In the silence that pervaded the room, the creature that had taken up residence within Penelo's body shook off her head as if to clear it, then lifted her hands for inspection.
Shook Penelo's head; lifted Penelo's hands.
A disgusted sound erupted from her lips, which contorted into a fierce scowl. "This body is damaged," she said, her voice unpracticed and with a peculiar intonation, full of stilted consonants and silky-smooth vowels.
"That body," Balthier snarled, his jaw locked in fury, "belongs to a person who possesses a name."
"Bah!" Her mouth twisted in a sneer, so entirely incongruous on Penelo's face that it brought Balthier up short. "That matters not at all, as I've no need for it." She made to rise from the floor, but managed only a paltry effort before she collapsed once more to the ground. "Ugh! What ails this body now? It is often plagued by such weakness?"
Balthier marveled at the fact that the being housed in Penelo's body expected him to inform her of its limitations. What incredible arrogance it possessed, one might almost think – oh. The bloody queen; of course it was the bloody queen. She hadn't merely lingered, her spirit entombed along with her body these past centuries; she had lain in wait for some foolish person to come offering freedom – and a fresh new body to go along with it.
"Anora, I presume?" What was the protocol for addressing long-dead queens?
Her eyes – Penelo's eyes, he reminded himself – narrowed to slits, slanting him a cutting glance. "Do you frequently address your betters by their given names? I demand the respect that is my due."
A bark of laughter escaped him. "And what respect are you due? You're a common thief, the same as I."
Her gasp of outrage rent the air. "You dare! I am no thief!"
The chiding glance he sent her required no words to accompany it.
"Her heart was opened," she said, defensively. "I took it for an invitation." She peeled back the layer of bandages encasing the palm of Penelo's hand, shuddering as she surveyed the ruined palm. "Defective," she pronounced. "She offered up a defective body."
"For the gods' sake – she did not offer it up to you." He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "What manner of person were you, that you would mistake simple empathy for an invitation to steal a body?"
"I owe you no explanations," she snapped, a fire glowing in her eyes. "I have taken this body for my use, and I do not surrender what is mine." She shoved herself up on legs that wobbled precariously. Balthier supposed five centuries absent a body might render her unfamiliar with one's use.
He drew his gun, leveled it at her, and cocked it. The sound ricocheted around the room, deafening. She examined the weapon without apparent interest; Balthier surmised that in her time, firearms might not yet have been invented. Thus the threat was meaningless, lost entirely on a woman who had no experience with the damage such a weapon could wreak.
With a scathing sound, she whirled and headed for the door. He took careful aim and fired; the shot lodged in the wall a few inches from her shoulder, sending a spray of stone shards through the air. In the small room, the single shot had had the sound of an explosion, setting Balthier's ears to ringing. The queen was not unaffected; she cringed, slamming her hands over her ears, coughing to relieve her lungs of the cloud of dust that choked her. Her furious eyes skewered him, but there was a new respect in them, and not a little fear.
"A firearm," he said, in response to the unvoiced question. "A ranged weapon, capable of inflicting powerful damage. You will not be leaving this tomb."
A ragged laugh burst from her chest. "You would not kill me," she said. "Not when it means her death, as well."
"She is…dear to me," he acknowledged. "But there are things worse than death, and for her, I think this would be one of them." He gestured with the gun that she should take a seat, and, after a moment's hesitation, she did so. Stiffly, as if it galled her to be ordered by him, but sit she did nonetheless.
"We are at an impasse," she said.
"Not so," he replied, his weapon unwavering. "As I see it, the upper hand is entirely mine."
His confidence piqued her anger; she cast a sulky glare in his direction, tipping her nose upward in a haughty dismissal.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said. "That's a borrowed face you're wearing, and that petulance doesn't suit her in the least."
She bared her teeth in a scowl. "You shall simply have to acclimate yourself." She looped her arms around her knees, wincing when she clasped her injured palm. "What makes you so fond of this form? It has little to recommend it, and surely no great beauty."
"There are things more precious than beauty," he said, in a scathing voice. "If she fails to meet your exacting standards, why should you keep hold of her?"
She sniffed disdainfully. "A queen has no great need of beauty," she said. "She rules by right of blood alone, and if her detractors find her not beautiful, then they will at least find her terrible to cross."
"Ahh," he said, a subtle taunt creeping into his tone. "As your detractors found you?"
A harsh, in-drawn breath rent the air; she ground her teeth together in an effort to quell her fury. "You speak of things you know naught," she hissed. "The Margraces came not as enemies but as friends, and I suffered much for their betrayal. They did not even offer me an honorable end – instead they smiled benignly while they slipped poison into my cup. I begged for death long before it was granted to me."
He could almost pity her for that. Perhaps he could have bestirred himself to dredge up a bit of sympathy – had she not hijacked Penelo's body for her use. He managed a rusty chuckle, and said, "Given what I know of you, your majesty, I can hardly blame them."
At that, her lower lip quivered just a bit, though she averted her face half a moment later.
Penelo would have sympathized with her.
He brushed away that obnoxious thought. What Penelo would have done hardly mattered. And besides, hadn't she so ruthlessly consigned Vaan to a prison cell for the foreseeable future?
But that was a prison of the lad's own making – this was a prison of centuries that had been snapped shut on a young woman who had merely had the misfortune to have conniving distant relatives.
"Where is she?" he asked. "What have you done with her?"
Her face jerked back towards him, her hand pressed to her chest. There was the faint shimmer of tears in her eyes. After a moment, she said in a low voice, fisting her hand over her heart, "She is here still. She struggled quite fiercely for a time, but she is quiet now. Still. Perhaps she sleeps."
Not bloody likely. How could she, when she found herself in yet another prison? And this was one he could not break her free of – not unless the dead queen chose to vacate the premises, so to speak. So he would have to convince her to do so of her own accord…somehow. How would Penelo manage it?
Sympathy. She would be sympathetic to the plight of this girl who had suffered her own imprisonment.
The gun weighed heavily on his hand, but he braced it upon his knee to keep it level. "Tell me how it happened, then. What came to pass that brought you here?"
She turned wide, wounded eyes to him. "You would see me snuffed out like a candle; how could you possibly care?"
"Because Penelo – that's the girl who's body you've stolen, by the by – was right. No one deserves to be forgotten." His lips thinned in a gruesome travesty of a smile. "Not even a miserable, thieving ghost of a queen."
"I am forgotten?" she asked. She wore a curious expression – a blend of shock and befuddlement.
"Yes, you ninny – it's been five hundred years. The early Margraces scrubbed your name from history. Your tomb has become a thing of legend, and your people have attributed it to the final resting place to an ancient, evil king."
"But the books –" She waved one hand towards a stack of ancient texts. "Surely they contain something?"
"Those ones might," he said. "Though I doubt they'll contain anything that would incriminate the Margraces. But the surviving texts from your era mention you not at all. You might as well never have existed."
Her head dropped back, and a hard, weary sigh stirred a whorl of mist. She raised her hands to her eyes to scrub at them viciously, and though she gave a fierce effort in stifling it, Balthier heard the brief, muffled sob that choked her.
He reminded himself that she was just a young girl – younger, even, than Penelo – who had met a gruesome end that she likely had not deserved. She had been imprisoned for centuries; surely that was bound to twist a soul. She wanted the freedom that had been denied her, and, while perfectly understandable, he could not grant it to her at the expense of another. Most certainly not at Penelo's expense.
He sighed and holstered his pistol. "You must know," he said, "that there is nothing left for you in this world. Your time has long passed; you know naught of this one. Even did you attempt to rejoin it, where would you go? You cannot reclaim your throne, and you've no way to take it, besides. Your kingdom is in other hands – capable hands, I might add."
"A Margrace sits my throne!" she cried. "It is unbearable to think of. They deserve to suffer –"
"Not these ones," he interrupted. "Would you truly seek to punish them for crimes they have not committed? They are five hundred years removed from those who wronged you." He readjusted, slinging his arm over his knee. "However evil their ancestors, the Margraces who currently rule Rozarria are good, honorable people. They are innocent of any crimes against you."
She bowed her head, contemplative, gazing down at her palms settled in her lap. In a low voice she said, "For five hundred years, I have had only hatred to sustain me. It is all that I have."
"And you would have hatred be your legacy, then?" he asked. "You would use it to settle an ancient score against people who don't even know your name?"
She made a rough sound in her throat and pressed her hands to her eyes. Her shoulders slumped. "It isn't fair," she whispered, in a tearful voice.
"Life – and death – seldom are," he said. And though she made no reply, he continued on, "Penelo has suffered as well. Perhaps not to the length and depth that you have, but she, too, has suffered imprisonment in her time. Would you repay her sympathy for your suffering by imprisoning her once again? For that would make you the same sort of villain as the Margraces."
A sharp gasp met his words; she lifted her head and stared at him. She wore an expression of utter vulnerability, but it rested uncomfortably upon her, as if she were both unfamiliar with it and vexed by it. Her lower lip trembled, but she caught it between her teeth and firmed her chin. Her gaze dropped to her lap once again as she admitted, in a very small voice, "I fear what awaits me. So much of me is hatred; I know not what else remains of who I once was."
"I daresay I shall fear what awaits me, as well, when it is my time to kick off this mortal coil. There is no shame in that. But your freedom from this prison is not out into the world; it is what awaits you in the hereafter, whatever that may be. Best that you should let free your hatred and see if anything worthy remains." He shoved himself to his feet once again and offered her his hand.
She accepted it, and his help to her feet, eyeing his holstered pistol askance, as if it might set itself off on its own. "Will you…" She faltered, nibbling at her lower lip, unsure. "Will you truly restore me to history?"
"Provided that we – that is to say, Penelo and I – are able to navigate this wretched jungle back into civilization unscathed, I assure you that I will." He gestured to the stacks and stacks of books littering the floor. "Were it not buried so deep in such a dangerous jungle, I imagine droves of archaeologists would overrun this place. Historical scholars would dearly love to learn of the missing years in Rozarria's past. As it is, we'll be able to take only what we can carry."
There was a moment's awkward pause as she considered that. At length she said, begrudgingly, "This body ill suits me, I think. It is imperfect, and I find I like it not its limitations." She raked him with a curious look. "She is covered with scars and wounds – why should you wish the return of such an imperfect creature?"
Balthier shook his head, amused that she could be so willfully ignorant. "It isn't the body – it's the girl. There is a kindness in her that is incorruptible. She is, perhaps, too good for this world, bent by her ordeals, but unbroken. She deserves every happiness in life, and yet has suffered too much of its ugliness."
She nodded shakily, and said in a rush, "Then I will return her to you, and brave the winds of fate. I ask only for a small portion of your time, that I might relate my history for you to take with you."
At last he allowed himself a smile, and said, "Your majesty, it would be my honor."
Squander not your good fortune, child.
The soft, feminine whisper pierced the fog that had clouded her mind, and Penelo came back to awareness by slow degrees, with the sensation that she was floundering upwards through a murky darkness, struggling into the light. There was the curious feeling of something lifting away like a veil that had enshrouded her, coercing her into a long, deep sleep.
She took a breath, and then another, and though her lashes still felt weighted heavily upon her cheeks, she heard the sizzle of the lighted torches, felt the cool press of the stone upon her back and the careful stroke of fingers through her hair.
"Welcome back." Balthier's voice was warm and tinged with relief.
Had she gone somewhere? She remembered only discovering the queen's coffin, reaching out to touch it, a vague sense of panic, and then – nothing.
"What happened?" Her voice was a thin croak, her mouth dry as a desert, her throat raw and scratched as if she'd done a good deal of talking. She managed to lift her lashes at last, and blinked to bring the room into focus.
There was a soft snicker. "Ah, well – my initial assessment turned out to be correct. The queen did linger."
"Did she?" She shoved herself to her elbows, thrusting herself up to a seated position. Balthier dangled a canteen before her and she snatched at it greedily.
"Mm," he said. "And she, er…elected to borrow you for a bit."
She choked, coughed once, managed a terse, "Rude."
"So I managed to convince her," he said. "She was quite set on keeping you, for a while."
Indignation snapped her spine straight. "Why, that little –"
Balthier coughed into his fist and murmured, "She's still here."
A shadow peeled itself from the wall, slinking over the stone floor in a manner that might've been considered vaguely apologetic. There was little form to it, just the suggestion of something not quite of this world.
Balthier said, "I've assured her that, in exchange for your safe return, we would do our utmost to restore her to her proper place in history. Which means we must make haste and secure an exit from this wretched jungle." He gestured to a small stack of books beside him. "It's unlikely that there will be further exploration of this place, given its location. These texts are the ones she has selected for us to return with. In conjunction with her own words, they ought to prove uniquely illuminating to historical scholars."
Just three texts, in deference to their already heavy bags. Out of the hundreds that were scattered in piles across the floor, only three books had been chosen. It was a shame, Penelo thought, that so much history had to be left behind.
"And you ought to be on your way," Balthier said to the shadow that had melded with those nearest the doorway, where the glow of the torches was slight. "Be brave, Anora."
Though it couldn't have been said to be actual speech, there came a soft whisper, as of wind wicking across stone, faintly chiding. Penelo could almost imagine that the shadow had chastised him for using her given name. In what might've been called a regal manner in a person, the shadow drew itself up, sliding through the open doorway and out of sight.
A moment later, there was a fierce rumbling. The very earth trembled around them, and as a shower of crumbling stone shook free from the ceiling, they scrambled to their feet. Balthier snatched at the books; Penelo grabbed for their bags, and together they dashed for the entrance, eager to be free of the tomb lest it drop down around their heads and make of them its newest occupants.
Outside the tomb, the ground beneath their feet groaned and heaved, and in the overwhelming darkness they scrabbled for purchase upon the unsteady earth. Fearing that it might split beneath her to swallow her up, Penelo nonetheless dove for the ground, flat upon her belly, and covered her head with her hands to shield it.
Her ears burned with the mighty crack of trees breaking and the sharp, ear-splitting shriek of stone grinding against stone as the earth bellowed its outrage. It seemed long minutes before the chaos that had come so suddenly at last settled, and longer still before her heart ceased its frantic, thunderous beat.
And then, stranger still – her hands were growing warm. She opened her eyes at last, to a changed landscape. Brilliant sunlight poured through the ruined trees above, spilling in across the remnants of the stone path that had been ripped asunder. It was as though an angry god had swept a massive scythe across the land, tearing out trees by their roots and carving a deep valley through the depths of the jungle, spreading with it the first sunlight the jungle had likely seen in hundreds of years. It had to be fifty feet across or more and just as deep, running the length of the land far into the distance.
And then a brisk wind swept through the newly-opened canopy, carrying down with it a soft, sweet sound – a gasp of surprised delight; the last breath of an ancient queen who had gone on to her next reward.
Beside her, Balthier heaved himself to his feet once more, carefully avoiding the loosed stones. With a satisfied chuckle, he helped Penelo to her feet and surveyed the valley before them. "She did it," he said. "She cast off her hatred, and look – it came to some good after all. I'd venture to say she's given us a way out."
The walk out of the jungle proved not nearly so treacherous as that into it, nor was it anywhere near as slow-going, owing to the fact that there were no vines to dispense with, no perilous landscape to traverse in near-complete darkness. There were no beasts to be found within the valley they walked, and so they risked no more danger than the possibility of turning an ankle upon a stray tree root.
The musty smell of dank moss had been vanquished by that of newly-turned earth, and it was rich and soft beneath their feet, providing a cushioned path for them to walk. The sun was high overhead still; Penelo supposed that they must have set out very early that morning indeed, for it couldn't be much past midday.
Balthier insisted on stopping every so often to change the bandage wrapping her palm, carefully inspecting it each time for any hint of infection. Penelo felt that she could have gone without him poking and prodding at the wound, which was still fresh enough to sting each time he poured water over it to cleanse it. But she gratefully accepted the sole remaining potion when he offered it nonetheless, for the dripping sweat coaxed forth by the midday sun stung worse in the wound than the water.
They passed the remaining canteen between them in silence for some time, before Penelo worked up the nerve to ask what had occurred while the queen had taken possession of her.
"Nothing of consequence," he said. "Like most royals of my acquaintance, I found her rather spoiled. It took a great deal of talking – and some carefully-drawn parallels – to convince her that she could not have you."
Penelo shuddered, unbearably relieved that he had managed it, that he'd even bothered to go through the trouble. "I suppose I ought to thank you, then."
"Quite." He snickered. "As it happens, I achieved very little until I considered what you might've done under similar circumstances."
Her head snapped toward him so quickly that she missed the stone lying in the dirt before her and tripped upon it. "What?"
He shrugged. "She was able to prey upon you because you had opened your heart to her, or so she said. Five hundred years in that place had turned her cold and hard; she needed a sympathetic ear. And also someone to tell her that her hopes of revenge would be for naught, for if she punished innocents for ancient crimes, it would make of her the same sort of villain that she reviled."
"Oh." She had been prepared to dislike the queen despite her initial sympathy. Having one's body stolen did not tend to rouse good will. "And she agreed with that assessment?"
"Perhaps not initially," he said. "But a bit of well-placed guilt over imprisoning you just the same as she was imprisoned, and here we are." He reached for the canteen and took a deep drink. "Most of all, she was afraid. For centuries she had been unable to move on, locked away in that tomb, feeding only upon her hatred. And when the chance to move on at last arrived, she was afraid to take it, fearing what reward her hatred would earn her in the afterlife."
A smidgeon of that sympathy emerged once again for the queen who had lost her life to such dark scheming. She heaved a sigh and said, "It's not fair."
"That's just what she said," Balthier said. "And of course it wasn't, but it's the distant past now, and there is no going back. For what it's worth, I think history – when it is properly restored, that is – will look kindly on her. A queen in her own right, cruelly struck down and forgotten so many years – she'll cut quite the figure, I should think. The epitome of tragic romance, given what she told me."
Penelo supposed that would explain her sore throat – if the queen had imparted her story to Balthier, she'd likely done a great deal of talking. "Don't keep me in suspense; what did she tell you?"
He said, "The Margraces had marked her hand for one of their own sons – a boy some ten years her junior. He was merely to be a puppet, instilled upon the throne so that his relatives would rule through him. But Anora had no intention of giving up her birthright for a mere boy to sit her throne. And then she committed an unpardonable offense: she took a lover."
"Oh," she said. "Oh, dear." She blew out a breath. "I imagine that didn't go over well."
"Mm," he said. "About as well as could be expected. He was of the servant class, entirely unsuitable, and likely the worst possible choice. But she loved him, and she would have wed him had she had the opportunity. Clearly, the Margraces would not stand for that."
"No," she said. "I suppose they wouldn't."
"And so her lover was quietly done away with, or so she assumed; she knew only that he vanished, never to be seen again. Presumably he was killed for daring to reach above his station, ruining the queen for the Margraces' schemes. And when she called the Margraces to her court to account for him, they slipped her a poison – a particularly nasty one, for which there was no remedy. Only days and days of torment, until at last she succumbed to its effects." He shook his head, disgusted. "They hadn't even the mercy in them to make it quick – they had to make her suffer for her stubborn refusal to acquiesce to their demands."
"No wonder she wanted her revenge," Penelo murmured. "They took everything from her." So many years of pain – centuries spent in darkness, stewing in her misery and hatred, denied by the magick-warded tomb even the chance to ascend to the afterlife.
"They ordered her tomb built while she yet lived," he said darkly. "They spread tales to the populace that their much-beloved queen had been corrupted, that she had vowed vengeance upon her countrymen. Then they brought themselves forward as the saviors of Rozarria, that they would see her bound in death, so that her vengeful spirit could never plague the living."
Penelo drew in a quick, angry breath. "They made her into a vengeful spirit," she said.
"Yes," he said. "But how should the common men have known that? People are simple and easily lead; they trust in those who rule over them."
Penelo considered the plaque she had found hung in the tomb, the plea for mercy from the queen's vengeance. Anora must have had some loyalists amongst those who had entombed her, for the language in the plea had been more distraught than frightened.
"I suspect the texts were smuggled into the tomb to preserve them," Balthier said. "It is quite likely that the Margraces had already begun their campaign to remove her from history, as much to protect themselves from her as to maintain their ill-gotten power." He sighed. "She did not know that she had been forgotten," he said. "I think perhaps that was the worst of it; she had only her hollow hatred while the world moved on as if she had never been."
Penelo turned her face to the sky and shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun until the threat of tears had passed. "I hope she found him," she said wistfully.
"Hm?"
"Her lover," she said. "I hope she found him. I hope he waited for her." There had been that last sweet sound of delight, and perhaps it might have been the joy of two lovers reunited after so many centuries. Perhaps happiness waited, even in times of tragedy and suffering, just beyond the horizon. Penelo experienced a sliver of shock at how much she wanted to believe it was true, to believe in a happiness that could last in spite of everything. A happiness merely waiting to be discovered.
"I'd like to believe he did," Balthier said. And then, "Watch your step, there – the path is rising."
Some hours before, the path had deepened from a valley into a gorge, rising into cliffs on either side so tall that they could not glimpse what lay beyond them, whether they were in the midst of the jungle still or no. But the trek became arduous as the path climbed up and out, littered with the remnants of the shattered earth's crust, casting boulders and other debris into their path.
It was a fierce uphill climb of more than an hour, and the heat of the day was fading, the sun hidden behind the ridge of cliffs by the time they neared the end.
And yet, as they approached the summit, Penelo could not see the ruined trees that ought to have marked the edges of the cliffs. She struggled to keep pace with Balthier, clamoring over loose earth, carving footholds into it in the fierce effort to breach the top. But with her injured palm, she could not pull herself over the last ledge.
Balthier braced himself as best he could, linking his fingers together. "Step here," he said, "I'll toss you over first."
She grabbed for the ledge with her good hand, set her foot in his hands, and let him thrust her up enough to shove her over. As she sailed up, she grasped great clumps of grass and heaved herself free of the valley. And she laughed breathlessly, throwing off her bag and rolling onto her back to stare up at the wide, cloudless sky.
"We made it!" she shouted to Balthier, as he pulled himself over the ledge. "We made it through!" A brisk wind swept across the open plains. In the distance the jungle loomed, dark and ominous – but the valley had breached it by a good half-mile or more. It carved now through open plains, with naught but summer-ripe grass to be seen.
Balthier dropped onto his stomach beside her, out of breath with the exertion of the climb. "So we did," he said. "Anora's made her mark on the world after all. Centuries after her death, she's changed the face of Rozarria. And I imagine, now that there is a direct path to her tomb, there will be expeditions after all."
"Good," Penelo sighed. "I'm glad." She closed her eyes and let the soft sweep of the wind wash over her, wicking away the sweat that coated her brow and softening the heat of the afternoon sun on her cheeks.
A shadow passed before her closed eyes, like a cloud had drifted overhead. But the sky had been a vibrant, unbroken blue only moments ago. Her eyes opened; Balthier's face obscured the sky. He was braced over her on his forearms, grinning down at her like he'd won some crucial victory.
"You were brilliant," he said. "But perhaps next time you might avoid being such a bleeding heart. Else you might as well paint a target on your back for any lingering spirits."
And she laughed; she couldn't help it. "My bleeding heart was our way out," she said. "Without Anora's help, we might never have made it through the jungle."
"Hm," he said. "Then perhaps we ought to leave the tomb-raiding to the archaeologists and stick to pirating?"
And while she was still helplessly chuckling, he closed the distance between them and kissed her. It wasn't particularly smooth or practiced, but it quelled her laughter nonetheless. It wasn't dominating or crushing; it begged permission rather than demanded an answering response. It tasted like an affirmation of life, like a celebration of their success. And for a moment she forgot that both of them were dirty and sweaty and likely reeked of unwashed clothing and every foul substance they'd accumulated on their journey through the jungle. She forgot that her palm stung, forgot that her hair was tangled and filthy. She didn't care that the stubble on his jaw abraded her skin, didn't care that he was transferring dirt from his face to hers.
They were alive.
They hadn't discovered the treasure they had sought, but what they had discovered would last longer than gold. Treasure was a fleeting reward; history was eternal.
After a moment more, he drew back and shoved himself to his feet, offering his hand to pull her up.
"It's a long way back," he said. "We'd best be on our way."
And the spell was broken, and Penelo was left to ponder the consequences of a kiss that could not be put down to fever madness.