“I see.” Scorio held the man’s panicked stare. He wanted to ask more, how long it had been since Druanna’s attack, so much more—but he’d already made a wildly inappropriate impression on the other. So he forced a smile and hit him with a second command: RELAX.
The man exhaled shakily and gave Scorio a nervous smile.
“Don’t worry,” said Scorio, returning the smile. “Moira just wanted me to ask some basic questions. Gauge the mood, as it were, before their departure. You’ve been most helpful.”
The servant nodded swiftly. “Glad to have been of service.”
He took a tentative step back and then rushed away.
Damn. Scorio’s own shock had made his interrogation crude. No matter. He needed the information.
Praximar had given Dameon an island. The only ones Scorio knew about were the floating islands along the Golden Circuit. And Davelos had been promoted to Overseer. With his ability to increase his intelligence based on his mana consumption, he’d no doubt have run this place with the utmost efficiency if he was working off Gold.
Scorio scowled. While he’d suffered in the Crucible, his enemies had been rewarded beyond their dreams.
He found an empty guest room and sat in the darkness, pondering. His anger was so virulent it made planning difficult. He wanted to charge straight upstairs and attack Davelos.
But no.
The man was a Dread Blaze and had access to Gold mana.
Scorio needed a plan.
He needed allies.
He needed the kind of information that only an insider could provide him. Listening in on servants would only get him so far.
Whom could he approach?
His options were limited.
Then he remembered the guide the White Queen had assigned them: Kyrie, the scholar. He’d seemed smart, compassionate, wry, and sympathetic to the Queen’s principles.
Yes.
It was a risk, but Scorio couldn’t play it safe forever. He’d approach the scholar, and if the man proved less than trustworthy or sympathetic… well.
Scorio would cover his tracks and try a different approach.
Rising from the gloom, he exited into the complex and made his way to the library. Kyrie had once told them that he spent all his free time there. Perhaps that remained the case.
But a quick exploration of the interconnected rooms and their floor to ceiling bookcases revealed no sign of the scholar. A librarian watched him with growing annoyance, then accosted him.
“Can I help you?” It was clear from his tone that his next command would be to eject Scorio from the premises.
“I’ve a message for Great Soul Kyrie,” said Scorio softly. “Can you tell me where I can find him?”
“He just left for the baths,” sniffed the older man. “If you hurry, you might catch him. Elsewise I’d suggest you try him later; he spends an inordinate amount of time bathing.”
“Thank you.”
Scorio bowed and slipped back out into the hall, then rushed down the increasingly familiar hallways and staircases to the hot pools’ level. He peered ahead, trying to make out Kyrie’s angular form, and had almost reached the pools’ entrance when he saw the young man moving slowly ahead.
Tall but stooped, light brown hair pulled back into an artless knot, his crimson and white robes appearing ill-fitting on his gangly frame.
Kyrie.
Scorio slowed. The scholar didn’t glance back.
Scorio decided to follow for now. Better than risking a scene in the hallway.
Kyrie entered the baths, his manner tense, almost wary. Scorio followed him down a short flight of steps and into the changing rooms. Collected a towel and light bathing robe from the baskets, ignored the attendant’s curious stare, and again followed Kyrie into the dimly lit quarters where benches were set before lockers. The air was so humid here that the walls ran with moisture and warm puddles failed to evaporate. Other men were in various states of disrobing and toweling off. Scorio had barely paid attention to this long series of rooms when he’d come through with Leonis, but now he took a corner where he could keep Kyrie in sight, and, not knowing what else to do, changed into the bathing robe, placed the towel over his shoulder, and followed the gangly man through the archway and into the baths proper.
General courtesy kept bathers from staring as they passed each other by. Scorio kept his head bowed and followed Kyrie around the first pools, the largest steaming alarmingly and filled with bathers who looked sunken into ecstatic trances. Around smaller, cooler tubs. Past secluded grottos in which knots of people chatted amiably.
He was heading for a specific spot, Scorio realized, at the very back of the pools.
Perfect.
He dropped back, not wanting to alarm his quarry. They crossed almost the entirety of the floor, passing momentarily behind a warm waterfall that gushed from a vent high in the ceiling and filled the air with mist, over black bridges that arched overflowing channels, past rooms where men and women lay out in slabs or luxuriated in steam rooms, until finally, Kyrie entered a natural grotto that he found to his liking.
Scorio waited a minute before following him in.
Kyrie was sunken neck deep in the steaming water, towel and bathing robe folded on the small bench. Scorio set his down next to them, stepped out of the sandals, then slid into the pool across from the scholar.
Who smiled and reluctantly opened one eye. “If we’re to keep meeting like this word will get out, and while my reputation is…” His tone trailed off as his face grew pale, his eyes wide. “You.”
“Hello, Kyrie.” Scorio forced a smile. To his immense relief, the scholar didn’t immediately begin to yell for help or seek to rise from the water. “I’ve just a couple of questions and then I’ll leave you alone.”
“But… you’re dead.” The man looked indeed like he was staring at a ghost. “Everyone said you…”
“Guess they were wrong.” Scorio sank deeper till the scalding water was about his chin and grinned. “But they’ll learn their mistake soon enough.”
Interlude - Moira
Information was power. In a Hell where the fastest means of travel was the whale ship and the best way to communicate the sealed missive, Moira knew from the moment she developed her Tomb Spark power what her role in House Hydra would be.
When younger she’d envisioned a sprawling network flung across the far reaches of Hell, with her at its center, advising, guiding, and informing key players as to optimum strategies with which to turn the tide of war.
But she’d been naïve. There was no accounting for suspicion, for fear. The fact that her power could dull wits, incite rage, and induce lethargy in even the greatest of warriors made them loath to trust her; no matter that she’d offered in good faith to act only in the service of the greater good.
What an ignominious fall it had been, from that utopia to her small, vicious empire of the mind. A limited spiderweb stretching from Bastion to the Iron Weald, peopled by unwitting allies and gullible pawns.
Rising from her desk, Moira quickly bound her hair back and donned a loose outer robe. As her hands moved with mechanical precision she allowed her thoughts to stray, her focus to travel along the channels established by touch.
Greetings, Pellimer. How goes it in the Academy?
She sensed, as always, the secretary’s startlement, felt their flash of fear and doubt, resentment, and then desire to impress. Chancellor Praximar is spending his morning meeting with prospective House Hydra recruits. There are two candidates in particular that he’s eager to induct, though I’m not sure why. He’s lunching alone, and then this afternoon will teach his seminars with the upperclassmen. I know he’s traveling into Ward 7 tonight in secrecy, but don’t know where or why.