For an hour he considered the idea, pacing back and forth, then finally climbed outside his window and up to the large, flat roof that was tilted at a subtle angle. He stopped and stared again, hands on hips, out toward the best and better part of Bastion, the great cylinder city revolving all the way around, most of it dark. Sporadic candles and lamps made it appear as if a great, diffused cloud of sparks hovered in the gloom, while toward the far end of the city, closest to the Gate to Hell, patches of radiant copper and clouds of luminous gray saturated the streets, imparting upon the city a surreal and unearthly glow.
Would they take him? Not if they identified him as part of the attack on the skycrane yard. But say he went to House Hydra or the like. Would he want their help in exchange for swearing away his freedom? He didn’t imagine their terms would be generous, if they accepted him at all. Most likely he’d end up in as punitive a relationship as the one he’d been negotiating with Dola.
Then he thought of the elders and dignitaries clustering around Jova and Ravenna and Massamach on the stage. Whispering insistently, trying to recruit them, perhaps, while they were still dazed.
A bitter taste soured his mouth.
No. He hadn’t fought this hard for his freedom to exchange it so quickly for a new form of servitude. The Houses were out, for now.
Scorio resumed pacing. Could he contact Leonis and Lianshi? Perhaps they could find a way to smuggle him into the Academy, give him access to the Iron mana there—
No.
Again he ran into his refusal to endanger his friends—if they even still thought of him at all—for his own sake.
Scorio chewed on his lower lip and resumed pacing.
What if he got a job at the Academy? As a janitor, perhaps, or in the kitchens? A legitimate way to get onto the grounds and there access the high-quality mana? Perhaps in time, he could even figure out a way to steal some treasures, or get access to pills?
Scorio stopped and rubbed at his jaw. But he’d have to learn how the Academy hired its employees. What if they needed recommendations? Or did background checks? What if they could detect the presence of an errant Great Soul? He’d not stand up to a second’s scrutiny, and the moment they noticed him it would be all over.
Scorio resumed pacing.
He couldn’t find a way to overcome his obstacles. Even accessing rare Copper mana was a path fraught with danger, and one that didn’t truly resolve his difficulties.
Could he compensate for his deficiencies with extreme training? But no; according to Naomi training helped ignite the Heart, but only once it was saturated. Nor did it deepen his reserves. Training was an accelerant; the harder you trained, the faster you progressed, but it couldn’t compensate for the fact he’d be working with Coal.
Finally, out of ideas, Scorio sat down, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes.
If there was one thing he could do, it was work at saturating his Heart. Naomi had told him his first attempt had barely registered as more than a sip.
Forcing himself to stop frowning, he inhaled slowly and then let out a ragged exhale.
He’d work his way from sips to gulps.
Only then, perhaps, would he allow himself to worry about drinking in the world.
1
“You’re still here.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement of surprise; Naomi entered his chamber slowly, bowing her head to fit in through the window, her black hair flowing down like a great ribbon cut from the essence of night.
“Where else would I be?” asked Scorio, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. It looked to be First Rust outside, the sky a hazy burned orange, and his eyes felt grainy and raw.
“I don’t know.” Naomi walked slowly around the circumference of his room, running her fingertips lightly over the walls. “I thought perhaps you’d run off to wherever it is quitters go.”
“Quit?” He stretched and tossed the threadbare sheet off his lap. “I’m not quitting.”
“Then you passed your first test.” Naomi stopped before him, crossed her arms, and canted her head to one side. “Though don’t get cocky. It also happens to be the easiest.”
“I imagined.” Scorio rose and ambled over to his water bucket, where he scooped a handful over his face and rubbed it into his hair. “You planning to make me quit through training?”
“The thought crossed my mind.” She smiled sweetly at him. “If you quit, that ends my week early.”
“True. But there is a difference between training and murder.”
“A fine line, I’m sure.” Her gaze flicked up his length and she gave him a tight smile. “Get ready, then meet me on the roof.”
“The roof?” He hesitated. “That’s, ah…”
“Not safe?” Her smile would have cowed rabid dogs. “Precisely.”
And with that, she stepped past him, through the window, and up and out of view.
“Great.” Scorio crouched by his gruel bucket, stirred the slops at the bottom without any enthusiasm whatsoever. “Just great.”
She was waiting for him on the roof’s far edge, hands linked behind her back. He clambered up and then stretched, reaching for the distant ruins far above his head.
“Before we begin,” said Naomi, still not turning around. “Tell me again why we train.”
“To become frustrated,” he said, moving forward. “To spur growth.”
“Correct. But not any frustration will do.” She turned then, and somehow, with her chin lowered and face wreathed in dark hair, her hazel eyes sober and cold and her face expressionless, she seemed almost as perilous as her Nightmare Lady form. “You wish to ignite your Heart and grow in power. The frustration you feel as you work with Coal is good for your growth, but it pales in comparison to the benefits of physical conflict. Why?”
“Why?” Scorio’s mind raced. “Because… the mind and body are connected?”
“Wrong. Try to hit me.”
Off-balance, unsure as to what he was missing, Scorio raised both fists and approached, the loose stone crunching underfoot, the ruddy light everywhere.
Naomi drifted forward, hands swinging free, watching him carefully but making no move to attack.
When he was close enough, Scorio moved his shoulders subtly to one side, then the other, trying to get a sense of her balance, her reactions, then threw a light punch in the direction of her face.
Naomi didn’t react. His punch fell a few inches short, as she must have sensed it would.
Her gaze, if anything, became disapproving.
“Fine,” muttered Scorio, and stepped in close to throw a mean strike, snapping the punch out with intention and force.
Again he missed, but this time because Naomi simply swayed her head aside, her mane of hair swinging with her dodge.
Scorio hopped back, having expected a counterattack, then crept in close once more, fists raised so that they hovered before his chin. This time he lunged forward, crossing the distance between them swiftly, and threw two jabs which he followed with a more powerful cross.
Naomi dodged all three, head sliding from one side to the other, and when he stepped in tight to throw an uppercut, swinging from the hips, she sidestepped altogether and swept the side of his foot with her own just as he was about to put his weight on it.
His foot slipped out neatly from under him, and with a cry he crashed down to the ground, hitting the stone roof hard with his side.
Naomi crouched beside him and placed two fingers alongside his throat.
Scorio froze, stared up at her face which hovered just a foot above his own. Her hair hung down, brushing against his cheek.
“We train at fighting,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “because nothing concentrates the mind so wonderfully as pain and avoiding death.”
Scorio grimaced and tried to rise, but she pressed him back with both fingers, pinning him to the ground.
“What, then, is better than training?” she asked.