Imogen bit her lower lip, resumed walking. But she moved slowly now, unsure.
That flicker of energy didn’t fade.
She took turns at random. Tried to push away the sensation. To bury it deep, to remove it and its temptation from her notice.
Failed.
What if it were true?
What if the Portal were opening at long last?
Ettera.
She could go look.
She could go see for herself.
She stopped walking, then smiled brightly.
She would do it.
And perhaps—perhaps if it were so—then they could go through together, could put the past behind them, the deaths and misunderstandings, the mistakes and mass murders.
A chance to begin anew.
Imogen rose once more, but this time her gaze remained fixed on the ground below, a vortex of shadows raising her effortlessly up on high.
Lowering her chin, she extended her hand and exerted her will.
The walls of the massive labyrinth immediately crumbled away in a perfect hemisphere, the far edges standing tall and growing ever shorter as they drew near to the center directly below.
A powerful ward had been placed just beneath the surface of the ground. Elastic, resistant, dull-minded, and infinitely strong, it attempted to defy her, but could not. After all, it was her creation.
A tiny hole appeared in its surface and widened rapidly. Dirt and rock evaporated, and then she pressed both hands down together, as if inserting her fingers into a stomach wound, and pulled the air apart.
The fabric of her moon tore, and the labyrinth folded away and behind her, collapsing in on itself as she flew through the aethereal gap and into a great chasm in the earth.
Another obstacle, this one more formidable than the last, created during a moment of regrettable madness and self-loathing. Yohanis stood at the chasm’s far end, enlarged into a perfect giant, his crimson curls wreathed about his perfect brow, his eyes dull and lusterless, his cheeks ashen, his bare chest carved with muscle and that one livid hole above his heart.
Imogen floated toward him, throat closing, her very spirit recoiling in horror at the sight of his perfect form. But when Yohanis raised his burning blade she extended her hand—and though it wounded her deeper than she thought possible, she banished him, unmade her weaving of him, and his gigantic form dissolved and was gone.
Tears ran down her cheeks, but on she flew, the chasm collapsing around her, the colors swirling, melding, the sky opening up, a lake appearing to her right, a spit of sand curling around its shore.
It was twilight. The air was rich with the scent of blooming dusk coronets, and dappled skimmers flitted across the water’s surface, leaving widening circles in their wake.
Imogen slowed, a dagger turning in her heart at the sight of the blue blanket, the dishes and cups, the half-eaten tart, the wine bottle spilled over on its side. Her skin prickled, and waves of cold fire washed over her as she fought the memories that sought to drown her.
Almost she could hear the voices raised in panic and horror. Waves of pain that she did not countenance sought to smother her, to drown her in old grief made new.
The final ward.
But, like the others, created by herself, against herself, summoned and put in place to keep her at bay.
And thus, ultimately, futile.
Imogen lowered her face, covered it with both hands, and with a cry flew forward, racing along that narrow beach, unseeing, her heart lacerating, until untold miles later she finally came to a stop.
The world had changed.
It was no longer her own.
She lowered her hands, and through tear-clumped lashes gazed out over the fleshy, undulating surface of a mauve, mycotal mesa.
She was free.
She was out.
She was back in hell.
The sky was rich with cerulean blue, dove gray, and lavender striations; an inch above the western horizon floated a solaran, shedding its silver light over the land, colossal fins slowly undulating.
An emerald fern giant stood close at hand, towering some thirty yards into the sky, streams of translucent Diamond mana rising from the mycotal mesa into its outstretched verdant hand. It turned its huge, antlered head to stare down at her, the symbol of power glowing beneath its ivy face with a luminous, golden-green hue, its broad mouth flattening into a line.
A moment later its alarm was total and overwhelming. Its symbol flared as brightly as a fractured hope stone, and it jumped up and back, its leap carrying it high and away as if it were a flea across the vast expanse of the mesa.
Imogen inhaled deeply. How long had it been? Lifting her palm, she sent forth a dozen vortices which flew up and away to some several thousand yards, forming a perfect circle around her, and immediately began to drain all the Diamond mana in the region into her Lacuna.
Power flowed into her like a cataract, and with a smile, she fashioned her Shroud, pulled her Ferula from her spirit, and ignited her Aura.
A mile away, the fern giant groaned and toppled, its luxurious body turning ashen and then collapsing in upon itself as Emerald mana streamed to the closest vortex and then into her Lacuna.
The mycotal mesa rippled in distress beneath her, its flesh graying as the vortices stripped it of its essence in a widening circle.
Imogen rose into the air, garbed in shadow, her mind clearing and focusing on that distant fleck of ancient power.
Bastion was almost on the far side of hell; even if she used the Interstitial Rivenings to pass through the center it would take her days to reach it.
The closest entrance? Her senses ranged far afield, tallying nodes, nexi, reservoirs, cacogens, torque zones, and fiends of particular power.
There. Only a few hundred miles north.
Her vortices collapsed upon themselves. Her Shroud flared, and streamlining her Aura, she blasted forward, a column of shadow bearing her faster than thought, her departure tearing massive rents in the mesa as a dull boom shattered the sky.
A moment later she was gone, a dwindling speck on the horizon.
Heading north.
Heading home.
Heading to Bastion.
Chapter 37
Scorio filled the next five days with arduous training, hours spent practicing the First Form, and several hunting forays that netted him a half-dozen Coal Heartstones. As promised, he restricted himself to minor foes, and was able to defeat them without suffering anything more than scrapes and minor cuts.
But all the while he waited for eight days to pass since he’d inserted the reeds. When the day finally dawned, Scorio returned to the chasm to check on his farm’s progress. The way there was now familiar to him, and in his eagerness, he took it at a run; when he drew close to the chasm’s edge, he peered down, sharpening his darkvision to help him focus into the gloom, and breathed out a deep sigh when he saw the hundred or so plants still standing in their neat little rows.
Quickly he fashioned his harness for the steel rod, then leaped down to the second ledge before repeating the process of dropping down to the island. He was so eager that he nearly missed the edge; for a moment he teetered back and forth, arms windmilling, and when he finally lurched forward, he immediately vowed to never be hasty about getting down again.
But none of that mattered. All barely constrained eagerness, he dropped to his knees by the closest plant and carefully, fingers steady, drew forth the reed. Thin lines of sticky black sap drew out for a moment and then snapped as he pulled it away, and immediately he summoned his Heart, focusing his darkvision at the base of the narrow reed.
There. Gleaming, precious, and calling to him in the sweet voice of power made tangible, was a bead of Coal mana.
Scorio drew forth a small, palm-sized bottle, uncorked it, and held the reed to the mouth, tipping it up.
The bead didn’t pour out.
Frowning, Scorio tapped the reed against the glass, then gave it a sharp shake.
Nothing.
Pushing his senses forth, he felt the bead where it had slowly begun to roll out of the reed’s base. At this speed, it would take him an entire cycle to cajole every reed into disgorging its contents.