Camille VII: The One to Stay

Dearest Camille,

I hope this letter finds you well. I meant what I said when last we spoke, but it’s not how I would have wanted to leave things between us. I’m sure you feel the same way. I expect and hope we can work things out once I return and enjoy our lives together.

In the meantime, the waters of Paix Lake are beautiful this time of year. Every time I take the boat out, I think of you. And the dappled shade of the trees is without peer in the sunset light, save the rings of blue in your eyes.

I wish you were here with me, or that I were there with you, but the time is not yet right. Miro did find an artist in town who demonstrated a stirring mastery of depicting the human form. Enclosed you will also find the results, which I hope can stand in for my presence in some small way.

Please do not come down to find me. I’ll return to you when I’m ready.

With bottomless love,

-Lucien

Camille frowned, setting the letter down on her desk. ‘Please do not come down to find me?’ As if I’d just abandon all my responsibilities to run off with you? Bad enough that the Fox-King himself was apparently relaxing on the Île d’Artre and enjoying his boat trips while his empire was slowly being rebuilt into a robust, modern form, strong enough to defy Avalon even without a hostage. Entirely without him, just like when Camille had liberated Malin.

Bad enough, for that matter, that he knows I’ll die in less than two months and he won’t even be with me. The very suggestion was insulting.

The sketch that had come with the letter, admittedly, was a masterful depiction of a most elegant human form, and Camille couldn’t help but smile as she slipped it into her bottom drawer and locked it, but it did little to make up for the rest of it. But for the fact that it confirmed Lucien was alive and safe, she might almost have preferred receiving nothing at all. It would have been less insulting, at the very least.

“If you have anything to send to him, I’ll relay it back,” Miro Mesnil had offered when he presented the letter, but Camille hadn’t the slightest idea what to say that Lucien didn’t already know. If he was determined to be a shiftless lackwit, Camille had better things to do than futilely try to stop him.

If he was determined not to see her again, not to be with her before she died…

How did it come to this, Lucien? It was always you and me against the world. Now we’ve won our first great victory—my last—and you can’t bear to be with me, even with so little time left.

She settled on a briefer note than was her usual fashion.

Lucien,

You’re acting like a fool.

Stop.

Love,

Camille

If he had a problem with that, he was welcome to come tell her about it.

Camille gave the note to Sire Miro in a padded blue envelope and sent him from the city as fast as she could.

Miro Mesnil had submitted when sufficiently pressured, but after that scuffle with a guardian that had nearly reignited the Foxtrap, it seemed safer to keep him out of Malin. He was a swift sword for Lucien to have at his side if he got any stupid ideas, at the very least, though not bold enough to challenge them.

Not much comfort, but there wasn’t much of that to be had in these final days.

At least the Code Leclaire was proceeding apace. The specific legal language wouldn’t be ready for ratification in Camille’s lifetime, especially if Lucien refused to stir himself to come govern, but she trusted Annette to see it through.

It would bear her name, and bring the continent into the modern world without forgetting what made the Empire great, a perfect synthesis of old and new. Cynette Fields had been surprisingly accommodating of that desire for an Avalon-trained solicitor, but no doubt years of saving men and women from Perimont’s noose had tempered her loyalty to their strictures.

And once it was put to law, quotidien sacrifices would become a thing of the past with a single stroke of Lucien’s pen. Gone were trials-by-sage, gone were lengthy imprisonments pending trial, gone was the very possibility of standing before judgment without a solicitor on your side. Even if it meant the Crown finding one for the accused.

For now, the magistrates arbitrating the trials would have to remain the same—Camille couldn’t afford to incense every lord from the smallest knight to the mightiest Duchess while the Empire was in such a state of transition—but as they died, their successors would be appointed directly by the Crown, rather than guaranteed the hereditary right, though the heirs would maintain their lands and titles.

Perhaps they’d even retain their position, if they were truly learned and impartial enough to be suited for the role, but never again would the likes of Aurelian Lumière wield that authority as an instrument of political power.

Nor, come to think of it, could someone like me swipe a condemned man like Jean of the harbor and sacrifice him to further her own ends. That had been what truly made things with Lumière irreconcilable, pushing the flaming boulder from the cliff before it smashed through Guerron, causing devastation still not fully healed. That, too, was for the better.

It wasn’t a provision that Camille added lightly. A similar abolishment of the Lord’s Justice had cost Hermeline Renart almost half her support, and forever ended her dreams of ruling a united Empire from her riverine throne. Even rumors of its inclusion in the law code had required Camille to spend many of her few remaining evenings wining and dining lords and ladies and reassuring them of their continued value and rights, and she hadn’t been able to win everyone over.

But they had all seen what had happened to Annette. Like it or not, change was needed if the Empire was ever to survive, let alone thrive. Mary had been invaluable as well, though her charm was a peculiar one, better able to connect with the objectors on common ground before pivoting to show why the proposed changes wouldn’t truly hurt them. She had a deft way of making all of their issues with it sound trivial without being insulting in the slightest. Camille had to admit that she’d underestimated her, fooled by a superficial impression.

The sacrifices were a similar story, now reserved for only the gravest of crimes—murder, violation, treason—and only after many chances to appeal the sentence. Moreover, any condemned who insisted upon it could withhold themselves from the practice, though their family would mourn the loss of compensation in exchange, and it would do nothing to save their life.

The objectors there had been faster to submit, being mostly sages and acolytes who already took their cues from Camille. Joseph Maurras, one of Uncle Emile’s acolytes from Guerron and another exile from Malin, had loudly cried out against denying Levian the blood that the Great Spirit demanded, but Aude had thankfully resolved it before Camille even needed to say a word, declaring that Malin had seen more than enough blood. Léon Orle, another exile acolyte, had joined in, saying that the White Night proved that Levian would only use his power against them in any case, and that Camille was his High Priestess to do as she will.

It never would have been possible without Pierre Cadoudal transforming the Malin acolytes into a voice of compassion and reform, a counter to every traditionalist argument against reform, and Camille had to thank him for that, even if his wholehearted capitulation still grated.

There had been some back and forth about who, precisely, would administer what few sacrifices would continue, since the representative for the Empire would no longer necessarily be a sage. That, too, could be solved with royal appointment, but Camille took care not to adorn the office with any particular longevity or accolades. The sage of the moment would be called upon and then set aside, ineligible to administer the ceremony again for a period of five years.

Perimont’s methods had done little right, but the more Camille looked at it, his use of unrenowned commoners as executioners had merits over glorifying them with power and prestige. No doubt in his case that had been to distance himself from his own butchery, keeping his hands clean and drawing ire to his disposable pawns instead of himself, but it also meant that he never had to deal with the likes of Aurelian Lumière growing their power to rival him off the broken necks he left in his wake.

This wouldn’t be quite so extreme, but it was a step towards justice, and far better than Malin had seen under Perimont or Fox-Kings past.

A fair compromise, a just one, which preserved tradition without injustice and showed Avalon for the butchers they were, to be enacted with sufficient consensus and backing to ensure its use long into the future. The fact that it reinforced royal power over the aristocracy was but another benefit, easier to enforce after the twin tragedies of the White Night and Perimont’s Coup weakened their position. Sentiment was behind Camille, and that made every negotiation easier.

A new wind was blowing. By the time King Harold expired in his cell, Avalon would find their foe a peer in matters of law. A superior, even, in vital ways.

If only matters of industry seemed nearly as promising.

Under darkness, every tree that could possibly be spared and a great many that couldn’t had been burned to keep warm, leaving little in the way of fuel for even prototype designs, and the Guerron-shaped hole in Malin’s usual logistical apparatus was doing little to help. Eloise’s mercenaries couldn’t get those miners back to work soon enough.

Personnel was an issue, too. Annette’s coterie of bureaucrats included few people with the knowledge and interest to make a serious attempt at duplicating Avaline technology, and, so far, none of the remaining transplants in the city seemed to possess it either. Or if they did, they weren’t willing to share. A few half-assembled trains and a set of books from the railyard counted for a lot, but so far, not enough, especially without the fuel to spare testing things properly.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Clearly, relying solely on Imperial scholars to unravel advanced foreign machinery in as little time as possible wasn’t going to work, and waiting for a defector to volunteer didn’t seem promising either.

“Margot? Could you come in here?” Camille called out, then waited for her stagiaire to enter the office, pen and pad in hand. “Make a note for me, please. I need to figure out how to extend an offer to any would-be Avaline defectors. Scientists, or at least people with significant training. I don’t think florins alone would do it, not in any quantity we could afford to pay. Your sister might have some useful insights, mercenary as she is.”

“Um, I will, Camille. But—Lord Perimont just called an emergency council meeting. News that must be delivered in person, of grave import. He and Eloise are already at the Hôtel de Ville.” Not a terribly inspired name, but infinitely better than still calling it the Governor’s Mansion, especially when the Governors in question were the Butcher Arion, Gordon Perimont, and the Prince of Darkness.

“Of course he did.” Camille could barely summon the will to be upset. Terramonde has a cruel sense of timing, but I already knew that by now. “Gather my things and ready my carriage. You’ll be accompanying me.”

Margot nodded, then walked further into the room and began packing.

The rains were heavy as they departed, a chorus of muffled droplets sounding through the carriage roof the entire way. Already, puddles pooled amidst the cobblestones, large enough to mirror the darkening clouds above.

Perhaps because of the rains, Camille was the last to arrive, though Annette wasn’t far ahead of her. Before they reached the informal council chamber, Camille grabbed Annette’s arm, greeted her warmly, then asked in a low voice, “Did you look into that thing for me?”

Annette’s face slumped, and Camille could tell that the news wasn’t good. “I’m sorry. It looks like the frost wiped out everything. I had someone discreetly check the Sartaire banks in case any was protected by Fenouille’s essence, but no luck so far. We might need to source it from further afield.”

Where it might not even show up here until I’m dead anyway. Camille couldn’t help but frown, a foul mood beginning to take her, but she had a meeting right now, so she tried to push those thoughts aside. With her impending death, it might not make much difference anyway, aside from greater comfort in these final weeks.

The chair at the head of the table had been left empty for Camille, fittingly, so she took her seat as Annette did the same, sitting at her right with Mordred Boothe already slouching in the spot to Camille’s left. Simon and Eloise were further down the table—their own choice, evidently, since they’d been the first to arrive.

“Alright,” Camille began, with no small amount of dread. “What happened?”

“Probably better for you to hear it as I did,” Simon answered cryptically, then snapped his fingers. A moment later, a shabby-looking boy of perhaps fifteen years of age stepped trepidatiously into the room, clutching his hands together in front of his stomach. “Tell them what you told me,” he requested

The boy swallowed, eyes darting nervously around the room. “I—I’m Lem, my lords. And ladies. Um… I’m in service to Sire Raoul, ever since the White Night. Since my dad couldn’t… He’s locked up, my lords and ladies.”

“Your father?” No doubt there was some way to help, but it hardly seemed worthy of an emergency meeting unless there was more going on. Perhaps Queen Glaciel had taken captives.

“Sire Raoul, along with Lady Lazare and the Maréchal. More. They’re all barricaded in the feast hall to wait out the rebels. Montaigne’s lot.”

“I beg your pardon? Fernan Montaigne imprisoned aristocrats in the feast hall?” Camille turned incredulously to Annette, who—if anything—looked more bewildered at the idea. “Rebels?”

“Montaignards, they call themselves, after Sire Fernan. Stormed the castle and took it over, killing most of Count Valvert’s guards and leaving his wife on death’s door. I only got out because no one knew me as anything, when the Sire asked it. Sent me out just before the hall was blocked in, he did. So, um, here I am.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Camille turned from the terrified boy to Simon. “Does this sort of thing pass for amusing back in Avalon?”

Simon wasn’t laughing, though. “Is there a hole in his story? A contradiction? You’re far more familiar with Guerron than I am. If there is, I shall take it as a relief.”

Annette sighed. “Madeleine Lazare and Sire Raoul de Montgallet are in Guerron, so far as I know, though the Maréchal could mean anyone with the rank, and Guy Valvert is most assuredly not married. Some poor girl will have to shoulder that colossal burden eventually, but the longer Guy waits, the more time she can have with some measure of happiness.”

“Maréchal Augustin,” the boy said. “He followed the Count from Dorseille.”

“Well, that does make sense,” Camille admitted. “But the wife?”

“Valentine Bougitte. They just had the wedding before everything went wrong.”

Bougitte… Camille had only met Valentine in passing once or twice, but she was sister to Laura Bougitte, and that meant… What? Could she have concocted this story for my benefit? Some kind of petty revenge on behalf of her sister? It sounded absurd.

Annette broke the silence. “I don’t believe that Fernan would do this. He’s been loyal, steadfast, undoubtedly one of the good ones. I might be dead right now if Guy hadn’t fetched him from his village. And you’re saying that he, what, led an insurrection for no reason at all? He just up and lost his mind one day?”

The boy shrunk down further into himself. “I don’t know what Montaigne was thinking, my lady. His people were mad about some trial, and then Lady Valentine said he had to leave or be arrested. Gave him three days, more than fair to make his arrangements. But…”

That was a reason, at least, a way that it could make some kind of twisted sense, even if accepting it meant throwing out everything Camille had thought she’d known about Fernan Montaigne.

I missed what should have been our last conversation. Who knows what he might have said. “Thank you, boy. Please close the door and wait outside the room. We may have more questions for you later, but first we need to discuss this privately amongst ourselves.”

The boy obliged, and Camille waited another moment before opening the deliberations proper. “If this is a lie, it’s not one that can hold for long. Eloise, the moment this meeting is over, I want a small, fast ship and a gifted horse rider to approach Guerron from the coast and the pass. People who know how to be discreet. Don’t tell them the boy’s account, but let them observe on their own. They’ll each take an Acolyte with them. When they return, we’ll have another two sources, and more trustworthy ones at that, to compare against the boy and each other.”

“Fine,” Eloise said, trying to look unconcerned and mostly succeeding, but the slight dip in her eyebrows conveyed concern, probably for Ysengrin, who could be caught up in the middle of all of it. “And I suppose we’ll sit on our hands waiting for them, hoping it’s just a false alarm.”

“No. If it’s a hoax, that’s its own problem, but a minor one. We won’t know more until we know more, but acting fast could be necessary.” I don’t want to believe it, but… “As of now, for the purposes of this conversation, let’s assume the boy’s word is true. Fernan turned traitor and usurped Valvert… Khali’s curse, did he hit his head in the White Night? Lucien would know.”

“It doesn’t sound as if he had much choice,” Boothe said. “If the new Countess wanted him gone—”

“Then he should have left!” Annette scoffed. “He should have come here and we could have resolved the matter. Instead he’s forever tainted himself with the blood of my idiot cousin, and, apparently, the poor sap who married him. In what world is insurrection a reasonable response to exile, even an unjust one? And, if he’s capable of this, who’s to say it wasn’t just?”

Why would Valentine want Fernan gone? Was it some kind of roundabout way to attack me, depriving me of the vital line of communication that had been key to liberating Malin? It was hard to imagine that Valentine had somehow figured out enough of their secret communications to identify Fernan as a weak point, though. They didn’t have any kind of public association at all, and even back in Guerron, he’d pretended to be Lumière’s man. Unless Valentine were the greatest spymaster in existence, it couldn’t be about Camille.

But then what? “He wasn’t alone, they said. A whole group behind him. Could he have been pressured into it? Made to answer for something they did?” Even then, he’d probably rather leave than slaughter his way to power.

“How could he have found so many fools to follow him?” Simon asked, piling on further. “These Montaignards… they must know that this won’t end well. I’d wager Montaigne does too. And yet they seized an entire city out from under us.”

“My city,” Annette growled. “Camille, this is unconscionable. Lucien or no Lucien, we need to march an army back across the river. I’ll lead it myself if I must. If this whole thing is a fabrication, we can leave behind a detachment to ensure something like this never does occur. If not, we take back what was stolen.”

“Agreed,” Simon added. “And this Montaigne must be sharply questioned, to ensure that none of his agents have infiltrated elsewhere. We would do well to remove him from his followers, perhaps a tower room in Malin.”

“Yeah, brilliant idea.” Eloise looked genuinely angry at them, which was a strange sight to see. “Start a civil war on our doorstep, right next to the lands whose coal we need.”

“There won’t be a war, Eloise. A scuffle at most. If these rebels have any sense, an admittedly unlikely prospect, they’ll surrender without bloodshed. Either way, it won’t last long.”

“All this over Guy Valvert? I’ve heard the way you and Camille talk about him. I only met Fernan the once, but Florette said the lizard man was like a brother to her. If the two of them were quarreling, who’s more likely to be the problem?”

“She’s right,” Camille said, speaking for the first time not to back up her best friend who’d been grievously wronged but the avaricious pirate criticizing her response to it. Who am I anymore? But it was true. Just because Guy had done one good thing in defying Lumière to grab Fernan didn’t mean he was any less of a lout. He’d been rewarded for it with stewardship of Guerron, because loyalty had to be rewarded, especially among family, but that wasn’t the same thing as him learning, let alone earning enough benefit of the doubt for his side to be taken against the gentle peasant boy who’d been absolutely vital to liberating Malin.

Simon looked weary already, and this had barely started. “Whoever started the problem, the fact that his solution was slaughtering his way into control of the city speaks for itself.”

“Agreed. Guy could have slaughtered his entire family and it still wouldn’t justify this. I don’t care what his motives were, Camille. He has to go.”

“It’s the only way to be sure,” Simon added. “I’m aware that Montaigne did favors for both of you, but I must ask you to imagine that it was anyone else. Would you hesitate even a moment before sending troops to restore order?”

“No,” Camille admitted. She wouldn’t have even bothered with the scouts. “But Fernan isn’t anyone else, as Annette herself can attest. We wouldn’t be sitting in this room right now if he hadn’t fed me crucial information about the Convocation of the Spirits.” Well, Simon and I still would at Luce’s side, but no need to complicate the statement. “I have… a standing appointment with him, a monthly discussion, due for its next installment in a matter of days. And Fernan is an absolutely abysmal liar. I’ll have the truth of it from his mouth, one way or another.” And then, before long, I’m to die, alone without my Lucien, a failure who lasted just long enough to see my few truly just accomplishments washed away.

Because whoever controlled Guerron controlled the captive King Harold. If it had really been swiped out from under them by a hostile force, nothing would remain to stop another Avaline invasion.

“That’s not good enough! How would you even do that?”

“Magic!” Camille waved her hand in frustration. “Annette, Fernan has only ever served you well. Isn’t that service worth a few days’ benefit of the doubt? If this story is true, if he did betray us and seize Guerron… I’ll stop at nothing to make him pay. You have my word on that.”

One last miserable duty before I’m swallowed by the sea.