Unless he put his plan into play before swearing the oath.
But then the oath would have forced him to cancel his plans.
For a long while Scorio mulled over this paradox. Moira must have notified him before the White Queen appeared in Bastion. Praximar must have done something that his future oath wouldn’t contravene.
Nothing came to Scorio for entire cycles. His thoughts repeated themselves over and over again, playing over the events of the past six months.
He recalled the first time they’d met Druanna. Her opening query: “You’re quite the group. Where are you headed? Are you on Basilisk business?”
Which immediately led to another memory. Nissa: “We can help get you in touch with Manticore if you like.”
Had…? What if Praximar had received word from Moira, and tasked Basilisk with putting a plan in motion? One whose details he didn’t know? He’d then not be bound to undo a plan that wasn’t his own.
But Basilisk…?
Scorio wanted to curse in frustration. There was so much he didn’t know.
Jaws closed about him. He was lifted. For a while he simply moved about, a toy in the saurian’s maw, and then he was dropped again, this time falling into a diagonal slant, upside down, feet propped on a wall, head against the floor.
Scorio didn’t even feel a flicker of alarm this time.
If Basilisk had hired Manticore to effect Hydra’s plan, then this would have happened when Dameon came to Bastion. Which meant Dameon had been working on this all along.
Scorio felt numb.
Was that why Dameon had set him to smashing rocks for almost six months? Was his story about body desaturation a lie? Had he just been keeping Scorio out of the way, knowing that any effort or resources expended on the Tomb Spark would be wasted?
No. His body was weak. Had been weak. Crush had been genuinely surprised when she’d bloodied his nose so easily. Naomi had agreed that they needed to desaturate.
Regardless.
Dameon had played him false all along. Simeon. All the Dread Blazes.
Of the five of them, only Ydrielle had not bothered to pretend.
For some perverse reason, this raised her in Scorio’s estimation.
And if Basilisk had been behind the plan…
Another memory. Nissa, in the crowd celebrating the newly sworn Queen’s Accord. Her strained smile. The way she’d almost blurted something out. That look in her eyes: had it been guilt?
Had she known and almost warned him?
Fury choked Scorio. Again he fought to thrash, to rage.
All he could do was shut down his thoughts and allow virulent colors to play through his mind.
Time passed.
A new thought emerged.
His friends. Naomi, Lianshi, Leonis. They’d never believe Scorio would do this on purpose.
Because from the outside it looked bad.
Real bad.
Everyone had seen him take the cup onboard. He’d been the only one who knew the sequence.
But his friends would never believe he was in on the plan with House Kraken.
And like that, a host of new realizations broke open.
Ydrielle calling to him across the hall’s dining table before everyone: “What’s House Kraken’s interest in you?”
Planting seeds.
Again after they’d acquired the cup. Ydrielle had emerged from the hall to call out to all the assembled Manticore’s: “Scorio, the Pyre Lady has asked for you by name.”
A claim made for all to hear. And of course Druanna had never bothered to speak to him about it. Simeon had no need to converse with Scorio. It had been a show for everyone else’s benefit.
Perhaps his friends would remember his leaving the party back on Bastion with Ravenna and wonder.
No. They’d never doubt him.
Would they?
But the other members of Manticore. It would be so easy to connect the dots. To see a disgruntled Tomb Spark who’d spent five months hammering rocks apart. Who’d reached a clandestine agreement with the wealthiest House in the Plains. Who’d played a pivotal role in the lowering of The Coffer’s shields.
His friends would never believe him capable of such madness.
Would they?
Alone, lost in the depths of a living pool of magma, Scorio could only rage.
Time passed. A cycle? A dozen? Scorio had no way of telling.
Over and over he played those damning moments in his mind.
What a fool he’d been. What a credulous idiot. Rising every dawn to take up his hammer and break rocks while Dameon had laughed at him. They must have thought him the most trusting of catspaws.
And there he’d been. Taking satisfaction in his own masochism, taking a perverse pride in his willingness to do whatever was needed to achieve what people told him was his next goal.
Shattering rocks while they’d orchestrated his downfall. They must have crowed in delight over how easily he was manipulated.
And what had he thought about all that time? Whether Jova was truly upset with him. How long it would take to get to meditate. How he could best convince Dameon to reward him with rich mana for his self-sacrifice.
Shattering rocks.
Tearing up his palms.
Hauling that damned sled.
Month after month.
Like a whipped ox. A stupid beast. A dullard, an idiot, content to be told where to sit, where to sleep, where to stand, how to walk, how to breathe.
Unable to piece together what was before him. Unable to see the obvious. They’d never been training him, planning to train him. They’d just kept him around for their nefarious plan.
And he’d walked grinning to the hangman’s block. Had allowed them to drape the noose around his neck and thanked them for it.
His loathing rose like a hurricane of white-hot flame. He wanted to strike himself, tear at his own flesh, rake his nails down his face, bash his head against a rock. But instead, he lay there, upside down, drowned in magma, unable to breathe, to move, to even blink.
Scorio took up the few scraps of Copper in his Heart and Ignited. Strength bolstered by the deepest fury of his life flooded him and he sought to surge up into his scaled form.
But the prism had no give.
His scales emerged but forced his flesh inward. His horns began to appear and cave in his skull. His fingers crumped and deformed as his talons pressed into them.
The pain was perfect.
For a mad, delirious second he thought of killing himself thus. Shove in his skull with his horns and be done with it. Why not? Any moment now the prism would give way and he’d die burning.
Why not end it?
He saw Dameon’s self-satisfied smirk, Simeon’s gentle smile, Ydrielle’s contempt.
Just end it.
He didn’t deserve better.
Maybe by dying so ignominiously he could do penance for his stupidity. Maybe he needed to kill himself to expiate his sins.
But with a gasp he released his Heart and the scales, the talons, the horns dissipated.
His body ached, bled. His skull had distended under the pressure, nearly cracked.
Yes, he thought. Give me that pain.
He lost himself in it for a while, but it didn’t last. Couldn’t last. Hours or days later it finally faded away, leaving him there, upside down and staring into golden death.
I’m going to go mad, he thought. I can’t just lie here forever. Madness will take me.
But it didn’t. Not yet. Instead he was left to saturate in a hell of his own devising. His mind turned against him and played every moment again and again. Simeon’s compassion. Dameon’s speeches. The first moment they’d met Evelyn. Nissa’s guilt. Swooping down toward the esplanade. Thorne inviting him aboard The Coffer.
And the rocks. The endless boulders he’d worked on under the burning fleeting sun.
Time melted.
His mind almost melted with it.
For ages Scorio wandered amongst his delirious memories. He felt no hunger. No need to void his bowels. No discomfort. His body faded away altogether, leaving him in an unending nightmare of mishmashed dreams and recollections.