Chapter 5:

Importance of Circumspection

Kronos rode hard, from time to time edging his head around to take a backwards glance. So far, the pursuit had not set in. As Lord Zocc had promised. A ghost of a smile brushed his lips. It had all been pulled off. This was the blow that would provide the beginning of the end of the Gransi, this was the plan that would restore Galam to its rightful place, this was the response merited by the insult that Lord Bowie of Granseal had delivered Kronos's people and this was the maneuver that not even Lord Paul Chelsted could prevent.

"Shaita," he shouted, over the thunder of the horse's hooves and the rush of the wind. "You're bloody well certain you can keep him out of things?"

He could barely hear the shaman's thin voice. "Sir Astral will remain insensate for some hours yet, my lord. Not to worry."

Kronos nodded sharply and turned his face forward again, to avoid any accidents of course, but, more importantly, to conceal the smile of victory on his face. His men needed to see him a stern, tireless, dutiful leader. A man of steel. It is all mine. Vengeance, honor, safety… Galam is mine.

---

The air in the dungeons was cool, and all the cooler for the water dripping from his scalp. Bowie shook his head briefly, trying to get the cold out of his bones. That, he suspected, would be easier than ridding himself of the guilt. Gods, but what was going through my mind? Taking that poor woman was… I don't even know what that was!

He swung the door open, and froze, momentarily arrested by the sight within. Lord Darell was hanging against the wall, chained by his wrists. His face was badly bruised, and blood was trickling from his lower lip. Colonel Zellar spun around to face Bowie, a blood-stained knife in his hand.

"Zellar…" Bowie nearly choked on his own bile. "What are you doing?!"

The colonel fingered his small pointed beard, sparing the lordling only the briefest of glances. "A traitor," he said, almost indifferently.

Bowie stepped forward, fists clenched. "Dammit man, I know about that! That doesn't condone torture. What kind of a Gransi are you?"

A look of confused rage quickly eclipsed the indifference. Zellar's hand tightened against the knife in his hand. "We need to know everything." Eyes burning in that stern face, the colonel took a step forward. "He's just a Galamani! A traitor. He has no claims of honor."

Bowie clenched his teeth hard, swallowed. He could not even say that Zellar was wrong. Lord Darell was a traitor. All of the Galamani were traitors, according to Granserian custom. This is wrong. In answer he could hear the demon's voice, still echoing in his ears. There are no crimes when you are the only one left. Always that same accursed assertion! What did it mean?

Bowie took another few steps forward, ignoring Zellar now, kneeling down in front of the chained captive.

"Yes," hissed Zellar. "Do it, milord!"

Bowie scarcely noticed the mocking title, his attention far more focused on the knife that was suddenly in his hands. The bloodstained knife. Stained with Lord Darell's blood. Bowie swallowed, staring into the pale young nobleman's face. Chained, beaten, bloody, you could really see how young Darell was. A boy. And yet, conversely, there seemed to be an air of grace, a true cast of nobility in him that Bowie had not recalled noticing before.

He looked at the knife, so sharp and bright and slick with blood. Trembling, he held the point close to Lord Darell's chest. The nobleman stared back at him, a spark of fear in his young eyes. Just a boy.

Bowie did not know how he felt at this moment. His thoughts were too confused, too disordered. Mad old Galam was there in his thoughts, laughing and whispering at him. And the girl he had taken during the feast. His blood boiled with shame. What had driven him to that? He couldn't say, but at the time, that wave of disgust, frustration, desire… it had swept over him. Swept him away. I was not there for Sir Astral. I forced us into a battle with Galam that I couldn't actually win. Only the wildest stroke of luck won that battle. And now…

Torture… was it even wrong to use it on an enemy? A traitor with no claim to honor? He squeezed his hand more tightly against the hilt. I've already made so many mistakes. He stared into Darell's eyes, moving the point in a bit further. "I…"

The door to the cell slammed open. "What is the meaning of this?"

Bowie started, the knife clattering numbly from his hand. He turned and saw Minister Graig, an expression of near apoplectic fury on his face. "That is enough." His tone went beyond disgust. Graig's gaze fell on Zellar. "Unchain him."

"What," sputtered Zellar. "Minister, I-"

"Do it! Now."

Seething, the colonel's hands busied themselves with the manacles at Lord Darell's wrists. As he released the second shackle, Darell collapsed to the floor of the cell with a faint cry of relief.

Graig stepped to the side, jerking a thumb towards Lord Darell. "You two," he said to a couple of guards over his shoulder, "take him and clean him up. Treat his wounds. We'll want this one later."

The guards seized Darell roughly off of the floor, carrying him easily enough away. Graig looked at both of them with disfavor, his eyes still carrying frozen fury in them. "We are not those kinds of men," he said coldly.

Bowie slowly rose, looking mutely at the stonework. He was completely shamed, but he was not certain if it was because he had lacked the courage that Graig had just displayed or if it had been because he honestly had not known what to do.

It was nearly on his tongue to tell Graig what had happened, that he hadn't truly taken any part in the abuse of Darell, but he choked the words back. He could already see, it would never be enough for the Lord Minister. It would make no difference to this man. And it would be dishonest besides. Bowie had not truly rebuked Zellar either. He had considered turning the knife against Darell; he had nearly brought himself to do it…

There are no crimes when you are the only one left. The thought lent him some confidence, as he followed Zellar and Graig out of the cell. "Lord Minister," he began, but the bald old man merely shot him another contemptuous glance.

"We will talk once we reach the council chamber. It is best that these affairs do not spill out at all."

Bowie clenched his teeth, submitting to Graig's criticism. Just at the moment he felt that he was the loneliest man in all of Grans. Was there anyone else in the whole of the island who could understand what he felt, not just the shame, but the true ambiguity? Graig could understand the contempt, surely, and Zellar the anger perhaps. But amongst all the others, amongst even his friends, would they understand what it meant to see two equally valid paths before one's eyes? Was it even possible? Only Sir Astral might have known, might have understood.

The agony gripped his stomach. Sir Astral… His old mentor. His old friend. Gone now. In the clutch of the Galamani to be tormented or slain as they chose. He had utterly failed Sir Astral in a way that left him wishing he could weep. Weeper! Cravenly weeper!

And gods… The woman he had taken. That was what truly stung. He had not been at the dais, for what reason? Pride he had thought at the time. But had it merely been his pride? Taking her was…well, not that she found that attention undesirable, but why would I do such a thing? That was weak, shameful. I failed everyone by taking her for my own pride… was I drunk? Drunk on wine, on power, on helplessness? Or am I truly that contemptible a being? The loneliness clawed into his heart deeper than ever. With Sir Astral gone, he was alone in this way. And there are no crimes when you are the only one left.

"I…" He forced the words out of his throat, forced the shame from flooding his voice. "I know what's happened. But how? Why?"

Graig sighed, and his tone was gentler than it had been. "The answers to these questions lie in the council, my lord. Not with me."

Bowie nodded, forgetting that the green-robed minister would be unable to see the gesture, walking ahead as he was. He held his silence. What more could he say, after all? What could he ever say that would actually show Graig the tumult in his soul? Graig might hear his words, but he would not listen. Weeper!

After another several minutes of walking, they finally reached the council chamber. Graig opened the door for them, at last addressing Zellar. "Colonel, guard the door. Don't let anyone through without checking with me."

Zellar's eyes started to smolder, but he took up a guard position nonetheless. Zellar always obeyed orders. It was his greatest virtue.

Holding his head slightly, Bowie followed the Lord Minister into the council chamber putting his disagreeable subordinate out of his mind.

"My dear Lord Bowie," coughed Mrell, hopping to his feet, "what's happened to you, man? You look absolutely horrible. Why, you're dripping wet."

Bowie clenched his teeth, settled into a chair, fought the darkness swimming around his head. "An unfortunate necessity, General Mrell. The water was most… refreshing."

"Oh." Mrell coughed loudly, staring at the floor.

"Might we begin?" Graig's voice sounded tight.

Mrell started to sit back down, but Bowie sat straight up, ignoring the confusion in his mind. "No. Where is His Grace?"

Graig looked at him, his expression utterly disgusted. "His Grace is drunk. Surely you're quick enough to catch that much."

Bowie glared straight back. "He is the king. You propose to try to come to some… some policy without him?"

"Lord Bowie, do not pretend to be stupider than you are." Graig steepled his fingers. "His Grace rarely bothers to attend our council meetings as it is. I see no reason to expend time or effort making certain that His Grace is no longer inebriated and present here."

"Of course not," spat Bowie to cover his own doubts. "That way you can speak for him and have you way that much more easily. Granseal has been attacked. What is that if not a matter of the king?"

Graig's eyes misted with fury momentarily, but his rage did not spill over into his tone. He sighed deeply. "You think me a bitter old man, Lord Bowie. You think me against you. You think me a self-serving schemer. I assure you, my lord, I want only what is best for Granseal. No one here is your enemy."

He exhaled sharply, his muscles tensing involuntarily. He opposes me! He does. In the Council, he always opposes me. He's made it clear. But how could Bowie say that? Disagreement over policy was not a legitimate accusation of power. His eyes watered. Gods, not now. Not with Sir Astral… His chest clenched and his watered all the more fiercely. He could hear them now, if only they knew it all. Weeper! Cravenly weeper!

"What else do you suggest then?" Bowie swallowed as much of his anger as he could, trying to be as mild as possible. What right have I to judge Graig anyway? I was not at the dais…

Graig's gaze remained cold. "I take it you do not know how the abduction was carried off?" Bowie mutely shook his head. "That is a matter that bears more investigation, even for those of us who witnessed it," the Lord Minister declared. He twisted around briefly, his hand stretching out towards the room's single window. "If you would be so kind, my lord."

Bowie started, staring at the splash of hair, gleaming like burnished copper in this light. He hadn't seen him, standing there at the window with his back to all of them. "Kazin."

The mage turned, his face smooth, blank. He glanced at Bowie, and his jaw worked momentarily, betraying his agitation. "As you command, my Lord Minister. As far as I can see the fact of the abduction is simple enough. Lord Kronos's pet shaman had a device of power; an amulet. It may be that I've read of it, but nothing immediately comes to mind. Using that, they overpowered Sir Astral's senses and fled. It was a very simple scheme."

Bowie frowned. "How is it that they left Lord Darell behind? That strikes me as clumsy."

Kazin met his gaze for a moment before turning again, so that he was looking out on the night. "That," the elf said quietly, "I cannot be certain of. Lord Darell was dancing at the time. He likely did not know."

General Mrell coughed loudly, stroking his moustache. "Lord Darell may hold the answers we seek," he pronounced carefully. "Indeed! The very answers we seek. Mayhaps it would be prudent to question him."

Graig frowned. "We do not have a full understanding or consensus as to what our questions are yet. I should think it best to await Master Slade's findings."

"My lords!" Bowie stood, ignoring his impulse to weep, relegating his doubts to the back of his mind. I have failed you once, Astral. Not again. "My lords," he repeated in a softer, still forceful, tone. "Give me but an hour and, with the aid of my friends, I can gather at least a hundred swords."

The room seemed to become deathly still, and for just a moment Bowie thought he could see King Galam standing over Graig's shoulder, laughing at him. The king, the demon grated, the king of nothing.

"Indeed." Graig's voice was very soft. "And what should we do with these hundred swords, my lord?"

"Strike! If we move now, we negate everything that Lord Kronos has attempted to accomplish here."

Graig stared at him. "And what would come after such a measure, my lord? Would we punish this insult?"

"Well…" Bowie spluttered, nonplussed by the question. "Of course, dammit. This… an act of war."

Graig sat there, looking at the table, twisting his robe in his hands. "No." It was a hard word, intended to end the discussion. "No," he repeated.

"Dammit," Bowie exploded, rising to his feet in wrath. "You pompous ass! Don't you see? Every moment we delay, Kronos gets Sir Astral further from our reach. If we move now-"

"You probably wouldn't reach Lord Kronos anyway." General Mrell nodded his head sorrowfully several times. "No, most like not. Lord Kronos is a good warrior, he will be away fast. You would strip Granseal of its strongest defenders for a useless purpose, my lord. No, no. It would not do." He scratched his moustache.

"You can say that," Bowie snapped heatedly, "but with air support we-"

A hand placed itself on his shoulder. It was Kazin. The mage had evidently strolled over from the window. "It still probably would not serve, Bowie," he said, and his tone was more sympathetic than Mrell's had been. "I spent time with Lord Kronos. He was arrogant, nervous, rude, but above all, he was impatient. He would not take time returning to Galam in any circumstances, let alone these."

Bowie spun, unwilling to listen, and he shoved Kazin hard. The mage uttered a mild curse as he went sprawling to the polished floor. "Ha! What do you know of these things," Bowie nearly screamed at him. His guilt would not relent. He had nearly destroyed Granseal, he had not been there when Sir Astral had needed him, and he had nearly brought himself to bring the knife to Lord Darell. How could he not hate himself for such failings? "You're just a mage and I can knock you straight on your ass!"

Kazin got slowly to his feet, leaning on the table a bit as he did so. His cheek twitched momentarily, and his movements were stiff. "As you say, my lord," he said in a wooden voice.

Bowie was suddenly, deeply ashamed. "I…"

"No." Graig's ice-cold voice washed back over him. "I do not authorize it. Lord Kazin you may be able to defeat, but he is in your reach whereas Lord Kronos is not. Enough of this."

"But…" Bowie steadied his jaw as best he could as the grief swept over him. The room blurred, and the light became harsher in his eyes. He could feel the water, straining to get out. No. Sir Astral… He could still hear the thinly-veiled contempt in Graig's voice. Weeper! Cravenly weeper!

With a groan, Bowie slumped back into his seat. I have no right to voice my counsel. I can barely stay awake during the ordinary sessions. Graig is Lord Minister. He can. It was not enough to stop him from trying though. "Please." He looked up, locked eyes with the green-robed head of the council. "Please. If we strike and strike successfully, then we negate all the advantage Galam has picked up."

Graig looked straight at him. "You are willful, my lord."

Bowie gaped at him, in frustrated silence. This old man called him willful? This fool? The rage coiled.

"Now, now," Mrell coughed loudly, "mayhaps we can…" His voice drifted off, as he stared at the two of them.

"That's right, Mrell," Bowie said coldly. "Give him a chance to get the poison out of his blood." He tilted his head sarcastically to the Lord Minister of Granseal. "Pray continue."

Graig's mouth was a hard line. "As you wish. I warned you, my lord. I told you, you were going too fast with your plans for peace with the Galamani, and you are going too fast now. Lord Bowie, you are heedless."

"Yes," Bowie hissed at him. "But I'm not a child, Lord Minister, and I know exactly what I'm doing. You're an obstructionist old fool with no understanding of honor, and I will not be dictated to by you!"

Graig stood, his eyes filled with cold rage. "I do not authorize your strike."

Bowie exploded out of his seat, nearly throwing himself across the table, his fists seizing hold of Graig's green robe. "You are not the king. I may do as I wish with my own sworn swords."

Contempt oozed out of Graig's tone. "And what will you do, my lord, snap me like a twig if I stand in your way? That is treason."

General Mrell hopped over, waving his arms agitatedly. "This is enough, gentlemen." He grabbed Bowie's left arm. "Please, my lord, let the Lord Minister go. My lords…"

Bowie glared for a moment longer, and then violently released Graig. The old man had been giving a good impression of just standing in place, but he fell right into his chair.

Bowie nodded brusquely to Kazin. "Prepare the others. We leave within the hour."

"Hold." Graig's retort was breathless. "Do as you will, my lord, though do not say I did not warn you. But at least allow us to question Lord Darell first. That is my price for supporting your folly."

"Very well," Bowie said sullenly, sitting back down. He gestured at Kazin to continue. "Make certain they are rea-"

"I want Lord Kazin to conduct the interrogation."

It took Bowie a moment to catch the implication. "Kaz… you mean to compel answers with magic? That's disgusting!"

Graig gave him a chilling glance. "You would quibble with me over that? It was not I who held a knife to his chest."

Bowie swallowed, forced himself to not object to the criticism. "That was…" He set his jaw. "If Sir Astral were here he would tell it was wrong. He would not do this."

"You arrogant pup!" Graig hit the table, his eyes smoldering with rage. "You don't know Sir Astral at all. He has thrice performed this very task for King Granseal himself."

Bowie gripped the table, trying to halt the ice in his blood. "You lie. I won't respect that."

"And I do not respect you. We will be on with this and you will control yourself, or I will have you chained to the dungeons my lord, until His Grace is at leisure to review these matters personally."

"I dislike this," Mrell broke in sharply, halting his ceaseless pacing. He fiddled with the ends of his moustache. "If you propose to lock up Lord Bowie for that objection, best add me to your list, Lord Minister."

"Oh, your so honorable objection," snapped Graig. "Were it up to you, we would be torturing the man!"

Mrell lowered his gaze. "Well… if it came down to one or the other…" He poured himself a cup of wine, his face sullen and closed.

Gods, Bowie thought despairingly. I am surrounded by fools. A blacker thought occurred to him. Yet if it leads to Sir Astral's recovery… The pain gripped his chest again, so tightly he could scarcely breathe. He had not been there for his old mentor, and for what? Pride.

Desperate, he turned to his final means of objection, the only arrow he had yet to loose. "But if Kazin… Do you consent?"

He was staring into his friend's cool green eyes. Kazin glanced at him, then at Graig. He paced thoughtfully over to Mrell, and produced a small cup of wine for himself that he drank at a gulp. He strode back over to the window, gracing Bowie with one more glance. He turned to his back, staring out into the night again. "I will do it."

---

The night was dark, windy. The sky had a stormy cast to it, but it was not raining, and for that much, Clatt could profess honest and complete gratitude.

It seemed such a long time since he had waken in that cell, only to be released, but the mage knew that it had been only a few days. A giddy laugh built up in his throat, yearning to be released. Clatt stifled it as best he could, glancing around nervously.

It was dark enough out here that he was not confident he could see everything, and only in the most desperate straits would he consider conjuring up fire to help him see. If he could see, other things could see him. The horse beneath him whinnied nervously. The animal could sense it too.

There was a feeling of power in the air, and it was one that Clatt did not recognize. That it was old, powerful, he did not doubt. He pulled his robe tightly against himself. His hands were shaking. He had never been overly fond of the dark or mysterious missions.

Clatt was rather fond of his own life however, and of power. If he could pull this off, both things would be his. He had nearly wrested control from the hands' of his lords back in Rune, but then the Shining Force had laid waste to Skull Castle. He had been fortunate to escape that.

The thought brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. The wind picked up strength, pulling harder at the hood of his cloak, but Clatt was too absorbed in his memories to take any note of that. At the time, he had been scared. High Commander Eiku had been taken in an ambush, betrayed, or so the men whispered. All of his subordinates were in disfavor. They may even have been given to the axe!

Clatt shivered pleasurably, fully pleased with himself for avoiding an end, either from Mishalea or the Shining Force's rage (though nothing he had done had had any particular effect on that). Was this not more evidence of his greatness? He had avoided the fate that had found the lords of the darkness! He had been spared for a glorious purpose, Clatt was certain. And he had made himself before all on his own talents. He could do it again. He was Clatt.

He was jolted back to the present as his horse shied away from the path in front of him. Cursing, Clatt reached down to stroke its head, thinking to calm it, perhaps to try to enter its thoughts the better to do so. The horse whinnied, reared upwards, and galloped forward.

Clatt howled in fright, the wind suddenly seeming much more real as he struggled to get a hold on the reins, to bring the horse to a halt. "Sto-st-stop!" The frightened squeak had no more effect on the horse than it would have had on a storm.

Flailing wildly, he nearly regained his seat. Only for his foot to slide out of the stirrup. Screaming in terror, he started to slide down the side of the horse. He was going to die, he'd seen what happened when a man was left dangling by the side of a rampaging horse, he was finally going to die, he was…

Something hard hit him in the face, and the next thing he knew, he was lying sprawled out on the ground, the trees of the forest above him. Whimpering in pain, he slowly sat up. Blood was in his mouth and the horse was nowhere to be seen. "F-fu-f-fuck!"

He tried to regain his feet, but the world swam sickeningly around him. He sat back down with a thump, and considered bursting into unmanly tears. He very nearly did too, but in the end he decided to crawl forward.

The tears still stung his eyes. It wasn't fair. He'd risen high under Lynx, but then the High Commander had killed himself. Eiku had chosen to retain his services, but then Mishalea had killed Eiku. He had kept his life, but then the Shining Force had killed Mishalea. He had wandered, alone, powerless, drunk more often than not, getting by with just his wits and often by the skin of his teeth.

It had been a godsend when Colonel Zellar had just let him go. Grans was a civilized place; he had a chance to be comfortable here. There were at least two powerful wizards at court. That had been promising. And so he had applied himself to Lord Minister Graig in hopes of earning a place for himself. Graig had been courteous to him; he had listened despite the stutter unlike all of the others. And though he had been unable to promise Clatt anything, he had suggested that Clatt do him just one small, easy favor…

Only now even that had gone wrong. There was rumble in the air, and rain started to fall. Tears sprang into his eyes again. Whimpering, he stumbled to his feet, half-running half-dragging himself forward. Where to, he didn't know. All he knew was that he had to escape the rain.

One of his sandals snapped. Clatt gave in and wept openly at that, still hobbling along. Why did everything have to happen to him? What had he done to deserve it? He was Clatt. These things should have been happening to other people, not to him…

It was then that he saw it. A door in a small outcrop of rocks. Heedless of everything else now, he ran straight for it, throwing himself at it. The door resisted him in an oddly fluid way for a moment, almost as though it was mobile and he stationary, but then it swung open. Clatt jumped in quickly.

The air in this place was thick, heavy, encroaching, immense. And yet the… he blinked. He seemed to be in some kind of ruins. The place was as airy as it was encroaching. As hot as it was cold. And there was some kind of blue light in it.

Clatt huddled in a corner, trying to make himself comfortable. He would wait out the storm, try to remember a healing spell and then… Without the horse, the task would take him twice as long. He wanted to cry again. It wasn't fair.

"Ah." The voice was dusty and Clatt jumped. A figure hovered in front of him. It was dressed in a faded blue uniform with burning eyes and an unruly beard. "Splendid. You are here."

Clatt stared in horror. More power than he had ever felt before in any one presence, even Zeon's, was concentrated in this figure. "Y-you…" He swallowed nervously, stumbling upright, circling the figure. "You're n-not r-r-really h-here."

"Perceptive mage," the figure laughed. "I appear solid where most other illusions do not."

"S-still…" with sheer force of will, he strangled his urge to stutter the word, "diluted."

The figure chuckled again. "You are here at the behest of your worldly master. What is this purpose, mage?"

Clatt knew better than to try to answer untruthfully to a being of this much power. "A… sh-ship. I am t-to m-mee-meet a ship. C-co-coll-c-collect th-the car-cargo. Th-then d-destroy th-the s-sh-sh-ship."

The figure nodded understandingly. "You are not far from the southern cove. Doubtless this is where you were heading. Continue there. Serve your worldly master. Kill the people crewing the ship. But keep the ship itself. Keep it hidden." The figure laughed again. "I can see the doubt in you mage, but you know enough to do my bidding. You are here for a higher reason, and that is me. Stay the night, and then proceed. You'll be able to keep in touch with me when you need to."

The figure flickered, twisted and vanished. But in his chest, Clatt could feel a burning sensation that could only be power, a mark of the figure perhaps. And even though he was cold from the rain, he felt warm inside. He was reborn. The servant of a god.