After a protracted silence, it was Fiarca who spoke.
“What do you want, Princess Tishna?”
Tishna’s face grew grim. By exposing all her secrets, she had finally brought Fiarca to the negotiation table. Now was when the real battle to win her over began.
“I want you to transport the imperial fleet over to the border with Registan,” she said. “You will be escorted by Count Tegnail, and you have my express permission to pass through the country.”
“You want us to fight the Registanian army in your place?” asked Fiarca with an unimpressed glare. But Tishna did not shrink.
“I believe your mere existence will be enough to deter the Registanian forces from attacking,” she said. “You will likely not have to fight at all.”
“Out of the question,” Fiarca replied. “The imperial forces are the protectors of our nation. I cannot expose them to unnecessary risks. To protect your country, you must be willing to shed your own kinsmen’s blood first.”
“I know that,” said Tishna, screwing up her delicate features, “but…there’s no other way!”
The mask of the selfish princess slipped away, and she stood before Ras and his companions as she truly was.
“Every time I close my eyes,” she said, “I watch Barlama burn. I listen to the screams of my people, calling out for a salvation that never comes. Every night, I sleep to the stench of their burning flesh. Five years ago, I was reborn into the body of my twelve-year-old self, and every day since then I have been working to stop this war from coming to pass again. I willingly took up the mantle of Wicked Princess. I bore my people’s scorn and hate, even my own mother’s disappointment, all so that I could keep moving forward.”
Tishna’s wild eyes began flooding with tears. Once the sobbing overcame her, there was no stopping it. The dam broke, and tears streamed down her face like a river.
“I tried and I tried to change my fate, but there was nothing I could do to make this future go away!”
The strength left her body, and she collapsed where she stood. It almost looked like she was begging at Fiarca’s feet.
“If only I could ride a Chasseur!” she screamed, weakly banging her fists against the floor. “If only I could do something! Why am I so weak?!”
What Ras was seeing was not a Wicked Princess and her schemes, just the powerless wails of a young girl. A girl entrusted with a secret too big for her, and who had no one to confide in. A girl left to struggle against fate, alone.
Her screams were the sound of her soul tearing itself apart. They echoed down the underground passage, drawing Ras’s attention to a large cavern just ahead. Because of that, he noticed it.
Lying in the cavern ahead was something large and metallic. It was the shape of a person, with fine engravings etched into the white frame—a Chasseur.
Ras was captivated by the sight of it, sitting alone enshrouded only by an indescribable majesty. “Is that…yours?” he asked.
Even from a distance, Ras could tell it had seen many battles in its time. There was a certain unmistakable air about it.
“That is the Lescar,” Tishna answered. “A custom Chasseur passed down through the Charlgian royal family. The king gifted it to me for my marriage to Prince Auriol. Since I possess no land, this Chasseur is the only proof of my royalty.”
It was common practice for noble daughters to offer either land or a Chasseur to their new husband as a dowry. In Tishna’s case, that was this machine, the Lescar. A unit of this quality would go far in bolstering the rapport between Charlgia and Argyll.
“Is this what you wanted to give me?” asked Fiarca.
“Yes. It was to be gifted to Prince Auriol, for him to do with as he wished.”
“Why are you doing this now?”
“Because I have nothing else to give.”
Tishna looked up at Fiarca with a tear-streaked face. Then she clasped both her hands as if in prayer.
“You can do with me as you like. If you need me to play the part of the faithful wife, then I will happily do so without question. Just please…help me.”
Tishna’s voice grew hoarser and hoarser until she could barely be heard over her own sobs. She may have been able to see the future, but at the end of the day, she was only a seventeen-year-old girl. She was offering her entire life just to secure Ras and Fiarca’s help.
Ras couldn’t look directly at her. The sight was too painful.
“Fiarca…,” he said.
“Don’t let her fool you,” Fiarca shot back, in a voice devoid of passion. “She knows tears will move you. It’s all part of her plan.”
The royal princess’s face was so full of despair that Ras could barely speak, but her feelings didn’t seem to reach Fiarca at all. Instead, the imperial princess turned to the black-haired woman by her side.
“Kanalayka,” she said. “Send a message to Major General Adamkus. Tell him to recall all our forces from shore leave immediately. Leave a garrison to defend the capital and send the rest of the fleet to the Registanian border.”
“Huh?” Tishna whimpered, unable to comprehend. Just a second ago, Fiarca had sworn not to waste her precious troops on Charlgia’s defense. Now it sounded like she was prepared to do precisely that.
“Ras, go wake up Izai. Tell him to make sure all our Chasseurs are ready for urban warfare. Cut down on caster types and refit them as striker units. He can scrap the Ella for spare parts if he wishes.”
“You mean, you’re going to pilot this one?!” asked Ras in shock. Fiarca was preparing for all-out war. Ras could scarcely fathom why.
“If we help prevent the chaos in the city, then the Registanian army will have no opportunity to invade,” Fiarca explained, making no attempt to conceal her displeasure. “They’re not prepared to sustain a full-fledged invasion against Charlgia at full power. At the very least, the 1st Division should be able to buy enough time for the royal guard to catch up.”
Fiarca had decided that the best way to stop the Registanian invasion was to keep the chaos inside Barlama to a minimum. That way, even if the worst should happen, the damage to Argyll’s fleet would be small.
“Do you have some idea to stop the riots?”
“I didn’t until just now. I was ready to turn our fleet back and leave Charlgia to its fate. But with what we’ve learned from Val, and with this unit, I think we can do it,” Fiarca said defiantly as she set her eyes on the snow-white Chasseur.
“How can one Chasseur make such a difference?” Ras asked, bewildered.
“This is no ordinary Chasseur,” Fiarca replied. “It bears the crest of the royal family.”
She shot Ras a suggestive smile, but before he could work out what she meant, Tishna, crawling on the floor, called out in a ragged voice.
“Why…?”
“Hmm?”
“Why would you help me?” she screamed. “There’s no reason for you to grant my wish!”
Fiarca’s refusal had been the logical choice. There was no benefit to going along with Tishna’s plan, and yet Fiarca was doing it anyway. Tishna wasn’t sure what to believe. Might her homeland yet be saved? Or might the imperial princess change her mind just as easily a second time?
There was no reassurance to be found in the crafty smile that appeared on Fiarca’s lips.
“Isn’t that why you called me here and showed me your little crocodile-tear act?”
“No…it’s not an act…” Tishna instinctively replied, but then she stopped. She realized that Fiarca’s cold words were a white lie designed to protect her pride. If Fiarca helped Tishna out of pity, then it became a favor that would have to be repaid. Their relationship would become that of the merciful savior supplying charity to the weak.
But if Fiarca recognized those tears as part of the negotiation, then the relationship became equal. Fiarca and Tishna were two partners engaging in a cooperative venture.
The hand Fiarca was offering was not one of mercy.
Argyll had good reason to help its neighbor. For if it did so, their bond might grow stronger yet. And Princess Fiarca might gain something she couldn’t find in either her brother or in her lover Ras—a friend.
“…You’re right,” said Tishna at last, wiping the tears from her cheek and looking up at Fiarca with a combative stare. “I am the Wicked Princess. There is no measure to which I will not stoop.”
Tishna was in a miserable state, with her eyes red from crying and her makeup smudged. Still, she looked somehow far more wonderful now she was her true self, compared to when she had been hiding her feelings and playing the part of an enigmatic princess.
“Very good,” Fiarca replied. “I will accept nobody less as my partner.”
Then, she removed her mask and, with a smile, extended a hand to Tishna.
“You really are as devious as they say,” Tishna replied, taking Fiarca’s hand and rising to her feet.
Now, they looked into each other’s eyes as equals.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Wicked Princess,” said Fiarca.
“Likewise, Scheming Princess,” replied Tishna.
The two clasped hands and glared. Ras had the troubling thought that perhaps these two got on just a little too well.