A/N:Hoshiz, over a year since updating. I'm sorry to anyone who was waiting on updates TT A lot of stuff happened and very little of it was good.

I SWEAR I will finish this monster. Watch me. I'm enthused as we're setting up for the ending now.

7: Resolve

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"Yesterday I dared to struggle. Today I dare to win." – Bernadette Devlin

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"Hello?"

The whisper reverberated around the darkened hallway, at odds with the perpetual burble of ordinary, everyday life that bubbled from the city behind them. Sheridan watched suspiciously as a visibly weary Faowri advanced across the marble, genuine panic in her eyes at the apparent desertion of her extravagant home. Not even lights from the vibrant city itself seemed to penetrate far into the gloom from the windows, or the open entrance door where the numb and exhausted group of mages silently awaited approval to enter.

Faowri endured the silence for only a moment longer, eventually turning back to the door and beckoning her companions inside. Fersan entered first, eyeing the décor with an appreciative whistle.

"Lived in Treno all my life," he said grandly, "but never seen the King manor. Nice place you have, Lady King."

She shot him a dire look, planting a hand on her hip in half-hearted annoyance. "Faowri, please. I think we have endured enough together that you can skip the formalities."

Besides which, she had skipped over many of her rights to being treated entirely like the noble she was when she had taken up her position as a red mage, Sheridan thought privately. It had been a conflicted decision for her, he remembered, torn between her father's wishes and her own. As he understood it, Faowri had eventually reached a compromise, signing over half of her inheritance to another person to manage the King fortune, assets and businesses in partnership. She had always seemed reluctant to discuss this other person, however . . .

A glow appeared at the top of the staircase; lamplight, held aloft by a familiar servant who made startled haste to the ground floor.

"Lady Faowri!"

Faowri released a perceptible sigh of relief at the sign of life, sweeping off her hat as though she could finally relax in her own home. "Manchi, it is good to see you. I'm afraid the Lindblum mission did not go well. My companions and I require rooms prepared, medical aid, immediate sustenance . . ."

She trailed off as Manchi reached the bottom step and froze, his wide eyes turned toward the largest figure entering through the doorway only briefly before darting back to Faowri in the clear hopes she would confirm the presence of a black mage was entirely okay.

Apparently she was growing rather tired of the reaction, as she released a second sigh and nodded. "It's fine. He's with us. Please, rouse the other servants and do as I ask. Run the hot water as well, if you could." Sheridan caught her sly look over the shoulder, awarding her a brief smile for the reference to their earlier discussion. "We'll wait in the main sitting room. Be as quick as you can. Oh!"

Faowri had been in the process of leaving Manchi to it, but snapped back with sudden vigour and seized his arm in urgent appeal. Sheridan didn't catch her whispered question, but her disappointment as the servant shook his head in response was plain enough. He would ask her about it later; for now, there were more important issues to address.

It was late in the evening, but the speed at which Faowri's host of servants roused themselves and began to fulfil her requests was impressive. The mages filed into the expansive sitting room, where there were comfortable seats aplenty and no one was left standing, save Eighty-Three who seemed reluctant to sit for some reason and instead wandered up and down the perimeter of the room, eyeing up the expensive ornaments and polished furniture. Fersan had time to issue a few wisecracks about Faowri's extravagant home and evident riches before promptly dozing off in his seat, a pattern generally followed by a number of the party so that, fifteen minutes later, when a gaggle of servants scurried in to deposit trays of nourishing food and drink on the low coffee table, few of the guests were in a fit state to eat any of it.

Sheridan could feel his eyes threatening to close, but forced them to remain open, feeling rather too tired to eat but taking up a warm half-loaf anyway. Between mouthfuls, he addressed the remaining wakeful mages – consisting only of an anxious Faowri, Kijo, who was eagerly cramming food into both his own mouth and Nuis', and an ever neurotic Machel who gingerly picked at the offerings as though afraid at any moment he might be told he wasn't allowed to join in.

"We need rest primarily," Sheridan began quietly. "But it's important to consider where we go from here. I sent a message to our leader through the moogle at Berkmea, but it's probably a good idea to predict what kind of action we'll be expected to take."

"Perhaps nothing," Faowri offered, wearily resting her cheek against her palm. "This is so severe, the leader of the Order may wish to take things into his own hands."

"But given Brahne's behaviour, I don't think his position will grant him immunity from her ill temper." Swallowing his current mouthful of pastry, Kijo suspended a piece for the chicobo to snatch before continuing. "In which case, there's really no need for him to come especially. In fact, if Her Majesty is confronted and simply tosses the mages who visit her in the cells with the rest of them, it would be better if he didn't go so that more extreme action can be taken afterwards under the direct authority of the Order leader."

"Extreme action, Kijo?" Sheridan raised an eyebrow at the white mage, who gave a wan smile in response.

"Have you not considered it, or thought beyond us simply voicing our complaints? The woman is mad. Reasoning with her will not produce any results. I have already thought about it, and I think in the end, she will have to be stopped by force."

Faowri huffed in disgust. "More war to counter war. A horrible idea. And what of the Red Order's neutrality? It would be compromised forever if we were to take a side!"

The white mage shrugged, leaning back in his seat and complacently closing his eyes. "Messy, I know. But it would be, in my opinion, less taking a side and more defending your own right to exist. This is not some petty farmer dispute. This is a war, of a scale I think none of us have really absorbed yet. Consider it; Burmecia, Cleyra and Lindblum are all fallen. The Mist Continent is effectively under the sole rule of Queen Brahne and the Alexandrian forces. We can't hide our heads in the sand and hope it goes away."

Mage Orders probably constituted the largest organised, cohesive and impartial groups on the continent. Sheridan wondered if it hadn't been Brahne's plan from the beginning to force them into such a corner, and diminish any threat they might hold. After all, if they joined the inevitable resistance . . .

He shook his head, a nagging ache building at his temples. Only sheer exhaustion would allow Sheridan to sleep tonight; though they had escaped and were free, it was a temporary respite only and thoughts of events yet to come broiled turbulently in his head.

"We can't take the violent route without first trying the civil route," he voiced staunchly, curling his gloved hand into a fist against his knee. "I firmly believe that. But I agree with the leader not being the one to try it. He is simply too important to risk at this juncture. Do you remember, Kijo, you suggested we group the Orders together and voice one collaborated complaint?"

Cracking his eyes open, Kijo nodded. "You want me to go? I would go. A letter in hand from the White leader and I'd be set. A request should be sent tonight if we're to move quickly. You would simply have to select a suitable red mage to play that representative."

Kijo seemed . . . well, perhaps enthused would be the wrong word. Determined, or full of resolve. It was clear to Sheridan that he had anticipated this very course of action and already set himself up for it even before they had left Lindblum, perhaps at that very first, cramped meeting in Eril's temporary shelter. Tomorrow, he would have to query the other mages, see who would be interested in volunteering.

Sheridan found his gaze roaming the party, settling on each in turn. Faowri? She gazed off at the freshly-lit fire, her eyes dull with weariness. After some rest, though, she would be a strong candidate. Next to her was Fersan, the rough diamond, stout of heart – he would undoubtedly volunteer, but there was more to this role than simply picking the most eager. The Trenoan lacked the necessary tact and diplomacy to file a formal issue with Brahne's actions. Sheridan grimaced, but felt he would have to decline him. Machel, fidgeting to his left on the long sofa, wasn't even a consideration, though the cowardly creature would never volunteer himself in a million years. Taking up the rest of that seat was a sprawled Talis, still out cold and pale as death; Sheridan worried for her state of mind as well as her health, and would never permit her to go though she was unlikely to volunteer herself for the task.

Davin was perched as though awake on the edge of Sheridan's couch, but his closed eyes and rhythmic breathing spoke otherwise. He wasn't sure what to make of the Burmecian's feelings; he had been quiet throughout their little exodus, and Sheridan suspected that the feelings he had bottled away inside himself at Burmecia's fall would all too easily explode to the surface if the dragoon were to come face to face with the person who had directed the murder of countless numbers of his people. Eril, sitting in an armchair alone . . . Sheridan found he couldn't make a decision about him yet, though his injuries would certainly hold him back.

There was, of course, himself. Sheridan was probably a very good candidate; older, mature, able to view the events with a little more emotional distance than some of the others. But was he the best choice? And did he want to remove that distance, stop observing and step directly into the fray?

"May I ask a question?"

The resonant voice rose from Eighty-Three, the gleaming discs of his eyes catching the firelight and giving him an almost malevolent appearance. Sheridan couldn't help but shudder, rubbing his arms to make it seem as though the reaction were only part of his tiredness, and nodded at the black mage.

"There is no Order for black mages," he intoned, every word slow and heavy with consideration. "But my kind have been misused in this war, constructed for ill deeds."

Sheridan could almost sense what was coming, his eyes riveted to Eighty-Three.

"I would like to visit the Queen as a representative of the black mages, to try and prevent further misuse." The mage's glowing eyes narrowed with regret, his broad shoulders slumping. "I do not wish for us to be used as weapons of destruction. I am willing to voice this and lend weight to the two existing Orders."

"White, red, black," Kijo responded, ticking off the three points on his fingers. "A concerted effort. I think it's a good idea."

Eighty-Three brightened immediately at the encouragement, nodding so energetically his hat wobbled on his head. "You think it will work?"

A wistful smile beset Kijo's face, and the white mage shook his head. "I don't know. I think Brahne is beyond listening. But this step has to be made if we're going to progress. It could be dangerous. Are you sure you don't want to vanish, enjoy your new freedom, Eighty-Three?"

The mage curled his huge hands over the back of Eril's chair. "No. Even if there were real freedom, which the journey here has not illustrated for me, I could not take it. It is not my purpose to be free, but to set things right that are in my power to do so. My fellows are not able . . . I have to do it."

Reactions to Eighty-Three so far had probably not encouraged him. Sheridan nodded, slowly at first, but gradually gaining more enthusiasm for the idea. "All right. Kijo, Eighty-Three, and one as yet unchosen red mage. We can -"

A knock sounded against one of the doors to the sitting room before it cautiously swung open, Manchi's uncertain face peering around it.

"The guest rooms are prepared, and a bath has been run, Lady Faowri."

Faowri waved a hand in recognition and expelled a grateful sigh. "All right, thank you. I'll nudge everyone awake and get them to move. Sheridan, are you going to rest?"

Her mentor shook his head, lips pursed.

"Please have your servants fetch me writing equipment, and the nearest moogle." Sheridan rubbed his aching temples, blinking furiously in an attempt to wake himself up. "It would seem I have a few letters to write first."

She regarded him with sympathy, but the expression rapidly altered to one of weary amusement.

"I suppose that means the first bath is mine."

------

Soft covers, an expensive mountain of feather pillows and an enormous queen-sized mattress were not what Eril expected as he opened his eyes, yet again finding himself in a strange bed with absolutely no recollection of getting there. That it was probably the most comfortable bed he'd ever slept in, the mattress like curving silk against his back, told him they had at least made it to Treno. Faowri was someone important here, so it wasn't unusual she would have the best of the best . . .

Eril waited as his mind played catch-up, his eyes scouring the luxurious guest room for any sign of a vigilant onlooker. It was empty, however, of all but him, which suggested he was stable enough to be left alone now. He tentatively shifted his shoulder, wincing as the ache there intensified, though it was still notably duller than before, and the continuous heavy pressure in his chest seemed not to be so strong. Perhaps he was just feeling optimistic, now that they were free of Lindblum. Either way, he felt better. If they gave him a cane or a crutch, he might even be able to walk for longer periods without assistance.

Of course, it was unlikely that Eril's recovery was a primary concern right now, while Brahne was still at large. Somewhat bitterly, he wondered if the others were already up, discussing an action strategy, excluding him from proceedings because he was still injured. But that was perhaps a little unfair of him; after all, so far, he had been diligently included in everything else. The mage glanced around for a clock; there was a little ornate one set on the dressing table, its hands pinning the day at an hour or so before noon.

Inhaling a deep breath, Eril slowly urged himself upright, the mattress protesting and apparently trying to swallow him back up, but with only minor difficulty he succeeded. He had to push aside four different layers of a complicated blanket system before he could even see his legs, but the mage at least found he wasn't breathless afterward.

Someone had stuffed him into another new nightgown apparently, this time designed to a noble's tastes. It had regal frills. Eril blinked down at it in dismay; Cera would almost certainly be rolling on the floor in a laughing fit had she been able to see him. A sad sigh escaped him, the wish to hear that laugh like a burning ache inside of him. Eril disconsolately began the arduous long journey to the edge of the bed.

He didn't fall over immediately as he stood up, which was encouraging. The mage spied a more masculine dressing gown hanging from the back of the guest room's door and made his slow, tentative way over to it, carefully measuring his stride and keeping ramrod straight. The dressing gown definitely did the trick of hiding the monstrosity beneath it, and Eril exhaled a mild sigh of relief, reaching for the door handle.

His stomach was roaring like blazes, and as he stepped stiffly into the corridor outside, the smell of something cooking wafted past him and made the pangs a little fiercer. The journey here had been strictly rationed, especially considering they'd had to leave some of their limited provisions behind after the fiasco in the elevator. Eril looked forward to a substantial meal.

It was all a distraction, of course. He realised that as he emerged onto a broad first floor landing that seemed to open out into the main entrance hall he vaguely recalled from last night. A distraction from what he would have to do next, where he would go, how he would find and rescue Cera. All thoughts of her being already dead had already left his mind, leaving that sole fixation of her being imprisoned in Alexandria as an unmoveable anchor. But for now, a strange peace had descended over him, dispelling most of his anxiety. It was surreal, perhaps the result of their temporary and intermediate success . . .

But it hadn't really been a success. Katrill had died, Genner was taken, and Lindblum was still devastated by the invasion. One small step at a time, though . . . just one at a time –

"Eril."

The mage paused with his hand curled over the banister, about to attempt the descent on his own, when Sheridan's soft call reached him from back down the corridor. He turned to the older mage, using the railings for support as he waited on his approach. Sheridan had apparently just had a bath, his white hair damp and an identical dressing gown on him, too. Eril had to suppress a smile as he wondered if the older mage was hiding an equally embarrassing gown with the garment.

"Morning, Sheridan. Am I last up?"

"One of the first, actually. Are you all right?" Sheridan offered his arm when he reached him, and Eril accepted it without question, grateful of the extra safety in descending the stairs.

"I think so. I could wish to be better, but beggars can't be choosers. Has there been any progress?"

Sheridan pulled a worried face. "To a degree. It has essentially been decided that three of us will travel to Alexandria to meet with the Queen and voice our grievances."

The peace was fleeing already. Eril swallowed, faltering at the bottom of the stairs. A myriad concerns fought for his attention all at once, and Sheridan waited with patience until he had decided which to go with first.

"Who is going?"

A fleeting smile touched the older mage's lips; apparently he'd expected that one.

"Kijo, and Eighty-Three. The final party member has yet to be decided."

Kijo was no surprise, but Eighty-Three? Well, of course. He had a personal stake in Brahne's behaviour, too. If Eril was understanding the party structure correctly, the final member would be a red mage even if there had been anyone else to attend. But this was an official visit, and though Eril intended to travel to Alexandria either way, he didn't believe for a second he would be Sheridan's first choice. Injured, 'obsessed' with Cera . . .

Sheridan angled him towards the dining room where the smells of breakfast were strongest – or was it lunch? Only Faowri and Davin occupied the enormous table, which was already mounted with a variety of warm, well-prepared foods Eril was instantly eager to consume. Eighty-Three stood quietly in the corner of the room, observing, and refusing invitations to join them. Eril gave half-hearted responses to Faowri's questions of his wellbeing, more interested in claiming his seat and filling his plate to the brim.

She laughed at his behaviour, convinced that his outrageous appetite placed him firmly on the path of a speedy recovery.

Off-topic conversation drifted between the few members of the table, occasionally reverting back to welcomes and questions of health as other mages trickled in. Eril focused on eating, stopping only to chuckle at Fersan's muttered "Blimey!" at the array of luxurious breakfasts presented. Food first, satiate his hunger, strengthen himself, then he could compose his thoughts and figure out how to convince Sheridan that he should be the third member of the party.

Who would the other candidates be? Sheridan himself, probably, but as a good leader he couldn't simply assign himself to the task without any input. Faowri, then; he clearly thought a lot of her. Davin? The Burmecian had taken a seat mere moments ago, still quiet and withdrawn as ever. If he couldn't speak to his fellows, it was unlikely he'd be able to speak to Brahne . . .

"I think those of us who are present are all who need to be," Sheridan said suddenly after Machel, most recent arrival, took his seat and secured his plate.

"What about Talis?" Machel blinked.

"Talis is injured, exhausted, and in shock. She needs rest and care more than inclusion. As I said, I think we are complete enough."

A number of mages set down their cutlery, giving Sheridan their full attention. Having heard this summary of decisions made already, Eril continued to clean off his plate at speed, laying down his knife and wiping his mouth with just seconds to spare before Sheridan announced: "Any volunteers?"

"I -" he said instantly, but the utterance collided with those of Fersan and Faowri. Sheridan laughed, nodding his head as though he'd expected nothing less.

"So at least it's not a hopeless cause," he smiled. "I am also willing to go myself if need be. We need to decide who is to go, then."

A chuckle erupted from Fersan, who held up both hands in defeat. "I'm outmatched here. You three are all much better at the diplomacy skit than me." He pressed a hand flat to his chest and performed a little uncharacteristic bow in his seat. "I'll respectfully unvolunteer myself. Though I'd love to go give Brahne what-for, that's not what this venture is about, is it?"

Sheridan pressed his hands together and gave Fersan a grateful and respectful nod of his head. "Thank you, Fersan. Now, Faowri, are you certain it's a good idea for you to leave Treno again so soon? Your partner, is he active?"

The woman frowned, swirling a finger around the edge of her teacup. "Active, but presently absent, if it's possible to be both. I believe I could take another trip."

"But, you know, Faowri, Lady King," Fersan interjected with a grin. "Whoever goes has to be prepared to not come back, at least for a while. And I don't mean because the journey might take a long time – I mean because Brahne might be inclined to shoot the messenger. You're a big shot around here, and I think the remaining little cities need to keep hold of their big shots in case this fails and Brahne invades again."

A silence descended over the table. Eril blinked at the rough-edged, easy-going mage, wondering if he was flirting with Faowri or simply being honest; it wasn't as though Treno was actually ruled by anyone. It was just sort of dominated by a number of prominent nobles, one of which happened to be Faowri's family name. Nonetheless, his point about shooting the messenger was valid. Eril seized it, clenching his hands loosely into fists on the table.

"Sheridan, I also worry it's more important for you to be here and well if things continue to go wrong and further action is needed. You're a good leader and will be able to organise things, and I think the person who takes the third spot needs to be somewhat expendable."

The man's face contorted in a worried frown. "You're not expendable, Eril . . ."

"That's kind of you, but compared to you and Faowri, I am. I know you're worried about my health, and about my determination to find Cera, but I would go to Alexandria anyway. I have to." Eril glanced up, his gaze full of grit and sincerity. "I would prefer to go in an official capacity, with Kijo and Eighty-Three, and make a proper difference. I'm not just thinking of Cera. This has to be resolved. I want to go."

Sheridan regarded him levelly, no further sympathy in his gaze but a plain, scrutinising look. After a long moment, he spoke again. "And you think your injuries will not hinder you? That you'll be able to stay calm and formal as you issue the complaint?"

Eril had many things he wanted to say to Queen Brahne, and none of them were good. But on the other hand . . .

"I can restrain myself," he said carefully, "if it betters our chances of success as a whole, and subsequently my chances of finding Cera."

"And your injuries?"

"Will heal." Eril shot a vaguely amused look at his potential white mage companion. "Kijo will take care of me."

Kijo's expression remained blank and disinterested, but Eril knew he could rely on the mage. A certain life saving incident was owed, even if he didn't want to do it out of the goodness of his heart.

"All right." Sheridan placed both hands down on the table, glancing across the occupants of the table. "Any complaints about Eril filling the last slot? No? Then it's settled. I think it would be dangerous for too many red mages to visit Alexandria, but I have contacts there. I will be able to remain advised of the situation and determine your success."

Eril nodded, permitting a long sigh of relief to escape him. Though he had signed up for a venture which could potentially be the end of him, a pressure had been lifted.

The next step had been planned; now he just had to take it.

------

Faowri chewed on her thumbnail as she regarded the trio, anxiety gnawing at her innards. She stood with them in the main hall, stationary as her milling servants ensured they were nothing short of being prepared for anything, but still she couldn't repress her concern for the trip in general.

The white mage had been resigned to this necessity for a long time; that much was obvious. His stony expression betrayed no worry, no fear that it might be a suicidal mission. And in all honesty, Faowri felt they would achieve very little from it. After all, if Brahne could be swayed by strong words and a few complaining protests, she would have surely been stopped by now altogether.

But it was a necessity. Procedure, almost. Messengers needed to be sent. Grievances had to be declared. When people acted on their grievances without such notification, Burmecia and Lindblum were good examples of the results. Perhaps it was a more effective method of conquering nations, but the Orders did not want to conquer nations.

Eighty-Three seemed to be assuming Eril's share of bag-carrying. The black mage appeared almost eager to go, desperate to take action. Faowri wasn't sure how much difficulty he'd have travelling – after all, they needed only to cross over to Dali and then they were in Alexandria proper, where any number of convincing bluffs could be pulled by Kijo and Eril regarding how they had found him and where they were taking him. Humiliating on Eighty-Three's part, but the mage had indicated he was prepared to suffer such indignity where necessary.

No, it was Eril she was most concerned about. The red mage was garbed in professional gear again, feathered hat and cloak and all. His injured shoulder was still bound up in a sling for now, but the man stood rigidly tall, his breathing steady and his jaw grimly set. He was as set on this as Kijo or Eighty-Three, perhaps more so. But you couldn't care for a patient for so long, under such trying circumstances, and not develop a sort of bond with them. Faowri fervently hoped he found his partner, in good condition. The red mages as a whole deserved some good luck following the Lindblum nightmare.

"I really wish you had considered staying another night," she said to him, moving closer as soon as she had a clear path that wasn't obscured by scurrying servants. "You're not at your best . . ."

"There isn't any time, Faowri. I'm sorry." He pulled a regretful face, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. "Thank you for all your care, and for helping me try to find her. If you are ever in need of a favour, I owe you many."

She frowned, raising a finger but stopping short of cruelly poking him in the ribs. "Just make sure nothing happens to you, then, or you'll not be able to repay them, will you?"

Eril lifted his hat with a sad, courteous smile, not quite in the condition for a full bow but suggesting one anyway. Sheridan, who stood by her side, brandished a single, neatly-rolled scroll and extended it to him.

"Came not long ago," he said. "The Red Order's formal grievances. The White leader is a little further away, but I'll redirect the moogle to chase you with it when it gets here. Don't open them until you arrive; it's bad luck to break the seal before then, you know." Turning toward Eighty-Three, Sheridan wore a faintly apologetic expression. "I'm not sure how you wish to present your own grievances, my friend . . ."

Eighty-Three's body language was suggestive of a smile, about the best a faceless black mage could manage. From within his dark violet robes, he withdrew a rolled piece of parchment, which upon unrolling appeared to be mysteriously devoid of writing.

"I will write my own. I asked Kijo. He said he would help me."

The white mage glanced away, apparently embarrassed to be seen doing anything vaguely charitable that wasn't related to his profession. Faowri smiled, nodding her approval.

"That sounds like a good idea."

"Remember," Sheridan advised, hand upraised for attention. "All you have to do is read it and ask what action Alexandria will be taking in response. Take note of what they say, and then leave and send a message back. I know you'll be eager to find Cera and the other mages, but you mustn't be rash or this stage is a waste of time."

"That's what happens if we aren't beheaded the moment we walk in, hmm?" Eril said benignly. "Don't worry. We can do this, Sheridan. If I thought I couldn't, I wouldn't have jeopardised the Orders' strategy just to satisfy my own agenda."

"I trust you. This is a bold task to volunteer for, given potential consequences." Sheridan firmly shook Eril's hand, giving him a staunch nod. "Please, have a safe journey."

"We'll try." Kijo raise an eyebrow, approaching Sheridan for his own handshake. "Though I suppose it's really not up to us, is it?"

"Ever the optimist, I see." Faowri rolled her eyes lightly. "Just take care. Bad enough I don't get to join you."

Eril shook his head, his fingers brushing her arm in reassurance. "Fersan was right. Worry about yourself for now. Send us mail if anything else happens while we're travelling."

He'd been so passive during the journey here, Faowri thought, eyeing him with some bewilderment. It was as though the task had breathed new life into him. At least now she could imagine what kind of red mage he had been before Lindblum.A rather good one, she expected. Determined, self-sacrificing. And if his partnership with Cera was as strong as his endeavours to find her suggested, even better than that. Faowri knew that his description of himself as expendable was really just his way of saying he had nothing left to lose. Such a stance was tragic, especially if it would result ultimately in his loss, but she dared not entertain anything but optimism for the outcome.

Faowri bowed to the three of them, aware that she and Sheridan were, to some degree, delaying their departure. Fersan and the others had already said their farewells. If the party left now, they'd reach the gate near Dali before it would be time to rest for the night.

She held them back no longer, allowing them to depart. It was light, so at least there was less risk of them being mugged before they managed to get out of Treno. Faowri watched the three of them disappear into the streets, Nuis skittering noisily about their feet and prompting numerous reprimands from Kijo before they were out of earshot.

The group's diversity of shape and character and colour was something almost inspiring to behold in its mismatched assembly.