Malin.

This was her home. This was what she had been fighting to reclaim from the moment she became a spirit sage. Since that fateful day, returning had been her truest, strongest desire.

And now here she was, a shambling wreck, drenched in failure.

Camille sank to her knees in the sand, biting down hard on her lip as she stared at the last true legacy of the family Leclaire: the crumbling ruins of the Great Temple of Levian, infested with barefoot children clambering all over the walls.

Levian had vowed to carry her safely to her city’s shores, and yet she had been so long a stranger to Malin that the thought of being brought here had not even occurred to her. What kind of pathetic—

One of the children jumped from atop the wall into the water, screaming something inarticulate as she fell. The mighty splash caused a young boy in front of her to cower in fear, shielding his face with his hands.

This self-flagellation is useless.

Camille shook her head slightly as she stood back up, wiping the blood from her mouth. The red streak stained her hand, but that meant nothing.

This was naught but another challenge before her, no more insurmountable than she allowed it to be. The truly pathetic thing would be to wallow in despair like some sort of blubbering imbecile.

Half of her life still remained, and with it, opportunity.

All she needed was another plan. Preferably one that did not end with a piece of hot metal in her shoulder.

I should have seen it.

The visions were so clear in retrospect, even in so maddeningly allegorical a form. Fernan had compared cannonfire to thunder that very morning, and yet the implications of the lightning had eluded her. They had also eluded Annette and Lucien, admittedly, but neither of them had any connection to magic of their own. In retrospect, that choice of consultants had been a mistake.

A false assurance from those no less blind than she was. But they had not studied this. It had been foolish to expect it of them. No, the mistake was hers alone.

And Camille would not make it again. Information was crucial, not to be lightly dismissed. Even if the key to Lumière’s victory had been mechanical, the clues before her were not.

Another vision, then. This time, with proper attention given. In conjunction with proper news of what had transpired in her absence, she could form the beginnings of a strategy. A way to set things right.

“Excuse me, children!” she called out to the assembled youths at the temple. The younger ones were playing in the water, but a loosely spread collection of those who looked to be in their teen years were perched up on the walls, staring out at the soon-to-be setting sun.

The look of disgust on their faces was noticeable even with the light at their backs, looking down at the bedraggled wastrel she appeared to be.

Camille sighed, stepping closer. “There’s money in it for you.” Wait, is there? She would always bring her coin purse when she ventured out in public, hanging at her side, but there was little reason to have it at a duel.

She bit her lip as she patted her side, tasting blood once more, but of course there was nothing there. It was probably still sitting in her chambers back in Guerron, kept safe from Lumière’s pilfering only by Duke Fouchand.

Still, nothing to stop her bluffing. “I’m simply looking for some marigold wine. The first to offer me information shall receive a commission of ten percent.”

One of the youths sighed, shaking his head slightly.

“Essence of nightshade? Cyben root?” At their bewildered silence, Camille rubbed her temples with a sigh of her own. “When one wishes to partake of spiritual visions, from whom do they obtain the necessary supplies?”

“Just ignore her and she’ll leave,” was muttered, though from whom Camille could not say. “Well spoken for a wastrel,” another added.

This is my fault. The disguise was too faultless, impeccably presenting them with the mirage of a penniless failure roaming the beach for scraps.

“Very well then.” Camille stepped closer to the temple. This is not the first time I’ve been too successful for my own good, nor will it be the last. Adrian Couteau’s humiliation was the first thing that came to mind, but there were myriad examples.

She would simply search the temple for any remaining stock. Given the state of the pyramids, it seemed likely that it would have been pilfered long ago, but there were underwater caches that surely no one had found.

Joy, musty casks of bottom-shelf marigold wine. Anything of respectable vintage would not have been wasted on the emergency cache, but it was something at least. A possibility, if nothing else.

Camille continued forward under the judgmental stares of the intruders into her rightful domain, feeling a stone miss her by inches as she stepped over the threshold of the temple grounds. The next one hit her in the arm, though at least on the opposite side of the injured shoulder.

“What is wrong with you?” she shouted as she quickened her pace towards the pyramid. “I’m just asking you questions! And this temple—” Camille cut herself off.

Being recognized here, with Malin so deeply burdened by Avalon’s boot on its neck, would be entirely disastrous. She was far from her power base in Guerron, and could forget that only at her own peril.

Enduring the jeers of moronic louts was a worthy price to keep her from becoming a hostage.

“Temple’s ours,” one of the older boys atop the pyramid shouted back, a slight accent to his speech. “You’re just another piece of wastrel scum. We don’t have any drugs for you. Fuck off!”

“I will not be—” She had to cut herself off again.

“It’s not worth it.” The girl next to him patted him on the shoulder, her speech smoother and more natural.

“No, Margot. We can’t let them bother good, honest people.” The boy picked up another stone. “One more chance, wastrel. The next one knocks your teeth in. Then I’ll run and get the Guardians, and you’ll see how a civilized society deals with its dregs.”

And which one are you in this scenario, boy? She didn’t say it. There would be no point.

Camille forced herself to turn around and begin walking away. She didn’t look back.

Swimming into one of the underwater enclosures would have been trivial with even the barest thread of spiritual energy left, but Camille had none. Until she could perform another sacrifice, her only option for magic was to draw on her life, to further drain what was already so terribly diminished.

That should be easy enough, when I can barely stand. Under Avalon’s occupation, no less. Perhaps if I ask nicely.

Some part of her had hoped there might be a way to make use of the situation Levian had forced her into. Some gain to be made, knowledge to be learned, traitors to be sought out. No matter how urgently Guerron needed her, infiltrating Malin when all thought her dead seemed like it ought to have provided something before she left.

But this was simply impossible.

She was leaving on the first ship back. There was no point in being here unless it was at the head of an army.

Lucien and Annette needed her anyway. Even if he had already killed Lumière, which seemed likely, managing the fallout would require the benefit of Camille’s more delicate touch. Duke Fouchand was smart about these things, but he was only one person, and could only do so much. Especially with Annette so overburdened already.

Nothing for it now but to return to the harbor.

Or at least, whatever was serving as the harbor right now. Duke Fouchand had mentioned that there had been an explosion, wiping out most of the docks. That had been what had caused the bard to delay his trip and pass through Guerron Pass instead.

It seemed so long ago now, though it had only been weeks. Like another life entirely.

Still, Malin had grown off of the strength of trade. That had been what buoyed the Empire of the Fox to greatness, and that in turn was what made it so valuable to Avalon. Even if now all of the riches flowed back across the sea.

They would have managed something. Perhaps anchors for ships to dock off the coast, with dinghies to transport goods and people, or even a replacement dock, if Avalon were particularly quick with it.

Hopefully the latter. She could not yet reveal herself in truth, for that course was still fraught with peril, but with the right captain and the right ship, booking passage back on credit seemed reasonably possible. With a proper port, it would be far easier to find one discreetly. Rowing herself between anchored ships out in the harbor was a far less appealing possibility, though she would do it if she must.

It was the best place to start, at any rate. And a good thing too, since that just meant following the beach south to the harbor. Camille wasn’t sure she could manage walking much further than that, and keeping to the coast would help keep her out of sight until it was unavoidable.

There did seem to be a large gathering out here, though. A great crowd amassed around wooden structures sunken into the beach.

Strange, that, and it made complete evasion difficult, but even in her sorry state, she did not overly stand out amidst the throngs. Passing through would be manageable.

She walked further, slowing her pace as she came closer to the wood and the masses grew thicker, but, at least for the moment, without any issues.

Upon closer examination, many loops of knotted rope were hanging from an upper beam above the platform, reaching down to roughly head-height. Some sort of trapdoor mechanism seemed to sit under each, with mechanical gears poking out from underneath.

A long line of rough-clad men and women marched grimly up the steps, stopping once each of them stood before one of the ropes.

Ah.

It was blindingly obvious what that meant, then. Camille knew the look in their eyes well, for she had seen it dozens of times.

Fitting, that Avalon would mechanize executions as well. Death through industry was their trade, she supposed, although the last she’d heard suggested that they favored a headsman’s axe.

An attendant was standing at a lever, ready to drop the condemned to their deaths, but there was no doubt as to whether he was a sage. He did not even appear noble, yet another insult to the soon-to-be-deceased.

Barbarity either way, really. Death was nothing to relish in, certainly never to be done for its own sake.

It was a criminal’s last, most fundamental right that their death matter. That they contribute one final good in granting their life to the spirits. No matter a person’s crimes, no matter how impossible to wipe clean their misdeeds, they could atone at least that much.

No one was beneath that final absolution, to stare the sage of their spirit in the eyes and know for certain that the energy of their life would flow into wondrous magic, giving back to contribute, in some small way, to making the world a better place.

Without that, executions were just senseless killings. Who could condone ending someone’s life for no reason other than wanting them dead? In a duel for honor one might kill, or in the heat of battle, but to bring the full force of your power down upon a human being in the cold light of day, simply to watch them die…

“Are you alright, miss?” A sandy-haired man tapped her on the shoulder, speaking in the langue of Avalon. “You’re looking a bit sick. Is this your first execution?”

Narrowing her eyebrows, Camille turned back to face him, reaching back to her lessons to match his tongue in kind. “It’s not that. I’ve seen plenty, sometimes up even closer than this..”

“I guess most of us have.” The man nodded. “Governor Perimont likes to be thorough.”

“What did they do?”

He shrugged. “Treason. Forresters caught them plotting rebellion in a salon. Letters to the Fox Cub and his sea bitch.”

“Letters?” She and Lucien had not communicated with anyone in Malin since the Foxtrap. Of that, she was certain.

“Seems like it had been going on for years, according to the paper trail. That’s what the Magister said at the trial, anyway.”

“I see.” So if Perimont wanted to frame you, what did you actually do to displease him?

He patted a hand on her shoulder. “Then you should know it’s nothing to worry about. Low-down criminal scum getting their due, nothing more.”

“They don’t look terribly base,” Camille noted, glancing over the condemned. Indeed, despite their prisoner’s clothing, their faces were largely clear of blemishes and many were even fat. “Especially if they knew how to read and write.”

“Well, that’s more common now, with the schools and all, but you have a point. They’re merchants, by and large. Nobody here is so important they’ll be missed though.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the masked figure on the stage began speaking, though he was too far away to hear. Camille caught only fragments, words like ‘conspiracy’ and ‘treason’ that seemed to corroborate much of what she had just been told.

After that, the executioner went down the line, giving each of the condemned a chance to speak their last words. Almost none of them were audible, save one near the end who roared so loudly, it was audible even so far away.

“I die not for Avalon, but for Malin. For Levian!”

Camille couldn’t help but grin at the sight of it. Even after my time away, they have not forgotten after all. “That’s a much bolder declaration than a mere letter.”

“Governor Perimont frowns on that sort of thing. Often the family will be spoken to, to ensure that it doesn’t occur.” The man beside her pursed his lips. “You’ve got quite a good eye, miss. Not many people would think much about something like that, or notice their background so easily.”

“Just a thought. I would not make too much of it.” Camille shrugged. “Although I do find that my eyes can get keener when I can call on spiritual visions. You wouldn’t happen to know where I might—”

“You want to consume drugs at an execution?” He rubbed his eyes. “Wow. That is… I mean I guess it’s pretty routine for you, you did say that. But still…”

“Not to consume now.” You twit. “But the last people I asked were entirely unhelpful, and I’m unsure where the appropriate wineries are.”

“Say no more.” He held up a finger. “I guess it makes sense you might be looking for that. You definitely seem like the type. Lucky for you, I’ve actually got some on me. Nightshade alright?”

Well, marigold wine would be ideal, but… “I suppose that’s fine. Although it’s a bit hypocritical of you to be judgemental if it’s already on your person.”

He shrugged, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a copper flask. “What did you say your name was, by the way?”

“Ca—rrine. Carrine.” She held out her hand for the oaf to kiss, then extended it further to pat him on the shoulder instead. Wouldn’t want to give anything about her station away. “And you are?”

He smiled, grabbing it roughly in his clumsy fingers. “Sir Gerald Stewart, the Prince’s Inspector.” He wrenched her back, throwing her onto the sand before she could react. “In the name of the Prince, I hereby detain you for crimes against Avalon and Malin.”

How did he know? She had been nothing but careful. No personal details, no identifying marks, not a single use of magic, nor even an allusion to the fact that she could.

“What in Levian’s name are you on about?” Camille grunted, face in the sand. “I’ve committed no crime.”

“I doubt the Guardians will see it that way. You just purchased illegal contraband right before my eyes. I’ll testify that to the magister, if necessary.” He sat down on top of her, pinning her down on the ground. “Charlotte! I got one!”

“Contraband?” Was this some sort of cover, to make sure that none of the Malins gathered here would intervene to save her? “It’s nightshade, for spiritual visions. And you were the one trying to sell it to me. What sort of imbecilic—”

His hand pressed her face further into the ground, shoving sand into her mouth. “I’m going to need you to stop talking now. You’re welcome to explain it to the magister.”

“Or you can help us,” a woman’s voice spoke, though with her head in the sand Camille couldn’t match it to a face. “Tell us what we need to know, and things could go a lot easier for you.”

“Ugh.” There it is. Camille spat out a mouthful of sand. “What you need to know?”

Sir Gerald’s hand moved up to her head, tearing off the scraps of cloth she’d used to conceal her hair. “Aha! One of those temple-heads. I knew it! Always trying to excuse your degeneracy because it’s ‘natural’ and ‘spiritual’.”

“You didn’t know that before you detained her?” the woman’s voice said. “As far as you knew, you were breaking our cover over a random wastrel?”

“Charlotte, please. I have a sense for these things. It worked out, didn’t it?”

That was followed by a sigh.

Camille felt the pressure on her head let up, allowing her to lift it slightly out of the sand.

The woman was down on her knees staring back. “It’s not you that we’re worried about, ok? We’re investigating the bombing. If you or the acolytes are involved, things could go really badly for you. Anything you can tell us helps you just as much as it helps us.”

Camille blinked. They truly don’t know who I am. Cracked and sandy, her lips pressed into a bloody smile. These fools had no idea what they were in for. “I suppose I had better start talking, then.”