Conquest of Avalon

Camille VIII: The Bereft

"I came as soon as I found out. Scott Temple had a contact over there." Margot handed over an early edition of The Gaume Chronicle, Condillac's preeminent journal, as she entered Camille's office. "There's nothing about it until the fourth page, so that's something at least."

What now? Camille grabbed the paper with a light touch and flipped to the relevant page. "Lady Regent Céline Clément has provided Count Cédric Bougitte with threescore 'military advisors' to ensure that his lands are safe..." Why wasn't this front-page news? "She's soft-pedaling a war with Guerron. This 'advisor' scheme comes straight from Luce, according to Fernan. Now Condillac is matching his shadows in kind."

War, inevitably, and Malin will hardly be able to sit it out. Camille flipped back to the front. "And another condemnation for us and our 'inhospitable' treatment of their Duke. She has the gall to claim I kidnapped him!"

Margot hunched with uncertainty at that. "You did stop him from leaving..."

"I advised him to stay, and he followed that wise counsel." Technically, Camille had never forced him into anything. "When he fled the Convocation, did I send anyone after him? No." Of course, it would have been impossible to catch a wind sage in the air, all the more so after expending all but the last dregs of her power, but that didn't change the fact that Camille had ultimately let him go. Keeping him with me against his will wouldn't have accomplished anything anyway.

Still, he slipped through my fingers, just like Levian's seat as Arbiter and the Blue Knights. All might have been mine, had I chosen differently. Of course, in the former case, Fernan Montaigne was more to blame than anyone.

She'd been a wreck when he came upon her, drained and brutalized by the very spirits she ought to have ruled. Unable to contain her despair, she'd rambled truths left too long unspoken to the very man who'd spoiled her moment of triumph.

"Ever since we killed Levian together, I've lost everything. The aristocracy I was bred to lead curse my name, and declare my children abominations; the spirits I was bred to serve castigate and torment me; those I thought my closest friends have turned their backs; even Lucien would rather spend his time far away. The Red Knight joins hands with the Blue and breaks bread with my mortal foes... Jethro was right: I didn't think it through. I ought to have drunk my poison and defied Levian his due instead of stealing his power. Mordred sought to rectify my error, and perhaps I should have indulged him. Instead, my Red Knight saved me, that I might live to witness the ruination of my life's work. And just when I had the opportunity, at last, to set things to rights, to overcome my mistakes and emerge triumphant, you ripped it from me."

Montaigne's face was still soft with the flesh of youth, his untamed beard and wild eyes of fire making him striking, if not handsome. The look of pity on his visage was more enraging than a thousand disrupted convocations ever could be.

"I curse you, Fernan Montaigne," she'd whispered, heart filled with venom. "Let all that you've built crumble to ruin, let the magic fade from your flesh and leave you crippled anew. As you have done to me, let your moment of triumph be stolen and twisted and lost forever. May you live out the rest of your days as a broken failure, tormented by regret."

But rather than gloat, or finish the job he'd started, Montaigne had simply offered her his hand, looking genuinely pained in his burning green eyes. "I'm sorry."

"So what are we going to do?" Margot asked, jolting Camille back to the present. "It seems like it's only a matter of time before Condillac goes to war with you too. Between them, Micheltaigne, Avalon, the Blue Knights, Guerron—"

"We needn't worry about Guerron," Camille interrupted, not interested in hearing her long list of enemies again. "Our greatest threats lie close to home. With their victory in Micheltaigne, the Blue Knights have never looked more credible as a fighting force. Lucien's absence lets them continue to claim that they fight in his name, which gives the staunchest of loyalists an excuse to back them. Your work with my reputation has done wonders, but we need more, and faster."

Camille wasn't lying, for that was no longer an option for her. Margot's editorial stint at the Quotidien had indeed massively shifted Camille's image in a remarkably short amount of time. The Blue Rebels, disgruntled aristocrats warring over unique privileges they'd been denied, allowed Camille to frame herself instead as a force for the common people, cutting through the rot of the entitled aristocracy.

My mother would shudder to see it, Camille mused, finding that that fact no longer bothered her. She was the best our tradition had to offer, and when the time came to wield that power against our greatest foe, she failed to stop them.

Sarille Leclaire had culled the harbor of Avaline vessels and secured a path to safety for all the noble exiles of Malin; for that Camille would be forever grateful. But she knew she had to walk a harder path than Sarille could have conceived of, wielding novel solutions against implacable new problems.

The old image of the line Leclaire was that of an enlightened despot, bestowed with Levian's power to rule wisely and justly over all within their domain. Had the Foxtrap never happened, that domain would have come to include all the Empire, as it did today, but Camille's role would have been entirely different.

A vanguard against the dominance of the rich and power, the last scion of Leclaire instead represented a new Malin, strong and modern to stand against the forces of Avaline imperialism. Those unproductive forces working against the prosperity and security of this new Empire had no place in it. They could step aside or be forcefully purged.

The Blue Knights had left Camille with no other choice, and thanks to Margot's efforts in reorienting her image, few in the capital would mourn their demise. Though that's scant help in the countryside, where the victory in Micheltaigne makes them look more credible than ever as leaders. Like as not, Guy Valvert would find some way to screw the whole thing up on his own, but the Red Knight was not a foe to be underestimated, painful as it was to even conceive of him as an enemy, and in any case Camille could hardly afford to wait.

I need my own victory, a triumph for the vanguard of the peasants and the workers against their unjustly wealthy and powerful foes. Proving herself in that domain would open all manner of new avenues to consolidate her control, and ensure that an insurrection in the mold of the Blue Knights could never take place again.

Then and only then might I turn my attention to the spirits, the most corrupt and entrenched powers of all. In time, in success, the whole continent might be reborn, strong and modern, armed with all it needed to stand against Avalon as a peer and ensure they never thought to try their conquest here again. Camile owed her people nothing less.

But each step had to be taken one at a time. It wouldn't do to get ahead of herself. Never again. "As for Condillac, there may yet be another way. You need to find Étienne and bind him to your will."

"Me?" she sputtered. "He hardly knows I exist. We only talked a little, and—"

"Modesty is a waste of everyone's time," said Camille, who'd learned that lesson when she was far younger than Margot. "Save your lies for the Duke, should it prove necessary."

"Lies? Why would I need to lie? How could I ever convince him to stand Condillac's army down?"

"You've answered your own question."

Margot frowned, mind already racing to answer Camille's challenge. "Alright, maybe I have an idea. Maybe. But that doesn't mean I can do it. I'm not like you, I can't lie like that."

"I have every confidence in you," Camille smiled reassuringly. "It's easy. You've already thought about what you want to say, now all you need to do is inhabit that reality. Think of the details, practice them until they're second nature. You want to be able to recite them in your sleep, when drunk, when you're so exhausted you can hardly think.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"And then, let them fade away. Don't mention anything unless you're directly asked about it—liars always provide too many details unsolicited, and you won't be lying so much as supplying them with morsels of a truth you've crafted. Leave the lord's portion unspoken and let their own imagination deceive them; it's more powerful than any lies you could ever tell yourself. If you can't remember something, hesitate. People forget what to say all the time, even when they aren't playing you false. There's none better than you to do this."

And honestly, I'm surprised you're acting so hesitant about this. Margot was usually bolder than this, as her recent takeover of the Quotidien had shown. Is it the boy? She looked chastened by the advice, absorbing it pensively. "If... if you're showing a different face to everyone, how do you know your own?"

Camille answered her with a shrug. "You're whomever you need to be, whenever you need to be them. Manifest reality with naught but your words—there's no power quite like it." It didn't look like the lesson was sinking in, so Camille looked to her own history for an example. "Do you know of Luce Grimoire? He was an earnest boy with no desire in his heart but the good of the world. He toiled tirelessly for the good of Malin, and I made the city hate him for it. I made him the Prince of Darkness, and I got him to thank me anyway. To rely on me, to trust me."

Margot frowned. "Is that why he signed the Treaty of Charenton? Because of lingering affection?"

Camille let out a sputtering laugh. "Absolutely not. He was trying to do the right thing, as ever. I think we're similar, in that regard." Else I could never have stomached the humiliation of signing away Guerron for peace. "This has to be you, Margot. I didn't intend to rely on you for something so essential so soon, but alas. I know you will rise to the challenge."

Margot bowed her head in a crisp nod. "Your Grace."

"Get a summons to Ysengrin on your way out," Camille ordered over Margot's shoulder. We'll need better agents in Condillac's army and Gaume if we want to stay on top of this. There were a few informants already, obviously, but mostly the odd wastrel and guttersnipe looking to make a few florins by passing off the word on the street. At peace, with Duke Étienne kept close, that had seemed sufficient. Now, clearly, it would be grossly inadequate.

She told Yse as much when he arrived, and he fortunately seemed undaunted by the task. "After working my fingers into Avalon's top secret projects, Condillac will be child's play."

"I'm pleased to hear it." I'll need to think of a better reward for him soon; he's been outdoing himself as a spymaster. "What have you heard from Avalon?"

"Destruction beyond all reckoning," he began in an uncharacteristically sober tone of voice. "The Prince of Darkness detonated a DV bomb right next to a Nocturne Gate in Forta, attempting to tear open the veil between this world and Khali's prison."

"What?" Camille let out a confused laugh. "Luce opened the door to Nocturne?"

"It was more of a crack," Yse admitted. "Part of a project to syphon energy between worlds. Perle said it was a great success, despite Lord Monfroy attempting to sabotage the whole thing."

"Isn't he dead?"

"He is now." As Ysengrin described the events, Camille couldn't help but think of Pantera the Undying, Levian's erstwhile patron who'd controlled the flow of life and death as easily as he controlled the waves. And Khali, who had never truly cursed the world, whose absence might have broken it on its own...

Could Luce be trying to set right what the Great Binder did wrong? If so, the fluctuations in the world's temperature and climate must be far worse than I thought, else he would never take the risk. The alternative, though, that he had no intention whatsoever of welcoming Khali back to balance the spirits once more, but had assumed this grave risk on behalf of the world just for energy, was unfortunately also the sort of folly she could see him indulging in.

And in either case, if he breaks through, it could be out of my hands. "Accelerate the project. I want us to be testing our own DV bomb before the year is out."

"That'll expose our scientists," Yse protested. "More frequent dead drops, more aggressive questioning, stealing prototypes instead of just memorizing notes... Right now, we have time to obfuscate the source of our discoveries, but if you want to move that aggressively, it's inevitable that Avalon will catch on eventually."

That won't matter after we have the bomb. "Do it." With Levian's power further from her grasp than ever before, Camille had precious little left in the way of options. It had taken her hours of gasping pain on that desolate beach before she could even begin to think of a plan; as ever, it was more of a loose outline with endless potential for things to disrupt it.

Which, knowing my luck of late, seems all but inevitable.

And the plan itself was audacious enough that even the first step was sufficient for Annette to balk. "You want to lead our army south?"

"The countryside is rising for the Blue Knights. Their victory in Micheltaigne was inspirational, to hear Ysengrin's informants tell it. We need to disrupt and scatter them before they can form an organized force."

Annette frowned, clearly hoping that Camille might have taken steps to appease them instead. But the time for that has passed. They made their choice. "We need to keep a strong garrison in Malin to ensure the capital remains secure. Your children must be kept safe at all costs."

"I quite agree, and you're just the woman to command it." That should keep you out of my hair on campaign. "Eloise can help with the day-to-day operations while you fortify the city. I'm trusting you with the safety of my children, Annette."

She nodded solemnly, mollified. "You honor me. Of course, I accept."

"Good." Camille felt a strange emptiness in treating her old friend this way, as if she were issuing orders to a stranger, but she shook herself free of it without betraying a sliver of uncertainty. "I will return to you victorious." Weak as she was, drained of all but the last drops of Levian's old power over water and ripped from her favored ice, the promise still carried meaning. It bound her to victory.

No sacrifice at all.

≋

Camille frowned at the fires, regretful that it had come to this.

"No, please! We're humble servants of the Fox-King!" Calignac's new alderman was on his knees, begging in the shallows of the Sartaire as the water lapped around his waist. Younger than the last, he no doubt would have stood up longer against any interrogation; fortunately, there was nothing Camille needed to learn from him. "We only wished to protect his rule against the evil counselors that surround him."

"Like me?" Camille smiled, then nodded to her second-in-command, Nicolas Carnot. Nicolas had distinguished himself by being among the first to call for lethal punishment against the Blue rebels, and had assisted Lucien in reorganizing the Imperial Army into a standing, professional force.

As a commander, he was predictable and adequate; there was no intrigue in him, and indeed the man had proven easy for Camille to fool even without her ability to lie. If things came to blows against the rebels, she had no doubt about where his loyalties would lie—she needed a stable hand far more than a skilled player of the game, at this particular moment.

Roughly fifty, with tousled brown hair that came off as a sad attempt to look youthful, Carnot made for a strange sight at the head of a legion, all the more so as he dismounted from his horse and landed with a splash in the shallows.

"In the name of the Fox-King, Emperor Lucien of the dynasty Renart, by the tenets of the Code Leclaire, I sentence you to death." He swung his sword through the alderman's neck with one fluid motion, blood leaching into the Sartaire as soon as the corpse collapsed. A simple man, Carnot was hardly capable of understanding what he'd just done, which made him all the better for the job.

But he killed the traitor in water, under my terms, using my name. It wasn't much, but Camille felt the faintest flicker of vitality return to her, feeling more than a bit disgusted at what she'd had to do to get it back. The Code Leclaire protected all citizens of the Empire in times of peace, but the process could be... abbreviated, for an insurrectionist in times of war. If she'd had her druthers, Camille would have preferred to trot out that particular clause decades down the line, after the Code was more firmly established in its typical state, or—better yet—never at all. Unfortunately, these rebels had hardly left her with a choice.

This is what you've reduced me to, Fernan Montaigne. If you wished to moralize about it, the time for that was before you cost me everything. Yet Camille could not forget his outstretched hand, either, that genuine warmth of compassion and good intentions he radiated without sparing it a second thought. Such an aura took intense effort to mimic, as fragile as any deception ever could be, but it was clear enough that for Fernan Montaigne it was no deception at all.

"What now?" Carnot asked, climbing back up onto his horse with his pants wet and bloodied.

"Take five days and scour the riverbanks for any rebel holdouts. Set them all afire from Calignac to the mouth of the Sartaire. You are authorized to deal with any rebels you come across as you see fit. We need to ensure that we won't be contested when we cross the river." Attacks from the rear could be devastating, as the enemy was about to find out.

Carnot raised an eyebrow. "Why would we cross the river? Torpierre waits on the other side, traitors who invited Condillac into the Guerron Duchy. You'd be walking into a snare."

"No." Camille shook her head. "We're not the ones who'll end up trapped."