Helminth narrowed her eyes. “A coincidence, then? A Red Lister poking around ancient ruins at the same time a fallen Imperator comes out of hiding to investigate?”
Scorio spread his arms wide. “Coincidences happen. Unfortunately, this one was to our detriment.”
The Hell Whip tilted her head down while maintaining eye contact, and Scorio felt her will fall upon him, her presence growing tangible like an oven door being thrown open before him.
Had he not felt the indirect wrath of an Imperator not long ago, it would have been impressive.
But before Helminth could speak further, a half-dozen individuals appeared out of nowhere in the center of the rooftop.
A wild-haired man with a slender goatee sagged down to one knee in their midst, his chest heaving, and raised his saturnine face to stare through one open eye at the shadows coiling at Bastion’s far side. “Well, it looks like you were right, Lady Maeve. I might owe you an apology.”
A stately woman clothed all in form-fitting black stepped forward, and her presence and command were such that even Praximar and Raugr seemed diminished before her. Dark crimson hair fell in tangled locks of vivid flame past her shoulders, and her face was at once stern and sensitive, the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose giving her a youthful look that was at odds with her self-possession and poise.
“Lady Maeve,” said Praximar, hurrying forward to drop to one knee. “Thank Ettera you’re here. The situation is direr than I can neatly encapsulate.”
“It is Imogen, then?” She gazed past the kneeling Pyre Lord to the distant darkness. “She is returned?”
“Unfortunately. I saw her with my own eyes. She stated her intent to open the Portal. I tried to dissuade her, but…” Praximar rose to his feet. “My words fell on deaf ears.”
“Greater powers than you have sought to reason with her and failed,” said Lady Maeve. “Whom do we have available?”
Praximar gestured to Raugr. “We are the only Pyre Lords. Eight Dread Blazes, with more coming from across the city.”
“I brought whom I could,” said Maeve. “Praximar, Raugr, I believe you’ve met Helena and Amity.”
These two new arrivals inclined their heads as if greeting equals. One was a statuesque blond, her physique powerfully muscled and leonine, the bridge of her nose kinked from an old break, while the second was a sloop-shouldered man of small stature, his rough beard hiding his lips, his skin weathered and worn as if he’d spent his life braving the elements.
“Pyre Lords,” said Raugr softly, inclining his head.
“Should we get out of here?” asked Naomi softly, pulling on Scorio’s sleeve as Helminth stepped over to the new arrivals. “Nothing good can come of our being noticed.”
“They’ll definitely notice your leaving,” said Lianshi, biting at the corner of her thumbnail. Her voice then dropped to a whisper. “Do you think this is our fault?”
“They’re right,” rumbled Leonis. “It can’t be a coincidence. Why didn’t you tell them about the Gauntlet?”
“Because…” Scorio trailed off, hands closing into fists.
“We need to tell them everything,” said Lianshi, glancing at the crowd of powerful Great Souls. “They need to know everything if they are to find a way to stop her.”
“We didn’t summon her,” said Scorio, his voice low, sure. “And even if we did, even if our using the Gauntlet caught her attention, we’re not responsible for her…” He paused, trying to find the right word.
“Madness,” said Naomi.
Scorio looked up at the dark clouds of deepest black which engulfed the end of the city, how they roiled slowly like a storm about to break. “She’s here now. They’re going to do what they can to stop her. We’ll help if they let us.”
“How?” Leonis turned to look at him, eyes wide. “What could we do?”
“I don’t know,” said Scorio. “I don’t know.”
A vertical line of golden light appeared in the air. All conversation stopped as those assembled turned to watch. The line thickened, its radiance bright, then split apart to form a bright oval whose interior was frosted white.
“The White Queen,” breathed someone in awe.
A woman stepped through, and with her came a sense of confidence, of calm, of control. Her hair was a blonde so pale it was nearly ivory, her skin alabaster and flawless, her gaze a washed-out blue. Only her lips added a touch of color to her whole appearance, for they were a startling red, sensual and full.
All those gathered, even Lady Maeve, dropped to one knee and bowed their heads as other figures emerged from the portal and spread out to flank the pale woman. Scorio dropped a belated second later, wrenching his gaze from the White Queen’s dispassionate visage to stare fixedly at the ground.
“Rise,” she said, voice cool, distant.
Scorio chose to remain on one knee but raised his face to study her further. She was gazing past them all, a slender, vertical line having appeared between her brows as she studied the depths of Bastion. A fitful wind blew, and her white dress flattened against her form, her skirt fluttering out behind her, her pale hair streaming. “We’re not too late.”
Lady Maeve rose first, her dark crimson hair and black dress contrasting sharply with the White Queen’s. “You’re not, but there’s little that can be done. It’s her. She’s come back at last.”
“But she’s returned alone? No sign of Zellair? Joranvyn?”
“None, praise the ten hells,” said Lady Maeve.
“Then while we yet breathe there is hope,” said the White Queen gently, and reached out to take hold of the other woman’s. “Maeve. It’s good to see you again.”
Lady Maeve bowed her head. “Charnel Duchess. With you here, we have a chance.”
“She didn’t come alone,” said an older man whose bald head and white beard were at odds with his massively muscled body. Every exposed inch of him was carved in swirling tattoos, their blue contrasting with his white skin, and his dark eyes glimmered with amusement. “It’s been a while since I was in a good scrap.”
“Do you recognize them?” whispered Scorio to Naomi.
“That—yes. The old man is Grunsch, a Blood Baron like Lady Maeve. The White Queen is legendary, a Charnel Duchess.”
“Havarn,” said Lady Maeve, her smile relieved and conflicted all at once. A second man stepped forth from the White Queen’s retinue, his skin olive-hued, eyes perpetually shadowed under heavy brows, his hair silken and long and tied back into a flowing ponytail. He took Lady Maeve’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I regret we have to meet again under such circumstances.”
“When was the last time we three fought together?” asked Grunsch, his good cheer discordant. “Was it Golden Brook?”
“Might have been,” said Maeve, withdrawing her hand. “But we’ve a battle for the ages now.”
“It can’t be done,” said Havarn, looking past them all toward the darkness, his expression bleak. “All of us together cannot hope to do more than distract her.”
“True,” said the White Queen. “But we need not strive for victory. Only time.”
“And how do we delay an Imperator?” asked Praximar, stepping up beside Lady Maeve, smoothing down his short, iron-gray beard nervously. “And one so infamous as she?”
“Desiree,” said the White Queen. “Do you have a plan?”
The woman who emerged from the Queen’s retinue could have been her younger sister, but where the White Queen was majestic, Desiree was eerie, bloodless. Her flaxen hair hung limp and close to her scalp, the wind whipping it before her face, her eyes so pale so as to appear without irises, her brows disappearing against her white skin. Slender, composed, she stared up at the distant darkness.
The whole gathering stilled.
“Who is she?” whispered Scorio, afraid to draw attention but unable to restrain himself.