(Thanks for reading. Next chapter 10/30/24)
Chapter 163: Endgame
Awake.
Awake, and sitting on the edge of the bed. Awake, her hands folded into fists on her knees, her eyes fixed on the locked door. Awake, and lying in wait.
It was hours now since Alma Beoulve had first awoken—not just from sleep, but from the bloody darkness into which Vormav had plunged her. It was the first time she remembered being conscious since the cliff near Midnight's Deep, when Vormav had snuffed out her feeble spells like candle flames and his golden fire had washed over her, into her, through her. Her thoughts had stretched with sunburnt agony, then smoldered down into inert, agonized ash, falling down into Ultima's darkness.
She had not dreamed in that darkness. She had been tormented, as flashes of foreign memory splintered their way into her. It felt like the screams of the revenants in Midnight's Deep, but brighter, deeper, ripping into her so that she burned with their terror, their pain, their mortal exhaustion. She would tear herself away from the pain, from the memory, and tumble insensate through scarlet darkness until she impaled herself on another memory.
And then: awake.
Another ornate prison cell—old but comfortable furniture, rune lights gleaming on the ceiling with a control rune by the locked door. There had been even been a pitcher of cool water with a ceramic mug waiting for her on the wooden nightstand. She had sipped it, eyeing her surroundings. When her throat was less dry, and the pounding in her head had receded, she had sat up, and begun to explore the room, pacing and prodding for any advantage, any way out.
She could not afford to stay idle for long. Not much had changed—she assumed her captors were still too powerful to resist easily, even without counting walking horrors like Hashmalum and Elidibus in their ranks. But the stakes were different now. For her, and for Ivalice.
There was no way out that she could find. No way to use the light runes to her advantage. The great wooden door barely shook in its frame when she rattled it by its locked handle. So she took her place on the edge of the bed, and waited.
Someone would come eventually. When they did, she would have a chance to act. Maybe it would count for nothing. But she still had to try.
The moment came: the door creaked open, and Marcel Funeral, Confessor of the Glabados Church entered the room.
She recognized the Confessor, though she had seen him only twice before: once on a state visit to Lesalia, and once at a sermon in Mullonde. He had made an impression each time—his wry, powerful voice, and the impossible presence he projected. Everywhere he went, he carried with him the echoing silence of a chapel.
Just a step behind him came her true captors—the Time Mage Loffrey Wodring, and the Lucavi Vormav Tengille.
"Lady Beoulve." He inclined his bald head, his eyes lost in the folds of his wrinkles.
"Marcel." She put as much venom into his name as she could.
He arched his bushy white eyebrows. "Inquisitor Zalmour was right. You share your brother's heresy."
"My brother works to stop you from soaking Ivalice in blood," Alma retorted. "I think you and yours are more heretics than he."
The Confessor's eyebrows arched still higher. "Be careful, Lady Beoulve. Your brothers are not around to protect you anymore."
Alma paused a moment. She had felt Dycedarg die, and Ramza of course was not in Mullonde...but what about Zalbaag?
"What do you mean?" she asked, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice.
The Confessor studied her for a moment, then glanced at Vormav. Vormav shrugged. "I took her from Igros during the fighting. She probably doesn't know."
Alma held her tongue. Questions about Zalbaag mattered more than any barb she could shoot at Vormav. Besides, she didn't yet understand the game he was playing here, or the Confessor's place in it. Patience, Alma. Patience.
"It is likely that Dycedarg Beoulve poisoned Balbanes," the Confessor began, studying her carefully. Alma did her best not to react—did not even look at Vormav. "Our best guess is that your heretic brother approached Knight-Commander Zalbaag with this information—though how he obtained it, we are not sure. They approached the Beoulve Manor together. When the chaos was over, the Beoulve Manor had been reduced to ashes, and a Templar war caravan we thought lost at Orbonne was sighted heading away from the city. It is our belief that Dycedarg and Zalbaag are both dead."
Alma said nothing. For a moment, she felt nothing. Then the moment passed, and grief rushed in to fill its place, black water filling her veins, filling her heart. She had not felt such grief since Teta.
Zalbaag, nearly as serious as Ramza, but stronger and more confident, too. Zalbaag, who helped keep her in her gilded cage but also helped make that cage more bearable, making time for her in Lesalia in between his duties, so they could enjoy a cup of tea or a glass of wine, talking about God and politics. Zalbaag, gone.
"You did not know," the Confessor said softly. "I am sorry for your loss, Lady Beoulve."
There were tears burning in Alma's eyes. She blinked them away. She had decided already, when Vormav had told her what Dycedarg had done to her father: she would resist him with everything she possessed. She was a Beoulve, and she could not allow herself to stop here, even as she shook with grief.
"And...how long...have you known?" Alma asked, fighting to keep her voice level.
The Confessor studied her a moment. "I'm sorry?"
"How long...did you know...my brother...was a patricide?" Alma asked.
The Confessor considered her for a moment. There was steel in those old eyes. "Only recently," he said.
"And...would you still...have worked with him?" Alma asked. Anger was mixing with her grief now: she felt the dark water surging inside her like a stormy sea.
The Confessor did not answer. She saw the steel in his eyes harden.
"And...let me guess." Alma took a steadying breath. Her voice was shaking no longer, but it was taking every onze of control she had not to scream. "You haven't...told...anyone? In fact...I would bet..." She leaned forwards. "I would bet...you're telling people...that Ramza's the patricide."
Just a moment's tightening around the corner of his lined eyes. It was enough.
"And you wonder why I call you heretic," Alma whispered.
The Confessor shook his head slowly. "Your grief does not render you immune to-"
"Please," she spat. "The trueborn Beoulves are dead, which means the Hokuten are leaderless. You would need me even if-"
She broke off, and did not look at Vormav. Again the question: how much did the Confessor know? Izlude hadn't known about the Lucavi, and Cletienne, Loffrey, Vormav, and the Marquis had all made it clear they were trying to keep their movements relatively clandestine. They did not want their agendas, their powers, and their true natures known to the larger Church. But Cardinal Delacroix had been a Lucavi. The Confessor could be one, too.
And if he wasn't...how could she use that? Izlude had known about Ramza's claims, of Lucavi loose among the ranks of the Church. If the Confessor wasn't among the Lucavi's number, she wasn't likely to convince him of anything, as she hadn't convince Izlude. And if he was among their number, what would be the point in saying anything?
"If what?" the Confessor asked, cocking his head to one side.
Alma studied him for a moment. Finally, deliberately, she looked at Vormav. It was possible this was somehow part of her plan—parading her before the Confessor, goading her into revealing more than she was ready to reveal. Perhaps he feared she had secret plans, as she had when she asked Elidibus to turn on him. Perhaps he hoped she would gamble now, and waste herself.
Perhaps...but then, perhaps not. Perhaps Vormav was here because he had no choice. Perhaps he had brought her to Mullonde to make his final ploy, thwarted at every turn by Ramza. And perhaps the Confessor had insisted on seeing her. Perhaps this was a moment she could use.
"What did he tell you?" Alma asked. "About how he captured me?"
The Confessor arched his thin eyebrows again. "Who do you think is interrogating whom, Alma Beoulve?"
"It seems a poor inquisitor who cannot learn from their captive's questions."
God, but she felt bold today. After all she'd learned—about the sins of the Saint, and the evil of the Lucavi, and the waiting nightmare of Ultima—the Confessor of the Glabados Church seemed an awfully small figure.
"He mentioned Igros just now," Alm said, conversationally. "He's lying to you. I've been his captive sine Riovanes."
The Confessor's face stayed steely. So did Vormav and Loffrey's.
"You think I'm lying," Alma said. "Like you think my brother is lying."
The Confessor's lips twitched faintly. "And here is where you tell me that Knight-Commander Tengille is a Lucavi."
Alma nodded. The Confessor's lips twitched again, up into a cold smile. "First Cardinal Delacroix, then the Knight-Commander of the Templars...am I a Lucavi as well, Lady Beoulve?"
She frowned at him, studying him closely. She was studying Vormav and Loffrey, too, though she looked at neither of them. "I don't know," she admitted. "It's possible. If you are, I'm not sure what you gain from putting on this show."
The Confessor's eyebrows arched still higher. "Ah. So now you're claiming...what? That Knight-Commander Tengille confessed his Lucavi nature to you?"
"He didn't have to." Alma looked at Vormav. "I saw what he was at Riovanes."
Almost, she mentioned Izlude's name, but she sensed that would be a mistake. The Confessor was entertaining her wild fantasies now, hoping it would reveal something more than she intended (perhaps her brother's plans?). But if she accused Knight-Commander Tengille of filicide, that would change the tenor of this strange interrogation. Keep him talking, keep him listening. Lower his guard, and wait for your moment.
"First your brother kills a Cardinal, and claims to all who would see him brought to justice that he was secretly a demon," the Confessor said. "Then you help your brother sack Riovanes, and claim the man sent to stop you is one of them, too. You must admit, Lady Beoulve, it is quite a self-serving narrative."
Alma clenched her jaw. "So what do you think happened to Riovanes?"
"I think your heretic brother is still a Beoulve," the Confessor replied. "I think he is as capable a warrior as Zalbaag was, and as clever as Dycedarg. We never did get a proper accounting of what Grand Duke's Barinten intended offer was...but it's possible your brother hoped to parley Barinten's support as part of his own plot. And, when he failed to do that, he led a rebellion among the Khamja and the Hand."
Alma shook her head. "The men who killed the Hand stand behind you."
The Confessor sighed. "So you will persist in these lies?"
Alma was losing him. She didn't know what came next, but she had to keep acting, keep fighting. Vormav was here for a reason: Alma had to delay him every chance she got. Think, Alma, think! What do you know about the Confessor? What can you use, right now?
A flash of insight, like lightning against the night. She remembered talking to Father Simon about his early days as an acolyte of the Church. She remembered hearing about young Marcel Funeral, in the days before he had become Confessor.
She stared at the Confessor. She allowed real venom into her gaze. "You think I care about your judgments?" Alma asked. "After what you did to Father Simon?"
Real emotion in the Confessor's face now, pain and anger and just a hint of guilt. But the emotion was not only on the Confessor's face: behind him, Vormav's brow furrowed, ever so slightly.
"You will speak carefully now, Lady Beoulve-" the Confessor began, with menace in his voice.
"Why?" Alma asked. "Oh, let me guess. He spun you some tale of my brother's depravity. Perhaps accused him of killing Father Simon?" She glared at Vormav. "Put aside the question of who killed him, for the moment. When we walked into Orbonne, we found him beaten and bleeding. Does that surprise you?"
Even beneath his long beard, Alma could see the Confessor's jaw clench.
"He taught me and Ovelia things we weren't supposed to know," Alma said. She'd had time to think about it, over the last few months: about why the Templars had suddenly moved to secure the Virgo Stone, after leaving it in Orbonne for so long. She had to imagine that her attack on Inquisitor Zalmour had been the last straw for them, as yet another noble girl used magic to do something she wasn't supposed to do.
"And since that the War had started, the Church could afford to move after the Stones more openly," Alma mused. "Hell, it might even help your plans. The war gets worse, but rumors of the Stones start circulating over Ivalice, laying the grounds for you to reveal your new Braves." She allowed every onze of her disdain into her voice now. Keep the Confessor angry. Keep him invested.
"But when you sent your Templars in, they were angry. They hurt him. They beat him." She locked eyes with the Confessor, though she was watching Vormav, too. "And then Wiegraf Folles killed him."
Silence in the room. The Confessor stared at her, jaw still clenched. Behind him, Vormav was staring at her, too.
"And why would he do that?" the Confessor asked. He tried to sound as wry, distant, and judgmental as he had when he'd first entered the room, but there were tremors of real emotion in his voice.
Why indeed. Think, Alma, think. Think past the last few months spent languishing in one captor's hands or another's, think back to when you had hope. Think back to Orbonne, and Simon, and Izlude. Remember: Izlude had been outraged to find Wiegraf there. And when she'd cared for him after Malak had tortured him, Izlude had admitted he was not surprised that his father might have ordered Simon's death-
Ah. There it was. If the Confessor wanted to wield her brother's death against her, let her wield Simon's death against him, and Izlude's against Vormav.
"You would have to ask him," Alma said, nodding towards Vormav. "He gave the order. At least, that's what Izlude told me."
Again, unexpected emotion on both faces: both brows furrowed in concentration.
"And when did you have a chance to speak with Templar Tengille?" the Confessor asked.
"In our time as Barinten's prisoners."
Silence in the room. There was a different kind of tension in the Confessor's face now, more thoughtful. Good. What she was telling him was rattling him.
"I led my brother to claim the Stone at Orbonne," Alma said. "Izlude and his men were waiting for us. But Barinten's Hand was waiting for them. When Izlude tried to get me and Virgo away from Orbonne, the Hand fell upon us both."
More emotion in the Confessor's face, wilder and wilder with every passing moment. Vormav's grey eyes flickered briefly to the Confessor, then away.
"And where is Virgo now?" the Confessor asked.
The question caught Alma off-guard: she stared at the Confessor, then back to Vormav. "He didn't give it you?"
The Confessor's eyes narrowed. "Do not play dumb with me, Lady Beoulve. Your brother has already claimed far too many of the Stones. He counts Virgo among his prizes, does he not?"
"I have not seen my brother since he took me from Riovanes." Again, she nodded at Vormav. "He took me, and the Virgo Stone."
"To make another Lucavi?" The Confessor shook his head.
Time to gamble in earnest. "No. Something worse than a Lucavi."
She did not expect the effect her words had on the Confessor: she did not expect the satisfaction, or the relief, the bright desire in his dark eyes.
And she did not expect it, when he began to laugh.
"You were right, Knight-Commander," he said, laughing still. "She may be as dangerous as her brother."
Vormav nodded. "She may indeed."
"Such quick and clever lies..." The Confessor studied her a moment. "And all to hide the truth."
"You mentioned that," Vormav said. "But what truth?"
"One higher even than the legends of the Zodiac Braves," the Confessor said. "A secret I had hoped to keep until it the appropriate moment...but if her brother has Virgo, then the moment is now." He rose to his full height, and she saw the man who had given the sermon in Lesalia—a man who could command any room, whose faith and devotion magnified his considerable personal charisma. In that moment of straightening himself out, he almost seemed to transform as a Lucavi transformed: to deepen, and darken, and draw the light of the room into himself.
"Lady Beoulve," the Confessor said. "Dycedarg Beoulve is dead. Zalbaag Beoulve is dead. And your brother plots as the Empire of old plots. You will tell us what you know of his plans, or you will face the full wrath of the Church."
Alma stared at him in disbelief. Behind him, Vormav was smiling with savage triumph.
Loud rattling and clicking from the locked door. Vormav and the Confessor both glared over their shoulders as it banged open, and a young, pasty Templar stumbled into the apartment, falling to his knees in front of them. "Apologies for the interruption, Your Holiness-"
"Speak!" the Confessor snapped.
The pasty young Templar swallowed. "Templar Tengille has returned. With the heretic Ramza Beoulve."
Utter silence in the room. Disbelief was not on Alma' face alone now: the Confessor, Vormav, and Loffrey all looked as shocked as she felt. But her stomach was rising again, and rising with it was heat and light as bright and welcome as the morning sun.
Ramza was near. Ramza was here.
"What-" the Confessor began.
"Loffrey," Vormav said, and moved.
A fine maroon sword gleamed in Vormav's hand—Alma hadn't even seen him draw it. A moment later, and the sword wisked through the air, and the young Templar's head tumbled from his shoulders.
"What-" the Confessor started, and then his works choked off in a scream: Loffrey had appeared behind him, and sliced through his robe, right across his hamstring. Still screaming, the Confessor toppled like a felled tree.
Loffrey flickered, and was gone. The door was suddenly closed once more.
"Now," Vormav intoned, and reached beneath his robes. What he held in his hand blazed like the sun, a fire like a golden afternoon, but darkness danced within that fire, shadows growing deeper, wider, light and dark alike draining the substance of reality. Alma Beoulve knew what the coming of a Lucavi looked like now.
And she wondered if she could stop it.
She flung herself off the bed, hurtling towards the radiant blackness of Hashmalum's coming. She reached for her magic, and for the bloody Hell she had touched now too many times—the countless souls held in Ultima's thrall. Once, months ago with the Virgo Stone in hand, she had commanded Vormav back to his human form.
"STOP!" she screamed, and into that scream she pulled all her magic, all her will. She felt the world answer her: she saw bolts of scarlet illuminate the mingled darkness and light of Hashmalum's coming.
Every moment counted. And Alma Beoulve would fight for every one.