XXXV.

Perhaps he shouldn't have told her so much—she had an earnestness to her, a way of garnering trust, and he wondered now if it was deliberate, if his warning had only fueled her need to hold the stone close. She should know, of all people—she should know that nethicite was a trap, a curse; that nethicite could bring the world no balance and certainly no peace. But if the wasted years had taught Balthier anything about the damned rocks, it was that they craved their masters as ravenously as their masters craved them.

The jungle was humid and crazed with bird calls. Moist ferns carpeted the ground in closely clumped patches, and the soil was bright red, and soft. A more suitable place than most to abandon the stone—jostle against her and lift it and toss it, and she would never know what happened, and the Viera would spurn the thing, not even enough light from it to make a decent lamp. Or—

Or they would sell it: take it up the mountain and trade it for silver. So much for that plan.

Fran led the way with sure, delicate feet: her clawed toes gripped the soil—spongy, like cake—and negotiated roots and grasses with a levelness that didn't even disturb the butterflies in the brush. Birds and lizards and insects scattered when the humans followed after her. She had warned them to keep close to her, and told Balthier in a few wispy words of Vieran that they should keep Larsa visible at the edge of the group—a youngling would deter violence.

The trees seemed to rustle with the language, the words as much a part of the jungle as the vines or the flowers, and he hesitated to speak it back to her, the breezy consonants and lengthy vowels misshapen in his mouth, distorted all the more when spoken here in the cradle of their origin. He had made some pretense of her teaching him Vieran as payment when they first met—"I seem to be of considerably more use to you than you are to me," he had told her, leaning against the Strahl—and it had given them the upper hand in plenty of tight situations since then: There was as much advantage in speaking a language no one else spoke as there was in speaking a language everyone else spoke. But the princess's eyes grew sharp whenever he and Fran strayed from the Dalmascan in which the group shared fluency, and it wasn't as though she had much affection for him to begin with.

Fran at last drew to a halt amid a cluster of thin saplings, straining her ears and running her eyes in an arc over their surroundings. "I can't—hear Her," she said at length, mouth soft.

"What?" Penelo asked.

"I—it's alright," she replied, continuing on. "I know the way."

The others looked to Balthier, and he shrugged and followed after her. He had never heard Fran's voice waver.

Thick leaves filtered the sun's rays this far in, a softening green light rounding the edges of every jutting stone along the banks of the stream they now followed. Shoots and branches reached out to them as they passed, delicate living limbs, curious and eager and fragrant; the roots of a tree rose up and arched over the water, the adjacent trunk several meters thick.

Francesca's eyes grew dark—her jaw set—as they crossed the stream. A translucent wall manifested before them at the other side: undulating light that sparked to life along the bank wherever they drew near. Fran laid a hand against it, the flickers pulsating outward from her palm. It was solid—impenetrable.

"What is it?" Penelo asked.

"The jungle denies us passage," she answered, hand dropping to her side.

Ashe leaned in, trying to meet Francesca's eyes. "What have we done?"

"We? Nothing."

"What?" Penelo pressed, but Fran had already turned and begun to walk downstream, the glimmering shield flaring and rippling beside her as she went.

She turned at a bend in the shield, rounding a large tree trunk and stepping into the brush. Balthier followed her closely, questioning her in Vieran:

"Making an appearance?"

"I am."

"I thought you'd left for good."

The others stuck close, halting at Francesca's side as another wall of shimmering energy swelled up into the canopy.

"Our choices are few," she went on, still in Vieran. "This is as much for you as it is for me."

"Oh?" Balthier asked as she laid a hand on the force field.

"You are ill at ease."

"Can you blame me?"

Suddenly, she withdrew her hand and turned to face him. "Collateral?" she asked.

He drew in a breath, but didn't recoil.

Ashe stepped in. "Is there any particular reason we are unwelcome in your conversation?"

Both pirates regarded her, Fran serene, unreadable, Balthier cocking an eyebrow, planting a fist on his hip. And then Fran faced the shield once more, tracing glyphs on it with her fingers. "We must go to Eruyt to seek permission," she explained in Dalmascan. "It is not far, but we may still be denied access to the mountain."

"Eruyt?" Basch asked.

"My home," said Fran. She completed the series of symbols and flattened her palm against the glowing surface, and all at once it evaporated, fizzling flecks of light flying around her and spiraling out of sight. "Humans are unwelcome in the village," she continued. "If we are turned away, we mustn't protest."

Larsa glanced up at her. "You don't want to do this?"

"It isn't about what I want," she said, and again took stride through the brush.

The light field coalesced behind them and faded.

The Mist thickened as their trek progressed, the very air swirling with glyphs and reflections, whispers of thought from every direction. Balthier thought he saw the princess reach for her sword—Fran had warned them all against it—but her hand instead rested against her tunic, against the lump of nethicite in the pocket at her hip.

Half an hour's walk brought them to a high gate built around the trees, finely wrought and tangled in blooming vines, sectioning off a gathering of earthen dwellings and well-groomed paths. The gate stood open, the air cool and sweet around it, but Francesca halted several yards away, eyes intent.

It took a moment of observation—humans' eyes were dull, as she had told Balthier before. Two guards, armed and glaring, sat posted in the trees overhead.

"Why are we stopping?" Penelo asked.

"It is holy ground," said Fran. "You mustn't go past the gate, understand? They will kill you."

Everyone nodded, Larsa and Penelo stepping closer together, and Fran continued:

"Wait here."

She strode forward, the guards descending with long, even strokes of their arms and legs, twisting around the trunks and hopping to the ground in silence. They were smooth creatures: dark skin, satin hair, eyes like jewels in firelight; they were ethereal—airy—long and deft and slender as swords. Fran addressed them in Vieran, and Balthier realized for the first time—fool that he was—that she had spoken it to him always at half pace. The syllables blurred as she spoke it with other natives—it sounded like a long breath; a sigh.

"What are they saying?" Basch asked Balthier.

"I don't know," he replied. "They're going too fast. Something about us. They don't like us—I got that much."

"Perfect," Penelo groaned.

"Alright," he went on. "They're getting someone. I think we're good."

"You think?" asked Ashe.

"You want to go ask them?" he shot back.

She rolled her eyes. She was cute when she did that—a child, almost.

Fran turned to the group and beckoned them forward with a nod, but as they approached the guards left, heading farther into the village, disappearing. Balthier had no doubt that several others watched unseen.

"They go to find Joté," Fran explained. "She can clear the path for us."

"You can't go in, either?" Penelo asked.

"I have no reason to," she answered.

Three younglings, all female, scampered down a path some distance away, the smallest stopping briefly to glance at the humans, perking her ears and crinkling her nose before one of the others dragged her out of sight. They did not wear much—any of them, the ornate armor of the guards modest only insofar as it was practical—and what they did wear was thin and flowing. The girls had rings of flowers around their ears.

"It's beautiful," Ashe observed.

Fran blinked in reply, staring silently into the distance.

When the guards returned—long legs stretching through the grasses, sheathed swords swaying with their steps—a third Viera strode between them, taller, ageless, and unarmed. Her hair flowed white behind her, panels of sheer fabric billowing about her legs, folded over a silver chain at her hips. Another stream of this silk crossed over her chest from around her neck and hung in a loose knot at her back, fluttering on a nearly imperceptible breeze, and a frail crown of silver twisted through her hair and across her brow.

She glared at Fran. "You must leave at once. It is not allowed for humans to walk on these grounds."

"They mean the Wood no harm," Fran defended, mirroring her use of Vieran. "I can keep them in line."

"The rules are not made without reason."

"You've told me this."

"Must you hear it again?"

The humans all shifted. None looked to Balthier for a translation, and he doubted they needed one. The guards kept their distance, eyes steady, fingers lax at their sides, ready in an instant to draw their weapons—each bore a sword on one side and a knife on the other, bows strung over their shoulders and arrows at their backs.

A flick in the greenery caught Balthier's attention: the three younglings who had spotted the humans earlier hid in the brush, the littlest one's ears peeking over the foliage before another pressed them down. A rustle amongst some ferns, a shimmer of light in the leaves above, and once in a while a flicking ear, visible but briefly in the distance—the Viera hid themselves well, but their curiosity got the better of them. It occurred to him that Fran had been aware of this—perhaps throughout their entire journey through the jungle.

"We seek passage to the mountain," she continued, still in Vieran.

"Use your unholy airships," Joté sneered, folding her delicate arms.

"We would if we could," said Fran. "Joté, you know I would not come here if it was not important."

"It must be very important indeed, for you to bring your war-hungry humans along."

She shook her head, tall ears swaying. "They are not like the others—they seek peace."

"Peace?" Joté scoffed.

"They are leaders of human countries. A meeting is to be held before the Gran Kiltias to settle their arguments…"

"Why should I believe such things?"

Penelo leaned over to Balthier. "Where are all the men?" she whispered.

"They don't need them," he answered quietly.

"Then how do they—Ow!"

Balthier elbowed her in the ribs.

Joté took notice, flashing them a stark glare, and somehow the two guards had bows in their hands, knocking arrows into the strings before Penelo even stilled. No longer quite the pure and reserved creatures of the forest, it seemed. But they eased without prompt, claws flexed in the loam, and lowered their weapons without a word. Joté returned her gaze to Fran.

"The Wood tells us about these humans. Can you not hear Her?"

Fran turned her eyes downward, and Joté continued:

"Your ears are dull from listening their harsh speech. Viera who have abandoned the Wood are Viera no longer."

Balthier folded his arms. "So you abandon them in turn?"

Joté raised an eyebrow. It was a difficult thing, perceiving when exactly Fran wanted his assistance—or intercession—but he had yet to misjudge it, and she did not appear to begrudge him this instance. He had spoken in Dalmascan—Fran had told him once that they had all the years of their long lives to learn human tongues and speak them on the mountain—and Joté, after a moment's consideration, answered him in the same language:

"We must live always with the Wood. So is the Green Word, and so is our law."

"The humans do not intend to break your laws," Fran insisted, speaking also in Dalmascan. "Why should we forsake them? Why not live together?"

"So you asked me fifty years ago," Joté replied. "The Wood has told us what these humans mean to you; what will you do when they are gone? You know you will out-live them. The Wood is eternal and unchanging—She shelters us from such heartache."

"It will be worth the time I have spent with them—the lessons I have learned from them."

"Nothing can be learned from lesser beings."

"Fran!"

Joté turned at the shout, white drapes billowing behind her, and the others scanned the thick wood for its origin. A younger Viera—no older than Penelo—appeared from the trunks and ferns as though they had groaned apart and borne her forth. She bounded toward Fran—no thought of the gates—and leaped into her arms.

"Mjrn!" Fran exclaimed—and laughed as she said it.