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

Chapter 128: Godforsaken

Cardinal Frederick Bremondt is dead, and Inquisitor Lucianada Zalmour has let it happen.

He stands in the shattered shrine where he has spent so much time these last few weeks. The Amazons are dead. Two Workers are destroyed. The Cardinal has not even left a corpse behind, and his last moment (the great shadow of the dragon, disappearing into a whirlwind of light and darkness that pulled at Zalmour's soul) plays out again and again in Zalmour's mind.

In the Inquisitor's hand, he holds the ruddy red weight of the Cancer Stone. The source of the magic that bound Reis. The source of the magic that transformed the Cardinal.

So many treasures here. So many wonders. So many questions. Lucianada Zalamour is an Inquisitor: he cannot stop inquiring. Nor can he stop himself from helping others, on their own inquiries.

His magic is spent, from shielding himself and others from the power of a dragon, and from healing the wounded as he found them. One ship is a smoking ruin on the beach. The Invincible is battered and in desperate need of repairs (particularly near the bow, where Bremondt's annihilating breath destroyed its dragon-felling cannon), but it is still intact. It has a brand new crew, now, and that crew has been busy, swarming over the island, taking whatever they can find.

And Inquisitor Zalmour watched them do it. No, be honest: he helped them do it.

He had found the machinist in the old tunnel entrance (the entrance itself still stood, though the tunnel itself had collapsed into impassibility), methodically picking his way through crumpled documents. He did it the exact same way Barich had picked at the Mosfungus Sphere: the same mixture of dexterity, attention, and reverence. He looked up only briefly when the Inquisitor entered, then returned to his work.

"You will not find what you are looking for," Zalmour said.

"And what am I looking for, Inquisitor?" Mustadio asked. He still did not look at him.

"The Codex."

That made the machinist look up at him. "How do you-"

"You let me read the Gospel," Zalmour answered. He was surprised his voice didn't tremble as he said it. Reading that piece of profound heresy...reading Father Simon's own insights, reactions, and revelations...his head felt still-more-clouded with doubts than it had in the face of what Ramza, Beowulf, and Meliadoul had told him, of the conspiracies in his church and the men behind them. That, more than anything, had convinced him that he was on the right course. Something needed to change: the rot within his Church needed to be confronted. Perhaps even the rot at the heart of their faith.

"You've been working on your own translation, haven't you?" Zalmour asked.

Mustadio looked around for a moment, and sighed. "I suppose I have done enough to incriminate myself already."

"We have both done plenty to incriminate ourselves, Machinist Bunansa," Zalmour replied. "I assure you, if my testimony puts you on the gallows, I will be swinging beside you."

Mustadio smiled thinly. "You will forgive me if that is little comfort, Inquisitor."

Zalmour chuckled, and gestured for Mustadio to follow him. Much of the hillside was a dented, sunken ruin, but enough of the steps survived to lead them down to the shore. The satchel Zalmour had packed waited on the bottommost step.

"The Codex," Zalmour said, nudging the bag with one toe. "The collected scholarship of Cardinal Bremondt, among others. The best translation of ancient Ydoran to modern Ivalician available in the kingdom. And a few other documents, including those pertaining to the Cardinal's work here-" He nodded back to the ruined temple. "-and Templar Barich's work on Cloud Strife."

Mustadio had already been inspecting the bag with a machinist's reverent touch, but his head snapped back to Zalmour at his last words. "Barich?"

Zalmour nodded. "Yes. You worked together, did you not? The two of you, as well as your father." Mustadio gave a cautious nod. "I promised him I would speak to the Confessor on the matter of Goug's independence."

Mustadio's blue eyes flashed wide. "You..." He shook his head. "Did you mean it?"

"I did." He gestured around them. "But, in the context of recent events..."

Mustadio laughed shortly. "Yes. I see what you meant." His eyes flickered down to the bag then back to Zalmour. "Why are you giving me this?"

Zalmour pursed his lips. "There are powers in motion we do not understand," he said at last. "Truths that have been buried, for good or ill. The Cardinal cloaked his abuses in lies-" He gestured up the hill, to the shattered ruin that remained after their battle against the dragon. "-and if you and your friends were telling the truth about him, you may well be telling the truth about everything else." He nodded towards the bag. "I will conduct my own investigation. Your friend will conduct his. You must conduct yours." He shrugged. "Perhaps together we may uncover greater truths than any of us may have found alone."

Mustadio slowly slung the satchel around his shoulders, but his eyes still searched Zalmour's face. "You could come with us," Mustadio said. "Help me with this." He patted the bag.

Zalmour only shook his head. "My path lies elsewhere."

He'd meant it, when he said it, as he watched another machinist march to another ship. But he still wasn't quite sure where that path was supposed to lead, much less how to begin walking it. So he'd returned to the site of the battle—the site of the Cardinal's transformation, and Reis' restoration. So he held the Stone in his hand, and wondered what the truth was, and what he was supposed to do to find it, and bring it to light.

"Inquisitor?"

Zalmour looked up. Ramza Beoulve stood at the rim of the collapsed ceiling, squinting down at him. The sunset painted him in bloody colors. Meliadoul Tengille stood just behind him.

"What am I to call you now?" Zalmour asked. "Heretic doesn't seem quite so appropriate anymore."

Ramza laughed. "You can keep calling me heretic, if it makes your life easier."

Zalmour grimaced. "It is not a joking matter, Ramza Beoulve."

"Forgive me, Inquisitor." He gestured around them. "Dealing with things like this has left me a bit jaded to more pedestrian affairs."

Zalmour's grimace deepened. "I do not care to refer to an Inquisitor's investigations as 'pedestrian affairs'." He paused. "But I will admit, seeing all this has certainly...changed my perspective."

He hefted the Stone in his hand again, watched the liquid light swirl in its smooth depths. So much power hidden inside these Stones. So many questions unanswered.

"The Cardinal's transformation," Zalmour asked. "Both at the beginning, and at the end...did it resemble the transformation of the Lucavi?"

Ramza nodded. "It did. The light, the darkness..." He studied Zalmour. "Why?"

Zalmour shook his head. "Theories. Intuitions. How a Dragoner gets their powers...how a Lucavi takes their hosts...and this unknown purpose you speak of. This hell they intend to bring to Earth." He looked at the Cancer Stone in his hand. It was so heavy, and that weight concealed greater depths of power and potential than he'd imagined. "Not to mention young Malak of Galthena."

"Something to do with the souls of the dead?" Ramza asked.

Zalmour nodded. "All magic is born from the soul. In order to bind Reis, the Cardinal needed a Stone. In order to transform into a dragon, the Cardinal needed a Stone. In order to transform Reis back, we needed two Stones. In order become a Lucavi, it appears you need a Stone. And when Malak of Galthena returned from the dead-"

"It was thanks to a Stone," Ramza finished.

Zalmour nodded again, and gestured around them with his free hand. "The Ydorans hid many things. Wonderful and terrible alike." He frowned thoughtfully. "Lucavi at work within the Church..." He hefted the Stone one more time, then looked back up at Ramza. "May I entrust this to your care?"

Ramza's eyes went wide with shock. "Wha-"

"Don't mistake me, Apostate Beoulve," Zalmour said. "I mean what I said. This Stone, and the others in your possession, might well be the rightful property of the Glabados Church. But even if you were lying about the Lucavi—and I am increasingly convinced you are not—I have just beheld ample evidence that some of the luminaries of Church may not be fit to bear such treasures." He picked his way through the rubble, and talked as though giving instructions on how to care for a house in his absence. "You and your friends have proven yourself worthy foes of those who might abuse their power, and have showed no similar predilection to abuse these treasures once they fall into your hands. I can think of few safer places to keep the Stones, while I discuss matters with the Confessor."

He was looking for a path up to Ramza, but Ramza slid down a broken section of the ceiling to land in front of him. He was smiling, and the sight of his smile stopped Zalmour in his tracks. He had not known this boy for very long, and he had seen so much from him in that short time. But this was something new: there was relief and gratitude in his eyes and his smile, childlike in their sincerity. Zalmour was dumbfounded by the simple, honest goodness in that smiling face.

"I hoped you'd be like this," Ramza said. "Thank you, Inquisitor."

Zalmour managed to recover himself. "As I said, this is merely-"

"Not for trusting us," Ramza said. "Though, yes, thanks for trusting us. I mean..." Ramza looked up towards the darkening sky for a moment. Again, that expression like a child searching for words they've never used before.

"We told you our story," Ramza said. "About every where we've gone, and every thing we've done, trying to...trying to do the right thing." He looked back down, and that childish earnestness burnish even brighter. "You're...you're the first person in awhile, who's actually...well." He laughed, looking back to where Melia stood vigil above them. "You and Meliadoul."

Zalmour smiled. "She is something special, isn't she?"

"So are you, Inquisitor."

Zalmour smiled more thinly, because he did not want to show how Ramza's words affected him. He could feel them, slipping through the easy distance of an Inquisitor's analysis, spreading the warmth like alcohol in his cheeks and in his chest. So long spent chasing after heretics and solving mysteries, sharpening the edge of the Inquisition until it was the Church's scalpel, cutting through lies to reach the truth, and Zalmour was the scalpel's edge incarnate. So long, and now the heretic boy saw him, and told him it had all been worth it.

"Ramza!" Melia called, stepping into clearer view above them. "Looks like we're ready to leave!"

Ramza nodded, and reached for the Stone. Zalmour placed it gently in his hand, saying, "Do let Captain Faris know that ship will not be hers for long."

Ramza smiled. "Of course, Inquisitor." He bowed, and made his careful way up the crumbled ceiling.

Melia remained behind a moment longer. The Inquisitor and the Templar regarded each other with the same companionable ease they'd felt before the battle. Finally, she bowed, too. "Thank you. Inquisitor."

"Thank you, Templar," Zalmour said, returning the bow. He studied her for a moment, then asked: "Are you sure you're in the right place?"

She cocked her head. "Inquisitor?"

"You could come with me," he said. "Back to Mullonde. Tell the Confessor what you told me."

A strange look on Melia's face, then. Longing, first of all. Grief, just beneath it. And hanging over all of it, determination.

"If my father is..." she started, and shook her head. "My place is here. Opposing whatever it is he means to do." She bowed again. "God go with you, Inquisitor."

"You too, Templar," Zalmour said, and made the sign of Virgo before him.

When she'd left, Zalmour looked around him again, feeling the warmth settling soothingly against his bones. He had done the right thing. He wished the Amazons had survived the fight, but he had offered them a chance to surrender, and none had taken it. Ramza and his company had placed their lives in his hands. They had trusted him, even after he had hunted them.

He made his own way out over the crumbled rubble, and picked his careful way down the slope until he reached one of the worn stone staircases and followed it down to the shoreline. Farther down the island's coast, he could see the leaning wreck Syldra, its ruined bow towering above the sand, its stern starting to sink beneath the waves. On the horizon, he could see the Invincible limping away.

But when he reached his skiff, he was surprised to find he was not alone on the island.

"Ser Heiral," Zalmour said, with a curt nod.

"Inquisitor," Delita said, with a slight bow.

"I am surprised to find you here."

"I needed to finish my own investigations."

"Perhaps you should have been an Inquisitor."

Delita laughed. "Would I be welcome in your ranks?"

Zalmour did not answer, studying the younger man. The half-smile on Delita's face faded as Zalmour studied him.

"I do not recall you ever being given a Zodiac Stone, Ser Heiral," Zalmour said.

"You are correct, Inquisitor," Delita replied. "No Stone was ever given to me."

"So when did you acquire the Aquarius Stone?"

Delita shrugged. "Wiegraf and I were sent to aid bandits fomenting revolt. There were rumors one of them had stolen a Stone during the 50 Years' War. The rumors were true."

"And you never reported this to the Church."

Delita managed a twisted smile. "Inquisitor, I think by now you know there are many things I haven't reported to the Church."

"Yes. I've gathered."

They locked eyes, and did not speak for some time.

"Am I a heretic in your eyes?" Delita asked at last.

Zalmour considered for a moment. "You have hidden your true aims from the Church you are supposed to serve," he said, slowly, deliberately, carefully. "But you are far from the only one who has done so. And as Bremondt has shown us, there are far worse aims than a desire to help your friends."

He sighed. Cardinal Bremondt had been a good man, once upon a time. He had done good deeds for so many across Ivalice, marshaled the Church's charity to care for the needy, managed and contributed to the pool of knowledge the Church depended upon to shepherd their flock. When had that goodness been lost? Or had the goodness always masked a deeper greed, the way the Cardinal had flattered Zalmour so he wouldn't look too closely at his lies? Were there others like him, wearing holy masks to disguise unholy ends? Were some of those men Lucavi?

"You no longer believe in the Church's course?" Zalmour asked, as his own thoughts churned.

Delita shook his own slowly. "My position is a bit different than yours, Inquisitor. I never believed in the Church as a holy thing. But I...I did think the Church saw more clearly than most, when this all began. They saw a war that was sure to come, and fought to make sure that it would serve Ivalice, and not men like Larg and Goltanna. Now..." He looked up the hill, to where the Cardinal had died. "With respect, Inquisitor...if the Church had everything their own way, men like Bremondt would replace men like Goltanna."

"Hm." Zalmour nodded. "My thoughts exactly." He gestured towards the skiff. "I can return to you to the Royal Retreat, before I go my own way."

"What way is that, Inquisitor?" Delita asked.

"I will return to Mullonde, and speak with the Confessor." Saying it aloud made him feel more sure of it. He had spent so long training his mind to follow the evidence, and to act accordingly. This felt as true as the fruit of any investigation, and as right. "There is much we have not understood...much which has changed. I am not sure whether Lucavi stalk Ivalice as yet...but there is strange power in the Stones, that may well be wielded by evil men."

"And the War?" Delita asked.

"That will be the Confessor's choice," Zalmour said. "But I believe it should be ended, now that we know other men among our ranks chase their own agendas."

Delita gave Zalmour an admiring look. "I underestimated you, Inquisitor."

Zalmour laughed shortly. "A dangerous mistake to make."

Delita shook his head. "No, Inquisitor. Not your power, not your intellect. I underestimated your...goodness. When Ramza came to me, and proposed reaching out to you...I thought him a fool. But he saw farther than I." He stepped back from the dock, to give Zalmour easier access to his skiff. "You're a good man."

"Hm!" Zalmour's laugh this time was just as short, but much more honest and comfortable. "I know not whether I am good, Ser Heiral. I know only that I have struggled to be so all my life." He started down the dock, but paused to look back at the hill where a dragon had been unleashed, and slain. "Correct me if I am wrong, but I suspect Ramza Beoulve is much the same."

Delita smiled, and followed his gaze up the hill. Zalmour nodded, and turned to go.

He heard only the slightest whisper of sound behind him, the softest hiss of a sword being swiftly drawn from its sheathe. He pivoted on his heel, just as a spike of cold agony rammed its way up through his stomach, driving frosty fire up beneath his ribs. Before he could scream, Delita snapped his free hand—the hand that wasn't holding the sword now buried in Zalmour's left lung—up to cover Zalmour's mouth.

"I'm sorry, Inquisitor," Delita whispered, and with one swift kick of the leg he had swept Zalmour off his feet, to land with a meaty thumph upon the wet dock. The impact stirred fresh embers of pain from the enormous, black blaze of agony building inside Zalmour's chest, and Delita was still on top of him, straddling him, squeezing with his thighs so fresh blood poured from the pulsing wound in his stomach, and it was so hard to breathe through the hand over his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Delita repeated, as Zalmour gasped and choked and twitched in Delita's careful, terrible grasp. "You are a good man. I never believed you would help us. I never believed you would be courageous enough to try and talk to the Confessor."

As Zalmour fumbled for magic—to ease his pain, to hurt Delita, to do something—Delita's other hand twisted the sword, and the fresh tearing heat inside Zalmour's chest blacked out any thoughts. His scream was muffled by Delita's bloodslick hand.

"If I could let you go, I would," Delita said. "But to let you go would put the peace of all Ivalice at risk." He sighed. "Take comfort in this, Inquisitor. I will build a better Ivalice."

He held Zalmour there, until breathless darkness blotted out his vision (and blessedly dulled his pain). He awoke only briefly, to find Delita wrapping the chain of an anchor around his ankles with businesslike care, the blood on his hands glistening in the darkness of the gathered night.

Zalmour could barely think (could barely breathe) through the deathly distance that settled on him, smothering his senses and hollowing out his thoughts. But even as his life's end rushed towards him, Zalmour was an Inquisitor still. Men like Delita deserved to face their judgment.

He tried to take a deep breath, and drew a spike of whistling agony through his chest. The sound snapped Delita's eyes back towards him like a frightened dog. Anger and fear glistened there, and he reached back for his sword.

"Heiral." Zalmour's voice was a croaking whisper that froze Delita in place. He took another miserable, whistling breath, used the agony to focus his fading thoughts. "God...sees...us...all..."

As his last words left him, the darkness closed in—flooding in through his eyes, blacking out his vision before it began to black out his thoughts. But God could see Delita, just like He could see Zalmour. Darkness was no obstacle to the Almighty. He could see the sins of the wicked, just as he could see the good deeds of the righteous.

Zalmour did not know if he was among the righteous. He did not know how many good deeds he had to his name. But he had always tried to do his best. And if God was merciful, that had to count for something.