(Publishing every other Wednesday unless otherwise noted)

Chapter 134: Father and Son

"Count Orlandeau!"

Cid pivoted smoothly to face the source of voice, dropping to one knee and ignoring its complaining pang of pain. "Your Majesty."

Ovelia smiled, and gently gestured for him to rise. She fell into step beside him, as they headed down the smooth stone hall, with the portraits of long-dead lords and ladies watching them from the walls. They were in the guest quarters of Bethla Garrison, not far from the Throne Room were Ovelia had first come to them, secure in the heart of the fortress.

` "How was your time in the Royal Retreat?" Cid asked

Ovelia smiled. "Lovely. And necessary. The last few months..." Her smile turned a little sad. "I wish you could take some time to rest yourself, Count."

"To be fair, Your Majesty," Cid said. "I had time to rest before the War. You were rather busy, as I recall."

She laughed shortly. "Is that where Olan got his sense of humor?"

Cid pursed his lips in a mock pout. "You insult me, Your Majesty."

Her next laugh sounded much more genuine.

Cid smiled, pushed open the door to a narrow stairway, and held it open for her. As the door closed behind them Ovelia's face went solemn. "I hear peace talks went poorly."

Cid shrugged. "There was never much hope for them. But the attempt had to be made."

Ovelia nodded. "I quite agree."

She stopped a step behind Cid. He took a quick step downwards before turning to face her. "Your Majesty?" he asked, as gently as he could manage. "Was there something you needed?"

Ovelia hesitated, and cast her gaze up and down the stairwell. She needn't have bothered: this particular stairway was little used, and Cid could sense no one nearby. But he zeroed in on her caution, and trained all her senses on her. She wanted to talk privately, without drawing attention. Why?

"Count Orlandeau," she said, looking back at him. "I believe the news that reaches my ears has often been...filtered, somewhat. And I am well aware I was never meant to sit upon a throne, so my education on matters of rule is more limited than I would like. But the Hokuten...they're really planning to march on us?"

"Knight-Commander Beoulve said as much," Cid replied. "And I have no reason to doubt him."

"But every child knows that Bethla Garrison is impregnable."

"There is no such thing as an impregnable fortress," Cid said. "Bethla Garrison has fallen before."

"But never to direct assault," Ovelia said. "Only to treachery. Correct?"

Cid nodded slowly. "Correct. Two hundred years ago, Seymour Elmdor snuck Nanten soldiers inside, to help him kill his father. And shortly after the Judgment, Rufus Goltanna took the fortress from the Ydoran garrison by pretending to be their reinforcements."

Ovelia nodded back. "So if the Hokuten are confident they can take the fortress-"

"It is because they believe they have an advantage we cannot see," Cid finished. All of this had occurred to him before now: if Olan was correct, he assumed this advantage was related to the nebulous plans of the Glabados Church. Olan suspected Ovelia knew something of these plans, though he wasn't quite sure how. Seeing how her mind raced now, Cid wondered. He had never fully believed Olan, though he could tell there was more to the Princess then met the eye. Now, however...

Ovelia nodded, then took Cid's hand in hers: he felt a shock. "Your Majesty-"

"Please be careful, Count Orlandeau," she said. "I know Louveria is imprisoned, but her brother is still out there. And there may be other enemies...other threats."

Cid cocked his head at her. "Meaning what, Your Majesty?"

Ovelia locked her brown eyes with his, and the sternness in her gaze held him fast. "Meaning that if they wanted to sack the fortress, they could do far worse than to remove you from the equation. Knight-Commander of the Nanten...and a Stone-bearer, besides."

A door creaked open somewhere above them, and Ovelia started descending the stairs, pulling Cid along behind her, and idly talking of Baron Bolminas and the latest squires to earn their knighthood. Cid allowed himself to be pulled, made idle comments about the qualities of these new knights, and thought of what she'd said.

He was thinking of it still, as he sat behind his desk. For over twenty years now, his regular quarters at Bethla Garrison had been a small apartment, just a few floors up from the expansive barracks on the lower levels, now filled with Nanten soldiers. It made it easy for the nobles on the higher floors to reach him, as well as his soldiers down below. Polished stone floors glimmered in the weak glow of the light runes high on the walls, as Cid ignored the piles of papers on his desk, the orders and reconnaissance reports and inventories and requests, and stared at the Libra Stone that had been the treasure of House Orlandeau since the Fall.

His father had told him many tales of this Stone. So had his grandmother. Not all of the tales agreed: some said House Orlandeau was descended from one of Ajora's disciples, while others said they were descended from the magistrates who had arranged for Ajora's torture and execution, and his grandmother's handmaid had once drunkenly told him they were descended from servants like her, who had taken the Stone during the Judgment and fled for their lives.

Maybe all the stories were true. Maybe none of them were. But there were many stories of Stones and their powers outside of the family tales of House Orlandeau. And Olan was confident that, whatever plans the vultures of Ivalice wove as they circled the fighting, they counted on such Stones.

Did Ovelia know? Or did she only suspect?

Olan gave his customary knock (set to the rhythm of "Good King Moogle Mog", the only song that had ever lulled young Olan to sleep), waited a moment, and entered. "Our scouts sighted the Hokuten vanguard on approach."

Cid nodded, though he did not look up from his Stone. Bethla Pass were not as well-fortified as the Garrison itself, but there were archers and cannon aplenty to bleed the Hokuten as they advanced, not to mention regimental mages. They would cut the Hokuten to ribbons as they marched, and then the fresh Nanten army would be ready to rout the exhausted army. There was nothing left but the slaughter.

"What is it they think they have?" Cid asked, looking up from the Stone.

Olan sat in front of him. "That's the question, father."

"Her Majesty took pains to speak with me privately a few hours ago. Told me to be careful."

"She's right."

Cid laughed. "I've been at war longer than either of you have been alive. I know how to be careful."

"You know how to face an enemy army," Olan said. "You're appallingly bad at anything else."

Cid grimaced at his son. "I was taking care of myself-"

"Long before I was born, yes. Yet I'm the one running our house's finances. Not to mention the army's logistics."

"You have an inflated sense of self-importance."

"I wonder whose fault that is?" Olan smiled faintly at his father. "Someone is so quick to praise me..."

"Someone has no shortage of qualities worth praising." Cid reached out, and took his son's hand in his. He was always surprised by how soft Olan's hands were—for all his talents, he preferred magic and books to swords. Cid that was glad for that. Olan was his own man, distinct from Cidolfas Orlandeau and Reddas Durai both.

Olan squeezed his father's hand. His eyes, so like the clay of a farmer's field, were serious. "Knight-Commander Orlandeau, I need permission to leave the field of battle."

Cid arched his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yes sir."

"For what reason?"

"The boldness of the Hokuten has me worried," Olan said, and winked one eye. As he spoke, stars began to drift up from under his cloak—the space-warping stars of his Astrologian's art. "I keep thinking of Rufus Goltanna." The stars floated to the corners of the room, and darkness puffed out from them, like ink dropped in water. "Perhaps the Hokuten have something planned. Perhaps-"

He stopped talking. Beads of sweat stood out against his forehead. The curtain of darkness across the room was complete. "Good," he said at last, no longer hiding the strain in his voice. "No one should hear us talking now."

Cid squeezed his son's hand, as though he could pass his strength onto him, and help him sustain this magic. "What news?"

Olan took a deep breath through his nose. "The highroad garrison."

Cid's brow furrowed. His mind traced the outlines of the fortress he sat in, built into the mountain by Ydoran craft. The dammed Lake Bethla, in the plateau above them, supplied them with water, and the plateau itself was only accessible through the winding roads of the Zirekile Mountains or by direct ride through the Bethla Wastes. Since it was so defensible, it was only lightly garrisoned. "What about it?" Fear flashed through him. "Is there a second army marching through-"

Olan shook his head. "No. Not...this garrison. The old garrison." He paused. "The one on duty when...when Ovelia approached us."

Cid blinked. Olan took another breath, shakier than the first, and continued, "You..asked me to gather information on them, but...but then there was the attack on Lesalia, and the war, and...and I forgot. Until I came back, and started looking."

Cid said nothing. His mind began to race.

"When Ovelia came to us," Olan continued, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket with a trembling hand (the hand in Cid's grip trembled, too). "There were only twenty men in the garrison, commanded by one Sergeant Kilix Conphas." He paused. "The garrison now stands at a hundred men, in case any parties attempt to encircle the fortress. Only one of the original twenty remain there."

"And the others?" Cid asked.

"Scattered...throughout." Olan was very pale now. "Latrine duty on the front lines...quartermaster of one of our mountainside outposts." He paused. "As for Major Conphas, he is the Nanten liaison to Bishop Canne-Beurich's personal guard."

The hairs on the back of Cid's neck prickled with danger.

"You asked me...to investigate these men..." Olan took another shaky breath. A shudder wracked his body, and he screwed his eyes tight. The stars around the room flickered, like candles in an errant breeze "...because they allowed Ovelia...and Delita...access to the fort...in contravention...of Duke Goltanna's orders." His eyes opened. Blood had started to trickle from one nostril. "If he did so...because he was so ordered..."

Cid squeezed his son's hand again. Whatever art this was, it was costing Olan dearly, in pain and power both. And Olan would not pay such a cost unless it was vital Cid hear this...and that no one else know their plans. "I understand. Rest."

Olan nodded. The light of the stars went out, and the rune-inscribed gems at their hearts clattered noisily to the floor. "Always showing off!" Cid raised his voice sharply, in case someone was listening. "Do you ever simply follow orders, Olan?"

Olan wiped the blood from his nose. When he spoke again, his voice was free of strain. "If I agree with the orders."

"If you agree with them," Cid scoffed. "No army could march across the Wastes. None could survive the Zirekile Mountains intact. This is a fantasy."

"Then what is the harm in letting me investigate it?"

"When an actual army marches on our doorstep?" Cid slammed his hand against the desk. "We need every soldier here!"

"You can spare one."

"I'll be the judge of that!" Another pang in Cid's heart, looking at his exhausted son. He reached into a drawer and found an old cloth, dabbed it in his glass of water and tried to wipe the last of the blood from Olan's face. "Oh, don't give me that look. You're not a child anymore."

"Please, father." Cid almost laughed at the pitiable whine in Olan's voice. "If I am wrong, you are short one soldier. If I am right, I may spot the dagger before it finds our heart."

Cid sighed. "There's no talking you out of it, is there?"

"Is that a yes?"

Cid finished wiping the blood from his son's face, leaned across the table, and kissed him on the forehead. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," Olan whispered back, and stood up. His magic fluxed around him, and the magic gems hovered slowly into the air, and drifted one by one back into his cloak. As the buzz of his magic faded from the back of Cid's mind, Olan swayed unsteadily on his feet. For a moment, he looked like he might fall: then the moment passed, and he stood ramrod straight.

Cid leaned back in his chair, and studied Olan, and felt so full of pride he thought he might burst. Finally, he opened the drawer to replace the Stone. While he did, he growled, "Don't make me explain your absence to the Duke or the Queen."

"You won't regret it, father!" Olan hurried from the room with an excited smile on his face. To anyone watching the office door, he would look the very picture of a young man who had just gotten something he wanted from his father. No one else would see how pale he was, or how damp his dark hair was with the sweat of his exertion.

"I had better not," Cid grunted, busying himself with papers and allowing an amused smile to play across his face. Let him look the father amused with his son, so no one would see his fear, or his pride, or his regret. Olan had risked his life countless times now: he bore so many burdens, physical and mental and magical, and almost every one had been placed upon him by Cid, directly and indirectly.

Was that the way of parenthood? Almost passing burdens down to your children? Hurt them, and they bore the scars of your abuse: help them, and they bore the weight of your expectations. Was Zalbaag any different? Was Dycedarg?

Was Ramza, the heretic Beoulve, who Olan seemed so fond of? What drove that boy, on whatever secret errands placed him at the ruin of two castles on opposite ends of the kingdom, and at the heart of so many schemes and plots?

And when this was over...when Olan had found whatever threat approached them...would Olan be declared a heretic, too?

Cid closed his eyes a moment. Oh God, who we so often call our Father. If a Father you truly be, please...watch over my son.