Chapter 1:

Farce

"I truly, sincerely, hate my life," Zellar muttered. Life. Now that was a bitter word, especially when he'd been so close to having one. Not merely a worthy one, but a splendid life, almost a bloody dream. "And now that dream's been taken from me, by a fucking amateur, no less."

He glared coldly at his audience: stones in the wall. He, a colonel, and reduced to this pathetic sentry duty. "The war is over," he informed the stones, "and you need not fear a breach. And even so, I am assigned to be a sentry."

It would have been better if he could see a point in being placed on such a duty in a time of peace. He had risen high and quickly, guarding the walls when there were no enemies to guard against was a waste of his talents. "And all my talents are being wasted, I fear."

It was, Zellar reflected bitterly, his own fault that he was placed in such a position. He had backed Bowie's plan, backed it to the hilt; he'd even added one or two of his own suggestions. That had earned him a command, come the time of battle, and Zellar had acquitted himself very well. But it had been Bowie who killed old Galam.

And now that is the standard I shall be measured against; Bowie's plan didn't even include the ultimate most salient points of strategy, but everything I ever do will be measured against that anyhow. Everything I ever do. That bastard ruined my life!

In the cold light of reason, Zellar knew that he'd had no other choice. Galam had had to be defeated and at the time, Granseal had been on the verge of collapse. Supporting Bowie had been about so much more when he'd made that decision, and Zellar knew that what small credit he'd be allowed to take, what he'd done with his division would insure that he would continue to rise high, under Bowie's graces anyway.

But that wasn't what I wanted. Of course, things had never been guaranteed to work out in the way that Zellar had calculated them, but he had calculated events very precisely. King Granseal was an old man, old, and with no male heir attached, only his daughter. Under the circumstances… well, it wouldn't have been too much to hope to have been married to Princess Elis, would it? Zellar was young enough, certainly, and his career in the military had been prestigious enough. Under those conditions, he had been eminently suitable. And the wench was very comely, as well.

Zellar's hands clenched. And then Bowie came. And that was the end of that hope. Now the best I can hope for is to be a general, I suppose. If even that much.

He took several deep, steadying breaths. He was, he supposed, being just slightly childish about the whole thing. Pathetic would be the word for it. A favored toy has been taken from me, and now I'm calling out for mommy. Zellar knew that he should be overjoyed, that he shouldn't have any earthly grudges at this moment in time. Granseal was saved, and Galam defeated. The bloody world was saved, for the Runic Shining Force had smashed Zeon and other powers of darkness. Thousands of lives had been saved, honor had been satisfied, doom had not fallen upon them. And yet even so… Bowie, and the war by extension, had taken everything he had ever cherished a possibility of attaining. How could he not hate the war?

And even now, I have no chance to start recouping some of these losses if the rumors are true. Bowie and his honorable peace…

He turned his scowl out toward the western horizon. If he wanted to begin salvaging something for himself, he might as well do his duty well, actually have something worth reporting. It was a minor beginning, but what else was he supposed to do? Bowie may have made an ingrate of me, but he'll not make a fool of me too. I do my duties, honorably.

It was a brutal day for sentry duty, there was no denying that. Zellar was roasting in his brightly polished plate armor. And all this security really is excessive. Even if the Galamani chose to make a blood-feud with us, as any real men would do, they would hardly do it now, while they stand weak, defeated, poised to be crushed.

Morbidly, he considered the meager possibilities that Bowie had left open to him. In Granseal he would always be overshadowed and outmatched by Bowie's legend, no matter what he did. Remaining in the military, he could probably rise high. But not high enough. Not high enough to warrant the notice of old King Granseal or his daughter. Unless Bowie was to die…

But that was not how a man lived. There was nothing worse a man could be than a traitor. It was the highest of crimes in all of Granseal. In the entire island. A traitor had no honor, he had no ties of kin, he had nothing. Luck had turned away from Zellar, permanently it seemed, but he would face that like a man. Bowie would not die at his instigation or at his hand, though Zellar could not deny that the thought was a very tempting one.

And there was nowhere else in the rest of the island he could go. The Galamani would doubtless hate any Granserian. Save, perhaps, a traitor to their cause, but Zellar had more than enough pride to be thoroughly disgusted at that possibility. The Yeeli would doubtless not yet forgive Granseal for having been allied with their blood enemies, the Galamani, for so many years. And in the scarcely populated northern regions of the island… There is nothing for me there. And there's bloody nothing for me here. Bloody Bowie. Bloody war. Bloody life.

And with all such options eliminated, that left the mainland. West Parmecia. Zellar had no true desire to abandon the island either though, and certainly not for West Parmecia. The mainlanders were weak-willed, weak-stomached, and thin-skinned. They had no true understanding of how a man should live his life. The only Parmecians to have even the slightest amount of spine were those of Thornwood, and even they…

"And once again, I'm forced to a circular conclusion. What's the point of staying? Where would I go if I didn't? Why did Bowie have to come?" That, indeed, was the question. Why had the gods inflicted Bowie on him? Why had the gods inflicted such a paragon as Bowie on him that he couldn't even possibly hope to compete against him? Bowie was uneducated but visionary, of low birth but articulate, unworldly but militarily precocious, and so charismatic that few could see how dangerous his proposals were. Honorable peace? With the Galamani?

And now, with such victories under his belt, he'll doubtless be wed to the princess and become king himself. In my place. How could Zellar not hate Bowie?

Zellar took a swift glance around the wall, and took his off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his brow. It was against regulations, but nobody else was here, so regulations be dammed. He had a duty to Granseal to serve in whatever fashion his superiors deemed necessary. Given the circumstances, given that Bowie was doubtless now an unofficial one of those superiors, Zellar did not feel obliged to roast to death.

"Such resentment may ill become me, but it seems to be all that I'm left with," he muttered, dropping his gaze back to the stones. Stone. That was what he was being, he knew, in regards to the outcome of the war. Despite everything, he should, he knew, feel more than mild relief at the outcome of the war. But he didn't. Stone. Stone-faced, stone-voiced. Stone, he always said. Stone was what his father had always advised him to be. Stone was what he'd spent a childhood trying to emulate. That old bastard. It's not stone I need, it's steel. Bowie's proven he's not copper, but he's not proven to be steel yet. Coming in, showing up all my accomplishments… I must be steel not stone.

It had stung more than Zellar would ever admit to see a nobody like Bowie rise to such heights. To see him surpass me. Zellar found few places in the world less desirable than his own memory. He had come from a long line of distinguished knights, and his father had mercilessly shaped him in that image. He had wanted Zellar to be even more perfect than all the rest. The only thing that cold old man had ever cared about was what others thought of the family honor. He beat me bloody for falling off of that horse in front of his friends. He'd beat me bloody if he was still alive just because Bowie exists.

He could hear his father's judgmental voice even now, even though the old man had been dead for years. "Why can't you be more like Bowie?"

Clenching his fists against the intrusive memory of that voice, Zellar reminded himself that he had defeated the old bastard. He had arrived. At least I had until Bowie happened. Damn him!

Zellar's attention was abruptly arrested by clouds of dust. He leaned forward, diverted from his pondering, peering hard out at the plains. A party of riders… was making for Granseal? But who would they be? Yeeli? Galamani?

None of the other tribes have a reason to make their way here, except for Galamani. But they'd have to be mad to attack us at this point when we could easily smash them… This group isn't riding a sigil either. Zellar cursed helplessly. This was worth reporting, but, gods be good, he wanted more information. If he could have a comprehensive report, a suggestion for how to proceed… No, it was not much, but it was the next logical step if he wanted any hopes of accruing honor.

At this distance… Zellar cursed again, deciding to take a gambit. There was a chance nothing would come of it, but even so… He held up his helmet, using it to flash the light of the sun in the direction of the party. Squinting harder than ever, the flashes did nothing to deliver to him more details.

Ah, but he could see now, a bolt of cloth, a sigil unfolding as he had hoped they might respond… A few Gransi soldiers delayed out in the field? As the cloth unfolded stark against the sky, Zellar felt a chill pass through him. Riding towards the city was the unmistakable black crest and wheel of Galam.

---

Sarah stared vacantly out of the window. Another day… Another day indeed. Another long boring day. There had been so many of them since the war had ended. It hasn't been over so very long.

She sighed, rising to her feet. It was uncharitable of her to think of the war like that, to be so selfish. It was just that… she bit her lip, trying to look at the situation as objectively as possible. She had found the war very fulfilling. Saving lives, healing wounds… she had found that work very satisfying, and much of it was gone now that they had actually won the war.

Was that what was wrong with her? Was she suffering the effects of wanderlust, the desire to be a mercenary or adventurer? Well, she couldn't deny that the notion had some appeal, but it wasn't exactly the adventure that she missed. Bowie…

It was Bowie, she decided. It had to be. She had never felt so close to him as she had when they had been battling side by side to save all of Granseal. She had never felt as alive as when they had ventured into West Parmecia for the sake of the Granseal, living by the sword.

It was a rather simple conclusion for the elven girl to come to. She had always loved Bowie, she knew that. They had all four grown up together, she, Bowie, Chester, Jaha… but it had always been Bowie that she had been drawn to, long before she had any conception of what that meant. We were so close that day, together, in the rain. Jaha wanted to go exploring, and Bowie refused to go with him until he agreed to let me come along. I knew him so well…

Bowie's transformation into a visionary leader hadn't surprised Sarah much, but she couldn't claim to be overjoyed with the results. It wasn't the war; it was what came with such a victory. Old King Granseal meant to make Bowie a lord or counselor now, all of the rumors said so, and Sarah saw no reason to disbelieve them. It's just that now that this has happened he doesn't have any time for u… She bit her lip, chasing the stray thought away. It was true, in general Bowie had very little time or energy for his friends.

And less even for 'us.' If there ever was an 'us.' I've always assumed, I've known him so well, so long, but Bowie could have just been kind to me. Kind to a friend that he loves and honors, but not beyond those bonds.

And the rumors also suggested that that a lordship was merely the beginning. King Granseal wanted things to look proper, doubtless, so he would grant Bowie a significantly high position, but he was, in reality, grooming Bowie to be his heir. To become king of Granseal.

And why wouldn't he, she thought with a flash of bitterness. To be king of Granseal and to have the power to make his dreams happen… to marry Princess Elis. Sarah bit her lip again. Elis was perfect. Why wouldn't Bowie want that?

With an angry toss of her head, Sarah stalked over to the mirror, studying herself critically. All she saw was an unassuming face with resentful maroon eyes. Her figure, of course, was not a match for the princess's. Nobody's was. At least my hair is pretty, she thought, trying to inject the observation with some self-deprecating humor.

This is uncharitable of me anyway. Bowie may not accept. He may not even be King Granseal's choice. He may love Elis or me or somebody else. Why fixate on it?

Of course, fixate on it was what she did. Bowie was perfect. So strong, and handsome and dreamy… Kind and generous as well. Sarah doubted she'd ever encounter a better person than Bowie.

A tap on the door distracted her from her ruminations. Absently putting a hand through her hair, she called out, "Yes?"

The door creaked open, and Slade stood there smiling apologetically. "My pardons for disturbing you, Lady Sarah."

Slade. She summoned a smile with as much fervor as she could. She had never liked the ratman. "'Lady' Sarah?"

Slade smirked at her for a moment. "But of course. The King insists on honoring all of Bowie's companions. Particularly the Granserian ones. And, when he is not offering positions or holdings, what does it cost him to make such a gesture? Even an empty title may sound impressive, Lady Sarah."

She chuckled politely. "Sarah still suits me fine."

"Ah. Of course." The ratman stood there in his loose fitting black tunic nodding and smiling.

That's what I've never liked. It's as though he knows everything. Smirking and laughing at one like that… His eyes remained nearly expressionless. "You did want something didn't you?"

His head bobbed up and down several more times. "Indeed. Jaha requires your aid. He's somehow managed to twist his ankle, though he wouldn't tell me how."

She sputtered on a bit of a laugh. "He's still getting into trouble like this? Gods, I wonder if his mother ever dropped him on his head, sometimes."

Slade only smiled slightly. "Sir Jaha is a wonder to us all."

Does he think that makes him mysterious or interesting? Why can't he just say what he means? "I'll be along in just a moment," she murmured, vaguely looking over her shoulder for her staff.

Slade opened his eyes very wide. "Indeed. Shall I… I'll just wait outside." He discreetly closed the door, though Sarah thought she heard the hint of a guffaw escape from the ratman.

She tossed her head in irritation. That was precisely why she had never cared for Slade, his cool, smug, sour manner made that impossible. He was humorous, she supposed, but that wasn't enough. In short order she found her staff (under the desk, how in the name of Volcannon did it come to be there?).

She paused for a moment in front of the mirror self-consciously smoothing her healer's robes about her before stepping out the door. Slade bowed to her, though the gesture was not deferential, and immediately took the liberty of taking her arm. Sarah gritted her teeth in annoyance as he started steering her down the staircase, but permitted the attention. He is not as bad as all that and anyway, Bowie loves Slade dearly.

"If you would permit me one small question, Lady Sarah?" Smiling, he quickly corrected himself. "Sarah, I mean."

"Obviously you've already opened your mouth to ask me," she said wearily. "Just say it, Slade."

He smiled ruefully, but refrained from apologizing again. From Slade, courtesy was nearly as overbearing as rudeness might be in another. "I confess, I wonder how you find…" he paused, obviously searching for the right word, "this?" He waved his free paw about vaguely.

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "'This?'"

"My apologies," he said quickly. "I merely mean to say, in the months following the freeing of Zeon, the Galam War, and the ascension of Bowie, much has changed for you and for all of us who fought under his banner. You went from being…" he coughed, "forgive me, but you went from being peasants to being honored persons, living in the court of Granseal. And so, I ask again: how do you find all of this?"

Sarah frowned, contemplating the question. "I don't know exactly. I guess… I mean, it doesn't seem like a stretch from following Bowie to being here. All of us who were raised in Granseal had dreams, I suppose, of eventually living here. Jaha, perhaps the most of all… He always wanted…" Sarah wavered for a moment, uncertain of what she really thought. For a moment or so there, she'd wanted nothing so much as to dodge the question; she'd suffered enough introspection during the days she'd spent alone in her luxurious new rooms. Slade was right, however; considering how this question affected the others was very interesting. "He always dreamed of this the most, I think. Jaha always wanted to rise here, to have recognition, to have…" She screwed up her face for a moment and finally admitted, "I don't know."

"Really," said Slade, and for once he sounded sincerely interested in what he was saying. "I had always thought that Bowie had the most dreams for the world, of all of you."

Sarah shook her head. "Different kinds of dreams. Bowie sees the way things should be and he wants to make that happen. Jaha…" she sighed as she considered her old dwarven friend. Jaha, she suspected, was invested in very little besides Jaha. But she would not say that to Slade. I may be doing him a disservice as well. Who am I to judge? Pondering myself has lent me an air of cynicism, most like.

Slade was nodding, a thoughtful expression touching his lips. "Indeed. Sir Jaha has always seemed to have various resentments. Perhaps that is the answer."

Sarah considered answering that, but discarded the notion. What was she to say anyway? Briefly they descended the staircase and Slade hurried her along the dimly lit passage way to the ornate entrance of the courtyard. One of the guards there nodded deferentially in their direction as they passed. "Master Slade."

Sarah arched a querying eyebrow. "Master Slade? That seems rather a simple a title."

Slade smiled in a slightly exaggerated fashion. "Ah, well. That's just the sort of fellow I am. Simple."

Sarah snorted. She doubted that Slade had ever been simple, except possibly as a child. He was probably one of those insufferably sly and devious children anyway.

They came out into the sunlight, and in the middle of the courtyard stood Chester, Jaha and Sheela. Jaha was bent over, slightly, rubbing at his ankle his face flushed. Chester was saying, "You know, I still really don't understand how you could have twisted your ankle in such a place, my friend. The stonework here is hardly uneven and I would not believe of you that you wou-"

"Chester, please," moaned Jaha, straightening up. "I really don't want to talk about it."

"Well, if it makes you that uncomfortable, then there's no need to explain," Chester said graciously. "Unless it is important to some other matter of a non-personal nature? No? I thought not."

Sarah rolled her eyes. Chester had been polishing his ponderous gallantry as far back as she could remember. She turned to Slade who had politely relinquished her arm. "My help is needed here, how, exactly?"

Slade shrugged artlessly. "It would appear that Sir Jaha lacked the patience to wait for my return and purchased aid from another quarter."

"Sarah!" Jaha's boyish shout rang across the courtyard. "How did you find out? I mean, Sheela already got to it, but it's nice that you came."

Sarah glanced coolly at Slade. "Indeed." She walked over to the group of them. "I would be interested to know how exactly you managed to do this, myself."

She was vaguely aware of Slade drifting over in the background. Jaha flushed. "I uh… really can't explain. It might involve uh…" He shot an uneasy glance first at Sheela, then back at Sarah. "In the presence of women, it really doesn't bear repeating. I uh… may have precipitated the event by shouting some… vulgar… things."

Sheela laughed, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "I doubt you can have shouted anything that would shock anyone here, too much."

Jaha flushed more than ever. "Well, I must, ah… that, is, I have important a-affairs. My apologies." He scrambled hastily for the entrance. Sheela was still laughing. Sarah ignored her. She'd never cared overmuch for Sheela either. The woman was a healer like herself who had lost her fiancé in the war, and Sarah would certainly never question Sheela's courage. Nonetheless, the other woman irked her.

She turned away, meaning to throw a sharp inquiry or two at Slade. The ratman was no longer there. Sarah rolled her eyes again. "Imagine that."

---

Zellar came sharply through the door way, a crisp, "General" halfway out of his mouth before he choked it back at the scene that greeted him. Coughing for an awkward moment, he addressed himself to the man he had come to see, ignoring Bowie's pet mage. "General Mrell, sir. I have a report to make, if I'm not interrupting anything?"

Seated at a massive wooden desk in the gatehouse that did absolutely nothing to conceal his considerable girth, the general nodded ponderously several times. "Zellar, m'boy. Remarkable coincidence, truly remarkable, eh." He slapped the desk, laughing uneasily for a moment or so. He went on in a faux conversational tone: "I was about to send a runner for you, Colonel. Could you imagine that I would do that?"

"No, sir. Unless, perhaps," he suggested dryly, "you wanted me for something."

General Mrell coughed several times as though trying to make up his mind on whether to cough or guffaw. "Well, mmm… not exactly. Lord Kazin here has a message for you."

Zellar turned a cold eye on the golden-haired elf at last. Of nearly all of them, he hated Kazin the worst. The elf was one of the only one of Bowie's companions who didn't seem to be enamored of the man, and he followed him regardless. If he can see that, and follows him anyway, rather than transferring his loyalty in a more… deserving direction… "Indeed," Zellar said coldly. "What a happy coincidence. What is this need you have of me… Lord Kazin?" The title nearly caught in his throat.

The mage's long, handsome face remained expressionless. "The festivities are due to start in two days, as I'm sure you know, Colonel. His Grace, King Granseal IV of his name, and my Lord Bowie find it meet that, in light of your own impressive contributions to the war effort, you be given charge of some of the festivities. You're also invited to speak at the ball, of course, amidst some other details." From his rust-colored robes, the mage secreted a letter, and held it out to Zellar.

The soldier took it, silently hating Bowie all the more for making this entirely reasonable gesture. "Well, yes," he muttered, dropping his gaze from Kazin's penetrating green eyes. "Indeed. We're barely back from the war, and it would seem already that Lord Bowie has found errands for you to run."

There was a momentary silence, and Zellar looked up. A slow flush was spreading up Kazin's face; the jibe had caught him on the raw. Kazin jerked his head down tightly, not quite managing to nod. "Colonel," he said in an icy tone, and then stepped out of the gatehouse, ignoring General Mrell entirely.

Zellar frowned at the still unopened note in his hand for a moment or so, when a loud chuckle distracted his attention. "Heh, that was a good one, m'lad. Got Bowie's pet sorcerer, eh! Good man, good man."

Zellar hesitated for a moment, then decided to ignore the general's last few comments. "Sir, I had a report I personally wanted to make…"

"Eh? Well, well, indeed. Speak up, lad. What's on your mind?" Wiping his nose, General Mrell turned his watery blue eyes onto Zellar's face, apparently giving him his undivided attention.

Zellar considered the best way to make the report, and then decided that just to come right out would probably be best. "My lord general," he said formally, "approximately five minutes back, I spotted a party of Galamani apparently making their way here. I recommend immediate action-"

Mrell guffawed loudly. "Oh, there's nothing in that, no nothing at all, Colonel. It's a delegation. You know. Expected for the festivities." He winked broadly. "Another one of Bowie's errands, you might say." He laughed again. "Not that we're complaining, eh? All been authorized and whatnot." He winked twice more, in rapid succession. "Mayhap you're just the man to send to greet them, eh? As a matter of loyalty and whatnot." He laughed uproariously.

Zellar frowned, cautiously. There was clearly something here; the general's merriment was obviously feigned. A wave of distaste flowed through him as he studied the corpulent, white-haired old man. Bloody Mrell… General Mrell had never been one of his father's greatest friends, but he had known the old man. That was reason enough to hate him. "My loyalty is to His Grace, our good king, of course."

"Eh?" General Mrell blinked several times. "Oh, yes… quite. As it happens, the uh, Galamani Delegation is already attended to. There's no need for… for you to uh…" He was staring at Zellar with obvious unease. "Hmm. Perhaps you ah…" He rustled busily around his desk for a moment, before coming up with a paper. "There's been a minor incident in the town. Some new fellow made a bit of a fight in a bar or something. Been locked up. You can look into it, eh?"

Zellar's eyebrows rose. This was… most curious. And what is here, General? Mrell was still watching him with poorly concealed anxiety. "Aye sir," he said quietly, absently pocketing Lord Kazin's note.

---

His eyes blearily cracked open. "Guhh…" an incoherent groan burst past his lips. His eyes swung frantically around the unfamiliar room. After all these times, all these countless times that he had woken up with no knowledge of where he was, he'd have thought he'd have gotten used to it by now.

But no. Each time it sent him into a familiar roiling panic and had, on no less than three separate occasions, to his great shame, driven him to tears. Shouldn't drink so much…

With another groan, he swung his legs off of a… cot, he realized in surprise. Well, that was something to be sure. He'd actually fallen asleep on something comfortable for once, rather than dirty alleys or abandoned fields.

I'm in a cell, he realized. Panic overtook him again. He had always been terrified of being kept in a cell and now he was in one… He stumbled to his feet. He had to get out. Nothing was as bad as this. Even being questioned by powerful men who might have executed him in a second if they had had the truest inkling of his crimes, even that was better than a cell.

He tripped over his own feet. Scrabbling back up, he ran at the bars of the cell. Bars… he'd have to think. He'd have to remember some real magic. A blaze spell. A blaze spell would get him out. Metal would melt if it was hot enough. He hadn't cast any real magic in so long though… He inhaled deeply, trying to think, then groaned again, fell to his knees, and retched. "Guh…" he moaned, holding his sides. His tongue tasted vile.

A hangover. It must be a hangover… I've been drinking. That's all I've been doing, since getting out alive.

The truth of this did him little good, however. He contemplated getting up again, and nearly wept with frustration. But if he could get out of the cell…

"Well, you're certainly a pathetic looking wretch."

Startled, his eyes darted upward to meet the sharp voice. A rather plain-looking man stood before him, but sharp-voiced, sharp-eyed, and hard-mouthed. And he was wearing some kind of uniform, with a sword at his belt… An interrogator, he realized, in a desperate panic again.

He knew he wouldn't be able to hold out against whatever tortures this sharp-tongued man had in mind. He truly was pathetic. A patched and faded robe, a weak chest, and his stubbled jaw sticky with his own puke just now… I can't tell him anything. But he'll kill me. A lie. I need a good lie. I'm good at lying, I'm good a-

"I warn you," the man said, sounding bored, "you've already been charged with breaking the peace and intention to assault. We can dispense with the formalities as you're a newcomer here, of course. It's not a vastly important charge. You were drunk, they tell me?"

He set his lips tightly. The man shook his head in disgust, "You were obviously drunk." He shrugged his shoulders. "Just give me a few answers, and we can just let you go. This time. A few blows here or there, it's an easy enough thing to happen."

He hesitated, afraid. This could be a trap... but the man seemed civilized enough. If only his memories of the last few days were better. If only he could remember whether or not Grans was a relatively orderly place…

"Gods," muttered the man. "Let's just start with your name then. Can you tell me your name?"

Summoning what little was left of his courage, he wetted his lips. "C…Cl…C…Cla…Clatt," he stammered.