CHAPTER X
WINDS OF REBELLION
The morning cock crowed as they came again to Truce, while the sun burned red in the Eastern sky. Wearily tramping across the deserted squares and streets they came swiftly to the house. With worry and much caring the peasants took them in again, most especially Marle. For the people of the land had always taken a special liking to their Princess.
"Before the Fall," Crono explained to Serge as the peasants laid Marle to rest on a bed, "She would always visit in amongst her people. She was as gracious a princess as has ever been, always acting on behalf of them before her father."
He sat down with a weary sigh on the floor, resting his back to a wall.
"Marle isn't even her true name, for that matter. Her birth name is Princess Nadia Blancheflor; but she shunned it, casting it aside when amongst her people. She wished for no more than to be as one of them, to be nothing but a common girl with a simple life. What fate has in store for us!"
He laughed, looking over at her.
"Yes, she wished to be a common girl and, in the end, become greater than any princess ever was."
"Isn't that what happened to us all?" Serge replied. "To all us that people call heroes?"
"Maybe," Crono said. "Some days I wonder what other life awaited me had I never set out on my journeys. Would I be happier?"
He shook his head with a thought on his lips.
"No, this is what I was born for and what I have lived for. My heart would not be at rest had I led the life I began."
"Well, that's where you and I are different, I guess," Serge said, dropping to the floor as well. His legs ached fiercely, and he hoped that he would not have to do such a run many more times in the near future.
"I," he continued, "I still don't care much for what I was destined to do."
Crono looked at him with some disbelief.
"You don't feel pride over what you did? You destroyed the shadow of Lavos! That was a greater thing than near any other has ever done!"
"A little, maybe," Serge admitted. "But what do I need heroics for? I value peace."
"Peace? A fair dream, my friend. A naive dream, and nothing but a dream, unless some are willing to fight and sacrifice themselves to attain it for others. This is what we heroes are. The ones who throw ourselves into battle and war, willingly shatter our own lives so that others may rest with unworried hearts."
"We are the cursed ones, then," Serge said. "If I had my choice, just give me my village, my fishing boat, and someone to care for forever. Not that I don't like the thrill of adventure, but I know where my heart really lies. And it's in peace."
"Strange," Crono answered with a smile. "You were offered all of that. Schala, she told you as much that night when we all first met. You were given that very choice, and you chose to follow me instead. You gave up what you wished, and rather aided me. Only now do I see how great a thing that was."
He paused for a moment, looking to where Marle was resting, safe from harm.
"You have my eternal thanks."
"Crono?" Marle called weakly. He was at her side quickly, holding her hand tenderly.
She smiled at him.
"As I said, I've never doubted what you promised me. But now you have to tell me what is happening, as you promised."
"Peace, Marle!" Crono said warmly, kneeling at her side "There will be time enough for strife and worry in the days ahead. Sleep and take comfort knowing that nothing but death will ever keep us apart."
She smiled, and closed her eyes.
Serge marvelled at the resilience shown in Marle, knowing now that this woman was a true princess, and not simply a high born lady. A nobility of age was in her, and yet the valour of a warrior maiden seemed to be hers also. Akin almost to Schala, he thought.
No, Schala was more sombre. A sign of her eternal years, perhaps. Marle still kept her youthful spirt, a thing that was rarely shown in Schala, despite her young appearance.
Ah, Schala.
In thinking of her Serge wondered how her own quest was proceeding in the East. He remembered now how Crono had warned her it would be no easy mission. Porre would not take kindly to having an army stirred up against them. And he did not trust Janus either, and neither, it seemed, did Crono. The wizard was a powerful man without question, but was wont to be ill tempered and heedless of any wisdom, either of his own or that of others.
"When should Janus and Schala be back?" he asked of Crono as his friend stood from Marle's side. The princess was now asleep, a restful peace passing into her face.
"Four, five days, maybe," Crono answered absently, not withdrawing his gaze from his wife. He had not seen her in two months and was not willing to leave her side after such an absence.
He looked up at Serge, sighing.
"If all goes well, and if they do not meet any resistance. I dare say that Porre will hardly allow them to have their way. But I should think that they will return here before long."
He raised his eyebrows, understanding the purpose in the question.
"You worry for them? Do not. We will be in far greater danger ourselves in the coming days. And Schala and her brother are stronger than you and I will ever be. It is the gift of the children of Zeal: to be mightier than all others. But there are times when all the might in the world cannot avail one, when other skills but power must rule to guard against ruin. I have been told many times that my greatest gift is neither in my swordcraft nor sorcery, but in my fortune. If I told you but half my stories, you would agree that by reason I should be long dead. Marle and me both. But it seems that fate has some other end in store to us. I wonder...will I know it before it comes upon us?"
Crono shook away the thought with a light laugh.
"Such musings are not for today. War is very near now."
"What are we going to do, then?" Serge asked, realizing that he had little idea as to what stratagems Crono had thought up. He had known nothing beyond the plan to rescue Marle.
"Janus and Schala are stirring up the people in the East," he replied. "War will come soon enough. But there are things that we must do, for our part."
"And what is that?" Serge asked, looking down at the Masamune which lay on the ground. Dry blood still stained its gleaming edges, a thing which Serge had forgotten in his haste. He found himself hoping now that there would be few more of such deeds in the coming days.
"Our armies will fight evenly matched, I think. Porre has some five thousands here, stationed as a foreign guard. Of them only one thousand are true born people of Porre. The rest are but mercenaries: rogues of Guardia, men with no land, and even Mystics they have taken into their service. But this means that they have some number of powerful magicians in amidst their companies. For our part we have only the same in number, and we will be hungry. But my people know their land well, and will fight with a zeal that no hired soldier could hope to match. And so we will go to war with no surety of victory, only a wavering hope. But there are ways we can better that."
"We must wait out these few days. I will not make my move until Marle is well enough to accompany us. But when she is, we will strike out again for the castle."
"Again?" Serge cried, taken by surprise at this. "Don't you think that we've tempted fate there already?"
"Yes, maybe," Crono replied. "But maybe not. Time will tell, and my fortune has always been good in such things."
"And you want to do this why?" Serge asked.
"To prepare for this war, their captains will be in counsel there. If we could slay their general, it would be a harsh blow. To have the command of the war fall to another so suddenly would be to our great advantage."
"You mean you'll assassinate him," Serge answered, not caring much for how lightly Crono had suggested this. "I think that would be dishonourable."
Crono shrugged.
"True enough, it may be. But to do it will fall upon me and Marle, then, and I will suffer whatever judgement fate deals to me. Yet it must be done."
"Serge, you do not need to wait about here. You are not known to Porre, and I think can go into the town without danger of recognition. Go for a stroll, to the tavern or elsewhere. You have had a hard enough time, I think."
Serge took Crono's advice shortly. The day was bright and new, and a gold sun was crowning the eastern clouds as he stepped from the house. A chill morning breeze whispered from the far fields, hinting of a windy day to come. Serge pulled his cloak tightly about him; the climate was far harsher than his own, though it did carry a somewhat bitter beauty of its own.
But putting aside such thoughts, worries and joys both, aside, he quickly found the village tavern. As he entered he found that he was hardly alone in seeking it out, even at such an early hour. Some dozen other people sat about the tables, some alone, some speaking with each other in such noisome tones that it seemed they were uncaring of anything else around them. The tavern itself was dim and old. The wood rafters were stained with countless years of smoke, and the floor adorned with the various shades befitting perhaps centuries of careless visitors.
"Welcome, young one!" the man at the bar called. "Not too often we see new people around here!"
Serge nodded somewhat, but remained quiet as he paced slowly to the bar. This tavern was not the sort that he often went to, and he did not like it much. But it was something, at the least. A place to free his mind of all the things that were pressing upon him now.
"Ah, stranger," the barkeep said with a great smile. "This is your first visit to our fair land, no doubt?"
Serge nodded sullenly. For all accounts, he realized, he should be elated. He had only just returned from a daring mission without so much as a scratch to show. But something kept the joy from his mind, and turned his mood dark. It was not simply the shaking fear subsiding; that he had felt before and had long ago grown used to. No, it was the manner in which they had succeeded. He had killed men, and he felt sick about it.
"You're a traveller, then?" the barkeep said, breaking sharply into Serge's thoughts. "Perhaps there is someone here who you'll like speak'n to; if nothin' else he'll want a word or two with you, I wager. Hey! Toma! This here boy's a fellow traveller, and seeming somewhat new to Guardia."
Serge glanced sharply to where the barkeep had called. Alone at a small table sat a grizzled man with sharp eyes. At the call he looked up, shifting his gaze from the man at the bar to Serge.
On seeing Serge he narrowed his eyes and took up a searching look. At last he nodded, placing his tankard heavily to the table.
"Welcome to Guardia, then, you wanderer," he said, casting his hands out. Though not unfriendly, his voice was harsh, and Serge thought that the welcome had been said with a keenly cynical edge.
"Come, sit. Let us talk of lands and people removed from this one," he continued, kicking a chair away from the table. Though his manner was rough, Serge could tell that it was not by nature but by choice, and that if this man had been in a royal court he could have been comfortable there even as he was here. A far wandering man who had seen much, and knew the ways of many peoples.
Serge took up the offer and seated himself opposite the man, though he begrudged himself for this as he did it; he found that his sullen mood was not for conversing, and he hoped that this man would not try to keep him long.
"So, you are a wanderer, as I am?" he asked, taking a draught from his tankard, draining it nearly to the dregs.
Serge nodded.
"From El Nido, to the West of here."
"I know of the region well enough, though I have yet to see it with my own eyes. And I can see that you come from there by your darkish skin. What brings you to this most wretched kingdom, Westman?"
"Nothing I can talk about," Serge replied shortly. The man saw his ill disposition and rapped his fingers upon the table with a bitter look on his face.
"Very well, then," he said, sitting back in his chair. "I suppose that leaves the part of speaking up to me. My reasons and name are no secret, and I am fairly well known, both in this land and in others."
He leaned forward on the table again, half bowing his head.
"I am Thomas the Adventurer," he said, "but am known far and wide as Toma; my family is well known in this line. My father, and his father before him, back twenty generations, have been afflicted with this wanderlust. So I see and hear much of the world: north, south, east, and west. You are from El Nido; as I have said I can see that well enough. And as for your reasons in coming to Guardia, the forsaken kingdom...?"
Serge did not reply, allowing a dark stare to rest on the man. He hoped that the question would end there, and that he would not be compelled to lie. But this man Toma was not daunted as Serge had hoped. Rather he laughed.
"As I said, I hear much, and I am no fool to the changing wind," he lowered his voice to a near whisper. "It speaks of rebellion. Guardia stirs from its fifteen year slumber, and Porre is uneasy. You would not perchance have any part in these things, would you?"
Again, Serge did not reply. And again, the man Toma laughed.
"I think you do, if by nothing else than your silence. But do not worry, I will not betray you to your enemies. See, I too am of allegiance to this land of Guardia. My eyes and ears are in the service of its exiled king."
Serge looked at the man with caution. He was somewhat grim, and of like age to Crono. For all Serge could tell he seemed to be very much of Guardia, his skin of a somewhat paler shade like all that northern people, and his stern and truthful tone did not seem to hint at any treachery. Still Serge was wary.
"Well, I would say that the wind says a lot of things. Be careful that you don't hear wrong," he answered, priding himself on the ambiguity he had shown.
Toma smiled, raising his tankard and taking the last draught of ale.
"Well said, well said. You speak so cautiously, I cannot help but think that I strike near with my words. But I merely read the signs, as I have said. The princess is freed this very morning. Porre has threatened to burn the villages. And in the east, two stately strangers journey from town to town, proclaiming that the salvation of Guardia is at hand."
Serge, against his will, started somewhat. And Toma noticed.
"You know of this, then? Then tell me, is it true what I have heard: that one is none other than the great Sorcerer of old, Magus the Lord of Mystics, the age old enemy of Guardia?"
Serge knew he should not reply, but his eyes betrayed his alarm. He could not know if this man was simply a keen minded traveller or a spy in the service of Porre, for he seemed to know more than any man should about these things. But Toma's eager words faltered off when he saw that Serge was determined to remain resolutely quiet. He sat backwards in his chair looking, now in his turn now, warily at Serge. Finally he nodded.
"May the star of Guardia shine forever, I say to you. I should hope you know what this means. If not, it will be I that have betrayed my trust."
Serge felt some relief sweep through him. That, as he remembered from the night before, was the bond-word of the resistance.
"Yes," he answered. "That's the secret sign of your resistance. I heard it last night."
When Toma heard that Serge too knew what it meant, he seemed to be at ease once again.
"As I thought then. Though it is wise not to speak overmuch of these matters in such a place," he said with a nod at their surroundings. "But I trust we can now at least speak as allies. I must admit I find it a wonder that you, a man of El Nido, would be here in Guardia to fight for its freedom. Lord Crono has many strange friends, or so I have heard, but I did not think he had travelled so far to the West."
"I've only been here for a week or so. I came East with the Crono and two others."
"Two others?" Toma asked curiously. "Tell me, is it these two in the East?"
Serge nodded.
"Prince Janus and Princess Schala. But I wouldn't expect you know who they are."
"Janus?" Toma exclaimed. "That name at least I know. If my memory serves me rightly, and I think it does, that is the birth name of the Sorcerer, is it not?"
"I would guess so. But I'm sure that you know more about Guardia and history than I do."
"Ah! It is then as I have heard. The great Sorcerer," Toma said with a shake of his head. "On side with Guardia. I have heard it said that he had long ago fought aside the King to battle an ancient evil, but I had scare believed it as more than legend. And this other you speak of, this Schala. Who might she be? Royalty, no doubt, as you have named her a princess. Some great enchantress, maybe?"
"She's the last princess of Zeal, and Janus' sister," Serge replied shortly, feeling altogether spent and not wanting to spend to long in conversation.
"The princess of Zeal? Wonders abound in these days. We are fortunate to see them come upon us."
He paused, seeing that with every moment Serge wanted to speak the less of these things.
"But enough of this, then," he said. "I see you have lately come through great duress. Here, I will tell you of things that I have seen. You know the west well enough, I dare say. And some of Guardia, maybe. But there are countless other lands, and it is my ambition to see every one before I die. So far I have seen but the east, yet even this is a tale that would take a chronicler a decade to tell. Rome is gone for near to a millennia, but others kingdoms have risen in its stead. There there are temples and palaces which tower high into the air and are built of white limestone. There are pillars and monuments, skilfully carved and edged with beaten gold. I have seen tombs of lapis lazuli, halls of marble, and thrones of ivory. It seems that men are ever trying to recall the splendour of ancient Zeal." He smiled. "Now there is a thing I would be keen to see."
"You know your king's story, don't you?"
"Oh, certainly! I have spent the last twenty years lamenting that I cannot do the same: see the ages of this world unfold in their marvellous majesty. Then, perhaps, I would understand things as they are."
"But maybe you wouldn't like what you see. I've seen a thing or two also, even though you might not think so, and if I learned one thing it's not to think that things are as great as they seem. History might seem all wonderful, but there's a lot of darkness there that not many people ever write about, and would be less than wonderful to live through."
Toma smiled at this, nodding his head in agreement.
"A grim outlook. Still, wisely said for one so young. You must have seen much in your travels, wherever they were. True enough, my friend; evil oft hides itself behind splendour. And even now, this is often so. In the east there are shadows. There are kings that are nearly as powerful as Porre, and have hearts dark for conquest. I have travelled through these kingdoms myself, have stood in their royal courts, and seen these lords with my own eyes, men eager for power. After witnessing such things, I do not put much faith in any might now. Porre seems strong to those under its heel, but there is much power in the east as well. When there I saw the champion of a great king do remarkable feats. There, now, is a tale worth listening to:
I was in the halls of this certain king, the Lord Ter-Nimureth as he was called, who held sway over a vast empire that stretched from the eastern deserts to the verges of the sea. I, for my part, was there learning the ways of the Eastern people. Then one day a man came into the hall, claiming to be a great sorcerer and warrior. From his side hung a mighty sword, bejewelled and laced with gold thread. He would not name himself, but said that he came from a rival king, and that he sought single combat with the champion of the royal court. Then there was a great hush, for this man seemed very grim and deadly. His robes were unblemished white, and silver lined; his hair shimmered raven black. I never saw his eyes, but I do not think I could have met them. But the king only laughed, and accepted the challenge as if it were but a light matter. Then a ring was made in the hall before the feet of the throne. The strange warrior stepped into it, unafraid. Then the king summoned his own champion.
I must say, if the presence of the white warrior had been one of awe, to stand before the champion was to stand before the face of Terror itself. He was black clad, and with armour as dark and gleaming as jet. He bore a great shield, and an incomparable sword to match. His face was hidden behind the dark visor, and I found myself praying that it would not be displayed, for I did not think that the face could be any but that of a monster.
That battle was short. The white warrior put all his strength forward, but in three strokes his golden sword had shattered to pieces and lay like broken glass of gold on the ground. Without a weapon, he put forth a spell: fire, lightning, and light as bright as the sun. But it was to no avail. The champion laughed at this display, and the sorcery seemed to skip harmlessly past. He strode forward untouched and struck off his opponent's head with one merciless stroke. In token of his victory he took the hilt of the ruined sword, and left the court without a single word.
I remained in the hall some time after, listening to the talk of the courtiers and, unless my wits failed me, even the king feared this fell warrior of his, a knight seeming more like a demon than a man. It seemed he had come to the court some years before out of the desert, where he had been found poor and sickly by shepherds. The king had sheltered the man, who in turn had shown great skill with a sword become a knight of his court. But soon thereafter it was discovered that he was no mere peasant turned soldier. It was widely rumoured that he was some mighty sorcerer prince, or even king, who had ruled a vast realm, but had been defeated in a great battle long before. Men whispered that had come to this land so that he might rebuild his might, and then return to reclaim his throne. Where it was, I could not learn, for he had never spoken of it to anyone. But I heard him tell the king:
'Soon I must return to the west, for my business lies there.'
Which is why I think that his throne is in some westward land, though I have not heard of any such dark king in all of history, and I know it from King Gilgamesh of Uruk to the fall of imperial Rome."
Toma smiled as his last mysterious words trailed off. Despite his disinterest in the man but minutes before, Serge had been listening intently, intrigued with this tale from a distant land. No doubt what Toma had intended when he began it, and he did not seem to be bothered that he was the only one speaking.
"Who was this knight, we may never know. But I see you take interest in my tale, young man. It is true; I swear on my honour as a child of Guardia. And I have many such stories. Some day I will write an account of them, though I fear that most will think them but fantasy. Those travellers who tell tales of dragons and such things are thought to be mad, and for their pains often find prison rather than an eager crowd as a reward. Though I wager even prison would not keep me from speaking of what I know."
He looked about, glancing out the window.
"It is nearing midday. I must be leaving: a ship awaits me in the Western havens to bear me away to El Nido, and I must board it in three days time."
Toma stood and nodded at Serge.
"Keep a keen mind, and be ever ready to grasp your sword, my friend. Shadows are everywhere, and those who seek to counter them are few indeed. As for me, I continue now on my wandering. Soon I will set out West to the lands where the sun sets, and will come even to your homeland before long. But that is tomorrow, and this is today. Farewell. Give my Lord Crono my best wishes and fortune, from the adventurer Toma, ever his loyal subject."
With a slow gait he stepped out the door of the tavern and into the sunlight.
Serge could only wonder to himself after this. Though he felt somewhat pleased to be alone again, his thoughts gave him none of the comfort he had thought they should have. Rather, his many worries and wonderings returned to him the moment he turned his thoughts inward; a thing not unknown to him, and not unlike that which had afflicted him before, while he was bound to the torment of his dreams. Had he merely left one frustration to find another? It had not always been so with him, and he wondered if it was not Schala's seal that still shadowed his heart. Courage, will, fortitude...they all seemed diminished, and he could not easily shake his doubts. And what then, in the midst of all of this, had he thrown himself into? He cursed himself for his choice now. Had he remained at home, as indeed had been his chance, he could have been free of all of this uncertainty.
And so Serge did not feel inclined to visit the tavern much more. Because of Toma's words warning of war his thoughts hung heavy, and he did not wish to hear about dark premonitions. He instead took to wandering the fields that lay about the village, finding solace in the solitude and beauty of the wild. On occasion he saw fellow travellers, but he did no more than greet them in passing. His days were spent from morning to night listening to the wind and musing on his own mission.
It was better, certainly, than in the town, and his mind was not so quick to bury itself in doubt. But even so he thought more than once of returning home. He assured himself that his coming had not been in vain, and that he had provided some small help. He had accompanied Crono into the castle, and had saved Marle with his timely stroke. But whenever he thought of that the remembrance of the blood on his sword came returned to mind. It was a strange thing that it haunted him so. It hadn't been an evil thing, and he hadn't done it out of spite or in cold blood. But even so the thought of having ended two other human lives didn't sit lightly in his mind.
But he had learned something at least from his many months with his dreams, and he for the most part chose not to think too much on it. It was past, and he could only hope that he would not be called on for such a thing again. That thought, among others, compelled him to go home.
Yet ever and again he would look about. He would see the peaceful woods, filled with tranquil streams, and fields of tall grass swaying as a sea in the breezes, such a form of nature he had never known or imagined. And then would have those visions of rugged paradise shattered on his return to the town. He saw there a people who had a land of beauty comparable to his own, yet lived under such fear and oppression that they could give little thought to things of joy. Rather, they were ever fearing that the following winter might be without food, or that the armies of Porre would destroy them; they remained as an ever present threat in the citadel only a little ways away through the forests. It was for this people that Crono fought. It was for them that the princess Marle had nearly died. A kingdom hoping for heroes as they had once had, yearning for salvation from their conquerors. And the more that Serge saw them, the greater his desire to help them became. Was not the Masamune, the mightiest sword ever forged by mortal hands, his to command? Was it not his duty, then, to use its power when need came?
For five days Serge wandered and thought, returning to the house only to assure Crono that he had not abandoned him. All the while Crono cared for his wife, who speedily recovered from her wounds. Though sickness still hovered over her, and a slight fever lingered, she was well enough to stand within half a week. By the end of the fifth day no trace of her injuries, other than the lightest of scars, remained to bear remembrance of her captivity. When Serge returned that night with the setting sun he found her standing in the middle of the house, holding earnest debate with Crono.
"Tomorrow," she said as Serge entered. "We have no more time. Janus, he will be back then."
"Maybe," Crono said. "There is only a chance, however."
"They have been gone long enough, and Janus does not do things cautiously. Or have you forgotten?"
Crono shook his head.
"He is certainly zealous, I am not contending that."
"Yes," Marle replied. "I haven't seen him in fifteen years, and I don't want to greet that friend without something to show for it. He would respect it more if we returned successful."
She turned to Serge, looking him over curiously.
"Now here is one I have not seen much of. Crono says you've been out wandering the wold these past five days. Truce not to your liking?"
Serge smiled somewhat at her swift speech.
"Not really. I've never been much for crowds and cities."
"Ah, well then I would warn you never go to Porre," she answered. "Come to think of it, I'd warn myself about that as well, what with me being an enemy princess and all. But now then, we must make time for our introductions."
She bowed a little, but cast her head up with a laugh immediately.
"No, I don't have much care for the formal court greetings. And you know who I am already; Crono's certainly told you enough about me. Once princess, adventurer, archer," she paused with a look at Crono, "have I forgotten anything?"
"Hero?" Crono suggested.
"Ah, yes. I'm always forgetting that one. Well, that's about all there is to me, I think. And you? Crono's not really told me anything. It seems that he thinks a mysterious sort of introduction is better. So?"
"Well," Serge said. "I don't know exactly what to say about myself."
Crono shrugged.
"He is too modest to give account of his own deeds. It is telling that the sword he carries is the Masamune."
Marle's expression turned to one of wonder.
"The Masamune? That's a high calling, my friend. You must have a lot to live up to, being its master; Sir Glenn once wielded it, and he was the greatest of all swordsmen I ever saw, save only my husband. Where is it?" she asked curiously, glancing about the room. Her eyes alighted slowly on its shimmering blades in the corner.
"That is it, isn't it?" she asked. "Not much like I remember, though. Well, enough about weapons. What else do you have to say for yourself, Serge? I know Crono would hardly have brought you along without good reason."
Serge ran his hand through his hair.
"I fought Lavos, like I heard you did once. But most everything else I did was only important to my home islands in the west, so they're really not worth mentioning."
"Fought Lavos?" Marle asked with a dark curiosity. "When? He has been dead a long time. Or did you travel through time too? Crono," she said with a sigh, "I appreciate your concern, but I would have liked to hear these things earlier. So, what of it, then?"
"He lived, Marle," Crono answered bitterly. "He was a foe greater than we had reckoned with."
"Accursed hell and hades," Marle muttered. "After all we went through, after all we suffered and lost, he didn't die at all? But the future. We saved it, that was for certain; we saw it ourselves."
Crono nodded.
"So it seemed. But we had only delayed its destruction for a time. In the end the future had refused to change, for we but sent the dark future to the Tesseract."
"So we did," she said with a smile, "our finest hour."
But Crono shook his head.
"But Lavos found the means and power to return, even from there, it seems. The future apocalypse was condemned, not destroyed, and very nearly had its vengeance. This dark shadow that lingered in the Tesseract is that which Serge destroyed. He finished what we began so long ago."
"Well, then," Marle said. "I guess we can hope to finally forget about Lavos, that means. You've done us all, and by all I mean all the world, a service, Serge," and she added: "A brave service; I would not have wanted to face that demon again, I assure you," she finished with the hint of a shudder.
She looked at the two of them.
"Now, how many of us are there? We've got you two. There's me. And then Janus who's off gallivanting somewhere in the East. Only four? Though I suppose we are fortunate even for this; who in this world but we care for Guardia, after all?"
"There's Schala also," Serge said. "And that makes us five."
She sighed, with seeming supreme frustration now.
"Crono, that at least you could have told me. The princess Schala? From old Zeal? Last we saw her she was caught in the crumbling Ocean Palace; we thought her surely dead. So Janus actually found her?"
Crono nodded faintly.
"Yes, but by their account only recently, and I myself have not heard from Janus the tale of his quest. He is as silent and subject to his mood as ever. But I can tell at least that his years have been no less than our own, maybe more. He is certainly aged now, and I believe even his hair is being touched by grey at last. Though to little surprise he has declined to tell me what his years are."
Marle closed her eyes with a second sigh.
"We all age and tire; I feel myself wither with the years, and know that had I been ten years younger, I would not have been captured. But what of the Princess Schala? There is a lot you haven't told me yet, and before we begin I demand to know it all."
It was well into that evening before all the tales were told and sorted out. Or as ordered as they might be. Even Serge had difficulty understanding why or how some things had occurred, and could only say that Schala would have to answer when she returned.
They rested only lightly that night, having to sleep with the knowledge that tomorrow they would throw themselves into peril once again. Serge told himself countless times that this was in no way dissimilar to every adventure and quest he had ever embarked upon before, but it was to no avail in allaying his pensive mood. When he rose in the morning, he found himself neither rested nor calmed, and it was with weariness that he made himself ready to depart the house.
Marle, however, was ever ready and alert, despite it being only days since her rescue. Her eyes proclaimed her healed enough, and Crono yielded at last to her decision to strike out for the castle the coming evening. Serge voiced dissent a few times over the course of the day, but could not sway their path; and so it became his road as well.
Two hours after nightfall they set out, three shrinking furtively into the great woods. Crono, as always, bore his great sword sheathed at his side. Also, now, he carried a short yew bow across his shoulder, but was dressed as ever in his rough travel clothes. Marle looked scarce better than he; her robes were hardly royal and, if her eyes looked clearer, her face still bore the traces of scars that ran deeper than magic could mend. Over her shoulder was slung a strange form of weapon, or at least one unlike to any which Serge had ever seen. Its short bow lay bound fast to the far end of a shaped handle. It seemed that the string could be held taut and poised, so that the firing might be delayed without the need for much strength.
"A crossbow," Crono replied to his questioning look. "In an age of cruel empires wielding rifles, it might still be thought a useful weapon. It is more precise, and no armour of the Empire can hold against a bolt."
It was show of the strange fortunes that befell with conquest. A hundred years ago Serge's people were fishermen and hunters arrayed with simple nets and bows. Now a rifle was a common sight, and yet such an archaic weapon as a crossbow that fell in-between the two had never been seen.
But all things had begun to turn to odd ends. Serge himself no longer dressed as one of El Nido, but had adopted the Guardian raiment of clothes long and loose, dyed in drab silvan shades. This for the twofold purpose of warmth and secrecy. The days had begun to shorten, and had become very much colder even in these past few days. It had been a great surprise to Serge to awaken one morning to find the grass crowned with frost, and had discovered that his southern clothes were hardly of any aid when the dew itself froze. Thereafter he had cast aside his long worn clothing favour of the much warmer dress of a Guardian peasant. And the second purpose was one that Crono himself had insisted upon. Though he allowed Serge to still wear his loose coat of mail, which itself was less uncommon here in Guardia than in El Nido, his traditional clothes of bright blue and stark black would draw the attention of even the dullest eyes.
And so as he set out for a second time for the castle, in the company of two others rather than only one, he looked to be no different than any young man of the land, unless it was his sun darkened skin that betrayed his birthland.
"And once again, into the tombs," Crono whispered at the base of the walls. It amazed Serge constantly with what assurance his leader carried himself. Whatever doubts plagued him, if any, remained buried beyond sight or perception. Not without reason did others look to him for guidance.
Even as the last time they crept down the crevice. By the light of the Masamune they again passed through the catacombs, though they were now as silent as wraiths. No whispered words of explanation, their footfalls might have been those of death itself.
They came up the stairs, and into the cathedral. Behind the door to the tombs was shut again, to the eyes no more than a stone wall.
But Serge had no more than a moment's glance in its direction; Crono led them quickly onward, following the very same path that the two alone had trod only days before. It was a great comfort, however, to have seen the hidden door yet undisturbed; if they were found it would be the surest means of escape.
On reaching the choir. Crono paused, taking a glance at Marle.
"The walls?" he asked shortly. "Or the courtyard? You know this fortress somewhat better than I do."
"The walls," she said, "though I think they are the more dangerous of two."
And so they went on, not climbing downward, but across to where the cathedral met the battlements. It was more ardourous then before as well, for the holds by which they made their way were difficult to find. But even so they found the wall more swiftly than might be thought.
And it was well that they found it at that moment also for, even as Serge leaped onto the flat stone of the east battlements, they saw the door of a small guardhouse, that stood a dozen metres along the wall, open. Without a moment of thought, Marle sprang forward. A soldier stepped out, only to be silenced with the blade edge of the knife before he could make a sound.
"Where must we go now?" Crono asked of Marle. "Do you know of where they meet?"
She returned her blood darkened knife to its scabbard.
"I wager the throne room. That is likely where they would hold a debate in war matters."
She traced her finger through the night, pointing along the battlements and up the winding stairs that encircled the keep till she motioned to a high window.
"That is our path, and that is where we must go. You two need only to guard me; the shot will be mine to make."
They made to continue, but Crono halted Serge.
"Take this," he whispered, handing him the bow and quiver from his back. "If it comes to fighting, it would be best to keep them at bowshot."
"I can't shoot," Serge said, but his protest was silenced with a smiling nod from Crono.
"No matter. Do what you can. An arrow overhead is almost as good as an arrow through the heart. We need not kill them, only keep them from coming upon us until we make good our escape."
Taking the weapon and words with uncertainty, Serge followed the two along the walls.
Presently they came to the join between the walls and keep, where a small stair led into the keep and then up to the high levels above. This path they took, ever so quiet and watchful. When at last they came to the floor at which the window lay, they cautiously crept from the stairs and out beneath the eaves that rimmed the level above. Though high upon the wall of the keep, a hundred feet from the courtyard below, this was not so perilous a climb as the one across the cathedral had been. The edge upon which they crept ran the wall round, and was wide enough that two might have gone abreast. They came to the window soon enough; Marle, at the head, stole a fleeting glance through the window. He turned and nodded to Crono.
"It is they. The general, and his captains."
She removed a length of rope from her pack, and wound it tightly about a jutting decoration that adorned the edge of the ledge, assuring herself of its strength with a short pull. Their escape would need to be quick, and could afford no delays once the deed was done.
She returned to the window, her fingers grasping her weapon tightly.
A hunter waiting to spring upon unwary prey, was the thought that came to Serge as he saw Marle there. Her eyes were keenly intent, and discerningly swept the gathering below. Though he kept to the shadows, he knew that there must be a large company of leaders in the throne room; he could hear their voices echoing high and into the night.
"Our problem might be our armies amassing quickly enough," Serge heard from below. "My General, the Eastern Reserves will be ready at your call, but I cannot speak for my comrades here."
"Well, then?" came the reply, from a deeper and surer voice that was undoubtedly that of the aged general. "What say you, captains? Are your forces ready to crush a rebellion of starving peasants?"
A shrill laugh resounded throughout the hall.
"The good captain of the East does not give us due credit, I think," another voice replied to the others. "We are ever ready in the West, and could even fight Acacians if need compelled us to. And I believe that my words speak for the South as well."
"They do, most certainly. Not from the South will failure come," a fourth affirmed, who was certainly the commander of the southern armies.
"But what of our Guard?" the voice of the Eastern commander called out. "Our auxiliary legions are ready, it appears, but is our vaunted Imperial Guard prepared? What of the Black Wind? Or have they had their hand in shadow work so long that they have forgotten what it means to fight a war on the field?"
"Good commander, I would that you not insult my legion so lightly. Small in number though we may be, it is not without reason that we are feared more than a legion of your own troops."
And this, Serge knew at once, was Norris.
"Yes, Captain Norris, you and your damned wizards," one of the other army commanders scoffed. "If we had our say, the only sorcerers that the Empire would suffer would be those Mystic fools that we pay to fight for us. A lot of good it does you, as it is. Two years, and you fail to catch one brigand."
"A hero, I must remind you. The prince is a greater foe than you three have ever dealt with. Once only did I see him in battle. He massacred a troop of my crack men, alone. And they say he has passed through time itself."
"It would be wise not to fill your mind with fairy tales, Norris," came the reply. "If you begin believing such stories, we may have reason to doubt your sanity."
"Have you not read the histories of this country, Commander Morgawaise?" Norris said so softly that it could barely be heard. "How do you account for the defeat of the Mystics four hundred years ago? Guardia numbered twenty thousands; the Mystics, it is said, marched north more than one hundred thousand strong. But they say that when all hope was lost a stranger arose and assaulted the very fortress of the sorcerer Janibas. They say it was none other than the prince; if this is true, he is not one to be caught lightly."
"Come now!" the shrill voice of the Western commander replied. "We all know that it was only good fortune, as so often happens in war. As for the matter of this brigand, maybe the General should have let the military handle the matter rather than the Imperial Guard."
"Maybe the General knows better what he does than the good commander," Norris said with what seemed to be a calm anger. "It was not the Black Wind that allowed the princess Nadia to escape. But is not her capture to our credit?"
"You think too much of yourself, Norris," the commander said disdainfully.
"Hardly. I simply think little of you fools. I counselled against the execution of the princess, for the very reason we sit here now!" Norris cried, his voice rising loud now. "You have driven Guardia to rebellion, I fear. Only time will tell if you are fortunate, or bring down ruin on us all."
"He wouldn't have executed her. I told you, I know him. He isn't evil," Serge said to Crono, but was silenced with a dark stare.
"What he said means only that he is cunning, Serge. He did not want to kill Marle for his own ends; had he held us both, I think our deaths by his hand would have been assured. Do not mistake calculated patience for mercy. Even if you are right, such deliberations are not for today."
Marle turned about and took up her crossbow.
"Enough listening to their endless debates," she muttered. "They won't say anything that we don't know or cannot guess at. But their bickering gives us hope; there will be division among their leaders concerning who should take generalship."
Pulling a bolt noiselessly from her quiver, Marle shrunk back to the shadows. Her slender fingers expertly drew back the bow of the crossbow, placing the taut string upon the catch.
"For Guardia," she whispered resolutely to Crono, clasping her hand in his.
He nodded.
"For the land of freedom, and all those who seek to be free," he responded. "Try not to miss," he added, with the hint of a smile.
Not replying, but casting a glance of mock annoyance upon him, Marle stole towards the window wherein she saw the General far below. Carefully and slowly she and placed the bolt before the string. With utmost concentration she took aim with her weapon. Serge saw that her arms trembled slightly as she did so, though her eyes remained unwavering upon her prey.
"The sting of Guardia," Marle whispered, tightening her finger about the trigger.
With hardly a sound the bolt leaped from her weapon, the crossbow recoiling violently in her hands. But sure and true the bolt fled. With a heart riven in two, the general fell dead even as he sat in counsel with his commanders. So sudden it was that for a moment that seemed near endless, not a word, not a sound was heard inside or out. But only for an instant, for as the astonishment abated from the captains, their fear turned to alarm and anger.
"To the walls!" Serge heard a commander yell. "We are under attack! They have slain the general!"
"This would tend to be the best time to flee," Marle said, slinging her crossbow over her shoulder, "Our work is done here."
Immediately taking her counsel they cautiously slid down the rope a hundred feet down into the courtyard. But even as they did a bell tolled somewhere in the keep, raising the alarm. There would be no easy escape now.
A cry rang out.
An archer on the battlements had spotted them as they ran across the yard. Serge swept an arrow out of his quiver and struck it to his bow, taking his aim at the distant soldier. A bolt whistled past his ear. Serge pulled taut the string till he could no more, and let it slip. The arrow flew from his bow and, with fortunate deadly accuracy that startled him, struck the soldier in the chest. Where he fell they did not see. Serge turned to Crono with a relieved smile but started, as shocked as the company of gods when that accursed mistletoe rove the heart of Baldur the Beautiful. For the bolt that has so narrowly missed him had struck Marle in the chest. She gasped shortly, drawing at a fleeting breath. She stumbled forward a step, striving to remain standing despite the pain that burned as fire in her chest. But her arms yielded their strength and her crossbow slipped from her fingers; it fell to the ground with a clatter that resounded throughout the courtyard. Tears welled up in her eyes as she struggled against the agony of the wound, but for all her bravery it was mortal and she faltered, her legs yielding beneath her though she willed them to stand. She clutched at the arrow as she dropped to the ground, her face still fighting the pain that beset her. Crono was at her side in a heartbeat, his arms steading her fall.
He held her in his arms, oblivious to the darkening blood that stained his clothes. They said not a word, but merely looked on each other, uncountable sadness in their eyes as her life's blood drained slowly away. Serge could do no more than watch. The arrow had struck too near her heart and was seemingly venomed with a fell poison. It was fatal, he knew, for no magic either of them possessed even together could hope to mend such a wound. This Crono saw, too. Yet he could not believe that she, his wife who had defied the mighty Lavos, should end this way. Marle was now overcome by the pain at last, and the tears streamed down her pale face. So too did Crono weep, agony burning his spirit. Her body quivered in his arms as he held her tight, unwilling to abandon all hope. He kissed her gently on her cold lips, hoping perhaps to give her some strength. But it was to no avail. Yet even as her body gave up its life her spirit remained strong, and she spoke to Crono one last time, reminding him to recall his courage and valour, for she knew her end had come, but his was not upon him yet.
"Farewell, Crono. My heart is stilled. Take care of yourself now. What has come has come. You must now continue alone for Guardia. Guardia needs you, never forget, it will always need you. Ultimum vale...and don't forget me..."
Crono ran his hand through her hair, and kissed her once more, his tears falling like rain on her face. With her last strength she smiled at him. And then her life left her and she died.
Long Crono sat motionless, cradling her lifeless body in his arms, hoping that by some miracle life would be recalled to it. But by no magic nor act of God did her spirit return. And Crono grieved, as deeply as anyone ever had, finally overcome and his spirit crushed. Laying her gently to rest on the stone he stood and looked at Serge. But his eyes were hollow, and it seemed to Serge that with the passing of her fire, Crono's soul had fled as well; his hands and clothes were dyed red in her blood, but he did not care nor notice.
His sword swept out. With a blank gaze he stared with transfixed eyes at its shining blade, now a pale sheen, a grim reflection of his heart. For his desire for life had ended with Marle's own. His being had been bound to hers, and hers to his. So all had now lost its meaning. Guardia, Porre, and everything he had ever done was forgotten to him. As he prepared to throw himself on the blade Serge did nothing to stay him, both unsure and frightened by what he saw.
Yet, even as Crono prepared to seek some meagre comfort in death, the last words of Marle returned to him as the whisper of a midnight wraith: 'Guardia will always need you, never forget...'. Had she not with her dying breath reminded him to remember his valour? He held his sword before him, some of the life returning to his eyes. With her last strength she had reminded him of what he must do yet, of his duty as prince. That he would honour, her last admonition to him. He whispered quietly to her body, his grief now replaced by a calm rage.
"No, I will not die today, and not by my own hand. You are wiser than me and spoke truly. Guardia must be restored."
He placed his sword to rest on the ground beside her; the blade was no longer fully pale, but touched with a faint gleam of crimson.
"With this blade shall you be avenged in blood, Marle, princess of Guardia, foe of Lavos." His face darkened. "And may it damn your foes to Hades. I shall never forget you, though all else fade. Farewell..."
(Last Edited August 28, 2004)