Did Maldron Know what became of Raime?

"Yeah. Maldron wasn't exactly on board with hiding away in a tower forever, though. At that point, Maldron was so bitter, he just wanted to take out his aggression on others. Not like either he or Raime actually did anything productive after rebelling against the King. They might as well have stayed and tried to prevent the mess that followed."

Passing through the bridge as it was in my time would have been enough to hollow you twice over, or at least eat through that pearl of yours.

"Oh, I've heard enough about it. Binocular-wielding hexers? What a mess."

Perhaps this Patches wasn't as far removed from Drangleic as I thought.

"Patches. I did not expect to hear that name from you. He is indeed just one man, an Erik. Erik Blair. Couldn't find much about his origins, myself. Something about a country named Verdite, but I've not found it in any histories.

Maldron actually came from a good family and later became a spiteful murderer. Patches is Patches. You can see a bit of knightly training in his movements which could make him a strong fighter, but he doesn't have any interest in causing harm when it doesn't lead to his own benefit."

When I emerged from the bonfire, I was just as angry as I'd been. That was a good sign – I wasn't hollowing. Fortunately, the acid hadn't done anything too extreme for the bonfire's time reversal to fix. Spoiler, I guess, but the mushrooms already know about Light and Time. They've known from the olden days and not done anything, the bastards.

Well anyway, I was full of fire and piss and ready to waste plenty of good powder blowing up the bridge. But Mytha was there waiting for me, looking as smug as she does now.

She said something like, "A valiant showing, if a disastrous end," and then gave me the medal.

Of course at that point, I had never heard of the Warriors of Sunlight. The cult, covenant, whatever, had nearly died out in Drangleic. The King played nice with the Way of White's inquisitors and inspectors but took after his father in the end. In spite of everything the local clergy had done to put the King and his mother into power, he pushed them into the background.

At least until the Drakeblood incident, when the royal brothers came back with a new royal chaplain. Aside from that, Drangleic's faiths dwindled quite a bit. You made offerings to "the gods," but it was mostly a good luck superstition.

What I'm trying to say is that I basically responded "What the fresh hell is this?" and brushed her off as being sarcastic.

I ran, looking through the tents and shacks and crossed the bridge shouting for Maldron's blood. Now, it turned out that he'd already crawled off to his hole. And by that, I mean the horrible curse-tower in Brume. I nearly burst a vein in fury.

Well, with that a bust, I turned back to Mytha. She was looking up at the statue over the bridge. There's that triple arch over the bridge which is sinking faster than the bridge itself and sort of leaning to one side… if you remember. And all the chains from one wall to another, trying to hold everything up and out of the lava lake.

Well, on top of the middle arch is a pillar. And on top of that pillar is a statue. They fixed all the chains to the statue's sides because it's the highest thing in the middle of the yard, but the way they did it makes it look like the statue is holding them.

So there's this bird-winged woman holding chains which bind the whole castle. Ooo, spooky metaphors.

Anyway, Mytha is looking at the statue with a mixture of hate and confusion, so I ask what the issue is. It's just a statue. The guy she hates is indoors.

Then she says something like, "It is a peculiar sensation. I should know her. She seems a daughter of that wench Berengel. Yet Ferran had no such affection for their daughters. Further, the wings – what do they mean?"

Of course, I didn't care. I was pissed off and wanted to move on.

I said, "It means the Old King of Iron liked spending money, even on children he didn't care about."

She wasn't going to let me brush if off but was tired of staring at her ex-stepdaughter or however that works, so she said, "No. I feel it in my bones. Yet, I understand your meaning. Let us seek the answer with the castle's lord."

She did smile a little at last as she added, "Now this keep is nearly as sunken as my brother's was. Two of a kind, they were."

We crossed the bridge, ignoring all the statues of Ferran's advisors, because they clearly couldn't advise shit if he built a castle in a damned caldera and didn't expect it to sink.

The fight junkies kept their word and let us leave. Of course, we were immediately subjected to the immense hassle of clearing through the terrible, Alkenadian samurai.

That was the point at which I finally began to worry about my supply of ammunition. Old King Ferran knew his iron well, of course. More often than not, a single shot would penetrate a helm but fail to deal enough damage to a hollow's thick skull.

Honestly, Mytha was a lifesaver. I actually gained something resembling appreciation for the boring Soul Arrow-style sorceries.

We attacked together. I would draw a group with an opening shot, then duck so she could blast them with a Soul Spear or so on. She was also kind enough to deal with any remainders. Her polearm (what is that blade supposed to be anyway, darling?) could only thrust in the corridors, but that was usually enough. Any particularly lucky or evasive samurai would get a dragón to the forehead.

The greatbow users were handled similarly. I'd stagger one with my mosquete, and the sorcerous followup would strike before the hollow could recover. In that respect, Mytha and I together fought more by-the-book than I had alone. The first row shoots, then the second row shoots while the first is reloading. This time, I was the one who was smiling.

It was strange, a taste of normal even as everything went to hollow hell. And also regular hell, what with all the lava.

I hate to disappoint, Your Majesty, but we didn't have the fun journey through the Keep you did. Some of us know better than to turn off a long-running furnace. I'm referring to both the actual furnace in the courtyard and the rage building in Mytha as she remembered all the stupid things Ferran did.

We didn't have to deal with the bridge or the smelted golem – ah, "Smelter Demon." I mean, it's a golem. It's got the butthole face.

Anyway, we just climbed those staggered platforms on the left of the yard. Mytha could just rear up and drop me on the next level. Had to do a doubletake since I was sure I'd heard the clown's bells, but they were gone by the time Mytha had climbed up.

Now, I've glossed over a couple of things I didn't notice when I was there the first time. I went back later, when I was preparing for the journey across the sea. That round room with the iron bridge which came next. Did you see the reliefs? Did you see the statues in the room with the Smelter Demon? What about the rose window above the Keep's entrance?

Old King Ferran was weak and caused his own destruction. But he laid the groundwork for his son's success. Ferran attacked the giants as well. Of course he did – the Smelter Demons are the same type of golem as Vendrick learned to craft. But what is the "land of giants," and how was Ferran the only one of the failed kings to inherit a Great Soul?

Ferran's invasion failed, but it could be said that Vendrick's did as well. Seven returning alive from a campaign should be considered a disaster. Yet, he took a "prize" from the giants. Even Ferran wasn't that stupid. He beheld the truth and returned to his castles of iron. The truth, you can see in all his works.

Well, back to the story, things were a little quieter. We passed through the smelting rooms without much issue. Before you ask, that guillotine in the sealed hallway was originally for cutting ingots. It didn't decapitate Mytha, and she didn't have any hangups about it.

Bel turns to Mytha.

"Darling, if you'd like to make it quick…"

Mytha inclines her head slightly, thinking. Though you can't see her neck, her head certainly seems to be properly attached now.

"Suffice it to say, I was attacked by a sort of executioner. He came for Ferran but could not find the coward. Instead, he turned upon me for my complicity. I underestimated the old man. An executioner's sword is not the gentlest way to lose one's head."

There was originally much more of the lower Keep remaining. Not just that narrow platform around the underground storeroom. There were some crumbling out-buildings and the like. We walked down among them, toward the volcano in the distance. I didn't know what we were looking for, so I just followed Mytha.

She approached the edge of the ruins and shouted, "Stop hiding, you worm of a man!"

Well, Ferran rose out of the lava as you'd expect and awkwardly waded toward us. Did he use his wings before you killed him? I… think they were too small to lift him. He didn't even use them to wade faster.

If nothing else, his voice was impressive. It was a deep, thunderous rumble.

"Mytha. A surprise. I had thought you would never appear before me again. In these lean times, I welcome your company. Who is this undead you have brought before me?"

So, naturally, I tried to introduce myself, but he just said, "Did I command you speak, undead? You could not have made it here on your own. Do not presume familiarity."

Of course, I was annoyed, but what can you do when you're trying to convince a giant monster to give you a map? I held my tongue.

So Mytha said, "A boor, as always. You, moreso than most, should understand raw strength is not the totality of power."

The damned monster actually flexed before continuing.

"No, but it is the most crucial. Without strength, all else shall be taken from you. One can never possess enough strength. Even with this form and the strength of Lords, I am yet bound here. I was not strong enough. The First Lord was not strong enough. These days, I have learned even my usurper son was not strong enough.

What pitiful undead would seek to speak with a Great One? This half-formed Manling wears the iron and sign of the son who bested me. What fool would think a servant can speak to a king? My court accepted strength, no matter bloodline or creed. It did not, nor do I now, accept ignorant slaves."

Now, I may be a commoner who's never owned land in her life, but I wasn't about to be called ignorant. Mytha had started to say something, but I didn't quite catch it. I drew one of my dragóns and shot a building.

Have you ever seen a monster's face light up with joy? It's terrifying. He loomed over us, drawing his big, stupid cow face entirely too close.

"An improvement on the crossbow? No, a gonne. Much improved grip. Can be aimed now. Shorter training. Produce in larger numbers. Miniaturized. Can be concealed for assassination. Metal projectile. Embed itself in the wound? Enchanted. Propellant, a miniature explosion. Loads from the exit?"

He rumbled like an earthquake for a bit before saying, "Brilliant. Undead, did you make this?"

I wasn't about to describe the generations of work which went into it. If aiming a gonne was new to him, he hadn't seen one in a long while. I could take advantage of that.

"Of course, King of Alken," I said, clearly sucking up. "I headed the workshop for your son, the King of Venn."

Vendrick of Venn. Ugh. What a name. Well, point is, I insisted the old king still had power and didn't acknowledge Vendrick was ruler of a reunited Drangleic.

This gave him a chuckle, and he said, "Wise as well as intelligent. I invite you to serve me when I am free of this place. My sons entrap me no longer. It is only a matter of time before I have drawn enough power from the depths of the mountain flame."

There was my ticket in. I just had to make a promise I had no intention of keeping. But then I looked at Mytha, who clearly wasn't happy. Now, we weren't exactly friends, but I'd agreed to help. She had a rough enough life, and I didn't want to add to it.

While I was thinking of a response, though, she goes and says this shit: "Again, you ravenous serpent! Again, you seek to take what is mine!"

Clearly, things had already gone sour. I had two ex-human monsters arguing over who owned me. I may be a commoner, but I've never been a serf or slave.

Then Ferran goes and says: "This too is strength. The strength to grant others freedom."

And Mytha says something lke, "The freedom to serve you until they perish? Hardly!"

So I fired my second dragón and told them both to piss off. Something like, "I'm my own! If the two of you act like adults, I'll throw myself in the lava, and then neither of you will see me again!"

Ferran snorted like a bull, blasting us with hot air and said, "There is Fire in you, worthy undead. I shall deign to hear your cause. What of you, Mytha? By what right do you claim this undead?"

Now, Mytha actually hissed, which was a little funny. She couldn't meet his eyes and just said, "That matter is between she and I. Surely, such a paltry detail is as naught to one who long held secret correspondence with his rival's daughter."

A complex web of emotions crossed Ferran's face. Surprise, then acknowledgment of course. Longing, then resignation, then bitterness. Honestly, it was a little funny to see a bull's face scrunch up with grief like that.

After a time, he did speak, saying, "Our marriage was a tool to both our benefit. I was never unkind. You wanted for nothing as my queen."

Mytha tried to say, "I wanted for-!" but she was cut off.

"I loved her, you avaricious serpent! Always wanting more of my bounty! You were allowed your poisons and servants and golems and all the riches I possessed! I always gave freely, for my wealth only reminded me there was one thing I could never have!

Do not dare to begrudge me for setting you aside when my joy came to me! My princess of bells…"

He gave this terrible groan before adding, "You should be happy to know that she too used me. A son of my blood to take my throne and her father's alike. And of course, my army. My army to lay siege to the land of giants. So that she might reach the center of all things once more."

The fire under the giant monster's skin died down as he went quiet.

"Is that all," Mytha said. Oh boy, she was about to blow up. "You see me again after so long, and all you speak of is her? This tale of how she wronged you – you remain the same selfish wretch."

I took the time to reload my dragóns in case a fight began. But she held herself back.

"Our son sent this undead to kill me. Do you even care? That is, do you even care beyond having to find a new guard for your secret mountain tunnel?"

Ferran's eyes narrowed, and he said grimly, "That boy was always a monster. Each of our worst traits combined."

Mytha got angry again, saying, "You held no love for your firstborn son?"

"Maybe in a time long past," he said. "No sane man chooses to become undead. His death was no accident. He himsself arranged it."

Mytha shuddered and said, "I see." She almost couldn't respond.

Well, it looked like it was finally my turn.

"About the matter of the assassination… Your son, the Duke of Aldia, sent me to you, King Ferran. That was my main goal. You see, I was part of the army that your son, the King of Venn, led to the land of giants. I want to go back, to settle a score. Duke Aldia said you might have a map."

Ferran rumbled thoughtfully before starting, "Do you realize what you say?"

And I said, "I realize it will be my final resting place."

"You do not, then. Did you behold the prize my sons took from that place? They returned here to ask me why I did not claim it."

"The art of golemcraft–" I started to say.

It was something Ferran hadn't taken. Something special. Something that the King only took with great sacrifice.

Now, my memory is perfect when I'm not hollowing. But I don't consciously remember all of it all of the time. And hollowing does cause me to forget things I know until I'm reminded. Worse, perceptions from when I'm in an altered state of mind remain just as scrambled.

We'd set out in thirty ships, the grand invading army of Drangleic. We left in one, just the Seven Angels and maybe forty of us grunts who'd become undead and weren't trapped at hostile-controlled bonfires. I had to remember that time, when Syan carried my bleeding, limbless corpse to the ship.

There had been no harbor. The phantom island wasn't meant to receive visitors. Syan set me in one of the shore boats and turned inland. With greatshield raised high, he protected the boat from fire, lightning, and arrow. Aldia, still human-shaped then, sat beside me. For once, he looked genuinely pleased rather than just smirking because he knew something no one else did.

The King and his four guards were on their way. Some of the undead were sacrificing their chance to return behind him. They would hold the giants from the shore no matter the cost. The King was carrying something in his arms, ever so gently. He had grown. He had grown. He had grown… to… carry…?

He held something in his arms. Ever so gently. Gently. White. White.

The fragments of my thoughts were getting caught on each other. I was almost there, though.

The guards joined with Syan and prepared to take a boat of their own. The King's boat needed to be light and swift. The giants wouldn't dare attack it. They wouldn't risk…?

So we needed to get the boat back to the ship. If they sank our last ship, everything would be for nothing. The King had it in his arms. In his arms…?

The King sat across from his brother. He didn't let go. Velstadt and Raime set down their equipment and ran the boat into the water. Aldia cackled. They'd done it. They'd stolen… everything?

My head was spinning and my eyes couldn't focus. The King stroked it, every so gently. Ever so gently. Stroked it. Stroked her hair. He whispered something.

"It was a woman," I said at last.

"The giants' queen and idol," Ferran said, his voice as serious as a giant cow-man's could be. "The only treasure which would cause them to break their sacred isolation and strike at the mainland. The giants took her back, at great cost. They are forever weakened from so many dying in this land. Even so, they are no challenge a single undead may best."

Now I had a headache from remembering bleeding out and was running out of patience.

"That's my choice," I growled. "Do you have the map or not?"

The old king rumbled for a moment, then said, "Listen well. I will bestow it upon you only once."

Can you believe the giant, fiery bull monster started singing? Hell, that was a mess. I cleared my mind and tried to remember it all without commentary. My mind was spinning. What were the mathematics here? It had to be a code, right?

The great big bull laughed and said, "Good luck, worthy undead. My son's astrologers will know how to interpret that, if they're worth their pay. I pray to the Queen of Angels that you can repeat the score without error."

He'd tried to be mocking, but he didn't now about my perfect memory. Of course, then Mytha cleared her throat and repeated it back to him.

He narrowed his eyes and grumbled, "I see you have not abandoned the Sanctum's art."

The art being that whole "priestesses who sing to keep their god-dragon asleep instead of eating them" thing.

Of course, Mytha was prideful about it and said something like, "Of course. Even should I be the last, I will keep the songs of the dragons."

Ferran was pretty tired of us now, so he said, "If that will be all, then leave my domain. I have power to cultivate. When I have restored the land my sons have wrecked, I will send a ship north to search for your bodies."