You know what I desire.
I will do my best.
She cut the connection and paused before the silver mirror. Adjusted her robe, raised her chin, and gave a curt nod. The more ascetic and passionless the world thought her, the less they worried about her private ambitions. Moira. Loyal servant of House Hydra.
She emerged from her suite and swept down the hall, passing through pools of roseate light that filtered down from the bank of windows.
She reached out with her thoughts and found Davelos. She’d never spoken to his mind directly, and didn’t now; she wasn’t sure if he’d forgotten that one time their hands had brushed in passing, but she didn’t wish to remind him.
He was bored. Not channeling Gold, then; tapping into his mind when he was thusly elevated was an electrifying experience, his thoughts mercurial, his nature roused, his persona overwhelming. Now he merely waited, his impatience rising, his hunger held at bay.
Nothing of note, then.
Moira ignored the bows that trailed her passage. Gazed serenely forward as if she walked the hallways alone. In quick succession, she reached out to the dozens of servants and guards with whom she’d established a connection here in the Fiery Shoals, searching for anything out of the ordinary: nothing appeared to have alarmed nor frightened the staff on the various levels.
She reached the grand staircase and descended to the second floor. House Hydra colors were everywhere. The Shoals still served as the entry point to the Plains for most of Deep Hell, but it seemed to her that there were fewer visitors than usual; the trend had increased gradually since the White Queen’s departure.
Moira cast her thoughts back to Bastion.
Ravenna.
Lady Moira.
As always, she took pleasure in the young Tomb Spark’s composure. She’d yet to catch her unawares. Such composure, such steadfast purpose. How fares our Lady Octavia?
Better this morning. She visited the Citadel so as to conduct business, though she was furious when she returned to the palace. I don’t think she’ll ever accept the taxes imposed on all Kraken trade or the oversight.
I don’t blame her. Do you have a sense of when you might be able to approach her?
Not yet. She alternates between public equanimity and locking herself away in her suite for hours at a time. I’ve made myself useful, however. She’s called for me twice this week. Soon I hope to have time alone with her.
Very good.
Moira cut the connection and paused to exchange platitudes with Blood Baron Korvin. He styled himself as “The Ruinous,” and in truth, his small outfit had done well, but still. Moira had little tolerance for those who chose their own monikers.
He was careful not to come too close.
Down another flight of steps. Kyrie would be arriving at their assignation. Kyrie, with his smooth skin, his gentle touch, his hesitant nature, his delightful tendency to blush at any impropriety. She reached out to him to gauge his emotional state: excited, nervous, guilty, afraid.
That would change.
Moira stepped out onto the third floor and cycled through yet more contacts. A captain of the guard on the Whale Ship platform outside Bastion. A House Chimera Great Soul on patrol just outside the Golden Circuit. A cook in the Fury Spires. Johannes in the Virulent Warren just within the Telurian Band. Assorted high placed Hydra officials in Bastion.
Just as a seamstress might run her fingers idly over the weft of a new pattern, so did she check swiftly for any knots or unseemly emotions, any cause to dip in deeper to ascertain what was going on.
Swiftly she changed, donned her bathing robe, and stepped out into the baths. The humidity was a welcome assault. She perhaps indulged in soaking too often; was twice a day too much? But there was nothing more pleasurable than sinking into a solitary tub and administering her network, pulling on threads, pushing her agenda, and deciding where next she needed to plant an informant.
Not today, however. Today’s soak was to be of a decidedly different pleasure.
She made her way to their grotto. Just before she entered the secluded nook she reached out to Kyrie one last time as a customary precaution.
Shock, horror, terror.
Moira froze, her own eyes going wide as the sheer power and proximity of Kyrie’s emotions caused her body to react. No screams, however, no shouts.
Kyrie? What’s going on?
A visitor. The young man’s voice was a croak. Scorio.
Moira felt a second wave of shock. Impossible. Ydrielle had assured them that the Tomb Spark had been dropped straight into the Crucible. Alive? Now? And here?
Moira’s thoughts flickered, her expression expansive, and then she composed her features and entered the dimly lit grotto.
It was Scorio that sat chest-deep in the waters, but a Scorio transfigured; gone was the easy youth that she’d met, the open confidence and healthy frame. In his place sat a man, mightily shouldered and deep of chest, the fat flensed from his body so that there was no disguising his newfound strength. His black hair hung in a ragged, dusty mane, but beneath its fringe Scorio’s blue eyes smoldered with a new inner fire. He was dark and sinister in the gloom, hard and dangerous, but it was his aura that frightened Moira: it filled the grotto like a crackling black flame, intense and powerful far beyond what any Tomb Spark or even Flame Vault could manifest.
“Scorio.” She was proud that her voice sounded so even keel as she removed her robes. “Why is it that we keep meeting while almost naked?”
A desperate sally; the boy she’d met would have blushed, his thoughts racing toward images and actions that he’d be flustered to entertain.
But this new Scorio merely watched her with narrowed eyes as she slid into the water.
“Moira.” His voice was changed, too: gone was the rich, easy lilt. His now was a rasp, like a rusted blade drawn over a whetstone. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you and flee.”
Kill me? The man’s temerity didn’t amuse her as it should. “Because you’re in desperate need of allies and have nowhere to flee to.”
“Allies.” Scorio’s lip curved into a sneer. “I’d have better luck searching a midden for allies than House Hydra.”
“House Kraken’s midden, perhaps.” Moira’s heart was racing but she forced herself to speak slowly, to inject humor into her words. Her powers were potent but not geared toward combat. Would Kyrie attempt to save her if Scorio lunged across the pool? “I imagine you’re interested in one thing only: revenge.”
“And it would be easy to begin here.” Scorio leaned forward and the crackling force of his dark aura grew more oppressive. “You’ve seconds to give me a compelling reason. Stall for time and you die.”
“Really Scorio. Threatening a Pyre Lady in such fashion?” She picked and discarded a dozen witticisms. No; he was past easy manipulation. She could read the killing intent in his stare. “Your friends are dead.”
He jerked back. “What are you talking about?”
“That handsome fellow who was in the pool with you that time we met: Leonis? Along with Lianshi and Naomi. Emberlings all, were they not? Manticore slew them.”
Scorio seemed to wilt, sinking back against the edge of the pool. “You’re lying.”
There. She had him off kilter. “I wish that I were. Dameon didn’t trust them to not cause problems after your death. To not investigate, to not raise questions. Thus he slew them the moment you departed the Chasm. The official version is that they were killed by fiends while meditating in the depths. They’re buried, I was told, just outside the settlement.”
Scorio blinked slowly as if dazed. His head sagged, rose, and his chest began to rise and fall as if his breath were suddenly labored. “If you’re lying to me. I swear…”