On the far side sat an older man, face heavily lined and creased, his gaze shrewd, his mouth mobile, his mane of hair prematurely graying. He wore robes of plain black, and his cheeks and jaw were ghosted with stubble. His angular eyebrows were singularly expressive, one raised even now to indicate a subtle mixture of mock disbelief, apprehension, weariness, and curiosity.
In the center sat a woman who appeared more feral than civilized; her presence all but obscured the other two, so raw and present and vital did she seem. Her eyes transfixed Scorio like a wolf’s stare, irises amber, her brow furrowed with intense thought, her nose kinked where it had been broken long ago. Her brown hair was thick and tangled as if dried after soaking in storm-tossed brine, and her skin was weathered and worn by the elements. Her robes were ragged and gray and clearly of no account to her.
“Scorio, Flame Vault, Class of 873.” The Tyrant’s voice was dry, disinterested. “Your name is on the Red List. You assisted Imperator Sol in driving away Imogen the Woe. You came first in your class’s Gauntlet run, refused all sponsorships, and stand accused of leading the attack on The Celestial Coffer. After disappearing for two years you returned to murder Dread Blazes Davelos, Evelyn, Simeon, and Ydrielle, followed last by your slaying of Praximar, Pyre Lord, Chancellor of the Academy, and Autocrator of House Hydra.”
Scorio said nothing.
“Naomi, Flame Vault, natural born and ostensibly Class of 871. Close companion of Scorio, and no doubt party to his many deeds.”
Naomi’s face was a marble mask but her gaze burned bright.
“I am the Iron Tyrant,” he continued, “Blood Baron, Lord of the Fury Spires, and recipient of The Celestial Coffer’s largess. It is my responsibility to ensure that the forces battling in the Telurian Band have recourse to aid, healing, high-quality mana, and a safe place to retreat to.”
The other man leaned back in his chair. “I am Charnel Duke Plassus of House Kraken.” His voice was rich like well-oiled leather. “Class of 858, and not returned to Bastion in over seven years.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “I cannot say that I welcome this distraction from dealing with the Blood Ox, and thus appreciate these proceedings being as succinct as is decently possible.”
“Charnel Duchess Vermina,” said the woman, her voice little more than a whisper. “I, too, appreciate speed.”
“You stand accused of the murder of Chancellor Praximar and four Dread Blazes, Scorio.” The Iron Tyrant’s words were clipped. “As well as assaulting The Celestial Coffer. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“He believes what he says,” muttered Plassus, then shot a glance at the other two. “For whatever that’s worth.”
The Iron Tyrant nodded. “Scorio, why did you commit these deeds?”
“Why?” For a moment Scorio felt unable to encapsulate his many reasons. “Manticore’s the easiest to explain. They used me at Praximar’s behest—through Eira as proxy—to stage a false assault on The Coffer. Simeon possessed Druanna and forced her to attack, and Dameon tricked me into activating his artifact aboard the ship. I was then imprisoned in Ydrielle’s prism and flung into the Crucible to die.”
“All true, as far as he knows,” said Plassus.
“His Heart,” interrupted Vermina. Scorio felt her will probe at his very being, like a strong gale springing up to encircle and pluck at him. “Your Heart, Scorio. How did it come to be so?”
“The Crucible. Ydrielle’s prism slowed the Gold mana so that I was able to burn it. Dameon, in a bid to waste our time, had both Naomi and I wring our bodies of the Coal mana we’d tempered it with. When they dropped me in the Crucible I was completely empty. I Gold-tempered and healed my Heart.”
“Remarkable.” Vermina leaned forward abruptly. “Would you Ignite for me?”
Scorio hesitated, glanced at Naomi, then did so. His great spherical Heart blossomed with Iron flames.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Plassus, brows rising. “That’s not something you see every day.”
“Remarkable indeed,” breathed the Charnel Duchess. “Gold-tempered and with a perfect Heart. That will be of unique value to you when you achieve Pyre Lord. What an auspicious omen.”
The Iron Tyrant had witnessed it in Praximar’s study, but even he couldn’t keep from nodding in agreement.
Scorio allowed his Heart to die. “When I got out, I wanted revenge. They’d also murdered my companions once I left the camp. Naomi here can attest to that.”
In short, sullen phrases Naomi repeated what had happened once Scorio had flown away, right up to her fleeing into the Chasm.
“And your Heart in turn.” Vermina cocked her head to one side. “I sense… Silver?”
“I Silver-tempered, yes.” Naomi glowered at the Charnel Duchess. “But my Heart’s what it is and always has been.”
“Yes, I see.” Vermina sat back. “Go on, Scorio.”
He recounted his kills as dispassionately as possible.
The Iron Tyrant frowned. “You executed fellow Great Souls—Dread Blazes, no less—without compunction or permission? Such mass murder is worth placing you on the Red List.”
“Alas,” replied Scorio. “I guess you’ll have to put me on it. Again.”
Plassus let out a bark of laughter.
“It’s reason enough to order your execution,” rasped the Iron Tyrant, glaring at the Charnel Duke. “We cannot condone extrajudicial killings.”
“And yet there he stands, brazen as a naked bronzelgurst,” said Plassus. “And Praximar?”
“I think you know why I wished him dead.”
“Indeed.” Plassus rippled his fingers on the desk. “I’ll not lie: Praximar was a great asset to all the Houses. He led the Academy for over a decade, oversaw the graduation of thousands of students, and proved a canny administrator here in Bastion as well as spreading wealth abroad. Bravurn, do you have any complaints of the man?”
The Iron Tyrant grimaced. “He suited my purposes well enough while he lived.”
Vermina looked directly at Plassus. “The man was a grasping monomaniac who saw his own reverence for tradition as license to do as he pleased. Because of him, Bastion has been thrown into disarray, the populace oppressed to the point of revolt, House Basilisk massacred, and my own House much abused.”
“But he nearly got away with it,” said Plassus demurely.
Vermina pursed her lips then nodded. “Nearly. Were it not for Scorio here.”
The three stared at him once more.
“If you wish to make a plea for clemency,” said the Iron Tyrant, “now is the time.”
Scorio hesitated. Looked from one face to the next. All were predators. None of them had indicated any interest in such abstract values such as justice.
“If there’s any justification for what I did, it’s the fact that I pulled it off.” Scorio raised his chin. “Praximar sought several times to have me killed. Dameon thought me nothing but a tool. Now one’s dead and the other on the run. I’ve assisted Imperators, survived two years in the Crucible, and exacted a revenge nobody thought possible. I think it safe to say I’ll be an asset in the war against the Pit.”
“Boldly said.” Plassus flashed a superficial smile at the other two. “The boy doesn’t lack for bravura.”
“And me?” Naomi’s fists were clenched, her voice as taut as a topgallant before a storm.
“What about you?” asked Plassus drolly. “If Scorio walks, you walk with him. If he falls, well.”