Chapter 3: Holy Voyage
The streets of Gariland were clear of any further Order Knights as Ramza fled their stone paths. A few passing mourners gave curious eyes but he was gone before any insights as to his flight could form. Even as his body tired from his waking, his fighting, his running, he kept pace as sweat drenched his clothes.
In every group he passed, in every open building or exposed rooftop he searched for his mates. But there were none. Any chance to step off this path never shone.
The port of Gariland could hardly be considered the greatest in Ivalice, but as one of the most direct routes to Holy Mullonde, it saw its share of religious figures, pilgrims, aspirants for the clergy, and hopefuls that Mullonde holy men would cure unspeakable ills and wounds of war and chance.
So, it was no surprise to see the docks of the city filled with work even before the sun graced the sky.
And then it was that Ramza Beoulve hadn't the first idea of where the ship bearing the High Confessor was. He could not go asking around, pursued by the Order as he was. The Holy Father traveled with Templar without banner; he did not want his presence announced.
Where then should he look? Would the ship be registered? Would its schedule be where all could see? Ever step had further done more to convince himself to step aside. Yet waiting on concern would avail naught. There were people around to ask. Ramza spent a spell to gather his breaths before he approached a gathering of five men to ask, "Excuse me sers, what ships set sail err long?"
The five stared at him as if he'd stabbed one. The largest of them answered, "Ye be daft boy? The schedule's on yer way in."
"Mine eyes must have missed it in the dark." A well enough excuse predawn.
"It's marked by torch-light the second the sun's light leaves." The man vigorously shook his head. "Bah, three ships leave at sun's first." He pointed towards the closest vessel; crates being loaded to its deck. "The Lowwind there will sail past western Gallionne towards Yardrow in Fovoham."
"I seek travel south." Truth of half at least.
"Then the Anointed Sails three docks east goes to Warjilis in Lionel."
"And the third?"
The man grunts at your question. "Shadow of Intent on the westernmost dock. Good luck going on them. Naught but the ship's crew have gone near that vessel."
Good luck it was then. "I see, thank you for your answers, my good sers. May Saint Ajora bless your path."
"Right, right, right." He waved Razma's concerns off without a care and went back to chatting with his group.
Beoulve took west as the sun rose in the east. The first rays of dawn splashing off the Black Coral Sea, sparkling silver on the horizon. He kicked into a sprint, still weathered by his earlier exertions, as he looked into each of the berths.
Each of the ship ports was filled with all the manners of wares and supplies that went into maintaining a heary ship, and yet, the clutter of the docks ended so swiftly it gave him pause. All the activity had stopped like an invisible dam had sprung up. Still in the distance Ramza's eyes fell upon the last ship in western port: Shadow of Intent. A peculiar name for one hoisting the High Confessor, but such was a way to hide him.
Ramza regained his stance and approached the lone vessel. Seven men dressed as sailors stood about the area, half already with their eyes on him and hands ready to draw. Surely this was the High Confessor's vessel.
Ramza held his hands up to mean no threat. "I was..." How to say it... "Invited, by a passenger aboard this vessel."
The closest of the guards glared at him. "By what name do you approach stranger?"
He was not a threat to them just yet. "Ramza, though the sanctity of confessional gave permission to not announce myself as such."
Features began to take shape in dawn's light, the lead guard scrutinizing him heavily. "Ask," he gave command to another who relied without word.
Silence and sunlight passed and the subtle features of dock and man became clearer. Clearer still when the runner returned and whispered to the ear of the first guard. "Come then," did he say. "And hurry, we've waited long enough for you."
"My apologies."
The guards fell in line, hands still close to their swords, but not so eager to draw. Still, if Ramza tried anything, he knew how swiftly they would draw.
They silently walked up and on-board the ramp and he followed on-board. His first time on ship and it was to Mullonde. How curious and lamentable a turn his life had taken.
Shortly after the ramp was pulled, the ship's sails unfurled and another horde of nautical terms he was ignorant of were called and the ship set to water and the open sea.
"From experience," the voice of the grand master called for him and Ramza turned to greet him, "when you wretch, make sure it is not over an open porthole lest you be assigned the crow's nest."
"I, shall keep that in mind."
The Templarate's grand master had exchanged his priestly robes for a purple-backed tabard baring the banner of Mullonde and the Church of Glabados. Dour-faced and square-jawed did he remain, with a grim stare and a darker hair fading into age parted midway and swept back as well.
Following, a look around was all to see that the whole crew now bore surcoats the same—save coloring.
"Is the whole ship crewed by the Templarate?" he asked.
"None else can be trusted the High Confessor's safety outside of Mullonde. Not even the Lionsguard."
No unconnected comparison was that. Between the High Confessor's presence outside Mullonde and the king's passing the head of the church had surely overseen the funeral rites.
"Before such talk passes between us," Lord Folmarv said. "Let us exchange names."
Ah! He'd forgot manners and etiquette so quickly. He offered his hand in peace. "Ramza," he paused. And what last name to give? Stay Beoulve or trade as something else? No, he would not run, not from this. "Beoulve."
The grand master took hand in his and gave a brief, but firm, shake. "Know you already mine, but I'll repeat all the same. Folmarv Tengille: Grand Master of the Knights Templar of Mullonde." Rare it was a man who gave so little concern for the Beoulve name. "You are not Templar yet, boy, but you may be forged something useful yet."
"I am not useful?" Ramza had to force down a smirk.
The grand master grunted. "The pause before the name 'Beoulve' was long enough for me to draw and take your head. So nay, until you are resolute you are but untempered iron. Fine iron for certain, but still brittle 'til worked well."
Rarer was it for such blunt criticism to be levied at him either. Lord Brothers aside, Ramza's skills were the talk of all cadets he knew and even a fair few instructors. Wiegraf Folles himself fled before his band and even truesworn Knights of the Northern Sky fell to sword and spell he commanded. Just his escape incapacitated another!
But a far cry it was from either Lord Brother. An intellect and cunning beyond peer with Dycedarg; and the Savior of Ivalice that was Zalbaag. And Lord Father? A knight who knew no equal save a man called God. He was always humbled by better men.
"You think the same, it looks." A flicker of a smile briefed the Templar's lips. "Good. Too many of noble birth come to Mullonde thinking their arts peerless. Their heads too full of themselves to learn again. We serve the Gods first and our own ambitions second, boy." Ramza ruffled at the boy comment again. "Too many these days blur where true faith should lie in favor of earthly pursuits."
All-too-much was this sounding like a lecture from Lord BrotherZalbaag when he returned from Mullonde pilgrimages himself. Such talk softened over time and when Order matters called, still... Ramza could not expect any sort of gradual leniency here. These were the Knights Templar, and but a handful outside their order could be considered a martial equal.
"Then I look forward to learning," Ramza said.
The grandmaster scoffed. "Alfredo shall have that lack of sense beaten out of you soon enough."
A chilling response. But he had earned respect of all his sword teachers save his lord brothers. This Alfredo would do the same, he was sure.
"Cherish that smile you have, boy," Lord Folmarv said. "It'll be your last before you're Templar or corpse."
He was smiling?
Yes, he was. He consciously dropped his lips back down. Though, since the Fortress, it was his first taste of mirth. Even before that, before Eagrose was raided by the Corpse Brigade.
To think it'd be fueled by self-satisfaction. Some Templar he'd make. And where was worry for his comrades, now? Had Fulke found the others and made their escape? Or had he—or they—been captured and now faced the guillotine?
'Twas not too late to take a boat and row return. Gariland had only faded but a few seconds prior.
"Do not lend even a second's thought to returning to Gariland. It is behind you and beyond you now."
"What do you mean?"
"Sweat drips down your brow boy," the Grand Master nodded at him. "What exertion but the Northern Sky finding you and your fellows could draw such effort?"
"I detest abandoning them."
"The Gods abandon no man."
"I am clearly no God, nor man truly for Gods yet."
"Templars must focus on whom we can save."
Far from the news he prayed to hear. But not even Lord Father could save all under sun, lest Ivalice would be free of Corpse Brigade and all troubles. "I shall not tolerate injustice in my sight."
"And what is injustice?" the grand master questioned. "Is it not what you plied at? Is it not why your fellows run scared?"
'Twas no easy answer Ramza could bring. Only silence and contemplation.
"Good. Keep silent. Think about it. About the world, the Gods and their meanings." Without further word Lord Folmarv turned and headed below decks.
A good thing too, as the ship lurched against waves and Ramza near felt his stomach come through his throat. Gods this would not be an easy voyage...
High Confessor Marcel Funebris relaxed as much as possible in the padded chair afforded to him in his quarters aboard the Shadow of Intent. The room was of modest size and, though immaculately cleaned with every provision provided for, it was not at all what one would expect the most powerful man alive to bed in. But Shadow of Intent was not a ship to announce his presence. As he wore the simple white robe of a simple priest, so was the ship kept hidden with but a crew of most loyal Templars. And perhaps a single guest who caught the High Confessor's eye.
Sea journeys had been hard on him for many years and this was his first since before sixty summers. But the king's condition had required a show of utmost respect and none but he would due.
The last rites and funeral had been as expected. Dealing with the villainess Queen Louveria Atkascha almost more trying that the journey. Putting on a fair face for such a harpy had nearly driven him mad and being rid of the despot was among his fondest wishes.
A well night's sleep was also among them.
But as inviting as the mattress was, there was a critical matter that had yet to arrive. While waiting for his grand master to arrive, the High Confessor afforded himself a moment of vanity as he groomed his great white beard. How many more winters would his beard get to grow?
A knock at the door brought his attention to more important matters. "Enter Folmarv." It was full certainty that the Templarte Grand Master saw fit to enter.
So he did, glowering all the while. Had he not known the man as a reckless youth, the High Confessor would have sworn the man was born to glare at others. Even the master he served.
"Beoulve for true he is," the templar said. "Honest, if foolish."
"As I said, was it not?"
"Aye. Always does your insight prove true, Holiness." Folmarv bowed before him. "How so, did you know?"
"I am the High Confessor. It is my privilege to know things others do not."
The man grunted at the line he'd heard enough times over his lifetime.
This however, was one of the few the Holy Father sought to explain. "Upon my time in Lesalia I took the confessions of a grand many men in secrecy. One among them, one familiar to myself, talked of an error made in haste in battle. Of an innocent slain."
The ashen eyes of the Templar connected the story with what he overheard in Gariland. Clever as always, he announced, "Zalbaag Beoulve."
"Indeed."
"And so quickly did you order Loffrey to warn the Northern Sky of their traitor. You are the High Confessor indeed."
Such damming praise. "The Gods saw fit to show the young Beoulve to my sight. And I am but their humble instrument."
"Pray tell me, what is young Beoulve's purpose in the Templarate? Shall he clasp jewel to breast or take fair maiden's hand?"
"We shall see."
"Oh? I expected years-long intrigue."
Funebris narrowed his eyes at his Templar. "You forget yourself Folmarv."
"My apologies, Holiness."
Well enough. The High Confessor leaned back in the chair. "The Fifty Years' War was lost because Ivalice put too much stock in Their Majesties King Denamda II and King Denamda IV—Gods rest their souls. History has shown us putting too much hope into one man's success is folly."
"Let the Gods decide his fate then?"
"As always." Funebris exhaled a breath. "But no matter the path laid before him, having a malleable young Beoulve under our care brings a great many advantages." Yes, Zalbaag was torn between duty to family honor and the Gods, but this Beoulve has had his ties of kinship frayed. But a bit of sharpness and they shall be cut entirely. The possibilities were numerous and the rewards great. He would ponder this more, safe in Mullonde. Away from these waves crashing through the ship. "I daresay this is my last voyage outside Mullonde. These aches will never leave me."
"Then we should hurry and bring the crown to you."
The High Confessor smiled. Holy King, or Holy Emperor? Which title would suit him best?