Up close, the chancellor and the other notables were clearly a mixed group; half of them were older, some even elderly, while the other half could have been in their early thirties or mid-twenties. All, even the most genial, radiated a heavy sense of power and danger; it felt like stepping into the heart of a pack of apex predators. Scorio turned at the top to gaze out over the biers; what struck him was how many lay empty, the vast majority dusty and stretching out to the far walls of the basilica.
“Well done, young man,” said the chancellor, his voice breathy and warm. He put a hand on Scorio’s shoulder and beamed at him. “I look forward to learning more about your identity, and helping you choose which of the four Houses you might accept patronage from.”
Scorio made no comment but simply nodded, and now saw the golden symbol on which his predecessors had placed their palms. It was circular and inlaid directly into the Archspire, a complex interweaving of golden curves that could have been a maze. He was too excited, however, to pause and examine it further; the sole way of attaining control over his destiny was to accrue power, and this was obviously the quickest and most efficient means of his doing so.
Stepping up, chest tight, he raised his hand and placed it to the symbol.
The lines of gold were warm beneath his touch, and then seemed to fuse with his palm, the sensation strange, not uncomfortable, but a melding that he hadn’t expected. A thrill passed through him, a jolt that coursed from his feet to his scalp, then he sensed the Archspire before him, became physically aware of his vast extent, as if it had momentarily become part of his own sense of self.
And realized that it plunged deep into the ground; he felt its roots extending beneath the basilica, fanning out in dizzying complexity, burrowing through the rock and leaching something from the world, drawing sustenance from a vibrant, invisible force he couldn’t understand, couldn’t put a name to, but which he knew, on some basic, primal level, he understood—
“Welcome, Scorio, once known as The Scourer, Lord of Nagaran, Master of the Black Tower, The Bringer of Ash and Darkness, the Shadow of Spurn Harbor, the Abhorred, Quencher of Hope and Unmaker of Joy. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Blood Baron. It has been two hundred and thirty-three years since you last died, and you have been reborn six times since the founding of Bastion. You are Proscribed and belong on the Red List.”
Before anything further could come from the Archspire, a hand seized him roughly by the shoulder and with unstoppable strength dragged him away.
Stunned, Scorio turned to stare at the notables, and the chancellor’s pallid face.
“Seize him,” said the chancellor, eyes wide with shock and anger. “Seize him and take him away.”
Chapter 6
Everything began happening too quickly and all around him. Scorio raised both hands and tried to shrug off the grip on his shoulder, but he might as well have tried to knock off his own arm.
The woman who had taken hold of him was imposing, her face strikingly handsome but now cast in an expression carved from granite. There was a self-possession in her gaze that clearly made her more than a simple brute.
“Wait,” said Scorio. “I don’t know what any of that meant!”
The chancellor’s stare was chilling; all humor and geniality had fled from his face. He raised his chin so he could stare at Scorio down the length of his aquiline nose. “Your statement is nuncupatory. The Archspire has told us enough. Instructor, please remove this… filth… to a holding cell below.”
“I’m not going to unleash any chaos or horror,” said Scorio, wrestling against the woman as she bent Scorio’s arm behind his back with irresistible strength. “Ease off!”
The chancellor had turned back to the crowd, however, and was now ignoring him utterly.
The instructor began to drag Scorio across the stage, the other notables having drawn back, eyes narrowed, most of them looking as if they’d just sucked on a putrid lemon.
“Get off me,” barked Scorio, but his arm was wrenched to such a degree that he had to tiptoe across the stage, his back arching painfully to avoid having his shoulder completely dislocated.
The Great Souls below were alert; many had stood, faces tense with confusion and shock.
Scorio saw Leonis striding toward the stage, Lianshi in his shadow. “What’s going on?” shouted the large man, his voice surprisingly authoritative and demanding. “There’s been a mistake. Let him go.”
Even as gratitude blossomed in Scorio’s chest, he knew it would do no good. A slender man with a shock of black hair, clad in the gray robes of the instructors, leaped down off the stage to land lightly before Leonis and Lianshi, his manner cold, calm, professional.
“Sit back down, brother,” he said. “This isn’t your concern.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Leonis, tracking Scorio as he was marched down the steps. “Step aside, my friend.”
Scorio’s mind raced. Frustration, horror, embarrassment—all of these emotions burned within him but were obscured by his growing rage.
“I didn’t do anything,” he growled over his shoulder.
“Even so,” said woman, voice matter of fact.
Her grip was expert, her strength and leverage unbreakable. Scorio tried to jerk free and felt the woman’s grip on his wrist tighten, the bones therein grinding against each other.
Scorio hissed in pain and was forced to keep walking. Forced up onto the balls of his feet, so that he couldn’t even bring his heel down in a stomp on the woman’s foot. Couldn’t twist around to drive an elbow at her face.
Nothing.
“Scorio!” shouted Leonis.
He cast a look back at his friends just as Leonis stepped forward, looking to press the poised instructor back. Who simply stood firm, as immovable as the Archspire.
Lianshi, however, had ducked down and run around the biers to come around and emerge in the channel before him. She straightened, expression wild, tall and gangly, unsure but clearly trying to think of a plan.
“Step aside,” said the woman escorting him, voice confident but edged with a threat. “There is nothing you can do to stop this.”
“Still have to try,” said Lianshi, and Scorio’s heart swelled in response.
“I applaud your loyalty, but it’s misplaced.” The woman didn’t slow down. “Last chance to step aside.”
Lianshi settled herself into a combat stance, legs bending, fists raised, moving to stand in a three-quarters profile.
The instructor released her grip on Scorio’s shoulder and extended her hand toward Lianshi.
She immediately withered, collapsing to the ground as if under immense pressure, shaking and fighting the whole way till she was pressed to the ground under an invisible load.
“Lianshi!” bellowed Scorio, and he flailed, fought to break free, and felt something tear in his shoulder as the instructor maintained her grip.
“Relax,” said the imperious instructor. “She’ll be fine.”
“What did you do to her?” barked Scorio, sweat prickling his brow from the pain that was shooting down his arm and into his back.
“You’ll never have the chance to learn,” said the instructor.
On they marched. The Great Souls were watching him pass, expressions ranging from alarmed to inscrutable, but nobody else moved to help him.
“My apologies, everyone,” called the chancellor, tone affable once more. “This happens but rarely, and when it does it’s best to move quickly and remove the stain. The odds of another Red Listed soul appearing amongst you is vanishingly small, so please, relax. You have nothing to worry about. In due time you’ll learn about what just took place, and the necessity of our actions, but for now, let us remain focused on the Revelator and your own successes. Now, the next worthy soul who managed to enter the Chamber of Balance…”