A/N: Ok, the plot now thickens! Someone at the ball finally notices that "Damien" is not who he appears to be. Who is this stranger and why is he vying for Alma's hand? Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible.
Chapter 19: To Win His Lady Fair, Part II
All watching, seeing the pair as they waltzed, dipped, spun on the dance floor, though still perplexed as to what had roused the duchess from her long indifference towards her suitors, sensed that this man, who'd appeared seemingly from nowhere at the eleventh hour, might be the one to claim her hand.
Now that everyone's attention was fixed squarely on the Duchess Catherine and Sir Damien, the king and queen were free to leave their thrones and slip quietly into the crowd. After asking to be excused, and with her husband's consent, Ovelia went to join Agrias as well as Reis, Lavian, and Alicia, all of whom were eagerly cooing over Rachel and snickering over the small misfortune she'd inflicted upon Ramza. Rad and Beowulf, as well as Manon and Charlotte were watching from the far side of the ballroom, and it almost looked like the two children were quietly cheering for Alma's latest suitor. Meanwhile, Ramza chose to remain alone as he quietly watched his sister, relieved that she was finally showing some genuine interest in someone. In fact, as their whirling waltz strayed close enough, he saw that Alma was smiling. Truly smiling, with that crooked smile of hers, at long last.
That had been a welcome sight, and one that couldn't have come too soon for the overwrought duke. After the first ball had ended with a veritable horde of young men all failing to get so much as a glimmer out of the duchess, he'd begun to despair. Not only had the entire first night ended with nothing to show for it, but he could literally feel time slipping away as the point where Alma could no longer hide her pregnancy, let alone pass off the baby as that of the prevailing suitor, looming ever nearer.
The two siblings had quite a row over that. Ramza had lambasted Alma for being irresponsible with her unborn child's future, and Alma had promptly thrown it back in his face by reminding him that he and Agrias had not only had Rachel out of wedlock but that they still had each other. Their feud had come to an abrupt end when Alma passed out from the strain and, though neither she nor the baby had suffered harm, Ramza had nearly gotten his ear bitten off when a furious Agrias learned what had happened.
Ramza had half expected tonight's ball to go about the same, if not worse, and this impression was borne out by the succession of disappointed men who'd paraded away from the dance floor.
So, Ramza tried to distract himself as best he could with his adorable daughter while trying not to think of how his nephew or niece might be consigned to the life of a bastard child before even being born.
Rachel had been quite obliging. When she spat up on his new doublet, he'd been very distracted indeed.
But now, at long last, it seemed a suitor had arrived who was to Alma's liking.
Not only that, but it looked like Manon and Charlotte seemed to share the sentiment, for the two children had pushed their way to the very edge of the dance floor and were watching the waltz with restrained exuberance. That had been nearly as much a surprise as either Alma's change of heart or her suitor's exotic features, as the children had watched prior contenders with either skepticism or outright suspicion.
The Duke of Lionel couldn't guess why, but it almost looked like the children wanted this particular suitor to succeed. Inexplicable though it was, Ramza hoped that the approval of her unlikely stepchildren might be enough to sway Alma and, at long last, make sure her child had a father.
And, maybe, Izlude would rest a bit easier knowing the child he'd unknowingly sired was in good hands.
It wasn't over yet, since there was still the matter of making sure this suitor married Alma soon enough that he could believe the child to be his own and, though the Duke of Lionel hardly relished the prospect, drawing up a contingency plan in case he wasn't fooled. And, of course, that was leaving aside the bones that might be broken when Meliadoul learned the truth. But, for now, Ramza relished an overdue chance to relax.
So lost in thought was he that the young duke did not notice the approach of his old friend and king until Delita gently tapped him on the shoulder.
Ramza almost jumped out of his skin but heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Delita. The young king, no doubt recalling some similar instance from bygone days, chuckled at Ramza's reddening cheeks. The laughter was subdued, and his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and yet this was still a marked improvement over the man who had nearly been broken under the weight of the many heinous acts he'd committed in order to win his crown.
Most people would've find it quite fitting, had they known the truth behind his legend. This was a Machiavellian of the highest order who had commandeered the long laid plans for the War of the Lions, bent it to his will, and then goaded his enemies into killing each other until those who were left could do little more than bend their necks before his blade. Most people would've found it quite fitting to see such a man reduced to a quivering mass of anguish as his long chained and muzzled conscience broke free and crushed his self-righteous delusions to pulp. Most people would've even found malicious amusement in watching Delita alternately howl his despair to the heavens and vainly try to disembowel the mocking phantasm of Algus Sandalfas.
Most people would've concluded that he'd deserved it and then walked away, leaving him to be dragged under whatever sea of madness yet roiled in his skull.
But, most people would never have unmasked the Lucavi demons, let alone opposed them. Most people would not have ventured across the length and breadth of Ivalice to chase down the long lost Zodiac Stones, not to use their enigmatic power but to safeguard them against those with evil intent. And, most people would've either overlooked the likelihood that Delita's slow descent into madness might very well reignite the War of the Lions...or even seek to exploit that likelihood.
Ramza was not "most people". And, even if he could never approve of what Delita had done, Ramza yet found it in him to forgive. What's more, either as Ramza Beoulve or Drake Seymour, he still had a duty to ensure that the horrors of the War of the Lions did not revisit Ivalice while she was still battered and bleeding.
And so, where most people would've left Delita to be devoured by madness, or even repay his treacherous acts with a knife in the back to match the many he'd dispensed, Ramza instead chose to pull Delita back from the brink.
Because, whatever else Delita might be, he was still the king and, very likely, the only person who might yet set Ivalice on a course towards a better future. And, more to the point, in spite of everything, he was still Ramza's friend.
Though Ramza's absolution had only been a first step in healing the troubled man, it did the duke good to see Delita calm, alert, and in fair spirits, not to mention looking as relieved Ramza to see Alma finally show interest in someone.
"Oh, you startled me! I'm so sorry, Your Majesty," the duke whispered.
The king laughed, a bit too quietly. "It's fine. You don't have to call me that when it's just the two of us."
That got a brief smile out of Ramza, but his expression quickly became serious as he eyed his old friend earnestly.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
This was not the first time he'd asked since he'd intervened to snatch Delita back from the edge, nor was it the first time Delita's eyes hadn't been able to meet Ramza's as he'd considered his answer.
"Ask me again sometime," he replied, his deflecting the question and his gaze straying towards Ovelia making it clear that, though the king's mind might have been saved, the road to recovery yet remained long and the damage done to his marriage yet lingered. Still, after a moment's introspection, Delita turned to face Ramza and tried again for his old smile. "So, I take it you approve of your sister's choice?"
"Well, as long as he treats her well and makes her happy, that's all I can ask," Ramza admitted, knowing better than to mention the baby while in public.
Before Delita could reply, they both heard approaching footsteps. Turning, they saw a dusky-skinned young man with dark hair and eyes. More eye-catching than his exotic complexion, however, was his garb. He was dressed in an elegant thawb, a robe of airy white satin favored by the lost peoples of the Zeklaus Desert, embroidered with patterns of gold and bisected by a green and red sash draped across one shoulder which traveled to his lower waist. In place of his customary quarterstaff, an elegant backsword with a curved blade, known as a scimitar, rested at his hip.
"Sire, my lord, Please forgive me for intruding. My sister and I had only just arrived."
"Ahh, yes, you are the new Duke of Favoham, Malak Galthana, correct?" Delita asked.
Malak bowed as he took the king's hand and pressed it to his forehead as Ramza had done before him.
"It's an honor to meet you, Your Majesty. I, too, pledge my loyalty to the crown of Ivalice. My sister has left my company to join your wife, but I would introduce her to you later if it pleases you."
"But of course," Delita acknowledged, offering a heroic attempt at his usual, bright smile.
"You mean Duchess Rafa? How is she?" Ramza asked. "Have both of you been well?"
Malak nodded. "We've been…preoccupied with managing our estate and the schools our adoptive father left us in his will," he admitted, a hint of fatigue in his tone. "As you may know, very few survived the Horror of Riovanes. And, of those who did, none are inclined to return. Luckily, we took a leaf out of Lady Catherine's book and put the children to work keeping up the castle, at least until adoptive parents come knocking or they're old enough to make their own way. We've also been able to procure the services of those who can educate them so that they can find honest work. It hasn't been easy, especially since many of these children were part way through their conditioning to become assassins, but we're doing everything we can."
"That is unfortunate, that you're faced with such difficulties; still, it's impressive that you've managed as much as you have, especially after what happened a few months ago," Delita said, sympathy and admiration apparent in his voice.
"Fear not, Your Majesty, things have gotten much better. We still have a ways to go, but I have faith that my sister and I will make good of what the late Duke Barrington has left behind."
"As do I. Still, it isn't just Favoham; all of Ivalice still has a long, hard road to travel if we are to reach a better future. But, so far, the signs have very encouraging. It will take some time, and it will not be pleasant, but we will pull through," Delita assured, speaking with a fire that seemed more a blaze than the feeble puffs of smoke he'd uttered during the prior evening. "And, I'm sure Duke Seymour shares that faith...and a willingness to support the effort to bring about that future."
Ramza had, more than once, been told that he sorely lacked the ability to read between the lines, some such pronouncements coming from himself, but it was obvious just what his old friend was so obliquely referring to.
The Duke of Lionel had pulled his king back from the edge of madness and despair but, as some cynics would say, "no good deed went unpunished".
Perhaps it was the lingering haze of despair mingled with the rays of absolution brightening a previously bleak and gloomy future. Maybe it was the wish to, at least vicariously, give back to Ramza what should have been his as the progeny of the great Sir Balbanes Beoulve.
Or, perhaps Delita was, finally, speaking the truth when he said he wished for someone within his inner circle who was neither enamored nor intimidated by him and would, as he'd said, keep him honest.
Still, becoming the Grandmaster of the Order of the Chimera? Ramza mused, still just barely able to keep his jaw from dropping at the recollection.
Most people, especially those who had either been born in less-than-enviable circumstances, or those who'd dreamed of knighthood but had been passed over for whatever reason, or those who sought to make more of themselves through acts of valor, would've jumped at such an opportunity, especially when it was offered from the very lips of the king himself.
But, as was aforementioned, Ramza was not most people.
Though he was a gifted warrior, whose mastery of not only the sword but many other implements of war could impress even veterans twice his size and experience, he loathed fighting and had never taken a life without wishing he hadn't needed to. Though he was an outstanding leader, who had led a paltry force to victory against seemingly hopeless odds time and again while unfailingly keeping each and all alive, he inwardly dreaded the weight of responsibility and quailed at the prospect of a friend dying because of some lapse of judgment on his part.
Shouldering that weight for a little over a score of unlikely warriors had been quite enough, but helming a knightly order, even in peacetime, would mean that weight of responsibility would swell to many hundreds of lives.
Granted, he'd have the aid of Agrias, Beowulf, and his former classmates from the former Hokuten Academy, allowing him to manage juggling the sizable tasks of commanding the order and governing Lionel, but, as with so much in his young and strange life, it all seemed so enormous while he seemed so small. And, it seemed as though there was no shortage of souls far more suited to command than he.
Yet, as was the case during the War of the Lions, those same souls, whom he'd privately informed in hopes they might tell him how to refuse a king, seemed quite convinced that he was the perfect candidate.
As if the thought had been a summons, Beowulf joined them, the Templar's subtle grin making it clear that he'd sniffed out the underlying meaning of Delita's words.
"I certainly believe, Your Majesty, that you'd never find a better ally," Beowulf intoned, much too happily for Ramza's tastes, and the duke conveyed this by mouthing traitor.
This did not go unnoticed by Malak, who raised an eyebrow curiously. Beowulf promptly took the hint, and promptly ignored Ramza's desperate attempts to wave him off, whispering Delita's offer into Malak's ear. Ramza entertained the hope that Malak might be more sensible than the others who'd heard this royal request and should have reacted by urging the king to reconsider, but those hopes were dashed when the Duke of Favoham gave his young peer an approving nod.
"You're all demented," Ramza whispered, just barely loud enough for the three men to hear. "Even if I wanted the post, which I don't, do you really think the Chimera Knights will take orders from someone like me?"
"Why not?" Beowulf asked though the question sounded suspiciously rhetorical. "I did, and there's not been a day I've regretted it. And, before you bring up Reis's abduction, I blamed Bremondt for that, not you. And, it was only with your aid that he got his comeuppance and I rescued Reis."
Here, Beowulf paused and clapped a hand on Ramza's shoulder.
"In recent years, there have been far too many commanders who have measured victory by who had more men yet standing when the battle is done, even when those were far outnumbered by those left for the carrion eaters," he intoned gravely. "We saw this in Larg, Goltana, Dycedarg, and Ruveila...amongst others, and we saw tens of thousands of promising young souls needlessly lost because of it. It is my hope that war does not visit this land again while I yet draw breath, but, if it does, we can afford no commanders who will waste the lives of their troops, spending their blood like so much gil. You? I've seen you take great pains to make sure those under your command kept their lives, even when it meant hazarding your own. And, I've also seen you show a willingness to wield diplomacy rather than a blade when it might avert needless death, and which might've spared thousands if Larg and Goltana had bothered to do likewise."
"Yes, I tried talking to the enemy, but how often did they actually listen?" Ramza asked, posing a rhetorical question of his own.
"I listened," Malak spoke up before a self-deprecating smile crossed his lips. "Maybe later than I should have, but I did. And, so did Meliadoul."
"What else can I say? Most of your enemies were sorely lacking in wisdom," Beowulf said after shooting Malak an appreciative smile. "Most would yet live if they'd accepted your olive branch. Yet, that also proves my point. Most would simply press the attack against an enemy they know they can defeat, even if the enemy is unaware of this or beating them would cost too many lives. But, you showed mercy...tried to, anyway, because you see the value of human lives, even of those who wish you harm. That is a rare quality, and one that Ivalice could use more of as we journey towards this new future."
"And it wouldn't bother you to take orders from someone much younger than you and who doesn't have even half your experience or seniority?" Ramza asked, unable to hide his skepticism.
"It never bothered me before, so why should it now?" the Templar asked, shrugging carelessly.
Ramza, sensing he'd find Beowulf as immovable as the castle they stood in, turned to Malak, but the Duke of Favoham smiled and shook his head.
"Sorry, Drake, but I have to agree with Beowulf," Malak said, not sounding the least bit sorry. "On top of everything else, you saved Rafa's life and helped her when she was on the run. Not to mention you helped me after I'd tried to kill you several times. Yes, I know you think that's water under the bridge, but it means a lot. After what happened back then, I doubt anyone would've blamed you if you just let the worms munch on me. And, trust me, I was positive that "I'm sorry" wouldn't have cut it."
"Well, that's more than a lot of people are willing to give," Ramza pointed out before he could think better of it. "You had good reason to want me dead...well, the people who wanted you to kill me were pretty convincing. I don't hold it against you that your trust was misplaced. After all, practically my whole life since Fort Zeakden happened the way it did because my trust was misplaced too."
Delita's eyes misted at the backhanded reference to Teta. Beowulf and Malak, familiar with the story, nodded solemnly.
"Still, not many people give second chances like you do," Malak said. "A lot of people don't give second chances, period. How often did you hear about some young officer getting in over their head, or being deliberately sent on a suicide mission because he angered this duke or that? That's another reason I think you'd be a great Grandmaster. You're not too green for the job, and as for being too young? That's a load of bollocks. True, there's not much you can do about that face, but..."
"Oh, shut up! Look, I appreciate the vote of confidence. I really do. But, there has got to be someone better. Besides, going by what His Majesty tells me, my biggest selling point is that I punched him in the face."
Having heard this part of the tale already, Beowulf gave a transparent mockery of a scandalized gasp while Malak, picking up his cue smoothly, feigned the act of swooning from shock.
"Hardy, har, har," the Duke of Lionel quipped. "But, there has got to be someone else. Someone older, more experienced, more...more like...Lord Balbanes or Count Orlandu."
"Firstly, we don't have Lord Balbanes or Count Orlandu, and Ivalice is the lesser for it," Delita said solemnly. "Secondly, nearly everyone we do have is either so enamored with my legend, or so intimidated by me, that they'd never object if I gave an order that should be questioned. Thirdly, we do have you and, on top of all the other praise we've made you blush with, we also know that you'd never let me get away with repeating the misrule of my predecessors. You'd stand up to me, you'd call me out, and you'd offer a better solution...something I wish I'd been able to do for myself."
Delita's words trailed away as he gave a forlorn sidelong glance towards Ovelia, who noticed his scrutiny but could not meet his gaze. But, a moment later, the king assumed an air of hollow flippancy and continued.
"And, fourthly, Teta punched harder than you do, Drake," he added with a snicker.
Looking much like a man being sent to the gallows, Ramza threw up his hands in resignation.
"Look, I'll think about it," he said, almost sadly. "I imagine you won't let me get away without doing that much, at least?"
"Not a chance," the three men chorused.
After that pronouncement, to Ramza's overwhelming relief, the impromptu conference took on a serious, but still cordial air and Delita expressed his wish that, regardless of who was doing what, each and all would do what they could to make Ivalice great again.
"Indeed," Ramza said. "And, Malak, I hope you will get a chance to come see me at Lionel after Catherine is married."
Malak nodded. "It is my hope as well, Duke Seymour. In fact, I would ask a boon of you."
"Malak, we've stood in battle and bled together. Anything I can do you help you, you need only ask."
Ramza could swear the Duke of Favoham was blushing a bit, but the Netherseer soon regained his composure and nodded his appreciation.
"I would like to discuss the possibility of an exchange program of sorts between our respective wards," he began. "If you agree, some of the children in Lionel Castle could live in Riovanes Castle for several weeks while some of the children at Riovanes can travel to Lionel. Most of these children have had hard lives and it won't be easy for them to learn to trust others or to fit in beyond the castle walls. But, I think it would do them some good to meet other adults who do care about what happens to them, and other children who are in the same situation but who are working to better lives. I've heard that some of the children in Lionel have been doing very well, and they might help make what I'm trying to do more believable to my wards."
Here, Malak paused and, after a moment's hesitation, added "I was also wondering if Lavian might be willing to accompany the children traveling from Lionel to Riovanes. So that they have a familiar face while they're there."
Despite his reputation for naïveté, Ramza could easily discern that Malak had an ulterior motive in asking for Lavian to be the go-between for this interchange. In the letter he'd sent not long after Ramza and company had settled in Lionel, the Duke of Favoham had expressed his appreciation for Lavian's steadfast friendship towards Rafa and how she'd helped his sister move past the horrors Duke Barrington had visited upon her behind closed doors. Malak had also shown much admiration for Lavian when she'd driven home the point that his fuming over his being fooled by the deviant duke only made Rafa feel worse. He'd also expressed chivalrous distaste towards Lavian's inclusion in Rad's rude games.
Confirmation came when Lavian, spying the Netherseer, waved merrily and Malak smiled brightly, both at the former summoner and at how she'd belatedly noticed Rafa and pulled the Duchess of Favoham into a tight, sisterly hug. Much like her brother, Rafa wore an outfit that recaptured the fashion of her lost homeland; namely a strapless gown that descended near her ankles in cascades of silk the color of twilight while a veil of translucent pink fluttered down to the backs of her knees. Rounding out the ensemble were a pair of triangular earrings and snake armlet, both wrought of burnished gold.
Recalling how Barrington's abuses had once left Rafa terrified of most men, and even skittish around the women of Ramza's company, not to mention the schism that had arisen between her and Malak until Barrington had let slip proof of his deviancy, Ramza could guess at how it did Malak's heart good to see her mingling amongst the crowd and chatting with friends when she'd once feared she'd have none.
Ramza could guess at it because he too was an older brother with a younger sister whose wellbeing and happiness was dear to him. And, he was willing to wager that his guess was a good one.
"I think it's a fine idea, and I'd be honored," Ramza said, though he had to repeat himself to get Malak's attention, prompting a snicker from him, as well as Delita and Beowulf, the latter hastily departing, lest the relentless hilarity make Reis a widow, or so he claimed.
"It's good to hear that you approve," Malak said, trying to recover his dignity. "When I first struck on the notion, I…"
The other duke abruptly trailed off, almost completely forgetting about Ramza and Delita when he saw Alma and her suitor dancing out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't paid much attention to the young pair when he and Rafa arrived, but now that their waltz had taken them a bit closer, Malak could not help but notice something peculiar about the knight dancing with the duchess.
And, it had nothing to do with the exotic color of his hair and eyes.
Ramza and Delita noticed Malak's distraction as well. Concerned, Ramza asked "What is it, Lord Malak?"
Malak narrowed his eyes as he tried to get a better look at the ebon-tressed suitor. "That knight… the one dancing with your sister…"
Ramza blinked. "Yes, what about him?"
"Call me crazy, but I can't help but feel that I've seen him somewhere before."
Puzzled, Delita followed the Duke of Favoham's gaze to spy the duchess and her favored suitor as they continued their waltz. Though he'd been deeply relieved that Alma seemed to have finally chosen a suitor, he'd paid scant attention before to just who had been the prevailing contender. But, now that he had a bit of a closer look at the man in question, he realized that he, too, felt as though he had seen the raven-haired knight before. Granted, he'd was positive he'd never seen a man with such exotic features before tonight, though the visiting Romandan boyar hadn't been shy about relaying the man's tale, and Delita was positive that meeting such a man before tonight would've stuck in his memory. And yet, the bizarre sense of familiarity persisted, causing his eyebrows to rise until they vanished into his hairline.
"Why yes… he does seem familiar!" Delita exclaimed. "I can't make sense of it, but it's like I've seen...not the face, but the person wearing it. His bearing or his expression, perhaps. He doesn't look familiar, but he feels familiar. What do you think, Drake? You're the one who's been watching them all this time."
Ramza turned to follow the whirling journey of his sister and her favorite suitor again. Although he had been watching them for quite some time, he had not realized that he also found the raven-haired knight eerily familiar. As was the case with Delita, however, he was positive that he'd not seen this man before.
Indeed, the only other Romandan man he'd ever met before today was the merchant his father invited to Igros when he and Alma were children. But, that merchant and the knight before him now could not be the same person, for the merchant had been nearly as old as Balbanes was whereas Alma's suitor looked to be the same age as Alma herself. Furthermore, he distinctly remembered the merchant eying himself and Alma with a sad eye and expressing to Balbanes a bit of envy that he was unmarried and childless. That ruled out the possibility of this knight being the merchant's son for, even if the merchant had had a family since then, the knight was too old to be the child of such an overdue union.
And that meant...actually, Ramza had no idea what it meant. But, his earlier elation was sinking while perplexity tinged with suspicion began to fill the void.
"You're right. Even I think I've seen him somewhere before," he admitted.
"It can't be coincidence," Malak insisted. "What's his name? Rafa and I arrived a bit late, so we didn't get to hear his formal introduction."
"He claims to be a Wyvern knight by the name of Damien Mitchell," Delita answered. "Olan told me that he was the last suitor to arrive before I ordered that no more suitors be admitted. Catherine is not an easy woman to please, and our attempts have been a bit expensive. Still, I have heard that he's a Favoham native, raised in Yardow. He's Ivalician-born, and I'm told his features are attributable to his being of Romandan descent."
At the mention of the Wyvern knight's name, Malak's eyes widened and his head snapped in the direction of the king and his fellow duke. The urgency in his gaze caused both men to draw back a pace.
"Damien Mitchell?!"
"Yes," Ramza answered, hesitantly. "Why? Do you know him, Malak?"
It was a simple question, but the answer was anything but.
Though Malak's belatedly learning of the depths of Duke Barrington's betrayal and depravity had cut short both his fealty to the villain and his tutelage as an assassin, Malak had nonetheless spent many years learning his deadly trade and had devoured every morsel of knowledge that he could. And, even after winning his freedom after Barrington had been hurled from the roof of his own keep - too merciful an end, in Malak's opinion - the Duke of Favoham yet retained much of his...unique education.
And, aside from how best to kill his prey, he'd also learned how to stalk them; how to watch them without being spotted in turn, how to follow them without being detected, how to observe and commit to memory their routines and habits, their circle of friends and opinions.
Simply put, everything he would need to not only identify threats from outside his onetime lord's abode, but from within as well.
Malak had also kept a close watch on many of Barrington's advisors and bodyguards, on the alert for any sign of treachery. There had been a Damien Mitchell amongst the latter group. He'd been a Wyvern knight, he'd been born and raised in Yardow, and he was of Romandan descent...
...but, that man had little else in common with the one presently dancing with Alma.
First of all, whereas the Damien Mitchell who swayed with Alma on the dance floor had ghostly pale skin, the Damien Mitchell who Malak recalled was quite tan. Second, while the Damien he beheld had jet-black hair and steel gray eyes, the Damien he'd spied upon some time ago instead had dark brown hair and blue eyes. And, third, though Malak was positive that the Damien he'd kept under surveillance was of Romandan descent, he had kept that particular fact close to his vest, as it were.
Why this was specifically, Malak never found out. One possibility was that, like many Romadan expatriates, he, or his forbearers, had fled to Ivalice when the Romandan czar's crown had changed hands, passing to one they had cause to fear. Much like wrathful Ivalician kings of bygone, darker eras, some Romandan czars were easily angered by even the slightest infractions or whispered word against them, and more often than not chastised those responsible with violence.
Just as likely was that Damien, or his forbearers, had fled after offending a boyar who had a long memory, and a short temper, when it came to those who'd angered him. It was also possible that Damien Mitchell had attracted the interest of the criminal bands who lurked in the insulated communities of Romandan immigrants, either because this crime lord or that wanted to secure his services and, with it, gain an agent within Riovanes Castle. It was also possible that whomever Damien Mitchell had slighted in Romanda had offered the right price for the expatriate criminals to do the Wyvern Knight harm.
Damien had never mentioned any of this, likely knowing what damage it would do to his standing in Riovanes, and Malak himself learned this only via his surveillance. Whatever the exact reason, that Damien had avoided his fellow Romandans and, when he ran afoul of them and they jabbered at him in their native tongue, he'd feigned incomprehension only to secretly return to the safety of his quarters - and, unwittingly, to his unseen observer - and then begin cursing quietly in the language of distant shores.
So, since that Damien Mitchell had taken great pains to avoid identified as being of Romandan descent, how had Delita identified him so easily?
"You said he was of Romandan stock," Malak asked, urgently. "Are you sure of that?"
"I heard it from our visiting Romandan boyar, Dmitri," Delita replied. "And, please don't ask me to give that man's full name and title. Pretty please. The boyar told me that the pair talked at length about Romanda, which Damien Mitchell played their game of wits well, and even spoke a Romandan phrase or two. Then, later, the two of them sat with Catherine's wards, telling stories about Romandan folklore."
Recalling that the Damien Mitchell he knew had concealed his Romandan heritage, it made no sense for the same Damien Mitchell to be advertising it now. If he or his forbearers had left Romanda due to raising the ire of the local nobility, then conversing so freely with a boyar made even less sense, as the boyar might be the very one who sought a pound of Damien's flesh or was acquainted with whomever did and might share such a discovery.
Simply put, aside from the physical discrepancies, this Damien Mitchell was behaving quite the opposite, the exact opposite, of the Damien Mitchell who Malak remembered.
Malak weighed what he recalled seeing of Damien Mitchell then and what he'd seen and heard this evening. And, he came to one inescapable conclusion.
The Damien Mitchell he'd surveilled and the Damien Mitchell who was dancing with Alma were not the same man.
That, in turn, gave rise to a host of question, but they all really boiled down to two: Who was this man? And, why was he vying for Alma's hand?
Deciding to find out, Malak parted company with the two men, taking long, urgent strides while trying to gauge just where "Damien" would go once the dance had ended. "Please excuse me, Your Majesty, my lord."
"Wait, where are you going?" Ramza demanded as he forgot himself and grabbed Malak's shoulder, forcibly turning the Netherseer around to face him.
"Forgive me, Drake. But, I have the feeling that your sister's suitor is not who he claims to be. I must keep an eye on him. I will ask Rafa to watch your sister, and I strongly recommend you do the same."
"Are you sure, Lord Galthana?" Delita asked as he rejoined them, concern and urgency edging his words.
Malak was silent for a moment as he turned in the direction of Alma and the imposter once more, wending his way through the crowd for the best vantage point while Ramza and Delita followed suit. By now, the dance was almost over and the young couple, knowing they were expected to part as the orchestra concluded their tune, drew one another close one more time before the last notes sounded.
Although he knew he would have to let Alma go eventually, and that the moment would come all too soon, Izlude nonetheless wanted to hold the woman he loved for just a moment longer. What's more, he sensed that she felt the same, for she did not resist when he drew her close, nor did she hesitate to lean into his broad frame.
"It's been an honor to meet you, my lady," he said softly. "I really enjoyed myself and hope you will consent to see me again soon."
Alma blushed and smiled. "I feel the same, Sir Damien. The ball will be for one more night. Perhaps you will be back tomorrow?"
Excited that he now had Alma's attention, Izlude was about to accept when he suddenly felt something against his armor.
It was a pulse of motion that connected with his breastplate, tiny and yet enough to send subtle reverberations up and down the metal...and into the man wearing it.
It was as if something very small, and yet remarkably vibrant, had reached out and kicked him.
"What was that?" the knight blade asked in confusion. He didn't have to be specific, for one look at Alma told him that she must have felt it as well. And, whatever it was had alarmed her greatly, for her eyes widened and she gasped as she quickly placed a hand over her belly.
"I…I'm sorry, Sir Damien," she blurted out, her words nearly lost amidst the sort of ragged, heaving breaths one might expect if Hashmalum had risen again to renew his hunt for her blood. "But, I must go now!"
Before Izlude could say anything, the duchess turned on her heel and started to make her way out of the ballroom as quickly as her heavy gown would allow.
Apparently, the knight blade was not the only one who noticed Alma's strange behavior. The other guests were just as confused and, as was the wont of all Lesalians, were gossiping and speculating as to the meaning of the display. Nonetheless, they parted to clear a path for the duchess as she very nearly broke into a run, angling for the nearest exit.
Bewildered as to what had gone wrong, but determined not to lose her, Izlude found himself following Alma. And desperate as he was not to lose her amidst the sprawling castle or the roiling crowds, he nonetheless nursed the hope that he had not somehow given some offense grave enough to drive her away. Certainly not after he'd come so far and endured so much to find her again. If he had, Izlude was determined to find out what and set it right.
Yet, as often happened in Lesalia, the simplest and most important questions were overlooked.
Just what was it Izlude had felt, and why would its sudden occurrence alarm Alma so?
When he saw the imposter finally make his move, Malak, fearing it meant the man posing as Damien Mitchell had ill intentions, took it as a cue to follow. Prying Ramza's hand from his shoulder, the Duke of Favoham gave a quick bow to him and Delita before speaking with quick and urgent words.
"Please forgive my rudeness, both of you, but I must speak to this Damien Mitchell myself. I will do my best to explain later."
And, before either the King of Ivalice or Duke of Lionel could stop or question him further, Malak turned heel and began his pursuit of the man who called himself Damien Mitchell.
He'd been well trained in what signs to look for while surveilling his quarry, whether they be signs to sheathe his blade or to drive it through their breast. And, right now, that precarious balance was swaying towards the latter.