“Bastard’s damn good at this,” he muttered, earning a scowl from Lianshi and a wry shake of Leonis’s head.
“But let us come to the matter at hand. Each one of you will activate your crystals at the same time. Think on your teammates as you do so, and you shall be transported to the Gauntlet in unison. Remember that there is great glory in your individual accomplishments, but that your team score is of great importance as well, speaking, as it will, to your ability to elevate your peers, fight intelligently as a group, and indicate your own potential as a team player for the organizations that fight deep in the bitter wars of hell. Strive to do your best! Leave nothing behind, no ability untapped, no ounce of resolve unused. This Gauntlet run is your second, and while you are assured to do better than your first, you do not compete against your old record, but against each other! Strive to best them! Win that glory, win that honor, and wrest the admiration and astonishment from the Houses that have come to witness your deeds today! For you represent the best of us, the final arrow in our depleted quiver, our hope for an end to war, to freedom from hell, and to epitomize the peak that our exalted kind can reach. You are Great Souls, and on behalf of the Academy, I demand that you show us your worth!”
Praximar’s voice fairly rang off the balconies and domed ceiling above, and elicited wild cheers from the spectators, a great cry that echoed like waves from the ocean, crashing about Scorio and causing his pulse to race, his breath to catch.
Praximar, who had raised his hands again at this last, stepped back so that Helminth could take his place. Her voice, steady, forceful, wry, brought Scorio back to earth from the soaring heights to which Praximar had sent him. And in that moment, his heart pounding, his mind fired with exhilaration and ambition, Scorio couldn’t find it in him to hate the chancellor. Instead, he felt a steely determination to show the older man how mistaken he was about him, to excel in such manner that Praximar would have no choice but to bow his head as he accepted being proved so terribly wrong.
“All right, Great Souls of the class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three: you know what to do. Keep your teammates in mind, activate your crystals, and prepare yourself for your second Gauntlet run.”
Everyone began moving to the foot of their biers, Scorio amongst them. Helminth continued talking as he placed his palm over the great crystal.
“Remember what you have been taught. Self-control, patience, and a flexible mind will get you further than a headlong flight into the unknown. Further, the Gauntlet will show the final moments of the Great Soul who makes it the farthest to those who reach the same chamber. That means if you see no one else but your teammates before you die, either you’ve made it the farthest thus far or you’re dying way behind the victor.”
Scorio hopped up onto the bier. He exchanged glances with his friends one last time before lying back, and then stared up at the interior of the distant dome, his hands resting on his chest.
Now that the moment had come, he could hardly think. His mind was a great blank canvas, devoid at the last of intentions, anger, determination, ferocity, anger. He felt himself a vessel, empty, calm, even numb, perhaps. His wounded fist ached distantly, as if the intensity of the moment lay between him and the pain like a pane of glass.
Helminth was still speaking, but her words faded behind the rush that filled his ears. Back to the Gauntlet. Back to the very first experience he recalled. Back to that terrible hall of beaten copper with its horrors and pain.
Scorio took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He was ready.
Chapter 71
Scorio awoke into a tomb of hammered copper. His breath echoed harshly within the stark confines, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and drinking in the faint, blood orange glow that seeped into the air from a rectangular hole in the ceiling.
So alien, that amber-red light. So unlike the pale, washed-out gold to which he’d grown accustomed.
One chance, he told himself, lying still upon the cold catafalque. No repeats on this run.
He hopped up smoothly to his feet and crouched. For a second his first memory returned to him: how he’d leaped several times to reach the opening, panic blossoming in his chest. How alien this had all been, how terrifying.
But things had changed.
Even without igniting his Heart, his body was now that of an Emberling; with a smooth, propulsive leap he soared out through the opening to land neatly just beyond it, and gaze once more at the great beam of luminous amber that split the darkness in the distance and rose to a great height before losing itself into darkness. It shone like the sun-wire, richly golden and pitiless, inhuman in its scale and without detail or depth.
Off to his sides, he saw his companions leap out of their respective tombs, each landing quietly and with poise; together they arose as one, converging as they walked toward the distant steps.
“Like a dream,” said Lianshi softly. “A half-forgotten nightmare.”
Leonis was already gathering his freed mane of hair back behind his head. “Feels all too real to me.”
Across the plain of feverish, apocalyptic bronze, past the closed tomb entrances, to the huge steps up which they climbed.
“Simple sidestep,” said Naomi, distending and growing into her Nightmare Lady form.
“We know.” Leonis bound his hair with a torn strip from his sleeve and then rolled his shoulders.
“Your hand?” asked Lianshi.
“Fine.” Scorio held the aching limb to his chest. The pain was all too real, but he put it from his mind.
“Then let’s go.” Naomi began to lope ahead, her gaunt frame hunched over, tail whipping sinuously behind her. “I’m eager to see how many we kill before we fall.”
They all broke into a jog, and with the smooth coordination earned from scores of attempts on the old Gauntlet, punched into the bright, choleric space between the huge walls, into that veil of burning light.
Scorio emerged on the far side into a dimly lit, low-ceilinged hallway. Without hesitation, he stepped aside, and a fraction of a second later a ponderous bolt ricocheted off the iron wall behind him.
The Nightmare Lady had done the same, and together they moved forward, turning to watch as Lianshi and Leonis emerged and avoided their bolts with ease.
Scorio pursed his lips and stared at the patch of dirt where Asha had died. There was no mark, no old bloodstains, nothing to indicate she’d died gasping there on the dirt. Reflexively he began sweeping Coal mana into his fractured Heart.
Wherever she was, he wished her luck.
“One room down,” said Leonis cheerfully. “Now, for the part I’ve been looking forward to.”
Scorio glanced about the rusted walls, the low ceiling, and then followed the Nightmare Lady to the far door. “I almost feel sorry for those little bastards.”
Scorio felt Leonis’s Heart ignite, a ghostly expansion of force that washed over him like an invisible tide. And with his Emberling senses now, that tide felt more complex, alive with detail he’d missed before as a Cinder. He didn’t have enough experience to read it, but the detail was there. Leonis extended his hand, and Nezzar materialized within his grip. Its hexagonal body and burning runes seemed more real than the room about them, and it pushed at Scorio’s senses as if it burned with a light he couldn’t yet see.
“Don’t feel sorry for them,” said Leonis, and smacked Nezzar’s ridged head into his palm. “We’ve a reckoning, those little killers and I. This time I’m no lowly Char.”
“Then by all means,” said Scorio, mock-bowing and extending his good hand. “Be the first to enter.”
“Gladly,” said Leonis, and wrenched the door open, ready to step through, only to be arrested when the Nightmare Lady took hold of his shoulder. “What?”