Fernan VI: The Disfavored

Guy’s wedding put even the Festival of the Sun to shame. Lit braziers lined the streets through the entire Spirit Quartier, illuminating what Maxime assured were bright banners in the paired colors of Valvert and Bougitte, symbolizing the union between Dorseille and Torpierre.

Massive tables stretched across the streets, filled to the point of buckling with platters of food, free for all. Fernan could see six whole pigs spread across various tables, still warm from the spit, surrounded by piles of buttery carrots and leeks. Nor were staples neglected, with enough bread and cheese to feed the city for a month.

Some of the wealthier Montaignards had purchased once-vacant houses in the quartier, and were contributing to the festivities with food and music of their own. Étienne Morrel, a shipping magnate who’d partnered with Mom on the ice trade projects, had massive crates filled with ice in front of his house, storing tubs of glace, a sort of sweet frozen butter that tasted absolutely exquisite, though with cow’s milk instead of goat it lacked some of the tartness Fernan preferred.

Philippe Montrouge, the merchant currently imprisoned for allegedly attempting to free Magnifico, was another such owner, though of course he wasn’t able to attend. Michel and Mom, with permission, had opened it up in his place, decorating the front garden with Abel’s best glass statues, abstract shapes that defied any specific form, though Fernan noticed a resemblance to the pulsating walls of Gézarde’s lair in several of them. Especially when Abel let out a light burst of flame so that the glass could catch the light, flickering and dancing within and without.

Mara was with them, showing off some upside-down sparks of her own under the porch overhang to a group of cheering children. Fernan felt a pang, thinking of Aubaine, trapped away in the castle without the freedom to roam he so desired. It had been one thing when Lucien Renart was in command of the city. Free to come and go as he liked, Fernan hadn’t had much trouble fitting in visits with him, but now, with Guy…

And it was slated to get worse. Soon Aubaine would be sent to foster in Torpierre with the new Lady of Dorseille’s parents, no doubt to learn their craft. The new environs would hopefully offer the poor kid some of what he’d been missing locked up in the castle, but it would make it even harder to visit him, already a delicate matter given the dark looks Fernan got every time he set foot in the castle.

But Fernan would figure it out. He owed the boy that, and more. There was little doubt that Guy’s new family members intended to train him as a sage in their mold, and that much, Fernan could not abide. Lord Lumière did so much wrong, but he freed Aubaine from the grip of Soleil. That much would stand, no matter the cost.

Fernan waved to Mara, then walked past the house to the next in the line, the old Doumagnot Delune where he’d once met to report his information to Camille Leclaire. Wait… Hadn’t one of the Châlice Mercenaries been named Delune? Fernan hadn’t thought of it at the time, but perhaps it was a distant relative. Or perhaps an assumed name, which Maxime assured him that mercenaries were no strangers to. Fernan tried not to think of them too often, the avalanche perched at the top of the hill and poised to strike at any moment.

As soon as they returned, there would have to be a reckoning, but the better the Montaignards could position themselves first, the better the hope that it could be resolved peacefully. We only have to stall until I can talk to Camille again. Only a couple weeks to go, now, though they were sure to be precarious ones.

Now the former Delune residence was owned by Laurence Sézanne, the doctor who never spared an opportunity to dish out compliments with the back of his hand. When Edith Costeau had been invited to sing at the ceremony inside the castle, Sézanne had filled the void of music with a reproduction pulsebox and a bard of his own, though given that the screeching compositions seemed identical to the ones Magnifico had used in the Singer’s Lounge, this bard apparently wasn’t yet adept at working the device.

Much as Fernan disliked that infernal collection of noises masquerading as music, the pulsebox had drawn quite a crowd, and the bard clearly knew it, strutting in front of the pulsebox and beginning a song.

“Now is the time to remember the fall of the foolhardy sage of Flammare.” He must have managed at least one original track, or perhaps taken the sheet from Costeau, since the pulsebox music had changed to something Magnifico had never played. “She coveted all that her master deplored and held treachery fast to her heart.”

Oh no.

“So she turned on Flammare, led him straight to his death, at the hands of Florette, bandit queen of the we-e-est!

In the dark, of the night

They conspired, in their plot

And perhaps there was more

But disclose, I shall not.

And Flammare breathed his last!

Severed link to the past!

And the bandit did flee.

From the sage, filled with glee-ee-ee!”

“Is he talking about our Florette?” Maxime asked, coming up from behind out of nowhere. “I’d heard about her role in the death of Flammare, but I wasn’t aware that she’d—”

“She didn’t.” Fernan wrinkled his nose. “Laura had nothing to do with it. At all. You tell that to anyone stupid enough to listen to this song.”

“As you wish.” Maxime nodded. “You would know.”

Damn it. “She told me afterwards,” Fernan lied. If he could trust anyone with the truth that didn’t already know, perhaps it was Maxime, but a public event like this wasn’t the time.

“And after the death, of the heart of the hearth, in the glow of her vile perfidy,

The treacherous, erstwhile sage of Flammare, would have done better simply to flee,

But she wasn’t content

with the one victory.

Her bloodlust was unbound,

Detached from decency-y-y!”

“Hey, idiot,” Fernan hissed to the bard, jets of green flame slipping past his teeth. “Don’t you know who Count Guy Valvert just married? What do you think is going to happen when she hears that song? She’ll invite you inside to play at the wedding?”

“Sire Montaigne? I—” The bard glanced down at the pulsebox, still chirping the accompaniment. “I wouldn’t play it inside, of course, but out here, I thought that— Monsieur Sézanne was delighted when I first played it to him. The Foolhardy Sage of Flammare, I mean. You can ask him.”

“His opinion is not what matters here.”

“Well, Sire, he’s the one paying me, so…”

Fernan closed his fist, then opened it again. “They just arrested a merchant because the Maréchal owed him money.” Probably, anyway. “Do you think Sézanne is going to save you if the Countess Valvert wants to throw you in chains? Or if Guy thinks it would impress his new wife? Things are tense enough around here as it is.”

“Sire, I understand your concerns, but Monsieur specifically requested it. He’s liable to dock my pay if I don’t deliver what I promised.” He waved his head towards the restless crowd. “If I may…”

“You’re singing lies! You can’t—”

“Would sixty florins cover any dissatisfaction from your patron? I’d like to put in a request.” Maxime cut in, thankfully. “I can’t imagine it would be anything less than enchanting to hear The High King’s Fall accompanied by the bitter tones of this Avaline marvel.”

The bard’s mouth twisted back and forth for a moment. “Eighty.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deal.” Maxime dug for another twenty florins and dropped them in the bard’s instrument case, sitting open on the ground. “I bid you well in your performance.”

He shouldn’t have needed a bribe to stop slandering someone who did nothing wrong.

Maxime must have noticed the glower on Fernan’s face as they walked away, since he pulled Fernan towards Morrel and handed him a tin of glace. “Eat, I bid you, lest it melt into cream.”

Fernan closed frowning lips around a spoonful, feeling the sweetness fill his mouth. “Thank you.”

“It seemed rather the thing to do, in my estimation. You would do well to remember that not everyone knows as much as you do, and they are each liable to act accordingly.”

But whose fault is that? “I did something bad, Maxime. I thought it was what I had to do, maybe it was, but—”

“Later,” Maxime interrupted, holding a finger to Fernan’s lips. “When fewer ears are about.”

“Careful where you put that.” Fernan pushed Maxime’s hand away with his own. “You don’t want to get burned.”

“I’m no stranger to the sensation, I’m afraid. But my experiences have rather inured me to the risk. Fear not, I shall exercise all caution due.”

What is that supposed to mean?

Fernan was spared the need to find a response by the arrival of Félix, calling his name from the mouth of the château path.

“Excuse me.” Fernan ducked away, walking through the crowds toward Félix, who apparently had been invited to the ceremony inside.

“Fernan! There you are! The Countess is looking for you. She bids you enter and pay your respects.”

So she wants to kill me after all. Fantastic. “Thanks for the message, Félix. I’ll head up now.” Fernan patted him on the back as he passed by, realizing that the functionary didn’t seem to be headed back towards the castle. “I’m sure they’ll let you back inside too.”

Félix chuckled nervously. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not spend another hour listening to the Maréchal’s Winter War stories. Guy bid me to entertain him, but now that I have an excuse to be elsewhere…”

“Say no more.” Though it means I’ll be going in alone. “Make sure to grab a glace from Morrel’s. Not something you can usually get at this elevation, let alone during autumn.”

The path to the castle was narrow, lined with two troughs of fire on either side all the way up to the gates, winding up the mountain back and forth. The guards were only blocking entry at the doors, so no shortage of people had drifted up towards the courtyard, perhaps trying to catch a few notes of Edith Costeau’s performance.

Fernan hadn’t been in the great hall of Château d’Oran much, since there hadn’t really been any events to attend, but the chamber had been so transformed that it was impossible to miss, bedecked with massive hanging banners and so many lamps that it felt warm even with the wind whipping in from the balcony. A massive fire was roaring in the hearth, throwing shadows past the dais in front of it, where Count Guy Valvert was dining with his new wife.

Guy didn’t notice him come in, but the new Lady Valvert certainly did, staring at Fernan with such hatred in her aura that he could almost feel the ground quake underneath him. She curled one finger towards herself, beckoning him closer, so Fernan walked up cautiously to meet her, squeezing past a servant carrying a platter of swordfish and lemon. Xandre, if he remembered correctly, though it was hard to be sure.

“C-Congratulations, Lady Bougitte. Lady Valvert, I mean. I’ve been greatly enjoying the celebration outside, and it's an honor that you invited me in.”

Lady Valentine Valvert had a sturdy aura, almost blending into the floor with the trail of her dress, no doubt of the finest quality, though Fernan couldn’t exactly verify that himself. Maybe I should have brought Maxime for descriptions, he has such a way with words. But that would mean dragging him further into all of this, which wouldn’t be right.

“That’s it?” she practically hissed. “No apology for what you did to my sister? For killing her familiar and slandering her into exile? I see that Laura had you pegged perfectly, a backstabbing scoundrel of a High Priest, with no shame at all for what you did.”

Fernan kept his face neutral, trying not to let any of his guilt show. “I’m sorry that she feels that way. As I told Laura, I had no involvement in Flammare’s death. I wasn’t even at the Convocation, I just—”

“Just had your bandit queen friend do your dirty work while you reaped all the rewards without lifting a finger of your own.” She scoffed. “Disgusting.”

She must have heard the song. “If there’s anything I can do for you or Laura, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Lady Valentine laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. “Truly, you lack all shame and decency. Did you truly think I’d believe your lies over the words of my own sister?”

“I’m not asking you to believe anything, but I’m telling you—”

“More lies. Listen here, ‘Sire’ Montaigne. Laura did all she could for me and my family, and because of you, she can never return. We’re lucky she’s even alive, after what she’s been through in the Grottes de Merle de Gaume.”

The caves where they had the convocation to replace Flammare? Laura was there? Why hadn’t Gézarde mentioned it? All he’d said was that Fala hadn’t succeeded in his bid, but that Taureneo hadn’t won either.

“I’m sure it was quite a tribulation.”

“Heh.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Your gall is truly without peer, but it will not save you.”

“From what, exactly?” Are you going to attack me now, at your own wedding?

“That arrogance again. I’m not unaware of the favors you’ve done for the Fox-King, and my new cousin by law. Nor your exalted position for the new Sun, illegitimately as it was gained. You might have a chance in a trial, perhaps, and escape all justice for what you’ve done. My lord husband has told me plenty of your manipulations at the last one, which might just as easily be turned to evil as to good. So I’m offering you one chance. Leave Guerron now, and never return. Go back to your pissant village, or follow your outlaw friend, or die in the Arboreum war. I care not. But you are not welcome here.”

Fernan gulped. “Has Lord Valvert heard—”

“My husband will not save you, you louche little churl. He’s grown quite tired of you already, and agrees that preserving your lands and titles is gratitude enough for your actions at the trial. Stay, and those will be forfeit, along with your life.”

“You’d have me killed?” For what amounts to a suspicion? It’s correct, but… So many more lives would have been lost if I hadn’t. And Laura is still alive, she’s still free. It’s not fair what we did to her, but… Have I truly earned death for it?

Lady Valentine let out another laugh. “Of course not. That wouldn’t be fair to Laura, nor what she would want.”

“Oh. So—”

“I’d kill you myself, and bury what’s left of you so deep in the earth that your little friends could never find it. I won’t give you the same three days to run that your friend was so generously granted. If I see you again, the earth will swallow you whole before you have the chance to regret it. If any of my guards find you, they’ll bring you to me. My husband’s swords have been given the same instructions. So I suggest that you be on your way.”

Fernan didn’t need to hear it again. Exercising the better part of valor, he marched out of the banquet so fast he was practically flying. Once he passed the threshold of the courtyard, ‘practically’ became ‘actually’, quick enough to land in front of Maxime and Michel within moments.

He caught a few phrases of conversation about the jailed Philippe Montrouge before they noticed his arrival, and he took the opportunity in the pause to fill them in on Valentine Valvert’s ultimatum.

“Honestly, I’m thinking I should do it. If I leave, that can spare everyone else the disfavor.” The isolation would be grueling, to be sure. Nearly all of the remaining villagers had filtered out of the mountainside during the times of darkness, and those who’d managed to stay and survive were not likely to be the social type. Mom had her business with the ice trade, just starting to gear back up after such a prolonged halt, and Michel would doubtless stay with her. His ties to Guerron were deep in their own right, too. Mara and her siblings were thriving so much here that Fernan couldn’t ask them to give it up to go home. Maxime was only here as long as the Condorcet representatives wanted to stay, and they seemed to only be sticking around to support the Montaignards.

“You can’t,” Michel said, cutting through Fernan’s dark fantasies. “Without you, M. Montrouge has no sage to stand for him in his trial. They’ll execute him. And then, once they’ve seen how to steal from us without consequence, more of us will be next.”

Maxime nodded. “And you would do well to consider the Châlice Mercenaries. The moment they return, the matter of the geckos’ coal must be resolved, one way or another. Without you, it will be all the more difficult to find a peaceful solution.”

“If one is even possible,” Michel added. “Fernan, don’t you see it? They started with Philippe, now they’re exiling you… Where does it end? Montaignards have to look out for each other. Not to mention the fact that your mother would kill me if I let you slink away alone.”

“You’re sure Montrouge is innocent?” Fernan asked, torn in a thousand different directions. “I know how it looks, but if I’m really doing this…”

“From what I know of Philippe, he wouldn’t conspire with Avalon. He lacks the boldness, for one thing. But that isn’t even the point.” Michel stepped forward, placing a hand on Fernan’s shoulder. “Fernan, you weren’t trained as a solicitor, so I don’t blame you for thinking that way, but even the guilty need fair representation. Limited as its scope might be, that’s the core of the Code Renart. But without a sage to stand for the accused, someone who can be trusted to act in their interest, they’re condemned without even seeing a trial. Even if that happens to a guilty man, it’s an injustice.”

“But this isn’t just about one injustice. If I stay here, if I show up to the trial… At best, Lady Valvert will try to have me killed. And unless you all want to just let that happen, she and Guy will come after you, too. It could mean violence.”

“We shall hope it does not,” Michel said softly. “But if I must choose between standing with you and passively allowing Valvert to trample all over the people of Guerron, my mind is more than made up.”

That’s easy for you to say, but we’d be dragging so many more people into this than just us. “Maxime?”

The Condorcet guard sighed. “You know how I abhor violence, Fernan. But injustice is little better, and we may be past the point where conflict can be averted at all.”

“Well past it,” Michel added. “We have offered every opportunity for our demands to be met without violence, and in return they imprison and exile us for daring to speak out. With or without you, Fernan, we intend to stand with Montrouge, and Valvert will respond how we all expect him to.”

“Do not forget that the moment the Châlice Mercenaries return, it could mean open war between them and the geckos without you there to mediate. If you must flee for your own well-being, I cannot condemn you for it, but if you truly seek my thoughts, then you must stay. Even if any meager chance of peace yet remains, it surely requires your presence. No one else has both the favor of the Fox-King and the trust of the Montaignards, the gratitude of the Duchess and the patronage of the Sun. Fernan, you are needed here.”

Damn it, I know they’re right, but…

This was a decision that couldn’t be walked back. Lady Valvert had made herself extremely clear, and left precious little in the way of options. She hates me for good reason, but this is bigger than just me… I can’t leave the Montaignards behind.

Fernan took a deep breath, feeling the flame in his chest swell and recede. “Then we’d best start preparing for the trial.”