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Chapter 95: Out of Hand

"Knight-Commander Tengille!" Barinten said, with as grand a bow as he could manage. "You honor me with your visit."

Vormav Tengille came to a stop a few paces from Barinten, and gave a curt, deep bow from the waist. "You flatter me, my lord," he said, rising up again with his cold grey eyes. "I am but a humble servant of the Saint."

"Flattery is wasted on you," Barinten chortled. He looked at one of the two men flanking Vormav, and smiled. "And you bring a war hero to us, as well! The famous Wiegraf Folles!"

Wiegraf blinked in surprise, and his eyes flickered to Vormav. Vormav, to his credit, did not look the least bit abashed or taken aback. "The Church takes no sides in the affairs of men, my lord," Vormav said. "And the Saint can make use of priests and sinners alike, if they choose to follow Him."

"Of course, of course," Barinten murmured. He glanced at the third man, with his high hood and stern face. "And, correct me if I am wrong...is this the good Ser Loffrey?"

"A pleasure, my lord," Loffrey said, with a slender bow. "I am not used to being recognized."

"Come, you are a man of talent!" Barinten exclaimed. "Though I will admit, you are somewhat outshone by the company you keep." He smiled between them. "Come, come!" He beckoned for them to follow, glancing at the sky for a sign of Clarice.

Inwardly, he was screaming with worry. The Templars had arrived sooner than he'd anticipated, and Ramza still lollygagged on his way. He needed the Gospel to force the Templars into an alliance. All the other information he'd gained, everything he knew and everything he had, were just extra pressure on that single, crucial piece of leverage.

Calmly now, Gerith. Calmly. Ramza would come. Rafa would guide him here. When you gamble for such high stakes, you cannot help but sweat every now and then.

He guided them through the grand central foyer of Rivoanes, pointing out the stained-glass depictions of old Ivalice's pagan myths as they paced languidly across the lush red carpet. Khamja captains in their best uniforms stood stiffly at attention by every door, saluting as they passed. Barinten felt calmer the further he walked. He was in the heart of his dominion, surrounded by trained and loyal soldiers. He would win this game.

Vormav stopped without prompting by the Ydoran picture window—the one showing the chocobos racing across the hillside. The slightest smile creased his craggy face. "My word," he said. "I had not thought to see one of these outside Mullonde."

"It had been defunct for some time," Barinten replied. "But we were able to reactivate it."

"You were?" There was genuine surprise in Vormav's voice. "That is a lost art."

"Not quite lost," Barinten said. "We cannot fix a broken window, but we can restore power to one whose runes have lost their strength."

"Ah." Vormav nodded. "Impressive, nevertheless."

They reached Barinten's salon not long after. Clara stood out front, in functional linen and leather, with the strongest mage's staff they had available. "Permit me to introduce one of my Hand," Barinten said. "Clarabelle."

"Awfully young, isn't she?" Wiegraf asked.

"The best warriors must be," Barinten said. "And she may rightly count herself among them."

"You honor me, my lord." She held her staff parallel to the ground as she bowed before the Duke and the Templars.

"Were there not five among your Hand?" Vormav asked, as Clara opened the door for them. "Thought that was where the name came from."

"Quite right!" Barinten said, gesturing for them to take their seats. "But I am afraid even guests of your stature cannot keep me from the business of minding my realm, and the Hand often tend to matters in my stead." The serving staff had polished every surface in the salon to shining brilliance. They stood against the wall now, ready to bring food and drink at their command. Berkeley had outdone themselves: even Barinten could not tell which of the servants they were currently masquerading as.

When the servants had laid out everything Barinten and his guest had requested, they filed slowly out into the hall. Clara stood behind Barinten, and a tall, dark-skinned butler in meticulous attire stood at the door, waiting for any requests.

"I suppose you've received your share of missives, as well?" Barinten asked, sipping his wine.

"The Church stands above the affairs of men," Vormav replied, his own glass untouched on the table in front of him.

"A fine reply," Barinten said. "Though not quite an answer." He took another sip. "Besides, if the Church could truly stand apart from mortal affairs, there would be no need of Templars, hm?"

"Perhaps," Wiegraf grunted, sipping from his own glass.

"Perhaps," agreed Loffrey. "One cannot exist in this world and not be a part of its affairs. It may be wiser to say that the Church takes no side but the side of the people."

"And how may they best be served?" Barinten asked.

"By greater devotion to the Saint, and the Church which is His agent," Vormav said shortly.

Barinten smiled. "Again, fine words, Knight-Commander. But how do you move in the world to earn that devotion?"

Vormav arched his heavy eyebrows. "Did you bring us here to discuss matters of theology, my lord?"

Barinten sighed, and set his own glass down. "If you insist on getting down to business..." He swallowed down another inward scream. All this time he'd stalled for, and still no word of Ramza Beoulve. Still no word of his much-needed leverage.

"With respect, my lord," Vormav said, inclining his head. "We have traveled an awful long way for..." He frowned, glanced at Loffrey. "What was it?"

Loffrey fished a crumbled note from a pouch on his belt. "Relics of great interest to the Church and their causes, Knight-Commander."

Vormav nodded. "Well. Here we are."

Barinten nodded slowly, fighting the urge to look at the door again. He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands above his stomach, and gave Vormav a thoughtful look. "Forgive me for asking, Knight-Commander," he said. "But does the matter of Church relics really warrant the personal attention of the leader of the Templars?"

Vormav arched an eyebrow again. "We responded with dignitaries appropriate to a man of your...stature."

Barinten smiled thinly. "Ah, you do me great honor, risking travel in such unsafe times. What if one of the warring lions had mistaken your ship for an enemy vessel?"

"Few indeed are the heretics who would risk both their mortal flesh and their immortal souls in an attack upon the Church," Loffrey said quickly.

"Few indeed," Barinten agreed. "But...more of late, yes? Didn't you recently have one of the Beoulves declared a heretic?"

Loffrey and Vormav barely reacted, but rage flashed across Wiegraf's face like lightning, terrible in its ferocity and gone so quickly you could almost imagine your eyes were playing tricks on you. Interesting.

"If you wish to discuss matters of heresy, we would be happy to send an Inquisitor to see you," Vormav said. "They could inform you what matters the Inquisitors investigate."

"Certainly," Barinten said mildly. "But I would be a little wary, if the Church is using its power to manipulate the noble families of Ivalice-"

"Ramza Beoulve is minor son of the house," Vormav said. "A bastard claimed by his misguided father in his dying days, with a long history of deviant behavior. His actions do not reflect some sinister aim on the part of his brothers." Vormav looked pointedly around the room. "Though it is interesting to hear such curiosity from the man sitting in the seat of the Exile."

"As I recall, the Exile offered succor to your dear Saint in an hour of need," Barinten replied. "But-"

There was a knock upon the door. The well-dressed servant opened it a moment, murmured to the person outside, then bowed and stepped away. Malak entered, dressed in combat gear, with Clarice only a step behind. Barinten's heart thrilled in his chest.

"Apologies for the interruption, my lords." Malak bowed, first to the Templars and then to him. "But the steaks the Grand Duke requested have arrived."

"Steaks?" muttered Wiegraf, as Barinten's heart thrilled with twice the force.

"Romandan behemoth," Barinten said, so giddy he could have danced. "I wanted only the best for our visiting dignitaries. Thank you, Malak." He inclined his head with as much restraint as he could manage. "See that they're properly prepared for our guests, won't you? Oh, Clarice?" He smiled. "Can you make sure tonight's entertainment is ready as well?"

Both bowed, and left the room.

"With respect, my lord," Vormav said, with palpable irritation. "We did not travel all this way for the luxury of your estate, however high its quality."

"No, quite right, quite right," Barinten said. "I apologize. I am sure that the matters that concern me are far too pedestrian for such godly men as you. That was why I wanted to write you. I believe your Church has an interest in the Zodiac Stones?"

Sudden silence. The faces of the three Templars seemed frozen.

"The Stones allowed Saint Ajora and his Disciples to fell the Ydoran Empire," Vormav said at last. "Our interest in them is well-known." He paused for a moment. "The relics you hope to donate to the Church...they are Zodiac Stones?"

"Indeed!" Barinten said. "They fell into my hands quite by coincidence." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "But I admit, I'm confused. Your interest in the Stones is purely historical?"

"The Stones wrought wonders in the age of the Saint," Vormav answered. "Perhaps they may do so again."

"Ah, I see!" Barinten exclaimed. "So is their miraculous powers you hope to harness! To build the Braves anew!"

Another frozen moment among the three men in front of him. Barinten felt his smile widening, and fought to control it. No need to reveal too much of his hand just yet.

When no one spoke, Barinten continued, "I can understand why, of course. Our poor Ivalice has suffered mightily these last decades. The tumult of the 50 Years' War, costing so much in men and materiel, and ending in such inglorious defeat. The nasty business with the Death Corps-" he nodded sadly at Wiegraf, who did not meet his eyes. "-and all those riots and rebellions their example inspired!" Barinten shook his head sadly. "And now a bloody civil war between all the powers of Ivalice, costing our kingdom more and more with every grinding day..." He sighed. "I suppose in times like these, it is nice to imagine a miraculous solution to such weighty problems." He leaned forwards. "As a concerned ruler watching these events with a wary eye, I would welcome such a solution myself."

Vormav arched both eyebrows. "So you intend to give us your Stones?"

"Of course!" Barinten exclaimed. "Who better to realize the rebirth of the Zodiac Braves than the Templars and the Church they serve? Especially in the face of all this chaos and heresy." He shook his head sadly. "My poor friends. You labor so valiantly for Ivalice, and are met with such unjust rewards. Like the death of the Cardinal."

"To serve the Saint is its own reward," Vormav said.

"And yet you pay such a high cost for it!" Barinten exclaimed. "And for what?" He cocked his head. "If I were to give you the Stones in my possession, what would you do with them?" He held up a forestalling hand. "And I am not looking for empty platitudes about 'serving the Saint'."

Vormav's eyebrows arched again. "I am sorry, my lord. I do not understand the question."

"Imagine you and yours hold all 12 Stones...or was it 13?" Barinten thought for a moment, shrugged. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. Imagine you built the Braves anew, and that their powers were exactly as miraculous as the legends say. That they make everyone who holds them a vessel for the divine power of almighty God. What would you use that power for?"

Vormav shook his head. "Again, my lord, I do not understand-"

A flash of anger marred his contented glee. "You are not a stupid man, Knight-Commander Tengille," Barinten snapped. "And I would prefer you not pretend to be."

A matching flash of anger across Vormav's face. "I did not travel all this way to be insulted."

"Then why did you travel all this way?" Barinten demanded. "What relics did you think I had to offer? What prize is worth the Knight-Commander of the Templars taking a sensitive diplomatic mission during a civil war?" He smiled with relish, not bothering to hide his anger or his satisfaction. "Unless, of course, you aim to end that war."

Vormav's grey eyes stared steadily back. His anger was gone. "If true Braves called for the war to end, who would oppose them?" he said at last.

"Who indeed!" Barinten asked. "Especially when the Church's influence spreads so far?" He heard the satisfaction in his voice, practically a purr. God, he felt electric with joy, as powerful as he ever had in his life, as though he were wielding the very best of the Ydoran amplifiers in his possession. "What respect you must command, so that Dycedarg Beoulve and his patron do not bring the full weight of their wrath to bear upon you for striking at even a minor member of their line! How quickly the Bishop Bremond calmed the chaos in Lionel, even as the flames of war rose higher. And does not the Bishop of Canne-Beurich sit on Duke Goltanna's War Council?"

A muscle twitched in Vormav's impressive jaw. He did not speak.

"Such a curious thing, when you start to look more closely!" Barinten pressed. "Why, I've heard rumors of Wiegraf Folles in so many quarters of Ivalice these last few years...often before the outbreak of rebellion! Tell me, when exactly did he join your ranks?" He waved one hand airly. "He is hardly the mightiest of your agents. So many church dignitaries labor in the camps of both our warring lions! Not to mention all the generals and nobles friendly to you." He thought for a moment, and his eyes widened. "Why, if I didn't know better, I would say you could end this war anytime you chose!"

"The Church commands respect," Vormav said, his tone icy. "We are not omnipotent."

"And yet still you avoid the question!" Barinten growled. "If you had the power you required! If you wielded all the Stones, and resurrected the Braves, how would this war end?" He waved one hand. "But let me suggest my own answer. The Braves emerge in their full glory as the war approaches its bloodiest, and bring peace to all Ivalice. And, whether or not it is Orinus and his regent, Prince Larg, or Ovelia and her protector, Duke Goltanna, who sit the throne of Ivalice, the great peace our nation knows is owed to the Braves...and to the noble lord who helped them broker this peace. A man of power and cunning, who kept his hands free from the tumult of the war, and who delivered the last of the Stones into the hands of the Templars. Perhaps this peace-loving lord even counts himself among the Braves?" Barinten chuckled, with an affectionate look at Clara.

Vormav smiled thinly. "A fine tale, Grand Duke Barinten. But I fear it will remain only a tale. Neither the Church nor the Braves command the power you seem to imagine-"

There was a knock upon the door. Berkeley started to open it, but Barinten held up a forestalling hand. "I admit, I have a powerful imagination," Barinten said. "But I believe the future I suggest to you is built upon fact." He reached for the pouch upon his hip, and gestured for Berkeley to open the door. In the same motion, he pulled out the blue Pisces Stone, and set it upon the table.

Vormav's eyes fixed on the stone. That same frozen expression cracked his face, as the door to the salon opened, and Clarice pulled Izlude inside, with his hands still bound. He, too, froze in the doorway, and young and wild as he was, an almost identical expression of frozen horror crossed the son's face as had crossed the father's. A thrill of savage glee tingled from Barinten's scalp to his groin, a low fire burning in his belly.

"Father-" Izlude croaked.

"Facts," Vormav said, with his face still frozen. "I see." He rose to his seat, turned to face his son.

"Father," Izlude repeated. "I-"

Vormav struck the boy across the face so fast that Barinten only realized what had happened when he heard the smack. The boy was hunched over, still standing; his father loomed over him. "Worthless," he spat. "To think I expected better from you."

The boy remained bowed, his eyes fixed on the ground. Vormav turned slowly to face Barinten again. "What ransom do you demand?"

"Ransom?" Barinten repeated.

Vormav's eyes flashed. "I tire of your games, Grand Duke."

Barinten fought the urge to smile. He could see the desperate anger in those grey eyes. Vormav was flailing, clinging to any pretense of power he could maintain.

"No game," Barinten replied. "Whatever the result of our negotiations, he leaves with you." He nodded to Berkeley, who opened a nearby cupboard to reveal Izlude's gear. At the same moment, Clarice cut Izlude's bonds. "Equipment and all. Even the Stone."

Vormav was still glaring. This time, Barinten really did smile. He had walked a terrible tightrope these last few weeks, trying to balance Hokuten, Nanten, and Templar alike. But the fear that had almost choked him was gone. He had gambled for high stakes, and he had won.

"Then why did you kidnap my son?" Vormav growled.

"Why did Wiegraf Folles murder Inquisitor Simon?" Barinten asked, and Wiegraf flinched as though he'd been struck. "Why did the agents of the Templars appear in every corner of Ivalice, feeding all the little flames that led to this conflagration? Why do you seek the Stones with such desperation?" He leaned forwards. "You wish to secure Ivalice from those who are too stupid, too proud, too vain, or too limited to do what is necessary to lead our kingdom into greatness. You have done what was necessary, however unpleasant, to see this dream realized. I am no different. Now I wish to join our efforts together. You will see the Ivalice you dream of: reunited under the auspices of the Church, healed by the miraculous resurrection of the Zodiac Braves. Templars and Khamja, wielding all the might of the old Ydorans. And Grand Duke Gerith Barinten as their leader."

He reached for the pouch on his opposite hip, just below the concealed revolver, and pulled out the dizzying scarlet of the Virgo Stone. Now he smiled in earnest, showing every inch of his satisfaction. Let him be a little careless for once. This was his moment of triumph.

Izlude stood behind his father, nursing his bright-red cheek. Wiegraf and Loffrey remained seated, their eyes fixed on their commander. Vormav's rage had been extinguished: his eyes flickered between Barinten's face and the Stone in his hand. He wore a curious expression that Barinten could not quite decipher.

"And suppose we refuse your a place in our ranks, Grand Duke?" Vormav asked.

"I am not asking for a place in your ranks," Barinten said, smiling wider.

"Nevertheless. Suppose we refuse?"

Barinten shrugged. "A most pitiable loss, and one I will never stop grieving. What a waste of all your careful efforts. I would prefer not to ally with one of these pedestrian powers who pervert Ivalice. I would prefer not to bring my knowledge and my resources to the Hokuten or the Nanten. I would prefer not to name the architects of your grand plan: you, Confessor Funeral, Cardinal Delacroix, Delita Herial, the Bishop of Canne-Beurich, Dycedarg Beoulve, Ovelia Atkascha..." He sighed theatrically. "But I will do as I must."

Vormav snorted. "Tall tales will prove little."

"Perhaps," Barinten said. "Perhaps not. But I imagine the evidence of this Stone and the Germonique Gospel will be more persuasive."

For the third time, the faces of the Templars froze. Yet something in that freezing dulled Barinten's joy. Izlude, behind his father, wore the appropriate expression: wide-eyed and horrified. But the other three did not look shocked. For an instant, their faces barely looked human. They looked like ill-fitting masks pulled taut over something malformed, monstrous, and dark enough to drain a little light from the room. Three pairs of inhuman eyes gleamed with hunger.

"I see," Vormav said, and turned one final glance over his shoulder. "It seems my son's failings are without limit."

Izlude closed his eyes. Vormav sighed, and faced Barinten again. "You show me the Stone, but not the Gospel. I have no reason to believe you hold it."

"You may gamble, if you wish," Barinten said.

"No," Vormav said curtly. "I have no use for gambling. I have laid my plans carefully, and well. I have no intention of seeing them disrupted now." He rolled his neck upon his shoulders, flexed his fingers. Barinten felt his joy dim a little further. Surely the Knight-Commander did not think to fight his way out from the heart of Barinten's territory with only three men? Or perhaps his only goal was to kill Barinten, and trust that his death would cause enough chaos for him to escape?

"Think carefully now, Knight-Commander," Barinten said, adjusting himself in case he needed to snatch for his holster. "You may see your aims realized with me, or see them dashed without me."

Vormav smiled, and Barinten's joy was gone now, replaced by confusion and a niggling, animal fear. That was a bestial smile, feral and confident, utterly unconcerned with Barinten's threats. "You are well-suited to the Exile's seat, Grand Duke." That voice...what was that voice? Sonorous as a singer in an empty theater, ringing with power, layered as though a chorus were speaking with him. "He, too, sat on the outermost rim of power, and thought himself strong. Like a massive spider weaving webs in an old mansion, lording over the insects it devours, thinking its web as vast a domain as the manor house in which it hides. Not knowing how weak it truly is, until a servant of the manor's true lord comes to obliterate his webs with careless gestures, and crush the spider underfoot."

Barinten stood up. "I will not be threatened under my roof."

"Were you listening, Grand Duke!" Vormav spat, and there were voices speaking with Vormav's, reverberating up from his throat. His eyes seemed deeper than human eyes should be, as deep and grey as a stormy sea, and that depth seemed to spread to his skin, so it seemed as though there was a man-shaped hole in the world standing in Barinten's salon. "It is not your roof. It was never your roof. You were allowed to live here as long as you kept out of sight. And now you have scuttled into the light to be crushed."

"Father?" Izlude's voice was thin with disbelief.

"Guards!" Barinten barked, and the door sprang open, and Berkeley stumbled aside as some of his best Khamja burst into the room—two trained mages, a Doman assassin, a knight of Fovoham and a mercenary of fearsome reputation. "Stand down, Knight-Commander. I have no wish for bloodshed."

"Enough prattling, insect!" Vormav bellowed, and snatched beneath his robes.

The air rippled, a tide of stilted slowness washing forwards, crashing over Vormav and freezing him in place, catching Wiegraf as he started to rise from his seat with his own hand reaching for his hip. Clara, of course, Clara, whatever fearsome powers these Templars commanded they could not count a Time Mage amongst their ranks-

The slowness shattered. In a blur, Loffrery Wodring appeared in front of Barinten, smiling thinly. "How-" Barinten began, too late: in that blur of time-distorted motion, he had not seen Loffrey's sword drawn, or seen it slash towards his hand. He only knew the fingers holding Virgo had been severed when he saw them bouncing bloodily beside the red Stone.

"My lord!" screamed Clarice, spearing into Loffrey's back, and strong hands were on him, hauling him towards the door as the mages unleashed their fire and the knight and the mercenary leapt forwards and Grand Duke Barinten stared numbly at his lost fingers, at the Stone, and at Vormav Tengille with a golden Stone in his hand, burning with a terrible, shadow-girded radiance.