Imogen ignored them still, her attention on the ever-widening hole.
She didn’t turn as Scorio and his friends each flew into one of Praximar’s reflections and took their place.
The Praximar that had floated where Scorio now hovered disappeared, and he found himself locked into its spot. It was the strangest sensation—he didn’t stand on anything, there was no familiar sensation of weight, but rather simply hung in nothingness, suspended as if underwater.
“You’re right,” whispered the sole remaining Praximar. “We’ve pushed our luck already.” And together the six of them flew straight up into the roiling clouds of shadow.
Chapter 39
The darkness was cool, like chilled fleece. They moved quickly, the air rushing past them, and then burst out into the sky above the old Academy.
The great trail of shadow that had followed Imogen was now collecting about the basilica, allowing the sun-wire to pour its radiance upon Bastion as before. It was toward the living city that they immediately flew, Praximar at the forefront of their flying “V,” his cloak snapping behind him.
Scorio’s mind reeled. He wanted to rejoice in the sensation of flight, to marvel at the ruins fleeing by beneath them, but he couldn’t forget the sight of the basilica’s wall excavating itself, pulling apart before the Imperator’s power.
They flew in silence. Sped across Bastion, and looking around, Scorio saw panic stalking the streets bloody-handed. Crowds surged down the avenue, people pushing and shouting, others staggering along as they craned their heads back to peer up at the sky. Many were climbing out onto rooftops, slowing and then stopping as they gaped. Others fled as if expecting the sun-wire to snap at any moment, arms over their heads, ducking into doorways or side streets as quickly as they could.
But Praximar’s flight was deceptively swift; soon they were diving down toward the new Academy, which in contrast to that dour edifice they’d just vacated appeared diminutive, strangely whole and clean, surrounded by startling greenery and impossibly delicate fronds.
Down they flew to land upon a flat rooftop of marble flagstones enclosed by a waist-high stone railing. Other individuals were already there, a small crowd that turned to watch their descent.
Scorio’s stomach rose within him as they dropped to the ground, but he found it a simple matter to catch his balance as Praximar’s power released him. Leonis stumbled briefly, but Lianshi steadied him, and then they were surrounded by grim expressions as everyone turned to stare at them.
The only person in the small crowd that Scorio recognized was Helminth the Hell Whip, tall and athletic, garbed in training robes and with her hands on her hips, eyes gleaming as she stared at him in shock.
Scorio managed an apologetic smile before his attention was wrested to Praximar, who stepped before him and drove a finger into his chest.
“Why am I not surprised to find a Red Lister at the heart of this problem?” His voice rang with tension. “You have seconds to explain what you’ve done, Scorio the Abhorred, before I destroy you utterly.”
The urge to cower before that multitude of gazes was strong. To hunch his shoulders, duck his chin, and quickly launch into an explanation.
But he sensed Naomi stepping in behind him. Felt Leonis and Lianshi by his side. And in his mind’s eye, he saw once more Imogen descending through the opening she’d created in the dome.
And recognized, at last, the universal emotion that was writ large across every face before him: fear.
“She said she was drawn to the old Academy because of the Archspire.” Scorio pitched his voice so that it carried, so that it didn’t tremble or shake in the least. “Said she mistook it for the Portal opening.”
A striking woman with skin the color of Coal and long hair woven into finger-thick braids spoke first. “Does anybody have the means of contacting another Imperator?”
Praximar scowled. “Nothing timely. We can only hope they will sense the beacon and come quickly.”
The brutish man’s rumble was low, calm. “From the far side of hell? Even if they dropped everything it would take them days.”
Praximar fixed his gaze on a young, stern-looking man, his features sharp, his lips almost feminine. “Feng. Tell me the beacon is lit.”
“Assuredly,” said Feng. “I awakened it the moment I saw the shadows.”
Raugr turned to the Hell Whip. “Your thoughts?”
She licked her lower lip slowly, gaze turning to the shadows that now obscured the far Portal completely. “There’s not much to work with. We need Desiree to arrive so that she can craft the best plan for us. Last I heard the White Queen was at the Fiery Shoals. She’ll bring her retinue, which in turn should signal to others to attend. How did the Imperator seem to you?”
Praximar ran both hands over his close-cut gray hair. “Deluded? A pane of glass so riven with cracks that one blow would cause her to irretrievably shatter?” He turned to the brutish man. “What did you think, Raugr?”
Raugr frowned. “She was calm. Pensive. Determined. For now.”
Helminth nodded. “Then we wait for new arrivals. We can do nothing till then. If Desiree arrives in time, I’ll work with her to create the optimal plan.”
“The Portal has withstood all attempts to open it for almost a millennium,” said Praximar loudly. “It will withstand Imogen for a few moments more. For now, we’ll give our friends time to arrive. Remain close at hand, all of you. Gather equipment or supplies if you must, but do not take long. We’ll be going to battle soon. But you, Scorio.” And Praximar turned to fix him with his glare. “You don’t leave my line of sight. Clear?”
To which Scorio could only bow his head.
A few individuals jogged toward the stairs leading below, while others clustered into groups of two or three to converse in low tones.
Helminth pointed at them and crooked her finger. “You four. Over here.”
“Great,” muttered Leonis.
Together they walked over to where she waited, frowning sternly at them.
“Memek,” she said, the name expressing disapproval and accusation all at once. “Now I recognize you. Why am I not surprised to find you with these two?”
It wasn’t a question, so Scorio simply met her gaze.
“Leonis. Lianshi. I’m disappointed to find you involved in this matter. Whatever you’ve done has endangered Bastion, which means you’ve endangered every Great Soul alive and dead. Tell me what is going on.”
“Apologies, Dread Blaze,” said Lianshi, bowing low. “We’d just discovered that Scorio was still alive, and wanted to show him our rooms and share some food with him.”
Helminth scrutinized Lianshi who remained bowed, then her gaze flickered over them quickly. “Scorio. You survived being put behind the Final Door. That means you somehow got past the Bronze Door and then made your way out into the ruins. Impressive. Which must be where Naomi here must have been hiding. Hello, Naomi.”
Naomi had been standing directly behind Scorio. She took a deep breath and stepped out. “Dread Blaze.”
The trainer’s smile was lazy. “Alive and well. No doubt you were the one who trained Scorio. Did you know he was a Red Lister? You must have. No doubt that served as an inducement. He then contacted Lianshi and Leonis… the Graveyards? And convinced them to assist him. But none of that explains why the four of you were in the old Academy at the precise moment Imogen entered Bastion. What did you do?”
The Hell Whip’s intuitive guesses and leaps of logic had Scorio on his heels, but her peremptory tone awoke within him a burning resentment. He crossed his arms and gave her a hard smile. “The Imperator sensed the power in the broken Archspire. We’ve been training in the ruins. The only place I can train without being killed for past sins I don’t recall. We went to the old Academy in the hopes of finding pockets of higher quality mana. We didn’t find any but were there when the Imperator arrived.”