Chapter 10: The Righteous Path
...but the Queen's reign would not have been secure without the support of her brother, Prince Bestrald Larg. The Larg family traditionally ran Gallione and enjoyed the loyalty of the Hokuten, and in the chaos of the 50 Years' War Prince Ondoria solidified his claim to the throne of Ivalice by marrying Baroness Louveria. Thus did Baron Larg earn the title 'Prince'...
-Alazlam Durai, "Larger Consequences of the 50 Years' War"
"So," Dycedarg said, peering at them over his laced fingers with his elbows propped upon his desk. The four young men stood at stiff, nervous attention in a line that stretched across the office, not looking at each other. "The deserters return. Execution is standard practice, of course, but I think we can at least wait for an explanation."
Still no response from Ramza or his friends, but Ramza felt a sick, guilty cloud of nausea rising from the pit of his stomach.
The last few days had passed by in a whirl. The Hokuten were already out in force, searching for some sign of the Marquis. It had not taken long for Ramza and his friends to find one such search party, and from there they had at once raced for Igros in a thick convoy of mounted soldiers. And once again, they were brought before Dycedarg to give an account for themselves while the healers tended to the Marquis.
"Allow me to retrace your steps," Dycedarg said, calm and deadly as an assassin's dagger. "You see, we called for cadets to reinforce the Igros garrison so that we could deploy the full strength of the Hokuten against the Corps. This is a rare honor for cadets, but I was proud to offer it, especially after your illustrious encounter with the Corps in the field. Instead, you decided to run off and play hero, abandoning your posts and your duties."
A little ripple that Ramza could see from the corners of his eyes, his friends flinching together.
"The men shirking their duties," Dycedarg said. "Include Ramza Beoulve, heir to the responsibility of the Beowulf name. Heir to the cause of Justice and Service. No less responsible for upholding these values is Delita Heiral, a ward of the Beoulve house who has been a credit to us, given his illustrious performance at the Gariland Military Academy. Of course, the son of the Academy's finest instructor is a deserter twice-over, having first abandoned his post at the Academy and now refused to return when granted undeserved leniency for his delinquency. And of course, a Thadolfas is with them."
The words dripped off Dycedarg's tongue, venomous.
"So please," Dycedarg concluded. "Which one of you was responsible for abandoning your post, convincing your friends to follow you, and involving yourself in a sensitive matter of the highest military and diplomatic important without any permission or authority granted you by the armies you're supposed to serve?"
At once, Beowulf fell to one knee. "It's my fault, my lord," Beowulf said. "I didn't want to return to the Academy. I wanted an adventure."
"Is this true?" Dycedarg asked. "Did this junior cadet convince you to desert?"
"That would be ridiculous, Lord Dycedarg," Delita said, falling to one knee besides Beowulf. "It was I who convinced them. I wanted the glory of saving the Marquis, to do honor to the Beoulves and to my name."
"Don't be absurd," Ramza said, his voice quavering. He stepped forwards, and knelt in turn. "They would not have dared, but I...I wanted to be like you and Zalbaag, brother. Like father-"
"Ramza, no!" Argus said, falling to one knee next to him. "My lord, please, I was bent on going after the Marquis, and they would not desert me. I put them in an impossible-"
"Do you think this is funny?" Dycedarg asked, his words sharp as knives. "Do you think if you fall over each other to take the blame I will forget what you have done? You deserted your post, left the castle unguarded, fraternized with the enemy, and attempted to storm a Death Corps stronghold single-handed!"
"And in so doing," said a wry, rough voice. "They have saved the Marquis."
Dycedarg stood at once, his head bowed. "Your Highness," he whispered.
Ramza gaped at his brother, feeling hollow, then spun around on his knee, his head bowed. The others around him did the same in jerking, stumbling motions, and he could hear Prince Larg laughing. "Oh, rise!" he said. "This is no state for heroes."
Ramza lurched to his feet and stared at the Prince. Larg wore luxurious robes of blue, and his trim facial hair was the mirror of Dycedarg's. He leaned a little heavily on the cane in his left hand, and smiled at them, looking between each of them with bright green eyes. Lank brown hair fell just above his eyebrows.
"You give them too much credit," Dycedarg said.
"Do I?" Larg asked. "A Daravon, a Thadolfas, a Beoulve, and one of the Academy's brightest face off with Folles and rescue the Marquis Elmdor? Who could have done more?"
"It was idiotic," Dycedarg retorted.
"We were all young once," Larg said. "I wish we'd managed to do so much at their age."
"You're spoiling them," Dycedarg said.
"And why not?" Larg said. "I think they've earned it."
"Hmmph!" Dycedarg said nothing for a little while, and Ramza did not dare to take his eyes from Prince Larg. The Prince was smiling at him.
"Lucavi take me," Larg said. "You are the very image of your father. Something in the eyes, I think...the same zeal."
"Do Beoulves run from their duties?" Dycedarg asked sardonically.
"I think Beoulves do the impossible," Larg said. "That's why I collect them and put them in charge."
"Oh, fine!" exclaimed Dycedarg. "Fine." He stepped out from behind his desk and joined his liege lord. "Limberry is sending its forces to help us finish off the Corps," Dycedarg said. "As such, we have no particular need of a garrison here at Igros. If you so wish it, you may all take part in these operations against the Corps."
"Including me, my lord?" Beowulf asked, his voice unusually small and respectful.
"Including you," Dycedarg said.
"My lord!" Argus exclaimed, falling to one knee. "Thank you, but I...I need to know what the Marquis wishes of me."
"Hmmph!" Dycedarg grunted, with a slight smile. "Now you listen to your superiors." Argus said nothing, and Dycedarg shrugged. "He's been treated by healers, and is resting in our father's old room. You're welcome to consult with him."
"Thank you, my lord," Argus said, rising to his feet. His eyes flickered to Prince Larg, though he didn't quite dare to look at him. "With...with your permission, your Highness."
Larg waved a hand airily, and Argus rushed from the room. "And I think you've all earned a bit of rest, hm?" Larg said.
"Yes, your Highness," Delita said, lowering his head.
"Thank you," Beowulf added, in a rasping whisper.
They made to leave the room, but Ramza remained where he was. Delita turned slightly, his eyes widening. "Ramza, no!" he hissed.
"Is something the matter, Ramza?" Larg asked.
"A private concern, your Highness," Ramza said, ignoring Delita's pleading eyes. "Permission to speak freely?"
Dycedarg's thin eyebrows arched, and he and the Prince exchanged sidelong glances.
"Pardon him, your Highness," Delita said, grabbing Ramza by the shoulder. "He's tired."
"That's as may be," Prince Larg said. "But I'd hear what he has to say. Speak, Ramza."
Ramza's throat felt very dry, and his muscles felt stringy and taut, as though they were about to snap. "It's about the Death Corps."
"Yes?" Larg asked.
Ramza swallowed, his head filled with Wiegraf and Miluda, with the notion that there could be no peace.
"Sir," he started. "The only reason Gustav is dead is because Wiegraf and Miluda put an end to him. They moved to correct an injustice."
"They moved to put down a dog who'd slipped his leash," grunted Dycedarg.
Ramza nodded shakily, and continued. "I...I understand that what they're doing is wrong. But surely...surely there's a better way end this war."
Larg cocked his head quizzically. "How do you mean, Ramza?"
Ramza took a deep breath, struggling to keep his voice level. "Could we not bring them to the table? Could we not make peace?"
Silence in the room. Delita's hand tightened on his shoulder. Dycedarg stared at him aghast, while Larg's face was impassive and unreadable.
"These are not Ordallians," Dycedarg whispered. "They are not a rival nation separated by history and sovereignty. These are traitors and rebels who are tearing our nation apart for the sake of greed. They raid our convoys and harm our people. We do not treat with them. We cannot. That would be an end to the power and authority of the crown."
His words were soft, but sudden and painful as a switch against Ramza's skin. He nodded, and felt his neck aching with the strain.
"That said," Larg added slowly. "Once we have expelled them from the south, it might be wise to discuss terms of surrender instead of frittering our forces away trying to purge them from their forts in the north. If they are willing to come to the table then...well, who knows?"
The strain vanished. Ramza stared in wonder at the Prince. "You're very kind, your Highness," he said.
"Kind nothing," Larg said, chuckling. "Just good sense."
"Thank you," Ramza said, bowing. He turned his head towards Dycedarg. "I'm...I'm sorry, brother."
Dycedarg sighed and shook his head. "Ramza," he said. "I do not mean to demean your accomplishments. But the duties and obligations of a Beoulve are complex. You have to understand that this all could have played out very differently. They could have killed the Marquis. They could have killed you."
"I know," Ramza said.
Dycedarg nodded, his eyes closed. "It's not easy, Ramza," he said. "Living up to our responsibilities...living up to our name..." He shook his head again. "I don't know how father did it, with the fate of the kingdom on his shoulders.
He looked very tired, and Ramza said, "I don't think I could do what you do, Dyce."
Dycedarg smiled a little. "Be careful, Ramza," Dycedarg said. "Still a cadet, and you've managed to save the Marquis of Limberry. You might have more responsibilities coming your way."
Ramza shook his head. "By the Saint, I hope not."
"A pity," Larg sighed. "I do need more Beoulves."
"You have enough," Dycedarg said.
"We'll see," Larg said. "You may go, Ramza."
Ramza and Delita left the room. Beowulf was already outside, hunched against a wall, his face very white.
"Beowulf?" Delita asked quizically, leaning down in front of him.
"A Prince knows my name," Beowulf whispered. "A Prince."
"He knows all our names," Ramza said, exchanging puzzled glances with Delita.
"I know," moaned Beowulf, burying his face in his hands.
"What's the matter with you?" Delita asked.
"It's just so big," Beowulf said. "It's so real."
"But the killing wasn't?" Delita said.
Beowulf shook his head. "I trained for that," he said. "I didn't train for this."
Delita opened his mouth, closed it, and gave Ramza a confused look. Ramza shrugged, equally baffled.
"And as for you," Delita said, turning away from Beowulf. "By the Saint, Ramza. You couldn't wait a day?"
"We might not have a day," Ramza said.
Delita sighed and shook his head. "Well, you certainly don't waste time. Have to jump right into the stupid."
"What new folly has my brother committed?" Zalbaag asked.
Ramza and Delita turned down the hall. Zalbaag was striding across the carpet, wearing his dark armor with his blue Hokuten cloak on his shoulders, the very picture of military precision.
"I just don't know how you'd manage another so quickly," Zalbaag continued. "I mean, running away on stolen Hokuten birds to find the Marquis? Where did you get such an idea?"
"Who can say?" Delita asked, smiling.
Zalbaag came to a stop in front of them, and shook each of their hands. "You did well," he said. "Corporal Lambert's eager to have you under his command."
"We're serving with Lambert?" said Delita.
"He requested you," Zalbaag said. "Now, tell me. What new idiocy has my brother committed?"
"I asked them if we could make peace with the Corps," Ramza said.
Zalbaag pursed his lips. "Wow," he said, looking at Delita. "That is stupid."
"I tried to warn him, my lord," Delita said.
"I know," Ramza said, refusing to look either of them in the eye. "But they...the Folles..." He was struggling to put his complex thoughts into words, trying to explain how he'd felt when he'd heard Wiegraf's promise to Ivan, when he'd heard Ivan's pitiable pride, when he'd seen the lengths Wiegraf and Miluda would go to, to bring justice to someone who thought himself beyond its reach.
"You know," Zalbaag said, looking somewhere above his head. "There's not a lot of white in the world. I don't know if there used to be. I think there did. I think God gave us clear instructions." He fingered the silver Virgo symbol upon his neck.
"But then man's greed and pride and evil tainted it. And now? Now there are so few truly righteous responses to the world's wickedness. It's all a quagmire of grey, with black spots and threads of white within."
Ramza stared at his brother in astonishment. He'd never heard Zalbaag talk this way. He didn't think of Zalbaag as the introspective type. He always seemed so firm, so confident, so decisive.
"So what we do," Zalbaag said. "Is wander through the grey, clinging to what white we can find, and trying not to step into anything too black. That's what it means to be a sinner looking for God's truth." He rested a hand on Ramza's shoulder. "You've a big heart, Ramza," he said. "Don't let anyone take that from you."
The compliment would have been nice, if it had not been delivered with the exact same language, and the exact same intonation, as Wiegraf Folles had used in the Cellar. Ramza's throat felt very dry again. He nodded, not really knowing what he was doing, and Zalbaag clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Now. I suppose I'd better go in there and plan this offensive."
He waited for some response from Ramza, who was too busy reeling from a peculiar sense of deja vu and vertigo to pay any attention. Some small part of Ramza noticed that Zalbaag and Delita exchanged bemused looks, and then Zalbaag was gone and Delita was in front of him.
"Are you alright, Ramza?" Delita asked.
"I don't think so, no," Ramza said, and his voice sounded very far away even to his ears. He headed down the hall in a daze.
He was exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally. For the past week, he had been in constant motion, first fighting for his life on the Plains, then chasing after the Marquis with Zalbaag's permission. He had searched for secrets in a simmering city, and met Ivan Mansel, hurt and hunted on all sides. The enemy they had chased had been killed for his unjust acts by a man who spoke like Balbanes and who believed there was no hope of peace. Everything Ramza had seen had confirmed his words. In the past few minutes, he had seen more into his brothers' minds than he had ever known. He had seen them as human as himself.'
He needed to stop. He needed rest. But more than that, he needed answers.
His wandering feet led him to Balbanes' old room. He hesitated by the door.
"-lord, I am not worthy," Argus whispered, with tears in his voice.
"It is no more than you deserve," came the soft, gentle croak of the Marquis Elmdor.
"I abandoned you. I let them-"
"I do not wish to be too prideful," said the Marquis. "But I am widely considered a warrior of moderate caliber." He chuckled. "They deceived us, Argus. They knew they could not defeat us on the field, so they made sure they could slip the daggers into our backs. And in spite of that, you survived. By the grace of God, yes, but also by virtue of your abilities. I had hoped to do you a good service by taking you into my retinue. I had not imagined what wonders God had planned."
"Eavesdropping, our we?" Delita whispered into his ear. Ramza started and whirled around to face his friend, who had snuck up behind him.
"No," Ramza said, ignoring the squirming sense of guilt in his stomach. He knocked on the door to forestall any further comments from Delita, and a moment later it creaked open. Argus stood on the other side. He beamed at Ramza with tears in his eyes, caught him in a crushing embrace, and then guided him into the room.
"This is him, my lord," Argus said.
"Cadet Beoulve?" the Marquis said, propping himself up on his elbows so that a curtain of silver-blonde hair hung around his face. Even after the healers' ministrations, his face was mottled with bruises. It was odd to see him in Balbanes' bed. It made Ramza feel unsteady on his feet.
"Yes, my lord," Ramza said, inclining his head.
"Ramza, you won't believe it," Argus said eagerly. "The Marquis has...I...!"
"Given his exemplary service," the Marquis said. "I felt it only fitting that Argus Thadolfas be appointed Special Limberry Liaison to the Hokuten. To oversee our forces and make sure we pull our weight in the coming conflict."
"Well done!" Delita exclaimed from the doorway. He bowed to the Marquis. "Apologies for any intrusion, my lord."
The Marquis waved one hand weakly. "I think we can abide a little impropriety," he said. "Are you Cadet Daravon or Cadet Heiral?"
"Heiral, my lord," Delita said.
"Then I owe you my thanks, as well," said the Marquis.
"I owe it all to you," Argus said. He fell to his knees, clutching at Ramza's hand, and Ramza stared at him, reeling still more. No one should kneel or bow on Ramza's behalf. "Without you..." He pressed his forehead against Ramza's hand. "Thank you."
"Argus, really!" Ramza said, trying and failing to pull the other man upright. "It was nothing!"
"It was not nothing," Argus said fiercely. "You are a true friend, Ramza, and I behaved monstrously, to you, and to Beowulf, and..." His eyes flickered to the door and he shook his head. "Please. Forgive me. I am not worthy."
Ramza, unsure of what else to do, dropped to one knee himself. "Really, Argus," he said. "It was my duty, as a Beoulve."
Argus looked up at last, smiling with tears trickling down his cheeks. "Then I am luckier still," Argus said. "Thank you, Ramza." He rose to his feet, bringing Ramza with him.
"Now, Argus," the Marquis said. "I know you're tired, but time is of the essence."
"Yes, my lord," Argus said. "But by your leave, I will take the field with Ramza."
The Marquis smiled. "Oh, I think that could be arranged," he said. "Just let Dycedarg know that you request them as your personal escort. Plenty of honor all around."
Argus nodded again, and moved to the door. He hesitated in front of Delita. "Delita-" he started.
"Forget it," Delita said. "I already told you. If it were Ramza, I would have done the same."
Argus bowed slightly, and left the room. Delita and Ramza were left alone with the Marquis.
"Was there something you needed?" the Marquis asked, reddish-brown eyes flickering between them with curiosity.
"I'm not sure," Ramza said. "Maybe. My lord, I-"
"Boys," the Marquis said. "You carried me like a sack of grain. You saved me from the Corps. I think we can do away with the courtesies. You may call me Messam."
"Yes, my-Messam," Ramza said.
"Now," the Marquis said (he might insist on being called Messam, but Ramza could not help but think of him as the Marquis). "What's the trouble?"
"Messam," Ramza said. "We didn't...we didn't save you. Gustav was dead when we got there. Wiegraf had already-"
"Ah, Wiegraf," the Marquis said, his eyes closed. "He is an idealistic soul."
"You knew him, my lord?" Delita said, and then, as the Marquis shot him a sardonic look, added hastily, "Messam."
"I did," the Marquis said. "We fought together in Limberry. Our forces were stretched thin, but between the Brigade and the Hokuten, we held the line. I respected him then. I respect him now. He's simply made an error in judgment."
And there, unbidden, the answer had appeared in front of Ramza.
"What error, Messam?" Ramza asked.
"One far too many idealistic men make," the Marquis replied. "He believes faith alone sufficient."
Ramza stared at the Marquis in surprise. From the corner of his eye, he saw a similar look on Delita's face. The Marquis chuckled, and said, "I take it from your expressions that you've heard I'm something of a fanatic."
"I wouldn't use that word, Messam," Delita said.
"Being a smart lad, I didn't think you would," the Marquis said, smiling.
"But you are an ordained inquisitor in the Glabados Church, aren't you?" Delita asked.
"I am," the Marquis said. "And what of yourselves? Are you men of God?"
Ramza hesitated. The truth was, he'd never spared much thought to St. Ajora or to the God who was supposed to have made the world. His mother had not been a believer, and while Balbanes certainly had, the war kept his father away so often that there had not been much time for Ramza to learn from him. Ramza had always figured that if there was a God, he sort of preferred him hands-off. Ramza was lucky enough: divine attention should be focused elsewhere.
"Not to the same degree as my brother," Ramza said.
"Which is to say that you observe the forms out of social convenience," the Marquis said. "And lack the faith."
Ramza bowed his head slightly. "Yes, my lord."
"And you?" the Marquis asked, glancing towards Delita.
"If I may speak freely, Messam," Delita said. "A man's faith is his own, so long as he is not a heretic."
The Marquis smiled. "Well said. But the problem comes with those who put their personal faiths beyond common good and common authority. It is one thing to seek change: another to tear down the world around you in the vain hope that you can build a better one."
"Wiegraf..." the Marquis closed his eyes and sighed. "Wiegraf and the Corps were wronged. There are seeds of justice in their labors, but their deeds would tear apart a nation. What matter change, if it leaves chaos in its wake?" The Marquis sighed again and settled back on his pillows. "It has ever been my experience that men who hold their personal faith above all else are given to the folly of haste. To believe is easy. We all believe in something. But to build a place of worship? To build a church? That requires patience. That requires laboring and laboring and knowing you may never see the fruits of it."
"But if you seek justice-" Ramza started.
"Then seek it," the Marquis said. "But do not tear down the building. Move through it. It is not as satisfying to build a wall as it is to tear one down. But if you build onto the existing structure...if you labor for justice within an institution of weight and years..."
The Marquis shrugged. "We are all sinners, Ramza. We all have much to atone for. To be just is rarely easy or satisfying. When this is over, we will have to examine our institutions, and hope we can build upon them so that good men like Wiegraf need never have such cause to rebel. But it is a rebellion, and we cannot allow our foundation to be torn apart."
Ramza pursed his lips. It was a good idea, one that spoke to the world Zalbaag had painted: a world where you clung to threads of white as best you could. But as the Marquis said, it was not satisfying. It did not take the weight off of Ramza's mind.
Something of his feeling must have shown on his face, because the Marquis examined him closely, eyes boring into his. "Ramza," he said. "The key to living righteously is to cling to the faith in your heart while dealing with the realities of the world. You and I are men born to illustrious names and power that few men can dream of holding. We have an opportunity to do so much good. And if we labor patiently, if we build upon this church so that we can make it a cathedral...perhaps we can atone for the sins of our fathers."
But suddenly the Marquis looked very pale, and Ramza was abruptly conscious of the fact that this man had been kidnapped and possibly tortured, and Ramza had spent the last several minutes interrogating him.
"I'm sorry, Messam," he said. "We'll take our leave."
"Don't worry, Ramza," the Marquis said. "I'm always pleased to speak with earnest souls like yourselves. Particularly ones with such bright futures ahead of them." He smiled slightly, his eyes drooping. "Not even your father had...rescued a Marquis...at your age."
Ramza bowed, and left the room. Delita bowed as well, then followed him.
"You alright?" Delita asked again.
"No," Ramza answered again. "What did you think of him?"
Delita nodded. "It...it made sense."
"I thought so, too," Ramza said.
They looked at each other in the darkened hall. "We're going to war," Delita said.
Yes. To war, with men like Wiegraf Folles and Ivan Mansel. To men whose cause had carried the seeds of justice. How long could Ramza's hands remain clean? How much more blood would fleck his face?
The answer came to him then, all the day's conversations melding into one. He stared at Delita, his eyes wide.
"Delita," he said. "I know what to do."
"Do you?" Delita asked.
Ramza nodded. "I won't kill anyone. Not a soul."
Delita frowned. "What, you're gonna stay here? After all that?"
"No," Ramza said, shaking his head. "No, I'll...I'll fight. They can't tear the kingdom apart. But they deserve to see justice, too."
"What are you..." Delita trailed off, his mouth agape. "No," he said. "You're not serious."
"I am," Ramza said.
"Ramza, not even Balbanes fought without killing."
"I'm not my father," Ramza said. "I'm not my brothers. I think...I think this is what I believe. I don't think I can kill these men."
Delita sighed and shook his head. "I'm not doing it," Delita said.
"I'm not asking you to," Ramza said. "This is my burden to bear."
Delita snorted. "Always the martyr. Well, fine. Someone's got to keep you safe."
Ramza smiled. "Thank you, Delita."
Delita shrugged. "Well, we already did one impossible deed," Delita said. "Why not add a couple more to the pile?"