The Queen of Dalmasca stood on her balcony, a glass of wine in her hand. The moon hung violet over the deserts to the west, painting their sand and rock silver and pale blue. Old glossair trails from traffic to the aerodome shone spectral white in the sky.

Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca swirled her wine in its crystal glass, observed the way the wan liquid caught the light and broke it into amber and amethyst on the stonework railing. Her blood pulsed beneath her skin; she felt it in her wrists, the sides of her neck where the arteries beat.

She had cut many arteries in her battles. Men and beasts and monsters and gods. She still commanded the Espers; on their strength Dalmasca had, in the three short years since peace descended, gone from an Imperial fiefdom to the single great power of the land. Even Rozarria, with her mighty fleet and charismatic ruler, knew to stay her hand when her ambitions turned to Dalmasca.

She had visited Rozarria of recent. Al-Cid Margrace had bowed and kissed her hand, and after the proper show of his gardens and his fountains and his onion-topped castles, had asked her a question. She'd said, "No," as was her right, and he had accepted gracefully, as befit his breeding. He'd said of course he understood that to wed would upset the delicate balance of superpowers; that she was very selfless to deny herself in order to preserve the peace. He'd smiled as he spoke, and bore no ill-will.

These things were true, but they were not the reason she'd refused his suit. The simple fact was, as well-built, tall, dark and handsome as he may be, his manners offended her. She was a warrior, bred in hot sun and barren wastes to withstand all adversities. She was not fit for life in lush Rozarria, waited on hand and foot by the maidens who also attended her husband when her own entertainments palled.

And yet… She'd looked those veiled and silk-swathed women in the eyes, eyes like hot, swollen fruits picked off exotic trees. As ashamed as it made her, standing beneath the pitiless moon alone, she might well have said "Yes" if Al-Cid had asked her a question of a different sort.

She could not put her finger on a reason for her restlessness. She turned away from the spectre of Rasler, who still sometimes shimmered with magicite borealis in the corner of her eye. He had known her: she sipped the wine, felt its clean spice on her tongue. Her mouth swelled with mint and pepper.

The stone still radiated the desert sun's warmth, in spite of the cold night air. The castle felt alive beneath her bare feet, her forearms resting on the stone, as if at any moment it would heave up from its foundation and lumber off to the horizon like a great guardian beast. She leaned forward, her wine glass dangling over open air between her interlocked fingers.

Rasler had been gentle but distant, almost off-hand; it was his way with her. She had suspected passion within him, dreamed of it. If only they had had more time, she might have drawn it out.

On their wedding night, he'd dispatched her maidenhead with one clean thrust, then tended to her hurt with kisses. He was noble. She assumed he intended a more thorough loving at a time when it would not cause her pain, but then Archadia invaded Nabudis.

In her life after that as Amalia, daughter of a general who'd died during the initial occupation, she was required to present herself as a taken woman to preserve the morale of the troops she commanded. Only a small group of knights, led by Vossler, knew her true identity. Vossler himself attended her, assiduous as a hand-maiden, and just as attractive; since he was the most trusted of her subordinates, it made sense to maintain the pretense of a relationship with him. Nothing ever happened, however. Rank and morale came first, and she did earnestly grieve for Rasler, who cast a long shadow.

But Vossler had loved her, she admitted to herself. He'd made the ultimate sacrifice to secure her kingdom, her dream. But his choice was wrong, borne of a desperation rooted in cowardice. No, Vossler had not caught her eye, and the occasional rebel who had could not come close enough to her to matter.

Then there were those… well, at first she had thought of them as rabble. Ashe smiled to herself, remembering her initial prejudice and outright shock at the free manners of Vaan and Penelo, Balthier and Fran. Vaan and Penelo were just children then—undisciplined, rash, exceptionally talented children, true Dalmascans. After four years of hunting, Vaan was the effective head of Clan Centurio; although Montblanc still researched reports of legendary beasts, Vaan now led the hunts for the toughest. In lulls, he drilled new hunters on battle tactics in the deserts surrounding Dalmasca. Penelo spent increasing amounts of time helping Migelo run his shop. Both young people were well set for the future, and the letter Lady Ashe received from Penelo yesterday had borne glad tidings.

Ashe sat at the delicate crystal and stone table, a gift from the Marquis of Bhujerba, and finished her wine. She now knew why sleep had not come to her this night. Penelo, at twenty-one, was expecting her first child. Vaan was the proud father. The news had caught Ashe off-guard; she had been expecting them to wed first. She smiled to herself now at her naivete. Had she not once, wistfully, spent a night much like this one envying their freedom to love one another as peasants?

It was on the Ozome Plains, during the time they drilled with Lord Larsa; it had been Penelo's idea to tarry there and practice, for they had recently acquired many weapons they did not know how to use. Lord Larsa also had a magic pouch which produced endless healing potions, which made it simple. They had spent a week, all told, preparing for the difficult trek through the jungle ahead.

One night, after the successful hunt for the Enkelados, Ashe had watched Vaan and Penelo, standing just outside the flickering light of the campfire.

Larsa was asleep, rolled in a blanket inside the light, and the silhouette of Penelo's head turned to look down at him. Ashe's heart had contracted with pity for the girl. Larsa was nobleness itself towards her, and Ashe had seen Penelo begin to wish for something she shouldn't have. Then Vaan took Penelo's hand, tugging her gently away. Ashe heard low words, softly said: Vaan to Penelo. Penelo stood on tiptoe; the bodies began to blend together—Ashe looked away, granting them privacy. The sky was a river of stars.

When they walked away, Ashe did not raise the alarm. They were camped on a slope of land where Wus alone congregated, and Wus roosted in the evening by facing the canyon wall and tucking their beaks into their breasts. They would not be attacked.

And there was no reason they could not wander off together if they wished to. As peasants, no royal bloodlines were at stake. No one, in short, cared as they would if Ashe herself indulged such appetites. Ashe was then aware that she could not take up the throne if the people did not approve of her; also, a woman could not lead men who vied for her favors; the answer was restraint.

But why not now? Ashe asked herself. The decanter of wine on the table glowed in the dove-light from the east. She did not yet want to marry. Possibly she never would. A marriage would indeed disrupt the balance of powers which Ashe used all her diplomatic and militaristic forces to protect. A lover, however, would not raise many eyebrows: she was the heroine-Queen, savior, and Head of State. Her people were fanatically loyal to her, and she wielded twelve Espers when one was enough to make a Dynast-King.

In other words, she would be allowed lovers, should she desire them. Ashe knew this in her noble bones, bred to be attentive to fluctuations in the love of her people. There would have to be a few concessions, of course: she could not take up with, say, a sky pirate and expect the people to bear it; but a nobleman or a high-ranking knight—no one would object to that.

She had desired Balthier for a season. There was, to begin with, his cocky body movements and the way he so subtly seduced every woman he passed. But Ashe remembered him best as he was when he stood on the sands of the Phon Coast, exposed his fear of the stone and his concern for her, and made himself vulnerable. There was something terrible in the ease with which vulnerability found her heart. She watched him for a time afterward, but for Fran alone did he take off his clown's face—so she dropped her gaze. Her heart had quailed when she thought him dead, but she grieved as for a friend, not for a lover missed.

The sun edged over the eastern horizon, igniting the sandstone bluffs. Swords of red and coral flame chased the dim stars west.

It has only taken me all night, and I have run out of others to think of, Ashe thought ruefully. I might as well say his name.

"Good morning, Basch," she said.