Chapitre Trente-Trois

Épiphanie

Leon

When Leon returned to the apartment that night his father was still criticizing Andre. At least, Leon assumed he had been at it for a while, because Lucien had all but lost his voice by now, and Andre's face had gone from terrified, as he usually was at the beginning of a long-winded lecture, to clearly irritated, which he usually was by the end.

"You knew that woman was our enemy!" Lucien hissed. Leon always found it amazing that their father could both whisper and viciously berate them at the same time if he thought anyone might hear. "And sure enough, she was luring you into the hands of kidnappers!"

"She di—"

"That's not just a poor move in Le Jeu Fatal, even a novice should have known to avoid that situation! I thought you'd learned better than your brother did!"

"I di--"

"If she's become pregnant by some other man's child she'll have a chance to claim the child is yours now! Witnesses saw you go into the church together and no one alive saw what you did in there!"

Leon hung up his coat and started planning how he'd slip by. Andre did something irresponsible again? Alert the press! Warn the Empress! Though, Leon had to admit, he was glad Andre was there to take all this punishment and redirect attention from himself. If his father had already heard that Leon bought mousebane from an apothecary he'd be sure to have all sorts of questions, not the least of which being why he would do it in a way so suspicious when they could have just as easily had it secretly delivered.

Leon wasn't about to admit that the reason he felt comfortable buying the poison from an apothecary in person was because he'd planned on eating it anyway.

Thankfully, he managed to slip away up to his room without accidentally relieving Andre of their father's tirade. He almost felt like looking back at Andre and silently apologize for abandoning him to his fate.

Leon flopped down on the bed, the night's events swimming in his head. He'd been so determined to end it all, so sure that this was what he really wanted. He hadn't considered the good he could still do. Not really. He'd only ever thought about inheriting the Renart Estate and how horribly he was sure to run it into the ground. But his life had more purpose than that now; he had the Pain Street Club.

Yes, he just needed to find a way to become a full-time agent of theirs. He'd talk it over with his father when he was in a better mood, and the two of them could have Fitzroy find a way to fake Leon's death. If they did that, Andre would have to take over, and he was at least a little better at Le Jeu Fatal than Leon was.

Best of all, the fire that burned within him for Beatrice would slowly fade away if he no longer lived at the estate. Maybe, just maybe, he'd have a small chance of forgetting how he felt about her. It seemed a vain hope, but it was all he had.

He'd spent nights wide awake, trying to focus on all her flaws, everything about her that drove him crazy. There was certainly a lot there, but everything about her that infuriated him was also strangely endearing. Something about her just drove him to want to be more of a man.

No! Damn it! Think about something else! Anything else!

He thought back to the article he'd written with Nouvel. Someone was bound to read those words and think, "For a barbarian this man makes sense," and start to feel a little more compassion towards the witch-born. So many movements had started with satirical literature like this. Leon remembered a story about a Cardinal forced into resignation because of some sort of scandal involving an unflattering caricature. Then again, he was certain that one was propaganda itself.

Was that what he and Nouvel had written? Propaganda? Well, the more he thought about it, yes. The two of them had just written a pure lie with the intention of publishing it as fact, and it was all a front for them to argue their own political agendas. Yes, that was the very definition of propaganda.

Hmm... maybe I'm getting better at the game than I thought...

Was this what Beatrice had been talking about when she'd spoken with him on the dance floor about how she would spread lies for the sake of her loved ones' survival? Some sort of greater good motivating them to commit what the Church condemned as sins?

Beatrice.

Was there no avoiding her? Had he missed his chance to run away a long time ago?

He was wide awake until long after Lucien was done lecturing Andre. Not that he heard the lecture itself, but when he heard the two of them finally shuffle down the hall he knew it was over.

It was going to take a while to convince his father that Andre should be the one to inherit the estate.

It seemed like many more hours before finally Leon got to sleep, and his head throbbed the next morning when his father tapped on his door.

"Leon," his father called through the door, before rapping his cane on it yet again. "Come on, wake up! We're off to the Imperial Palace in less than an hour!"

"Hmm.... Wuh?" Leon felt as if two fingers held his eyelids down, and some great hand forced itself down on his limbs.

Lucien chuckled on the other side, clearly already in a far better mood than he'd been last night. "Come on, my boy. You can't sleep all day, can you?"

"Yessir," Leon croaked, as he stumbled out of bed.

Lucien scuffled away from the door and down the stairs.

With a groan, Leon forced himself to his feet and looked in the mirror. For a moment, he could swear his father had returned, having cut off his beard. Those bags under his eyes, those gaunt cheeks, those wrinkles around the edges of his mouth.

He did his best to hurry, cleaning up, getting dressed, and fixing his hair. When had his hair gotten so long? He supposed, now that he thought about it, he hadn't been to a barber in a very long time, given recent events, and he'd handled his own shaving himself.

He pulled his hair to the back and tied it off there. That would at least keep it out of his face better. Now he could swear he was looking at a younger version of his father, whenever he wasn't covering his head with a white wig. He knew for sure he'd have to put up with more people telling him how much he resembled the great Duke Lucien Renart, a man to whom so many sycophants bowed and from whom so many rivals cowered.

By the time, he descended the stairs he'd regained some of his composure and strode down in a manner not so unlike a soldier's.

He was not so different from a soldier, he supposed, now that he'd finally picked up the weapons of the real war. All Salia was at war, the treaty of Fausspaix was a sham. When dear friends could turn out to be spies just as easily as total strangers there was no true peace. When those who had once thought of themselves brothers cross blades it felt as devastating as any war.

This was the grim reality, while a soldier could at least wait until he was older to throw himself onto a battlefield, a Salian noble was born on one.

And yet, here is my purpose. He looked down at his father's face and gave him a half smile. The two of us will work with the Pain Street Club. We'll liberate the witch-born and make all this bloodshed worth it!

Lucien tapped Leon's feet with his cane to wake him out of his daze. "Hello? Are you alright, my boy? You're not drunk already, are you?"

Leon shook his head. "No, I'm well, thank you. We should be off, don't you think?"

On the way, Lucien reminded them both of the stakes. "If Duke Loup makes Micaedon a Marquis he'll have an open path to deal weapons to the barbarians. If your uncle gets it, however, we gain far more agents, far more influence. We can use that to put a stop to these military uprisings."

Once again, they entered those gold-plated halls of the Imperial Palace. With paintings from the very best artists, wine from the most aged bottles from the finest vineyards, and statues, towering twice as tall as any man, made of nigh-pure gold, each a testament to a past ruler or hero.

Salia truly was that history; those stories he'd heard of brave soldiers and chevaliers so long ago. The stories of lords who rode into battle beside those who shed blood for them. Salia was not the same anymore, but if it wanted to protect that history, that legacy, it couldn't be. Lords were not chevaliers, but they were what they needed to be to ensure that Salia's memories would live on.

Now every feigned smile he saw was a challenge from a worthy adversary. Every time he shook another lord's hand it was as a duel. Every polite lie he told was a musket fired across an invisible battlefield. Every time he listened to a stranger who grated on his nerves became as a moment wherein he was held prisoner of war, but managed to get useful information in the meantime.

The Empress emerged from behind the curtains in the center of the room, and Leon, for the first time, understood why everyone always said the Imperial Family were descended from demi-gods.

The faces of every single one of these powerful lords with hearts full of greed were bowed before the Empress. Every one of them who were so at war with each other were so cowed by whatever power she wielded.

No, this was not a military power this woman wielded. Certainly, she had a powerful army, but her real power lay in the fact that she constantly outplayed every single one of them in Le Jeu Fatal, keeping them constantly at bay, and preventing the whole Empire from crumbling down.

"I have come to a decision," the Empress began, and all the crowd went silent. "After much consideration of the election held between you, as well as the advice of my council, my family, and the Church, I have reached this conclusion." The Empress cleared her throat, "The estate formerly belonging to the Forbin family shall now go to Micaedon of Piast." All around Leon the nobles erupted into applause at The Empress' words. Even Lucien, whom Leon knew was most certainly not pleased, cheered with the crowd. The Empress raised her hands and the crowd silenced again in an instant. "Monsieur Micaedon, would you be so kind as to stand?"

Micaedon stood in one of the balcony seats, next to a rather satisfied Raul Loup. "Yes, your highness," said he.

"You are to start a new house where the house of Forbin once stood," said the Empress. "This is a tremendous honor for a foreigner, but I believe you are a true patriot and will serve the Empire well."

Micaedon bowed his head. "I cannot express the depths of my gratitude, your highness."

The Empress gestured to one of her attendants, who took up to Micaedon a sword in a gold and gemstone covered scabbard. Micaedon bowed once more and took the sword in his hand.

Leon looked to his father, silently questioning how this could happen. His father's smile only grew as the crowd cheered again, and Duke Lucien certainly had to join in with them.

But something in his eyes... Leon could just barely see it. He's as terrified I am.