“Naomi?”
No response.
“Damn,” he hissed, and dropped into a crouch, cupping his hands before his mouth. He alone had escaped the Imperator’s control.
What should he do? His gaze flickered from side to side, unseeing, as he tried to come up with options. A plan. Anything at all.
He could obviously just wait in here until the threat passed. But that would mean abandoning his friends, abandoning the other Great Souls, and abandoning Bastion to Imogen.
Not an option.
He’d return to the bier after he died. But if the death were traumatic enough, it would take him precious minutes to overcome the psychic pain. He had to think of a way to die easily, a death which he could recover from without too much difficulty.
Nothing came to mind, so he set that challenge aside for now. Assuming he could come up with such a death, then what? He’d appear atop the bier, laid out and plainly visible.
What could he do?
Nothing.
If a Charnel Duchess like the White Queen couldn’t pierce Imogen’s protective powers, he had no chance.
But there had to be something.
What did he have on his person? Not right now, but when he’d materialize? His dagger, his chalk, his bridge, his steel bar. All toys compared to Imogen. Even his chalk would fail to stop her, as all she’d need do would be to tear the invisible wall free of the ground on which it was marked.
A protective cube? But no. Even if he could protect himself, what would that accomplish?
Imogen was there, and now she had control over the other Great Souls.
Scorio closed his eyes tight against the rising wave of panic and forced his mind to still.
There had to be a way. Something he could do. He’d have the element of surprise. How could he best use it?
Biting his lower lip, Scorio rubbed at his chin. He had to approach this logically. Fear would just scramble his thoughts forever. He had no ability to stop her physically. To hurt her physically. No powers, no techniques, nothing.
Even if he found a way to trigger his Emberling challenge, he’d still be inconsequential.
He thought back to every exchange he’d witnessed. She’d repelled countless attacks that would have obliterated him… but she’d also spoken to people. She’d spoken with Praximar, with the White Queen.
Could he reason with her? Convince her to relent?
Scorio grimaced and rubbed at his face. He knew nothing about her, just that she wished to go to Ettera and was furious when she found the Portal closed. Could he work with that?
After squatting for a few moments longer, he realized he didn’t have much choice.
He rose smoothly to his feet. Now to die. What was the most peaceful way to go?
An idea came to him, and he began running toward the great beam. Racing over the rough ground, he dodged around the higher ridges and sprinted right at the great shaft of pale golden light.
He hit it at his customary all-out sprint and leaped into a dive.
Punching through into the bladed chamber, he arced gracefully over the downward sweep of the scimitar.
Scorio hit the ground in a roll and came up to his feet. But this time he’d didn’t wait for the blades to disappear—he dashed right back to where the rapier hovered, fixed in space, and edged before it.
Chest heaving, stomach clenching, instincts screaming at him to stop, he lowered his neck to its hovering, stationary tip, and forced himself against it in a wild thrust.
The razor-sharp edge sliced open the side of his neck, and immediately hot blood flooded out of the deep gash.
Scorio sank back against the wall and fought the urge to clamp his hand to the wound. He sank to the ground, the blades disappearing above him, and blinked stupidly at the far wall with its black door.
Sat there, and waited to die.
He grew slowly warmer. The arterial blood spattered over the dirt and drenched his shoulder, his arm, then his side. His heart throbbed, beat erratically, then began to slow.
Scorio felt himself grow drowsy, his body numb, his mind drifting away. He lowered his head, blinked one last time, and died.
Only to come to atop the bier. There was pain in the side of his neck, but nothing paralyzing; he felt weak, but not debilitated.
Forcing his eyes to focus, he turned his head and took in the basilica. The Great Souls stood arrayed about its breadth, all of them watching Imogen with neutral expressions. Within arm’s reach stood Leonis, Lianshi, Naomi. The black fog had dropped to knee height, though it still flowed up the walls, obscuring the balconies and domes.
It was as if they all existed within a hemisphere of perfect, undulating night.
Imogen floated before the Archspire, one hand pressed to its fluted sides, her head bowed.
Scorio didn’t move. Held himself perfectly still for fear that sudden action might draw her attention. His thoughts were woolen, lucidity stealing slowly back, but terror helped sharpen his wits.
He’d have only one chance to gain her attention. If he got this wrong, a tendril of fog would consume him.
A deep, slow breath, and then he sat up.
The Great Souls closest to him turned to stare, though Imogen remained still.
I understand your anger? No, how could I? Her pain? I’m on her side? I’ll help her—no, how could I—?
His thoughts came to a fever pitch and before he knew what he was saying, he opened his mouth and spoke.
“They tried to kill me. The Great Souls of Bastion. They wanted me dead.”
Imogen’s head moved a fraction of an inch to the side, and he felt her attention fall upon him, causing his heart to miss a beat and stutter under the pressure.
“They said I was a Red Lister.” He fought to keep his voice calm. “And that I didn’t deserve to live. They threw me through the Final Door and forgot about me.”
She floated as before for a second longer, then half-turned to regard him, her lips thinned, her brows lowered, her dark eyes thoughtful. “Why are you telling me this?”
Scorio suppressed the sharp spike of excitement, schooled his features into absolute neutrality. “Because I, too, want to change this world. I want to break that which doesn’t work and bring justice.”
Meeting her dark gaze steadily was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But he drew on his will, his desire to help his friends, and forced his lips into a wry smile. “So, on some pitiful, low level, I understand what you’re trying to do.”
The weight upon his shoulders doubled, and he bit back a groan as his spine compressed.
“What could a Cinder know of the goals of an Imperator?”
“Clearly very, very little.” He paused as if pretending to consider, certain manic energy entering his mind. “I mean, incredibly little. But you’re still human, are you not? You feel pain. Anger. Loss.”
Her frown deepened and he quickly changed his tack.
“And I just wanted to let you know that I don’t judge.” Time to play a wild card. “It’s not your fault. What happened to you. You didn’t deserve this. None of it. All your pain, your outrage. I might not be able to understand it, but because of who I am, I can respect it. I can respect what you’re doing, and why.”
Still, she considered him, as if he were a fragment of a puzzle she couldn’t quite decide where to place. “And?”
“And I thought these moments of yours didn’t need to be so lonely.” Another wild conjecture. “You’ve been without someone to witness your brand of justice for so long. I thought I might in some small way provide that audience. Someone to see the greatness you are about to accomplish, and, ah, be sure that it’s never forgotten.”
It was disconcerting to the extreme to have her study him. The shadows coiled and curled above them, and he realized that every Great Soul in the room was staring at him, from the White Queen close at hand to Grunsch and Raugr at the far side of the room.
Scorio forced another dry swallow and held onto his wry smile like a drowning man to a raft.