(Next update to come on 11/15/23)
Chapter 147: At Ease
The Battle of Bethla Garrison (though it can hardly be called a battle) marked the end of the War of the Lions, though it would be months before anyone realized it. The Lions for whom the war had been named were dead: Count Orlandeau's purported attack had nearly decapitated the Nanten, and the Queen and her Knight-Commander Heiral were not eager to renew hostilities: Dycedarg Beoulve, Acting Regent for Prince Orinus, was still recovering from the poison that had supposedly claimed his liege lord. Calls for peace (most notably from Confessor Funeral) went unheeded, though the armies had withdrawn to their respective provinces to watch each other warily as they licked their wounds. Many suspected this peace might merely be the calm before another storm...but a sailor on a long voyage might yet be grateful for such calm, to give him time to rest.
-Alazlam Durai, "Guest Lecture to the Royal College of Lesalia"
The days were more joyful than he could believe.
He blinked sleep-crusted eyes open as the golden sunlight of a late morning trickled through the bedroom window of the Daravon Estate. Radia was across the room, pulling a tunic over her head. As he stirred, she shot him a lazy smile. Ramza smiled back at her, and settled back into his bed.
The house was in better shape than Ramza had ever seen it—the work they'd done when the War of the Lions had first begun, and the work Daravon and Besrodio had continued to do in their absence, made the cluttered mansion feel airy and comfortable. But there was more to his joy than the house—there was the buoyant energy that filled its inhabitants. He felt it in Radia, as she kissed him on the forehead and slipped out of the room. He felt in the dim noises that reached him through the open door—distant voices and the clutter and clatter of cheerful business. He felt it in himself, swelling like embers into a flame as sleep melted away.
He was reminded of another morning, now weeks past—a morning just a surreal and dream-like, as he and his friends fled the chaos they'd unleashed on Bethla Garrison. They had each fled, with Reis' draconic help, from their separate battlefronts. They had each fled, desperate to reach one another. Desperate, and elated.
Ramza, Rafa, and Lavian had tied themselves to Reis' great amethyst legs, to ease her passage as they soared through the sky. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. The air whistled by them, and the great bulk of Bethla Garrison teemed beneath them with the frantic, ant-like motions of men escaping the calamity that they had unleashed upon them.
They had attacked Bethla Garrison, and they had won. They had killed as few people as they could, and pried a great victory from the terrible trap the Church and the Lucavi had laid for them. That alone was cause for celebration.
But it was not the only cause.
Finally, Ramza could stay in bed no longer. He fished a rumpled pair of trousers from his bedroom floor, grabbed a purple tunic from the dresser, and stepped out into the house. The Daravon Estate was built more vertical than most manses, to accommodate the immense training room down below: Ramza had no sooner stepped out of his door than he could see the salon he had spent so much time in, over the years. Reis, Rafa, and Melia stood down below, chatting animatedly to one another.
"Morning, Ramza!" Reis called.
"Morning," Ramza said, swallowing a yawn. "How's research?"
"Mustadio's taking it easy as he can," Reis said, rolling her eyes. "I thought I'd stretch my legs."
Ramza smiled. "Plus, Beowulf's not gonna have time for you."
Reis rolled her eyes again. "Don't get me started." She waved cheerily at him, and headed out the door with Rafa in tow. Melia remained behind, looking over her shoulder towards the staircase that led down to the training room.
"Not you, too," Ramza sighed.
"I can beat him," Melia whispered. "I know I can."
Ramza shook his head, smiling, and headed down the stairs. By the time he reached the ground floor, Melia was already heading down below. For his part, Ramza headed for the backdoor. He pushed his way across wild grass, stopping only to pat Boco, who was wandering cheerfully across the green.
"-it took a lot to make them!" Malak's voice was muffled by the stables' walls.
"That is why I would only melt down one."
"One's too many."
Ramza chuckled, pushing open the door. A wave of heat rolled out to meet him. The stables were stables no longer—over the past year, Besrodio had expanded on the old smithy attached to the stables, and turned the whole place into his workshop. He had been in the process of doing so when they'd last seen him six months ago: now the place was in full swing.
And all the little ideas he and Mustadio had had—both in their time together here, and in their time apart—those were in full-swing, too.
Agrias' armor was disassembled against one wall, fresh etch-runed scales laid out in a constellation around it. Agrias and Lavian were hunched over a table beside the dismantled armor, studying different pieces of metal, stone, and wood, muttering quietly to themselves. The air around them hummed with the mirage shimmers of moving magic moving.
Mustadio sat not far from them, at his own table. The Germonique Gopsel lay open on one side: on the other was the thick Codex they'd taken from the Archipelago: inbetween them was a dense web of different kinds of paper. The papers around the Gospel itself were the same notes Mustadio had been working on for weeks now, but the other papers held mathematical formulae and sketches of armor, swords, scepters, and guns. Behind him, on a table separate from the papers, were three disassembled guns. Mustadio pivoted between books, paper, and guns with mechanical precision, taking time to wipe the ink off his hands before he turned to the guns and the grease off his hands before he turned back to the papers. He looked half like a Worker himself, a thing of power and precise clockwork.
"Dio!" Besrodio called. He was towards the back of the stables, where the wall of heat kept rolling in from the workshop he'd set up. The walls around him gleamed with metal and tools: liquid metal bubbled behind him. Mustadio set his paper down absently and hurried to join his farther, slipping on his thick leather gloves as he approached.
Father and son obviously shared some resemblance, but Besrodio had never looked more like his son than he had when he had seen the haul of treasures they had brought with them from Riovanes, the Archipelago, and the Foundry. The questions he had asked had the same rapid, melodic cadence that Mustadio's did when he got excited, and he had worked constantly since, refurbishing this, dissembling that, melting down this. Ramza had only gotten a brief look at his study, right next to Daravon's bedroom: it was so thick with papers and blueprints that you could not see the walls.
Malak stood sheepishly back from the furnaces. His swords were laid out on a table in front of him: he was hunched over them a little, as though he feared Besrodio might snatch one up if he did not stay on guard. When he saw Ramza, he sidled towards him, still nervously glancing between his swords and the Bunansas.
"He wants to-" Malak started.
"I heard," Ramza said.
Malak shook his head. "I...don't know if I want him to."
"Why can't you make another one?"
Malak shook his head again. "I...it takes special magic, for my blood to keep its powers in inanimate objects. Clara..." He closed his eyes. "Clara helped a lot. Bought us time. I'm not sure we can ever do it again."
He heard the grief in the boy's voice. Ramza squeezed his shoulder. "It's up to you, Malak. No one's going to make you do anything you don't want to." He paused, and added, "But...but it is possible they could make something...more." He looked back to Mustadio and Besrodio, hunched over a mold into which they poured bubbling metal, talking in short, sharp bursts. "They're...pretty impressive."
Malak nodded. "They are, at that."
The door swung open, and Cid strode inside, an apron tied around his ill-fitting clothes, a smile upon his rugged face. "Breakfast!" he shouted.
Cidolfas Orlandeau, the Thundergod, last of the 50 Years' War's great heroes. Cidolfas Orlandeau, commander of the Nanten, and his father's firm friend. Cidolfas Orlandeau, who seemed to buoy their spirits with his every word and every deed, since the moment he'd joined them in the Bethla Wastes. Cidolfas Orlandeau, making them breakfast.
It had been a strange, frantic flight from Bethla Garrison—the literal flight, tied to Reis' great limbs, and the figurative one, as they ran and stumbled and staggered deeper into the desert, curving their way deeper into the Wastes before they figured out where they were running to. Slowly, they had all come together again: each reunion desperate, exhausted, too short and too full of relief. They had all made it, somehow: they had all endured. They had stopped a war, and had not lost a single life in doing so.
It had been dusk when they spotted Boco walking slowly across the sands. But the figure upon Boco's back wore a brown cloak, and was too broad to be Olan. As he had drawn close, he had flung back the hood of that cloak, so his bearded face was painted in the light with the last bloody rays of the setting sun. Blue eyes had traced his way among them, until they settled on Ramza. "There's Balbanes' son," he'd said, and smiled.
The journey here had been difficult—they had taken a long, strange path, to confuse any possible foes, and they had been short on food and water both by the time they finally made it back to Gallione. But every day was one fought after their great victory. And every day brought a new story from Cid, a new insight into the world, into the sword...into Balbanes.
Alicia, Lavian, and Ramza followed Cid as soon as he announced breakfast: Malak promised to bring Besrodio and Mustadio along as soon as they were finished. A thick repast was laid out on the oaken table tear the kitchen—plates laden with eggs, fried potatoes and thick cuts of minotaur bacon, a thick stack of pancakes and a small platter of dried fruits, among others.
"Reis and Rafa are out on patrol," Ramza said.
"I've set aside their portion," Cid replied. He sat down next to Ramza, took a thoughtful bite of his own eggs, then stood up again. "Needs more salt."
"Still surprised you wanted to cook us breakfast," Alicia said.
"You're surprised anyone ever wants to cook," Lavian grunted, with bacon dangling from her mouth.
"I always enjoyed cooking at camp," Cid said. "Not much call for it when you're in command, unfortunately. Never enough time..." He shrugged. "So I relish the chance to try and improve."
He returned with salt and a few other spices, sprinkling them across the different dishes. When he bit into the eggs again, he nodded. "That's better."
"Saw Melia head down below," Ramza said.
"She's not alone," Alicia grumbled. "Agrias and Beowulf have been down there since dawn."
"I think Radia went down, too." Ramza took another bit of his eggs.
"They can wait a little while longer," Cid said. "I doubt any of them will do any better today than they did yesterday." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Well...Dame Oaks might."
"How does she..." Ramza trailed off.
Cid's blue eyes twinkled. "How does she compare to your father?" Ramza nodded. Cid thought for a moment. "She's a very talented Mage Knight...but it's hard to measure up to Balbanes. Your father trained himself to use the Bursting Blade with both swords—Justice and Service. He could transform its explosive power into proper spells." He laughed. "He was a Mage Knight in the literal sense of the term."
Cid smiled, and that smile was half the reason for the disbelieving joy they all felt these days. They had done deeds worthy of legends—only twelve of them, and they had brought Bethla Garrison low. Having Cid among them was heady enough on its own—counting in their company the last true hero of the 50 Years' War. But it was not just Cid the legend: it was Cid the man. Cid, who wanted to practice his cooking skills, and wanted to tell stories of the old days.
"It's hard to imagine using another sword as well as Justice," Ramza said, thinking of that big bastard sword that was never far from Zalbaag's side.
Cid laughed again. "It took a lot of practice. When we started, he was too young to have access to the family swords. When he finally got them, he preferred to switch between the two." His smile widened into a boyish grin. "He started using both to get the edge on me, when I'd started beating him a bit too regularly for his liking."
"Did it work?" Ramza asked.
"Not at first." The grin softened, turned wistful. "We were at war, there wasn't much time to train...and to be fair to your father, his tricks were a lot harder to use safely. Lot more chance of someone getting at hurt. But once he started to figure it out..." He cocked his head thoughtfully once more. "Dame Oaks mostly doesn't fight like him. But they have that in common. She has strength and endurance to spare. If she finds a flaw, however small, she'll try to overwhelm it. Overwhelm you." He smiled at Ramza. "He did that, too. Saw how people fought. Figured out how to get around it, over it...through it, if he had to."
Another sliver of his father. Another piece of the man he'd never gotten to know well enough in life. Ramza's heart ached a little. But still, he could not stop smiling.
How many new stories had he heard? About his father sneaking women into war camps across the battlefront: about his father, naked as the day he was born, unleashing hell upon the Ordallian battlelines from atop his chocobo, the same story Olan had told him on the way to Yardrow: about his father and his mother and Cid, shepherding him and Alma on the beach. Cid had known his father for decades. He had the stories to match.
The door to the kitchen pushed open, and Daravon strolled casually inside. He wore a loose-fitting shirt, damp about the shoulders and armpits with sweat. "I hope you made enough for the whole class," he said, sitting down and shoveling eggs and potatoes onto his plate.
Cid nodded. "Of course."
"And how long do you plan to keep your students waiting?" Daravon asked.
Cid grimaced. "I don't recall agreeing to take on any students."
"If you're going to stay under my roof, the least you can do is help out around the school."
Cid eyed Daravon for a moment. "If the Military Academy were still open...you would have me lecture, wouldn't you?"
"A war criminal still has a certain kind of expertise," Daravon said.
"Gaffgarion would have agreed with you," Ramza muttered.
"Was he wrong?" Daravon asked.
Cid smiled grimly. "I made their portion for after." He gestured vaguely to a covered bowl in the corner of the kitchen. "Tell them to get ready. I'll join them shortly."
Daravon arched his eyebrows. "So I'm a messenger now?"
"You expect your guest lecturers to do all the work?"
So easy now, dry and joking. But Daravon's eyes had been full of tears when they had returned to the Manor. He had clung to each of them in turn—to Ramza, Reis, and Beowulf most of all, Reis protesting faintly the whole time (her transformation had cost her dearly: she had been bedridden in the back of the caravan most of their way back to Daravon's estate). But Ramza especially wished he could have captured the disbelieving look on Daravon's face when Cid appeared in front of him.
Cid had that effect on all of them. Ramza felt it himself, in the stories of his father...but he saw it in the others, too. In Alicia and Lavian, rapt beside him. In Besrodio and Mustadio, peppering him with questions about his sword and his swordsmanship. In Rafa and Malak, who seemed uncharacteristically mute whenever he was around.
And in the others, down on the training room floor as they spoke. Struggling and striving to beat Cid. They had tried to best him in a sparring match almost every day since they'd returned to the Daravon Estate. They had yet to succeed.
He watched them now, having left breakfast behind. He went through his own round of exercises in his own time (those he had been taught at the Academy, those he had picked up in the field, and those he had perfected with his friends). At the moment, he practiced spellcasting with Alicia and Lavian. The last few months, their joint spells had saved them more than once—the lightning they'd unleashed on the Worker in the Archipelago, the wards he'd raised with Lavian against the crushing stone and the arrows of Bethla Garrison. They were trying more complicated things, practicing them in the larger stone tiles that strengthened their spells, then working on them again in the runed stones that weakened them.
But the work he did with Alicia and Lavian was an excuse—for them just as much as him. They worked on their magic in between watching the others. Beowulf, Radia, and Melia were sparring constantly, with each other and with anyone else who would have them, testing their different styles against different magics, testing them against each other. When she wasn't fighting them, Agrias drilled herself relentlessly, wearing borrowed plate so she wouldn't lose the feel of moving in armor.
It was Agrias who saw Cid first: she finished slashing Save The Queen through the air, silver fire trailing on its edge, and rested the flat of the sword against one armored shoulder. Cid was wearing the same casual clothing he'd worn above—only the apron had been removed. And Excaligard, gold to Save The Queen's silver and so dense with runes that its edges flowed with light like liquid, rested on his shoulder in matching fashion.
"Who-" Cid started to ask, but before he could finish asking "Who's first?" Beowulf had already sprinted forward, skidding to a halt a few yalms in front of Cid with Alister's swords in hand.
"Again?" Cid asked, his voice somewhere between annoyed and amused. "Your first ten losses weren't enough for you?"
"There's no shame in losing against you," Beowulf whispered. "But win once, and I'm the man who beat the Thundergod."
Cid smiled. "To add to your growing collection of impressive titles, dragonslayer."
"And dragon-rider." Beowulf's grin widened.
"Very well." Cid shrugged, and in that same motion shifted, so his sword was now held just in front of him. As always was when he fought these duels, his eyes were closed.
But that meant nothing, as Ramza now knew. Eyes closed or open, Cid was just as dangerous.
Beowulf didn't hesitate: he flung himself forwards, feinted left, right, left again, then spun towards the front, slashing in quick chops with his broader blade while jabbing with his shorter ones.
"Mage Masher, Vampire Knight, Swordbreaker." Cid's voice carried through the room, even over the slashes. It had a slightly echoing quality to it. "Each focuses on turning the opponent's strength to their advantage. A Mage Masher of any stripe is so dangerous because they can turn their opponent's power against them: cripple their foes."
The space between the two of them was a blurring haze of golden steel. Step by step, Beowulf was driving Cid back across the room. Cid seemed unperturbed.
"You are a most capable Silencer, young Daravon. You are fast, and strong, and sure. You can blunt your enemy's strength, and create weaknesses in their defense. Waiting for your moment to strike. So many battles turn on just such a moment. And I believe you are most adept at creating those moments, even in the most impossible situations."
The force of Beowulf's frantic attack had driven Cid almost back against a far wall. Ramza leaned forwards in spite of himself.
"But you have a weakness."
The thoom of thunder filled the air, followed by a rumbling whoosh. A gust of air blew the hair back from Ramza's forehead. Beowulf twisted, flinging his swords up in a crossguard-
Too late. Cid was behind Beowulf, his sword held beneath his armpit, its tip inches from Beowulf's back. His eyes were still closed. "To create a weakness in my defense, you must create a weakness in yours. You have lived your life gambling upon superior insight, your superior skill. Now, you must learn superior judgment. Not just how to gamble, but when."
"He's saying you lack experience," Daravon called from his place by the table, with its glasses, pitchers of water, and loaf of bread.
"At least, compared to me." Cid lowered his sword. Beowulf bowed before stepping away from him. The grin was still on his face, wide with disbelief. His eyes sparkled with admiration.
No sooner had he stepped away then Melia had taken his place, her sword raised in a matching en guarde stance to Cid's. When they'd first begun these duels, she had worried aloud that she might break Excaligard. Cid had laughed (not unkindly) at the idea. And with every duel, he showed her why he'd laughed.
Melia lunged forwards. The first time they had dueled, Cid had beaten her in that lunge: when she'd skidded to a stop, the sword had been knocked from her hands, and Cid's own sword was pointed at her throat. S he did much better now: lunging, slashing, twisting, striking. Cid's body flickered (each flicker accompanied by a soft thoom) between the blows. He did not parry her sword, but danced between her strikes.
"I always thought Swordbreaker an ironic name," Cid mused, as he circled Melia. "In some ways, Swordbreakers are the ultimate swords themselves. Their edge is honed with magic so they may shatter any defense—stone, and metal, and magic, and flesh. There is a reason the Templars guard the art so fiercely. There is a reason the Templars are considered the best of the best."
Cid struck: Melia twisted aside, parried his blow and kept spinning, out of his reach.
"Young Daravon must learn superior judgment," Cid said, pressuring Melia now, forcing her back from him with precise strikes of his sword. Every blow seemed to stagger her a little. "For you, the problem is endurance. You are like the vanguard of an army, the tip of the spear. Yes, your blows strike true, and strike deep. But when you encounter strength enough to overwhelm you-"
Another thoom, far louder than the others, and a terrific, rattling clang as Melia's sword hit the ground. Melia stood frozen, the tip of Cid's golden sword at her throat. The sword he'd knocked from her hand clattered to the ground against a far wall. "You must find reserves to draw upon, Templar Tengille," Cid said. His eyes were closed. "Or else any opponent of worth may simply outlast you."
He lowered his blade. Melia, solemn where Beowulf had been giddy, went to fetch her sword.
Radia stepped forward, nearly as eager as Beowulf and Melia had been. They began circling each other almost at once. Cid smiled at her. "Silencers and Swordbreakers are fearsome opponents...but I myself fear Vampire Knights far more."
"You never fought my father, though?" Radia asked
"No. We only met a handful of times." He paused. "He...did not make the most favorable impression."
Radia smiled. There was as much sadness as amusement in that smile. "No...to a man like you, I imagine he was..."
"Cynical, vain, venial, cretinous, opportunistic?" Cid suggested.
Radia laughed. "Yeah. He was a real piece of shit."
Cid laughed in turn. "Forgive me for agreeing with you, but..." He paused. "I did have a chance to see him fight, however. He was...magnificent."
Ramza felt his heart twist in his chest. You could say many nasty things about Geoffrey Gaffgarion (Many nasty little words, he heard the man suggest somewhere in his head), but you couldn't deny how impressive he was. He had been a dangerous presence in every room and every battlefield he stepped into. It was only luck Ramza had beaten him.
"There a reason you want to talk about my dad today?" Radia asked, as she and Cid circled one another.
Cid opened his eyes, and offered her an earnest smile. "So that you will properly appreciate it when I tell you I think you are every ilm his equal.
Radia smiled in turn, though she did not stop her circling. "Prove it. Come at me."
Cid chuckled, closing his eyes. "My sword art is strong, Radia Gaffgarion. But you are a Vampire Knight. The Draining Blade specializes in seizing the strength of others for yourself. Were I to come at you, you might steal my strength, my speed, for yourself. The longer you could endure my attack, the weaker I would become...and the stronger you would become." His smile widened. "Yours is the only art in this room I have cause to truly fear."
Still they circled one another. Cid's blue eyes were firmly closed. Radia's eyes were green and glaring with focus.
"The wisest course would be to let you attack me," Cid said. "Vampire Knights are a little less dangerous in the offense. Once they commit to one kind of attack, you have the chance to counter them. Like I did with young Daravon, and Templar Tengille."
There was no thoom this time: there was instead a sharp terrible crack and a rush of wind Ramza felt against his face. Buried in this burst of sound were the distant echoes of clashing blades, but by the time Ramza blinked, the fight was already over: Radia's red sword was pointed off at an angle, and Cid's blade was at her throat.
"You have superior judgment, and superior endurance," Cid said. His eyes were open, and he was smiling at her. "And as a Vampire Knight, your defenses are second to none. But you need strength and vision to match. All it takes is one blow strong enough to break your guard, to shatter your expectations..and you shatter, too."
"You don't need to tell me that," Radia breathed. "I've faced worse than you."
"If that were true," Cid replied. "You would be dead."
He lowered his sword, patted her gently on the soldier, and stepped away from her. Radia stared after him, a feverish look in her eyes.
"My turn, then?" Agrias asked, stepping forward with her sword held out at an angle beside her.
Cid smiled. "I confess, I was waiting for it." He bowed slightly. "You keep fine company, Dame Oaks. But to meet the captain of the Lionesses is a terrific privilege. I have known some few of your number in my time as a soldier. I believe you may the be finest I have met.
"You flatter me."
"Are you not worthy of flattery?" Cid asked.
Agrias smiled back. "With talents like mine, I've no need of it. The truth speaks far louder than any flattery could."
Cid laughed, and lifted his sword to an en guarde position. "Well said, Dame Oaks." He and Agrias stepped towards each other in sync. "So what favor can I do a woman of your nobility?"
"Tell me about yourself."
"What is there to tell?" Cid asked. "Every swordsman in this room is the same."
"Well that's certainly not flattering," Agrias replied.
Cid laughed again. He and Agrias had begun to circle one another as he and Radia had before. Cid's eyes were closed once more. "Magic is the same, whoever uses it," Cid said. "A mage transmutes their field to one kind of energy, or another. A Swordbreaker uses theirs to shatter metal, stone, wood, magic, and flesh. A Mage Masher turns their opponent's magic against them like a canny wrestler might use their opponent's physical strength. A Vampire Knight steals the field of their enemies."
Still, he and Agrias made no move on each other. Still, Cid kept talking.
"Even the rare bloodline arts are just unique applications of the Field. A Dragoner transmutes their body to bestial power. The Devil's Blood extends the reach of their field beyond what is usually possible, while the Heaven's Fist empowers a body to be tougher and stronger than human limitations allow."
"And me?" Agrias asked. "You?"
"Even more similar," Cid answered. "A Mage Knight unifies their field with their blade. The magic they can unleash with their swords is powerful in ways even the strongest mages have difficulty rivaling. Whereas I?" He released one hand from the grip of his sword, and tapped his closed eyes. "I fuse my field with my body. I give myself power and awareness that exceeds ordinary human capacities. I can see you more clearly now than if I opened my eyes-"
Agrias lunged, her blade shimmering: Cid lunged, and the blast detonated around them, a wide burst of force that blackened the stones and the ceiling. Cid grinned at her over their intercrossed blades. "-and my strength and speed exceed all others."
Slash, slash, slash: Agrias' blade whipped through the air, detonating in fearsome displays of silver flame with each blurring strike. With another burst, she flung Cid back from her: she raised her sword high, radiating with burning light, and brought it down in a terrific slash, as though God had brought down a blade of holy fire. Ramza squinted to try and see-
A rumble of thunder. The light faded. Agrias' blade was buried in the stone: Cid was to her side, his sword pointed at her neck. "You could learn it, if you wanted," Cid said. "But I don't think you're quite suited for it." He lowered his sword. "A pity Balbanes isn't alive. He could have taught you better."
"Did he beat you?" Agrias asked. Her eyes were wide as a child's on Saint's Day, as bright and awed as Beowulf's.
"Often," Cid said. "As often as I lost to him. I believe we were...27 to 27?" He frowned. "Or was it 28 to 28..." He shook his head, clapped Agrias on her armored shoulder. "You are young, strong, talented. I spoke with admiration for a reason. I believe you will one day number among the finest swordsmen this world has ever seen."
A disbeleiving smile spread across Agrias' face. Her eyes had already been childlike in their wonder: the smile melted away the last traces of Agrias' habitual severity. She looked younger, and freer, than Ramza had ever seen her.
"That concludes today's lessons." Daravon was barely repressing his own smile.
"Not quite," Cid said. "There is one opponent I've yet to fight." He turned, slowly and deliberately, to face Ramza.
Ramza shrugged, trying not to show the butterflies he felt fluttering in his stomach. "I'm not as a good a swordsman as they are."
"You do not need to be a swordsman to beat one," Cid replied. "And I have never had the chance to test myself against any of Balbanes' sons. Much less the one who's slain Lucavi and punched a dragon in the face."
Ramza grimaced at Beowulf. "You've been telling stories again."
"How could I resist?" Beowulf asked, grinning rakishly.
Ramza shook his head and looked back at Cid. He felt his doubts crowding close again: Cid was every bit as good as the stories described him. Ramza had seen his friends do incredible things these last few years: Cid had beaten every one of them, today and every day they had challenged him. He was the only man in Ivalice everyone agreed was his father's equal...
So if Ramza could match him...if Ramza could beat him...wouldn't that make him his father's equal, too?
He felt that strange, electric thrill—the same one he'd felt while he and Olan had sat on the lip of the caravan, hurtling into certain danger. He stood up, not quite sure what he meant to say, not quite sure what he meant to do.
"Ramza!"
Rafa's shout nearly drowned out the sound of her throwing the door to the training room open. She was bounding across the training room floor, her eyes wild. "Ramza...it's your brother. Zalbaag. He's...he's here. He's...looking for you."