“Yes,” he said, sweat prickling his brow, his steel rod still held uselessly in his hand. “Sure. I’m a Char.”
One of her talons tapped thoughtfully against his shoulder, delicately slashing open his robe with each flick. “A Char. Out here. With vials of Sapphire mana and toys beside. Scorio.”
“That’s my name, right.” He fought to keep his breath calm. “You never shared yours.”
“That’s right, I didn’t.”
Her hand slid across his body, dipped into his robe, and emerged clutching the black pouch. “Drop everything you’re holding.”
Scorio scowled, but there was no way he could evade her bladed tail with its wicked point already drawing blood.
He opened his hands, and the steel rod and chalk fell to the floor.
One of the long talons curled around to rest lightly against the side of his throat. “I must admit I’m curious. How did a Char come to hide out here with such wealth?”
“You’re the Nightmare Lady,” he said. “But you’re not a fiend. You’re a Great Soul like me.”
“Not like you,” she whispered, her voice throaty, amused. “I’m an Emberling, Scorio, while you’re a pitiful nothing.”
“Emberling. Wait. Not even a Dread Blaze?” The rankings came back to him as he worked it out. “You’re just one level above a Cinder?”
The talon’s edge pressed against the side of his neck, cutting his humor short.
“An Emberling, yes.” Her voice was a dark hiss. “But that’s more than enough. I could kill you, you know. Here in the dark. Cut you into red chunks so quickly you wouldn’t even realize you were dead as you fell to the floor. And nobody would know. The scavengers would eat your remains and then that would be it for Scorio, the Char with the big mouth and a lethal lack of common sense.”
Even though her words were chilling, there was something to her tone, to how she phrased her threat, that made him think that beneath the murderous intent there might be a twisted, dark sense of humor.
“Must be lonely, out here, with nothing but your fearsome reputation to keep you company.”
“I’ve no complaints.”
“But you still haven’t killed me. When’s the last time you had a conversation?”
The tail-blade stirred restlessly against his stomach and rose to his chest, further slashing his robes, but the movement seemed almost absent-minded.
“How about this,” he said. “We’ll make a deal. I’ll sit against one wall, you against the other, and I’ll tell you my story. But on one condition.”
“Conditions?” More of that dark amusement. “Oh, you’re a bold one.”
“You sit against the other wall in your natural form. Your human form.”
Her voice grew sharp. “Why?”
“You’re a scary-looking lady. I’m not sure I’ll be able to focus with you looking like that, all glowing green eyes and weird killer tail.”
There was a pause, and he wasn’t sure his gamble had paid off till she laughed, the sound low and husky; then she pushed him away, the tail undulating as if through water as it retracted.
Slowly, cautiously, he turned around, palms raised, and saw that the monstrous figure was gone, shrunken down to a shadow against the deeper dark. Together, step by step, they retreated to opposite walls, and then simultaneously slid down to sitting.
“There,” he said, crossing his legs and resting his palms on his knees. “This is practically civilized.”
“For now.” And it was surreal how her voice remained the same. “But don’t get ambitious. I can change back faster than you can blink.”
“Must be nice to be an Emberling,” he said. “It takes me about ten minutes to just get my Heart to notice me.”
Was that sharp inhale a snort of laughter? “You poor, poor Char. So go on, Scorio. Tell me your story. The longer you entertain me, the longer you’ll live.”
“You planning to kill me when we’re done?”
Her tone grew indolent. “Right now, yes. But we’ll see.”
“But… why? I’m not bothering you. You’re going to take my vials. Why kill me as well?”
“Keep asking annoying questions and we’ll cut to the chase.” And somehow, despite her frame having shrunken and lost its wicked tail, the woman managed to remain just as intimidating. “Now. How does a no-account Char end up in the ruins with treasures like these?”
So he told her. Hid nothing. About awakening in the Gauntlet, about how far he managed to progress, and then awakening in the Academy’s basilica.
“You made it to the Chamber of Balance?” There was mild skepticism in her voice, but not an outright challenge.
“Sure. Barely. How far did you get?”
“This is your story. So you awoke in the basilica and Praximar gave you his welcome speech.”
“Right. Began calling up those who did best at the Gauntlet. I was something like the eighteenth to be called up.”
“And that is when your fate was sealed. What did it reveal about you?”
Scorio hesitated. “That I was a Red Lister.”
No reaction, or at least, nothing he could make out in the shadowy murk. “No details? For shame. My patience shortens.”
“Sure. I was Scorio, once known as The Scourer, Unmaker of Joy, the Abhorred, Master of Ash and other such things.”
“Impressive list of titles.” Her amusement was back. “You must have been busy during your original life.”
“You seem strangely nonchalant about it.”
A sense of a shrug. “I’m known as the Nightmare Lady and live out in the ruins by choice. Did you expect me to be faint in horror?”
“Ha, no, all right. Anyway, the highest rank I’d ever attained was Blood Baron. And… the weirdest part—to me, anyway—was the fact that it had been over two centuries since I’d last lived. And that I’d only been reborn six times.”
He heard her shift her weight, lean forward. “Now that is interesting. If you’re telling me the truth.”
“I am.”
“Which is of course what you’d say. But regardless, it makes for an interesting tale. Let us assume you’re not lying. I’ve never heard of the like either. Not two centuries, at any rate.”
“Everyone else seemed to have been reborn within five or so years of dying. Why do you think it took me so long?”
“Your tale, remember?”
“If you’re going to kill me, at least satisfy that one curiosity.”
A pensive silence. “The Archspire calls bound souls back into service. They explained that much to you?”
“Something like that. And siphons off some of their power in the process which it then gives to those who did best at the Gauntlet.”
“Making the strong even stronger, yes.” Another pensive pause, but this one seemed almost hesitant, as if she were deciding how much to share. “I’ve heard it said that the mightier the soul, the more they can resist the Archspire’s summons, if they so desire.”
Scorio leaned forward. “So—wait. If you are reborn within a year of your death, you’re weak?”
“Or simply willing. It takes strength and desire both to refuse the call. Supposedly.”
“What about you? Were you a Red Lister?”
“Continue your story, Scorio the Abhorred. You may once have been a Blood Baron, but right now you’re nothing.”
“Right, sure.” He leaned back against the wall. “Praximar had me thrown into a holding cell, where he… well.” Scorio’s throat tightened up. “He took my strength, or something, then had me thrown through the Final Door.”
“Sounds just like that bastard.” Her voice was hard, but he couldn’t tell if there was sympathy in it. “So how did you escape?”
“There were some others in there. They’d been working on an escape plan. It… didn’t go well, at least, not for everyone involved, but I managed to get out of the warrens—that’s what they called the tunnels just outside the Final Door—and into the caverns beneath the ruins.”
“You’re skipping intriguing details.”