His scream of horror turned into grim silence as he plummeted. Scorio watched, mesmerized, as Davelos misted seconds before hitting the churning lava.
Watched as the misted form raced over the lava toward the shore.
He was almost there when he reappeared and sank shin-deep into the crimson. His scream was appalling. He misted again, crawled forward, appeared, and now both his hands sank into the lava.
He misted one last time.
Flailed.
Appeared, struggled, his knees and burned golden stumps pressing into the heat. For a moment he struggled, but then his body began to run, gold flooding out in rivulets over the lake.
He reverted to his human form at the very last, the heat so intense that his flesh and hair burned, then he went still and quickly charred, forming a small hump that eventually sank into the lava and was gone.
Chapter 51
Scorio hung high in the air, staring down at the fallen Dread Blaze, his mind blank, his heart thudding, his whole body alive and shuddering and wrenched with emotion.
He’d done it.
Did it salve the wounds? Staring at the spot that had inhaled Davelos, he realized that it was but a start.
Shouts.
Great Souls had flooded out onto the balcony. Scorio snapped back into the moment, glanced around wildly. Should he make from the cliff tops, take shelter amongst the pink blossoms?
No, there, below: a figure waving at him.
Moira.
She was leaning out of a deeply recessed window, gesturing for him to descend.
Scorio bit his lower lip, considered the Great Souls, the bulk of the fortress. The question was simple, elementary: did he trust her?
No, that wasn’t quite it. Could he use her further? She’d delivered Davelos. He had no doubt the Dread Blaze would have been an order of magnitude more dangerous without her mental interference. But could she help in serving up the rest of Manticore?
Scorio grimaced, torn, and then banked his wings and dove down and around the promontory’s extension. The Great Souls above shouted, ran to the far railing. Moira disappeared from the window. Scorio flared his wings at the very last, nearly arresting his glide down to a stop, then pulled them back into his body so that he dropped at an angle in his human form and slotted in neatly through the window to land in a crouch upon the floor of a storage room.
“By the ten hells and every last True Fiend,” whispered Moira, her malachite eyes wide. “What have you become?”
Scorio rose to his feet. His arms and shins were crimson from a multitude of shallow cuts, his back badly bruised, his head ringing. But the pain was as nothing. His Heart yet burned with the very last fumes of Gold. “Those were just wings. I’m sure you’ve seen their like before.”
“No.” She shook her head in wonder. “I’m speaking of your Heart, your strength, your ability to go toe to toe with a Dread Blaze of Davelos’s caliber and emerge victorious. That’s… incredible.”
“Jova could have done it.” Scorio refused to let her coax his ego to the fore. “There are Great Souls born with talents that dwarf mine.”
“Jova of LastRock, sure.” Moira brushed that consideration aside. “But she wasn’t tempered in Gold. It’s only hitting me now: you’ve been inside the heart of the Crucible for the entirety of these past two years, haven’t you? How? How did a Tomb Spark survive that intensity of power without being destroyed?”
“It’s just a quick jump down there.” Scorio examined his forearms dispassionately. Their fronts were badly burned where that Great Soul’s meteor had detonated. “Wouldn’t take long for you to find out yourself.”
“Quite.” Moira curled a strand of black hair behind one ear. “A possible line of research for another day. But we need to move. They’ve marked this window and are coming this way. Let’s retreat to my quarters. Follow.”
Her Pyre Lady tone had returned, sharp and peremptory. She cracked open the door, peered outside, then handed him a new set of robes and set off down the hall.
Scorio tried not to be impressed. He’d never have thought of acquiring new camouflage, nor of inviting him into a decoy chamber.
He couldn’t forget how dangerous she was, nor that she was House Hydra.
They strode rapidly down the halls. The Shoals were in an uproar. Servants were gathered in groups, earnestly whispering to each other. They didn’t sound horrified, but rather delightedly scandalized.
The sound of pounding boots echoed distantly down the hall, and Scorio was reminded of his flight from the Academy with his friends after Praximar placed a price on their heads.
A pang of pain filled him. They couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t.
“Davelos said my companions were still alive.”
“He lied.” Moira didn’t look back.
Scorio grimaced and didn’t protest.
Up a flight, down a hall, past a group of guards who bowed their heads to Moira as they raced past, then through a large doorway into that private hall that led to her suite.
“Wait in here,” she said, opening her front door and stepping aside. “I need to restore order. Once I can return I shall.”
Scorio entered her chambers warily. She closed the door behind him and was gone.
As a Pyre Lady of the dominant House, her quarters were spacious and lush. An expansive living room stretched to large windows that looked out over a pocket orchard of Lava Trees, their pink blossoms blocking the view of the cliffs beyond. Everything was subtly and tastefully color coordinated; blacks, caramel beige, slate blues, dark burgundies. A conversation pit was sunken into one corner, its edge lined with cushioned seating. A small dining table set beneath a spun glass chandelier; gorgeous wall scrolls hung along one wall depicting stylized landscapes in which miniature figures imparted on the rest a sense of grand scale. A cabinet filled with liquors and glasses. A comfortable reading chair set beside a broad case of books.
Scorio hesitated upon the threshold. An archway led to what was clearly her bedchamber. He should wash out his wounds. It was surprising how little they hurt; the lacerations stung more like paper cuts than anything else.
With a thought he Ignited his Heart. The room was filled with heavy Iron mana; he set to replenishing his reservoir and realized it was still almost full. His modified Marinating Technique had done its job.
The pain dimmed further. Scorio doffed the robe, its sleeves already bloody, and padded into the bed chamber in search of a washroom.
The drapes were drawn, plunging all into velvety darkness, and the room smelled of Moira, an intimate, musky scent, delicate and feminine. Scorio ignored it, ignored her clothing laid out over the black silk sheets that were draped over the truly enormous bed, and entered a side chamber that was lit by the gentle glow of a Copper mana-light.
A marble wash basin was set beneath a wall mounted faucet, while half the small room was a shower, a second pipe emerging from the ceiling to terminate in a broad perforated disc. Small bottles of ointments and unguents lined various shelves, along with hairbrushes and other items of Moira.
Scorio scowled, resenting the fact that he felt as if he were trespassing, but he needed to wash out his wound. He turned the corrugated wheel beside the faucet and warm water spilled forth generously.
He shook his head. Whoever had designed the water system that fed the baths hadn’t stinted in their wonders.
Carefully, methodically, Scorio set to washing his wounds. But even as he cleaned them he felt the mana coruscating in his Heart augmenting his body and causing him to heal faster.
Faster than should have been possible. Flaps of skin sealed with his flesh, cuts pressed closed, and deeper wounds began to scab over.
Scorio turned off the water and simply watched. The last of the Gold burned away, and his great orb of a Heart lit up with Iron flames, ghostly silver and slow to dance in comparison with Gold’s virtuosity.