Leonis frowned, shifted his weight, then brought his hands down to his lap. Studied them in the ruddy light. The Golden King. She’d said that title with such reverence. But in his trial, he’d a sense of his former self: the boy before that moment of truth. A child filled with joy, brimming with good humor and affection for all. Memories of the castle kitchen, the hunting dogs, the simple tricks he would play on everyone who caught his eye, how he relished nothing so much as riding with his father and then watching him feast later that night on the prey they had killed.
The Golden King.
He’d put aside that good humor, his teasing, jovial nature, and gone down to the arena sands. Done what his mother commanded.
And now? What would she say if she were here, in Bastion?
Extending his hand, he summoned Nezzar from the depths of his soul, and the great hexagonal club manifested in his palm. He raised it, a storm of emotions roiling his heart. Such terrible deeds had been done with this weapon. But also acts of liberation, of justice. It was a verdict, an indictment, a promise, and a threat.
The Golden King. Wielder of Nezzar.
Was that who he was?
Or was he Scorio’s lackey, his willing accomplice, the lieutenant to the other Great Soul’s generalship?
What would his mother say, if she could see him now? Would she approve of the love he gave the other man, the unwavering support?
Or would she frown as she’d done as she’d stared down at the sands, and demanded he do better?
Live up to his heritage, be the figure of legend who’d been worthy of having his soul tied to the Archspire, to cease with his light raillery, his foolish jests, and become the leader that his kingdom had so desperately needed?
Leonis the Grim.
With a sigh, he allowed Nezzar to dissipate, and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun-wire on his face. Who was he? Whom did he wish to be? How had he fallen so deeply into Scorio’s journey, and how badly was he neglecting his own?
If in the Gauntlet the choice came down to his own advancement or that of his friend, which should he choose?
Would he be remembered after this life as Leonis the Golden King in truth, or simply as one of Scorio’s loyal friends?
The moment stretched out, and no easy answers presented themselves. He couldn’t deny his affection and fierce loyalty to his friend. But nor could he forget his mother’s stern voice, nor how he’d leaped to obey her, to be worthy of his heritage, his ancestors, his great weapon, and the throne.
Perhaps he’d not have to choose. Perhaps fate would be kind, and he could assist Scorio with an honest and open heart, and have no cause for regrets.
Rising to his feet, he frowned at the curved expanse of Bastion. Fate was never so kind.
Turning back to the open window, he shook his head dolefully. He could only pray that if that moment came, he’d make a decision that he could live with for the rest of his life.
Chapter 68
Kuragin was hard to track down. Sponsored by House Kraken, he seemed to spend every waking minute outside of class inside its exclusive wing, behind the huge, gilded doors emblazoned with twin tentacular horrors. Not that Scorio had time to spend haunting the hallway outside the suite; every moment he wasn’t forced to sit in a class or spar or train, he was in one of the meditation chambers, cavernous rooms whose bleak emptiness contrasted with the powerful mana that suffused them.
But no matter how he put the memory of his Emberling trial from his mind, he couldn’t forget Kuragin’s role in it. The need to know what had happened thereafter, his brother’s fate, the outcome of the incipient revolt, tugged at him. Had the Great Soul sought him out in the dining hall so many weeks ago due to their shared past? Like a cut inside his cheek or a loose tooth, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Stop worrying about the past. And so he took to stalking Kuragin like a patient predator running down its prey.
Except this prey stood at almost seven feet in height and was feared and loathed by most of the cohort. As little as Scorio saw of the tournament winner, he learned plenty; how he was unnecessarily brutal in sparring practice, regardless of how skilled his opponent was. How he’d put another Great Soul into the infirmary over a perceived slight delivered in the mess quarters, which would have resulted in punitive action had it not been for Kraken’s intervention.
“He won’t talk to you,” Leonis groused the evening before their Gauntlet run as Scorio paced back and forth across their common room. “Kuragin has more in common with a lizard than a man. If he senses you want something, he’ll deprive you of it just for the pleasure of making you squirm. Especially after what happened between you.”
“Then maybe I’ll make him talk,” said Scorio.
“You’ll make him talk. Kuragin. Who nearly tore Chen She in half? You and what army?”
Scorio felt a flicker flash of annoyance and raised his fist. It took him far longer than he liked, but eventually, he ignited his Heart and summoned his power. Black scales coiled about his forearm and turned his hand into a gauntlet. His claws distended and began to glow in the dim light.
“Yes, yes, very impressive,” said Leonis. “But Kuragin’s a monster. And he’s been an Emberling for months now. If it comes down to it, he’ll ignite before you do and tear you apart.”
Lianshi, who’d been reading one of her journals in the cushioned corner, finally set down her book. “We’re a day from the Gauntlet run. Everything depends on tomorrow. Why are you so determined to imperil our chances by seeking out trouble?”
“I’m not seeking out trouble,” snapped Scorio, allowing his hand to revert to its human form. “I need to know about my past. About my… my brother.”
Lianshi’s gaze was unforgiving. “Whatever it is you hope to learn, it happened nearly a millennia ago. Another day won’t matter.”
Scorio grimaced and turned away. “You say it doesn’t matter, but I need to know. I need to know who I am, Lianshi. How I became The Abhorred. How that original life led to my becoming a Red Lister here in hell. If I wait till after the Gauntlet run, who knows when I’ll have access to Kuragin like this again?”
“Some access,” said Leonis, voice lazy, sardonic.
Scorio ignored him. “The vision I had… it felt like it happened yesterday. The very thought…” He grimaced. “I need to know. I need to know more about myself. I can’t risk his getting away.”
“Your brother, hey?” Leonis leaned back in his chair. “Nothing gets under our skin, it seems, like family.”
Lianshi’s expression softened. “Your trial involved family, too, Leonis?”
The big man sighed. “It did. Not an easy memory, or even a good one. But a defining one. A choice I had to make.”
“Same here,” said Scorio, coming to a stop, hands on his hips. “But I feel good about the decision I made. I think. I need to know what happened next to be certain.”
“Mine was compelled by necessity.” Leonis’s voice became heavy, and he trained his gaze on his hands where they worked a quill back and forth. “Not a good choice, but the only one I could make.”
Scorio studied his companion’s troubled expression and then gave a sharp shake of his head. “Well, I’ve a question. I didn’t really feel like I had a choice, either. I mean, I technically did, but there was no way I was going to let my brother…” He trailed off, suddenly uncertain. Lianshi and Leonis were watching him intently. “Let my brother hang. So I intervened. Kuragin was the one conducting the hanging.”
“Damn,” said Leonis softly. “Why was your brother being executed?”
Scorio felt his innards turn shaky, the power of those old emotions rising again. He moved to the wall and sat on a cushion. “He’d tried to create change. Entered local politics, defied the king. I only caught snatches of it. But he was arrested for his attempts. He was being made an example of. I was in the crowd. My choice was to hold back, let him die a martyr, and lead a much more powerful movement that would rally around his death, or save him and possibly imperil the movement itself.”