(Publishing one chapter a week until the end of Part 5)
Chapter 126: Templar Tengille
Meliadoul Tengille had been on her share of strange craft in her time. She had boarded merchant, transport, and war caravans alike: she had sat hunched in the back of chocobo-drawn carriages that bounced and rumbled their way down dirt roads; she had roamed the decks of spacious pleasure ships, giggling with Izlude, and been crammed into closets pretending to be cabins on vessels where her father had hastily purchased passage. The Inquisitor's skiff was one of the stranger ones she'd boarded: large enough to accommodate their scant party, and bereft of obvious sails or engines. The Inquisitor kept his hand on the rudder, and power flowed beneath her feet: if she reached out with her senses, she could just begin to feel that power, mingling with the water and speeding them along.
"It's weird, right?" Radia asked. Ramza, Radia, Agrias, and Rafa were hiding in the cabin that occupied the center of the skiff, keeping low beneath the windows to keep anyone from spying them.
"Very." Melia shook her head. "It almost feels...alive."
"Perhaps because it draws from the Inquisitor's strength?" Rafa suggested. "I cannot sense it as you can, but I wonder if a different hand on the rudder might feel different..."
"I wonder if someone without sufficient magical training could even pilot this craft," Agrias added.
Melia shook her head. "I doubt he'll let us experiment."
"He has surprised us so far," Rafa pointed out.
That he had. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of unexpected moments and experiences. Beside the surreal strangeness of the Marquis and the monster he'd become, the nature of the skiff was at least an entertaining question.
Zalmour had no interest in discussing it. Zalmour had no interest in discussing everything. Since they'd laid their compromise—to try and stop Bremondt from capturing the dragon without killing anyone on one side, while laying in wait here should the other group fail—he had been terse and taciturn. Now, he manned the rudder, and watched the horizon, and spoke to no one else at all.
Melia couldn't begrudge him that. She needed some time to think herself. But all too soon, Delita ducked his head into the cabin, and informed them that the island was close, and that she needed to get ready.
For obvious reasons, Ramza and his friends could not set foot on the island yet. It was Melia who helped Delita tie the skiff of at a little pier well down the way from the massive dock where the Invincible would lay anchor. The island was a terraced pyramid, its rocky shelves overgrown with grass, trees, and ivy, regularly intercut with old passages choked with rubble and stone staircases half worn away. There were only a handful of Amazons in sight, and none with the authority to stop Inquisitor Zalmour as he ascended the main stairway.
He ordered them to wait at the larger main entrance, and entered alone. Melia and Delita exchanged glances, then looked out to the horizon. The bright noonlight had begun to give way to the brassier gold of late afternoon.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Delita turn his head to look at her. She ignored him for as long as she could.
"Do you need something?" she asked at last.
"In general, or from you specifically?" Delita replied. She gave him an annoyed look, and he held up his hands in mock surrender. "A poor joke. Apologies."
Melia said nothing, but watched him closely. Of the potential Braves, Delita was the one she knew the least. Wiegraf's reputation preceded him: he had won the adulation of Ivalice in the 50 Years' War, and challenged the Hokuten on their own turf. But there nasty rumors around him and Delita both: of the things these two men did, while working their secret missions in the world. And unlike Wiegraf, Delita had no reputation to precede him. All he had were the whispers.
But the whispers had fallen far short of the truth. This man, who aided a cabal of heretics to work within the Church's plans, and who seemed to know of the Lucavi, too. So many questions shrouded him: almost as many as she had to ask.
Delita cleared his throat, and manged. "I'm just...I'm glad you're here, Templar Tengille."
Melia shifted uncomfortably. "I..." She looked away from Delita. "I'm not sure I'm much of a Templar anymore."
That hurt to admit. Even before she'd joined up with Ramza, she'd been on shaky ground: her mission had been one of vengeance, with no sanction from the Church (and dangerously close to being directly against the Confessor's wishes). Now, traveling with Ramza, sailing to a possible fight with a Cardinal...and after she had worked so hard, spent long mornings and afternoons training her magic, honing her skills, to win a rare place for a woman among the Templar ranks. Her father's name had unlocked the door for her, but she had earned her way through it.
And it meant nothing, if the Church was as rotten as she was starting to believe. If monsters worked within it, corrupting it for their own ends. Monster like the Lucavi. Monsters like Bremondt.
"That's a pity," Delita said. "You may be the best Templar I know."
She laughed bitterly. "Coming from you, that means almost nothing."
He flashed a smile as bitter as her laugh. "Perhaps so." His smile faded, and his face turned solemn. "For what it's worth...when the Church first sought us out, we nursed high hopes. We thought the Templars might do what the Corps could not." He shook his head grimly. "It turns out, they were little better than the Hokuten. Opportunists looking for the right tools."
Melia nodded grimly. She had been thinking of the Conclave scant weeks past, where her father, and Loffrey, and Cletienne, had told their clever lies about the fall of Riovanes. Her own father had sent her marching off after Ramza...for what?
"What I mean to say," Delita finished, into her brooding silence. "Is that it's nice to...to see someone like you. To know the Templars could have been what we thought they were."
Melia studied Delita again. His dark eyes were full of doubt, and regret.
"What are you doing here, Ser Heiral?" she asked.
"Putting my trust in my friend," Delita said. "Aren't we all?"
"I am not," came Zalmour's reedy voice, as he emerged from the crate-crowded entrance into the complex proper. He had a faraway look in his eyes. "Would you excuse us, Ser Heiral?"
Delita bowed, and headed up a nearby set of narrow, crumbling stairs. Zalmour watched him go, and shook his head. "So many questions...and so many around him."
"I was just thinking that," Melia admitted, with a smile.
"You always were sharp, Templar Tengille." He cocked his head. "Though it seems you find some discomfort in the title now?"
A pang in her heart. Melia looked around, and Zalmour shook his head. "There is no one to overhear us."
Melia nodded slowly. "It's just...everything I've heard...everything I've seen..."
Zalmour nodded in turn. "These are unusual circumstances, no doubt about it." He smiled thinly. "I suppose I should have expected this. The resurrection of the Braves could hardly occur during ordinary times." His smile faded as quickly as Delita's had. "Still. I could not have imagined..."
He trailed off. Melia didn't say anything.
"I have been thinking of the accounts I have heard," Zalmour mused. "Of the Lucavi among our ranks...of what that might mean." He paused. "I have yet to make up my mind about the Beoulve's other stories...but you, Templar Tengille? I cannot imagine you would tell such a lie. You fought the Marquis we all thought dead. And before your eyes, he..."
Melia shuddered, remembering the awful, slimy weight of his magic, remembering the crushing press of dead flesh.
"In life, the Marquis was an Inquisitor," Zalmour continued. "But his office does not extend into death. Either your story is exaggerated, and you fought a man who faked his death for reasons unknown...or you fought a demon, which rather negates any office he might have held in life. Either way, fighting such a dead Inquisitor is no crime against the Church." He paused once more. "Fighting against a living Cardinal is another matter."
"I am aware, Inquisitor," Melia replied. Her heart quavered, though her voice did not.
Zalmour finally turned his head from the horizon, and locked eyes with her. Melia stared steadily back at him, as her heart pounded. She had never known Zalmour particularly well—the Inquisitor was always traveling to one part of Ivalice or another, as busy as her own father. To be honest, she hadn't liked him much: he was so officious, so serious. But the past few days, she'd come to respect him more than she ever though possible. He had listened more readily than she had: he had trusted her, when she was so used to going without trust.
"You have been a credit to the Templars since you joined them," Zalmour said at last. "And you will remain a credit to Ivalice, should you leave."
Her heart quieted. She found herself smiling. "Thank you, Inquisitor."
He smiled back at her.
They stood together in companionable silence, watching the horizon for any sign of the Cardinal they might oppose. But they were not the first ones to spot him: several minutes later, Delita skidded down the slope. "He's inbound!"
Zalmour nodded, but made no move. Melia held herself by his side. Inquisitor and Templar, waiting to make their judgment.
On the horizon, they finally spotted the speck of his incoming ship. Slowly, the Invincible swelled into focus. It was smoking in several places, tracing an uneven path across the ocean as its damaged engines fought to power it onwards. At last, when the damaged Invincible was close enough to dock, Zalmour started his stately way down the worn stairs. Melia and Delita followed at equal distance behind him, serving as his honorguard.
The ship was a bustle of activity as they approached, like an anthill that had been kicked. The violet dragon Melia had seen several days before was bound tightly in ropes and chains, and quickly dragged onto the island proper with a mix of pulleys, gangplanks, and the brute physical strength of the Workers.
Melia couldn't help but eye the Workers with a sense of numb wonder. Refurbished Workers, hollowed out of useful parts, stood guard as statues in Mullonde, but the magic to bring them back to life had been lost long ago. To see them in motion now...if she hadn't fought a Lucavi, she might have been too awestruck to move.
But she had fought a Lucavi. And a Worker was something she understood, even if she couldn't quite believe they walked again.
"Move her to the roof!" Bremondt bellowed, gesturing for the Workers and his Amazons from his place at the helm of the ship. This close, the damage to the ship was far more extensive: embers still smoldered in many places across the hull and decks, and the ship noticeably listed to one side. There were fewer Amazons among his crew than there had been when he set out, and several of those who remained were sporting wounds and burns.
"Is everything alright, Your Eminence?" Zalmour called.
Bremdont looked up. His eyes were as wild. "Inquisitor," he breathed, and flung out a hand to the violet dragon being dragged steadily up the hillside. "I have claimed my prize."
"Congratulations," Zalmour said. "How do you intend to get her inside?"
"The roof opens," Bredmont said dismissively. "Which reminds me. Hold a moment!" He hurried back to the ship, wrapped his arms around the massive cannon and slowly turned it so it was trained it on the dragon. Melia felt herself impressed: the Cardinal was obviously straining, but he turned the cannon with surprising ease. "Stand clear!" he shouted, as magic fluxed around him. A shimmering sunburst of wavy colors unfurled from the cannon, slipped beneath the dragon's skin: the dragon made a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper, its eyelids fluttering, its body swaying as though it were drunk.
"That should keep her subdued," Bremondt murmured, hurrying off the ship again and casting an anxious glance over his shoulder.
"You were attacked, Your Eminence?" the Inquisitor asked.
Bremondt nodded grimly. "Heretic Daravon, of course, aboard some pirate scow. Don't know if we sank them, but we wounded them, and Alister stayed behind to finish the job." He smiled—a savage, feral smile. "I doubt we'll have to deal with him again."
"All things according to God's will," Zalmour intoned.
Bremondt laughed. "Exactly so." He raced up the stone steps, shouting orders to his Amazons and his Workers. He did not even seem to have registered that Delita and Melia were there. He hurried into the tunnel Zalmour had barred them from, mere moments before: when they followed after, no one made any move to stop them. Past the tunnel entrance was a wider space, rimmed with tents and ramshackle shelters, piled high with crates and books. Neither the Cardinal nor the Inquisitor glanced at any of these: Melia likewise kept her gaze fixed forwards, the perfect picture of military efficiency. From the corner of her eye, she saw Delita maintaining the same pretense.
Past this cavernous staging area with its rough-hewn walls was a different room. It was equally spacious, but the word 'cavernous' did not do it justice: it was obviously the product of human hands, as much as the Confessor's Conclave, a perfect rectangle of shaped stone and metal. The passage they had come through was matched by much larger doorways on the other three walls, all blocked by rubble. At the center of the room was an enormous metal disc, glowing with runes both large and small: magic shimmered around it. Before this polished, rune-laden disc was something like a metal altar, with rune-etched crystals arranged in neat patterns on its head. A pair of Amazons on either wall were working cranks: above them, the roof rumbled, and began to open, cracking open to reveal a golden sky.
Bremondt strode towards the altar. Zalmour came to a stop several feet behind him. Melia and Delita stopped a step behind the Inquisitor.
"Forgive me, Your Eminence," Zalmour said. "In your absence, I took the liberty of examining this facility."
"Did you?" Bremondt did not even look up, running his hands over crystalline runes and murmuring under his breath, casting anxious looks up at the opening sky as he waited for the dragon to appear.
"A remarkable piece of technology," Zalmour continued. "You believe you can use it to make more Dragoners?"
"Hm?" The Cardinal gave him a distracted look. "Oh, perhaps. The first thing is to examine her, and quiet her. She's quite feral, after all this time in dragon form."
"Quiet her..." Zalmour nodded. "Yes, I noticed that, in the runes on the platform. You employed similar magic in that new cannon on the Invincible, did you not?"
Bremondt chuckled. "Quite astute, Inquisitor."
"I try. I admit, magic of this specificity and sophistication is quite beyond me. I can only grasp the very basics...but as I understand it, this facility was used to conduct experiments on Dragoners."
Bremondt nodded impatiently. They could hear the scuffling sounds of the Workers and the Dragon now: her groans were faint, and full of pain.
"This platform, in particular," Zalmour continued. "Its magic seems made to...bind a Dragoner, somehow."
"As one binds an animal, before treating it," Bremondt grunted.
"Forgive me, Your Eminence," the Inquisitor said. "But if what you've told me about her is true, she is no more an animal than you."
Bremondt managed a short bark of laughter. "You've seen her, Inquisitor. She needs this."
"You are the expert, of course." The Inquisitor strolled torwards the Cardinal, gesturing for Melia and Delita to remain behind. "This facility...was there one like it in Goland?"
"Maybe." Bremondt was barely looking at the Inquisitor, still looking anxiously for the dragon to come into view. "As I told you, I did not get to see much of it, before the dragon broke free."
"Of course." The Inquisitor looked up for a moment, then back at Bremondt. "That's funny, actually."
"What?" Bremondt's voice was rough with anticipation.
"You keep calling the dragon 'she'," Zalmour said.
Bremondt froze. Slowly, his eyes drifted down from the open ceiling. "What?"
"When we last spoke of this...'Sacred Dragon'-" Zalmour said the name with evident disdain. "You kept referring to it as an 'it'. You've been using 'she' this time."
Bremondt's dark eyes were as cold and pitiless as a winter night. "What of it?"
Zalmour arched his thin eyebrows. "You're not going to explain, Your Eminence?"
"I wasn't aware I owed you an explanation, Inquisitor."
Zalmour pursed his thin lips thoughtfully. "Forgive me, Your Eminence, but you recently told me you trusted me. That you admired by diligence, my zeal, my brilliance. You even asked me for my blessing."
"And?" It was almost a snarl. Melia sensed magic moving, sounding like distant thunder. It took effort not to reach for her sword.
"And it seems those were just pretty words to flatter me, more's the pity." Zalmour sighed. "So I wouldn't ask any further questions."
"You have no right to question-" Bremondt began.
"That is where you are wrong, Your Eminence!" Zalmour's reedy voice was suddenly loud, brash, and forceful, carrying such authority that even Bremondt seemed stunned. "I am an Inquisitor! I seek truth, wherever it may be found, whoever I must question!"
"So you're questioning me?" Bremondt demanded, recovering his poise and his fury.
"And the idlest question seems to draw such ire from you!" Zalmour retorted. "I ask elementary questions about magic, and the knowledge you possess-"
"I told you how much this mattered to me-"
"Yes, yes," Zalmour shook his head. "To honor the legacy of your dead protege. But, forgive me, Your Eminence...as you once told me, they never found the body. And if I imagine the same magic lay beneath Goland as now sits before me...I cannot help but wonder if you will cast your spells, and bind this dragon, and reveal to the world that your long-dead protege has made a miraculous recovery! Perhaps she will even vouch for your version of events! I doubt she will have much choice, if I read those runes correctly!"
The anger in Bremondt's black eyes glimmered like fiery stars. The sense of magic was closer, more immense, more imminent: Melia could actually see that magic stirring around Bremondt, like the shadow of enormous wings. She had seen how the Cardinal turned that enormous cannon on the ship outside: she had some dim idea about how powerful Dragoners could be.
"A fine tale, Inquisitor," Bremondt growled. "And you are, of course, within your rights to question anyone under suspicion of heresy. But I am also familiar with the other laws that govern your office. Unless you find definite proof, hear a confession, have your life threatened, or have a direct order from the Confessor himself, you cannot bring charges." Bremondt smiled—another savage, feral smile, this one almost predatory. "If you would like to petition the Confessor, I understand. I will protest, of course, and it will likely take time for the validity of your petition to be properly weighed-"
"Quite right, Your Eminence." Zalmour bowed his head. "I will set off to obtain my petition now." He turned to leave, but paused before leaving the room. "I will pray for you, Your Eminence."
"How kind of you!" Bremondt spat, and turned back to look for his dragon.
Zalmour walked down the winding hall, flexing his hands. Magic shimmered along the rings on his fingers. "You are certain?" Zalmour asked, with a quick look at Melia and Delita. "Even should the Confessor approve my petition, you may be found guilty."
"There is no law of the Church that allows them to warp the body or bind the soul or an innocent woman," Melia growled. "If I must be declared heretic for stopping this, so be it."
Delita nodded, though his face was pale. The Inquisitor nodded in turn. "I cannot assist you in fighting him, though I may be of service in other ways. If nothing else, I will bear witness." They had reached the antechamber at the end of the hall. "And I will call for aid."
He stepped out into the open air, and raised both hands. A great burst of light exploded from his hands, and shaped itself into a Virgo symbol in the sky above.
"Attention!" he roared, his voice magnified by magic. "I am Lucianada Zalmour, Inquisitor of the Glabados Church! The matter of this 'Sacred Dragon' is now considered a subject of official Inquisition concern, and all inhabitants of this island are to stand down until the matter is resolved!"
"IGNORE HIM!" Bremondt's booming voice was louder than Zalmour's, and barely recognizable: layered beneath his voice was something guttural, bestial.
And Melia was moving back down the tunnel, her sword in her hand as she felt for her magic. Whatever else he might be, Delita was right beside her.
She had wanted to be a Templar all her life: not because of her father, but in defiance of him. She wanted to show the world (and Izlude) that you could make your own way in the world, fighting what you believed in with your own strength. And she would not let a member of her faith abuse their power and position, and hurt the innocent. Whether that was an Inquisitor, or a Cardinal...or even the Knight-Commander of the Templars.
She had slain a Lucavi. She could slay a Dragoner, too.