Camille I: The High Priestess

“Great Spirit Levian, Lord of the Lyrion Sea, Guardian of Raging Waves, Torrent of the Deep, I call you forth to receive my offering.” Not a single title amiss, every syllable spoken just so. Lady Camille Leclaire flicked her hand out towards the water, parting the waves before her as she pulled on her connection to the spirit. The pageantry was more than a bit ridiculous, drawing on Levian’s power to offer power back to Levian, but it reminded the people of what she could accomplish. And in gross, she would gain far more than she expended.

Duke Fouchand had built this arena for the melee of his tournament, but between its seaside location and the stands already built for onlookers, there was not a place in the city better for an execution.

Camille breathed deep of the salty air as she took in the cheers of the crowd, careful not to let the smile show on her face. A High Priestess must remain always implacable, unruffled, above the masses before her. That lesson she had learned early. Even her hair set her above and apart, colored pastel blue each fortnight to match the ocean spirit she championed.

The condemned man rested on his knees in front of her, hands tied behind his back. He hadn’t said a word since learning his fate, which was just as well. Some men would cry, others shout and thrash, but Levian took them all the same. This way, at least, he would die with some measure of dignity, far more than a murderer such as he deserved.

Resisting the urge to wrinkle her nose, Camille called the waves higher, until they nearly reached the wooden platform where she stood. It took most of her concentration to keep the path open as she did, but she took care not to let it show. If you demonstrate your power to be effortless, the masses will believe you have no limit at all.

Other spirit sages might know better, having limits of their own to contend with, but they would bear witness to her power firsthand in the arena in a matter of weeks. In the meantime, this would serve.

“In accordance with our ancient pact, I present this living human, born to the name ‘Jean’. A thief and brigand, he brutally slew the innocent wineseller who spotted his theft and nearly killed the next witness to his deeds before the city watch apprehended him.” The idiot had been stealing a crate of golden sundials from some ship in the harbor, so encumbered by the weight that he failed to notice he was being watched. In the ensuing scuffle, the artifacts had tumbled into the sea while Jean had tumbled into the arms of the City Watch. “Jean of the harbor, speak your final words and step forward to meet your fate.”

The man shook his head, the beard given to him by weeks of captivity swaying along with it. “Not supposed to say nothing. I told you.” He rose to a standing position and looked back at the crowd cheering so enthusiastically for his death.

A spray of seawater landed on Camille’s face as she watched the dead man walk slowly to the edge of the platform. He descended the ladder out of her sight, down to the path she had made through the sea. Standing back on the platform, she did not see him land on the seafloor, only the sight of him walking the path moments later, with that quiet grace only a man who knew he would not be walking back could possess. Even the more boisterous ones tended to calm down once they reached their place beneath the waves.

It took perhaps five minutes for her to be sure it was time to collapse the path and bring the walls of water down over the dead man’s head. There was an art to the timing, managing the crowd’s restless anticipation to reach the perfect crescendo while ensuring that the prisoner could not reach the surface in time to ruin the entire ceremony.

If one were to fail, the consequences would be dire. Mathille Leclaire, some hundreds of years ago, had apparently collapsed the water too early, allowing an entire galley of pirates to swim to their freedom, only for Levian to take her in their place.

With a tap of her foot, she released the waves. A feeling of intense relief filled her as the tension broke, her intense concentration no longer necessary to hold the waters in check. Within moments of the water surging back into place, one could hardly tell that there had ever been a man or a path at all.

Only then did Camille turn around to face the crowd herself, showing them only the calm, confident face of the High Priestess of Levian, the Lady Leclaire of Onès, and soon, their Queen. “By Levian’s will, justice is done. Thank you all for bearing witness to it.” At that, the crowd erupted in cheers. Many of them would leave small offerings at the temple today, Camille knew. A scrap of food, a seashell of beauty returned to the waters, a candle lit in Levian’s honor. Perhaps even a florin or two for the temple. All due to her efforts, and Levian would recognize as much.

She felt the rush of power flow into her from Levian as she stepped to the edge of the platform, willing small spears of water up from below to reach her feet as she walked down them like a staircase to the shore. The smaller, more delicate movements of the water were far easier than holding back the raging tides and far less draining of her spiritual energy. All told, the execution would leave her plenty to work with in the melee, provided she were sparing with her energy over the next few weeks.

With the event at an end, the crowd gradually began to rise from their seats and make their way back down to the beach. Camille was, as ever, far ahead of the pack.

Duke Fouchand had summoned her to the Council chambers for a meeting at sunset, mere hours away. Important things needed to be taken care of, first.

Within perhaps half an hour walking down the Gold Road, passing and greeting the traders bringing food from up the coast, their heads bowing in deference as she passed. Camille reached the Harbor Gate, enormous wooden doors framed by the Vetain Tower on the right and the mountains to the left. Beyond it lay not the city proper but the collection of tents and wooden cabins colloquially known as Villemalin, the resting place for Malin’s people granted by Duke Fouchand in the aftermath of the Foxtrap.

They might have built up more permanent structures, for the land was theirs by writ of the Duke, or integrated with the city to the south, as Camille had done by accepting accommodations in the castle. Seventeen years was certainly sufficient time to do so, but the people of Malin were proud, the exiles who had fled when the capital city fell all the more so. More permanent measures would be an acknowledgement that this situation was anything less than temporary, in its own way an admission of defeat.

With Camille’s family lands around Château Onès likewise fallen into Avalon’s control, the Temple of Levian represented the seat of Leclaire power for the time being. Atop a large wooden platform on stilts, nestled against the rocks and the coast, heavy canvas hung from thick wooden support beams and pillars. In the sea air, the dark blue color had long since faded to a mere tint on the grey. Had Camille her druthers, she might have constructed a firmer edifice, a true testament to the power of Levian and his sages. Uncle Emile had thought otherwise, that making such a concession to reality would only show weakness before their people, and Camille was forced to admit the merit of his point.

Presentation, more than substance, was the true key to power. The firmest reality paled in the face of a strong narrative, a fact just as true for spirits as for humans.

Still, it would always be better to have both.

The aroma of incense filled Camille’s nose as she lifted the flap and entered the temple. Levian’s altar already had a few lit candles burning atop it, with room for dozens more. On a day like today, it would probably be full within a matter of hours.

Uncle Emile stood behind it, a book of accounts open in front of him. Under the tinted light of the canvas, his grey hair and carefully-trimmed beard looked nearly blue themselves, perhaps a part of why he had stopped bothering to dye them. He closed the volume and stepped out to greet her, a smile on his face. “Camille! You’re back early.”

“Hello, Uncle. Things went well enough at the execution that I finished quickly.”

“Ah, of course, of course.” He sighed lightly. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to handle the followers, then.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” She gazed up at him with pleading eyes. “They should be coming in droves to make their offerings.”

“It’s no trouble for me at all, Camille. That’s not the issue.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “This isn’t the first time you’ve ducked out of it. You must take care that it doesn’t become a habit, lest it damage your image. You’ve shown these people your strength, but only from a distance. If they cannot see your compassion, they may never love you.”

“I know. Next time.” Camille sighed. “I’ve brought them justice. With any luck, that should bring affection enough for the time being.”

“I’m simply advising caution. We’re in a foreign land, with foreign spirits. A smile can be just as powerful a tool as a sword, wielded carefully. The last thing you want is people following another spirit and diminishing your strength.”

“Then they would face the wrath of Levian. They know exactly what that means.” For a particularly egregious betrayal, Levian might even intervene himself rather than relying on the Temple. Then there would really be nothing Camille could do. “If all goes to plan, that won’t be necessary though. In fact, my course of action is winning over some of the native Guerron. I noticed a good dozen at the execution.” She walked back behind the altar to grab a folder of papers for the meeting.

“Very impressive,” Uncle acceded, stroking his chin. “I wonder how that might have happened, with the condemned stealing relics from the Sun Temple. Truly, it is a mystery. The world may never know what devious stroke of brilliance from my genius niece won them over. Indeed–”

“Goodbye, Uncle.” Camille rolled her eyes.

“Enjoy your meeting!” he called out in a chipper tone.

Lucien was waiting for her outside the tent, his long red-orange hair shining in the sunlight. Between his confident stance and the regal tunic bearing his family’s Fox insignia, he looked every inch the young king who might retake their homeland.

“Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise? I was not expecting to see you until the council meeting.” Camille ran her hand through her hair, stepping closer to meet her betrothed.

“I thought we could make our way up to the castle together.” With a boyish smile, he wrapped his arm around her back, sending a chill up her spine. “If your ladyship permits.”

Camille grimaced. “I was supposed the Singer’s Lounge get ready for that bard, Magnifico. His ship ought to be arriving any day now, with some daft machinery and a list of instructions to store it safely a mile long.” A favor for her friend Annette, but that was important in its own right before a council meeting. And there was other, more urgent business to attend to in the area as well.

“Oh.” His face fell, shoulders slumping.

Biting her lip, Camille took in his sad expression for a moment, the terrible feeling of disappointing him. “I can find time for it later.”

Lucien’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

Camille smiled. “Lead on, Your Grace.”

They walked together to the King’s tent, sitting atop the nearest of the foothills, basking in each other’s silent company all the while.

As they crested the hill, Camille took a deep breath, stopping for a moment to look out over the tents and structures before her, and the waters beyond them.

“You’re breathing awfully heavily.” Lucien cracked a smile. “Was walking up a gentle slope enough to wind you?”

“Of… Of course not!” she panted.

Lucien only laughed. “Christine is an excellent master of arms; I’m sure she’d be happy if you wanted to join our lessons to build your stamina. I would certainly enjoy having you there.”

Camille sighed. “This again? I barely have time to keep up with Levian and the Temple. Lumiere and the Sun Priests are breathing down my neck every day about converting the Malins, or expelling them, or–”

“I understand.” Lucien patted her on the back softly. “Just consider your priorities. As long as Duke Fouchand rules, our people are more than safe from all that. But if fighting should break out…”

Consider my priorities? Camille’s eyes narrowed. “If I find myself in combat, I shall call the power of Levian down on their heads and have done with it. I assure you, I need no help on that front.”

“Fine!” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “And if you run out of Levian’s spirit energy, I suppose you can just die.”

Frowning, Camille started walking again, not waiting for Lucien to catch up. “Not all of us can spend ten hours swinging a sword around every day. Even you should know there’s more to being a King than winning fights.”

“I do know that, Camille. Come now.” He put his arm over her shoulder and waved his arm over Villemalin below: faded canvas, worn beams, tents, and cabins, all in stark contrast to the stone walls of Guerron to the South. “Behold my Kingdom, Lady of Onès. All of it, should I fail to win our homeland back. I’ll never really be king of anything if I can’t win the most important battles, and that means training.”

“What, do you think that King Harold will just walk into the city and duel you? They aren’t stupid, Lucien. His father died in the Foxtrap too, if you recall; he will know better. Winning the war is a matter of strategy, above all. If you fail there, your skill at arms doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not––” He held his hand up to his face. “Truly, do as you please. I just want you to have everything at your disposal to keep yourself safe.”

Exhaling, Camille grabbed his hand in hers. “That’s all I want for you, too.”

The horses were already saddled and ready, at least, so mounting up and making their way over to the Château was a fairly fast affair, if not a painless one. By unspoken agreement, they ended up taking different routes to the castle. Just as well, when Camille had business to attend to anyway.

Lucien cared, that much was clear. For his Kingdom, and for her, far beyond the obligations of betrothal. He was kind and capable, fierce and strong, protective… but sometimes shortsighted, Camille had to admit.

A sword in hand is one way to prepare for danger, but it is hardly the only, nor most often the best. Especially in this viper’s nest of a city.

On horseback it did not take overlong to reach the west end of town. Her destination was not far from the Singer’s Lounge, but Camille had more to do in the area than merely speak to the proprietors there.

At this midday hour, no crowds spilled out the door as they often did, though the pounding beat of dance music could be heard through the walls as she rode by, reduced by the walls to little more than the aggressive drum and bass — a style imported from Avalon, though Guerron could not boast of their strange mechanical instruments.

But the Lounge was not her destination yet. She rode right past it on the way to her objective.

The house was small and squat, a windowless square of stone under a rotting wooden roof near collapse. The door was cracked open, but Camille knocked in any case.

A boy of perhaps seven crept out, greasy hair matted into disorganized spikes jutting out from the side of his head. His eyes widened when he glimpsed her, mouth hanging open.

Camille had not dressed excessively fine, simply a bottle green silk tunic and dark blue trousers to emphasize her power and tie her to Levian and the sea while remaining practical for the outdoor ceremony, with a black cape affixed behind her shoulders to billow majestically in the wind. Still, it was a far cry from the faded, roughspun orange cloth the child wore, and likely made her stand out in circumstances such as these.

“Is your mother here?” she asked, looking down at him.

The boy did not respond, simply shaking his head and stepping backwards.

“There’s no need to be shy. I am here to help.” She bent her legs down to meet his eye level. “Could you get your mother please?”

He shook his head once more. “She’s at the harbor, looking for work. She said there’s an oyser–oysten–”

“Oyster raker?” Camille guessed.

The child smiled and nodded. “He might need help catching them. She’s been out looking for work every day since Papa went on his trip.”

“I see,” she said with a slight hitch in her voice. Levian only knew what had sustained them before, but it clearly was not a luxurious existence even then. “Do you know when she will return?” Camille could not afford to wait too long with the Duke’s summons this evening, and it seemed distasteful to push things back to tomorrow. She had made a promise, after all.

“No.” The boy shook his head again.

“Ah.” Camille sighed. Nothing else for it, then. “What is your name?”

“Jean.” He beamed. “Just like my Papa.”

Camille blinked, biting her lip. Of course. “Alright, Jean, I have a very important job for you. Do you think you can do it?”

Jean jumped up slightly. “What is it? What is it?”

Camille pulled a coin purse from beneath her cape. “This is from your Papa, from his last job. We worked things out so that I would give it to you. Make sure your mother gets it, alright Jean?”

He picked up the purse gingerly, nearly falling over with the weight. Four-hundred florins pulled him down, enough to keep them in better comfort for a good while, with no need to resort to thievery. Hopefully enough, anyway.

Camille stood up, feeling a slight groan in her knees as she did. “Do not tell anyone but your mother about that. Just hide it in the house until she returns.”

Little Jean nodded, running back into the house as fast as he could with the purse dragging on the ground behind him.

Camille closed the door as she left, nodding with satisfaction. Levian had his due, and Jean’s family theirs.

Unfortunately, she barely made it ten houses before Lord Aurelien Lumiere, High Priest of the Sun, showed his face before her. Atop a white mare bedecked in ceremonial gold armor, his shining presence in the crowded streets stood out even beyond Camille’s own. The contrast was all the greater for the small crowd of dozens gathered around him. His garish gold-patterned tunic was almost blinding in the midday sun as he cried out.

“Good people of Guerron,” he called out to them. “This injustice is unacceptable. Every day, these Malins consume the fruits of your labor, flooding our city like vermin. They abuse our good Duke’s generosity to attack and plunder. Not two weeks ago, they pulled a trader’s wagon of grain from the Gold Road aside and claimed it for themselves! Literally taking food from the mouths of your babes!”

That wagon had been specifically earmarked for the Malins, at a council meeting which Lord Lumiere had attended, even, but such facts were apparently beyond the rhetoric of the Sun Priest.

“This very morning, one of our own was torn from his family and sacrificed to their strange foreign spirit, struck down in a blatant miscarriage of justice. I ask you, will you wait until it is you sacrificed to their ocean overlord? You who starve to feed these interlopers?”

His crowd shouted, “No!” pumping their fists in anger.

“Stay vigilant, I ask you all. In the name of Soleil, our patron spirit of the Sun. In the name of good Duke Fouchand, who offers succor to these vermin even as they rob our people blind, so kind and generous is he. Should you see one on the streets, stop and ask them their business, for you may uncover their nefarious plan. Wait, and watch, for I fear conflict is inevitable. Be ready, I ask you.”

A chorus of applause accompanied the end of his speech, Lord Lumiere nodding with satisfaction in response.

Camille frowned as she tried to sneak by. This was nothing Aurelien Lumiere had not said in his cups, or joking with his crony Valvert before a council meeting began, but crying it openly on the streets was another thing entirely. This would get back to Duke Fouchand, even if Camille said nothing. It meant he was taking a far firmer stand against her people than ever before.

Worse, he recognized her and waved her over to him.

Decorum demanded that she approach, and so she did, her horse plodding as slowly as she could manage without appearing impolite.

“Well met, Lady Leclaire,” he announced in a flat tone. “What brings you to the center of the city on this fine day?”

“Business,” she responded softly, her cover story already planned. “Avalon’s royal bard will be staying in the Singer’s Lounge for the duration of the tournament, and his machinery requires demanding preparations. I was simply ensuring that things will run smoothly with the proprietors, you understand.”

“Of course,” he snarled. “After murdering one of our citizens, the watery bitch relaxes with a song. Why am I even surprised?”

“Start over,” Camille ordered coldly.

“Jean of the harbor, that robber you sacrificed this morning. One of Guerron’s own, arrested committing an affront to the Sun, no less. The Sun Spirit Soleil has dominion over his soul, not your Levian. He ought to have sacrificed by our Temple, burned in offering according to the ancient way. And yet you stole him away for your ridiculous aquatic ceremony. It’s a mockery of justice!”

Camille steepled her fingers. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, Lord Lumiere. Jean’s final wish was to give his soul to my patron spirit. He thought it the best way to atone for his misdeeds. You ought not be surprised. Levian’s justice is quite persuasive, as is his High Priestess.”

Lumiere snorted. “You may think you’ve won, Lady Leclaire, but I assure you that this is just beginning. We shall see what Duke Fouchand has to say about your little stunt.”

“We shall see what King Lucien has to say about your riling sentiment against our people, guests in your fair city, if you recall.”

“Parasites, I call it.” He sneered. “And your King has no power beyond what Duke Fouchand allows him, in any case. Fouchand granted him refuge once he lost the Foxtrap, Fouchand fed and clothed his miserable people, even served as his Regent until he came of age. Where is Lucien’s army? His land? A king in name only, I tell you. Hiding in his skirts will not protect you, Leclaire.”

“I do not need his protection.” Camille folded her arms. “Watch yourself, Lumiere.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll watch whomever I please. It will be especially pleasurable to see you expelled from the council, this evening. Your blatant violation of Guerron law is at an end. Your ocean spirit is powerless before the might of Soleil.”

Camille smirked. “I suppose we shall see. Until then, Lord Lumiere.”

“Until then,” he acknowledged, setting his horse walking back the way Camille had come. “I very much look forward to it. Justice comes to all, Lady Leclaire.”