi.

“I do, too,” said Scorio, and realized that he meant it.

When Praximar and the others finally subsided, she stepped next to Chen She, whose congratulations she ignored.

“And now, the moment that our entire year has been building up to. The Great Soul who progressed the deepest into the Gauntlet, earning himself incredible accolades, wealth beyond measure, access to the riches of the Academy’s vaults and patronage from any House they should choose.”

Praximar paused, and again the silence seemed to throb.

“Will Scorio please approach the stage?”

The silence seemed to implode, collapse under its own weight, then explode in incredulity and outrage.

Leonis let out a reverberating roar as he leaped up to stand upon his bier, and Lianshi bowed low to him as he passed her by. He walked as if a foot off the ground, the moment surreal, his blood rushing through his ears, a second roar that made everything people said or shouted to him unintelligible.

Naomi stepped forward as he passed her and placed a hand on his shoulder. They locked eyes, and for a second, they were back in the ruins, back in his ruined chamber, alone and cut off from all society, just one Great Soul reaching out to connect with another. Scorio’s eyes prickled with tears as he smiled brokenly at her, and saw her own eyes brim with water, too.

“I was wrong about you,” she whispered, and somehow, he heard her over the cacophony. “But deep down, I think I always knew.”

Unable to restrain himself, he stepped in and hugged her tightly, not giving a damn that every dignitary and House luminary was waiting, staring. He squeezed her as hard as he could, and she buried her face in his neck for but a moment, hugging him just as hard right back.

Then they separated, she wiped the tears away as she gave him a tremulous smile, and he continued to the stage.

People reached out to clap his shoulders, but most just stared at him in amazement. He could almost read their thoughts: Scorio? But he’s nothing, a Cinder, a Red Lister, a nobody. How?

The very words Praximar must have spoken.

Slowly, carefully, he climbed the wooden steps for the second time in his life. The first had resulted in his being tossed through the Final Door. And from the look on Praximar’s face, the emotion deep in his eyes, the truth behind his wide smile, Scorio knew that the chancellor yearned for nothing so much as a repeat of that first performance.

“Scorio, ladies and gentlemen, is a testament to how the Academy can serve anybody and everybody, how we can exalt even the least promising of our number to the greatest heights.” Praximar turned to address the crowd once more, which quieted reluctantly. “You are all aware, no doubt, that he is a Red Lister; yes, yes, I know, and for that, he was cast through the Final Door as is only fitting and proper. But! Scorio’s destiny was not to die in ignominy and darkness! His fate has led him from success to ever greater success, for he not only escaped his doom, but managed to help Imperator Sol repulse Imogen the Woe’s attacks! And that was but the first sign of his genius, and an act which opened the doors of the Academy to him once more.”

Murmurs came, the sound ugly, but also laced with wonder. Scorio stood beside Praximar, eyes glazed, not quite believing what was happening.

“From there, he studied in an exemplary manner. His instructors have reported nothing but dedication and talent from this young man, who let nothing stand in his way. Oh, the example he sets for us all! He performed respectably in the tournament, but did not let his loss there deter him; right up to the last moment he strove, pushed himself, and with our teaching, with the resources of this grand institution at his disposal—including my personal guidance and blessings—he’s reached the very apex of success. Yes! The Archspire has revealed that not only did he, too, reach the eighteenth chamber, and earn himself a hundred and twenty-five points, but that en route he achieved the rank of Tomb Spark!”

Again, the crowd seemed to convulse in outrage, and more than one dignitary behind him cried out in shock.

Praximar nodded enthusiastically, as if taking credit for this success, eyes gleaming, hands raised once more as he allowed the crowd its reaction.

Despite the attention showered on him, Scorio cared only for one set of eyes, which were staring at his back at that very moment.

“Now, Scorio is unaffiliated with any House, which means he can virtually choose his new home, and on his own terms. Everything that I said before about the importance of this moment stands as true as ever. What an enviable position to be in!” Praximar grinned as if he’d made a very witty comment. “Scorio is guaranteed further training, and will become the emblem of our Academy’s success! His future is guaranteed, as he’ll have no want for treasures, training, support, and personalized care. Most importantly, Scorio is a symbol to us all: that anyone can achieve greatness if they are willing to do the work. Let him take on this mantle of greatness, and help us begin the crucial act of healing the rifts that have opened between us and the people of Bastion!”

The applause broke out slowly but grew in volume; more and more people began to clap, till by the very end the sound was thunderous. It may not have been particularly enthusiastic, but the witnesses and students could not deny his success, no more than Praximar did.

And if there was one thing that a Great Soul respected, it was victory.

“Now, Scorio.” Praximar turned to him, smile affable, to all appearances enjoying the moment tremendously. “Which House do you wish to choose? If you care to, you may address the audience as is customary of the Gauntlet’s winner.” And then, in a quieter voice meant for him alone, Praximar whispered, “Choose your words with caution, my boy. Your success is not inviolable.”

And then he stepped back, leaving Scorio to face the assembled multitude alone.

Scorio had completely forgotten that the winner was expected to address the crowd. He gazed out over his cohort, some five hundred strong, all of them sitting or standing beside their jeweled blue biers. Then let his gaze rise to the balconies, ivy-covered and neglected as they were. Up and up, over the expectant faces, till at last, he thought he could make out his own, personal locker.

“I’m honored to have come first,” he heard himself call out. “Because I greatly respect my peers. I hoped to achieve this success, told myself that I could, but to have actually done so…” He trailed off, bemused. “It’s hard to believe. It wouldn’t have been possible without my friends, however. Lianshi, Leonis, and Naomi.” He stared down at where they were gathered and felt a rush of emotion come over him. “They believed in me when nobody else did. They never broke faith. Without them, I’d be dead.” He said that last word with utter finality. He knew it to be true. “My friends. You have my undying loyalty and love. I’ll never be able to repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

Lianshi’s eyes glimmered, Leonis grinned, and Naomi blushed and ducked her head, allowing her curtain of black hair to sweep down before her face.

The crowd, however, seemed almost embarrassed by his display of emotion. No matter. Scorio looked back up and smiled. “I set myself the goal of coming first in the Gauntlet for reasons of my own. In the process of accomplishing this, I believe I’ve come to understand the true nature of Bastion and the Academy. I’ve seen sides to this city, to this institution, that I’d never have guessed at when I first incarnated. And it wasn’t pretty.”

He could almost feel Praximar’s warning glower behind his back like an opened oven door.

“There’s no need to get into those truths, or how they influence me now, here, today. But I can say with a full and glad heart that I will not be returning to the Academy next year. Nor will I be accepting sponsorship from one of the four Houses—”

Again an uproar swept across the crowd, a wall of sound that washed over him and which was met by angry cries from the dignitaries behind him. He went to speak further, but the volume was simply too loud. But he didn’t care. He’d said what he’d wanted to, and so stepped back, a subtle smile on his lips.

Praximar shoved past him and pitched his voice into a bellow, using some device or trick to crush the outrage with his own shout. “Silence! So be it, Scorio.” He turned to stare murder at him. “You cast aside what you cannot understand nor value. I believe it is within my rights to thus disqualify you from the Gauntlet run, and pass the victory to whom it was stolen from, the rightful winner, Tomb Spark Jova Spike!”

Shock caused the voices of the crowd to soften, and Praximar gestured peremptorily at where Jova stood, her eyes glassy, her lips parted.

“Come, Jova!” Praximar’s geniality was splitting at the seams, his smile almost a grimace. “Come forth, you need but speak a few words for us to continue with the ceremony.”

Scorio stepped back, watched as Jova drifted forward to stand before the assembled audience of students and citizens of Bastion, the visiting Great Souls from deep Hell, and the instructors and staff of the Academy.

The voices died down altogether as she stood there, black hair sweeping over and down past one shoulder, her black-lined eyes wide, her black lips pursed. Then she blinked, as if coming back to herself, licked her lower lip, and raised her chin.

“I, too, will not be returning next year. I also decline to join one of the Great Houses.”

Scorio felt his mouth slacken as he stared at Jova, who turned to consider him, her poise regained, wry amusement entering her dark eyes.

Praximar spluttered, his face turning waxen, but before he could speak, Jova walked down the first three steps and then looked back to Scorio.

Her words were utterly distinct in the shocked silence. “You coming?”

For a second Scorio couldn’t understand her words. Then the cries of the crowd arose in a howl, demands, and imprecations being hurled at them from all sides, and Praximar was yelling, face scarlet, his eyes bulging.

But it all seemed to be drowned out behind the immediacy of Jova’s expectant pause, her raised eyebrow, her probing stare.

“Yeah,” he said at last, his word lost to the clamor, and walked past the gaping Chen She, past Instructors Feng and Helminth and Hera, past all the dignitaries of the four Houses. Past Praximar, who screamed threats at him, and down the steps to where Jova awaited him.

She turned, and together they descended to the basilica’s floor. Shoulder to shoulder they walked out, past all the biers, only Lianshi and Leonis cheering them on, while everyone else cried out, shouted, hurled questions, and cursed them.

They reached the double doors that led out to the Aureate Hall, and together they pushed them open, passed through, and left the Academy behind.