It was the first time he’d burned anything but Gold in literal years, and the change was dramatic. It felt as if he’d gone from shod in light sandals to being shod in boots of metal. His Heart grew heavy, cumbersome, and the very sensation that suffused his body changed from glorious illimitability to a direct and forceful strength.
Scorio frowned. The sensation was illusory; the Iron might enhance his strength and resilience, but it was still a shallow replica of what Gold imparted. He felt like a lantern whose wick had been trimmed, his blazing luminosity reduced to a mere glow.
There was nothing to be done. Gold mana was shipped to the Iron Tyrant and formed the backbone of the political order for a reason. He couldn’t expect to subsist on it forever.
Still, his body remained Gold-tempered; he watched with growing delight as the burn marks receded, the cuts sealed over, and felt the bone-deep ache in his back begin to fade.
He washed his face vigorously, raked back his hair, and briefly contemplated a shower. But no. Moira would only delight in catching him naked and off-balance.
So he emerged back into the living room and passed out through a doorway into the pocket orchard. A dozen small trees grew in a semicircular balcony, their roots wizened and probing into broken rocks. A single bench was set in their midst, and Scorio sat warily, never allowing himself to forget that this was an enemy Pyre Lady’s private domain.
But the arid wind caused the pink blossoms to stir peacefully, the occasional petal falling gently through the air, and the obsidian cliffs were framed by the dark trunks and crooked boughs, becoming abstracted. The blossoms had their own scent, he realized: floral, soft, cutting through the heavy sulfur and enlivening him.
Scorio opened his Heart senses and studied the trees. Each was a subtle vortex for Iron mana.
He closed his eyes.
Silence but for the distant, clotted roar of the lava waterfalls somewhere below.
The wind caused the boughs to whisper and sigh.
Scorio lowered his chin.
Two years had passed.
They’d stolen two years from him. Two years spent in madness and self-loathing, in horror and desperation. When he tried to think back to that existence his mind recoiled, as if loath to relive it. It felt endless now. An eternity that stood as a gulf between him and his previous life.
Two whole years.
Scorio waited, patient, for his spirit to be ready to take the next step, and when it did, the thought arose of its own accord: Praximar had killed the leaders of the rebellion, strung their bodies up for all to see, and crushed the people’s movement.
Dola. Abentha. Gethane. Ferric. Walsham. Whomever else had been brave enough to stand up for the others.
A petty and needless revenge on their effrontery.
The Queen’s Accords were broken. House Kraken crippled. House Basilisk driven into hiding. House Chimera? Indifferent, perhaps, focused on their own concerns.
Which left Praximar preeminent.
Scorio summoned the chancellor’s visage and felt a deep and endless hatred uncoil itself within his core. What had Ydrielle said? “We were asked to make you suffer.” Amidst all his machinations, his maneuvering for power and the destruction of the old order, Praximar had singled him out for personal retribution.
Scorio’s hatred flowered and became savage. Well, he’d failed. Now Scorio was loose and stronger than ever.
But if he’d only been able to take down a Dread Blaze with the help of a Pyre Lady, Gold mana, and enormous surprise, how would he ever hope to defeat an actual Pyre Lord?
Two years.
Naomi. Leonis. Lianshi.
Abentha, Dola, Ferric, and the other brave citizens of Bastion.
There was no bringing back what was lost, but he would gladly give his life avenging them.
Scorio’s thoughts sank deeper and he entered a meditative trance. He set to drawing Iron mana from the air and fueling his Ignition. Focused on his Heart, watched its ghostly flames, and gave himself time to grow accustomed to Iron’s insubstantial nature.
There’d be no more leaning on Gold once he left the Shoals. Iron would be as good as it got, and in Bastion?
Coal.
He’d have to learn to fight without that godly feeling of supremacy.
Time passed. He remained still, focused, alert. After endless months trapped in the prism it was easy to remain thus; time ceased to have meaning. The fleeting sun dipped and night fell, became pitch dark, lightened, and the little sun dawned once more.
Three cycles passed.
Fatigue tugged at Scorio, but he refused to succumb. To sleep was to become vulnerable. So he maintained a low-level meditative trance, his Heart ever-burning, and fueled himself with Iron’s power.
Finally he heard the front door open. He rose smoothly from the bench, instantly alert and ready to flee. Six long strides to the railing, a leap, his wings, and he’d be gone.
But it was Moira, alone. She carefully closed the door, her thoughts distant, and stood for a moment facing it, one hand still pressed to the dark wood grain. Then she sighed and looked sharply over her shoulder at where he stood outside.
“You’re still here. Good.”
Scorio watched her in silence as she moved about her quarters. She removed her formal outer robe and draped it over the back of her reading chair. Remained in her intimate underrobe, as if he were family, a boon companion, or a lover, and poured herself a glass of water.
A calculated ploy. Everything was a tool in her hands, even casual intimacy. Scorio resisted a smile. She’d have to do better than that to throw him off his balance.
She emerged onto the balcony and studied him. “You’re already healed.”
Scorio saw no need to respond.
“You really are tempered in Gold. I’ve heard of that happening, but only in tall tales of legendary Great Souls long dead.”
“Why does nobody do it today?”
“Why?” She smiled as if the question were adorable. “Because Tomb Sparks can’t withstand Gold mana. It ruptures their Hearts immediately. But clearly you were able to accomplish the impossible. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share how?”
Scorio simply raised an eyebrow.
“Well, you surely paid for the privilege.” She sipped her water thoughtfully. “And seeing as you intend to set yourself against Dread Blazes and a Pyre Lord, you’ll need every advantage you can get. The Shoals is momentarily returned to order. I’ve lied and told everyone that I’ve notified Praximar of what’s taken place. By the time they realize I’ve misled them it will be too late.”
“If I fail, Praximar will know you helped me.”
“At which point I may finally quit the Rascor Plains and head deeper into Hell.” She smiled coldly. “I’ll miss the baths, but there’s always room for one more Pyre Lady at the front.”
“You’re hoping I’ll kill Praximar.”
She snorted. “Dreaming, more like. But there are disparate elements scattered throughout the Plains that would welcome such an attempt. Nobody seizes power without creating discontent.”
“House Kraken.”
“And House Basilisk. But don’t get your hopes up. Nobody will stir at your request. You’ve no credibility; in fact you’re seen as the vainglorious and selfish fool who caused this mess. You’ll need to change your reputation before anyone risks rising against House Hydra.”
“And you have a suggestion.”
“Of course I do.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Great Souls respect power. There’s its most obvious manifestation, the ranks, but one can also demonstrate power by achieving what others believe to be impossible.”
“Killing Manticore.”
“You’ve publicly slain one Dread Blaze. Kill the rest and no one will deny your ability.”
Scorio mused. It wasn’t the principle of the matter that would inspire his fellow Great Souls, nor even his personal morality. It was his ability to impose his will on the world and slay his foes.