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Chapter 92: Harsh, Cruel, Dangerous

"Heal him up and empty the cell," Malak said.

"Our orders-" began the guard standing outside of Izlude's cell.

"If you wish to question the leader of the Duke's Hand, you will have to question the Duke," Malak said shortly. "Shall I bring you to him?"

The guard's lips were pressed into a thin line. "Anything else?" he asked at last.

"Heal him up," Malak repeated. "Empty the cell." He considered for a moment, then added, "Leave him in his restraints. Do not feed him or give him water."

\ The guard nodded. Malak turned away from the dungeon door, his back ramrod straight, his gaze fixed forwards like a soldier on the march. He would not betray his fears, by word or by deed. He hadn't done it yet—not before the Duke, and not before the other members of the Hand.

"We can't leave!" Clara insisted, staring anxiously through their cellar doorway as dawn light leaked through. "We haven't found her yet."

Malak gave her a disbelieving look. "You think I don't know exactly where she is?"

Clara blinked in disbelief. "You...what?"

Berkeley caught on first. "You planned this?"

"Of course," Malak scoffed. "Did you really think Rafa would go rogue?"

"She attacked me!" Clarice shouted.

"She can break stone with her fists, Clarice," Malak said, rolling his eyes. "If she attacked you with intent to harm, you'd be crippled or dead."

"You had us search for her all night!" Clarice growled.

"Don't start with me, Clarice," Malak sighed. "You know exactly why we had to do that."

"I don't," Clarice grunted.

"You don't?" Malak repeated, shaking his head in surprise. "Berkeley, explain it to her."

"Explain...what to her, Mal?" Berk asked.

Malak stared at Berkeley. He stared at Clara. He stared at Clarice. He took in the confusion, the exhaustion, the irritation...and the genuine longing for clarity.

"I'm sorry, I thought you..." Malak shook his head. "I'm sorry. I should have explained earlier. I thought for sure you would, Berk...or you, Clarice. You're the one who convinced me."

Clarice stared at him, the confusion drowning out the other feelings. "What?"

"You told me he was coming alone," Malak said. "You didn't see any sign of his allies. Rafa had come to me with..." Malak thought for a moment, shook his head. "Calling it a plan does it too much credit. It was barely an idea. Just a thought, really. About her conversation with Alma. About how to get him to trust us."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Clarice demanded.

"Because of Berk."

Berkeley arched their eyebrows. "What?"

"You were so worried about fooling Ramza Beoulve," Malak said. "And I tried to reassure you, but it worried me too. What would it take to make him believe us? Hell, what would it take just to make him talk to us?" Malak shook his head. "He's no stranger to betrayal. He would be facing his sister's kidnappers. Why would he ever listen to us?" Malak nodded to Clarice. "And then Clarice told me he was coming alone. He knows the risks, between his sister's friend, the Princess, and Orbonne...if he's coming alone, it's because he's got a plan of his own."

"We knew he couldn't trust us," Malak said. "We were his sister's kidnapper's, his enemies. His allies were hidden, ready to strike whatever we did. But he's fallen in with old enemies before. Couldn't he do it again?"

"So you planned for Rafa to join him?" Clara asked, disbelief in every line of her face.

"Like I said," Malak answered. "Planned is a strong word. We decided that if she judged it appropriate, she would fake a defection to him. Her powers would protect her from us, however we fought her. And we had to keep him alive, so we couldn't risk our full strength against either of them. But that's a fine line to walk: to look like we're trying to capture him, without making it look like we're phoning it in. We have to put on a very convincing show for Ramza's friends, wherever they're hiding. You should have seen him when I walked my frog in." Malak chuckled. "Now she can learn everything Ramza knows, all in the name of besting us. She'll find out where his allies are, and what they're planning. They'll come to Riovanes to save his sister, and he''ll think he has the advantage over us, that he knows everything there is to know about us..."

"And then Rafa strikes," Clarice said. She shook her head. "I didn't know she had it in her."

Clara managed a weak laugh. "It's Rafa," she said. "What can't she do?"

They believed him. They believed his lies. And so did the Grand Duke.

Malak of Galthena, leader of Barinten's Hand, paced through Riovanes Castle, with a poise familiar to all who saw him. His hands were braced behind his back, his eyes on some far-distant point. Malak of Galthena often looked this way, seeking the heavens themselves for the best way to aid his liege lord. Malak of Galthena was a faithful soldier, who had earned the trust placed in him.

Malak of Galthena, whose village had burned while young Malak had cradled his shrieking little sister, secure in the damp cellar while the marauding soldiers set fire to buildings and people alike. Malak of Galthena, who had hurt and fought and killed, who had suffered broken fingers, ribs, and toes long before the Grand Duke had found him in the orphanage, and given him safety. Give him purpose.

Malak of Galthena. Galthena, which had burned. Galthena, which Ramza Beoulve said...

Didn't bear thinking about it. Ramza was either a liar or had been lied to, and it didn't matter which was which. His lies had been the perfect mirror to Rafa's childhood madness, and now his deluded sister rampaged free across the countryside. If Malak was not careful, he might lose her...or lose the Duke to her. And if he was not very, very, careful, he might lose them both.

Focus. She would come. Get the information now. Deal with the rest after.

He headed to the kitchens, fingering the heavy flask in his pocket, the cut on his wrist still aching. When he pushed open the kitchen door, he was surprised to find Berkeley inside, humming to their self as they put together a plate of hearty food on a simple plate. Apart from the two of them, the kitchen was empty.

"What are you doing, Berk?" Malak asked.

"Heard you were planning on finishing the interrogation," Berkeley replied. "Figured you were gonna do a little bit of bribery before you got rough."

Malak traced a finger down the side of the flask. "Something like that."

"I'll carry the food if you carry the drink."

Malak prepared a large tankard of mixed water, sweet wine, and liquid from his flask, and nodded to Berkeley that he was ready.

""Can't believe you were listening to me, Mal," Berkeley said, leading the way back to the dungeons and glancing over their shoulder.

"First time for everything, Berk," Malak said, plastering on a smile.

Berkeley smiled back at him. "It's quite a plan."

Mal shrugged. "Barely a plan. We owe it all to Rafa."

"Mmm." Berkeley was silent as they drew closer to the dungeons. Theycame to a stop at the top of their stairs, and turned back to offer him the food. "Figure you'll want to do the rest yourself."

"Trying to get out of work, Berk?" Malak asked, reaching out for the plate.

"You know me."

Berkeley let go of the plate without a fight, but their eyes were locked on Mal's. Malak stared steadily back, his smile fading. "Was there something else, Berk?"

"No," Berkeley said. "Just worried about Rafa." They glanced thoughtfully at the ceiling. "You guys are all soldiers. Me, I'm always got to be more careful. Think about what I'm doing, and how it looks. My whole life is deception. Pretending to be someone I'm not."

"That's why I listened to you," Malak said.

Berkeley nodded, as thoughtful as before. "Yeah. I just worry." Their eyes drifted back to Malak's face. "Hope she's being real careful. People who don't practice deception like I do? You'd be surprised how easy it is to read them. To tell when they're lying." Berkeley started to walk past Malak, stopping long enough to pat Malak on the shoulder. "Hope she knows what she's doing."

Berkeley walked on. Malak did not look back at them. He stared straight ahead, his eyes closed tight, remembering what Ramza had said. The Duke was kind, but that kindness had limits. He would not tolerate Rafa's betrayal. He couldn't. She had seen too much forgiveness from him already. Malak well knew the responsibilities that faced Barinten (he had shouldered some paltry few of them himself). You could brook certain kinds of insubordination in your ranks, and certain kinds of defiance from your enemies...as long as they did not compromise you. Rafa's betrayal would compromise him. He could never accept it.

Unless she's telling the truth.

Malak froze halfway down the stairs, his grip tightening on the plate of food and the tankard of watered-down wine, his jaw clenched so tight he felt the strain of it pounding in his temple. Ramza Beoulve was a liar. Malak's foolish sister, more maddened than he was by their years of abuse before Barinten had found them, had been primed to believe those lies. Her understandable mistake was being manipulated by a callous liar, but it could be corrected—even turned into a new opportunity. Their mission would be achieved. And Barinten would never have cause to punish her error.

He walked down into the dungeons, and pushed open the door.

Izlude was hung against a far wall, hoisted slightly off the straw-covered floor by the manacles on either wrist. He was entirely naked, with bruises both fresh and faded riddling his body. He hung limply, his eyes clothed, his breathing ragged.

"Saint Above," Malak murmured, with a pang of guilt as he set down food and drink on the rack in the corner "They left you bound?" He pulled the winch by the door to loosen the chains and moved to Izlude's side, lowering him gently to the straw-laden ground."I'm sorry."

Izlude managed a gurgling sort of laugh. "You...sorry?" He made that same strange laugh. "You...started this."

Malak stepped back as though the man had offended him. "Neither my friends nor my liege lord started this war," Malak spat. "Do not blame me for giving you the punishment you were due."

Izlude, still moving creakily, his handsome face puffy with the marks of old blows, gave another gurgling laugh."We didn't...start a war," he grunted. "We just...made sure the war...could help people."

Malak shook his head. "I have traveled the length and breadth of Ivalice. No one seems helped."

Izlude closed his eyes. "I know," he said, with a different kind of pain in his voice.

"You disagree with your father?" Malak asked.

Izlude's jaw tightened, and his silence took on a stubborn note. Malak sighed heavily. "Come now, you cannot possibly think admitting that much hurts your cause. We know the Brave Conspiracy is the work of the Church and its Templars, and we know those Templars are everywhere doing its work, and we know your father leads the Templars. Surely you would rather admit that he heads a conspiracy, rather than imply the conspiracy acts without him?"

Still, Izlude said nothing, staring steadily past Malak. Malak sighed. "There's no need for you to sulk. You've already won."

Izlude's swollen eyes flickered toward him. "Huh?"

"The Duke's intention was always an alliance with you and yours," Malak said. "You must have realized that already. Time is of the essence, with the war escalating and our respective plans escalating with it. He invited your father here to see what deal we can reach."

Izlude's swollen eyes cracked open further, in disbelief. "After...torturing me."

"We know your father's reputation," Malak said. "He is a soldier, just like us; as long as you are intact, I imagine he does not particularly care how battered you are." Malak paused for a moment. "Though I do not imagine he will be particularly pleased with us."

Izlude's next laugh was less strangled. "Yeah, well...he's not exactly...easy to..."

A furtive look crossed Izlude's swollen face. Malak did not press, but turned to the little rack in the corner of the room. The key to Izlude's chains was on the top shelf: simple clothes, cleaned and folded, lay on the lowest. Malak picked both up and turned around to face his captive. "If I unchain you, you're not going to try to escape, are you?"

Izlude gave him a withering look. "Of course I am," he grunted. "Figured I'd fight my way past you, your friends, your Duke's army...maybe fight him in a climactic duel on the castle roof. How hard could it be?"

"You give yourself too little credit," Malak said, laying the clothes down in front of Izlude as he leaned forward to unlock the chains. "You escaped Orbonne, didn't you?"

The manacles clicked open, and Izlude's arms dropped numbly to his side. His eyes had closed again, and a different kind of pain twisted his features. "I failed."

"You brought soldiers to an empty monastery, and were ambushed by elite soldiers," Malak said, turning away from Izlude to give him time to change. "You achieved your objective." Malak paused. "Well. Until we came along, anyways."

Another twisted laugh. "That one I don't...mind as much."

"No?" Malak asked, turning to face him. Izlude was shrugging on the trousers, still moving delicately.

"We...were ready...for Ramza," Izlude said. "I don't think...any of us knew...the Hand was..."

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't flattered." Malak set both food and drink down in front of Izlude, then took a sit in one of the interrogator's chairs. "You've heard of us?"

Izlude shrugged. "A bit. Your Duke's..." Izlude grimaced. "An asshole."

"I love the man," Malak said (but Ramza and Rafa were flashing through his head). "And I've called him worse."

Izlude's chuckle this time sounded genuine. "Well. Some of the Templars...admire him. He's not as clever as he thinks with Ydoran arts, but the way he incorporates techniques from outside Ivalice and Ordallia?" Izlude shook his head. "Heard about you from my father first."

"That so?"

"Pissed off," Izlude said. "Wanted to recruit you and your sister..."

He trailed off. His eyes were still closed, but Malak felt the back of his neck prickling. Did Izlude know about his powers? How much?

Izlude's slitted eyes started to open. Malak looked away, letting a little off his emotion show on his face. He wanted to look conflicted, after all.

He heard the rattle of the plate. From the corner of his eye, he saw Izlude gingerly cutting into the steak. Malak did not look at him, even when he began to cough.

"Saint Above!" gasped Izlude. "You add enough salt to that?"

Malak turned his head to give him a withering look. "Oh, I'm sorry, my lord," he growled. "Is the food not up to a nobleman's standards?"

"It's not up to a dog's standards!" Izlude grunted, grabbing the cup and quaffing it down. He sighed with relief. "That's better."

"Not a lot of dogs eating steak around here, Mr. Tengille," Malak grunted.

"How cured was that shit?"

"You're awfully demanding for a prisoner."

Malak offered him a crooked smile, taking another bite of his steak. "Aren't I a VIP now?" He lifted the cup again as he looked around the cell. "Assuming these are your first-class arrangements."

Malak smiled. "Kind of thinking I should beat you again."

"Please," scoffed Izlude. "I took worse during training."

"You're a Swordbreaker?"

"Among other things," Izlude replied. "Templars aren't allowed to just be one thing, Malak of Galthena."

There was an echo of Ramza's words in Izlude's. Malak felt his dismay cross his face before he could stop it.

"Sorry," Izlude said. Malak stared at him in disbelief. Izlude shrugged uncomfortably.

"You're apologizing to me?" Malak asked.

Izlude shrugged again. "Not gonna pretend you're not an asshole, kid. But the wrong thing's the wrong thing, y'know?"

Malak's throat felt very dry. "Yeah." He swallowed. "Then..." He shook his head. "I...want to say I'm sorry...but I suspect the Templars wouldn't have done much different, if they'd captured me."

Izlude's mouth twisted. "I'm...not sure." He took another sip of his drink. "You're pretty young."

Malak felt a flash of indignation. "Not that young."

"What are you, fifteen?"

"I..." Malak thought for a moment. He'd been...how old, when Galthena and burned? He could only remember four birthdays, did that mean he was six, or...

Showing too much of himself. He could see it in the slight pity on Izlude's face. "I'm still your captor," Malak said hotly.

"Thought you were my ally?" Izlude asked, taking another smug sip.

"Not yet I'm not," Malak growled. "And we've got plenty of...magic we could use."

Izlude arched his eyebrows. "Yeah?" he said, his bruises yellow beneath the intermittent glow of the cell's runelight. "What do you think you could to me you haven't already done?"

Malak sighed and shrugged in turn. "I'm not wrong, am I?" Malak said. "About the Templars."

"No..." Izlude said, with a small, sad smile. "Probably not."

They were both silent for a moment. Izlude set his cup down and cut himself another piece off steak, grimacing as he cut it. Malak watched him in silence.

"You weren't kidding about training, were you?" Malak said. "You healed up fast."

"You Healer healed me up fast," Izlude grunted. "Not the first time, either." The faintest glimpse of other sessions—of blows struck, of being hoisted painfully for hours, of bones broken and muscles strained, and of the quiet, businesslike Healers tending to the worst of the damage in the aftermath of each session. Shadows of memories, not yet substantial.

"But you never broke," Malak said. "I'm...I'd like to think I'd be the same way, but I don't know." He managed a smug smile. "I've never been captured."

Izlude glared at him. "If I'd known you were in the fight, you wouldn't have captured me, either."

"So you say." Malak was quiet for a moment, watching Izlude take another drink. "You had a brother, didn't you?"

Izlude froze. His eyes opened wider than they had before. There was cold in those eyes, and fear, and pain, and...something else. Something Malak felt echoing inside him.

"The fuck did you just say?" Izlude asked.

"You had a brother," Malak repeated. "An older brother, right?"

The shadow is shorter this time, but sharper, a needle in Malak's mind. A tall, somber figure, hair like Izlude's, eyes the same color of Vormav's...utterly unlike Vormav's. Quan's eyes were always kind. He looked at you, and saw you. You wanted to live up to the trust you saw in those eyes.

"Fuck you," Izlude spat, flinging his cup down and turning away.

"Alright," Malak said, and stood up.

"What, you're leaving?" Izlude asked.

Malak shrugged. "You're not a captive anymore, Izlude. If I've pissed you off, I'm not gonna waste your time."

"But you still ask about shit like that," Izlude snarled. "What if I ask about Galthena, Malak? About how your village burned? About how your parents burned?"

The memories are Malak's this time: the haphazard village, some of its buildings ancient as the Ydorans and some barely huts, the strange and myriad inhabitants with their strange and myriad ways (Gau, who could morph his magic to mirror the power of animals, running on all fours like a Panther before he suddenly hurled a boulder like a Behemoth; Rikku, always followed by the odd machines she built, moving like living things; little Relm, half his sister's age, with her drawings that moved upon the paper; Father, thin and scholarly, weaving shapes of light around him; Mother, with her broad shoulders and her belt of special potions; and more, so many more, names he'd lost since the army had descended upon them with fire and sword).

Malak realizes he has not spoken for some time. He shakes his head. "No. I mean...yes. That's...what happened to...but I..." He swallows again. "I was not trying to be cruel." His voice is as thin and confused as he feels. "I was..." Malak shakes his head and looks away. "Forget it."

Confusion, anger, and curiosity war in Izlude for a moment. Curiosity wins. "What?"

"My sister," Malak says. "She's...on a dangerous mission." He looks back at Izlude, can almost see himself through Izlude's eye. "That's what happened to your brother, right?"

Izlude's anger has faded like the bruises on his face. He shakes his head. "No. I...no." The pain and grief are rising.

"No?" Malak asks. "So what happened?"

"War," Izlude answers, but there are echoes of his father's words in his head, words less heard than felt, cold and stony as their father's face: Quan and Mother, both dead.

"War?" Malak asks.

(In a distant memory, Izlude staggers backwards with a broken sword, panting; Vormav stands before him, not winded in the slightest, his grey eyes with the weight of stormclouds, his voice like distant thunder; "You must be ready for anything, Izlude! Relax your vigil for a moment, and you'll die just like they did!")

"War," Malak says again, pressing into the memory. "My sister. That's why I'm worried about her, too." He lets all his anger into his voice. "The war you started."

"We didn't start it!" Izlude snaps.

("We did not start this war," says the Confessor, with his so-kind smile and his so-kind eyes (eye like Quan's, though Izlude would never say so). "We neither instigate nor condone the greed, ambition, and atrocity that drives powerful men to war for personal gain. But the Saint neither instigated nor condoned the rapaciousness of the Ydoran Empire he fought. It is not always for good men to decide the times they live in. But they must always must decide what to do with them." He placed a hand on Izlude's. "And God willing, the faith and courage of men like you, Izlude Tengille, will see us through this darkness to a golden age.")

"We didn't-" Izlude says again, but now there is a strange look on his face, and muddled thoughts in his head. His thoughts and memories feel strange, too thick and too thin, mirrored back on themselves. "What's..."

"Easy," Malak sys, moving to his side. "You need me to call a Healer? Maybe your training's not as great as you think."

"I don't..." Izlude blinks, shakes his head, but he cannot stop the memories from coming forward: of training in the grand Peacekeeper Hall in Mullonde, the basic drills every Templar candidate must learn, Meliadoul always just a hair faster than him, better with the blade, the disappointment in his father's eyes until Izlude, disarmed, knocks the training sword from her hand with a quick blow, and then there is something like a ghost of what his father once was before Quan died, a hint of a smile on his stony face).

"My head," mutters Izlude, burying his face in his hands.

"You had Pisces," Malak says. "You were one of the Church's Braves."

("The High Confessor is a kind man," Vormav Tengille says, his voice like iron. "Perhaps too kind. The Templars can afford no such kindness. The Braves can afford no such kindness. The world we hope to build means we must swim in the same filth as the predators we seek to slay. Have you the strength, my son?"

But the question is softer, and when Izlude looks into his father's eyes, there is a hint of warmth there. "Yes, father," Izlude breathes)

"Don't know...what you're..." Izlude lifts bleary eyes. "Wait. Wait, you...you can't...stop it...STOP IT!"

Izlude his shrieking, his fear and his rage and his violation and his shame palpable and powerful, echoing inside Malak, but it is too late: the steak was prepared in Malak's Blood, and the flask he poured into the watered-down wine was full of it, prepared with every magic and trick he has ever devised, there is more of his Blood inside Izlude than there has ever been in any living thing, and his guard is open and his mind is lost and Malak grabs him by the throat and glares into his eyes and hammers his will against Izlude's,

"My sister," Malak hisses, holding his throat so he cannot scream, and hearing his words with a peculiar rippling effect, first hearing them in his own ears and then in Izlude's.

(My sister my sister Meliadoul relentless with the sword relentless with her training and her learning keeping her own counsel feuding with Father even as she praises Izlude his sister his faithful sister he never fought for her as hard as he could have she should be the Brave not him)

"Is in danger," Malak growls.

(Danger danger everywhere father taught you but he didn't have to teach you you knew you understood Quan so tall so bold so brave Quan who fought with his father on the frontlines of the war Quan who was killed escorting Mother home Mother tall and sweet and kind always with a hidden treat and her face is so hazy now but her musical voice still echoes in his ears and sometimes you pretend she's talking to you sometimes you pretend you can still hear her)

"Your Braves did this," Malak says, as though it is all Izlude's fault, as though it is not Rafa's failure, as though it is not Malak's failure.

(The Braves yes Izlude knew about it long before he should have Father is quiet and cagey but Izlude is a man of Mullonde and he trains with his sister but he hears things, about old Stones and old weapons brought up from the Archives and once he rises in the middle of the night to pee and sees his Father sitting in a room that should be dark but isn't because he holds the golden Stone in his hand and the lovely light fills the room with glowing radiance like a miniature sun)

"How many rebels have died because of you?" Malak asks.

(Rebels are hazy don't know can't know but there they are, Delita Heiral and Wiegraf Folles, always traveling here and there on their secret missions, and Izlude doesn't always know where they go but when he does there is always a riot, a rebellion, bandits, an assassination, and he doesn't want to believe it, they're the heroes, they're the good guys, but then one day Confessor Funeral asks to see him and tries to explain)

"You know Father Simon died, at your friend's hands?" Malak asks.

(No no no they weren't supposed to kill Simon unless he tried to kill them he is an Inquisitor a man of dignity his books are still taught at Mullonde the Confessor himself speaks highly of him but Wiegraf was there Wiegraf who leads riots and rebellions Wiegraf who starts fights and gets people killed Wiegraf who his father sent no no no)

"All for what?" Malak asks. "The Germonique Gospel?"

(The highest heresy, the only copy they ever kept, insisted on by Inquisitor Simon so they may know its lies and be ready to spot them should they ever appear again, the Church's power is waning as Ivalice wanes and if they are not careful the people shall lose their leadership and look at the chaos that plagues them already how much worse will it be if they do not step forward and return the Church to glory in the Saint's name?)

"What kind of monster is your father?" Malak asks, as though he is not asking about Barinten.

("The world is harsh," his father says. "The world is cruel. The world is dangerous." He opens a drawer, and Izlude's breath catches in his throat: he sees the faint glow before his father pulls out the deep blue Stone with its Pisces symbol bright on its front. "We have no choice but to be as harsh, and cruel, and dangerous. Until we can bring order to it once again." He drops the Stone into Izlude's disbelieving hands. "Until we can be sure people like your Mother and your Brother will always be safe.")

"What kind of monster are you?" Malak asks.

(Not a monster not a monster the world is harsh, cruel, dangerous, and Izlude has heard his father and believes him but he wants to find his own way, to not just be the Brave of modern Ivalice but a better brave, a man of God, a man of honor, a man of virtue, and the world is harsh, cruel, dangerous and so for ten long years Izlude has trained himself to his limit, running and exercising and fighting and learning, so strong now he can do as few men can and use the Swordbreaker's art with his bare hands, because he will break the blades of a harsh, cruel, dangerous world but he will never be broken, never, never, never)

There is a sunburst of pain, of shame, of self-loathing. Izlude's eyes are wild, his skin is burning, the foreign Blood is like needles in his brain, and both Izlude and Malak collapse down onto the straw, and Izlude is shaking, shuddering, weeping.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry-"

And Malak, his body shaking with the effort and with his own shame, holds Izlude against his chest as he once held Rafa when they were children, and answers.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry-"