“Return to that thing?” Naomi pointed to the collapsed Archspire. “Good luck.”
Darkness stole over the windows that ringed the base of the domes, suffusing the cracks, so that in moments it felt as if night had fallen. Scorio sharpened his darkvision, heart pounding.
“You feel that?” Lianshi’s voice was a whisper. “Something’s… something’s imminent.”
Then the base of the dome high above them began to warp. Scorio had half-expected windows to burst in, for huge blocks of stone to be demolished and sent falling to the ground below, but what happened was far, far stranger.
The inner curve of the dome began to move as if it were coming alive, blocks protruding and shifting around, delicate arches emerging and then splitting off to brace against the lower segments of wall, ornamental windows and inverted stairways blossoming into existence as a hole to the sky outside opened, at first just the size of a fist, then quickly expanding, the dome retreating from that point, restructuring itself till at last a portal stood in the heart of a profusion of mad architecture.
Scorio pressed back against a bier, jaw clenched, breathing strenuously through his nose, and could only stare as the woman descended through the hole, one knee raised, her black hair undulating about her face, cloak melding with the shadows about her.
None of them spoke. The weight of her presence was suffocating, as if iron bands were tightening around his chest. He stared, transfixed, as she slowly floated down, the shadows writhing behind her.
But her attention wasn’t on Scorio or his friends. Instead, she frowned at the ruined Archspire, and in her displeasure, Scorio saw the promise of annihilation.
She extended her hand and shadows streamed forth to wrap around the fallen segment, wreathing and lifting it up into the air.
Chunks fell away, dust and broken rock, but it rose, all twenty yards of it, to float before the woman. She frowned at it, her dark-rimmed eyes narrowing, burgundy lips pursing.
“This? This is what called me here?”
Then her gaze slid over to where the four of them huddled, her focus falling upon them, and Scorio had to bite back a groan as his knees buckled under the weight of her regard. It felt as if a ponderous cloak of lead had suddenly been draped over his shoulders, as if the air had grown too thick to breathe.
None of them replied. Scorio gritted his teeth as he forced himself to straighten, thoughts shattered.
But then she curled her extended hand into a fist, and even without summoning his Heart Scorio felt the mana blaze from the ragged tip of the standing part of the Archspire, a vast upwelling that blazed into the air and flew into the woman’s palm.
Her hair whipped back and forth as if she stood in a powerful headwind, but her expression didn’t otherwise change.
“The Portal hasn’t opened.” Her tone was almost dreamy, distracted. “Hope dies. What could be crueler? What greater torment? The shaft of light in the darkness. A final gasp.”
Fighting for focus, Scorio summoned his Heart and immediately saw the potency of the mana that flowed into the woman’s palm. It was clear, like fast-flowing water, only detectable for how it distorted the light around it. He’d never seen anything like it. And still, it poured into her, such power he couldn’t begin to comprehend how it didn’t burn her alive.
Six figures dropped down through the black cloud, shadows trailing after them as they sank into view, and Scorio felt his chest flutter with profound relief.
Six men, but five of which were all Pyre Lord Praximar, each independent of the others, their gazes taking in the entirety of the basilica but always returning to the woman. His expression was universally one of intense concentration and concern; his five sets of pale blue eyes glimmered with focus as he came to a stop, fine clothing rippling as if he, too, floated in a powerful wind.
The sixth man was brutish and stolid in comparison to the five reflections, bald and with a granite-like visage. His heavy hands were curled into fists, his chin lowered, his lipless mouth pressed into a tight seam. Scorio had seen him on the stage—the briefest glimpse—but his power and authority were obvious. He gazed at the woman with an inscrutable intensity of his own.
“Imperator Imogen, you honor us,” called out one of the Praximar reflections.
“We had no warning that you intended a visit,” continued another seamlessly, “or we would have prepared a lavish reception and banquet in your honor.”
A third continued, “It has been many long years since we’ve heard of your wondrous accomplishments. You would greatly honor Bastion and its every citizen and Great Soul if you agreed to enjoy our hospitality. We wish nothing more than to hear of your exploits and attend to your every need.”
The brutish man remained silent, a dour, powerful presence to the side.
Imperator, thought Scorio, mind reeling. The absolute pinnacle of power.
Imogen closed her hand into a fist, cutting off the influx of raw power, and turned at last to consider the new arrivals. For a moment she swayed, her head dipping as if overcome by an inner turmoil; then her head arose once more, and she gazed at the men with a disdainful dignity that put their own poise to shame.
“I thought the Portal had begun to open.” Her voice was rich, husky, and though she spoke softly Scorio had no difficulty in hearing her. “I flew here, my heart beating gladsome blood. But now I find it closed as before. The way to Ettera as dead as ever.”
Praximar’s faces reflected a dozen rapid, minute changes as he processed these words, and now all five of his reflections bowed low. “We feel your grief, for every Great Soul lives in hope of seeing our grand—”
Imogen spoke over him, her soft voice cutting him off as easily as a guillotine. “But I find myself wondering: doors can be opened from both sides. One need not wait to be invited. Are we not worthy? I am here, and I find that my desire has not wavered.”
She raised her hand, examining it thoughtfully as flecks of shadow writhed about her palm and fingers. “Perhaps I shall knock. Perhaps I shall see if we are heard on the far side. And if no one attends…”
Praximar visibly paled. “Esteemed Imperator, I am thrilled at your suggestion and wish to discuss it with you further. We can retire to the finest quarters that House Hydra can provide, and there discuss this at leisure—”
Imogen extended her palm toward the far wall, and a dark fog began to stream toward it from her hand. Silently, at a scale Scorio couldn’t fathom, the entire side of the basilica’s huge chamber began to change.
Cyclopean blocks pushed out and slid across, the balconies rippled like huge centipedes, windows widened, the dead vegetation that wreathed everything multiplied and spread over the stones as they moved, spread apart, and in seconds an opening appeared.
Through which Scorio saw the huge Portal at the very end of Bastion, that giant circle in whose center the sun-wire was anchored, the light of First Bronze pouring in until the shadows arose higher to mute it down to a ruddy Clay.
“Imperator!” Praximar’s voice rang with alarm. “Please! Let us not be hasty! This is forbidden for reasons as various as they are wise! Please—”
Scorio saw desperation on the older man’s face. Bleak panic.
Imogen ignored him completely. The basilica’s side continued to peel open, the huge dome remaining stable far above them even as it lost key structural supports.
“Time to retreat,” growled the brutish man. “We can’t handle this alone.”
The Praximars bit their lower lips then gave a jerky nod. One of them glanced down and saw Scorio and his friends. His head jerked back, then he extended his hand to them, fingers closing and arm hauling back as if on a great fishing net, and Scorio felt himself lift off the ground.
He stifled the cry of alarm and saw that his companions were also flying up swiftly, ten, twenty, thirty feet off the ground in a matter of moments.