Or so he told himself.
Ydrielle marched him clear up to the Academy, and there the throngs were replaced by the new students, the Academy servants, and staff. These lined up to stare, solemn and with something akin to muted awe, as Octavia escorted Scorio and Ydrielle into the massive building.
Through the familiar hallways they marched, through the gardens and open courtyards. Up broad flights of stairs, their passage anticipated by countless observers. Up and through until Scorio realized where he was being taken.
Praximar’s office.
Down that final luxurious corridor, to the huge double doors which already stood open in anticipation.
Scorio wanted to writhe, to scream, to bellow his denial, his fury, his hatred.
He could only stare as Praximar rose from behind his great desk, clad in his chancellor’s robes, his lined face exuding supreme satisfaction, his gray beard as neatly trimmed as ever, his eyes smoldering.
Dameon was there as well, a wry smile tugging at his lips, freshly bathed and with his mop of blond hair rakishly combed. He had his hands clasped before him, and rocked back and forth from the balls of his feet to the heels as he watched Ydrielle set Scorio down.
Scorio heard the double doors click shut.
All was quiet.
Praximar moved to the front of his desk to lean against its edge, the man’s gaze traveling hungrily over Scorio’s frame, drinking him in.
“Well, now,” said the chancellor at long last. “Will you look at that? A sight for sore eyes. How I’ve missed you, Scorio. Ever since that day so long ago when you spurned my generous offer. When you humiliated me before my peers and students. You must have felt so grand, so… powerful, when you strode out the hall. Do you know, I’ve had the misfortune of playing that moment again and again in my mind? It haunts me. I tell you this so that you can understand the immensity, the depth, of my satisfaction today. Here you are. My wayward student, returned to me at last.”
“All went exactly as planned,” said Octavia, her voice rich and amused. “I admire your foresight, Praximar, and am glad that House Kraken could be of service.”
“Oh, enough with the sugared words, Octavia.” Praximar’s tone grew sharp. “The door’s closed and there’s nobody here for you to impress.”
“You said we’d renegotiate terms.” Octavia’s voice grew hard.
“And we shall. To be honest, this advantage of mine couldn’t last. It was nice while it did, however, but no, if I pressed it for too long the Seamstress would have eventually meddled. So we shall renegotiate terms.”
“Excellent. I assume you wish to be left alone with your prize?”
“That I do, thank you. Let’s convene in the citadel a few days hence. I’ll send a messenger proposing possible times. Is that amenable?”
“Most certainly.” There was the swish of cloth, but Scorio couldn’t see her. “I’m glad this unpleasant phase is coming to an end.”
“As am I. Goodnight, Octavia.”
The door opened and then closed once more.
“Ah,” breathed Praximar, coming forward to press his palm against the white light. “You’re sure he can hear me?”
“Absolutely,” said Ydrielle.
“Good.” Praximar moved so that he stood directly before Scorio, their gazes locked. “Now that I have you, I scarcely know what to do with you. Oh, a public execution for sure, but before then? Dameon? Suggestions?”
“He should be made to pay for his murders. For Davelos and Evelyn. They demand justice.”
“Of course, of course. Some torture, then? Or—why, did he not spend years trapped in a prism just like this one?”
Scorio felt his innards quiver with terror.
“What if we allowed him to, how should we say, ferment? In the darkness, without company? You know, it’s really quite remarkable, how the mind can turn against itself. Oh, your average fool will think of small, clever blades, of cutting and breaking and burning—but that’s needlessly excessive. Oh yes.” Praximar put his hand to the prism’s surface again, caressing it. “Much simpler, much more elegant, to allow a mind to fester in the dark. It’s what should have happened behind the Final Door, but we all know how fallible that system has proved to be. But this one. Here. Oh yes. What do you think, Scorio? A year in a forgotten closet in our deepest cell?”
Scorio couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. His mind was blank, a nullity of horror.
“Elegant, perhaps,” agreed Dameon, “but not emotionally satisfying for the rest of us.”
Praximar snatched his hand away. “You would beat him up? Break fingers? Maybe make him eat his own flesh?”
Dameon hesitated.
“The beauty of this, my dear friend,” said Praximar, his tone growing jovial, “is that we now have time. For who will seek to help this little fool? We’ll put his base-born friend Naomi to death, and that will leave him all alone in this world, won’t it?”
“Jova is committed to our cause,” agreed Dameon hesitantly.
“With the remnants of Basilisk in our power at last, he’s all alone in this world.” Praximar smiled gently at Scorio. “And will be all alone in the dark. Let’s allow him to stew in his failures. To ponder how his every effort to contest us has not only resulted in the death of everyone he holds dear, but in the undoing of what little hope his pet rebellion had here in the city. How his machinations have only enriched House Hydra. I can’t think of a more abject failure, can you?”
There was the sound of the door opening, and then Simeon entered Scorio’s field of view. He moved to peck Ydrielle on the lips and slipped his arm around her waist. He looked invigorated, his thick black beard neatly shaped and trimmed, his manner relaxed and pleased. “What did I miss?”
“Not much.” Dameon’s tone was brittle. “Pyre Lord Praximar wishes to set Scorio aside like a bottle of firewine to stew in the dark for a few years.”
“That so?” Simeon sounded unconcerned. “Well, nothing we do will bring back our friends. And I think it, well, distasteful to lower ourselves to his level.”
Ydrielle caressed Simeon’s chest. “You wish to take the high road?”
Simeon studied Scorio, his dark eyes gleaming. “What use to act like beasts? We’ve bigger targets. Remember those to whom we pledged our aid against the Blood Ox? Our sweetest revenge against Scorio will be moving on with our lives while he’s left to rot and rue his murders.” He shrugged. “At least, that’s what I think.”
“How about this?” asked Praximar. “Let’s put him away for a while. Again, there’s no rush. A year or two from now—maybe more—whenever you next return to Bastion, we’ll pull him out and dust him off. Then we can see if you still desire satisfaction, Dameon, or if we should simply drag him out into the public eye for a summary execution.”
Dameon inclined his head. “Your wisdom has won me over. It’s why I never fail to turn to Simeon for counsel! Yes, let’s not descend to his level. We’ll leave him in your care, Pyre Lord.”
“Very good. I’ll have him taken below. When I heard of your success I took the liberty of asking two of our students to stand by in case we agreed to this course of action. I’ll summon them now, and then we can turn to more important business.”
Praximar nodded to someone outside Scorio’s line of sight, and the doors opened again. A bell was rung.
Dameon stepped up to the prism and looked Scorio up and down. “You should have known your place,” he said quietly. “You should have had the wisdom to stay dead. But I’ll take comfort in knowing you’ll be paying the price for your crimes long after I’ve forgotten all about you.”
Dameon smiled and then spat straight at Scorio’s face. The spittle hit the surface of the prism and there began to run, some six inches from Scorio’s eyes.