Accepting that he couldn’t break free from the woman’s grip, Scorio did his best to avoid wrenching his shoulder further. On they marched, to the basilica’s far side, and then into a colonnaded walkway that encircled the floor. Vines and greenery clothed the cream-colored rock, and the shadows were cool and damp.
They passed into a large hallway, tall enough for giants to march down, one side lined with ancient banners and tapestries, the other open to an old courtyard with uneven pavers and a resplendent tree growing from an earthen well in its center, all of it bathed in syrupy amber light from above.
“Tell me where we’re going,” asked Scorio.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“This Red List, what is it? You can tell me that much?”
“I could,” said the other. “But I won’t. Now be quiet or I’ll break your arm.”
Something about the instructor’s tone convinced Scorio she wasn’t bluffing, so he clenched his jaw and decided to wait for an opportunity to break free.
They turned off the walkway into another hallway, and passed numerous doors till they reached a broad stairwell. A couple of men stood at attention there, clad in rose- and gray-colored robes, and Scorio saw their eyes widen when they caught sight of him.
No, he realized, at the sight of the woman escorting him.
“Easy, men,” said the instructor, tone suddenly strangely playful. “This poor bastard is on the Red List.”
Both drew back as if Scorio had suddenly started venting bilious green fumes.
“Can we be of assistance, Instructor Helminth?” asked one.
“I think I can handle a Char,” she replied and escorted him down the steps.
The steps descended for a while before leveling out. Below, the air was as cool and damp as it had been in the shadows of the basilica; the occasional half-orb of illuminated glass projected from the wall and gave a soft, lambent glow to the stark hall.
On they marched, through intersections, past closed wooden doors bound in black iron, then descended a second set of steps into the bowels of the earth.
Scorio felt a helpless panic threatening to sweep through him, a furious sense of outrage. “I didn’t do anything.” His words sounded pathetic in his own ears. “How can I be punished for things I’ve no memory of?”
“First thing you learn,” said the woman, tone almost sympathetic, “is that nothing’s fair about this world. Here we are.”
They turned off into a new hallway, startling two new guards who leaped from their seats to salute the instructor. The hall’s length was lined with ponderous metal doors. Each looked absurdly reinforced and strong, and when an attendant guard rushed to open one, Scorio saw that the metal was easily over an inch thick.
Helminth marched him into the square chamber. Scorio thought she might release him, but she walked him right to the wall where she finally released his arm and spun him about, shoving him hard in the chest so that he fell back against the stone.
Efficiently, handling him as if he were a child, she raised first one wrist, then the second, and clamped them in manacles bolted to the wall. The very act of having his shoulder wrenched up brought tears to Scorio’s eyes; the joint had become numb, and pain radiated out from it in every direction. He felt manacles close about his ankles and realized he was completely bound.
“There.” She stepped back and wiped her hands with distaste. She scrutinized his bindings as if seeking some fault, then gave him a reluctant nod. “Would that this were otherwise.”
Scorio wanted to beseech her, ask her to stay, to answer a question, any question, but the hard glint in her brown eyes stopped his tongue. He straightened where he stood and just glared at her.
No more words. A final, cursory look up and down his body, then she turned and left the chamber.
The heavy iron door swung closed behind her, plunging him into darkness.
Scorio stood still, breathing harshly, mind reeling. What had just happened? It didn’t make sense. A Red List? He was Proscribed? By whom? For what? Had he done something in the Gauntlet he shouldn’t have? Was it his anger at being so manipulated? No, there had to be other Great Souls who were that resentful. Then what?
No answers were forthcoming. He couldn’t resist straining against the bindings, not because he thought he might escape, but because he had nothing else to do. When he finally desisted, he leaned back against the wall and listened.
Nothing.
The walls were too thick.
Time became meaningless. With no memories beyond what had happened in the Gauntlet, he played those moments over again and again. Thought on everything the chancellor had said above, searched for some clue, some way to understand what had befallen him.
Nothing made sense.
Perhaps hours later, he finally heard footsteps. The large lock slid back in the door, and light flooded into the chamber as the chancellor entered the room.
Gone was his ceremonial clothing, his bejeweled hat, his heavy robes and marks of office. Now he wore a severe set of black robes, belted at the waist with a cord of gold. A second man entered next, holding a lantern which he set upon the floor. This man was subtly deferential to the chancellor, dressed in simpler white robes, his face ascetic, his lipless mouth pursed.
Scorio’s gut churned; he wanted to lean forward, to immediately start asking questions, but instead, he bit his tongue.
The man in white spoke. “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.”
Was it a question? Scorio glanced from the speaker to the chancellor, who stood with an expression of severe distaste. “I don’t know what any of that means.”
“Of course you don’t,” said the man in white, his voice nasal, grating. “How could you? It matters not. You are marked as Proscribed and have been set down on the Red List for heinous actions against Bastion, the Archspire, the collected Great Souls, and our hopes to return to Ettera. For that, you are condemned to be cast through the Final Door.”
Scorio looked wildly from one man to the other. “How can I be punished for what I didn’t do?”
“Easily,” said the man in white, his lips carving themselves up into a smile. “The seeds of sins past ride upon the soul and never fail to bloom. It takes particularly terrible crimes to make the Red List, and given your titles, you must have accomplished them without much effort.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Scorio, jerking at his manacles. “Release me. Now!”
“You poor, pathetic beast,” said the chancellor, breaking his silence at last. “You are in no position to make demands. Already you have taken far too much of my time, alarmed the other Great Souls needlessly, and now you make spurious demands?” The cold disgust in the chancellor’s voice froze Scorio where he stood. “You are nothing more than an obligatory duty that I must execute. A problem just begging to be nipped in the bud. Your spirit is filth. Your mind will inexorably tend towards violence and depravity. A beast that must be put down before it can spread its spiritual disease.”
These words were spoken without emotion. Cold, clinical, and utterly with mercy, the chancellor stared at him from under half-lidded eyes.
“There’s been a mistake,” Scorio heard himself say faintly. “This can’t be right.”
“But it is. Great Souls like you are the reason we’ve yet to anoint an Infernarch. That we’ve failed to realize our destiny, and sacrificed in vain for almost a thousand years. Your crimes, if I could be bothered to look them up, would no doubt surprise even my jaded mind.”
Scorio sagged back against the wall, a terrible pressure building in his chest that made it hard to breathe. He could feel the burn of bile in the back of his throat, and stared, transfixed, at the older man.
“I simply hope that you haven’t already corrupted those poor souls who joined you in your Gauntlet run. I’ll have to watch them carefully for signs of… weakness. But you? Filthy, wretched, traitorous scum that you are?”