"We should go, my lady," Daina said as gently and respectfully as she could from the balcony door, looking out at the black-veiled form of Ashe. "It isn't safe here."
Her lady made no reply. Disgusted, Daina retreated into Ashe's rooms. She moved silently through the dark, welcoming the hot nighttime breeze drifting in from Giza Plains. The people of Dalmasca dressed with fewer layers than Daina was used to, but the pervading heat made it necessary. Even with her midriff bared between the empire-waisted coat and her sword belt, she was sweating. The coat swirled about her feet when she reached the opposite wall and turned around, the ruffled hem fluttering. Moisture collected along the tops of her breasts; the green coat exposed her cleavage, the way the men's undershirts bared a hint of toned chest, a long diamond of skin below their collarbones. She wasn't used to showing so much skin. She sighed, trusting the dark which turned the gold detailing silver to hide how she sponged away the sweat with the heel of her gloved hand. These Dalmascans and their idea of decent clothing!
Three ladies-in-waiting hovered near the outer door. Daina ignored them as efficiently as the princess was ignoring her. Her katana hung at her hip, where the green coat wouldn't interfere with drawing it. She was a knight, not a handmaiden. None of the well-bred palace ladies owned so much as a dagger.
Perhaps if they had, if the women had been taught to fight for what was theirs, the kings of Dalmasca and Nabradia would live still. Fuming over this gross mismanagement of resources, Daina resumed her pacing.
Princess Ashe was grieving. She'd lost her father, her husband, and was about to lose her kingdom to the Archadian Empire. To make matters worse, Dalmasca would not fall entirely due to outside forces. No one could be trusted, not even the Order of Knights. Captain Ronsenburg was a traitor, a kingslayer, the man solely responsible for King Raminas's death. According to Marquis Ondore, Lady Ashe's Bhujerban uncle, the ex-knight had been executed.
But Captain Ronsenburg's betrayal and death hadn't been enough to sate the avarice of the Archadian Empire. Emperor Gramis's fleet was currently flying across the Estersand. Within the hour, Archadian judges would arrive and occupy Rabanastre. There was no one left who could oppose House Solidor's military might.
The frighteningly few remaining Dalmascan knights had arrived from Nalbina that night, fleeing before the Imperial sky fleet. Lady Ashe could no longer stay in Rabanastre. What the judges would do to Dalmasca's last daughter – there was little doubt Ashe would soon rejoin her father and husband. The knights must spirit her to safety if any hope remained of regaining Dalmasca's independence.
Furiously, Daina swiped at her wet cheeks. Nabudis, the verdant royal city of Nabradia, had already been relegated to a footnote in the annals of history. Her kingdom, her countrymen, her father and mother – everybody she knew was dead. Her home had devolved into a haunt for ghouls. Her life belonged to Lady Ashe now, bound as they were by her vows, but Ashe . . .
Daina suspected Ashe wasn't even crying. The princess stood beneath the stars in utter stillness. She seemed to be waiting for something.
Daina turned on her heel, kicking angrily at the rug. For what could Lady Ashe possibly be waiting? Everything was in readiness. With the aid of Marquis Ondore and the newborn Resistance (comprising the self-proclaimed fiercest, most loyal sons of Dalmasca), the announcement of the noble Princess Ashe, who, wrought with grief at her kingdom's defeat, has taken her own life, would ring through Ivalice by morning, and the real Princess Ashe could disappear. She would assume the name Amalia and gather enough forces to reclaim her throne when the time was right. The marquis was poised to aid them in their time underground with cold, hard gil, sundry supplies, and news.
The plan hinged on Ashe's survival. So why was she standing there, dry-eyed and serene, stroking her wedding ring and that of her lord that she wore next to it, pretending that Daina's words were the wind shuffling through the sands of the desert?
Taking a deep breath to still her tears and her temper both, Daina approached the balcony for one more attempt. "Please, my lady. I cannot ensure your safety here. We must go."
"Where would you have me go?" Ashe snapped, speaking directly to Daina for the first time. Her fair hair glimmered through the black veil attached to her tiara. In a low, bitter voice, she added, "Nowhere is safe."
Chastised, Daina retreated. She was a protector, not an advisor. If Lady Ashe would not go, then Daina could not make her.
In a dreadful sourness of spirit, she realized that she did not like the princess. She'd sworn to protect this haughty, distant woman with her life.
Daina narrowed her eyes at nothing. Yes, she had sworn to protect Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca in blood before Faram, Scion of Light. So that was what Daina was going to do, whether Ashe – Amalia – liked it or not.
A burst of clanking, jingling noise from the hall startled Daina out of her brooding. She rushed to the outer room, drawing her sword with the silky hiss of metal on wood, too late to stop the lady-in-waiting who opened the door.
Daina shoved the older woman out of the way and halted the door with her foot, but the light from the hall blinded her. She leveled her katana at the average hume's height, ready to skewer in the throat anyone who tried to enter.
"These are a lady's private rooms, and you are not welcome here," she called. "Leave now!"
"No time for propriety," a deep voice said. The door shuddered and then slammed into Daina's arm hard enough to break her stance. The bottom edge crushed her booted toes. A tall, broad-shouldered man muscled his way inside, his plated leather armor jingling. He didn't seem to notice Daina's uniform in the dark, the golden spaulders, the gauntlet on her left arm, or her thigh-high greaves, for he then said, "You, girl. Make sure the lady's things are prepared."
Daina bit her lips on an ill-natured retort. Instead, she sheathed her katana. She had recognized his voice. "Captain Azelas," she greeted, and then she saluted her superior.
Vossler York Azelas, erstwhile friend and colleague of the traitor, former Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg. Captain Azelas wore his black hair a little long, brushed back from his noble, intelligent face. A greatsword was strapped to his back. He blinked at her. He did not return the salute.
"Vossler."
Lady Ashe – Amalia – had finally deigned to come inside. Her voice warmed with relief. She unpinned the tiara from her softly bobbed hair and then placed the golden circlet on a divan. Her clothes, revealed when she removed her veil, were sensible, if overly elegant, for traversing the labyrinthine paths through the Garamsythe Waterway, which was how they were to smuggle her out of the palace and Rabanastre.
Azelas went to one knee. "Majesty."
"What word have you?" Ashe-Amalia asked. Daina noticed the former princess was back to ignoring her.
"We are lost," Azelas told the carpet. "By morning, Archadia will occupy the entire city. We must flee. At once."
"Of course," Amalia said, and Daina felt a flare of irritation. Why listen to Vossler Azelas, but not to Daina Praeities?
Then, Captain Azelas did a strange thing. He held a mythril sword, just the size for a woman, out to Amalia. Amalia took it with a familiarity that told Daina the princess knew how to use it.
She gaped at them, her stomach sinking, her vows turning to ash in her mouth.
If Amalia could fight, then what need had she for a lady knight?