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Chapter 103: The Confessor's Conclave

"And where do you think you're going?" Vormav Tengille asked, his arms folded across his broad chest as he barred the tall stone door to the Conclave

Meliadoul Tengille faced her father squarely. She had inherited his craggy features, the ridged nose and the strong jawline. Her hair was kept boyishly short and stubbornly straight, black and glossy. "To join the meeting."

Vormav shook his head. "Your brother was our Brave. Not you."

"My brother's dead," Melia answered, her sonorous voice now sharp and cold. Her broad shoulders tensed as her hands clenched into fists.

"And you think his position passes onto you?" Vormav asked.

"I don't give a damn about my position!" Melia shouted, her voice carrying down the polished stone corridor, ringing out across the heart of Mullonde, the oldest and grandest city in all Ivalice.

"I don't think the Confessor feels the same way," Vormav replied.

Melia's grey eyes sharpened into a menacing glare. Her father had never been a warm man, but she couldn't understand how he could be this cold.

"I would appreciate it," said a warm voice. "If you would give me the chance to make my own choices, Vormav."

Melia stiffened, turned at once and knelt without looking to the speaker. "Your Holiness-" she began.

"Oh, rise, Melia," the warm voice said, with a chuckle. "I've known you since you crawled these halls. You need not stand on ceremony with me." For a man of his years, Marcel Funeral walked with surprising ease, the hem of his simple yellow priest's robe almost touching the ground. His eyes were buried in wrinkles, and his long white beard nearly touched the ornate necklace he wore: a silver necklace embedded with thirteen different stones, each etched with a glowing Zodiac symbol, Virgo largest of all upon his throat.

"And I would appreciate it if you would allow me to deal with my daughter as I choose, your Holiness," grunted Vormav, impassive by the door.

The Confessor shrugged. "She is your daughter, as you say. But leave my name out of it, hm?" He patted Melia on the shoulder as he walked past her. "After all, we have other business to discuss."

Vormav opened the door for the Confessor, who stepped through with a regal nod. Melia rose from the ground to face her father once again. She held her tongue as best she could.

"You will keep your peace," Vormav said. "Until the meeting is over."

Melia scoffed. "I am a Templar, the same as you. I know what is required of me."

"So you say." He made a curt, jerking gesture with his head. Melia swept past him, barely looking towards her father. In spite of her words, she felt just a flicker of trepidation. It was one thing to face down her father: for all his pretense of stern grandeur, he was only human. But this was the Confessor's Conclave: the men in this room ranked among the most important in the whole of the Glabados Church. In meeting such as this, the man closest to the Saint upon the Earth and his chosen councilors decided how best to realize the will of God.

She traced a Virgo symbol on her chest, and bowed. There was a laugh from within the room: "Easy, Dame Meliadoul. No one will be conducting mass in here."

Meliadoul looked up to find the Confessor favoring her with a warm smile. She tried to smile in turn, and couldn't quite manage it.

"I think her piety is admirable, in this day and age," grunted Inquisitor Zalmour, looking characteristically stern at the Confessor's left hand. "Few indeed are those who recognize the true gravity of such occasions."

"Few are those who reach for gravity like you do, Zalmour," Cletienne answered. His voice was as high as Zalmour's, but much thinner. His brown hair was faintly greasy, and he was not looking at anyone in the room, absently flipping through a spellbook in front of him.

"Give a man a fancy title and he thinks himself an expert on all things," sighed red-haired Loffrey. "Forgive Cletienne's impertinence."

"If they could not forgive his impertinence, we would never get anything done," her father said, taking his own seat. "To business, I think?" He gave Funeral a searching look.

"To business," Funeral agreed. He gave Melia an apologetic look, then turned his attention to Loffrey, Cletienne, and her father. "Riovanes has fallen?"

"It was in ruins when we arrived," her father said.

"And Izlude?" The Confessor's voice was soft.

"Dead."

Melia's hands clenched at her knees, but she did not give voice to her grief.

"Along with Wiegraf?"

"Wiegraf died shortly after we arrived."

"So you had time to speak with him."

"Not much, your Holiness," Cletienne put in. "His condition was...forgive me, not even my magic could-"

Funeral waved a hand. "No Healer save God can cure all wounds, Cletienne. What did he tell you?"

"As Cletienne says, there was not much time to talk," her father answered. "And we did not wish to linger too long at Riovanes."

"Quite right," Funeral murmured. "But we have many questions, and are in desperate need of answers. Who killed Father Simon, and why? What happened at Riovanes?"

"I should think the answer is obvious, your Holiness," her father said. "Ramza Beoulve, and his...associates."

Melia's grip tightened on her knees again. Ramza Beoulve. Izlude's killer.

"The proud heretic," Zalmour growled.

"A heretic he may be," Funeral said. "But he is only one man. How has he managed to do so much damage?" His brow furrowed, deepening the many lines on his aged face.

"Why does any heretic seek to profane God's will?" Zalmour retorted. "It in their abominable nature."

"Human nature is made in the image of God," Funeral replied. "We have eyes to see, and minds to think. A heretic's mind is the mind of a man, not of a Lucavi. Understanding those who have strayed from the flock makes us better able to shepherd those who have not yet lost their way." He folded his hands in front of him. "I would like to understand him better."

"With respect, your Holiness!" Cletienne said. "He is a heretic who must be put down! And he is hardly the largest of our concerns! Not with Hokuten and Nanten alike gathering their forces-"

"Ramza Beoulve killed Cardinal Delacroix." Funeral's voice was glacial in its cold strength. "He has been a constant thorn in our side from the moment we put our plans into motion. He has now seen the downfall of two small armies, and if I understand correctly, he now holds 4 of the 13 Zodiac Stones. Perhaps 5, if Virgo..." He took a deep breath, and placed his hands upon the table. "As we speak, Bremondt and Barich are preparing for the final stages of our plan in the Neveleska Archipelago. We are mere weeks away from finally bringing Ivalice back into the light of God. I do not fear that Larg or Goltanna will discover us. But Ramza Beoulve is another story. Do we wish to leave him free rein to trouble our plans?"

No one spoke.

"So." The Confessor folded his hands in front of him. "I would hear what we know of him."

Her father bowed his head. "Forgive me, your Holiness, but our information is woefully incomplete. Our understanding was that he was the least important of the Beoulve family. I need not remind you of the weight his brothers carry, and Dycedarg has often parleyed the sister's name to those who hope to make a marriage alliance with the Beoulves-"

"Not that they should," Zalmour grunted. "She's as much a heretic as he is."

The Confessor raised a forestalling hand. "You threatened her beloved brother in front of her, Zal. I'm not surprised she fought you."

Zalmour scowled. "That does not excuse-"

"And any action taken against Alma Beoulve risks our arrangement with Dycedarg," Funeral added. "Would you burn all Ivalice for one girl's passionate mistake?"

Zalmour's scowl deepened, but he said no more. Her father cleared his throat, and continued, "Actually, your Grace, Alma Beoulve may be the key to unraveling some of our confusion. It seems she was present at Orbonne, but I do not believe she accompanied her brother to Riovanes. I have soldiers searching for her as we speak."

Funeral's brow furrowed. "Why would they have parted ways...?" he murmured, and then shook his head. "No. More importantly. What happened at Orbonne?" A frightful light entered his eyes. "What happened to Father Simon?"

Vormav shook his head. "Again, reports are...confused. Aside from Izlude and Wiegraf, I do not believe any of our soldiers survived the battle at Orbonne. But it is our understanding that Ramza did not act against the Grand Duke alone." He folded his hands in front of him, almost matching Funeral's posture. "I believe your Holiness is aware of the Hand?"

"The child soldiers?" Funeral asked.

"Many of whom were purchased from Baerd's orphanages," Vormav said. "Before Cardinal Delacroix and the Templars finished crushing his organization. Two of the Hand were children of Galthena, before Barinten burned it."

Funeral's faced twisted with disgust. "Ivalice needs such correction..." He sighed, and shook his head. "And?"

"Much of this is guesswork," Vormav said. "But I would guess that the Grand Duke had used the Hand to gather some inkling of our own plans, and hoped to join our ranks by capturing Virgo for himself."

The disgust on Funeral's face deepened. "Barinten..."

"He paid for that mistake, your Holiness," Vormav said. "It appears that Ramza Beoulve made contact with the Hand, and recruited several of them to his side by revealing the truth of what Barinten had done to them." Her father's face was even sterner than usual. "The rogue members of the Hand tried to lead the Khamja to mutiny against the Grand Duke, while other members attempted to combat the traitors. Izlude and Wiegraf attempted to contain the situation, but between the theft of Virgo at Orbonne and the nascent civil war in Fovoham..." Vormav sighed heavily "Khamja had resources almost equal to our own, and Ramza's company is undeniably capable. When the dust had settled..."

Funeral nodded grimly. "Just like Lionel."

"More extensive destruction than Lionel, your Holiness," Loffrey put in. "The Gryphon Knights have always been more of a peacekeeping force than a proper army, and they were spread thin dealing with Ramza, the Baerd Company, and Hokuten intrusions along the Lionel border. The Cardinal was..." He closed his eyes. "Unforgivably vulnerable."

"Humans are imperfect creatures," Funeral sighed. "We shall endeavor to do better when Bremondt takes his position." A moment's frustration on the Confessor's face. "If he ever leaves the Archipelago..." He took a deep breath to dispel his frustration and glanced at Zalmour. "I understand that the boy is claiming that Cardinal Delacroix transformed into a Lucavi?"

Zalmour's scowl was savage and severe. "Not just Ramza Beoulve. Radia Gaffgarion, as well. I assume the Lionesses and the Machinist would tell similar tales"

Funeral nodded slowly. His eyes were closed, his lips twitching. No one dared speak, before the Confessor's swelling rage.

And no one dared speak, when he burst into sudden laughter, high and raucous, ringing through the council chambers like a bell through the night.

"Ah," sighed the Confessor. "I hope you will forgive my laughter, but I almost admire the boy."

"Admire him?" The words were torn from Melia's lips before she could stop herself, and she added, after a short, outraged pause. "Your Grace?"

The Confessor nodded. "Of course." He twirled a finger in the air. "He is a sinner, and a heretic, but do you see how ably he turns our own lies against us? We seek the Stones in secret, so we may reveal our hand only at the most opportune moment, and he taints our miracle from the outset. We are not saviors, but monsters. We are not angels, but demons." He chuckled. "He combines Balbanes' courage with Dycedarg's craftiness." A twinkle of anger in his merry eyes. "We managed to recruit Wiegraf, young Heiral, and Daravon's son. How did we fail to recruit Ramza Beoulve?"

"As I said, your Holiness," Vormav replied. "We thought him the least important member of his family, and the least talented among those who fought during the Death Corps campaign. What's more, his contracts with Geoffrey Gaffgarion often took him outside the reach of agents who might have seen differently enough to make him him an offer. By the time he had begun to develop any kind of reputation, he already seemed a part of Dycedarg's schemes."

The Confessor's white eyebrows arched. "He does not seem to be in alliance with his brother."

"But he was part of Dycedarg's plans," Vormav said. "And we did not know he was an unwitting accomplice until after the battle in Araguay Woods." He hesitated, then added, "If it helps, I believe Heiral made an attempt to recruit him after they helped Ovelia escape the Hokuten. He could not confide his purpose or his cause without betraying out trust-"

"And so the boy stood by the Princess." The Confessor sighed again. "A pity. Is he aware she has joined her cause with ours? Perhaps if he was..."

"He killed the Cardinal, your Holiness," growled Zalmour, his high, brash voice ringing through the room. "He professed his crime gleefully, and compounded it with foulest blasphemy." He stroked absently at his thin grey hair, but his grey eyes were fierce as a storm over the sea. "He cannot be forgiven."

"The Saint has forgiven worse," the Confessor replied. "So has the Church which serves him." He folded his hands in front of him. "But only to those who seek atonement. And I believe this heretic is too far gone to ever realize his sins." He turned his eyes to Melia, and she almost shrank back in her chair. High Priest Marcel Funeral, Confessor of Sins for the Glabados Church, was a man of terrific intelligence and fearsome reputation, but to her, he had always been like a grandfather. Now, seeing the tempered steel in those eyes, she saw, for the first time, the true weight of his office, and of the power and respect he commanded all across Ivalice.

"I am sorry for the loss of your son," Funeral said, and there was as much steel in his voice as there was in his eyes. "I am sorry of the loss of Wiegraf Folles, whose passion to make Ivalice a better place rivaled even our Saint's. I am sorry for the loss of Marquis Elmdor, whose faith was an example to all who knew him. I am sorry for the death of..." His words caught in his throat, and he drew a shuddering breath. "Of my friend, Simon, who was one of the most brilliant men to ever wear the cloth. And I am sorry for..." His voice softened. "For every poor soul in Ivalice who has lost their life to needless bloodshed and needless war."

"But!" His voice hardened again, found a cutting edge. "It is God's way to give a path to his devoted servants, even in the midst of an endless storm." He slapped the edge of the table with his left hand. "As we speak, the battlelines of the Hokuten and the Nanten alike grow more strained, as their two greedy leaders soak Ivalice's soil in the blood of their followers in the hopes of claiming a throne that is not theirs to claim. The Marquis' death is a grievous loss, and the bloodshed it has caused in Limberry worthy of regret, but Goltanna is weaker now than he has ever been. In resources and manpower alike, neither army can continue to fight for much longer. They long for decisive victory...and, in turn, every corner of Ivalice longs for peace."

Now he slapped the edge of the table with his right hand. "Bremondt's expedition commands some of the finest minds in all Ivalice. Soon, they will deliver us the edge we need to break the fighting strength of every greedy tyrant who wishes to put his foot upon our nation's throat. God will see Larg and Goltanna alike laid low for their bloodthirsty arrogance. Them, and all their conspirators, supporters, and enablers. When that moment comes, our Braves must be ready to step into the light, and unite the faithful of Ivalice."

He slapped the table with both hands. "God helps those who help themselves. We may be a leaking ship upon the storm-tossed sea, but we have the Saint's light to guide us. Our stomachs may grow queasy with the tossing waves: our bodies may ache with the exhaustion of keeping our ship afloat. But I have no intention of giving up until we reach the safe harbor at our voyage's end. And from that harbor, we will disembark into a kingdom closer to heaven on earth than there has ever been. Is there a single soul here who lacks the strength to carry on?"

No one spoke, but Melia's heart felt as bright as though the sun were burning inside of her, and when she looked around the table, she saw matching determination in every pair of eyes. Even her father had a flicker of something like warmth in his flint-grey eyes.

"So!" He looked around the table. "Inquisitor Zalmour, I wish for you to travel to the Archipelago with every resource that might help Bremondt finish our work. I do not question his brilliance, but few are the souls within our Church who can match you for zeal and attention to detail. Bring all your gifts to bear in seeing our plans completed, so he may return to Lionel, and tend to our flock, the better to shepherd them into the new Ivalice we hope to build."

Zalmour bowed his head. "I will not fail you, your Holiness."

"You never have." Funeral's eyes turned to her father. "Knight-Commander Vormav. Every Stone in Ramza Beoulve's possession is a blow to our plans, but they all pale before Virgo. Without that holiest of Stones, none will recognize our Braves." His eyes flickered briefly, and with terrible kindness, to Melia, before returning to her father. "If possible, I would see him and his allies brought to our side. Likewise, if he can be punished for his heresy without putting our devoted comrades at unnecessary risk, do so. But Virgo comes first. Find out what became of it. Find out what became of the Gemini Stone that was lost when Elmdor died. If either lays in the heretic's hands, retrieve them. But punishing the boy for his sins matters less than making sure he does not interfere in God's will again...and less than making sure that God's will is realized."

"I will do as you command, your Holiness," her father said, bowing his own head.

"Good." The Confessor stood up. "Everyone in this room has gone above and beyond the ordinary demands of faith. Loathe thought I am to ask still more of you, I trust in you to help us through this storm." He traced a Virgo symbol upon the air, and bowed. "Go with God, in the light of the Saint."

"In the light of the Saint," answered every voice in the room, Melia's included. But if the fire inside Melia's heart had been reflected in the eyes of those around her, she did not think this emptiness was: this cold, hollow distance, like a pit had opened up inside her chest.

If possible.

The Confessor's words kept echoing inside of her, ringing down into the empty places left behind by her brother's death. Only if possible would there be justice. Only if possible would there be righteous retribution. Only if possible would the people who'd killed her brother...Izlude...

Tears burning in her eyes, and Melia shut her eyelids tight against them. No. She would not cry in front of the Confessor, or in front of her father. She was as much a Templar as her brother. She would not show so much as a hint of weakness.

As he squeezed her eyelids closed with such force that her ears roared with it, she dimly heard voices around her:

"I may have need of the Templars, Knight-Commander-"

"We are spread thin, but what aid there is to give, you shall have-

"Vormav, what should we-"

"I will gather supplies for-"

She squeezed her eyelids still tighter, until she could no longer tell if her eyes burned from tears or from exertion.

"Well?"

Her father's voice, pointed at her, and she could not ignore him. Her eyes flashed open, emptiness transformed into rage like water boiling into steam. Her father stood before her, his arms folded in front of him, face impassive as ocean bluffs.

"Well what?" she snapped.

"Are you satisfied?"

Rage burned brighter still: Melia almost thought she might spit holy light from her eyes, like the hero of some childrens' tale. "Satisfied?" she whispered. "We'll let Izlude's killer run free-"

"The full resources of the Church are turned against him," her father interrupted dismissively.

"All to keep spilling the blood of Ivalice-"

"Don't speak of matters you know nothing of."

"It's your fault he's dead."

Her father glared at her. Melia glared back, but she was not really seeing him. Her eyes were filled with Izlude: Izlude as she'd last seen him, bold and brash and brilliant, overjoyed to have their father's trust at last, and Izlude as her sparring partner, whirling around her with striking fists narrowly turned aside by her training sword, and Izlude as her childhood lodestone, playing hide and seek in Mullonde's dark halls and dusty libraries, chasing each other around fortress cellars and babbling over the rumbling of the caravan as their father's work pulled them from one part of Ivalice to another, and Izlude clinging to her as she clung to him, both weeping at the immense, black weight of their mother's loss, Quan's loss, the loss of the little sibling they would never know.

Her family was gone. All that remained was her distant, miserable father, standing before her like a thing carved from stone.

"He was my son," her father said at last, and his voice, soft as it was, rang through the council chamber like a church bell. "He was a Brave. He died for the same cause we fight for now. You would have his death be for nothing?"

"I would have his death avenged!"

"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord-"

"Then I will be His instrument!" Melia rose from her seat, her hand on the hilt of her sword. "But I will see it done!"

Her father cocked his head. There was something...not surprised, exactly, but strangely contemplative, as though he had come across something he had long forgotten. "You would go without my blessing?"

"I would go even if the Saint would damn me for it." She felt herself blush at her blasphemy, and felt a rising wave of giddy heat rising up as well, melding with her grief and rage, filling the hollow places inside her. She had joined the Conclave, hoping to know how the Church would amend this grievous wrong. If the Church would not do it, she must.

Her father closed his eyes for a moment. "Come with me," he said at last, and stepped past her without a backwards glance. She looked after him, fought the urge to scream, felt a mad urge to draw her sword-

Felt her anger die, as though it had never been. She sagged with tiredness where she stood. Her father was the same cold, miserable bastard he had always been. But he was still her father. The only family she had left in the world.

She walked after him at a ragged pace that was almost a limp. Her father kept three steps ahead of her, walking with decisive steps. He began to talk, without looking back at her. "I spoke with Heiral, not long after Cardinal Delacroix..." He trailed off, shook his head. "He couldn't believe what I was telling him. He couldn't believe that Ramza Beoulve could lay waste to Lionel Castle. He described a talented but timid boy, dwarfed by the shadows of his famous family. But he told me that there were moments when he could really rival even his father. When he truly thinks himself righteous...that is when his skill shines through."

Melia felt a flicker of dull anger, like lightning on the horizon. It was gone almost as quickly as it had come.

"The Confessor sees a man somewhere between Dycedarg and Zalbaag: a cunning warrior who has declared himself our enemy. But if Heiral is to be believed—and I see no reason to doubt him—then Ramza Beoulve is something far worse. He is a sinner who sees righteousness in his sin. He is a creature like Germonique: a man who will lie, profane, torture, and kill, so long as he can justify it in the name of righteousness."

"His cause is clear: he knows we seek the Stones, and he desires to claim them for himself. To replace the true Zodiac Braves with his own twisted version. That is why the Cardinal is dead. Why Wiegraf is dead. Why Izlude..."

Something strange in her father's voice, then: a ragged edge of emotion she couldn't interpret. She froze in midstep, then lurched into motion again: whatever that emotion, it hadn't slowed her father's stride, as he pushed his way into his office and made his way to the chest in the back of the room.

"Ramza Beoulve seeks to claim the Stones for his own foul purposes," her father continued. "I trust all our Braves to keep theirs, but there are Stones that may still be claimed." He opened the chest and began to rifle through it. "Wiegraf was uncertain if Virgo had fallen into Ramza's grasp. Our research tells us that Serpentarius is well outside the grasp of any living man. The Libra Stone is the treasure of House Orlandeau, and whatever skill he may possess, I do not believe this heretic can best the Thundergod. That leaves one Stone, given to a faithful Inquisitor, and unaccounted for since his death."

"Gemini?" Melia asked.

"The same," her father replied. "I have reason to believe that Ramza Beoulve seeks the Stone the same as we do, and has just as little information about it as we have. In normal times, a wanted heretic would have little hope in reaching Limberry. But the Marquis' death..." He shook his head. "Elmdor left no heir. Every noble who had half a claim to Limberry's seat now fights for it. The Nanten lack the forces to help restore order, and are spread thin trying to keep the Hokuten at bay. I suspect that a man as capable as Ramza Beoulve might well be able to make his way into Limberry."

"So send soldiers after him!" Melia shouted.

"To what end?" her father asked. "It would take too many men in too many places. Stay grouped together, and he may elude us. Spread too wide a net, and he will tear through." He was still for a moment, his face buried in the chest. "We have lost too many good souls to him as it is."

"So you'll do nothing?" Melia wanted her words to be filled with disgust, with fury, with all her grief and rage. Instead, there was only despair, so heavy it made her voice sound childish, like a toddler babbling about terrible nightmares.

"I will do as the Confessor bade me, and search for Gemini and Virgo." Her father stood up, and turned to face her. "But as I recall, the Confessor gave you no orders at all." In his left hand, he held a sword tightly wrapped in dusty black cloth: in his right, he held a spherical stone of forest green, with a glowing Sagittarius Symbol upon its front.

Melia stared at the Stone. She stared at the sword. Her mouth moved, though no words came out.

"I had thought this Stone might suit Cletienne," her father said. "But for all his talent, he lacks conviction. He is never serious when he should be. He is unwilling to soldier on, even in the face of this world's worst miseries." He set the Stone down upon the desk, and began unwrapping the sword. "This is an Ydoran blade, abandoned in some ancient archive. Its runes had faded, and its edge had rusted. Quan found it, recognized it for what it was, oversaw its restoration himself. But the work was only completed after he had..." He trailed off as he finished unwrapping the blade, drawing from its black-and-gold sheathe. It was a proper Ydoran blade, with sharp edges and a severe tip, its metal a faded blue like the sky glimpsed through heavy clouds, illuminated here and there by old runes. "It has no name I have ever heard. But in the hands of a skilled Swordbreaker, it is a fearsome weapon."

He sheathed the sword, and placed it beside the Stone.

"Why..." Melia managed, and could not finish.

"I must do as the Confessor has ordered me," her father said. "I must see the Braves restored, and Ivalice made whole once more in the light of the Saint. But you are free to go your own way. To walk your own path as a Brave. As Izlude did." Her father stepped back from the treasures. "Have you the strength? To walk that path? To seek justice, even in the face of all the world's strife? To win, no matter the cost?"

For a moment, Melia was as empty as a beach at low tide: a long expanse of emptiness, cracked with heat and exposure she was not meant to bear. It was only for a moment: like a tsunami, all her feelings came crashing back, feelings and memories, shock and rage and anger and grief-

And glee.

She strode to the desk, unbuckling her sword belt in two quick motions, hastily replacing her old blade with Quan's (her brother her dear towering brother his face was faded in her mind's eye but she remembered the strength of him, reliable, dependable) at her side, and she took up the Stone (a Stone a Zodiac Stone a Stone once wielded by Braves by the same courageous men who'd fought alongside the Saint against the terrible tyranny of the Ydoran Empire) and held it close to her chest and for just a moment prayed.

Please, God, let me have justice.

She picked up a nearby cloth, wrapped the Stone in it, secured it in a pouch beneath her breasts, and faced her father. He had not moved. His grey eyes watched her, as thought from a great distance. But she could not recall a time her father had ever shown such trust in her.

"I will not fail," she said.

"Saint willing," he answered.

"Saint willing," she replied.

She turned, and left the room. To find her brother's killer, and bring him the justice he deserved.