“Sure, I guess. And yes. I’ve got one. As much good as it does me.”
“You’ve not ignited it yet?”
He set the bowl down. “No. You know how I can?”
“Me?” She laughed. “Hardly. I just know Great Souls ignite their Hearts, then go through the Four Trials before becoming legends.”
“Four Trials?”
“Yeah, wow, they really didn’t tell you much.” She frowned at him. “How long were you in there, anyway? Ten minutes?”
“Just about. What are these Four Trials?”
“I don’t know. You’re just supposed to pass one to progress to your next level. First, you ignite your Heart and become a Cinder. Then you take your first trial, and if you pass it, you make Emberling. And so on until you reach Dread Blaze, where most of you guys stop.”
“Why’s that?”
She shrugged a shoulder again. “Lack of motivation? I don’t know. Just that most Great Souls don’t make it past Dread Blaze.”
“What about a Blood Baron?” he asked. “How far up the ranking is that?”
“Blood Baron?” She looked at him curiously. “Why d’you ask?”
“Just curious. Heard the term somewhere.”
“It’s pretty powerful. Pyre Lord is what you get after Dread Blaze, and after that, you get your Blood Barons. Not that they stay in Bastion. By that point, all the Great Souls are further on into hell.”
“They leave?” Scorio thought of the chancellor. He’d claimed to be a Pyre Lord. “Why not stay here and rule Bastion?”
“It’s a big ol’ hell out there,” she said. “They say that the greatest heroes are drawn to the Pit from which all evil stems. That’s what all the living legends are trying to reach, so as to destroy it forever. The one who does will become the Infernarch, it’s said, and open the way home to Ettera. Hard to do that from Bastion.”
He nodded slowly. So many questions. He’d made Blood Baron, but Jova Spike had made Charnel Duke, which had to be even higher. Guess that made her even more impressive.
Helena canted her head to one side. “What are you thinking?”
“Just trying to piece things together.”
“You know, you should just try to get back into the Academy.” She sounded almost sympathetic. “Life for regular folk is hard. Even working for Basilisk isn’t anywhere close to as glamorous or fun or rewarding as being a Great Soul.”
“Oh yeah? Well, maybe I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”
She took her thick braid in both hands and began to tighten the crimson ribbon that spiraled through it, tugging here, tugging there. “You did something, didn’t you? Got yourself kicked out.”
“I thought we weren’t getting personal.”
“I knew it. What did you do? Must have been pretty bad. But fine, don’t tell me. None of my business.” She pursed her lips and focused on her braid. Scorio counted to eight before she glanced up at him from under her expressive brows and grinned. “Unless you really want to tell me.”
He couldn’t help it—he laughed. “You’re dangerous. Ten more minutes with you and I’ll have told you my deepest, darkest secrets.”
She pushed her braid aside so that it bounced off her shoulder. “What’s it like in the Academy? Is it true Great Souls are given condensed mana pills every morning with breakfast? That’s been our main source of income, selling Black Star flowers for pills… Oh—did you do the Gauntlet? You have to have, right? Every Great Soul is supposed to run it before waking up. What was it like? Did you get far?”
“How do you know all this?” he asked, bewildered.
“Told you. Great Souls are the aristocracy of our city. Most folks have nothing to look forward to but lives of drudgery and work. All our stories, most of our entertainment, are focused on your kind. I know a hundred ballads about Great Souls. They’re the most popular requests, despite how much everyone says they hate them now.”
“Great Souls are hated?”
Helena’s gaze was pitying. “The privileged are always hated by the less fortunate.”
“Fair enough. But I’m only technically a Great Soul. You know more about it than I do.”
“What a tragedy,” she said, shoulders slumping. “I finally corner one and they’re more ignorant than a pile of bricks.”
“If you were hoping to write your own ballad based on my experiences, it’d be a very short, very depressing song.”
“Bah,” she said, pushing with her shoulders off the wall. “Fair enough. Anyways, here’s your clothing.” And she scooped up a folded set of clothing from beside the stairwell and tossed it to him.
It was a threadbare robe, once green but now washed so many times it was the lightest of milky jades. “The color or cut mean anything?”
“That faded? Just that you’re five years out of fashion and don’t care much about clothing.”
“All true. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. That sunphire is our ticket out of this life. Speaking of which. Where’d you put it?”
Scorio raised an eyebrow.
“What?” She affected mock surprise, putting one hand to her chest. “You think I went through your clothing while you lay there snoring, insensate to the world?”
He didn’t answer.
“Fine,” she said, blowing out a deep sigh. “I might have nudged your robe with the toe of my boot to see if it would accidentally roll out. Which it didn’t. Can’t blame you for stashing it, though. Wise.”
“It’s safe. And close. But with this meal and robe, we’re almost even. No worries.” He slowly stood. “The last thing I plan to do is double-cross the first people who’ve been fair with me.”
“Glad to hear it. For your sake. Feiyan’s a real terror with that hammer.”
“I can imagine. If you’ll excuse me?” Scorio stepped into a satellite chamber to change out of his filthy robe. He dropped it and the rope to the ground, and found himself wishing for a shower, a stream, anything in which to rinse himself clean.
Instead, he pulled on the old robes, finding them both clean and too short for him. He tied the belt off tightly, placed his treasures inside the fold, and frowned down at the ruins of his old sandals.
“Hey,” he said, poking his head back around the corner, and saw that the room was empty. He picked up his things, entered the chamber, and crouched down to wait for Helena to come back up.
Instead, Feiyan appeared in the archway leading to the windowed room. She wore a faded black overrobe with exaggerated shoulders, and her thick, shoulder-length hair was swept back so that her pompadour was even more prominent, with only a single black lock of hair curling down between her brows.
Her hand rested lightly on the head of her hammer. “Where’s Helena?”
“Downstairs,” said Scorio, resisting the urge to raise both hands in a gesture of peace. Something about her quiet confidence, the way she stood there, her eyes narrowed as she studied him, convinced Scorio that Helena had told him the truth. He could easily imagine her working for a shady outfit, and carving out a bleak reputation for herself.
“Helena?” she called out, not taking her eyes off him.
“Here!” The voice was muffled from below. “I’m not dead so relax already.”
Feiyan allowed her hand to drift away from the hammer, but that was the extent of it. “I’ve arranged for you to meet with Dola. She’ll decide whether you’re worth bringing into her crew. They’ve a job in a few days and could use an extra pair of hands.”
“Thank you.” Scorio wondered if there was anything he could do other than leaving to help Feiyan relax. Probably not. “Anything you can tell me about her?”
“Dola?” Feiyan moved casually around the room toward the stairs, never showing him less than a three-quarters profile. “She’s a tough lady. Don’t lie to her, because she’ll see right through you. Don’t talk more than you have to. Don’t do anything you’re not told to, but if she gives you a command, obey it to the letter. And if she starts being nice to you? Disappear. She’s only nice to people she’s about to expend.”