(Publishing one chapter a week until the end of Part 5)

Chapter 121: Heretics and Inquisitors

"The ship is ready to depart, Inquisitor," Loffrey said.

"Barich doesn't lack for efficiency, does he?" Zalmour remarked, looking over the sleek cutter they'd chartered to take their supplies to the Foundry.

"Well, the Workers help quite a bit." Loffrey nodded up near the railing, where one of the four metal automons was keeping watch. "You're off to the Royal Retreat after this?"

"Young Heiral must be told the Confessor's wishes," Zalmour replied.

"Yes..." Loffrey frowned. "The work at Bethla Garrison might well prove trickier than the work in Bethla Pass...we can't be sure the fort's walls won't help them resist the poison." He grimaced. "Once I've got Barich settled, I'll have to track down Knight-Commander Tengille. Inform him of our progress. See how he's fared in retrieving the Stones."

Zalmour nodded. "Have him meet me at Mullonde when you do." He looked up at the Worker: the gleaming wonder of Ydoran art and technology, brought to working order by their efforts. A miracle of the old world, helping to deliver one of its most dangerous weapons. So much death tied up inside their triumphs...

"Come to see me off, Inquisitor?" Barich called.

Zalmour turned. Barich was hurrying down the dock, a red scarf around his neck, a gun on either hip, and a large bag slung over one shoulder.

"I did, Templar Fendsor," he said. "But I also hoped to say a few words, if you would allow me to speak frankly."

Barich exchanged wry glances with Loffrey before he looked back to Zalmour. "Due respect, Inquisitor, but you always speak frankly." Loffrey chuckled. Zalmour did not allow a hint of amusement to cross his solemn face. Loffrey's chuckle died abruptly: he was gratified to see Barich settle into matching solemnity. "Of course, Inquisitor," Barich said at last.

Zalmour nodded. He had been considering this matter the last few days. Now seemed the most appropriate moment.

"The circumstances of your recruitment to our order were most unusual," Zalmour said. "You violated the law of Lionel. You were granted clemency only on condition of service. It would not surprise me if you did not hold the faith of our Church as dear to your heart as a Templar should."

Barich's eyes had widened, just a moment. Then he seemed to find himself: his jaw set, and he locked eyes with Zalmour. "If you ask me, Inquisitor, I will tell you."

At that, Zalmour allowed himself to smile. "I know you would."

"Inquisitor?" Barich looked confused.

"There is a great misapprehension about Inquisitors, Templar Fendsor," Zalmour continued. "There are many who see us a tool of repression: the rod that strikes the knuckles of the student who goes too far...or perhaps the headman's axe, delivering irrefutable judgment." He paused contemplatively. "There may be some truth to these notions. But above all else, an Inquisitor inquires. We go where the truth is clouded, and try to make it clear. We seek to understand, not just the what, the where, the when, and the how...but the who, and the why, as well." He placed a hand on Barich's shoulder. "A man is not a simple creature. If he were, salvation and damnation would not rest upon his choices. And however you may have joined our ranks, Templar Fendsor, your choices tell me you are a man of courage, intelligence, and conviction."

Barich's eyes were wide. "Inquisitor-"

"You violated the law of Lionel, and so found your way into our ranks," Zalmour repeated. "But the laws of man are not the laws of God. And the law you violated...it was in advocating for Goug's independence, was it not?"

"I..." Barich swallowed. "Yes, Inquisitor."

"I know there has been some talk of relaxing the laws that govern Goug," Zalmour said. "When I return to Mullonde, I will talk to the Confessor myself, and tell him my view on the matter. That the city might well deserve its independence...particularly if men like you are there to help guide its people, and make sure they keep to the ways of God."

This was the first time since they'd met that Zalmour had seen Barich speechless: the machinist's jaw worked like a fish out of water. Finally, he squeaked, "Inquisitor, you...you honor me."

"Your labor honors all of us," Zalmour replied, and his smile faded, as he thought of the dead chocobo, and its drifting feathers. He squeezed Barich's shoulder once more. "The work ahead of you is grim, but necessary. It falls on your shoulders, because you have the mind and the knowledge to see it through. And I..." He allowed his face to soften. "I thought it only fair to mention...we see that work. And we know its worth."

Barich closed his eyes. "Thank you, Inquisitor." His voice shook.

"Go with God, Templar Fendsor," Zalmour answered, and sketched the sign of Virgo upon Barich's forehead.

He had kept his composure, as the machinist-turned-Templar had lifted grateful eyes to him. He had kept his composure, as the chartered ship had sailed away, after a farewell nod from Loffrey before the Time Knight blurred aboard. But it was harder to keep his composure now, his hand upon the rudder of his skiff, cutting his way across the surf towards the Royal Retreat. There was an ache in the pit of his stomach that echoed in his groin and in his heart. He felt old, and weak, and unsure.

The Inquisition's power was a relatively recent thing. Confessor Funeral and Father Simon had set about renewing the strength of that age-old office, and that effort (among many others) had slowly brought the Church back into a place of prominence in Ivalice. Zalmour had joined their efforts some years after they'd begun, and had spent the last four decades of his life roaming Ivalice conducting inquisitions, weeding out heretics in the populace and corruption in the ranks of the Church and in the governments of Ivalice. Now, they were so terribly close to taking the proper place of the Church...and Zalmour had never been more full of doubt.

He had made his careful inquiry in Goug, and in Lionel City, and the broken chapel of Lionel Castle. He had been charged in this duty by his Confessor, and he took it seriously. But while he had chased Ramza Beoulve across Ivalice, he had also seen the war. Young men bloodied, broken, and dead, whether they wore the White Lion or the Black. Fields trampled, villages burned. He had made his quiet way among the thickets of refugee tents outside Lesalia: he had seen the despair in the eyes of men, women, and children.

Over and over, he saw the chocobo's feathers drifting down to earth. Over and over, he saw thoe countless bodies of good men and women strewn across Ivalice, killed by the machinations of Larg, and Goltanna, and the Glabados Church. So he had sought out Barich, to promise him justice where there had once been injustice. Because something good had to come from this. From all the death they had unleashed upon Ivalice. For all the death they were about to unleash.

There would be more death and despair in days to come. So many would suffer. So many would die. It might well be necessary, as Ajora's Judgment had been necessary to bring down a wicked empire. But grim necessity would not diminish the suffering ahead.

An Inquisitor's job was to look at the truth, however hard it was to bear. And Lucianada Zalmour was an Inquisitor, so he would not look away.

It was close to evening when he rounded the rocky promenade near the Royal Retreat to find a crumbling pier. Ser Heiral was waiting for him, with rope in hand to tie off his skiff. Another figure waited near the shoreline, though Zalmour could not not quite make them out.

At the sight of young Heiral, Zalmour felt a flicker of unease. Four young, talented souls had gone north after the Death Corps over three years ago. One of them was dead: two of them were heretics. Delita was supposed to be on their side...but then again, the same had once been true of Beowulf Daravon.

"Inquisitor," Delita said, finishing his knot and helping Zalmour up onto the dock. "It's been some time."

"It has, Ser Heiral," Zalmour said. "Where is Lady Amfra?"

"Inside, attending to Her Majesty."

Zalmour's throat felt tight. "Ah. It would...it would be best if I refrained from meeting the Queen."

Delita cocked his head. "Why is that, Inquisi-"

He broke off. His dark eyes locked with Zalmour's. For a moment, neither man spoke.

"They mean for me to kill her?" Delita whispered, and the despair in his voice was the mirror of that in Zalmour's heart.

Zalmour nodded. "She is a pretender, after all," he said, and hated the reedy justification in his voice. "And there are others who know what she is."

"And besides, with the right regent, King Orinus might prove a better ally to the Church," Delita murmured. "Once Larg is dead, perhaps he will even choose one of our fine Braves?"

Zalmour nodded. "I believe that is the plan, yes. I do not believe the Confessor has yet chosen a suitable candidate—when last we spoke, he was most concerned about finding Virgo." He paused, and studied Delita. "I...suppose it could be you, Ser Heiral."

Delita shook his head. "You flatter me, Inqusitor." He nodded slowly. "But I believe you must meet her all the same. She has been a good ally to us...and she will ask too many questions, if she learns you were here and does not get the chance to meet you."

Zalmour managed his own slow nod. He never relished meeting the men and women he had to put to death for violating God's law, but he had always insisted upon it. It was his inquiry that had led to their downfall: he owed it to them, to let them meet their accuser. Ovelia deserved at least as much courtesy as a convicted heretic, when her death would be no fault of her own.

But when Delita led him to the end of the dock, he stumbled in surprise at the figure waiting for them: "Templar Tengille?"

Meliadoul wore her fine armor and green cloak, a new sword sheathed at her side. Her eyes (the same flint grey as her father's and yet so much more alive) looked as strange as he felt. She bowed. "It is good to see you, Inquisitor."

"But how...how did you get here?" he asked, as they hurried towards the ill-kept Royal Retreat. "I thought you were in Mullonde?"

Meliadoul shook her head. "No, Inquisitor. After the Conclave, I...I spoke with my father. And he..." Embarrassment crept into her voice. "Forgive me, Inquisitor. I went after Ramza Beoulve."

Zalmour sighed. "I suppose I cannot blame you, child. Not after what he did to your brother." A flicker of his old unease, as he looked at Delita opening the door for him. "I take it you had no luck?"

"I wouldn't say that, Inquisitor," Meliadoul replied, as he stepped inside the decrepit manse.

"Please, cast no spells," said a woman's voice, as a swordpoint prodded Zalmour's back. "You'd just make me stronger."

Zalmour froze. He had heard that voice speak just once, many months ago. But he was an Inquisitor, with a head for details. He recognized Radia Gaffgarion's voice.

"Apologies, Inquisitor," Meliadoul said. "Please, remove your rings, and they'll be returned to you shortly."

Zalmour's head was spinning. "Templar Tengille...what..."

"Please, Inquisitor."

Ice in his spine, and fire in his heart. Zalmour's eyes flickered to the blonde man standing at the end of the hallway in front of him, lit by ambient runelight. His hands curled into fists, and spells flickered in his mind. A force spell to blast them back, a binding spell to hold the girl, barrel towards Ramza Beoulve and...and...

And even if everything went just right, and God was on his side, he saw no way he would reach Ramza Beoulve, much less kill him. He was trapped.

"Your treachery knows no bounds, heretic!" Zalmour spat. "Though neither does your friend's." His eyes flickered towards Delita, standing halfway down the hall. "You are as much a heretic as your friends, aren't you, Heiral?"

"And me, Inquisitor?" Meliadoul asked.

Zalmour's eyes flickered towards her. Meliadoul stood just in front of him, her arms at her side, her sword on her hip. She had not drawn it—not to threaten him, nor to free him. "You know how much anger and hate I had towards him," she continued, nodding down the hallway towards Ramza. "You know how I hungered for revenge. Why do you think I'm standing here?"

"He has bewitched you!" Zalmour exclaimed. "Some foul magic-"

"Perhaps," Meliadoul said. "But what if he hasn't bewitched me, Inquisitor? What if he's just convinced me?"

"Convinced you of what, Templar Tengille?" Zalmour demanded. "Do you believe his lies? Of Cardinal Delacroix, turned into a Lucavi by the Scorpio Stone?"

A strange smile crossed Meliadouls' face. "No, he could not convince me of that. Not until I saw one such demon for myself."

The ice in his spine melted a little: the fire in his heart dimmed. He stared at her in disbelief. Was she serious?

"Inquisitor," Ramza called from down the hallways, and held up his hands. He was unarmed. "You were sent after me to obtain the truth of my deeds. I could not allow myself to be taken prisoner, because of the monsters in your ranks...but I am willing to speak you now Why not consider this a kind of..." He trailed off, looked at Delita for help, but Delita did not meet his eyes. "Preliminary Inquisition?"

"Murdering heretics do not dictate terms to Templars and Inquisitors," Zalmour spat.

Ramza took a deep breath. "One of your Templars already accepts my terms. I'm not sure what Delita counts as, but he does, as well." He gestured down at himself, indicating his lack of weapons. "If you disarm yourself, so will my company. We can speak on neutral ground. You can hear our case. And if you still think me a liar when all is said and done, you may go your own way."

Zalmour laughed. "I doubt Ser Heiral would let me go, now that I know of his treachery."

"He's given me his word," Ramza said.

"And I give you mine, as well," Melia added.

"And mine, Inquisitor."

This was a voice Zalmour had not heard before. It spoke softly, yet firmly: its high, musical tones were resonant with meaning, like a song echoing through the corners of a cathedral. It was a royal voice, and Zalmour had guessed its owner even before the honey-haired woman in the simple green dress stepped into view behind Ramza.

"Your Majesty," Zalmour said stiffly, and jerked his head at the woman holding him at bladepoint. "I would bow, but-"

"This is a peace summit, Inquisitor," Queen Ovelia said. "There are matters you must be informed of, before you resume your holy work."

Zalmour frowned at her. "What matters do you speak of, your Majesty?"

"Witnesses to the Lucavi who labor in your ranks," Ovelia answered. "Witnesses to the lesser monsters who abuse their holy authority to pursue their own aims."

"Like the Cardinal?" Zalmour asked, and let all his disdain color his voice.

"Like both Cardinals," answered another voice, deeper and sterner than the first. A tall man with short-cut blonde hair sauntered alongside Ovelia. The way he moved was oddly familiar to Zalmour: it took him a moment to see echoes of Alister in his stride. And once he made that connection, he had no trouble guessing who he was looking at.

His lip curled. "Heretic Daravon, I presume."

"Call me what you will, Inquisitor," Beowulf growled. "I'm not the one who used Ydoran magic to abuse his protege."

Zalmour frowned. "What do you-"

"There is much to discuss, Inquisitor," Ovelia answered, holding up a forestalling hand to both Beowulf and Zalmour. "We shall sit together, without weapons, and speak. Afterwards, you shall be allowed to go where you will."

Zalmour grimaced. He could not trust his magic to win free of this trap. A pair of supremely dangerous heretics stood in front of him, surrounded by strong allies, and they might well have corrupted good men and women to his cause. How else to explain Meliadoul Tengille?

Unless he was telling the truth. Unless they were both telling the truth.

Unthinkable. And yet he was thinking it. There were too many strange forces at work in Ivalice, too many mysteries unsolved. There was the suffering he had borne witness to in every corner of the kingdom, which deserved to be accounted for.

And besides...and Inquisitor's job was to seek the truth. However hard it might be.

Slowly, he removed his rings. Meliadoul stepped forwards to take them with an apologetic look, and then hurried down the hall. The swordpoint slipped away from his back. "Apologies, Inquisitor," Radia said. "Let's get you more comfortable."

The salon beyond the hallway was battered and dilapidated, but Zalmour took an unevenly-set chair as though he hadn't noted his shabby surroundings. When red-haired Radia stepped into view at last, she had no sword at her side.

"Thank you for your agreeing to this summit, Inquisitor," Queen Ovelia said, from her place on the couch.

Zalmour arched his eyebrows. "I was hardly in a position to refuse."

"You could have assumed our ill intent, and tried to fight your way out," Ovelia said. She smiled, and Zalmour was surprised at how wry and knowing that smile was. "That's what I did, when I was introduced to the Church's ambitions."

"You didn't know it was the Church," Delita said quietly.

Ovelia shrugged. "But now, I am a member of your plans, devoted to your cause, and to the future of Ivalice." She paused. "Though I have my doubts."

"Do you, your Majesty?" Zalmour asked.

"Don't you, Inquisitor?" Ovelia cocked her head. "Simon always spoke highly of you."

Zalmour shook his head. It was hard to think of Simon: he had been middle-aged when Zalmour joined the ranks of the Inquisitors, but Zalmour had heard legends of his deeds all his life, and his zeal and intellect had impressed Zalmour even more than the rumors around his accomplishments. He had wanted to learn from him...but more than that, he had wanted to surpass him.

"He was a good man." Zalmour's eyes flashed towards Ramza. "Which is why I'm rather surprised to find you with his killer, Your Majesty."

"Ramza is not Simon's killer," Ovelia said firmly.

Zalmour laughed. "Was Simon a Lucavi as well, Beoulve?"

"No," Ramza said. "He wasn't. He wasn't even killed by one. Not exactly." He leaned forwards. "There are Lucavi at work in this world, Inquisitor. But they are not the only monsters we must contend with. There are men just as monstrous as demons throughout Ivalice...and throughout the Church."

Zalmour grimaced. "More heresy."

"Is it heresy to speak the truth?" called a young voice from outside the room. Zalmour looked up as a dark-skined boy and girl stepped into the salon, standing close together. "I have seen these monsters myself." The boy and girl both bowed. "I am Malak of Galthena. This is my sister, Rafa."

Yes, Zalmour had read the reports on Barinten's Khamja, as well as his elite Hand. He cleared his throat. "I cannot fault you for seeking aid where you could find it, but if you continue to help these heretic, you will be found guilty of the same crimes-"

"Yes," Rafa said softly. "I thought the Church might be better informed of the Grand Duke's crimes than we were."

A flicker of guilt in Zalmour's heart: he tried not to let it show on his face. "It seems he paid for his crimes."

"He did," Malak said. "The Church even helped serve justice upon him."

Zalmour frowned. "You don't mean...Izlude Tengille and Wiegraf Folles?"

Malak nodded. "Izlude and Wiegraf helped, yes. But there were others. Knight-Commander Tengille. Templar Loffrey Wodring. Templar Cletienne Duroi." He paused. "And Marquis Messam Elmdor."

Zalmour managed a dismissive smile. "The Knight-Commander and his entourage arrived in time only to see the aftermath of the battle, and the Marquis died long before Riovanes fell."

"The Knight-Commander was the cause of Riovanes' fall," Malak replied. "But I imagine you're right about the Marquis. He likely died long before I met him."

Zalmour sighed. "So you repeat the same heresies as Ramza Beoulve?"

"They do," Meliadoul said. "And so do I."

Zalmour's eyes flickered to Meliadoul. "Templar Tengille?"

"I saw the Marquis, Inquisitor," Meliadoul said. "Mere weeks ago. And I saw what he became."

There were many things Zalmour could have dismissed at that moment. Delita Heiral had obviously never abandoned his heretic friend, and the Queen had likely been sucked into Heiral's deception, given his role in recruiting her. Ramza's comrades had helped him murder Cardinal Delacroix: Malak and Rafa were young, and forced to ally with monsters to escape a monster themselves.

But Meliadoul Tengille was a Templar of faith, fervor, and conviction, with every reason to despise Ramza Beoulve. And even if he hadn't known her personally, he could see the fear and pain in her eyes...not to mention the earnest, determined hope.

"Tell me," the Inquisitor said.

So they told him, trading off who told which part of each tale: of an offer made by Cardinal Delacroix, before his transformation into a poison-spewing abomination with the aid of Scorpio; of the march to Lesalia, to try and stop this war with the help of Zalbaag Beoulve: of a race to Orbonne, to try and deny the Church the Virgo Stone; of Wiegraf Wolles, transformed into a demon before their very eyes thanks to the power of Aries; of Izlude, and Riovanes, and the destruction that had been unleashed when the Templar delegation turned on Grand Duke Barinten; of Beowulf, Bremondt, Reis, and ancient Dragoner magic; of the Marquis Elmdor, and his dancing dead, and the nightmare he became, with Gemini.

It was nearly dark now, and the runes along the ceiling had brightened with the sunset. Zalmour was quiet, tapping idly at the glass of water they had brought him an hour ago. He was still holding himself in the careful, attentive focus he used to absorb as much detail as possible during interviews and interrogations, not allowing himself to speculate, or analyze. He felt as empty as a shoreline when the tide has gone out, leaving behind its little tidepools of crawling, squirming, wriggling creatures, ill-made for dry-land. He would walk around the shore at leisure, take in each tidepool, and draw his conclusions.

"Were it anyone but you, Templar Tengille..." Zalmour glanced at Meliadoul, and shook his head. "I would believe these the ravings of the mad, or delusions caused by a heretic's magic." A part of him still thought so: the Confessor himself had spoken of how cunning Ramza Beoulve was, mixing lies and truth to play upon the moral compromises the Church itself had made. Perhaps he'd put on some show for Meliadoul, perhaps...

But her rage and grief had been clear for all to see, when she had sat in the Confessor's Conclave. She had wanted Ramza to pay for hurting her brother. If she now sided with the heretic, it was because he'd convinced her entirely that he was not to blame for her brother's death.

"So you believe us?" Ramza asked.

Zalmour considered the young man for a moment. Finally, he said, "It doesn't matter if I do."

Ramza blinked. "How does it not matter?"

"Assume you are telling the truth," Zalmour replied. "Assume there truly are demons among our ranks, manipulating our cause for their own ends."

A twinge of unease—it was mere hours ago that he had seen Loffrey off with Barich. If Ramza was telling the truth, Loffrey had lied to him, and to the Conclave as a whole, for purposes unknown. If he was telling the truth, a monster might lurk beneath Loffrey's placid face. If Ramza was telling the truth, Loffrey was but one of many monsters who might haunt the highest echelons of the Glabados Church.

"But you did not know the Cardinal was a Lucavi, when you confronted him," Zalmour continued. "You had settled on heresy long before these demons reared their heads. When you killed Templars at Orbonne Monastery, there were no demons among their ranks...not until you, by your own admission, drove one of them to accept their pact." He shook his head. "I do not condone what Wiegraf Folles did...but you had already killed him before he did it." His eyes swept across the room. "And what has brought all of you to these islands is not the unknown machinations of demons, but the actions of men." His eyes fell on Ramza again. "You intend to strike at another Cardinal of the Glabados Church, not because he is a demon, but because he is your enemy. Am I wrong?"

No one spoke. Zalmour looked around the room again. "You have your reasons," he said softly. "They are not without worth. You and your father were victimized by criminals." He looked at Mustadio. "Your liege was threatened by assassins and taken by kidnappers." He looked at Agrias, Lavian, and Alicia. "Your liege was wicked, and you sought help where you could find it." He looked at Rafa and Malak. "And you seek your brother's killer, be he heretic or demon." He looked at Meliadoul. "But worthy though your reasons are, they still put you in opposition to the Glabados Church. If I assume every word you have told me is true, and that demons hope to profit from the Church's plans...that does not change that you oppose those plans. That is heresy."

"Is it?" Ramza asked.

Zalmour frowned at him. "I am an Inquisitor of the Glabados Church, Beoulve. I think I know what heresy looks like."

"I have the notes of another Inquisitor," Ramza replied. "And Father Simon did not seem to think the matter was so simple."

Zalmour's frown deepened. "Perhaps he was a heretic, as well."

Matching flashes of rage on Ovelia and Ramza's faces.

"You dare-" Ovelia began, and stopped herself.

"If what the Beoulve says is true," Zalmour answered. "He bought into the lies of the Germonique Gospel."

"And if they're not lies?" Ramza asked.

Zalmour looked at Ramza, and felt his words die in his throat. He had met Balbanes Beoulve only once, many years ago, when he had been a young Inquisitor helping Father Simon track a heretic on the Ordallian front. Balbanes Beoulve had helped them, then. And, when danger had closed in around them—a mixed division of Ordallian and Haruten troops, united under the bastard hoping to claim the throne of Zelmonia—he had worn the same look of earnest ferocity on his face that Ramza Beoulve now wore on his. There was no duplicity there, no uncertainty. There was anger, and determination, and certainty that bordered on the religious.

"You're right, Inquisitor," Ramza said. "Were there no Lucavi at all among your ranks, I would still oppose your Church, because of the monstrous things you've done."

Zalmour managed to sneer. "A proud heretic, just as you were before."

"And when the Ydorans killed Saint Ajora, did they not accuse him of heresy?" Ovelia demanded, her face the mirror of Ramza's.

"You compare this murderous heretic to the Saint?" Zalmour shook his head in disbelief.

"Truth is truth, regardless of who speaks it!" Ovelia's eyes blazed.

"And lies are lies," Razma added. "Regardless of who tells them."

Zalmour's gazed flickered back to Ramza. He felt his glare wavering, before the fire in the Beoulve's green eyes.

"Cardinal Delacroix lied," Ramza said. "He let us believe we were safe, the better to hurt us when the time came. Cardinal Bremondt lied: he wanted Reis for himself, and he branded Beowulf a heretic when he got in his way." He paused. "And you, and all your would-be Braves? You're lying, too, Inquisitor. You're bathing Ivalice in blood. For what?"

"Ivalice is bathing itself in blood," Zalmour answered. "We hope to guide them from their sin, and build a kingdom closer to God's will."

Ramza laughed. "Inquisitor, I would oppose you even if there were no demons in your ranks. But it seems to me your position is worse than mine."

Zalmour studied him a moment. "How do you mean?"

"There may be demons in your ranks, content to let your plans proceed."

Zalmour stared at Ramza. In his head, he saw the chocobo feathers floating down to earth. In his head, the feathers became bloodsoaked bodies, drifting like falling leaves on an autumn night.

"Cardinal Delacroix consorted with men like Baerd, to seize a Stone," Ramza continued. "He had women whose only crime was standing by their liege held for execution. Are these the deeds of a holy man?"

Zalmour did not answer. Ramza continued, "You have heard what Beowulf has told you. Of a man who trapped his protege with magic, and tried to kill the only man who might oppose him."

"That is not the story Cardinal Bremondt tells," Zalmour managed, though he heard the uncertainty in his own voice.

"And you have no doubts as to his story?" Ramza asked. When Zalmour didn't answer, Ramza pressed, "And let us not forget that, in a time of terrible bloodshed, the Confessor of the Glabados Church helps fan the flames of war, so he might better rule over the ashes." Ramza leaned forwards. "There are monsters in your ranks, Inquisitor. And I'm not just talking about the Lucavi."

Zalmour could not manage a sneer. He could not reach for anger. The doubts and uncertainties that had troubled him the last few months were finally threatening to boil over.

"Before he died, Father Simon dreamed of stopping this war," Ramza continued. "He thought if he reached out to you, or to the Confessor, you might help him."

"Easy to put words in the mouths of the dead," Zalmour retorted absently.

"I have his words here." Ramza gestured to Mustadio. "You'd be welcome to look at his words...and his notes on the Gospel, too."

Zalmour shook his head. "You compound your heresy with more heresy."

"If truth be heresy," Mustadio remarked. "I am not sure the term has much meaning,"

Zalmour almost laughed. "Spoken like a machinist."

"I do not deny the evidence of my experience or my senses to appease Church doctrine," Mustadio snapped. "For my crime, I have been hunted by criminals and Templars alike. You will forgive me if I do not see much difference between them."

"You call Cardinal Delacroix a criminal?" Zalmour asked.

"He set criminals upon us, for a Stone we found," Mustadio said.

"The Stones are the providence of the Saint, rightful property of the Glabados Church." But even as he said it, Zalmour felt another stab of doubt. It was one thing to pry a Stone from some bandit's horde, or move one from Orbonne to Mullonde. But what had happened in Goug was another thing, wasn't it? Consorting with men like Baerd...how were they better than Grand Duke Barinten?

"Does it matter?" Ramza asked.

Mustadio's head snapped towards Ramza. "How can you ask me that?"

"Because Cardinal Delacroix is dead," Ramza answered. "His guilt is not a pressing matter." He turned his gaze to Zalmour. "But Cardinal Bremondt is alive. And if what we're telling you is true-"

Zalmour laughed sharply. "What a pair of proud heretics tell me he did to Reis."

"And if either of us is telling the truth," Beowulf whispered, and the young man looked haunted. "Then neither of us is a heretic, Inquisitor."

Zalmour looked around the room. Such a strange company Ramza had assembled! Loyal knights, capable Templars, machinists and soldiers! Two wanted heretics, sitting comfortably in the company of a Queen. So much talent, so much knowledge, so much insight, united by opposition to all the Confessor and the Church hoped to achieve.

Bodies drifting down in the dark of his mind. So many bodies had already fallen. So many more would fall, in days to come. And if Ramza was telling the truth, there were monsters conspiring to see more bodies fall. Monsters Zalmour called comrades.

Ovelia cleared her throat. "Father Simon told me something once. About the Inquisition, and its Inquisitors. That an Inquisitor's duty it to seek the truth of God's creation, and reveal that truth." She locked eyes with Zalmour. "He thought most highly of you, Inquisitor Zalmour."

Zalmour was quiet again. He had tried hard not to think of Simon these last few months. Their relationship had been...difficult. Simon's shadow over the Inquisition had been long: he had been one of the Confessor's few peers, had helped rebuild and reform the Church from the pale shadow of itself it had been when the 50 Years' War began. So much of his practice, in both doctrinal matters and investigation, had become the standard for all other Inquisitors.

But Zalmour, fifteen years younger, had not wanted to live under another's shadow: he could recognize his own hunger, especially with decades of distance. And, more than that: he had not wanted to follow the soft, gentle, diplomatic path Simon had advocated all the way into his retirement. Simon had had to take fragments of power here and there to build an Inquisition worthy of respect, and Zalmour admired the work he had done. But he had refused to recognize the organization he had built—an organization of powerful, intelligent individuals, supported by the diplomatic recognition for Church authority in every corner of Ivalice and the tangible strength of the Templars. Zalmour might not agree with everything the Confessor had done these last few years, but he still admired the boldness with which he had done it. He was moving in the shadows, but he was not moving cautiously.

And yet...in that boldness, they had allowed criminals to prosper, and war to rage. In his travels across Ivalice, Zalmour had seen how badly Ivalice was ravaged. How long could he keep insisting that the Church shared no responsibility for the harm this war had wrought? For the atrocities it had enabled?

Especially if these heretics told the truth. If demons masqueraded among the ranks of the Church. And if even those men who weren't demons cloaked themselves in Godly power to sanitize their crimes.

For most of his life, Zalmour had fought to build an Inquisition that was broader and bolder than the one Simon had built. He had that Inquisition. What was he supposed to do with it?

"What would you have me do?" Zalmour asked.