LI.

Balthier—always the pirate. Basch shared in Ashelia's contempt when he told them he had sent Larsa off to his brother, but Basch at least managed to keep quiet about it. Not the best way to go about the situation, perhaps, but it was the best thing to do, for Larsa and for all of them. Half the fleet had already withdrawn, and Penelo had been allowed a proper farewell—she out of all of them needed it most. And Gabranth—

His brother's visits during Basch's imprisonment had provided a grudging comfort, if only because he so missed hearing Landisian spoken to him, but he had learned well enough—however hard Gabranth tried to hide it—that the Judge loved Larsa, and Basch had no doubt that he would watch over the boy, and would watch Vayne just as closely.

All the same, the trek back to the summit was a somber one. Ashe was not speaking to Balthier—surely, she knew Larsa was better off, that he would have to go some time, but she seemed to enjoy being angry with the pirate, and he seemed to enjoy it in return. Penelo was also withdrawn, her eyes down on her boots or else up on the fleet. And Fran was silent as the snow, but that was nothing new.

Ashe bore the weight of the new sword well—no stoop to her shoulders, no lag to her hips, not even a hitch of extra force in her step. It occurred to him—finally—that the hardiness she had adopted in the two years since he last saw her seemed so natural because it had been there all along, simmering beneath the surface, a strength she had always harbored, but never in her privileged upbringing had any cause to use. She looked different, but so too did she seem exactly the same.

Penelo was a different story. He was glad the snow had hindered her—resigned her to following always behind him, walking in his steps, which he had consciously spaced closer together for her ease. In the jungle, and on the beach, and everywhere else before that, she had kept some distance from him, ahead or off to the side, always visible, always the illusion just at the edge of his sight, and the Mist in the temple had taken full advantage of it. She looked so much like her—even her mannerisms, her gestures and her gait sparked the memory of his wife: romping, bouncing, everything an excitement, a hidden joy. In the temple, he had even thought he heard her voice, and when he turned to see her, the visage swirled in the Mist, and a silvery sheen revealed only Penelo, distracted by something, paying him no mind.

It made him ache.

However, she ran up beside him as they rounded a turn in the stony path, sucking in a gasp. Black pillars of smoke rose from the settlement, streaking across the overcast sky and blowing into the distance on the wind, away from the fleet.

"My gods…" Ashe breathed.

Snow-covered trees hindered their view, but Basch didn't hesitate. "We should go around."

"They're pacifists," she snapped, heel skidding in the snow as she turned to face him, kicking up powder.

"And it's too late to offer any help," he countered. "This is political suicide. Let Vayne reap the consequences."

Ashe pressed her lips together and huffed out a breath through her nose, then picked up her pace, Penelo jogging at her side.

"Princess!" Basch called after her.

Balthier was smirking. "Good old Dalmascan fire."

And he took off after them, Fran silent at his side. Basch followed.

Much of the village still stood when they reached it, but it had been cleared of residents, save for the dead ones left behind in the hasty exodus. A few tents still burned, and several trunks had been tossed into the snow, their contents—mostly woven blankets and wooden dishes—scattered in meager travesty, a light snow gathering on their surfaces, yet melting into the still-warm bodies intermingled with them. Avoiding the sights of a small gathering of soldiers who busied themselves boarding an Atomos to return to the fleet, Ashelia and her retinue made for the great cathedral outside of the settlement.

The cathedral doors stood wide open—splintered, barely hanging from their ornate hinges—and the inner doors of the foyer fared no better. Several of the pews in the great hall had been shattered, their polished pieces glinting in the light of the iron chandeliers that hung unscathed overhead, but the chamber seemed a shade too dark, despite the gray light of day that shone through the ravaged windows. Hundreds of candles had once lit this room—lined on tables at the front and back and flanks—but they had been toppled, many tapestries singed in their wake, though the soldiers had at least been wise enough to extinguish the flames before they could spread. Ornately carved wooden columns held up the roof—had those given out, the whole structure might have toppled.

Ashe drew to a halt at the back of the room, Basch tight at her side. Down the aisle, before the cracked altar, surrounded by shattered glass and torn tapestries, stood a Judge, his back to them and his sword drawn. Archadian soldiers hovered near the room's perimeter—only four of them, it seemed—focused intently on destroying the last treasures of the temple and unaware of the group's presence.

Basch gripped Ashelia's wrist, but she shook him off, gave him a glare. Balthier stepped close to her other side and glowered at her as sharply as she had at Basch.

"Princess," he whispered.

Too late. The Judge glanced over his shoulder with a small screech of steel, helm facing Ashelia.

"Ah, our vagrant princess." He turned fully now, his armor creaking as his feet rose and clanking as they fell, and there behind him the crumpled, bleeding body of the Gran Kiltias came into view—still and ashen, devoid of life. "Too late and to their sorrow do those who misplace their trust in gods learn their fate," the Judge continued, apparently unschooled in the Dalmascan language and—Basch suspected—unwilling to speak it anyway. "It's a shame such fools go down in history as martyrs."

"You bastard," Ashe sneered, mirroring his use of Archadian. The four soldiers at the chamber's flanks advanced slowly. "This is neutral territory!"

"This war can only be won in absolute," he insisted, halting his approach a few yards before her. "Those who don't surrender to us are opposed to us. Neutrality is only a matter of semantics."

"Honestly," said Balthier, "why even bother trying to justify yourself anymore? Can't you at least have the decency to admit you're a self-serving jackass?"

"I suppose I ought to know better than to expect etiquette of a pirate," the Judge replied.

Balthier smirked. "And I ought to know better than to expect competence of a Judge."

And he laughed now, a metallic sound. "Fair, if nothing else. I'll admit you're a hard man to keep up with, though I must thank you for providing me with such ample entertainment as of late."

"I do try."

"Now, why not be civil and let Her Highness admit defeat with honor?"

Basch leaned closer to Ashe's side, and noted Penelo doing the same, but neither drew steel just yet.

"Stay away from her!" Penelo warned, her Archadian shaky. "She's trying to settle this without killing people. Why do you want to get in her way?"

"Sacrifices must be made," said the Judge. "It is better that they be deserving."

"The Gran Kiltias was deserving?" Ashe growled.

"For aiding and abetting a traitor to the Empire?" he scoffed in reply. "More deserving than most I have brought to justice."

"Do you truly have no concept of peace outside of submission?" the princess demanded. "The longer you oppress your conquered subjects, the more they will grow to hate you."

"And you're no exception, are you?" he shot back. "Your lust for revenge has led you all too swiftly to Raithwall's sword. If you know what's good for you, you'll hand it over. Vayne may take it as an offering of apology and spare your life."

"Apology?"

"For kidnapping his only heir, of course."

She glowered, faintly trembling. "We did no harm to Larsa. If anything, we rescued him."

"And just any criminal knows what's best for him?"

"I am no more a criminal than Vayne!"

The Judge's hand jerked subtly, lifting his blade upward and then outward—a quick containment of his ire that nevertheless caused both Basch and Penelo to reach for their swords, and the four Archadians surrounding them to mirror the gesture. Balthier seemed utterly disgusted.

"With your people at his mercy," the Judge growled, "you would do well to speak more highly of him."

"I will speak of him only what he has earned," Ashe snapped, "and in sending his troops to massacre a harmless village, he has lost any respect I ever may have owed him."

The Arcadian soldiers that encroached on them finally closed the gap at the splintered doors and grew still, their prey surrounded, but their orders not yet given.

The Judge stepped forward. "You underestimate the severity of your crime. The treaty your father signed in Nalbina sold you to Vayne in marriage—perhaps if you were his family, you would treat Lord Larsa as the nobility he is, and not use him for your own selfish gain."

"My father would do no such thing to me, and neither would I to Larsa!"

He released a biting laugh, then proceeded forward as he spoke, clipping the consonants in true highborn Archadian fashion. "Hereditary treachery plagues your line—it is unfit to rule a household, let alone a country. Your people will rejoice more in your death than in your ascension."

Balthier drew his sword with such swiftness that Basch didn't even noticed his hand dart to the hilt. "Back off, Bergan," he warned. "I'm the one you want."

The Judge tilted his head. "Arrogant as ever, I see. How lucky, that I shall kill two birds with one stone."

"Cid will have your head, if I don't first."

"You always did have to learn the hard way."

The two quickly met blades, Bergan striking first and Balthier easily matching his speed, and the four soldiers that surrounded the others descended upon them. One fell immediately, impaled by his hapless charge, the victim of ill luck and Basch's extensive skill, but the others fared better, forcing their opponents into a vulnerable cluster. Basch had faced this in battle many times—no room for footwork, no range of motion—but he knew how break it, and apparently so did Fran.

She lashed out at the nearest soldier and engaged him in a match of dodging and parrying that gave her comrades a moment in which to catch the other two off-guard. One soldier lunged at the group, meeting Ashe's blade. Basch and Penelo charged the third soldier, finding him skilled enough to ward both of them off for several blows, but Basch hacked into his shoulder all too easily, nearly decapitating him before he hit the ground.

Balthier and Bergan sparred with brutal force, throwing one another against the remaining pews and scattered piles of debris. Both had excellent form—such an Archadian thing, Basch lamented, to look proper while killing each other—and Basch thought for a moment that if the pirate didn't get himself killed in the next few minutes, he should ask after his battle experience; he was quite good.

However, Ashe was still fighting off the last soldier—Fran had dispatched her foe with the same fluid silence that carried all of her actions. Just as Basch and Penelo turned to aid the princess, Fran hooked a long leg through the soldier's elbow, disabling his sword arm and pulling it far enough to lay bare his throat. Her sword was swift.

"I had it," Ashe told her.

"I don't doubt it," Fran replied. "But I believe we're supposed to be protecting you."

Ashe looked away, eyes trained on Balthier and Bergan as they disappeared into the rear chamber of the cathedral, swords still swinging. "With all due respect," she replied, "you'll have to catch me first." And she dashed forward, a hop over the fallen soldier and then a gallop down the aisle.

"Wait up!" Penelo shouted, barreling after her.

Basch heaved a sigh, and Fran met his eyes.

"Is this common among human royals?"

He blinked. Ashe. Larsa. Rasler. "It seems so," he told her.

And he thought she released just the faintest sigh before taking up a jog after the others. He followed.