(Updating every two weeks through July)

Chapter 118: Underway

"Everyone ready?" Barich asked, as he finished adjusting the fuse on the unwieldy metal sphere in front of him.

"Ready," Zalmour said, standing by with the notebook.

Loffrey nodded, and gently guided the chocobo through the metal door. Barich followed a moment behind, holding the orb gingerly in his hands. When the two stepped back into the main, cavernous chamber, they had neither orb nor chocobo.

"No need to test the seal," Barich muttered to himself, as he closed the metal door behind him and spun the lock into place. There was a curious hiss along the edges, as the freshly-installed rubber on the edges vacuum-sealed itself shut. Barich stepped back, and pulled a pocketwatch from one of the pockets at his side. "Detonation in ten...nine..."

On one, there was a muffled thoomph of sound, and an alarmed, "Kweh!" from within the chamber. Then another alarmed squawk, more subdued then the first, giving way to a choked warble...and then silence.

"In an enclosed space, two minutes from exposure to unconsciousness," Barich muttered. Zalmour jotted that down on the paper in front of him. "Let's assume at least twice the exposure time and the volume in an open space...give another minute for toxicity..."

A minute later, and Barich pressed a button next to the metal door. A rattling, grinding noise gradually accelerated into a dull roar: Zalmour could feel the vibration in his feet."

"Test chamber should be drained of toxins," Barich said, and pressed the button again. The roar of the venting fans died away. "Opening in three...two...one..."

He turned the lock on the door. With another hiss, the rubber edges popped open. Barich pushed open the door, and stepped inside. A moment passed. Then another.

"Templar Barich?" Zalmour asked.

"The bird is dead," Barich answered. "Cloud Strife works." He stepped out of the testing chamber, looking slightly green in the face. "Worker 7, please dispose of the body."

The large metal figure near the door inclined its head on a creaking neck, and marched inside. It came out a moment later, cradling the chocobo's limp corpse in its thick arms. A trail of feathers drifted down behind it as the Worker hurried outside. Zalmour watched one yellow feather float slowly to the ground.

"We've already chartered the supply ship to take you to the Wastes," Loffrey said.

"We're not taking the Invincible?" Barich asked.

Loffrey laughed. "I don't think the Cardinal's quite ready to leave."

"Mind your tone, Templar Loffrey," Zalmour said, still staring at the limp feather. "The Cardinal is serving the Church in the way he thinks his best."

"Of course, Inquisitor." Only the slightest skeptical lilt colored Loffrey's voice. Zalmour would have chided him for that skepticism, if he didn't share it.

"Is the Foundry operational?" Barich asked.

"We've had a preliminary team doing work there the last few weeks," Loffrey replied. "Some of the facilities were beyond recovery, but the main assembly floor should serve your purposes. I asked for blueprints to be brought with the ship, so you'll have time to plan."

"Materials, too?" Barich asked.

"The ship's hold should have whatever you need, and we've arranged for two war caravans, as well."

Barich whistled appreciatively. "Two? You're trusting me with quite a few resources."

"Well, you do have these big lugs to transport," Loffrey said, rapping one of the waiting Workers on the shoulder with a ringing ding! "Aside from which, the other members of your team will need transport when the time comes."

Barich's face fell. "Right."

Again, the emotion on Barich's face seemed the mirror of what ached in Zalmour's heart. He couldn't quite look away from that fallen feather. Other images interposed themselves over it: of bloodstained fingers, and crumpled bodies. Whole armies of men, dead by their hand.

The Confessor had already convinced Zalmour, as he had convinced every one of them. Both armies intended to slaughter one another, for nothing more than the fleeting gain of their masters. At least this way, there was a chance the Church could build something better from the slaughter. A kingdom worthy of God and the Saint who served him.

But a lot of men were going to die, just like that chocobo, and leave only the smallest pieces of themselves in their wake.

"Templar Barich," came a clear, commanding voice. "The Cardinal requests-"

The voice broke off, as Zalmour turned slowly to face them. The dark-haired Amazon commander who managed the Cardinal's camp stood frozen in the door. Zalmour smiled thinly at her. "Please, go on," he said. "While you sort out your business with Templar Barich, I will sort out my business with the Cardinal."

The Amazon did not seem to know what to say. "Inquisitor-" she started.

"We have business to discuss?" Barich said, hurrying to intercept her. Zalmour flashed him a grateful look, then strode purposefully towards his skiff.

A shape blurred past him, and Loffrey flickered into view at the end of the pier as though he'd just removed an invisibility spell. "Going to let him have it?"

"I've no idea what you mean, Templar Loffrey," Zalmour replied. "I am simply going to have a frank and forthright discussion with a fellow man of God."

Loffrey smiled thinly, as he deftly untied the boat from its moorings. Zalmour smiled back.

As Zalmour hurried up the worn stone steps to the sunken shrine, he heard Cardinal Bremondt's resonant voice: "-need you with us on the next sortie."

"You're sure it was him?" Alister replied.

"Impossible to be sure, but I cannot imagine anyone else with the skill to bring down a Worker." Zalmour could hear the frustration in the Cardinal's voice. "He may have help, too. There was a ship closing in on his position when the Dragon escaped."

"Could be unrelated. Isn't the Queen summering near here?"

"It could be unrelated," the Cardinal agreed. "But I find it best to plan for the worst, even if we hope for better, hm?"

"I could not agree more, your Eminence!" Zalmour called, as he crested the top of the stairs. A tent had been set up in front of one of the sunken entrances to the shrine: Cardinal Bremondt sat inside, the enormous Codex open on the table in front of him. Alister stood just inside the tent, and gave Zalmour a wave with two of his fingers as he approached. With his other hand, he took another swig from his flask.

"Inquisitor Zalmour!" the Cardinal exclaimed, smiling. He was dressed in plain clothes: loose brown trousers and a red tunic. Only the elaborate necklace he wore marked him as a luminary of the Church. "So good to see you! Captain Mirabelle let you know I had returned?"

"In a manner of speaking," Zalmour replied. He almost left it at that...but then, the captain had only been doing her duty to the Cardinal. There was no call to get her in unnecessary trouble. "She came asking for another of Barich's Workers." He glanced between Alister and the Cardinal. "It was destroyed?"

The Cardinal grimaced. "I am afraid so." He nodded at Alister. "His heretic protege has returned."

"You were his Templar sponsor, your Eminence," Alister replied.

Bremondt closed his dark eyes. "I am well aware."

Alister shrugged, and swaggered away from the tent, with a cursory nod towards Zalmour. Zalmour did not respond to the nod, but kept his eyes fixed on the Cardinal. "The heretic Daravon?" he asked. The constant bloodshed of war soaked Ivalice, and it seemed there were more heretics afoot with every passing day: the sons of great men, turned to wickedness. The Confessor was right. Desperate measures were called for.

"The same." The corners of Bremondt's mouth were tight. "He does not lack for boldness."

"Heretics rarely do," Zalmour replied, thinking of Ramza and his sister.

"I suppose you would know better than most." Bremondt's face was still tight with pain.

"You were there, weren't you?" Zalmour asked. "When he killed Reis?"

Bremondt started to nod, paused: started to shake his head, paused again. "We were on an expedition together," he said at last. "But the actual moment..."

Zalmour still nursed his frustration, but Bremondt's pain was obvious. Zalmour had his duty, yes...but he also had his thirst for truth. And long experience had taught him that thirst served God's plans just as often as his duty.

"What happened?" he asked, taking a seat across from Bremondt.

The Cardinal said nothing for a moment. His eyes were still shut tight. When he opened them, he looked much older than his fifty years. "You know I am self-taught?"

Zalmour nodded: Bremondt's youthful emergence as a Dragoner had caused a serious stir decades ago, and even more so when he had joined the Church. Combined with his affable personality, his noble lineage, and his charitable patronage among the orphanages of Ivalice, it had launched him to meteoric popularity. He had been a Bishop by the time he was 30.

"It was a great gift God gave me," Bremondt said. "But it could be...lonely. I was mostly guided in my efforts by legends, along with what scraps and shreds of information I could find from the Ydorans." He tapped the Codex in front of him. "It was one of the reasons I was so glad to find this, and why I constantly update it. I hope no one else need struggle like I did." He paused, and his face softened. "God always helps those who helps themselves, does He not? He gave me Reis."

"How did you find her?" Zalmour asked.

"The same way I find all my Amazons." He gestured around them. "Each of these young women has such talent, such strength, such brilliance...and none of them had the resources to see it realized. God had blessed with so much good fortune: I was obliged to share it as much as I could."

Zalmour felt his frustration dimming even further. It was restorative, to hear Bremondt talk so avidly of faith. These last few months, Zalmour's faith had felt more strained than ever before.

"I love all my Amazons," Bremondt said. "But Reis was...something else." His eyes softened. "A Dragoner, but not just a Dragoner. At 10, she knew things I hadn't figured out until I was nearly 20. All the horrors she'd seen, and she was still so fierce, so proud, so...determined." He paused, looked back up at Zalmour. "I didn't find her, Inquisitor. She found me. Wrote me a letter. Told me she believed God had blessed her, as he'd once blessed me." He laughed. "Not the first letter I'd gotten from a child desperate that they might be special. But something about her..."

He trailed off again, and closed his eyes. Zalmour watched him, and felt a pang in his heart. His own serious youth felt so far behind him now: it seemed to him that he had always been this old, this focused on the future. He had trained his share of acolytes and inquisitors, but he had never found a protege like Bremondt had found in Reis.

But perhaps it was not too late. He had enjoyed these last few weeks with Barich. He doubted the young Templar could ever be an Inquisitor...but perhaps he could still be a fellow questant on the road to truth.

"She fell in love, while she was studying at Gariland," Bremondt said. His face was still wistful, though some of the pain had returned. "I can hardly blame her. You remember what it's like."

"I was taught by the Templars," Zalmour said stiffly.

Bremondt arched his dark brows. "Really? With your talent?"

"I will remind you that my teaching was much the same as the Confessor's, so mind your tongue." He smiled thinly to soften his joke, and Bremondt chuckled. "Reis...she fell in love with the Daravon boy?"

Bremondt nodded. The darkness in his face was heavier now. "She convinced me he might be a worthy Templar. Not that I acted on her word alone, you understand: the boy was involved in that business with the Death Corps—actually fought Wiegraf, if you can believe it."

Zalmour frowned. "Wait. You don't mean...did he travel with Heiral?"

Bremondt blinked in surprise. "Why, yes. It was the three of them, and the late Thadolfas, who rescued the Marquis, God rest his soul. You didn't know?"

Zalmour frowned. There was a connection here he'd missed, and a more worrying connection besides that one. But this was not the moment to pursue that thought: he let part of his mind keep working on it, and said out loud, "I suppose I just never put it together." He looked back at Bremondt. "He was awarded a place in our ranks, was he not?"

Bremondt nodded. The darkness in his face was heavier still. "He lacks magical talent, but his skill with a blade was undeniable. Alister took an interest in him, tried to pass on his art. Within six months, he could beat any of our initiates: within nine, he could beat his instructors. I had Reis' word as to his character, not to mention Wiegraf and Heiral's."

"Wiegraf vouched for him?" Zalmour frowned again. "Didn't they fight?"

"So did he and Heiral, and you know how the two of them..." Bremondt sighed. "Saint preserve us, but we have lost so much these last months. Alphonse, and Wiegraf, and Messam..."

Zalmour felt a distant pang in his own heart. He had not known the Cardinal terribly well, but Delacroix's strength and conviction had always impressed him. He had known Wiegraf and the Marquis somewhat better, as they had all been part of the Confessor's Conclaves to resurrect the Braves. Wiegraf was an unusual Templar, and the Marquis an even-more-unusual Inquisitor, but their idealism and determination could not be denied.

"The world is poorer for their loss," Zalmour murmured, and then looked up at the newly-ordained Cardinal wasting his time on an expedition. "But the cause they fought for is still in reach. Your Eminence, you must return to Lionel."

Bremondt's dark eyes closed again. "I know I must appear foolish or selfish to you, Inquisitor."

"I never said that," Zalmour replied (though he had often thought it these past few weeks). "I understand you feel some calling here. You may even be right, that the magic of this Dragon may serve the glory of God. But Templar Barich's work here is finished. Our allies among the Hokuten and the Nanten are making ready. This war is almost over, and we need a man of your faith and ability to lead Lionel into this new age." He paused. "They have suffered as much as you have, at the hands of heretic cruelty."

Bremondt's mouth tightened into a thin line. His eyes were shut so tight that spiderwebs of wrinkles unfurled near their corners. He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and said, "I had not finished my story, Inquisitor."

Had Zalmour's words reached him? He sighed, and answered. "No. I suppose you hadn't."

Bremondt stayed silent a few more seconds. His eyes flickered beneath his eyelids, as though he were dreaming. "Much of my scholarship these last decades has been focused on solving the mystery of we Dragoners. Somewhere, somehow, the Ydorans were able to pass down the strength and magic of dragons to select humans." He gestured to the rune-lit tunnel behind him. "Many of the islands in this archipelago were used for Ydoran research. Biological weapons like Cloud Strife, yes...but human weapons like the Dragoners, too. This shrine was one such place."

Zalmour peered down the tunnel. He had not explored much of this shrine: the Amazons were always standing by to keep him out, always with apologies. "Is that why you've barred me from entering?"

The corners of Bremondt's mouth twitched. "Forgive me, Inquisitor. The work we are doing here is delicate. I do not want to risk it."

"What work?"

Bremondt took another breath, and opened his eyes. They were brighter than they'd been at any point in this conversation, shining with ferocity. "Creating more Dragoners."

The implications stunned Zalmour. He couldn't speak.

"I believe this was a testing site," Zalmour said. "Where the first experiments were conducted on giving men the strength of dragons. We found a newer site, near Goland. A place that once attempted to mass produce Dragoners." He paused. "These experiments were...risky. The dragons themselves had to be alive for the magic to work, and I have found records of...of the early Dragoners going berserk, and becoming dragons themselves. Hence this remote location. Hence a secret base deep beneath the hills of Goland."

"I led a preliminary expedition to the Goland site, with instructions for my Amazons to follow along after a few days. It was myself, Daravon, and Reis." The darkness in his face was heavy again. "That was my mistake. I should not have..." He shook his head, and gave Zalmour a furtive look. "It was young love, Inquisitor, full of high passion, but they were growing up. Even with his talent and his place among the Templars, Daravon wasn't more than a competent soldier. Reis had a future with us." He leaned forwards conspiratorially. "I confess, I hoped she might be my heir in more ways than one. I had hoped she would take my place as Bishop of Igros."

That managed to get through Zalmour's uncertainty. "Women are not allowed a place in the priesthood, your Eminence."

"Women are not currently allowed in the priesthood," replied Bremondt. "But there is nothing in the Gospels that forbids it. It's an old Pharist convention, and we live in times of progress!" For a moment, the Cardinal looked like his old self: the affable good cheer, and the brilliance that glittered in his eyes like stars in the night sky. Then the darkness returned. "Not...not that it matters now."

The Cardinal took a steadying breath, and continued, "Reis and Daravon had been fighting. She had told me of it, more than once. First as a friend seeking advice, but more and more out of despair. He didn't want to understand what she was telling him. He didn't want to let her go. I should have...I should have realized..."

He took another breath. "We had reached the innermost sanctum of the Goland site. I was researching how their machinery worked, preparing the campsite for my Amazons, when I heard...I heard them shouting. Screaming at each other. Reis, telling him it was over. Daravon, telling her he would never...never let her go."

"I ran to stop them. But the screams turned wordless. I heard the clanging of the blades, and the roar of flame...and then, just a roar. The tunnels shook with the force of it. Started to collapse." He looked blearily up at Zalmour. "The last thing I saw was the Sacred Dragon, tearing the tunnels apart...and Beowulf fleeing before it, with blood on his swords." He sighed, and rubbed at his eyes. "My Amazons found me in the rubble a few hours later. There was no sign of the heretic, or of the dragon...or of Reis.

Zalmour winced a little, at the Cardinal's use of the word "Sacred," but most of his mind was on the Cardinal's tale. "I am sorry for you loss," he managed. Bremondt nodded, and Zalmour asked, "But I don't understand...where did the Dragon come from?"

"It took me time to understand it, too," Bremondt replied. "The picture I have thus far is incomplete. Before the Ydorans, the people of Lesalia worshipped such creatures as gods. Lesser gods, to be sure, more like the Espers of old Gestahl...but gods, nevertheless. Creatures of phenomenal power, that sometimes wore the aspect of men."

Zalmour blinked. "You believe...you believe the Violet Dragon is the first Dragoner?"

"One of the first, yes," Bremondt said. "It's how I knew it would come here, once freed from its stasis beneath Goland. I believe it was trapped in its draconic form by the Ydoran arts. But if it ever had human intelligence or human memory, it would know to come here to return to human form. And if we can follow in the footsteps of the Ydorans..."

"...we can make Dragoners of our own." The implications were still stunning. Bremondt was one of the most powerful people alive, thanks to his Dragoner bloodline. If he could give even a fraction of the strength to others, the power of the Glabados Church would be insurmountable.

Bremondt nodded, and locked eyes with Zalmour. "I know I must disappoint you, Inquisitor."

"It's not my place-" Zalmour began.

"It is your place, and I would ask you refrain from false humility." Bremondt smiled a little. "You are the highest ranking Inquisitor in all Ivalice. Your diligence, your zeal, and your brilliance are well known. The Confessor trusts you. The Templars trust you. I trust you."

A strange warmth in Zalmour's chest, somewhere between pride and embarrassment. He cleared his throat. "Your Eminence, please, there's really no need-"

"Ivalice teeters on the brink of incredible change," Bremondt pressed. "These last decades have been a long, grim night: so many innocents made to suffer for the vain ambitions of mortal men, but we are close to the dawn of a new age. In Ivalice, we may well make a kingdom that is as holy on Earth, as it is in heaven. I will gladly play my part in doing so." He leaned forwards. "But that will be long, difficult work. It will likely occupy my until my death." He chuckled. "I am not getting any younger, after all." The laughter faded from voice and face alike: he was more solemn than Zalmour had ever seen him. "Give me a little more time, Inquisitor. Let me see if I can achieve one of my life's dearest dreams, before I return to my work with the Church. Let me...let me make sure some good comes, out of Reis' loss."

The earnest need in his voice was overwhelming. A matching need shone in his eyes. Zalmour studied the Cardinal for a long time.

"You are a Cardinal of the Glabados Church," Zalmour said at last. "You do not need my blessing."

"But I would appreciate it, if you are willing to give it."

Zalmour studied the Cardinal a moment longer. His days-long irritation had passed. The old doubts still felt heavy in him—of the blood that had been shed so far, and the blood that would be shed in days to come. Much was asked of all of them, to realize the Saint's dream of heaven on earth. If the Cardinal could fulfill a personal dream along the way, what was the harm?

"We've chartered a supply ship for Barich and the Foundry," Zalmour said. "It will be here in a few days. We'll close his camp. And then, we'll close this one." He paused again. "Another week?"

The Cardinal nodded. "Another week."

"I will pray for your success."

The Cardinal smiled. There were tears in his eyes. "If any of us deserve to have our prayers heard, Inquisitor...it's you."

"You do me too much credit." Zalmour thought for a moment, and nodded towards the tunnel. "I would like to see this site of yours."

"I will secure it over the next few days," Bremondt said. "When I am finished, I will give you a tour myself."

Zalmour nodded, and stood up. "You need another Worker?"

Bremondt grimaced. "We had only seven of them operational, and that only thanks to the Cancer Stone. I am loathe to fritter them away, but...one alone could not quite restrain the Dragon. I am hoping two together will succeed."

"Even with Daravon interfering?"

Bremondt grimaced again. "Well, with Alister present to put down his rogue apprentice..."

"He doesn't seem up to the task."

"He is arrogant and irreverent," Bremondt agreed. "And he is one of the deadliest men in Ivalice."

"Hm." Zalmour looked down the worn steps. The sapphire sea glimmered in the afternoon sun. "Your Eminence...why is Daravon here?"

Bremondt did not speak for some time. Zalmour kept his eyes on the ocean.

"I believe...he blames me, for Reis' death," Bremondt said softly. "Thinks I...stole him away from her. Cannot live with his own guilt."

"Spinning stories to sharpen their sins," Zalmour grunted. "He's like the Beoulve boy that way."

"I forgot," Bremondt murmured. "You have your own target."

"And with all due respect, your Eminence," Zalmour said. "I would rather be hunting him than managing these mundane affairs."

Bremondt made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "I understand. One more week, and you may chase your own dragon."

Zalmour made a similar sound to the Cardinal, then inclined his head to Bremondt, and headed down the stairs. So much seemed to hang in the air above him: the Cardinal's dream, the war around them, the legacies of the dead. But something else bothered him, too: the heretics Daravon and Beoulve, who had once marched together to fight the Death Corps.

One man had already killed a Cardinal. The other man seemed to be trying to kill his successor. But the thing that worried Zalmour most of all was that the two men had not been alone three years ago. They had marched alongside Delita Heiral, linchpin of their plans among the Nanten.

Ramza Beoulve was heir to a proud name. Beowulf Daravon had once been a trusted Templar. What if Delita Heiral was a heretic, as well?