Conquest of Avalon

Fernan VIII: The Resigned

Fernan surveyed the Guerron Assembly arrayed before him, a mix of auras old and young, fervent and cautious, human and gecko, for once arrayed behind a single purpose as they had been in the days before the Revolution. He could only wish that it had been for another cause than the current crisis.

"The Assembly factions have begun to sport different colors." Maxime had informed him upon his return. "Perhaps because they know it's the sort of factionalism you personally are unable to witness. Costeau and her merchant friends have begun to dress in green, in the fashion of Malin, while Armand, Lantier, and their ilk matched them in red."

"Nothing to do with the Red Knight, surely?" Whoever he was, the man had joined with Valvert to fight against Avalon and liberate Micheltaigne. While, at face value, most people would consider that to be just, the majority of the Assembly was far more kindly disposed to Avalon than the dispossessed Micheltine royalty, and none was more despised than Guy Valvert.

"They would never admit it, but I fear a certain commonality of ethos—the bloody sword through which they might carve through oppression." Maxime had sighed at that, looking longingly towards Aubaine. "The same thinking that ruined Condorcet. Yet at least with them, I can trust their intentions; Costeau leads a band of opportunists and profiteers, little concerned with the plight of the common Commune citizen. Their stand against further bloodshed, weak and fragmented, exists strictly to maintain a sustainable status quo for themselves, rather than out of any moral principle."

Moral principle... Fernan couldn't help but think back to Alderman Jerome, wearing the thin justification of protecting his village as a cloak over his naked exploitation of gecko lands, deception built atop deception. Was he a moral zealot on behalf of his village, blind to the humanity of the geckos next to the people of Villechart he'd devoted himself to protecting? He'd certainly presented himself as such. Or was he a pragmatic opportunist, racing unblinking towards any opportunity to enrich himself? Neither? Both?

Did his motivations make any difference at all, in the end?

"I would hope that Michel and my mother have stayed clear of such nonsense," Fernan had said, rather than continue to reflect on the divides growing ever deeper in the heart of the Guerron Commune.

"They have, but not everyone has followed them in that..." Maxime had taken a deep breath, then addressed Fernan with characteristic candor. "I sincerely hope that your role in the Spirit Convocation was a vital one, because you left the Commune at a crucial moment. With Condillac's encroachment, arguing restraint became a perilous proposition. They grow closer to Guerron every day, and Plagette sent us word that their ships have departed from Gaume. We required your warmth and reputation to hold it all together more than ever before."

Fernan had offered him a smile at that. "Unless you want to live in a world where Camille Leclaire rules the Lyrion Sea, the other spirits at her beck and call, I would say it was important, yes." Though a stronger Malin would certainly have been a useful ally against Valvert in the short term. Still, even had he known exactly what her plan was, Fernan felt reasonably confident that it would have been a mistake to let her proceed.

The spirits had their own way of settling disputes, flawed as it was, and a charismatic tyrant like Leclaire bending them to her will would have been far more dangerous to the Commune in the long run than Guy Valvert could ever be. She'd nearly torched the Treaty of Charenton before recognizing her own weakness and then, begrudgingly, doing the right thing. A Lady of the Lyrion Sea would never have needed to. As things stood now, they could deal with the threat of Valvert together as relative equals, even if only as allies of convenience against a mutual foe. Had she succeeded, she'd have had no use for a rebellious Guerron.

"I, Citoyen Fernan Montaigne, First Speaker of the Guerron Commune, now call to order the one-hundred and twenty-third meeting of the Guerron Assembly. Every one of us stands here, chosen by the people, with the solemn responsibility to speak with their voice, to ensure that their concerns are heeded, and their needs attended to, all in service of freedom, equality, and prosperity."

And it seems that all of you value a different one of the three above the others. What he was about to do had the potential to make the problem far worse, in truth. If it were only his own conscience that concerned Fernan the most, he would undoubtedly take this moment to resign and run back into the mountains with Maxime and Aubaine—Mother and Mara if they so wished—and wash his hands of all this dirty business of politics that suited him not at all.

But holding the purity of my own soul above the good of Guerron would be the height of selfishness. Fernan had already crossed barriers he thought impossible before—and with his luck it was all-too-possible that he would have to do it again—but he still trusted himself to steer the unwieldy ship dubbed the Guerron Commune more than any of the zealots and opportunists lining the Assembly chamber at the moment. All the more so with what's to come.

"Would that I had better news for you, First Speaker." Paul Armand, dubbed 'Paulisade' by those most eager for a wall between the new Guerron and the old, had addressed Fernan with a grim aura and a downcast posture when first they'd met after the Convocation. "The Fleur de Lune struck again."

"Magnifico?" Fernan's eyes had blazed brightly at the fear of losing the leverage that had built the Treaty of Charenton, the foundation of a lasting Guerron Commune.

"Louise de Monflanquin," Armand had answered. No one important, his tone had implied. "Even the Fleur wouldn't dare strike at the erstwhile King. He has more guards than any man in Guerron, rotated every five days to ensure he can't build a rapport, and watched closely at all times. But we can't allow the Fleur to abduct another prisoner."

"Abduct? This Fleur de Lune is setting them free from captivity." If they hadn't chosen the targets least deserving of that freedom, perhaps I could even respect them for it. "I suppose Monflanquin will make for Micheltaigne and her paramour. Valentine Valvert remains at hand?"

"For the time being. Once her trial is complete and the sentence carried out, there will be no risk of escape."

Fernan had flared his eyes at that, causing Armand to back away with a hint of pale fear. "You're acting as if her life is already forfeit. We do not execute in the Guerron Commune."

"If we don't, the Fleur de Lune will take the decision out of our hands! It was humiliating enough to lose Valvert; look what happened in Micheltaigne as a result! Citoyen Valentine has already been freed once, and it's only a matter of time before the Fleur repeats the feat. She must be tried and she must be executed. It's the only way."

"Her trial will be held when the time is right," Fernan had offered, seeing that he had no hope of convincing him. Until this Fleur de Lune is caught, it's getting harder and harder to argue she can be safely held. And after Guy's escape, the Assembly would accept only one sentence for his wife. "More important is the thief you've failed to stop. I put you in charge of the day-to-day operations of the Committee of Public Safety, and your efforts were insufficient."

"My resources were insufficient! The erstwhile King is and must remain the priority, by your own command. He is no threat under his Crown of Cold Steel, nor is he any longer the King of Avalon, but he's watched day and night by no less than a third of our staff, ever rotating and patrolling, while all the others are left with the scraps. Scant wonder the Fleur could make off with a low priority prisoner like Monflanquin."

"I'll consider your request for additional staff," Fernan had allowed, suddenly suspicious of Armand's motives in presenting things this way. "In the meantime, you must make do. Catch the Fleur de Lune, and perhaps we can relax the demands on Magnifico's guards. While they're at large, we cannot. The last time he was free, he wiped out the sun."

"An affront you would never consider, Monsieur First Speaker. To be sure, King Harold lacked a patron waiting in the wings to seize power afterwards. He didn't stand to benefit in any way beyond the satisfaction of cleansing the world of an immortal tyrant. Such a difference carries all the moral weight."

"You're saying I had something to do with Flammare? I wasn't even there at the Convocation," Fernan protested, hearing how feeble an excuse it was next to the truth of the matter. Especially if Armand knows how close I am to Florette. "But yes, there's a considerable difference between ending Flammare's genocidal ambitions with a single stroke and deposing Soleil by sacrificing hundreds of thousands of innocent people."

"To be sure," Armand allowed. "But I'd hoped that you would keep up the good fight instead of continuing to serve Gézarde. Spirits rule entire domains, from the water we drink to the air we breathe. Any one of them is a hundred times the tyrant a mere human like Valvert could ever be, and the Arbiter of Light all the more so."

"That doesn't mean that they deserve to die." Fernan pressed his face closer to Armand, fire blazing in his eyes. "That same thinking drove Magnifico to think plunging the world into darkness was justified and led Avalon to lay waste to Micheltaigne, to scour Cya's Refuge, and to starve Lyrion. Spirits may not wield their power fairly, but they have a right to their lives up to the point that they leave us no other option. No spirit has driven us to that since Flammare." Though Lamante came perilously close.

Fernan had been livid when he'd heard what had befallen Lunette, the softspoken moon spirit who'd been far more courteous to her father's replacement than she'd needed to be. Courbet would face justice for that if Fernan ever found her, as would Lamante if it could be done without risking more people getting hurt. As soon as she felt a hint of danger, Lamante could slip away into the darkness and re-emerge wearing any face she pleased, free to sow endless discord amongst the human nations. If she caught wind of the fact that it was Fernan who opposed her, Guerron would be first on her list without a doubt.

According to Camille, the Émile Leclaire he'd known in passing during the Summer of Darkness had been Lamante the entire time, fooling even people like Guy and Lucien who'd known Émil their whole lives. With the Assembly so fractious right now, it wouldn't take much of a push for her to tear the Guerron Commune apart. Loath as he was to consider it, Fernan wondered if Florette might be the solution once again.

She has a better rapport with Lamante and the Fallen, if nothing else, but if half her letters about Forta are true, she might be the best binder with a shred of morality left. The thought was scarcely comforting, to say the least.

Étienne Lantier, at least, seemed to have pulled back from Paul Armand's bloodlust. It was rumored that he had been the one to come up with the 'Spirit of Death' appellation that was used about as often these days as 'Paulisade'. After a few long meetings with Maxime, Lantier even seemed to recognize the danger of capital punishment as a rot to the society that imposed it.

Unfortunately, that wasn't enough to make him cooperative.

"It's simple good sense, First Speaker. We call ourselves a Commune but relish in private property. It's a contradiction in terms! How can the people of Guerron truly be free when Edith Costeau and her ilk can buy their way into power? Three Assemblymembers that we know of were caught accepting foreign bribes to sway their vote. Who knows how many others remain, having been slightly smarter about how they did it? We didn't even catch Rochaort until after his death."

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"I understand," Fernan had insisted. "All of what you're saying is true, but this isn't the time. We have Condillac bearing down on us from across the strait, joining their strength to Bougitte for a full scale invasion of the Commune. Guy Valvert just took back Micheltaigne at the head of an army, and now he has that kingdom behind him in opposing us. Camille Leclaire..."

I don't know if she'll ever forgive me for what I did to her. She thought she'd won it all until I snatched it away. It was hard to be certain, though. Afterwards she'd been vulnerable and candid, saying things Fernan would never have expected her to say to anyone, let alone the man who'd just torn her down. And when he'd extended a hand to lift her to her feet, she'd accepted it.

"Leclaire is done. A relic of the age of monarchs. Her Fox-King is absent and her kingdom is unraveling at the seams. The most damage she can do to us would be failing to slow Valvert down on his way to Guerron." Lantier had gone so far as to point his finger at Fernan's chest. "If you want my vote, you'll have to add my provisions: redistribute the wealth hoarded by a tiny fraction of our citizens; grant workers the power to form syndicates without mercenaries burning down their house; guarantee the welfare of every Guerrine citizen. Make sure that the Guerron Commune is worth protecting."

I would, if only I could. Adding Lantier's amendment would poison the entire thing, turning a surefire approval into a guaranteed failure once the right and most of the center read the changes. "Put it in a separate bill, and it'll have my vote. But this isn't the time."

"It never is," Lantier had answered ruefully, making it clear that Fernan would simply have to do without his help.

Camille Leclaire didn't need to deal with the likes of this, nor Luce Grimoire, but that didn't stop their nations from being paralyzed with the same sort of indecision, nor from being torn apart by competing factions from within. At least everyone here had been chosen by the people of Guerron. That would have to be enough.

"As the first order of business, I move that the Commune issue a proclamation formally welcoming Sir Phillip Graves and his advisors from the nation of Avalon into our bright city." Fernan was careful with his words, mentioning neither the fact that Avalon was formally a Kingdom, the sort of nation that the Commune ought not ally itself with, nor the fact that these 'advisors', nominally present to supervise shipments of military equipment and help drill Guerrine soldiers, were little more than auxiliary troops in truth. Unless the new King Lucifer broke his word, when it came to battle, they would fight for Guerron.

"Seconded," said Citoyen Montrouge, never shy about his eagerness for strengthened ties with Avalon.

The motion carried by a wide majority, though not without conspicuous dissents from Gilbert Barnave and a few other allies and companions of the late Gabriel Rochaort, whose treachery had come as such a shock that many still refused to believe it. According to Maxime, several of them were dressed in blue, though they remained in their usual spot in the chamber near Costeau. For his part, Lantier abstained.

A few more proclamations followed, recognizing the scientists Luce had sent to assist with a Guerron energy program and institutional organization. It wasn't a comfortable feeling to have Avalon so deeply enmeshed into the Commune, even with a man like Luce at its head, but most of the relevant institutions had already been set up by Avaline contractors already, thanks to the Treaty of Charenton. Now, Guerron actually had the apparatus set up to create their own, albeit with a bit of help.

Then, finally, came the most consequential law of all.

☉

The cool breeze of the sea cut through the strong sun of high summer, refreshing Fernan without any need for magic. "Do you ever wish we could just leave all this behind?" He'd considered it often enough before the vote; now, he could scarcely think of anything else.

"Constantly," Mara admitted, then let loose a massive torrent of flame into the sand of the beach. Fernan could see it glow brightly, each granule dissolving into a larger glassy whole. "When I was young, I wanted to leave my hive behind and explore the world! To see all the amazing things people had done, every one different from the last!"

She skittered closer to the pit of glass, examining her handiwork. Four years of growth had left her even larger than before, close to the size of a house if she curled up, but she could still move with a swiftness and grace that practically demanded the involvement of magic. "Guerron was so different and amazing and new when we got here, but now it's the place I've spent half my life. It's just another hive."

Fernan nodded in understanding, though his desire to flee came from a different place entirely. "I think I want to go because for me, it's not. I left my hive behind and never went back; now it's an empty place, abandoned and lifeless." You can't go home anymore. There's nothing left but echoes and clean mountain air. "Where would you go, if you could go anywhere?"

"Avalon," she answered without hesitation. "Graves told me they have a bridge that can fold in half! A birdcage that can fly into the sky! Gates where reality was torn asunder! I could spend ten years there and not run out of new places to see, new things to do."

Fernan frowned. "Avalon exterminated all of their spirits, and the children too. If you go there, you'll die."

"I know that," she hissed sullenly. "You said if I could go anywhere, that's all. It's just a fantasy."

Not for the first time, Fernan felt a surge of guilt. Giving geckos representation in the Assembly had seemed essential, had been essential to ensure their rights were protected... But four years was a much longer time for them than for him. "It doesn't have to be. I think you should go."

"To Avalon?"

"Absolutely not. But go out into the world! See the Stone Tower, see the ruins of Refuge, the New Bridge, the Plumards and Mount Glastaigne, all of it. It's what you always wanted, right?" Fernan blasted a jet of flame into the beach beside Mara's glass, trying to imitate her form, though he was far less adept at the practice.

"I used to know exactly what I wanted. Now it feels like I'm trapped."

"I know exactly what you mean." Fernan hopped lightly over the molten glass, landing closer to Mara. "And I know you have people here to say goodbye to, responsibilities to look after. But as soon as you're ready... I think you'd regret it if you didn't."

"Would you come with me?"

Would I?

Condillac had continued their advance right up the Gold Road, bolstered by their collaborator, Bougitte. After Fernan had swallowed his doubts and passed the vote, they'd stopped where they stood, living off the sea and foraging of the countryside outside the Commune's borders, but they hadn't turned around and gone home either, nor had they sent anyone to negotiate.

Inside the walls, the Assembly had managed to hold together long enough to provide for their mutual defense, but immediately gone back to squabbling. Lantier's Syndicate Protection law had died on the vine despite Fernan's support as First Speaker, weakening them both and growing the resentment from the left of the chamber towards him, while angering the merchants on the right for no real gain.

And without a dedicated force to stop it, mercenaries that could have been manning the walls and defending the city were still burning down houses and beating organizers in the street to chill any efforts at syndicalizing, always just deniable enough that they didn't get caught doing it; a cookfire blamed on the close quarters of the 'slums'; a beating blamed on crime and squalor; when one mercenary had gone too far too publicly, dashing a father's head on the rocks right in front of his husband and a dozen witnesses, the commander had offered the individual up to face justice and then continued on as if nothing had changed.

Perhaps when the crisis had passed, when the Guerron Commune was secure in its legitimacy and safe from all threats from within and without, perhaps then Fernan could leave at Mara's side. Perhaps then there would be time to see the world and escape from the city... But I'm sure to die before I ever see that day. A village could be organized equitably, everyone accessible and accountable to one another, but even a mid-sized city like Guerron had such a labyrinthine coalescence of business and bureaucracy that it seemed nigh-impossible.

Lantier was right... That vote was the best leverage we had to push good social policy through. Attaching Syndicate Protection to the larger bill would have ensured Costeau and her ilk couldn't have voted it down without painting themselves as coldhearted or corrupt. Uncommitted to the Commune's existence, even.

How else could a member of the Assembly justify voting down a Grand Army of the Commune?

How could the First Speaker justify abstaining? Fernan was not so shortsighted as to believe he hadn't had a choice. Voting down the army formation would have been within his capabilities, though it would have all but guaranteed the death of his political career. Resigning then and there would even let him keep some dignity in the matter, to whatever extent that mattered.

And then where would we be? With the Spirit of Death purging every level of government for suspected traitors? With Costeau, trading away the people's welfare for her own? With my mother or Michel, caught in the exact same vice as me with a fraction of the prestige I can bring to bear?

It was just like Maxime had said. Fernan's choice had been to commit, and ensure he remained behind the tiller, or to keep to his principles and excise himself from politics. However much he might have preferred the latter, abdicating his responsibilities would have been nothing but selfish.

Already, news was spreading about Phillip Graves and his detachment of shadows. Soon, the entire continent would know they couldn't risk an attack on Guerron without risking Avalon's wrath. But if we didn't raise an army of our own, that would leave us nothing more than another protectorate, like Charenton, subject to the whims of a monarch. No matter how gentle Luce's nature, or how good his intentions, the Commune stood to be a brighter place than any monarchy ever could be. Good kings would come and go, or else lose their luster when their people made even modest demands of them. Lucien Renart had provided ample proof of that. Democracy could stand eternal.

Fernan caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye, and turned his head back towards the endless black abyss of the ocean. Ships, he realized grimly, watching dozens of them cross the horizon. So Condillac won't leave us alone after all.

It brought Fernan no comfort to learn that his moral sacrifice had been justified. Deterrence had failed, and now it would come to war. He felt like he was outside his own body as he choked out the information to Mara, watching her scuttle back to rally the other geckos. His flame carried him back towards the Assembly without conscious thought, his voice crying out warnings to everyone who could hear them.

He'd hoped to see Graves and the shadows gathering in the city streets, but they were nowhere to be found. Nor was the Grand Armée. It only took a few minutes to figure out why.

An invasion on two fronts... Fernan felt his heart sink as he lowered himself to the ground, immediately surrounded by officers and Assembly members and bureaucrats, each barraging him with questions just as hard and fast as the Condillac infantry besieging the southern gate. This was the moment they'd been waiting for, a coordinated assault from the land and sea.

Condillac had them outnumbered and surrounded. Even Graves, who'd been in Charenton for Levian's massacre, had a muted aura and pensive posture. Even he didn't see how Guerron could win the day.

And what can I do, but shower them in flames? If I can justify an army, if the Commune's existence is truly so vital to protect its people, and serve as a beacon to the world... Fernan raised his hands, but the fire wouldn't come out. The smell of the roasting flesh filled his nostrils, a memory of the fighting on the beach after Lumière's duel with Camille. Despite everything, Fernan couldn't bring himself to do it.

"I have to resign," he muttered, but no one heard him. Selfish and cowardly, he knew, and all after I've already sunk so low... "We need a new commander. Graves—no, Armand—no, Mother—no—Fuck!" He roared a gust of flame towards the sky, causing the chatter to fall away and the Condillac forces to pause in their assault, clearly intimidated by the Mountain of Guerron.

It didn't matter. It wouldn't be enough. Not for long.

And yet the pause only grew longer. In the distance, some of Condillac's back lines even began to turn around, as if to retreat. Could I truly have frightened them off with such a modest display? It seemed impossible. These were no mercenaries, but the massed army of a mighty Duchy, joined with the considerable power of Bougitte.

More and more of them began to turn, even as their cavalry reinforcements arrived, most failing to get out of the way before they cut a wedge into the rear of their formation. In fact, it was so disorganized it almost looked as if they were fighting each other. Could it be?

A scream erupted from behind him, then a roar. Fernan felt the spray of the sea before he could turn and see the wave crashing down on the front lines of the Condillac fleet. At its heart, burning brightly as the dawn, was the viridian aura of Camille Leclaire.