(Thank you for your patience. Chapters to come as I am able)

Chapter 167: The Master Instructor

Bodan Daravon woke up, and knew that he was going to die.

To be a soldier is to be both man and beast: to reduce yourself to animal instincts, in service to human goals, like a minotaur whose brute strength is yoked to a farmer's plow, or a chocobo bearing its rider into battle. It was a long time since Bodan Daravon had taken the field in war, but such instincts are only blunted, never put aside entirely.

(Another thought occurs to Bodan, as he sits up, swift and silent, with the blood-and-metal death-instinct sharp in his nose, his throat, his eyes. Those animal instincts come out in humans in times of danger, strife, and war. And Ivalice has been at war for nearly sixty years. All of us, soldiers. All of us, beasts).

He placed a gentle hand on Besrodio's bare shoulder. He felt Besrodio stiffen in shock, as he always did when he was awoken suddenly. The physical wounds of his time as captive to Ludvich Baerd had mostly healed, but the psychological wounds remained. So many times, Bodan had been awoken by Dio quivering beside him, whimpering in the grip of some terrible nightmare, and Bodan would hold him until the nightmare subsided. Bodan was always careful to move quietly at night, lest Dio think he was another kidnapper come to claim him.

But tonight, the danger was not from dreams.

"They're here," Bodan said softly, and rose from his bed.

He felt the change on some level deeper than magic, deeper than instinct. When he turned his head, there was already a drawn sword level with his eyeline, shining with runes.

"Loffrey Wodring, I presume?" Bodan asked, just barely keeping his voice from trembling.

The face of the man holding the sword was not quite visible in the light of his rune-etched sword. "You're well-informed."

"Old habits." Bodan was very careful not to move. "May we have a moment to get dressed?"

The shadow did allow them a moment, then bound them by their wrists with rope and led them leashed down from the master suite. Weak moonlight trickled in from glass doors that led out to the rear of his property, painting the salon in chiaroscuro tones. There were two silhouettes in that moonlight, standing by the fireplace: one had a sword on his hip, while the other had a glowing staff in his hand.

Loffrey led them down the stairs. Bodan maintained as much dignity as he could manage, in a simple houserobe with his hands bound before him. He allowed his fear in the nervous flicker of his eyes, and the stiffness of his joints and spine. The fear was real: he only hoped it masked his excitement.

Loffrey, Vormav, and Cletienne. If it was only the three of them, they had a chance.

Weak as the moonlight was, it filled in some details on all three figures as they gathered in the salon—the brown-haired man with the staff in hand, the hooded man who led Besordio and Bodan before him, and the salt-and-pepper-haired man he vaguely recognized from one military function or another. But Bodan thought he would have recognized Vormav even without that passing familiarity: there was too much resemblance between father and daughter.

Bodan came to a stop, and managed a slight bow. "Knight-Commander Tengille. You've come for the Stones."

Vormav arched his thick eyebrows. "The heretics told you of us?"

"The heretics tried very hard to tell us nothing of you," Bodan replied. "I imagine they thought you might spare me, if they kept me in the dark." He allowed a little of his fear into his voice now, coloring the wryness of his words. He swallowed, then added, "Frankly, I'm surprised it took you this long to find us."

Vormav shrugged. "We only suspected your son had joined forces with Ramza after Bethla Garrison. We only had confirmation recently."

"And since they elude your grasp, you come to claim the Stones." Bodan studied him a moment. "With Stones in hand, would we be spared?"

Vormav cocked his head. "You'd betray your son?"

"Never," Bodan said shortly. "But you're here, and I doubt I could keep you from the Stones for long, even if I had a mind to." He allowed another tremble into his voice, then jerked his head towards the training room stairwell. "They're down below."

Vormav's head stayed cocked to one sides. His stone-grey eyes were narrowed in distrust. "I have no reason to believe you."

"You have to start your search somewhere," Bodan said. "And we'll even disarm the bomb waiting on the door."

Besrodio's head snapped towards Bodan. "Bode-"

"A Time Mage, an Archmage, and the Knight-Commander of the Templars," Bodan said shortly. "The bomb wouldn't stop them anyways, Dio."

Besrodio winced, and looked down at the floor. Bodan looked back to their captors. "Shall we?"

There was a moment's taut silence, as Vormav's hard eyes searched Bodan's face. Bodan did not bother trying to make his face look any particular way—he allowed every thought of panic, of worry, of calm, and of weariness to change his expression as they occurred to him. He was exactly as he appeared to Vormav Tengille: a terrified man doing his best to maintain control in the face of captors who could kill him as easily as breathing, and do far worse besides.

Finally, Vormav nodded. "You understand the consequences of deception."

"I do." Again, Bodan allowed the tremor into his voice.

Vormav gestured, and Bodan led the way, down the rough and crumbling steps that led to the training room. He paused before the heavy stone doors and looked back over his shoulder. "You will need to unbind Besrodio's hands."

Vormav studied them both another moment, then nodded curtly at Loffrey, who deftly unbound Besrodio's hands and then resecured that section of rope around one of the machinist's ankles. Besrodio, head still bowed low, removed a pair of pliers from their place concealed in the lintel above the door, then reached down to tug at the connecting tripwire threaded through the keyhole. After a moment's work, he nodded at Daravon, who unlocked the door and led them through.

The runelights came alive as they entered, sparkling like neatly-ordered stars. The great runes on the main floor glowed more quietly, just barely perceptible in the dusky light twinkling around their tiled borders. Near the center of the great array of tiles was a pile of gear—gems, weapons, stones and scrap metal, all the precious detritus that Ranza and Beowulf had acquired over the course of their journeys. Most prominent of these treasures was the lunar radiance of 11 Zodiac Stones.

Vormav studied the room carefully, his eyes raking the high ceilings and the patterns of enormous tiles, turning finally to study the bomb Besrodio had rigged above the door—secured by cunning anchors in the stone itself, its trigger tied to the tripwire that Besrodio had disabled when they entered. He cocked his head at the bomb. Bodan let the flicker of anxiety in his stomach pass through him without changing his posture or his expression.

Finally, he held out a hand. Loffrey handed Vormav the end of the rope that tied him to Besrodio and Bodan, and then-

Far stranger to see the Time Mage move from the outside. It was a little like the Thundergod: a sharp, swift change, as though the world had shifted from one blink to the next, but without the accompanying boom of displaced air. His blurred disappearance was punctuated by a flash of magic and a strangled yell: the border of a nearby tile flashed with aurora violence, and flung Loffrey back across the room.

Vormav moved, with his own terrible speed. His sword was drawn and place across Besrodio's throat in an instant.

"Cletienne!" he barked.

Cletienne was already hurrying towards Loffrey, helping him to his feet. Loffrey's hood had been knocked aside by the blast, revealing thin red hair and a pale complexion made paler still by his encounter with the magical ward.

"Sucked the magic out of me," Loffrey gasped. "Like a...a Vampire Knight."

"Ah, good," Bodan smiled as his hear pounded in his chest. "Just as we intended."

Vormav turned his stone eyes towards Bodan. His sword was steady against Besrodio's throat. Besrodio was frozen, blue eyes wide. "You talk, or he dies."

"Is talking all I have to do to keep him alive?" Bodan asked. "That's splendid news."

Vormav moved his hand ever-so-slightly: Besrodio tensed as the blade pushed closer to his skin. "I'm serious."

"So I have heard." Bodan smiled, to hide how his heart pounded, and pushed away nightmare images of that sword moving viper-quick, red blood spilling from Besrodio's open throat. "Perhaps you mean to torture him? Or me? You are quite the gifted interrogator, I am sure."

No tremor in his voice now. He was a lecturer correcting an unruly student. "Unfortunately for you, these defenses are keyed both to specific runes and to my blood. You need me, alive, able, and willing, to get through them." He considered for a moment. "You are all quite powerful. You could likely rip apart my defenses. The question is...can you do it before Ramza and my son catch up to you?"

Vormav's jaw clenched.

"I have no illusions as to my ability to contend with you," Bodan said. "My magic is as weak my son's. But I have no particular desire to die. Much less to be tortured to death." He nodded at Vormav. "You will let Besrodio go-" He nodded at Loffrey. "-and Templar Wodring and I will proceed through my defenses. You will not leave, for fear I may spring another trap. I will not move too slowly, for fear you will pursue Dio if I give you any cause to."

"Bode..." Bodan could not bring himself to meet Besrodio's pleading gaze.

Vormav glowered at him, then finally nodded. "Very well." He gestured for Loffrey with his spare hand: unsteadily, Loffrey left Cletienne, and approached Bodan. Bodan smiled, and held up his bound hands for Loffrey to undo the knots.

So far so good. Keep up the pressure, keep them off-balance, keep every demand reasonable, make a show of hiding nothing. Both sides anxious, playing for time, fingering their sword hilts and wondering if and when they should strike. Let them be as nervous as he was, so they would not see the trap he intended to spring.

"I'll go as well," Cletienne said, as Loffrey finished untying the knots.

Vormav and Bodan both shot startled looks to the young mage. He had approached the very edge of the tiles and was studying the border with obvious interest. "I'll assume you're correct, and that we cannot pierce your defenses in time. But I would still like to study how such things are made." He smile thinly. "Assuming you have no objections?"

Bodan's throat felt very tight. As before, he did not hide that feeling—he swallowed, his eyes flickering between Cletienne and Vormav. Having an Archmage within the field...that was a risk they had not calculated. But then, this was war: you must expect the unexpected, and adjust your plans and goals accordingly.

"What matter my objections?" he managed. He began to bind one end of the rope around his wrist, and gestured for Loffrey do the same. "Come."

He, Cletienne, and Loffrey stood at the border of the tile. Bodan watched as Vormav lowered his sword. Besrodio, pale and trembling, took two uncertain steps towards the stairwell.

"It will be alright, Dio," Bodan said. "Be safe."

Dio nodded, and fled up the stairs. In the same moment, Bodan stepped backwards. There was the slight, electric tingle of the magic they had raised, but it did drain him or rebuff him, as it had Loffrey. When he reached the large master rune at its center, he traced it with his foot in an unusual pattern, pivoting off the corners and tracing only half the arcs, as though he were dancing a peculiar dance. Slowly, the tingling sense of ambient magic faded. Cletienne confidently crossed the boundary as soon as the ward had been dispelled: Loffrey followed a trifle more cautiously.

"I'm surprised to find such a place in private hands," Cletienne said, eyeing the runed tiles on the ground and their matching partners on the ceiling.

"Ah, yes," Bodan mused. "I had not finished remodeling it when you were attending Gariland." He paused. "It once belonged to Archmage Tellah."

His hopes that interesting tidbit would entice Clietenne were rewarded: Cletienne's head snapped around like an excited child, his eyes wide. "What?"

"The manor house isn't his," Bodan continued, leading them on to the next rune in the spiral pattern that would disarm the defenses. "That was built long after his time. But the whole of Gariland is built on the ruins of the old facilities here." A strange shadow passed over Cletienne's face: Bodan acted as though he hadn't seen it. "When Tellah became the de facto governor of Gariland, he took possession of this place. Used it to train his personal guard."

"I'm even more surprised you can afford it," Cletienne said, though hints of the shadow still lingered on his face.

"It's a question of power sources," Bodan explained, dancing another complicated pattern on the next master rune. "The Ydorans wrought well, but the power source here was already having trouble in Tellah's time. He was capable enough to manage these difficulties, but within a century..." He shrugged. "It changed hands many times over the years. An enterprising Baron built the original Manor, then died without heirs. Headmaster Kramer at the Magic Academy made an attempt to restore the original power source, and it bankrupted him." His work finished, the magic faded again, and Bodan led them onto another tile, at a slow and stately pace.

"Pseudocite?" Loffrey asked.

Bodan glanced at the Time Mage with some surprise. "Exactly right."

"A touchy material."

"That is my understanding, as well." He chuckled. "To be fair to Headmaster Kramer, I have not done much better. What little gil I've managed to wrangle through my career was poured back into this place. Beowulf will not have much of an inheritance."

No. Not much at all. No wealth, no house, no land, no title. But he had given him his name, and supported him as he chased his dreams. That would have to be enough.

"Have you worked with pseudocite before?" Bodan asked, as he deactivated another rune.

"Only a little," Cletienne said. "Not much of it survives." He sighed. "Ydorans were damn clever to be able to mimic some of the power of auracite. Not sure why it doesn't last longer."

"It has been the subject of much debate since long before I was born," Bodan said. "And I imagine it will remain so after I am gone."

Soon now. So soon.

"So how did you get it working again?" Cletienne asked. Bodan wondered if Cletienne knew how naked his pretense was—the sly easiness of his voice, as though Bodan wouldn't see him trying to wrangle information he could use to break down these defenses and seize the Stones sooner.

Well, let him learn. Bodan quite like the idea of spending his last moments teaching. A fitting capstone to the life of the Master Instructor.

"I cheated, of course," Bodan said. "But don't we all?" He paused, to look up and down Cletienne's marvelous staff, studying each rune carefully. "Well. Perhaps not you, Archmage."

He resumed his steady spiral towards the treasures at the center of the room, and the 11 Zodiac Stones he would soon die to protect.

"The genius of the Ydorans—a genius we have largely lost—was in finding alternate sources of magical power, like pseudocite," Bodan said. "I could not equal their achievement, but I could use their work to ease my way. They built a highly efficient structure here, to allow the pseudocite to feed the runes and the runes to feed the pseudocite. I built upon that system. Changed how the runes share power among themselves...and how they derive their power from their users."

Another rune deactivated. Only three remained on his winding path.

"Every spell translates the pure energy of will generated by a living soul into a specific effect," Daravon said. "But that translation is never prefect. Every spell sheds excess energy. And the runes in this room are calibrated to drink that energy."

"Ah," Cletienne nodded. "You tax the magical use of every person who uses this room." He chuckled. "No wonder you could build such a defense against Loffrey. You had already modified the runes to take extra power. You simply modified them again, to take even more."

"Exactly so."

"And the blood magic?" Again that sly note in Cletienne's voice. Yes, he thought he understood the mechanism well enough now, but he was troubled by the missing piece of information.

"As recent an addition as the augmented draining effect," Daravon said, deactivating another rune. So terribly close now. "Besides the materials Ramza and his friends have brought me, they also brought me no shortage of knowledge. You should see the things we've done with Ramza's equipment, using his blood. Pitiful as my magic is, it is enough to act as a key for this door. So to speak."

He finished tracing his foot along the rune, and moved to the rune in the next square—the one that magnified gravity. Just in front of him, the treasures Ramza and his friends had taken were piled neatly, with the 11 Zodiac Stones glowing gently in their midst. Closer to the edge of the tile, a rune-etched sphere of simple grey stone sat beneath a gleaming Ydoran spear and a sheathed dagger.

He moved to the gravity rune, and began tracing another pattern. Cletienne and Loffrey's eyes were fixed upon the square and its splendid treasures.

"It took years to make this room usable," Daravon mused. "Years of spells cast before any of the runes worked. Careful rationing afterwards, to acquire enough surplus power to use it at all. Hence my relative destitution. But I think it was worth it."

He traced one final arc with his toe.

"There's twenty years of power in these walls. All keyed to my blood."

And slammed his foot down dead center in the rune.

A wash of static over his skin: a flux of terrible, rippling force that darkened the air around him. Loffrey went flying, stretched to the end of the rope that tied him to Bodan. Cletienne was quicker: he clutched his staff and flexed shimmering magic, skidding backwards before the force of the gravity shift. But Bodan was quicker still: when Loffrey flew to the end of the rope, and the rope went taut, Bodan was already pivoting on his heel, turning that outwards velocity into sideways velocity, swinging Loffrey like a flail to crash into Cletienne. As the two went tumbling, and the rope went slack, Bodan lunged out, grabbing for the rune-etched stone sphere.

Movement, in all directions: then sudden stillness, as Loffrey slowed time for the two of them and pounded towards Bodan with sword drawn. Power gleaming on that sword (yes, a Mage Knight and a Time Mage, a deadly and dangerous combination), ready to rip through Daravon.

Impressive, that he'd rallied so quickly from the drain. Impressive, but he looked pale, his lips set in a thin line, his hand clenched white around his sword hilt. He was feeling the strain.

Let him feel it more.

With the hand and its rope, Bodan yanked downwards, keeping Loffrey's scything sword from cutting through the rope that still tied them together. Loffrey stumbled, fought for balance, not seeing how Bodan's fingers flickered along the stone sphere in his hand.

To Bodan's left, the gravity rune swelled with light, the brightness slowed by Loffrey's time magic so that it appeared to rise as the sun on the horizon. But as the light swelled, there was a rippling through the air, thicker and deeper than the mirage shimmers of common spells. Loffrey's mouth opened in a silent o of surprise as the rune yanked him off his feet, and the world lurched into sudden motion around them.

Gravity magic, yes: the accounts of the Empire's Stillblades were few and far between, but he knew that Gravity Magic had been key to the Empire's efforts at combating them. It was nearly a lost art now, maintained mainly in ancient rune structures like this one. It would not hold Loffrey for long, but Bodan just needed a few moments while he dealt with Cletienne.

Time was moving normally again, and Cletienne was moving with it. The Archmage's gaze was narrowed with concentration, staff raised like a torch against the dark. Power swelled upon the tip of that staff, ready to meet any challenge Bodan could offer.

Or at least, so he thought.

Fingers flickering across the sphere again, calling up the magic of different runes, letting them flow through one another through the power structure that supplied them, letting him move magic from one place to the next, as Radia did through her Rouge, as Ramza did through Honorbound. There was magic in this place that weakened magic: it flowed like a waterfall down from a ceiling rune, cascading down on Cletienne.

The Archmage's eyes widened with surprise as the burning power atop his staff guttered like a candle flame. And as he fought to steady his power, Daravon's fingers flickered again: from other tiles, lightning crackled, raining down on Cletienne. He stumbled backwards, raising flashing wards to keep the bolts at bay.

Bodan's fingers kept flickering. So did his eyes. As Cletienne fell back before a rain of lightning, Loffrey was struggling to take his feet (and Bodan kept him struggling, yanking the rope that tethered them together even as he yanked gravity one direction and another, making sure Loffrey could not find his balance). He had a moment to look at the true threat in the room. He had a moment to look at Vormav Tengille.

And he had a moment to watch, as Vormav Tengille melted into golden darkness, and the Lucavi was revealed.

He glimpsed it with a commander's wary swiftness—a lion face cast in silhouette by a radiant mane, a purple robe draped over a brawny figure covered in fine tawny hair, emerging from a gold-limned void. In emerging, it had already raised one hand (each finger ending in a wicked black claw). Light burned upon the hand, deepened by a terrible darkness.

A moment later, and that shadow-sketched light exploded outwards, a torrent of golden destruction surging straight towards Bodan.

So here were the monsters of legend that haunted Ivalice! Here were the demons walking in the flesh of men, in service to still greater horrors! That the Germonique Gospel had told him other things about these monsters, and the Ultima they hoped to resurrect, did not change his awe.

Or his excitement.

Ah, Beowulf. No wonder you chose this path.

Master Instructor Bodan Daravon, ever on the periphery. Ever reading of other men's great deeds, teaching of their insights. Not for Bodan Daravon the path of Balbanes Beoulve or Cidolfas Orlandeau: not for Bodan Daravon glorious wagers won and lost on the strength of his arm and the quickness of his wit. Daravon's life was painstaking, as restoring this room had been painstaking.

"Give me a lever big enough, and a place to stand, and I will move the world." So he had quoted to his son, teaching him a little wisdom...and hiding from him the full weight of that wisdom. Because one must first learn to build the lever, and then search for the place to stand, and both could be the work of lifetimes. For all his learning, for all his searching, Bodan Daravon had yet to find either.

But patience and painstaking effort have their rewards. Droplets of water can reshape stone on a long enough timescale: careful trimming of a tree can permanently change its whole shape. A castle is built, stone by stone, until it towers into the sky. Perhaps he had not found a lever big enough to change the world, or a place to wield it. But he could find other levers to use, other places to stand. If he could not move the world, he could still move what moved upon it. Be they Time Mages, or Archmages, or Lucavi of legend.

Golden annihilation roared towards Bodan Daravon, but Bodan's mind and fingers raced. Pull from this rune, and a shimmering wave crashes through the beam from one side, weakening its awful strength, wisps of burning light fading to nothing, and the shifting of the magic-weakening field might free up Cletienne so your fingers keep flickering, another surge from the gravity rune to jerk Cletienne and Loffrey in the same direction even as you call up a ward of golden light to match the golden death barreling down towards you.

Ignition! Golden light swirled against golden light in a thunderous cacophony, golden fireworks punctuated by deep cracklings like the roar of a bonfire, golden embers dancing around the whorling place where the two magics clashed.

The ward would not hold long. But then, it was not supposed to. It was only supposed to buy you time and space.

Strengthening his magic, strengthening fire, trying something new: from above, a column of flame descended down upon the Lucavi. The lion-headed demon roared in anger, staggering back before the force of the flame.

Twenty years spent building this place, and it had been two years before any of the runes had been usable, five years before there'd been enough surplus power running through the underlying runic systems to allow more than five minutes of training at a time, ten years before there'd been surplus enough to schedule careful hours of training with select candidates. He had spent that surplus with a more generous hand this past year, allowing Ramza and his friends to use these resources as they wished. He was spending it as he had never spent it before, pouring it through the channels Mustadio and Besrodio had designed together, one giant spellgun that he controlled from the sphere in his hand.

It would not last long. But then, it did not have to. An avalanche does not have to last more than a moment to reshape the very land. And a clever man can start an avalanche by moving only a single pebble.

Eyes and fingers flickered to their own rhythms. The hand with the rope pulled this way and that even as it fluxed magic through the gravity rune, keeping Loffrey off-balance, keeping him tethered, turning his strange magic against him. Cletienne was penned in, constantly on the defense against a barrage of spells Daravon conjured with a flick of his fingers. And as for the Lucavi? Lightning followed fire followed lightning, wards of golden light interrupted his aborted attacks or stopped him dodging backwards, power thrumming through every rune in the room, moving as Daravon willed.

And for a moment, Bodan Daravon thought he could win.

"Now this is impressive!"

The voice that carried through the room was powerful in its own right—deep and well-projected, with a commander's natural volume and authority. But there was magic in that voice, too: magic that rode on the waves of power thrumming through the training hall, amplifying itself in the echoes of spent spells. It didn't just come from the stairway: it radiated through the air, so Bodan heard it behind him as well as before him.

As though the voice were a spell itself, everyone paused—the Lucavi and his allies, and Daravon and his spells. All eyes drifted towards the source of the voice. To the two figures standing in the doorway.

Neither was human, though they were humanoid in shape. The one on the left was a hulking metal monstrosity, moving like a hunchback or a Fabulian ape, steadying itself upon its great mechanical hands. But somehow the one on the right—the one Daravon recognized—was worse.

"You finished Headmaster Kramer's job?" Archmage Elidibus asked. Over twenty years since the two men had first met—Elidibus on a victory tour of Gariland, inspiring the cadets who would follow his example in the war. The years had changed him, as they might change a cliffside—waves had only sharpened the jagged rock of him, made the hair upon his head and face wilder. The air around him shimmered with potential.

"It took some doing, Archmage," Daravon said, raising his voice as though speaking to a crowded lecture hall. "I'm...I'm surprised to see you."

"It's been some time, hasn't it?" Elidibus smiled.

"Where is the machinist?" Vormav's voice had deepened in his Lucavi guise, reverberating in the same way as Elidibus'.

"We have not seen...Master Bunansa." That was the metal man, his voice echoing strangely. And why did he call Besrodio Master?

"Of course you didn't," Elidibus chuckled. "The Instructor is fighting a delaying action, no?"

"It's Master Instructor now," Bodan said.

"Ah. My apologies." Elidibus cast a measuring stare around the room. "Quite a feat...not sure even the men who built this place could have foreseen how you might weaponize it." He smiled at Daravon again. "I've become a fair hand with Ydoran magitek these last years. It's really impressive work, Master Instructor."

"Thank you," Bodan said automatically. "Ydoran magitek?" He felt his mind working at surprising speed, held in the cold distance of his shock. "Ah. Beneath the Lighthouse?"

"Quite so."

"There were rumors..."

"I'd love to hear them." He looked around again. "I assume Master Bunansa has some secret route out of here we couldn't see. And of course, every moment you hold us here is a chance for something to go wrong. One ally or another to come riding in. Or perhaps Master Bunansa rides to bring some reinforcements?"

Bodan managed his own small smile. "You're not asking me to confess my plan, are you?"

"What is there to confess?" Elidibus asked. He cast another measuring look around the room, then said, "You've done all you can. Give us the Stones, and I guarantee both of your lives."

No sooner had the words left his mouth then Vormav had raised a clawed hand, fresh power thrumming around him. But as the black-touched golden fire started to burn, Elidibus flew across the room, as fast as Cid or Ramza or Loffrey, so he stood in the Lucavi's path.

"You can accept my terms," Elidibus growled, and that growl was as deep and resonant as his voice had been, echoing through the room. "Or you can see me fight alongside him."

Silence again. Cletienne, Loffrey, and the Lucavi held themselves as still as Bodan. Bodan swallowed against the dryness in his throat. His elation was gone. So was the sharp death-sense in his nose. Danger wasn't near: it wasn't even here. It had come and gone, as surely as the moment when a pebble sets an avalanche into motion.

He could not survive. But then, he'd never planned on surviving.

"It's a very kind offer, Archmage Elidibus," Bodan said. "But I'm afraid I cannot accept."

Elidibus glanced over his shoulder. "You were only keeping them at bay because they're off-balance, and trying to claim a prize. You cannot stand against us all."

"I am aware," Bodan said. "But I am also aware of what you're here to do." He shrugged. "As you say, I am fighting a delaying action. I will count every second that I delay you as a victory."

Elidibus smiled sadly. "Very well." He waved vaguely with his staff. "Hashmalum, Cletienne, Loffrey...stand aside."

"That's a slight problem for me," Loffrey drawled, holding up the rope bound around his wrist that still tied him and Bodan together.

"Cut it," Elidibus said. "And nothing else."

Loffrey nodded, and sliced neatly through the rope. He and Cletienne moved slowly to one end of the room.

Behind Elidibus, the Lucavi glowered down at him. "We've wasted enough time-"

"-and will waste more, if you do not heed me now." Elidibus did not look back at him.

The Lucavi grimaced, and moved slowly backwards, standing just besides the metal man by the doorway that led out into the stairwell. Then it was just Elidibus and the Master Instructor on the training room floor.

From his place at the edges of the tiled floor, Elidibus bowed. "Out of respect for you, Master Instructor...I won't hold back."

And he didn't. Not when he raised himself from his bow with magic burning at the tip of his staff. And not for the ten seconds it took for Bodan Daravon to splash to the ground in a pool of his own blood.

He rose from his bow with magic already crackling on the edge of his staff. He rose, and Daravon's fingers were already flickering along his sphere, readying every magic he'd used to contain Vormav, Cletienne, and Tengille. Ice was already forming in the air, a low mist to rain down upon Elidibus: a golden ward was half-formed between them, ready to catch any spell. When the energy in Elidibus' staff exploded out into a Flare of lurid greed, Bodan was ready to meet it with his own golden ward, ready to weaken that magic, disrupt it, icicles raining down like a cloud of arrows-

He had seen how fast Elidibus could move—that blurring motion, somewhere between Ramza, Cid, and Loffrey. But seeing it, he hadn't understood it. Elidibus the mage was also Elidibus the warrior. That awful speed and awful power were conjoined in one man.

He had responded to the first Flare the Archmage had conjured. By the time he'd readied his magics, he was already faced with three more—maroon like a sunset horizon, blue like a morning sky, violet as the chocobo he'd once gotten for son.

Bodan's eyes flickered around the room. Eyes and mind alike felt too slow. The shimmering efforts at dispelling magic would only draw steam from those flames, not douse them. The golden ward he'd raised would be shredded like so much paper. But it was the icicles that made Bodan realize he was well and truly beaten. The icicles, conjured into the air above Elidibus, raining down upon a man that was no longer there.

Bodan found him, just before the moment of impact. He had spent weeks studying Cidolfas Orlandeau: if he could track the Thundergod's movements, he could track anyone's. The old Archmage was moving in a wide arc suggested by the Flares he'd left in his wake, using his own terrible magic as cover. The Archmage and his magics would all hit Daravon together.

So Bodan Daravon's fingers flickered across the stone sphere, one final time.

The gravity rune that had once held Loffrey yanked at Bodan now, ripped him away from Flares and Archmage alike. He hadn't been ready for the force of that pull, nor the strangeness of it—the sense of being, not pulled by a rope to one side, but actually falling to one side as one tumbles from a tree. His nostrils burned with the heat of the magic to one side of him: his ears were filled with the awful grinding roar of terrible magic making contact with stone. He stumbled, caught himself, whirled around to face Elidibus-

Found the Archmage was already in front of him. Behind him, the air was filled with muticolored flame, the aftermath of his barrage of Flares (and part of Bodan wanted to laugh: a barrage of Flares, a magic unheard of in the time of the Ydorans, and for all the legends of Elidibus' might Bodan was sure he was stronger now than when he'd disappeared ten years ago. Saint Above, but the stories this man might have, the knowledge inside his head! And Bodan would never learn of it. Bodan would never know). His staff was already outthrust, towards Bodan's right shoulder.

There is a flare of heat. For that moment, there is no pain. But some part of Bodan understands: the heat at his shoulder, and the sudden numbness. He understand that he has no right arm anymore.

No right arm. But still his left.

The staff is outthrust. The air is full of magic. Bodan Daravon has caught his balance, and uses the force of Elidibus' attack to fuel his own. The heel of his left hand rockets for Elidibus' throat.

He is not entirely surprised to find his attack stopped. He is surprised at the pain of it. For an instant, the pain is so mundane it shocks him. He has felt this pain before, when he was young. The pain of being bitten. It takes him a moment to match pain to vision. To see the heel of his hand, caught in Elidibus' strong white teeth.

Then Elidibus' staff flickers, and Daravaon hits the ground, and the pain in his left elbow—the pain from the place his left arm now ends—is a fire that consumes all thought.

He is dimly aware of movement around him—of Loffrey blurring to the center tile again. Just as dimly, he is aware of magic answering the Time Mage's charge: runes flashing across the room, fresh wards and barriers crackling into being, sealing the door to the training hall, sealing the tiles from each other, sealing the central tile that holds the Stones. Dimly, he hears the Lucavi bellowing commands, and feels fresh magic crackling in the air, as this monstrous company fights through the final defenses coming alive in his training room. Dimly, he sees Elidibus kneeling beside him, Bodan's blood upon his mouth and beard.

"One final delaying action?" Elidibus asks. Magic shimmers from the tips of his staff, easing the fire in Bodan's elbow. The need to scream fades with the fire.

"Hopefully...more than that." Vision rimmed in black, as the shock of trauma spreads from his missing limbs, as consciousness is lost with the blood that pours from his amputations.

"Oh?"

In spite of the pain, Bodan manages to smile. "Where do you think...Besrodio is?"

So many lessons have gone into shaping this room into its current form. Lessons learned from Alicia, Lavian, Radia, Malak, and Ramza let them set the stage, and weaponize the runes in ways he might never have envisioned. But all that stolen power could never had bested any one of these foes: it could only delay them, hem them in, draw them close. Blind them to the pebbles moving upon the mountaintop. Blind them to the incoming avalanche.

The bomb on the door was loosely modeled on the network of mines the Church had used at Bethla Garrison: conventional explosions, all bound together by a clever magitek network, secreted here and there throughout the house. Besrodio began arming them when he "disarmed" the first one. He has been at work arming the rest, while Bodan draws the eyes of his captors.

There is something else upon that bomb—the little crystal device Zalbaag brought with him a month ago, that allowed him to record Vormav Tengille and Dycedarg Beoulve. Besrodio, genius that he is, has managed to turn it into something like a Matoya, transmitting images to him through the same network of explosives that run through the house.

When Bodan had conceived of his suicidal plan, he had told Dio to wait for the most opportune moment. He had known, of course, that sweet Dio would not wait for the moment to deal the most damage. He would wait for the moment when all hope for Bodan was lost.

A poor strategic choice. But it was nice to know you were loved, at the end. And besides, Bodan had included it in his own strategy, as he had included aught else.

For Vormav Tengille had come with only his handpicked conspirators, to claim the Stones. His immense power would be balanced against time pressure and the fear of discovery. He would allow Bodan to lead him deeper into the Manor. And, in the face of Bodan's defeat, he would move to secure the Stones. He would see the magic as an obstacle to secure his prize. Not as a wall, to keep him penned in.

Elidibus' frown faded. A wide grin spread across his face. "Quite clever, Master Instructor," Elidibus said. "Let's see how your trap pays off."

The two men of Gariland smiled each other, as the explosion He was still smiling as the explosion rang out over the door—the first of many, to bring his manor collapsing down around them. A moment's self-pity, for the undoing of his decades of labor. A moment's self-pity, that he had not won his last battle. A moment's self-pity, that he had not said a proper goodbye to his son.

Only a few moments. Only a few regrets. Not bad, for the life he'd lived.