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The city was rife with joy and celebration when the party ventured out into the streets that morning, well-rested and content for a reprieve from the days of battle and hardship. Moving as one they ascended the stairs leading up from the bazaar and into the passageway of the North End, one of Rabanastre’s many flourishing markets. The street was packed to burst with both visitors and locals united in their enthusiasm for the holy day, people of all races mingling together and chatting excitedly. Ashe smiled beatifically at the customs: children chased each other about the streets in robes derived from Artemisia and Mausollos’ ancient garbs, shrieking with delight and hiding behind the legs of their mothers. Some of the boys were dressed as the liege Braxiest, wielding wooden swords that they used to tease the imperials guards stationed in the square. Their taunting went either entirely ignored or were met with a chuckle, the soldiers’ laughter echoing hollowly behind their metal masks. The adults talked animatedly and drank deep from their glasses and tankards, tokens all from the Sand Sea and various stands that had opened along the way to give liquid comfort from the heat. Older children were not adverse to costume play: young ladies wearing veils of the finest colours, bedecked with gossamer wings sewn into the backs of their tunics, cast desert rose petals out from windows and off rooftops, the array of hues descending like globs of paint from the sky. Lads donned masks that covered half of their faces, shielding both eyes and nose, revealing mouths that stretched into smirks, grins, or solemn frowns, and wore cloaks with the symbol of House fon Carria stitched into the cloth: a quadriga reined by four steeds in which Mausollos and Artemisia proudly steered in their winged splendor. Musicians wandered through the crowds playing lutes, hand-held harps and small tom-drums, preceded by dancers and bards that sang praises to Dalmasca and her royal families. The audience cheered them on and sang along as best they could from the heat and the pressing influence of liquor, smiles on their faces and tears of happiness shining in their eyes.

The sextet stood thunderstruck in the square, watching the festivities with a mixture of intrigue, awe and bliss, though feeling slightly disconnected from it all. Quite the spectacle for a holy day, Balthier internally mused.

Wrenching themselves from the reverie induced by the celebrations, Penelo and Vaan bid a brief adieu to call upon their foster father, promising to reunite some time later in the temple. They were swallowed instantly into the crowd, their flaxen hair and small bodies becoming but another appendage in the mass of bodies. Basch enjoyed the sights with a wistful glint in his eyes, and Fran eyed the throng with the infinite patience of her tribe; though unaccustomed to the splendor of Hume gaiety she certainly had a fair amount of time to observe it and pass her keen judgment in the years of willed exile from the Wood. Balthier leaned closer to her and spoke in an undertone.

“What do you make of this?” He asked her, his eyes on Ashe as she accepted a small brooch that bore the House fon Carria insignia from one of the Bangaa vendors. She made to pay him but the Bangaa merely shook his head and waved her on. “A fitting token for a maid of Lady Artemisia’s ilk,” he said as he handed another brooch to a little girl bouncing eagerly at his feet. Balthier quietly tsked to himself at the sight. Freely distributing gifts was surely a rarity among merchants who would seek to gain considerable profit from the influx of travelers. And what a line to use with a straight face!

Fran seemed oblivious to Ashe’s new trinket, choosing instead to stare up at the petals falling from the sky, her scarlet eyes squinting against the sun. “All things have need of remembrance,” she said, which didn’t quite help Balthier know her mind any better. Vieran prophesy was always so wretchedly vague.

He shrugged and looked over to Ashe, who clasped the brooch in her hands and eyed its intricacies, admired the delicate craftwork and details of the faces and clothing. “I thought you said this was a holy day.” He said to her, one of his brows lifted for emphasis on his wry intrigue.

Ashe closed her fingers around the brooch and looked straight at Balthier, her expression difficult to read. “In the streets the people celebrate Mausollos and Artemisia’s love for their kingdom and for each other. In the temple pilgrims gather to honour their memory and pay a solemn tribute.” Her lips twitched and Balthier saw the pink tiers work themselves into a frown. “Rabanastre has had little cause and occasion to celebrate these past two years; denied of their freedom and bereft of their heart. . . I am glad to see them revel so, no matter how extravagant you think it to be.”

“I’d wager the imperials will enjoy the clean-up.” Though he would never say it, the spectacle was heart-warming and oddly beautiful, a testament to either Hume’s resilience or folly in troubled times. Seeing such celebration when horrors loomed constantly out of sight was somewhat endearing. . . Though likewise disturbing. Men died daily, innocent blood was constantly being spilled, fathers were lost and families forever sundered and these people went on smiling and laughing, rejoicing in the beauty of the day and of dead royals. It troubled Balthier though he saw no cause to speak of it. To insult a Dalmascan tradition in its capital city would be a faux pas even he was not brazen enough to make. Instead Balthier busied himself with wondering how he had managed to be consistently roped into the kingdom’s various scruples.

He had accompanied Vaan through the Garamsythe Waterway with his eye keenly fixed on the magicite, and naught else, yet had managed to not only meet up with a Resistance member but also be imprisoned as one. There, of course, he met the kingslayer and set him free—only to return to Rabanastre and be told he had to go on a rescue mission. As if the idea that it was partially his fault that an innocent young maid had been ransomed by headhunters wasn’t troubling enough, she had to be Vaan’s girl of all the girls in Rabanastre, and as that saucy tart Fate would have it Basch also had need to seek Bhujerba—and petitioned for his assistance. It could have ended there, a nasty little voice inside his mind said; he could have bid both men adieu and left with Fran to wander the skies and lands, biding their time until another prize came along, ripe for the taking. But then there was that Lamont. . . and, of course, matters of the Resistance came yet again into play and he found himself shackled and incarcerated once more. It would have been foolish to try and part with the others on theLeviathan, but afterwards? After they had saw Ashe to her uncle’s estate and been handsomely cared for that night—Balthier was grateful, at least, to have sampled royal treatment despite the unpleasant circumstances leading up to it—surely he could have found a way to avoid what came next. Ever determined, and quite brazen, which he rather liked in a woman, Ashe had to go and snatch at his ship. . . and ask him to kidnap her. Though it certainly had its appeals despite the threat of even more people out for his blood, Ashe only further cemented his part in her quest by dangling the prospect of virginal, renowned riches in front of him. Any pirate worth his reputation would have taken the bait, Balthier told himself. And any pirate worth his reputation would have flown off and left Dalmascan affairs to its own people. Chance, it would seem, did not want him to keep a neutral stance in this matter. Now she had need of him again, though he had to remind himself that he offered to see her to Archades. Balthier sighed and shook his head. If he had any idea that the events of the past several weeks would have led him on the road back to a home he saw no reason to see again, he would have run off and never bothered with princesses and tombs and pretty trinkets. And yet here he stood, and griping over slights in the past would get him nowhere, nor would it change the fact that he chose to be here.

The musical troupe ceased their dancing and singing, the last notes of the song fading into a dull hum barely audible over the chatter of the crowd. A wave of raucous applause surged up from their audience and they all began to move in a slow march, their steps out of time and leisurely paced. A sizeable cluster of folk accompanied them, some of them taking the liberty to announce that they were making for the temple in the Southern Plaza and that all interested parties should follow. Many rushed forward eagerly to join the swelling ranks and Ashe shared a look with the others. They nodded in turn and moved to accompany the fray.

Hanging from posts and displayed proudly by city-folk did the banners and Dalmascan flags flutter in the desert breeze, clashing with the sight of sanguine tapestries the Empire hung from the city’s highest points, as if to impose a constant reminder of the force looming over the kingdom. Today they were ignored; the Empire was a matter of no concern when there was celebration to be had. The procession strolled at a snail’s pace as they squeezed through the cluttered streets, their followers bumping shoulders with those around them and invading each others’ personal spaces. The air was hot and stank with the tight press of bodies, warm breath, delectable food and the foul odor of sweat. Balthier wrinkled his nose and kept close behind Ashe, wondering how many thieves would be out scoping the crowds in hopes of pilfering unsuspecting pockets. It certainly wouldn’t be hard to do—so many people with all matters of distractions to keep their minds off their gold until they had time to use it would be fitting victims of sneaky hands, indeed. Balthier glared hard at a young man who had inched closer to them, his suspicions mounting, and took the time in the parade’s pause to warn the awe-struck princess of less virtuous pilgrims.

“You would do best to watch your purse,” Balthier muttered from behind her, breathing in the sweet smell of her bathing oil, a fine accessory from the hovel of an inn they slept at last night. It was certainly a fair deal more pleasant than what was currently on the air around them.

Ashe turned her head to regard him over her shoulder and frowned, her brows knitted as she scanned the crowd to catch what he saw. Failing to see anything amiss she asked, “What makes you so certain?”

Balthier glared witheringly at the young man at Ashe’s side, who returned the unwelcome look with a frightened one of his own. He spun on his heel and quickly split through the crush of bodies, disappearing amidst the masses in a flash. “One would hope to learn a few things of pirates and hounds after six years in their midst, princess.” Balthier replied, feeling quite pleased with himself.

Her expression softened and Ashe moved to face the front again, craning her neck to see over the heads of others and perhaps spot the source of their immobility. “You would know better than I.”

“Sadly, they all aren’t as dashing as yours truly. . .Most are as helpless as Vaan,” The sky-pirate leaned forward so that his breath fluttered over the bared flesh at Ashe’s back, taking advantage of their close proximity to study the details of her collar and the intricacies of its design. “And what did you learn during your time spent underground with those brave men?”

Balthier noted the faint blush that spread across the back of her neck and how her shoulders stiffened at his words. Ashe made no move to get away from him, however, and a long moment passed before she decided to respond. “Mayhap you’ll find the temple as interesting as the back of me,” she mused.

He retreated a bit and stepped so that he was now at her side, occupying the space that had opened in the thief’s absence. Ashe did not look at him, nor did she seem to disapprove of his presence; Balthier could see that she was smiling faintly, maintaining her end of this verbal intercourse. “That depends on what it has to offer. Relics of martyrs, sculptures of kings and queens, royal baubles and jewels. . . Things of that sort?”

“I meant the experience,” her pale grey eyes flickered over to him. “You’ve traveled to many places, yes? Though I’d say that nothing can quite prepare you for the sight of the temple, it contains knowledge from which even a pirate might profit.”

Balthier frowned. “Another fortune that can’t be measured, is it?” He hoped to avoid another let down like the one back in Raithwall’s tomb. Though obtaining one of the gods’ children as a battle companion was well and good it wasn’t exactly what Balthier had in mind. You couldn’t brag about an Esper to the chums in the pub, as most didn’t even know what an Esper was.

Ashe tilted her head and abandoned any hope of seeing what went on ahead of them, staring off as a cloud of thought descended on her. “I think you’ll enjoy it—particularly the past of Lord Mausollos.”

“Oh? Enlighten me, then.”

They shifted up a few paces, another cheer rising up from the crowd as their progress continued. The pathway began to narrow and Ashe had to step closer to Balthier, her shoulder pressing into elbow. The cool metal of her attire chilled him through his sleeves. “Lord Mausollos was not born into royalty, though you won’t find his origins oft told. I learned of it from a historian at court during my studies. Mausollos fon Carria was no better than a thieving marauder known for his equal skill in wit and pillage, before his days as a Dalmascan king. Centuries ago he wandered the lands with his troupe and gained quite the reputation for his talents, nearly bankrupting villages and regencies with his love for riddled conquest. Soon Lord Mausollos amassed quite a fortune for himself and his band of followers: they lived like nomad kings, and had no throne, no realm, and no home. Queen Artemisia ruled alone in Dalmasca and had heard much of the man the closer he strayed to her kingdom. She thought hard on how to quell the subtle threat. When Lord Mausollos called upon Rabanastre she greeted him with pleasure and treated him as an honoured guest, and they came to make a wager in exchange for staying his apt-to-steal hand: if she could best him in a riddle, Queen Artemisia would have his hand in marriage.” Ashe smiled at Balthier, and a part of him dreaded its mischievous sheen. He thought back to his previous musings of how he landed himself as a sojourner on this path and suppressed a shudder. “Would you care to hear it?”

“Only if I lose naught by the knowledge gained,” Balthier grumbled, though his curiosity was indeed piqued.

Ashe cleared her throat. “Two lovers, Abelard and Heloise, are found dead on the floor in their bedchamber. When discovered, there were pieces of glass and some water on the floor. The only furniture in the room was a shelf and a bed. The house is a remote location, away from all save for the nearby well that ran deep into the Garamsythe Waterway. A window is open and a strong breeze blows through the room. What caused their deaths?”

Balthier puzzled over each word inside his head, filing each bit of information that she had shared with him. They walked onward and the road had fanned out, allowing them more room to exist, and Ashe kept to her own space as Balthier pondered in his. With a sigh he knew that he had to admit defeat when at every turn he met a jarring dead-end of thought. Reluctantly he asked, “All right—what did them in?”

Ashe’s smile was almost unbearably kind; the sore loser in him balked at such sympathy, though he had to admit she wore the expression beautifully. “The breeze knocked over their bowl.” At Balthier’s bewildered expression, Ashe elaborated. “They were fish.”

He blinked once out of pure surprise for such a sudden turn before submitting to the laughter rising inside him. The expression of amusement was genuine, heartfelt, and Ashe mimicked it with a quiet chuckle of her own. When the procession picked up a steady speed again, Ashe and Balthier walked in companionable silence, both content to have their hardening unease be unraveled slowly, however gradually, and likewise pleased it was the other’s doing.

The better part of an hour later, Mausollos Temple came into view around the curve of a passageway to the delight of all those in attendance. They raised their arms and voices high into the sky, clapping hands, clutching at various brooches or flags to wave above their heads, while some wiped the tears in their eyes at the sight of such wondrous architecture. It was fine work indeed; Balthier had seen little like it in his travels, though he admitted that he lacked an eye for such things. A pirate does not stop to think of the groundwork of a palace when his sights are set on the treasures inside. What little he did know of the subject allowed him room to appreciate such a marvel.

The temple’s style was a more recent one, Cothig he thought was the name of it, and its façade was an elaborate design full of detail, sculpting and delicate craftsmanship; pointed archways curved over the three doorways that lead inside: two for the side aisles, a larger one for the main passage, while a large, painted glass window was set high on the façade like an eye observing the myriad of pilgrims and attendants milling about in the courtyard below. From his perspective hundreds of feet below the window Balthier could just make out that there were pictures and faces set into the glass, but knew nothing of what stories they told or to whom of Dalmasca’s ancestors they belonged. Etched into the stone of the façade, made, strangely, as if to pop out from their encasements, were the likenesses of King Mausollos and his queen, one set on either side of the main doorway. Mausollos looked proud and foreboding, an ancient Dalmascan war-helmet on top his head with parts of its shield running down alongside his face and the bridge of his nose, with one arm lifted to point at the horizon. A fine suit of armor covered his broad chest and left his arms bare, perhaps to show off the muscles and intricacies of the sculpting: even the nails on the hands were perfect down to every detail. Cradled in his arm was a young boy, who seemed caught in a moment of delight as he, too, pointed a chubby fist at that distance, his innocent face turned to stare happily up at the king. On the right-hand side was Queen Artemisia, dressed in a draped garment of days past, the fabric cinched around the waist and knotted at either one of her shoulders, detailing the curves of her body. Perched on her hip, which she cocked to the side to abet further the weight held there, was a little girl dressed in a miniature version of the queen’s garb, with small, laced sandals on her tiny feet. The queen’s unoccupied hand was set before the child’s own tiny fists, long, tapered fingers curled in mid-jest as the child reached out her own to touch the rings set on Artemisia’s fingers, and though her attention was clearly focused on what was in her hands, Artemisia was looking out at the crowd, her face a mix of the pleasure of playing with child and disapproval for the interruption. It made for an unsettling sight, as if they were all intruding on a quiet, personal moment with their celebration, their shouting, their laughter and dancing. The hundreds of gatherers paid no mind to the stern stare of their queen. Most of them broke off from the procession to reunite with acquaintances and family, others retreating to a private spot in the courtyard to kneel and pray. The chatter here was significantly quieter than outside its walls: people made sure to keep their voices low and laughter at a minimum, so that the loudest babble of all was that of the water fountain in the courtyard’s center.

When they approached the main doorway, Basch hesitated; looking off to the left-hand side which Balthier could see curved ‘round and led to another miniature pointed archway that lay hidden there. Few people, men all, strayed onto the smaller path, shielded by the shadows of trees and the various floras the temple garden offered. Balthier harkened back to what Basch had said the night before, something of paying tribute elsewhere. Ashe was staring intently at the stone likenesses of her ancestors, studying each in turn with so intense a concentration that she seemed not to notice any change in her party’s demeanor. Gently did Basch speak to coax her attention away from the statues at the door.

“Majesty, I would make for the Shrine of Braxiest.” He inclined his head ever so slightly and kept his voice low, making sure that none nearby heard word of her station and that no suspicions were set off. If Ashe was surprised by the abrupt end to her train of thought she did not show it, but glanced curiously at Basch, waiting for him to continue. “T’is a holy place. None would dare profane it, thus I entrust you will be kept safe so long as you stay in its walls, and within their company.” He tilted his head to indicate Fran and Balthier.

Ashe smiled kindly and nodded. “Pay your tribute, and may you find peace.” Basch returned the gesture and made off on the small path, greeted at the archway by an attendant of the temple who bowed low in greeting.

If the exterior of the temple was a beautiful sight its interior did not fail to disappoint. Light streamed in from the high windows that stretched towards the ceiling, massive paintings of all hues and subjects were lit up by the sun and reflected onto the floor and pews. It was as if they had not walked inside at all, though still stood under the open skies. The mood was hushed and somber, completely opposite of the noise outdoors, and the whispers of prayers and echoed conversations gave the impression that the temple itself was murmuring quietly to those in attendance. Pilgrims knelt in the pews or sat on their benches, or else they spoke to the temple attendants with bowed heads and muted words.

A priestess of indeterminate age, though she seemed older than both Balthier and Ashe, greeted the trio with a deep bow, her scarlet hair flowing over her shoulders from underneath her hennin, a strange head decoration that was stitched from the same material as her robe and set with flecks of gold. The ornament swept towards the back of her head in a graceful curve, fastened onto her scalp with delicate wirework that slipped over her forehead and down the sides of her face. Her long earrings tinkled as she straightened and regarded each of their faces in her calculating gaze, her dark eyes resting the longest on Ashe’s face. She seemed unsure of whom to address.

Ashe took the initiative and placed her hand to her heart, her other arm curving ‘round her back as she returned the priestess’s bow with one of her own, her knees locked tight into her stance. “Greetings, Sister. We wish to honour the Lovers and offer our prayers.” She hesitated, though her voice did not indicate her tense nerves. Balthier imagined all those years at royal court was responsible for it. “We also have a request, if you would hear it.”

The priestess waved her hand slightly. “Speak freely, Little Sister.”

“I would ask for the ear of Praetor Ktja should she have time to grant an audience.” Fran shifted at the name but did not speak. Balthier noted the strange title with a frown and glanced at Ashe from his position at her side. She was fully intent on the priestess, however, and her eyes shone with the severity of the plea that she spoke. “Long gone have I been from the temple, and I fear to be further distanced from its blessing. I beseech Praetor Ktja for her counsel and her sanction.”

“The Lady Praetor is in prayer at this time and cannot be disturbed,” the priestess said, but there was no harshness in her tone. Instead she gestured towards the back of the temple and continued. “In the mean time you may wait in the Lover’s Apse to make known your heart to Lord and Lady. Have patience, and I shall petition your appeal.”

“I thank you,” Ashe bowed her head and waited until the priestess had started to walk before she followed at a respectful distance, moving with swift steps that echoed on the tiled floor. Balthier and Fran trailed behind, speaking quietly to one another.

“What of this ‘Ktja?’” Balthier asked, keeping stride with Fran’s long gait.

Fran did not look at him but eyed the back of the temple with a gaze of thoughtful scrutiny, her face an unreadable slate. “A Viera wayfarer, though not by choice. . . Ere that she was our leader, what Jote is to the Viera now. Humes stole her from the Wood’s cradle.” She shook her head as if to cast off the thoughts that hardened her. “We could not hear her cries once she left Golmore, and no more would the Wood tell us of our lost sister.”

Balthier cocked his head and reduced his disapproving chortle to a sniff. “I suppose a search party would have been out of order?” He strongly disliked the ways of the Viera: to see those who left the Wood without their blessing as anathema, to be scorned and forever unwelcome in their village. This displeasure was shown, briefly, during their short time in Eruyt, but Balthier felt too much respect for Fran to be so brazen about it. He supposed she would have more cause to speak ill against his kind, and was grateful that she did not. Likewise would he stay his bitter tongue.

“Jote would not risk it. The Humes what stole her were cruel, deceivers of our trust and wielders of metal. We would be no match in a fight.” Fran hung her head and Balthier was taken back to see that her usually stoic face now looked sad, a near cry to the frightened and nervous expression he had seen on her face when she was chastised by her sister for not hearing the Voice of the Wood. “Jote would not speak of it, and we learned not to ask. We believed her dead.”

“And it would seem she yet lives.” Balthier purred, wondering at how Fran would react when they met with this Ktja face to face. They could not speak on it more for the priestess had opened the door that led to the Lover’s Apse and beckoned them inside.