Perfect.
His Pyre Lord body didn’t need the warmth, but it provided a subtle comfort that he knew better than to question. He pulled the mug a trifle closer, and lifted the latest class report for him to inspect once more. This was updated weekly by the teaching staff, and for the most part confirmed his every expectations.
Praximar frowned. For the most part.
Cinder Ragul wasn’t living up to the standard of his past lives. Praximar reviewed his own note to have the potency of the Cinder’s morning pills increased. The man had made Crimson Earl once, for Eterra’s sake. It was preposterous that he should be in the bottom quarter of the class.
Whereas Emberling Quavo was clearly enjoying a run of absurd luck; the man had never once risen beyond Dread Blaze. It was criminal to waste Fat Crickets on him. Another note indicated that his treasures should be greatly diluted.
Praximar reviewed his annotations and found them to his satisfaction. A nudge here, some encouragement there, and all would proceed as it should.
Setting down his roster, he paused to cock a weather eye at the study door.
If his aides and advisers were going to bother him, it would be now or never. Such was the way of things.
Silence.
Praximar waited for ten whole breaths, then eased back into his chair and pulled his favorite book across the desk to lay it open over his lap. It was a massive tome, weighty and ponderous, and he used the edge of the desk to help prop it up. Peering down the length of his nose, he carefully turned the vellum pages, allowing his gaze to drift over the faded calligraphy and inked portraits till he reached the ribbon bookmark that indicated where he’d left off last time.
“There,” he sighed contentedly and took up his tea for an exploratory sip. Still too hot. Not looking away from the huge page he set the mug back and settled in a little deeper.
Imperator Moravius the Black
Known as: The Ever-Burning Flame of Night, King of Kings, Lord of the Iron Bailey, Last Hope of the Dawnmarch, Savior of Etellien, and Defender of Zelnoch.
Highest rank attained: Imperator
Number of rebirths: 78
Last recorded death: Fell in the Year 623 to Cazador the All Burning, a battle that lasted three days and nights and dissuaded the True Fiend from pressing its attack further north from the Pit. Witnessed by Bachul the Piper and Ophilon.
Notable accomplishments: Helped found the Iron Sphere; was a member of the Pelagic Syndicate, though he left under mysterious circumstances at the urging of the Shepherds; assisted in driving back the Omnicide to the Jackal Latitudes; attained the Blade of Penance from the Aureate Order, only to return it upon achieving Imperator; penned the Ode to Defeat and Glory after the loss of Blood Baroness Rahkeal, his wife; cleansed the Seventh Cacotropic zone and prevented it from spreading; led the ill-fated Resolute Crusade against the Pit where he met his death.
Praximar sighed and passed his fingertips over the vellum, then turned his attention to the portrait that covered the facing page. It was done in the old style that had been popular during the sixth and most of the seventh century, a wood engraving relief printing of a two-dimensional profile view depicting the Imperator in flight, radiant and noble, his features striking and dour. His brows were lowered, his mouth set, and he appeared indomitable, fearsome, more a demigod than a mortal.
Yet he had died almost three centuries ago and never been reborn.
Like so many.
Praximar studied the dour portrait. “Why don’t you return? We have need of you, Moravius. Why do you wait within the Archspire? Do you not care for our fate?”
The portrait, of course, made no response.
Praximar pursed his lips, and after another minute spent studying the portrait, turned the page.
Imperator Branzina the Cruel
Known as: The Last Light, the Cold, the Vengeful, the Breaker of Fiends, the Wielder of the Sun Scythe, the Final Mercy, the Last Recourse.
Highest rank attained: Imperator
How he loved that little redundancy, an otherwise useful field throughout the Tome of Souls but here, in the Imperator section, so utterly needless yet filled with pride.
Number of Rebirths: 83
Last recorded death: Disappeared in the Year 651 while exploring what later came to be known as the Sordid Hive, though no remains nor, most notably, the Sun Scythe, were ever found.
Praximar reached for his ironwort tea and glanced at Branzina’s portrait. It was a favorite. Never had an artist captured such cruelty, such refinement of spirit, such beauty in a wood etching. Her waist-length hair was said to have been pure white, and her touch to have stopped the hearts of men.
Again Praximar pursed his lips. He studied the printed lines of her face. What would Branzina make of their world today? She would surely disapprove, would whip the Houses into action, would not fail to imprint her mark upon all and sundry—
Praximar. Is now opportune?
He jolted in surprise and spilled tea on the bottom corner of the page. Hissing in annoyance he set the mug down and immediately set to blotting with the edge of his robe.
Moira. There must be a better way for you to alert me before dropping into my thoughts.
Apologies. I have yet to discover one.
Was that amusement in her tone? As always, he could never be sure. Grimacing, he drew out one of his folded napkins from a drawer and pressed lightly upon the soaked corner, then sighed, closed the book, trapping the napkin in place, and set the huge tome aside.
Well, you’re here now. What news?
I have met with your prodigal student.
Scorio? Praximar sat up. He’s at the Shoals?
Nova herself escorted him here. From what I can gather she rescued him and his friends from an Ixithilion attack. They were being escorted by two members of Manticore, but neither was sufficient for the task.
I see. Praximar rose to his feet and paced to his study door where he turned and frowned at nothing in particular. He must have left Bastion directly to have gone so far in so little time.
His arrival seems to have precipitated action on Nova’s part. She just held a council, ostensibly to hear out Scorio’s concerns about the revolt in Bastion, but in truth to use it as a catalyst for her own departure.
Praximar nearly tripped on his rug. What? She’s leaving? What do you mean, leaving? Permanently?
So it seems. She is now with the Iron Tyrant negotiating, no doubt, new terms for the Consortium, and then plans to travel to Bastion to take matters in hand.
By the ten hells, Moira, you wait till now to tell me? Praximar glanced about, flustered and seized with urgency. This changes everything.
I told you this would happen. Now we have to act. She will demand the Autocrators swear Heart Oaths to obey her plans. No doubt the oath will include vows to uphold the peace, to work together and ensure that the Rascor Plains are defended and the wealth from the Fiery Shoals shared amongst the Houses.
Yes. Yes. Praximar forced himself to straighten and still his mind. And no doubt some self-perpetuating element wherein new Autocrators or acting heads of the Houses must swear the same Heart Oath. Damn. Well. We’ll have to move swiftly.