(Next update to on 11/29/23)

Chapter 148: Fratricide, Filicide, Patricide

So here was the question: would the brothers try to kill each other?

Melia was crouched inside a hallway on the second floor of Daravon's manor, just short of the banister overlooking the foyer. From here, she had a decent view of the front door, the dusty blue-and-gold rug that spread before it, the lopsided coatrack to one side and the ancient grandfather clock that had not ticked once in the weeks that she'd been here to the other. None of them used the foyer entrance when they came and went from the Manor. Perhaps that was why they'd decided to bring Zalbaag here.

Zalbaag Beoulve. The Gallant Knight. He head earned his title in the latter days of the 50 Years' War, when an Ordallian attack had nearly broken through the Ivalician battlelines. At a tense moment, when Ordallian riders threatened to swarm through Duguera Pass, he had stood alone before them, blasting out the canyon walls to keep them at bay. He had held out long enough for Hokuten reinforcements to rush up from the rear.

Melia well knew the names of the heroes of the 50 Years' War—her father's name was often counted among them. Because Ramza was the only Beoulve she had known, her association with the name was mostly intellectual. Now, it felt almost visceral. She imagined him with Izlude's face. She imagined him with the shadowy suggestion of Quan's. She imagined him with her father's.

It had been a tense span of minutes, as they'd hurried up from the training room floor, snapping at each other as they decided what they were supposed to do, with the Knight-Commander of the Hokuten riding to meet them. It was unclear exactly what stories had made it out of Bethla Garrison (and odds were the Nanten weren't sharing much with the Hokuten), but some of their names were well-known across Ivalice by now. Ramza, Radia, Agrias, Alicia, Lavian...and of course, Zalbaag had already seen Reis and Rafa as he approached. How best to meet this unknown danger?

Finally, Rafa was sent to bring Zalbaag and Reis back to the Manor. Beowulf insisted on joining the greeting party in the foyer (after some half-hearted objections). Malak hid in the salon, his swords laid beside nearby doors. And Melia and Mustadio took their post on the second floor.

Through all the tension, no one had said the obvious. That Zalbaag might be coming here to kill Ramza. That Ramza might be forced to kill his brother.

Her heart ached, as she imagined Izlude on such a grim errand, setting out to kill her. Could there really be anything that could drive you to kill someone you loved?

And if your father is one of the Lucavi? A monster like the Marquis?

Melia's hand clenched on the hilt of her blade.

"Are you ever going to let us work on her?" Mustadio whispered.

Melia shot him a disbelieving look. "You want to talk about this now?"

"Would you rather stew in silence?"

Melia grimaced. Besrodio and Mustadio were buzzing about their various projects—their desire to fashion something to help Rafa, to enhance Malak's powers, to give Alicia and Lavian better conduits for her magic. They'd made her an interesting proposal about her nameless sword—about melting parts of it down, recasting it with pieces of the Marquis' katana and her brother's gauntlet.

But she hesitated to agree to their terms. For one thing, she wasn't sure she wanted to be without her sword for as long as it would take to reforge it—none other would let her use her powers so easily. For another, she wasn't sure she wanted to give up a relic of her brother's-

If it was his. If my father wasn't lying.

She clenched at the hilt again, and said none of this. Instead, she said, "The gauntlets...I like Ramza wearing them. It's like Izlude is still-"

She'd said more than she'd meant to, and flushed. Mustadio regarded her, solemn and serious. "I understand," he said softly. "But my father had some ideas about that."

"Like what?" Melia asked.

Before he could answer, there was a brief, loud knock upon the foyer door. Their heads snapped around.

Daravon opened the door, squinting as though he couldn't see who was on the other side. "Knight-Commander!" he exclaimed, as though surprised. "Please, come in, come in..."

He opened the door a little, to allow Zalbaag inside.

"Don't shout," Beowulf growled, his swords pointed at Zalbaag's neck and crotch.

"Inside," Agrias said curtly. "Slow and steady. No sudden moves."

They had been standing in the shadow of the door, just out of view. Farther back, towards the entrance to the house proper, Ramza, Alicia, and Lavian all stood with hands, staff, and scepter leveled towards him. Radia stood just in front of them, her red-bladed sword held en guarde.

Zalbaag stepped inside, as casual as though there were not three blades ready to rip him apart. Rafa and Reis followed him inside, just as casually, and pushed the door closed behind him. From her place on the second floor, Melia could just make out his trim blonde goatee and his close-cropped fuss of hair. He had a sword sheathed upon his back, but wore no armor: only a purple tunic and beige trousers. By some strange coincidence, the colors of his clothes matched Ramza's exactly.

"Ramza." Zalbaag's levl rasp was soft, but it carried in the high-ceilinged foyer.

"How many are with you?" Ramza asked.

Zalbaag shook his head. "None."

"You came alone?" Melia heard an emotion she couldn't identify in Ramza's voice. Something like disbelief. Something like fear. Something like hope.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Zalbaag didn't say anything right away.

"Your sword," Agrias said.

Zalbaag's head snapped towards her. "No."

"It's alright," Ramza said.

Agrias' head snapped towards Ramza in turn. "I have seen too many Hokuten blades turned against me and mine to leave their Knight-Commander armed."

"It's my father's sword," Ramza said, and Melia felt a pang in her heart. "Leave it. Please."

Agrias grimaced, but said nothing else. Her eyes shifted back to Zalbaag.

Zalbaag was staring at Ramza. In poise, he looked mostly like the man she'd imagined. But there was something in the lost cast of his face that mirrored the confusion in Ramza's voice.

"After...after we last spoke..." There was guilt in Zalbaag's voice. He swallowed, then continued, "I...it took some time, for me to return to Lesalia. I didn't hear about...about the Church's declaration. That you were wanted for heresy. In connection with the Cardinal's death."

"It's two Cardinals now," Beowulf growled.

Zalbaag's head snapped towards Beowulf now. "Bremondt's dead?"

"And rightly so," Beowulf said. "After what he did."

Zalbaag closed his eyes and did not speak for a moment. When he opened his eyes, he turned, ever so slightly, to look at Reis behind him. "So...you were the Holy Dragon."

Reis nodded, and Zalbaag shook his head. "So the rumors...about Bethla Garrison...they're true? You...you brought down the dam?"

"Yes," Ramza's voice was taut as a bowstring.

"And the poison?" Zalbaag asked.

"Was what we were trying to stop."

"Who laid it?"

"I think you know."

Zalbaag's eyes closed again. He shuddered, just once.

"When I got back to Lesalia," Zalbaag said. "It wasn't just...just news of you, waiting for me. There was someone else, too. Bishop Domino."

Melia arched her eyebrows. Of the Bishops and Archbishops of Ivalice, Bishop Domino was among the weakest. It had been centuries since the kings and queens of Ivalice had allowed the Church to wield much authority in their central province. The Bishops of Lesalia were little more than ambassadors to the royal family, there to communicate the wishes of the actual power players in the Church to the royal family, and vice versa. She hadn't even known Domino was involved in the Church's plans...but then, a powerless bishop with good connections might make a good spymaster...

As her mind raced, Zalbaag continued to talk. About Bishop Domino, alerting him that Ramza might be part of a larger, more sinister conspiracy, with roots in the old Death Corps rebellion. About a plan to behead Ivalice, and lead it to godless anarchy. And about the Church's hopes: to quell this threat, and restore order to Ivalice, and bring it back into God's light.

"And you believed him," Ramza said.

"I..." Zalbaag trailed off. "I wanted to. What you'd said...what you'd done...I had some of my spies look for signs of where you'd been. They traced you to a fight in Goland...and from there, they traced your companions to some work in Gariland. I...I suspected Master Daravon might have been sheltering you."

"No one ever bothered you, Dad?" Beowulf asked, his eyes still fixed on Zalbaag.

"The Church stopped by one, once or twice, before Ramza and Besrodio ever came," Daravon said. "Pretended it was just a matter of trying to find your whereabouts. But it's been years. And I never saw a sign of the Hokuten."

"I wasn't going to smear the Master Instructor's name without a damn good reason," Zalbaag said.

"Is that all?" Ramza asked.

Zalbaag hesitated. "No. No, I...I wanted to believe the Church. But I couldn't forget what you told me. The church...they fed me some useful intelligence. Helped us to stop the Marquis. But then...then Bethla Garrison, and..."

He closed his eyes once more, and was silent for a time.

"Prince Larg rode with the Hokuten vanguard," he murmured. "Dycedarg was cagey about his own spies, but...they matched what mine were telling me. When the bombs went off...I wasn't caught in it, but...he and the Prince...I found them, in the poison fog. They were both alive. It was only...only when I brought the Healers, that the Prince was..."

He trailed off again. When he opened his blue eyes, they seemed haunted.

"You think Dyce killed the Prince?" Ramza asked.

"I..." Zalbaag nodded. "And if you were right about him...maybe you were right about..." He took a deep breath. "He had a visitor, a few days ago. Knight-Commander Tengille."

Melia felt her stomach drop into her waist, as ice flooded her veins.

Down below, Ramza was quiet for a moment. "So why did you come here, Zal?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Cid's voice rang clear through the room, as he entered from his own post outside the foyer. Excaligard was sheathed at his side, and a somber smile was on his face. "He has doubts he needs answered. And you're the only one who can answer them."

Zalbaag gaped at Cid. "You...but you're supposed to be..."

"Dead?" Cid shrugged. "My son concocted a clever lie, to keep enemies from my back." He paused, studying Zalbaag. "Do you think I killed my liege lord?"

Zalbaag managed a wavering smile. "I could not imagine the Thundergod turning on his liege lord." The smile faded. "But...but then, I could not imagine Dyce...or the Church..."

He trailed off once more. Agrias was giving Cid an annoyed look from her post at the door. "So we've just decided to throw caution to the wind?"

"If he meant us harm, we'd be surrounded by a hundred knights already." Cid's smile grew more genuine. "We'd escape them, but that's besides the point. His mission is sincere. Put away your swords. Please."

Beowulf arched his eyebrows, but stepped away from Zalbaag with a shrug. "Mind, part of me wants to find out which of us would win..."

Agrias grimaced, but did not follow Cid's request right away. Instead, she stepped closer to Zalbaag, so her blade almost touched him. "I have made the mistake of trusting people on the strength of their name and their reputation before," she said softly. "So I want to be clear. If you betray us, you will die."

Agrias sheathed her sword and turned away from Zalbaag without another word. Zalbaag stared after her, looking more lost than ever. Even through her shock, Melia almost smiled. Agrias really was refreshingly direct.

But the ghost of a smile couldn't linger on her face for long. It looked like it wouldn't be a matter of brother against brother...but another brother had killed his liege lord, and conspired with the man who might be her father, and might be a demon wearing his skin.

She and Mustadio left their perch, and met with the others by the long table just off the kitchens. Cid was offering cold eggs and bacon to everyone, including Zalbaag. No one seemed much inclined to eat.

Finally, Cid set the half-empty dishes back by the kitchen. Zalbaag stood near the door, not quite looking at anyone. "You have questions you need answered?" Cid prompted him.

"I..." Zalbaag hesitated again. "Yes. But I also...I wanted to..." He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small crystal orb roughly the size of an eyeball. "I wanted to...show you this." He looked fleetingly at Ramza, then away again.

"Is that a Matoya?" Mustadio asked.

"Not quite." Zalbaag's voice was as stiff and awkward as his posture. "I acquired it...a few years ago. Shortly before our father..." He trailed off, and closed his eyes. "My understanding is that devices like these were used to create the Picture Windows. They recorded sights that could somehow be translated onto panes of specially treated glass." He paused. "Failing that, however...they can also be used to record what happens within sight of the eye."

There was a brief silence in the room.

"You used this to find out what happened to the Marquis," Ramza said softly.

Zalbaag nodded again, even more stiffly than before. "I had overheard some troubling rumors from within our forces. When I left this recording in Dycedarg's study, I...overhead him speaking with Larg, talking about how the Marquis' death would weaken Goltanna." He shook his head grimly. "I could not permit it."

Ramza stared at his brother. "So you knew-"

"I know Dycedarg is manipulative," Zalbaag said shortly. "If...if I see my job as...as clinging to the threads of white in this world of grey...I suppose I thought Dycedarg saw his as...swimming through the grey, to make his own spots of white." He paused. "But I am...I am no longer sure that is the case. So when I heard Knight-Commander Tengille wanted to meet with Dyce, I...I thought of you, and..."

"And set this up to record them?" Ramza asked.

Zalbaag nodded again. Melia stared at the crystal orb in disbelief. She would have a glimpse of her father as she had never seen him—as a man of power and influence, moving about Ivalice to accomplish the Confessor's will. She had resented her father more than Izlude had...but she had also admired him, and envied him. How would the man recorded here compare to the man she'd known? The man she'd imagined?

If he is a man.

"What the eye records can only be shown once, without a picture window to hold the image," Zalbaag continued. "And I...I thought...if there were answers to be had..." Finally, he looked at his brother. "You deserved them at least as much as me."

"Not to mention," Cid put in. "He might understand things you didn't."

Zalbaag nodded. Cid looked around the room. "Well? What are we waiting for?"

Ramza locked eyes with his brother. The chill was still in Melia's veins. She wondered what it would have been like, if Izlude and Quan were still alive. Was there some version of them that would have had this much tension between them?

Finally, Zalbaag placed the crystal on the table, tracing a pattern along its surface. A moment later, a soft glow unfurled from its depths, misted cloud-like into the air, and painted a sculpture of light in front of them, as vivid as any picture window. Besrodio, Lavian, Alicia, and Mustadio crowded forwards, to study the crystal: everyone else watched the image.

What they saw was a room as seen by a fly climbing along the ceiling. It was a neat, ornate study, a polished wooden desk laden with papers set back on a plush red carpet with gold trim. Behind the desk sat a man Melia recognized almost at once as Dycedarg Beoulve—not because she'd ever seen him before, but because she could see traces of his brothers in him. His hair was the same dirty blonde as Zalbaag's, but with more body, carefully coifed and coiled. Even from the angle of the eye set high above him, she could see his eyes, though darker than Ramza's green, had the same feverish intelligence behind them.

And yet...something in those eyes disturbed her. There was something very cold in those eyes. Something that reminded her, just a little, of-

There was a knock upon the door. "Enter." Dycedarg's voice was softer than Zalbaag's, closer to Ramza's. And yet there was nothing kind in that voice, nothing of the care and concern you heard in Ramza's every word. Again, it reminded her of-

Her father. Her father, entering the door. Her father, in the plush gold-and-purple robes of his office. He did not wear his sword upon his hip—Ragnarok, the treasure of the Templars, passed down to each Knight-Commander down through the years. Yet even without the sword, he moved powerfully, confidently, as though he were fading with water only he could see, water that could not slow him down. She had always admired the way he moved.

But looking at him now—seeing the coldness in those grey eyes, matching the coldness in Dycedarg's brown—she felt she could see the demon that might just lie beneath his skin.

That was how her father looked, when he entered the rooms of the powerful. Like a panther stalking his prey.

"Knight-Commander Tengille," Dycedarg said, raising his wine glass in a mocking toast. "I hope you will forgive your long wait and my lack of hospitality. The hour is late, and I am still recovering from this nasty business at Bethla Garrison."

"Your brother's work, I'm told," her father said.

"That appears to be the consensus," Dycedarg agreed. "Of course, it is hard to trust the Nanten."

"Yes, well..." Her father shrugged. "You are at war."

"Indeed we are." Dycedarg sipped from his glass of wine. He had offered none to her father. "A pity. We seemed just on the eve of victory, and then..."

Her father shrugged again. "Who can predict a heretic?"

"Not I, certainly." Dycedarg smiled absently out the window. "I never could predict what Ramza would do. Not as a child...not as a cadet...not as a mercenary...not as a heretic." He chuckled. "It's funny. He's the bastard, but...he really is my father's son. And I very much mean that as both compliment and insult."

Dycedarg's fond smile faded slowly. He turned his gaze back to her father. "Can we dispense with the games?"

Her father cocked his head. His eyes flickered very briefly up to the ceiling—as though looking for the very eye that showed Melia this image of him, days and malms away. But his gaze did not come to rest on their eye, and eventually he looked back at Dycedarg. "I believe so."

Dycedarg leaned forwards. "I don't know what Ramza did at Bethla Garrison. But we both know he didn't lay those poison mines."

"Just blew up a dam," her father mused. "While the Thundergod killed Goltanna."

"Cidolfas Orlandeau was as a stubborn as my father," Dycedarg retorted. "I doubt very much he would ever take his liege lord's life."

"Unlike you, then."

Silence inside the projection. Silence in the room where they sat watching it. Zalbaag's knuckles were white where he gripped the table.

"You asked me to dispense with the games," her father said mildly. So soft, that voice. Soft as a panther's paw, with the claws retracted.

Dycedarg nodded. "So I did." He took another sip of wine, then set his glass down upon the desk. "But I think you will find it was the poison that killed Bestrald." He closed his eyes, and seemed to sink into the chair. "My friend...I couldn't save you this time."

Her father watched Dycedarg a moment. She saw the beast in him again—the stillness that preceded the kill. "You asked me to dispense with the games," he said, and the softness in his voice was almost a growl. "Dispense with them, or stop wasting my time. You killed the Prince. How else were you to be named Regent in his stead?"

Dycedarg, eyes still closed, shook his head. "I am only Acting Regent," he murmured. "Until such time as a more suitable replacement-"

"Spare me," her father scoffed. "Your man Gaffgarion dealt with me."

"Did he?" Dycedarg asked, and opened his eyes. "So hard to get testimony from a dead man."

Silence in the projection again. The two men stared at each other.

"I asked that we dispense with the games," Dycedarg said, and his voice was just as deadly as her father's. "But it's hard for me to believe you will follow through. You have played such reckless games with my family. And with me." He sat up at his chair. Again, that doubled vision: she could see a beast, circling for the kill. "The poison that choked us in Bethla Pass...it wasn't just meant for Prince Larg. It was meant for me. No?"

Her father shrugged once more. It was sharper than she'd ever seen it—a jagged gesture, edged. "You are a threat to our plans."

"I am the reason any of your plans have succeeded," Dycedarg snapped. "It was my intelligence that let the Nanten sack Lesalia, my intelligence that ignited this war, my intelligence that has kept it churning without resolution. I could have ended this war-"

"You wanted this war more than we did, Dycedarg Beoulve." Her father's voice had claws in it now. "We foiled your assassination attempt on Ovelia, if you'll recall."

Zalbaag and Ramza had leaned closer to the floating image. Their hands were both clenched on the edge of the table, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Oh, I recall." Dycedarg finished his wine, and poured himself a fresh glass. "But all of that depended on my sister."

Her father went still. "What?"

"My sister," Dycedarg repeated. "Naturalized at my father's request. She'd make a fine bride for Orinus, would she not?"

"Ah." Her father nodded. "And of course, once their betrothal was announced and approved, who would question Dycedarg Beoulve serving as regent? Until such time as Orinus comes of age, at least."

"Prince Dycedarg has a nice ring to it, you must admit."

"You must be quite mad at your brother, then. For spiriting her away."

"It's funny you should mention that," Dycedarg leaned back in his chair. "Yes, she did leave with my heretic brother out of Lesalia...but no one's seen them together since."

Her father bowed his head. "I shall pray for her safety."

"I have no need of your prayers," Dycedarg said. "Just her return."

Her father lifted his head. "What?"

"Her return, please." Dycedarg smiled. "If she's alive and in good health, we may be able to put this unpleasant business behind us."

"You think...we have her?" Her father shook his head in disbelief.

Dycedarg smiled. "So you weren't at Port Zeakden? Just days before the fall of Riovanes?"

Her father laughed shortly. "Ah. I shouldn't underestimate your intelligence network."

"No," Dycedarg agreed. "You shouldn't."

"But you've drawn a poor conclusion from your information," her father continued. "Yes, I led a delegation to Riovanes. We..." There was the slightest tremor in her father's voice: she had not heard him sound that way since he'd told her and Izlude that their mother and brother were dead. "We were brought to Riovanes to...to discuss a hostage exchange. My son..." He shook his head. "But he was dead when we got there."

It was Melia's turn to lean closer to the image, remembering what the demon the Marquis had become had told her, remembering Izlude as she'd last seen him, so proud, so eager, so desperate to prove himself worthy of their father's trust.

"And my sister?" Dycedarg said, in the projection.

Her father shook his head again. "The castle was in ruins when we arrived. Bodies littered the grounds. I am told your brother-"

"Yes, yes, my heretic brother, bringer of ruin, a new Germonique." Dycedarg waved his hand dismissively. "I have heard the lies your officials are spreading, Knight-Commander."

"They're not all lies, Lord Beoulve."

"Why should I believe you?" Dycedarg asked. "You lied about your plans for Bethla Garrison, in the hopes of killing me. And you're lying to me now, about Riovanes."

Her father shook his head once more. "I assure you, Lord Beoulve-"

"Saint Above, but I envied the Grand Duke," Dycedarg sighed. "Defensible terrain, Ydoran technology, food enough to feed his people, trade to get whatever else he wanted...damn clever, too. His Hand were all children when he started training them. There's a unit with absolute loyalty." Dycedarg took another sip of his wine. "Very difficult to get spies in his ranks. A few low-level soldiers were the best mots of us could do. It was lucky indeed that Parnella Mykenai was willing to sell him out."

And for the first time, her father looked genuinely startled. "What?"

Dycedarg nodded. "Barinten's stablemaster. Talented lass. She plied her trade in Gariland for a time, helped outfit the cadets' chocobos. We got on speaking terms during my time at the Military Academy. Her sister owns a tavern right here in Igros. I tell all my friends about it. Sometimes I stop in and take in a drink myself. And hear the gossip her sister sends her way." When Dycedarg smiled this time, she saw the panther in in it—a cat's contented smile, as it toyed with its prey. "She had just sent me word, of the Grand Duke's guest. A noble lady, with a whole wing of his castle dedicated to her safekeeping. And of the frantic arrangements he'd made, in preparation for special guests from the Church."

"Now." Dycedarg set his glass down. "These reports that surround Ramza...I don't know what to make of them. But whatever Ramza might have become since last I saw him, he would never hurt Alma." Dycedarg's smile was gone now. "So that leaves two options. Either my sister was taken captive by these Church dignitaries, before battle consumed Riovanes...or my sister was killed, because of what those Church dignitaries did." He raised one hand, palm up. "In the former case...perhaps I can be persuaded to forget the Church's treachery towards me. Perhaps our alliance can be salvaged. But in the latter case..." His hand curled into a fist. "In the latter case, I would return to Bethla Garrison, and beg Delita's cooperation in hunting down my sister's killers."

Her father laughed. But Melia thought she heard fear in the sound "After what you did to his sister? He'll kill you."

"I have no doubt he'll try," Dycedarg said mildly. "But I believe he could be persuaded to make a momentary alliance of convenience against you and yours."

"And do you imagine the people of Ivalice will support you?" her father asked, and now she was sure: he was afraid. "As you seek to destroy holy men?"

"There were other men, who claimed to be holy," Dycedarg said mildly. "The Pharists of the Ydoran Empire called Ajora a heretic, did they not? Perhaps the Church has fallen to the same rot that took the Empire." He paused, and his mouth dropped in mock-surprise. "Come to think of it...my brother Ramza speaks of Lucavi in your ranks, does he not? Perhaps his so-called "heresy" is true! If Hokuten and Nanten alike say it is...if Orinus and Ovelia put aside their differences, and point the finger at the demons who infested the Church, and brought needless war to Ivalice...!"

Her father stared at Dycedarg. She was sure now. She had never in her life seen him look like this—taken aback, and afraid.

And then he smiled.

His image was strange in the projection—so small, and yet so much clearer than it should have been, so much detail recorded by the magic that powered this crystal eye and its spell. So Melia could see that smile, with horrible clarity. Her father's smile, like a fire beneath his craggy face, volcanic in its heat and intensity. She didn't imagine the demon she saw in that smile.

"And you wonder why we tried to have you killed." Her father chuckled: fire burbled in his laughter. "The word of a stablemaster, a lucky break out of the trap we sprung to claim you, and you've shown you're ready to break the Glabados Church, just for a better shot at the throne." He looked casually around. "And I imagine you've informed someone else of our meeting?"

"Zalbaag," Dycedarg answered. "I told him I believe you wish to help broker a lasting peace...but that the assassins who moved against us at Bethla Garrison might move against us again. And with Ramza's words fresh in his mind, I'm sure he'll be ready to point the finger at you, should aught go awry."

Her father chuckled again. "Then naught shall go awry." His smile faded. "I am sorry, Lord Dycedarg. But we cannot return your sister to you. Not yet."

"And why not?"

"Your brother holds the Germonique Gospel."

Dycedarg blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

"It's real?"

Her father nodded. "Copies survived, here and there, faithfully transcribed by heretics and blasphemers over the ages. Suffice to say, it is an existential threat to the Church, and cannot be permitted to exist."

"And you intend to barter my sister for the Gospel," Dycedarg said.

Vormav nodded again. "That said...there may be a way to speed her return to you...and make amends for that...nasty business at Bethla Pass."

Dycedarg laughed. "Oh?"

"Yes." Vormav held up his hands, and gestured down to his waist. Dycedarg nodded, and Vormav reached inside a pouch, and pulled out-

The projection flickered. The images grew distorted, filled with bubbles of light that churned as rapidly as the place where the waterfall meets the river. Everything inside the projection grew hazy and indistinct.

"What's happening?" Ramza's voice was taut.

"I don't know," Zalbaag answered. "I've never seen this before."

"Interference of some kind," Mustadio muttered. "But what..."

He trailed off. The image had resolved itself. Vormav stood back from the desk. Dycedarg leaned forwards. And the object Vormav had placed in the center of the wooden desk—the glowing green Stone—pulsed with gentle light.

"You know enough of our plans by now," Vormav said. "The Church reveals a new coterie of Braves, to leads us into a glorious new era, in service to Confessor and King and Ivalice. I am one. Once we acquire Virgo from your brother, the Confessor will be another. My son and daughter..."

Her father trailed off, and closed his eyes. Anger and sorrow, hot and cold, shot through Melia and left her trembling.

"You intended to offer this to my brother, when I was dead?" Dycedarg asked.

Her father hesitated. "That was the plan the Confessor favored. Your brother's piety is well-known. And many among us believed he would be...better-suited to our purposes." He paused, then added, "For what it's worth...I always believed you were the better candidate. The worldly man of worldly deeds, who ever sought to serve his liege lord faithfully. And when treachery claims your liege lord—treachery plotted by your beloved brother, so sadly turned to heresy—you find your way to a higher power. Like the Saint and his disciples, you seek to reform a rotten world."

Dycedarg reached out, and cupped the Stone in his hands. The moment he touched it, the light intensified, and the image dissolved again, disrupted by the same froth of light that had broken it before.

"The Stone..?" Zalbaag shook his head.

"The Stone," Malak whispered, his hands wrapped tight around his shoulders. Rafa stroked his head soothingly.

The image resolved itself again. Dycedarg was back in his chair, staring at the glowing Stone. Her father stood across from him.

"The Braves are not yet ready to reveal themselves in earnest," Vormav said. "We need more time to spread rumors...and time to deal with Delita Heiral." He grimaced. "Ovelia was not supposed to survive the battle, either."

"No?" Dycedarg laughed. "Del's come quite far."

"You have no idea." The growl in her father's voice was savage. "I will finish our arrangements as quickly as I am able. I would suggest you turn these rumors Delita is spreading against him...remind everyone of his childhood friendship with the heretic Beoulve. Perhaps he killed both Duke Goltanna and Count Orlandeau, with the help of the treacherous Olan Durai. An alliance of lesser sons determined to bring ruin on greater houses. Point to their connections to the Death Corps."

Dycedarg nodded. "Yes...perhaps so. And when the Braves announce themselves-"

"The Confessor announces you as one of them," her father said. "He reveals your efforts on our behalf. And...perhaps he announces the start of a glorious new era of Ivalice, with Alma's Beoulve's betrothal to Orinus Atkascha."

Dycedarg nodded. "Yes...yes, I think I can forgive a little treachery between friends, for such terms." His eyes flickered down to the Stone. "And for such treasures."

Her father sketched a small bow. "Then I will take my leave, Acting Regent." And yet, he did not turn to go. Instead he watched Dycedarg, unsmiling. Again, he looked like a beast, crouched in wait for the kill. "I'm curious, however: you knew the plans we had for Bethla Garrison, even if you didn't know the details. Have you figured out how we laid our trap so it escaped your notice?"

Dycedarg pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You compromised the intelligence networks on both sides...the Hokuten through me, the Nanten through Delita. In order to get past me, of course, you had to have agents pulling double duty...what, you had the mines brought in among the supplies, and had them laid in the course of ordinary preparations for battle?"

"Something like that," her father said. "One of the reasons the casualties on your side were not so bad: there were several networks of mines laid throughout the area. The smaller one was meant to weaken you, make you too appetizing a target for the Nanten to resist. The larger one would have been set off by the Nanten charge, and taken you and the Nanten both. The third was secured by agents at the fortress, to wipe out any who remained."

"A clever plan," Dycedarg admitted. "Too bad it failed."

"Quite." Her father paused. "We were quite surprised you survived, however. You were meant to be caught in the thickest part of the poison."

"Zalbaag saved us," Dycedarg said. "Blasted the poison away, before it could kill us."

"The poison we used was not so delicate as that," her father said. "It is a slower poison, in its way. A bit difficult to handle. But after a certain point, inevitably lethal. "

Dycedarg shrugged again. "My magic bought me time for the Healers to see to me."

"Those Healers were first trained under the Church."

Dycedarg's eyebrows arched again. "They are loyal to the Hokuten."

"They are. But loyalty is...complicated. They would never hurt you. But they might let someone see their report. About how much better your condition was, even accounting for your magical expertise. Almost as though you knew what poison you were treating. Or had taken the antidote."

Dycedarg said nothing.

"We used Mosfungus," her father explained. "In small quantities, it is a poison even a child could survive. But the funny thing about it is...without the right magic, without the right antidotes...it lingers in the system. The first dose doesn't kill the child. The second, taken even months years later..."

Still, Dycedarg didn't speak.

"There have been so few cases of Mosfungus poisoning that records are thin," her father continued. "I found a case where a healthy man found a patch of the stuff, tried it out. The first mushroom was alright: he waited a week, and felt nothing, so he tried another. The second one set off a cold, but he thought nothing of it. The third, his cold got worse. By the fourth..." Her father shook his head. "The Healer who tended to this man also worked the tents during the Choking Plague. He said that the resemblance between the two conditions was remarkable. How they sealed the lungs and throat, so all the victim could do was cough." He blinked. "Ah, forgive me. I shouldn't mention the Choking Plague. That was how your father passed, was it not?

Dycedarg was staring at Vormav. Vormav's face was solemn. But his grey eyes burned like stormclouds riven by lightning.

"But I've wasted enough of your time, Lord Beoulve." Vormav bowed again, more deeply. "I look forward to a partnership of mutual interest and mutual benefit."

Now her father left the room. Leaving Dycedarg alone, staring after him. And just like her father had, mere minutes ago...he looked afraid.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just sat there, staring after Vormav.

"It only lasts an hour." Zalbaag's voice was a raw, ragged croak. "We should...let it run, in case...in case..."

Cid had moved to Zalbaag's side. Wordlessly, he helped him sit down.

"Is he..." Ramza looked as bad as Zalbaag, swaying unsteadily on his feet. His eyes were locked on the floating image of Dycedarg Beoulve. "Is he saying..."

"It can't be," Zalbaag whispered. "It can't."

"There is a way to find out."

Ramza and Zalbaag's heads both snapped towards Mustadio. His face was nearly as pale as theirs, his lips pressed into a thin line. "The Mosfungus...it accumulates in the body...and it does not diminish easily." He swallowed. "If...if someone had died from it...there body would...would eventually sprout fresh mushrooms."

No one spoke. No one moved. Not the people in the kitchen. Not the ghost of Dycedarg floating above them. All of them were focused, on the man who may have killed his father. And what his brothers might have to do, to prove it.

Would you do it? If it was Izlude...if you could prove your father had...

Melia looked up at the floating image of Dycedarg. At the room her father had stood in, making veiled promises, speaking veiled threats. Patricides. Filicides.

"If there's a way," Melia said softly. "You should do it."

Ramza's head snapped around to her. He looked so lost, and so afraid. His mouth worked, but he spoke no words. So Melia answered the question he couldn't ask.

"I would."