(Updating every other Wednesday)\

Chapter 141: Against the Current

There was a thunderous knocking at her door. "Your Majesty!" came a booming voice she recognized: Rowland, of Goltanna's personal guard.

She gestured for quiet, and moved towards the door. "Is something the matter?" she asked.

"Your Majesty, please open your door."

Ovelia let a little fear creep into her voice. "You will forgive me, but I have reason to distrust unannounced visitors intruding on supposed sanctuaries."

There was a brief muttering on the side of the door. Ovelia drew herself together, found the right pieces, the right information, the right emotions.

"Your Majesty, we have instructions from Duke Goltanna," came Rowland's voice "And from Knight-Commander Heiral."

Ovelia's heart thrilled. Knight-Commander! His plan had worked!

Aloud, she said, "Knight-Commander Heiral? What has become of Count Orlandeau?"

Another pause on the other side of the door. "Your Majesty, Count Orlandeau made an attempt on Duke Goltanna's life."

She heard a short, sharp hiss behind her: she gasped loudly, to cover it up. "The Thundergod?"

"We are still unraveling the extent of this plot," Rowland said. "But we have reason to suspect his son, Olan, maybe be involved. He was spotted making his way towards the fort, but by the time our forces reached him, he had disappeared. We have strict orders to search every room of the Garrison."

Ovelia nodded. "This is...hard to believe." She started to approach the door, not looking back. She fumbled with the locks loudly enough to cover up the quiet whisper of shifting rock behind her. Finally, she clicked the lock free, and stepped back. "Enter."

Rowland, his hair thick with silver, stepped into the room with two other soldiers behind him. Roland had a livid bruise on his cheek. Ovelia locked eyes on it at once. "Your face...Ser Rowland, are you alright?"

Rowland grimaced. "The Thundergod, Your Majesty."

"He tried to kill you?" Ovelia asked.

"He...attacked me, yes." Rowland shook his head, and gestured for the two men behind him to step into her modest apartment. They were in the little foyer, with its writing desk and loveseat: Rowland scanned the room anxiously while the other two stepped into her bedroom, throwing open her armoire and checking beneath the enormous canopy bed.

"Is the Duke injured?" she asked, as they searched.

"Unharmed, your Majesty."

"That is good to hear." Ovelia let them search a few minutes longer, then cleared her throat. "I appreciate that you have your orders, Ser Rowland...but I would have shouted if an intruder had come into my quarters."

Rowland nodded grimly. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I would prefer to leave a guard with you-"

Ovelia shook her head firmly. "A waste of manpower." She paused thoughtfully. "Post guards at the hallway junctures. He won't be able to slip past you, and you'll have a better net in place to catch him."

Rowland blinked in surprise. "Uh...yes, Your Majesty. Most astute."

She allowed herself a small smile. "I am not well-versed in military matters, Ser Rowland, but I do have a little experience eluding unwanted pursuit."

Rowland almost smiled, and gestured for the soldiers to follow him. Ovelia waited until she heard their footsteps marching away, then quietly clicked the lock in place, and stepped back into her bedroom. She walked towards the solid stone wall to the right of her bed, and knocked gently upon it.

With a low rumbling, the wall slipped away, and Olan Durai, wan and bruised, stumbled back into the room. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

She shook her head. Olan had emerged with the rumbling of stone from the secret passage beside her bed scant seconds before the knocking on her door, begging for her help. "Your father did not strike me as an assassin, Olan Durai."

His red-brown eyes flashed dangerously, and Ovelia almost took a step backwards. In the flash of those eyes, she didn't see the young man with the too-clever smile and the sharp tongue. She saw an echo of Delita—the cold, sharp intellect that looked at people as problems to be solved, even if violence was required to solve them.

But she held herself firm. Olan Durai was not the first dangerous man she'd had to deal with. And besides, they were talking about his father: she couldn't begrudge him his anger.

Olan took a steadying breath, and the danger in his eyes dimmed a little. "My father would want me to say that his oath is his bond, and he would never betray our liege lord." His voice was stiff. "He would mostly be right. But if he felt he had to kill Duke Goltanna?" The danger flashed again. "Then the Duke would be dead, and the fortress fallen."

Ovelia gestured at the door behind him. "So why did Ser Rowland-"

"Why don't you tell me, Your Majesty?"

A warning prickle of danger on the back of her neck. "Excuse me?"

"I left the Garrison with my father's blessing, because I found a thread to pull on," Olan said. "Before I did, he told me you warned him, of danger that might be coming for him." The danger in his eyes burned brighter. "Where does this danger come from, Your Majesty? The Glabados Church?"

He took a step towards her. Involuntarily, Ovelia took a step back. "I have seen men and women hurrying out of the Wastes, carrying tight-wrapped bundles," Olan growled. I have seen them making deliveries to Nanten soldiers, while others headed south with their own packages. I return to the fortress I grew up in, only to be hunted by men and women who should call me their comrade, and to hear word that the threat you warned my father of has come to pass."

"I don't know what you-" Ovelia began.

"No?" Olan snarled. "Then tell me. How did you stay ahead of your pursuers so long, Your Majesty? How did Ser Heiral know he would be welcomed at Bethla Garrison?"

From the secret passage behind him, Delita said wryly, "That's Knight-Commander Heiral, Olan Durai."

Olan whirled. Light like stars flared out from beneath his cloak, whipped towards the darkness. A dim flash of white flame knocked the stars backwards, casting Delita in sharp silhouette. But as the stars whirled for another strike, Delita said, "Please, attack me. Make more noise. Reveal your secret passage to the men outside. See how long you last."

In answer, Olan's stars whipped towards Ovelia. But she was ready for him: she had been gathering her magic since the first flash of danger in his eyes. She snapped up her hand and unfurled a shimmering wall of opalescent light just in front of her. She felt the impact of the stars like rocks against her bones, but the wall held.

Olan stood between the two of them, eyes blazing nearly as brightly at his stars. Delita stepped out of the darkness of the secret passage he had taken so often to her room. Around his shoulders, he wore the red cloak with its black lion. Wiegraf's sword was still sheathed at his side: in his hands, gleaming with runes, he held a different sword.

Olan hissed in rage: "My father's sword!"

"My sword, now," Delita said. "Along with his County, and his command."

"So that's what you sold us to the Church for?" Olan demanded. "The Hokuten take the Garrison, and you get command of the Nanten?"

Delita shook his head. "Don't be absurd." Delita had the gleaming sword's sheathe looped around his arm: in one deft movement, he slipped it off, and slid the blade home. "The Church doesn't want Larg to win anymore than they want Goltanna. They're aiming to kill both of them."

Olan blinked. Ovelia studied him for a moment, then slowly dispelled the wall of light between them. The pressure in her temples and her chest eased as she released her magic, and she breathed more easily.

"How?" Olan asked.

Delita shook his head. "Not exactly sure. Some kind of old Ydoran weapon. I asked Ramza to stop it if he could-"

"Ramza?" Olan's voice was strangled. "You're...working with Ramza?"

"As much as I can." A rueful smile on Delita's face. "He doesn't usually need much help." His smile faded. "But it seems he was too late. Those men you saw coming from the Wastes...he was supposed to stop them. It was a long shot." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "This is going to be longer still."

Olan stared at Delita. "But ou're...working for the Church."

"Working with the Church," Delita corrected him. His eyes were still closed.

"And with a heretic?"

"You worked with him, too."

"That's not-" Olan froze. His eyes flickered to Ovelia. "You told him?"

"She did," Delita said, before she could speak. "And so did he."

"When did you-"

"At the Royal Retreat," Ovelia said.

Olan's head snapped towards her. His eyes were wide with disbelief. "I..." He shook his head. The stars around him dimmed, and the gems at their hearts floated slowly back beneath his half-cloak.

"You begin to understand," Delita said. He opened his eyes. "The Hokuten, the Nanten, the Largs, Dycedarg Beoulve, Duke Goltanna, the Church, the Templars, the Khamja...so many forces, working with or against one another. All of them angling to be the last one standing." A disgusted look crossed his face. "In the end, a loyal man like your father is just in the way."

A matching look of disgust crossed Olan's face. "And you profit from his downfall."

"His downfall was as inevitable as Ramza's," Delita said softly. "The powers that be cannot stand a man who stands for his ideals. It means he won't be swayed, by mere power." He paused. "But Ramza is still alive. Ramza is still free." He crossed into the room, without looking back at Olan, and hurried to Ovelia's desk. He fished for quill, ink, and paper, and began to scribble furiously.

"There are limits to what I can do," Delita said, as his quill flew. "If you asked the Duke, I am sure he would give stirring and noble reasons for appointing me Knight-Commander. But it does not escape me that, of the men who might take your father's place, my position and influence are...small." He flashed a sardonic smile over his shoulder. "Though not quite as small as Duke Goltanna believes."

"I cannot clear the way for you. But I can give a few orders. Or add to the orders the Duke would have me give." He finished writing, and offered the paper to Olan. "Here."

Olan stared at the paper without reaching for it. "What?"

"The orders I will try to give," Delita said. "The battle order for tomorrow. Which forces, and where."

Olan shook his head. "What do you expect me to do with it?" His eyes flashed. "Betray the Nanten to the Hokuten?"

"The Hokuten and Nanten are irrelevant!" Delita exclaimed. "In two days' time, both armies will be destroyed! The Church will make Orinus their puppet King, and choose a regent for him who supports their aims." He gestured with his free hand to Ovelia. "We're trying to stop it."

"By putting someone else on the throne," Olan whispered. "By lying, and murdering, and-"

"As if you haven't killed, in the name of one cause or another?" Delita asked. "You're a soldier, just like me."

Olan's eyes blazed hotter. "I'm nothing like you."

Delita rolled his eyes. "What do you intend to do, Olan Durai? Do you think you have the strength to save your father, all on your own? Even if you could manage that miracle, the plot you have spent so long striving against would still be in motion." He jabbed at Olan with the folded orders. "But if you take these to Ramza Beoulve, we have a chance at both. We can save your father. And we can stop the slaughter."

Olan's eyes flickered between the paper and Delita's face. "How?"

Delita smiled, and Ovelia felt a flicker of warmth at the bottom of her heart. That was the smile she loved—a smile like an ache, that softened his whole face. "I don't know."

Olan stared at him in disbelief. When Delita pressed the orders into his hand, he didn't fight him. "I don't know," Delita said again, and his smile faded, and the dangerous man who'd punched her in the stomach at Orbonne Monastery was in the room instead. "I hoped Ramza would stop the weapon itself. Failing that..." He sighed heavily. "We'll have to make other arrangements." He paused. "Like freeing your father."

Olan's mouth dropped. "What?"

"It will have to wait for the battle proper," Delita said. "That's the only time it will seem plausible he might have escaped." He glanced at the open passage. "There's another passage higher in the Garrison, yes? Near the Plateau exit?" Olan stared at Delita once more. Delita sighed. "Few people know these passages the way you do, but we've managed to uncover a few of them over the years." He glanced at Olan. "I'm trusting you know them better than we do."

"You do have a plan," Olan whispered.

Delita shook his head again. "I don't," he said. "Plans are useless here. There are too many other planners on the field, too many hands working towards too many ends, too much I don't know." In spite of his words, his eyes were glimmering with emotion somewhere between excitement and fear. "But when the battle starts tomorrow, the guard will be thinnest near the Plateau. That would be the best place to win free."

Olan studied Delita for a moment longer, then stuffed the paper into his pocket. "If my father flees...he'll be called a traitor in every corner of Ivalice."

"He'll be called a traitor whether he flees or not," Ovelia said. Olan's eyes flickered towards her, and she continued, "The people I love most in the world are all called heretics now. But they're all alive."

Olan closed his eyes, and nodded. "What are you asking of me?"

"Let yourself be seen near the Plateau passage," Delita said, jerking his head at the passage behind him. "I'll make sure guards are standing ready to race after you. I'll pull several from the stables near the Zirekile road. There's a fine chocobo stabled there: golden feathers, bright eyes, goes by the name Boco. Ride as hard as you can in the direction I marked on the paper. The place the Church built this weapon is near there. With any luck, Ramza will be there to meet you."

Olan exhaled slowly through his nose. "With any luck."

"There was never much chance of victory here, Olan Durai," Delita said. "We are caught between too many conflicting tides. Swimming against the current is hard enough. Changing the current entirely..." He looked up at the stone ceiling. "But then, this fort is fed by Lake Bethla. Many hands can build a dam. Many hands can change a current. If we're strong enough. And fast enough. And lucky enough."

Olan stared at him a moment, then looked back at Ovelia. "Why should I trust you?"

Ovelia met his gaze firmly. "The King who was supposed to protect me used me as a pawn on behalf of his Queen. When his Queen grew tired of using me, she sought to have me killed. When she couldn't kill me, she tried to make of me a traitor. And the only people who saw any use in me staying alive wanted to use me against her."

Olan had the good grace to look abashed, but he did not lower his eyes. After a moment, Ovelia continued, "The only people who ever cared about me for me are out there, right now, hunted by half of Ivalice, and still trying to save it." She gestured. "Don't trust me. Trust them."

A new smile on Olan's face, as weary and self-recriminating as Delita's at his most vulnerable. "Trust in my fellow soldiers of peace."

She laughed, and jerked her head between the two of them. "You really are alike."

At once, Olan's smile melted into a grimace. "Don't insult me."

"Olan Durai-" Delita began.

Olan whirled to face him. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

"You love your father?"

Olan stiffened. "What?"

"Your father. You love him?" Olan managed a fractional nod, and Delita pressed, "He adopted you. But you don't call yourself Olan Orlandeau." He paused. "I guess that does sound a bit ridiculous."

A short, sharp laugh, from the back of Olan's throat. "You have a question in there?"

"No," Delita said. "Because I already know the answer." He faced Olan squarely. "You love your father. You admire him. But you're not him. You have another father. And another name. And another cause. You will fight for the honor of House Orlandeau, as I fight to live up to the example of Balbanes Beoulve. But you're your own person. With your own ideas of what's necessary. And your own ideas of what honor is worth."

Neither man said anything for a moment. Finally, Olan nodded, and stepped into the secret passage. "Give me ten minutes. I'll make a scene, trying to "rescue" my father."

"Stun the guards, if you can," Delita said. "We don't want them spotting your secret passage. Not if we're going to use it to get your father out."

Olan nodded again. His hand reached for the false wall. He stopped before he'd quite closed it. "Promise me. Promise we you'll do everything you can."

"What we can do," Ovelia said at once. "We will."

Olan nodded, and swung the false wall shut. At once, she grabbed Delita by the shoulders, and spun him around to face her. "What exactly do you expect them to do?"

Delita shook his head. He no longer had any trace of excitement in his eyes. "I don't know."

Ovelia stared up at him, her heart lurching unsteadily in her chest, dizzy with fear. Her friends' mission into the Wastes had already struck her as plenty dangerous. Now Delita wanted them to try and stop the war entirely?

"They'll get themselves killed," she whispered.

Delita shook his head. "They won't-"

"They will. You heard what they told us. About the Lucavi. They're not going to let all these people die while they can do something about it." Her eyes burned, but she fought against the tears. "They'll die trying to stop it."

Delita closed his eyes a moment. "Not if we have anything to say about it."

Ovelia closed her eyes in turn, and took a deep breath. "What can I do?"

"Val's keeping the Bishop busy organizing the Church's agents for the battle," Delita said. "I need you to keep Goltanna busy, too." He frowned. "I...have to speak with Cid."

Ovelia nodded, and started moving for the door. Delita caught her wrist before she'd taken more than a step. "Ovelia," he said softly. "He...he wants to marry you. Make himself king."

Ovelia looked back at Delita. His eyes were as strange as they'd been on their last day at the Royal Retreat. "I'll play on that," she said. "Keep his mind on...after the war."

Her heart twisted as she spoke. She did not want to marry Goltanna (though there had been a time when she'd been resigned to such a marriage, back when she'd been carted from monastery to monastery as Ondoria and Louveria had placated one noble or another), but she didn't hate him. He had treated her with kindness, and with respect. And she knew what Delita intended to do to him, before this was over.

Delita nodded, and let her wrist go. But she snapped up her hand in turn, and caught him before he could pull away. "Delita." She pulled him towards her, and cupped her hand in his red hair, and pulled him down to her. His lips were soft against hers.

With their lips just touching, she whispered, "Congratulations, Knight-Commander Heiral."

They held each other close, just for a moment. Then they were off and moving, to their separate deceptions, and their separate hopes, and their united plans.

A better Ivalice. Whatever it took. Whatever it cost.