(Updating every other Wednesday)\

Chapter 140: Heavy is the Head

The throne of Bethla Garrison is not a throne.

It is the paradox that sits at the heart of Druksmald Goltanna, and his years upon the earth. He is a mighty lord, who commands the fealty of great knights, who commands legions of men from unequaled fortresses. His words and deeds have shaped the kingdom since he first stopped suckling at his mother's breast. His name is destined for history. His name is destined for legend.

But his throne is not a throne. His reign is not a king's reign. He is not a king.

Sitting on the mighty, high-backed chair of Betha Garrison's audience chamber, buried in the heart of the impregnable fortress, Druksmald stares at nothing. The room is empty now: there are no guards, no knights, no generals, and no counselors. Cidolfas Orlandeau sits imprisoned, at Duke Goltanna's order. Cidolfas Orlandeau's legendary sword lies in Goltanna's hands.

Cidolfas Orlandeau, the traitor who would have brought Goltanna low. Cidolfas Orlandeau, the man who saved Ivalice. Cidolfas Orlandeau, his oldest friend, who shoved his sword into Goltanna's hand rather than strike him down where he stood.

Druksmald Goltanna buried his face in his hands, and fought against his tears.

He was a lord, and lords did not cry. Lords were inspirations to all who looked upon them. That was the hierarchy upon which Ivalice was built. The commoners looked to the knights, who looked to the lower lords, who looked to the great lords, who looked to their king. As Goltanna himself had once looked at Denamda II, and his successor, Denamda IV. As Cidolfas Orlandeau had once looked at him.

He remembered the battle Cid had spoken of. He remembered plunging ahead in his father's vanguard, slicing a path open in the Ordallian lines. He had looked at the map, and had one of those lightning bolts of insight that sometimes strikes a mind. He had understood exactly how to cut into the heart of his enemy.

He had been young, bold, foolish. And he had been inspired, by the examples of great kings.

He had met King Denamda II when he little more than a toddling child—when the King had marched the armies of Ivalice to Zelmonia, to add the long-suffering province to the seven kingdoms of Ivalice and perhaps even conquer Ordallia itself. Zeltennia had hosted the gathering of Ivalice's armies: Goltanna had run to the wall, and looked over a mass of men such as he had never seen before, tents and marching columns and so many fires that a pall of smoke hung thick in the air

And all the armies of Ivalice had paled before King Denamda II. When he had feasted in Zeltennia's hall, silver haired and mustached, joking with his fellow soldiers, clasping hands with Druksmald's father. He had laughed at young Druksmald's pledge of service, and ruffled his hair, and told him he looked forward to his squiring days. And when the feast was over, he had spoken to the gathered lords. He had spoken of the suffering in Zelmonia, and the duty of Ivalice to answer their call. And he had spoken of the glory that awaited them: such glory as had not seen since the fall of the Ydorans.

He had been everything a king should be. Druksmald's childhood dreams had melded with the man he had met. He wanted to serve such a man. He wanted to be such a man.

So young Goltanna had flung himself into his lessons. Learning etiquette, and combat, and the duties of a lord. Watching his mother and Chancellor Figaro as they had dealt with the day-to-day running of Zeltennia, Listening to the stories from the battlefront—of Ivalice and her armies, united under the command of their great king, as they marched against Ordallia, winning victory after victory, and dreaming of the day he would fight at their side.

He had nursed a little fear, though he would share it with no one. He was a good son of Ivalice, and prayed for his King's victory. But he was afraid that he would not get his chance to share in the glory King Denamda had spoken of.

He had heard it said once, that when the gods wish to punish us, they grant us our prayers. He believed them, because his had been answered. His father, white-faced and limping, had returned to Zeltennia with his men-at-arms, every one of them exhausted. Denamda had fallen ill at a critical moment, and the Ordallian counterattack threatened to push the army all the way back to Ivalice. Denamda's only son, who shared his father's name, had remained behind to hold the line.

But he was only eighteen, and could not hold. First his father passed, then him. Now none were left to stop Ordallians marching on Ivalice.

Only eighteen. A few years older than Druksmald himself. King for but a moment, before the enemy armies had overwhelmed him. And hearing of their weakness, the Romandan Empire sent their fleet across the Rhana Strait. Ivalice, which had stood on the verge of glory, now teetered on the brink of annihilation.

Until Uncle Denny took the throne, as Denamda IV.

Druksmald had known Uncle Denny as long as he could remember. He was cousin to King Denamda II—his sister was Druksmald's mother—and had spent much of his time idling around Zeltennia. He was kind, and a little wicked: he had snuck Druksmald his first taste of wine, and seemed to always have a different woman at his table for dinner. But when his cousin had called for war against Ordallia, Uncle Denamda had answered. And when he heard of the Romandan invasion, he marched north with a hundred men of the Nanten and as many mercenaries as he could hire with his personal gil.

Six months later, and he had checked the Romandan invasion. Six months later, and the Council of Lords had decided: his blood was strong, and so was his grace. When he returned to Zeltennia, at the head of a column of Hokuten and Khamja reinforcements, he did not look at all like the thin, grinning man Druksmald had known in his youth. He looked every inch the king that his cousin had looked, when he had spoken his dreams of glory.

That was when Goltanna had learned the second lesson. That lordship is not merely a matter of blood, but of spirit. One can be born with lordly blood, but that does not make one a lord. Lordship was a mantle that only some could bear. And kingship was a heavier mantle still...and one that transformed those who could wear it well.

He pledged himself to his uncle, now his king, to learn from him what lordship meant.

He had risen through the ranks, and gained the esteem of his father's counselors. He was the dukeling of Zeltennia. The blood of kings ran through his veins.

That was the man Cid had seen, two years later. Druksmald Goltanna, who knew both dreams of glory, and the grim reality of war. He had swung his axe against every Ordallian soldier foolish enough to cross his path, as the cold rain soaked him to the bone and turned the battlefield to so much sucking muck beneath his feet. When he led the charge, and shouted, "To me!" he had felt his throat go raw with the force of his shout. He had heard his bellow thundering through the air, and could hardly believe it was him.

They had won the battle that day. And Cidolfas Orlandeau, squire of the Nanten, had pledged him his sword. Not the sword he held in his hands: not treasured Excaligard, one of the finest blades that remained to them after the fall of the Ydorans. It had been a squire's sword. But it was the first sword that Druksmald had won by virtue, not of his father's title or the blood in his veins, but of his own lordliness.

What had become of Cid's loyalty? What had become of Druksmald's lordliness?

He had been Duke Goltanna, liege lord of Goltanna, for thirty years, since his father had been claimed by the same plague that had taken Uncle Denny. He proudly bore the Black Lion that marked him as one of the kingdom's most noble families. He had ruled, ably and well, through difficult days.

But now, sitting on the throne that was not a throne, he did not feel much like a lord. And his old dreams of kingliness seemed as empty as any childhood fantasy.

The door the hall creaked open. Rowland, bruised and battered from his easy defeat at Cid's hands, bowed. "Ser Heiral and the Bishop, my lord."

Druksmald nodded wearily. "Send them in."

He should gather himself. He needed to look like a man in charge. He hadn't managed it by the time the Bishop strolled in, his robes of office put away for the night in favor of a loose green gown with the Virgo symbol embroidered over his heart. Ser Heiral strolled in behind him, with the black ram on his doublet and the red-and-black cloak of the Nanten upon his shoulders.

They bowed to Druksmald. He nodded. "Well?"

The Bishop and Ser Heiral exchanged glances. The Bishop gestured, and Delita spoke: "As best we can tell, Count Orlandeau's co-conspirators among us are few in number. Some we have imprisoned...some, we have sent messages in the Count's stead."

"We hope to suborn them," the Bishop added. "And to turn their plots against your enemies."

Druksmald stared at the naked sword in his lap. "Why did he do it?"

"You would have to ask him, my lord," the Bishop said.

Druksmald nodded. Yes, he would have to speak with Cid. He would have to understand the nature of this betrayal. In spite of the evidence against him, Druksmald did not think Cid was like Glevanne. Something else had motivated him.

"If he aimed to kill me..." Druksmald whispered, holding the sword aloft. "Then why did he...?"

"We cannot be sure he aimed to kill you," Ser Heiral put in.

Druksmald looked up. The Bishop seemed alarmed. "Ser Heiral-"

"He may have," Ser Heiral said. "If our theory is correct...he wished to see you deposed. With you and the Marquis out of the way, Cid would hold the reins of the Nanten unopposed. Perhaps he meant to kill you. Perhaps he meant to plead with you, to stand aside. Perhaps his conspirators intended to kidnap you, once you were isolated."

The Bishop nodded slowly. "Quite right, Ser Heiral. We cannot understand the depth of his treachery just yet."

"But why?" Druksmald asked. "Why now?" He shook his head. Decades spent together. Decades, counting on the brilliant Count Orlandeau and his brilliant sword. But the memories that hurt the most were the ones they'd made together before their names were known across Ivalice: the dukeling of Zeltennia and his bold swordsman. The men who would one day shape all of Ivalice.

Now look at them. A traitor, and the wreck of a man he'd betrayed. Unworthy of loyalty even from his oldest ally.

Ser Heiral studied Druksmald for a moment. "My lord, may I speak freely?"

"I would ask for nothing less," Druksmald said softly.

Ser Heiral nodded. "You are a great man, Duke Goltanna," he said. "But you are not the greatest I have known. That title belongs to Balbanes Beoulve. I suspect it always will."

Druksmald chuckled. He could not begrudge young Heiral that. It was Balbanes Beoulve who had adopted him and his sister of wards of his house, after all. And even if their connection had been less personal, well...Balbanes had been a titan.

"Balbanes Beoulve was a great man," Delita said. "He was also a good man." He paused, and his face darkened. "And from his loins sprung..." He gestured. "Dycedarg Beoulve may be as vile and cunning a creature as Louveria Larg. Zalbaag Beoulve is a brute with a good name. And Ramza Beoulve..." He shook his head sadly. "All this to say, my lord...rotten fruit can come from even the most noble branch."

Druksmald chuckled. Yes, he knew that. Knew it all too well. Not all born to noble houses were meant to wear the titles they wore. Viscount Blanche was one such man, and it sorely tested him to keep that preening fool upon his Council. But he could not turn away the Viscount's men, or his money, or his food. A kingdom was founded on such compromises.

"And, once rot is loose upon a tree...even the healthy branches can succumb to it." Ser Heiral sighed. "I once counted Ramza Beoulve as a dear friend. Now, his infamy grows with every passing day. And his brothers are no less wicked." He paused, then looked up. "Ah, wait a moment. Cid was sent to discuss terms of surrender with Knight-Commander Beoulve, was he not?"

Druksmald nodded, and Ser Heiral sighed bleakly. "And this after what happened to the Marquis..." He shrugged. "Perhaps they fed on his distaste for this war. Told him pleasant lies about the peaceful Ivalice that would await, if they could but march on Bethla Garrison." His lip curled. "As though we had not already suffered beneath Queen Louveria's lash. As though her brother's rule through her puppet son would be any better."

Druksmald nodded more slowly, watching Delita hungrily. Yes, Louveria Larg, and her arrogant brother...there was a pair utterly unsuited for their lordly blood and their high place in Ivalice. Both so cold, so imperious, so disrespectful of their fellow lords. He remembered, in a flash, Prince Orinus' third birthday party, so blonde and eager to play with his toys, chasing his fledgling chocobo around the room, as his father had wheezed upon his chair in the corner, and Bestrald and Louveria had strutted about the Lions' Den as though they had been born to it.

Bestrald had made one joke too many, about how Ivalice's grim plight could be placed squarely at the feet of old men who had failed to win a war. He had been watching Druksmald as he said it. And Druksmald had asked him how he would know what it took to win a war, when he could barely stand on his own.

Larg had never led men in battle. Larg, frail and smug, had let better men do that. Men like Balbanes. Men like Druksmald.

"This war is brutal," Ser Heiral murmured. "But it is necessary. You must trim the rotten branches, before the rot spreads to the rest of the tree. It may hurt. It may even weaken us, for a time. But the alternative..." Ser Heiral shook his head. "I am sorry, my lord. I am sorry Count Orlandeau could not see that."

The Bishop nodded at his side. "Ser Heiral speaks truly." He faced Druksmald. "Ivalice is a ship adrift in a storm. If we hope to make it through this storm, we need the right captain." He bowed. Beside him, Ser Heiral did the same. "We are lucky to have you, my lord."

Druksmald nodded slowly. He was not the dukeling he had been, eager to understand the burden of command. He had earned that right long ago. When his father had died, he had wondered if he was equal to the weight of his dukedom. But he had held it against the full might of the Ordallian army: he had held it as dear Uncle Denny had died of the Choking Plague, and weak Ondoria had frittered away their troops and treasure as the Largs whispered poison into his ear. He had kept the peace far better than the Hokuten had, as the Death Corps raged like wildfire across Gallione: he had obeyed even the Queen he hated, when word had come of the supposed conspiracy hatched by Pricess Ovelia, Uncle Denny's reclusive daughter. And he had followed the dictates of his conscience, and listened to the Princess, and learned how the threat of the Largs was far greater than he knew. He had ever aimed to be an honorable man, and an honorable lord.

And see how far the poison of the Largs had spread. How it had rotten the Beoulve scions, so they plotted with traitors and heretics, and broke even the honor of men like Cidolfas Orlandeau.

"Please, send my thanks to the Confessor," Druksmald said softly. "If he had not sent word of the conspiracy within our ranks..."

The Bishop inclined his head. "He will refuse them. He knows we battle for the soul of Ivalice itself. The Largs cannot be permitted to hold the reins of our fate."

Goltanna nodded. The Bishop guaranteed him the support of the Church. Young Heiral, working with him, had weeded out the nascent conspiracy in his ranks. The Hokuten, counting on the help of their traitor on the inside of Bethla Garrison, would march headlong into the jaws of the Black Lion. It would be a bloody battle...but there had been other bloody battles. As young Heiral said: they had to trim the rot, before they could begin to heal the tree.

He looked down at the sword in his lap. He thought of Cid, and of his father, and of his uncle. He thought of noble Balbanes, and the rotten Beoulves who had sprung from his loins. Rotten fruit from such a noble tree.

But if rotten fruit could fall from a noble tree...perhaps noble fruit could spring from other places, too.

"Approach me, Ser Heiral," Druksmald said, rising to his feet.

Delita approached at once. "Yes, your Grace?"

"You wish to see the Beoulves who betrayed you punished. Is that all you wish for?"

Delita shook his head. "My lord...in the years since Zeakden, I traveled far and wide. I saw how Ivalice churns, under an unsteady hand. How good men turn to riot. How the people suffer. I...believe I have spoken of this before."

"And what do you intend to do about it?"

Delita met his eyes. The old burn on his cheek gleamed dully in the dim light. "Exactly as I have done, your Grace. To do what good I can do, when I can do it. To find lordly men and women, whose reach and vision exceed my own, and put my skills to use for them. Like Baron Grimms. Like our good Bishop. Like Her Majesty." He bowed his head. "Like you."

Druksmald nodded. "Kneel, Ser Heiral."

Delita knelt. Druksmald looked down at the boy, who had traveled so far, and done so much, and spoken just the right words, to ease his weary thoughts. "You have survived the treachery of our enemies more times than I can count," Druksmald said. "At Baron Grimms' behest, you saved our Queen. With the Church's help, you have saved my life. Time and time again, you have gone above and beyond the call of ordinary duty. Time and time again, you have proved yourself a true hero of Ivalice." Gently, he touched the flat of Excaligard's golden, shining blade to each of Delita's shoulders. "Ser Heiral, I name thee a Count of Ivalice, and Knight-Commander of the Nanten."

The Bishop blinked. "My lord?" His voice was taut with disbelief.

Delita had gone completely still beneath the flat of the sword. "You may rise," Duke Goltanna said, and Ser Heiral rose. His face had gone so pale that the burn on his cheek could barely be distinguished from his surrounding skin. "My lord..." He shook his head. "There are...there are others, more worthy of the honor-"

"Perhaps," Duke Goltanna said, as he placed Excaligard in Delita's hand. "But I find it hard to believe. Looking at what you have done as a ward of House Belouve...as a simple soldier...as a knight...well. I cannot imagine how much more you can do, with an army under your command."

Delita stared at the sword, and fell to his knees in front of the Duke again. "I will not fail you, my lord."

"I have no doubt," Druksmald Goltanna said.

Druskmald Goltanna had spent his life at war, proving his worth for the title he was born to. Now there was one last war against tyranny: one last act of labor, before they would give birth to a new Ivalice. His Nanten would win this war, led by a new lord to represent this new era. Together, they would put a proper queen upon the throne. And of course, a proper Queen would need a proper king.

The throne room was not a throne room. But perhaps it could be. The throne of King Druksmald, savior of Ivalice.