Lianshi bit her lower lip, then gave a sharp shake of her head. “The chancellor made a big deal about being reborn two hundred and three times, correct? So is it more impressive that Jova has only been reborn a hundred and sixty-three times?”
“Maybe she just tends to live longer,” said Scorio.
“Or gets reborn less frequently,” said Leonis. “Otherwise why would they bother adding how long it’s been since she died?”
The chancellor patted Jova on the shoulder, ending their little conference, and she descended the steps pensively, her frown now one of mild confusion and wonder.
“In second place, if only by seven seconds, is our next Great Soul, who, let me remind you, still achieved the near-impossible by making it to the fifth chamber. Please approach the Archspire, Ravenna.”
This time the Great Soul was ready; the woman slipped down from her bier, chin raised, shoulders squared, and begin striding toward the front.
“She’s as intense as Jova,” muttered Leonis. “Maybe that’s where I went wrong. I’m too jovial.”
Ravenna’s hair was jet black, cut in rough bangs across her brow, short at the back and lengthening to follow the line of her chin. Pale-skinned, her blue eyes piercing, she had a set to her jaw which spoke volumes about her attitude. She, too, looked neither left nor right but moved forward as if alone, gaze fixed on the distant stage.
“No disrespect,” murmured Leonis, “but I was expecting one of the top two to be, well. Larger? Stronger?”
“More masculine?” prompted Lianshi, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, that’s not unimaginable, yes,” protested Leonis.
Scorio watched Ravenna march up the steps, back straight, hands tightly fisted. “Think about it. After the imp test, you wouldn’t need strength or size. The Hall of Blades called for sharp perception, quick wits, and inhuman agility. If you got through it without being all cut up like I was, then perhaps you could just sprint up the tilting hallway and leap to reach the end, whatever that was.”
“Also, I’d put money on either of those women in a straight-up fight against you,” said Lianshi sweetly. “No offense.”
The chancellor beamed at Ravenna as she joined him on the stage. “Congratulations on your stunning achievement. Everything I said about Jova applies to you, for a mere seven seconds separated you from being called first. Please approach the Archspire, Ravenna, and place your hand on the golden sigil.”
Ravenna needed no further prompting. She stepped up smartly to the massive spire, looked up once, then placed her hand upon it.
Again the great gem at the apex came to life, blue lights swirling within it, growing faster and faster.
“Ravenna Accardi, once known as The Merciless, Destroyer of the White Tower, and Heiress of the Wind. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Charnel Duke. It has been three years since you last died, and you have been reborn one hundred and eighty-nine times since the founding of Bastion.”
“Charnel Duke,” said Lianshi. “Someone needs to tell us what these titles mean.”
Leonis scratched at his jaw. “Do you think it’s more or less impressive than an Imperator?”
Ravenna had staggered back a step, her face having turned bone-white, and was staring fixedly out at nothing as she was surrounded and spoken to by numerous officials.
“What are they saying to her?” wondered Scorio.
Lianshi shrugged one shoulder. “More congratulations?”
“No…” Scorio wished they were just a little closer so that they could hear. “They look too intent. Like they’re trying to convince her of something.”
“Or sell her something,” agreed Leonis. “While she’s bewildered and overwhelmed.”
Eventually, Ravenna descended the steps, looking as remote and thoughtful as Jova had, and the chancellor stepped forth once more.
Scorio felt flickers of anger burning within him. “You think they’d give them a chance to recover and gather their wits before cornering them like that.”
“The third and final Great Soul to make it into the fifth chamber deserves just as much respect and consideration as the first two. Demonstrating exemplary tenacity and grit, he is remembered with awe and admiration by all who knew him until his fall, five years ago, deep in the Telurian Band. Massamach, please approach the stage.”
The dark-skinned young man who descended from his bier was all that Leonis might have hoped for; he was massively built, his shoulders straining his white robe, his neck thick as a bull’s, his arms larger than Scorio’s thighs. Despite his bulk, he moved lightly on his feet, with great deliberation and precision, and in his watery blue eyes, Scorio saw the same intensity and thoughtfulness that had marked the first two winners.
Massamach ascended to the stage and there turned to consider the other Great Souls, brow furrowed, lips pursed, ignoring the chancellor who waxed on about his notoriety and martial feats during his past life. Instead, he scanned the faces below, seeming to be seeking someone, but when finally he was bid to place his hand on the Archspire, he seemed not to have found them.
Once more the great gem stirred to life, and once more that gentle voice spoke forth. “Massamach, once known as The Wise, King of the Jandites, Breaker of Shackles, Destroyer of Idols and Bringer of Light. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Crimson Earl. It has been six years since you last died, and you have been reborn one hundred and seventy-one times since the founding of Bastion.”
Massamach’s frame went rigid as the Archspire poured its power into him and when he drew his hand back, he studied his palm, as if a secret message had been inscribed there for his eyes alone.
“Here they go,” murmured Scorio as once more the notables on the stage closed around him. Massamach seemed to ignore them, but finally blinked, looked about, and then cocked his head to one side as first one and then the next sought to lecture him.
“Do you think each and every one of us has as heroic a past as these three?” asked Leonis quietly.
“If so, it must have been a large world to accommodate us all,” replied Lianshi. “How many kings and queens could there have been?”
“I wonder what caused such powerful people to agree to all this.” Scorio glanced about at the other seated Great Souls. “There are hundreds of us here, and we’re just the ones who died recently. How many more are out there, fighting this war?”
“And against whom?” asked Lianshi. “What happened, I wonder, that we’d all agree to this? When are they going to tell us?”
“Not for hours.” Leonis leaned back on his outstretched arms. “Not till we get through every title and accomplishment. Get comfortable. This is going to take a while.”
When Massamach regained his bier, the chancellor stepped forth once more to announce those who had reached the fourth chamber.
Despite his misgivings and anger, Scorio couldn’t deny a sense of excitement; how well had he done compared to the others? Twenty-three Great Souls had died in the tilting chamber. How much power would be accorded him? What would he learn at the foot of the Archspire?
First one, then a second, then a third Great Soul was called up. Scorio wasn’t in the top five, or the top ten. All had died within the last half-dozen years. Scorio schooled his features, aware of how his two companions kept glancing at him, and when his name was finally announced, he realized he’d come in eighteenth.
The chancellor by that point had greatly abbreviated his summons.
“The next Great Soul to have dared the Chamber of Balance and exemplified the best of you goes by the name of Scorio. Please approach the stage!”
Leonis clapped him on the shoulder as he slid off his bier, and Scorio felt his stomach tighten as he walked around to the front. He could feel hundreds scrutinizing him, the weight of their stares palpable, but like the others had done he ignored the attention and focused on climbing the steps.