Conquest of Avalon

Luce I: The Lord Protector

Luce invited Levian. The words were still faintly visible, scrawled across the stone despite a scourging blast of fire from Charles.

It’s fine, Luce tried to assure himself. Public Works will clean it up by whatever means necessary, even if they have to tear out the very stones from the wall. The sentiment behind them, unfortunately, had proven far more difficult to eradicate.

I won so many over when the Torrent of the Deep perished so soon after attacking my city, but it only hardened the folly of my most stalwart opposition. It wasn’t even the least plausible thing they said about him—for all that Luce would never dream of doing it, for all that Levian himself had taken his eye and nearly taken the most important person in the world too, Luce had consorted secretly with spirits and arranged deals that he’d prefer his people remained unaware of. Considering what a boon Levian’s attack and subsequent death had been to Luce’s popularity here, it made a twisted kind of sense to imagine that he’d orchestrated it. Especially after the rebel Simone Leigh, infuriatingly still well-beloved by many in the Lyrion League, had accused Luce of doing it with her dying breath.

Far less plausible but unfortunately no less prevalent were the other slanders he’d been tarred with: ‘Luce is a cultist of Khali, following in his father’s footsteps to return the world to darkness’; ‘Luce is Camille Leclaire’s lovestruck puppet, dancing and swaying at her command’; or ‘Luce is a shadow doppelganger of his brother, a controlled opposition against the Crown’s excesses to ensure that none can truly defy it’. It was always ‘Luce’, presumably because they thought the informality of it offended him, but that mistake suited him just fine. Less so with the rumors themselves, none of the prior even approaching the sheer ridiculousness of the most absurd one: ‘Luce is an invader from Nocturne, an immortal spirit who had once followed Khali but escaped from exile to punish the world that banished him’.

Troubling thoughts related to Father aside, it was almost flattering, imagining that Luce was a nigh-omnipotent spirit rather than a single man with no shortage of limitations and failures sewn into his cloak. The conspiratorial insults brought to mind the worst of them, his tenure in Malin, and the ‘Prince of Darkness’ epithet that the journals and Camille had tried to tar him with before he’d claimed it for his own.

But Charenton still stood, looking to Luce as its Lord Protector. A testament to Charlotte, more than anything. The best way to work around those limitations was to depend on competent people you could trust, and none in the world fit that description better than his Lieutenant.

In four years, she’d forged a peerlessly disciplined force of Shadows, trained to wield state-of-the-art technology, from a ragged assortment of Fortescue knights who only followed Luce because of his uncle, Charentine volunteers caught up in the swell of promise and opportunity in the wake of Levian’s death, and even a smattering of the bolder refugees who’d chosen Charenton to flee to rather than Gaume or Malin.

More of them arrived every day, by train or ship or wagon, to the point they’d needed to set up two buildings to house them all while the shadows vetted the safety of allowing them within. Luce abhorred the necessity of that process at all—countless paid hours of his shadows’ time spent babysitting clerks and poring over documents, all over the tiny fraction of a chance that one of them could pose a true danger to him or to Charenton—but after the rebellion from the Lyrion League, that wasn’t a chance they could afford to take.

Not that I need to get too closely involved in it. Espionage and security were matters he was only too happy to leave to Charlotte, whom he could trust to do it well and do it right.

If anyone tried a more direct assault, key advances in research had ensured that the city’s other defenses were far more effective. The cannons lining the walls were the obvious threat to deter anyone who might otherwise think Charenton defenseless, but far worse surprises awaited for any who thought to try ousting Luce once more from the city he ruled.

Anyone with hostile intent who even approached the walls would find themself buried as the earth collapsed beneath their feet, rent asunder by Rebecca’s specialty explosives planted underground. Others were loaded in the cannons lining the walls, specialized artillery that—judging by Levian’s response to the explosion at the Sauin Massacre—was powerful enough to send an Arbiter Spirit into flight.

Rebecca had even found a way to reliably detonate explosives underwater, allowing massively more efficient canal dredging and coastal excavation and ensuring that the sort of desperate scramble needed to deter Levian during the Massacre would never be necessary again.

That one had yet to be deployed, however, since the technology lent itself too easily to the sorts of hidden charges that could sit for months beneath the water, exploding upon any impact of sufficient force. All well and good as another deterrent against hostile ships, but finding a fast way to remove them safely remained elusive. Luce didn’t want to risk Harold getting wind of it for his fool’s war until he could be sure that wouldn’t mean leagues of ocean being permanently converted into explosive deathtraps.

Recently, such efforts had been supplemented by Lucretia Marbury’s new project, building on ideas about spiritual energy and life which apparently originated from Rebecca’s girlfriend of all people. All the more surprising when Williams was unspiritual enough to paint Luce a sage by comparison.

Unfortunately the effects of that project would be monstrous, if it were ever deployed, and there were far better uses for the money the Memorial Tower had spent developing it, with far more unambiguously positive results for the world. But Luce’s promises that he valued Marbury would have rung quite hollow if he’d condemned her latest project to rust on the Tower’s penultimate floor. And if she felt particularly undervalued, then Luce would have to deal with her defecting to Harold, or worse, Leclaire.

Luce estimated a 35% chance or greater that allowing such a thing would lead to an extinction event of a scale not seen since the Age of Darkness. And yet she’s never been disloyal. Luce had kept them in mind when he’d turned down Charlotte’s offer to have her dealt with in a more direct fashion, along with the potential that such brilliance had for the world if directed towards the proper ends.

That wasn’t an entirely hopeless endeavor, even though it was a difficult one. Grumble or not, Marbury had accepted Luce’s reasoning when he shut down her earlier project, concerned less by the possibility that she’d fail than that she might succeed. Luce still shuddered to imagine hundreds of unblinking soldiers modeled after Cya’s husks, no longer truly alive yet deprived of the release of death, strengthened by spiritual power and unflinchingly obedient.

Better to keep her focused on armaments, which can be reserved for traps and deterrents. The DV bombs loaded in cannons around the city walls might be grisly in their effect, but Luce could hardly call them any less humane than any other bomb when the result was the same. Marbury’s aborted project aside, dead was dead.

And it wasn’t as if she’d be untouchable in Cambria or Charenton either, if it truly came to that, though it would make things harder.

More pleasant to consider were the real advances that four years of progress had wrought, the obstructive tree branch of ignorance and denial of spiritual energy that had long been lodged in the Tower’s mechanisms at least removed.

“With me,” Luce commanded his ten guards as he tore his gaze at last from the accusation, though they knew to follow him in any case. Aboard the Progress or within Memorial Tower, Luce could be confident in his security without such a large retinue, but in the streets of Charenton, he couldn’t afford to take any chances. Ortus Tower was probably secure enough too, but Cambria was not his city the way Charenton was, even allowing for the dissenters.

The Memorial Tower was a peerless achievement, a striking and imposing design of modern glass and concrete not wholly unlike the glass towers Luce had once witnessed in the visions from Cya, tinted with reds instead of blues. But rather than a sheer vertical ascent, far beyond the capabilities of current architecture to build to that height, the Memorial instead varied in size after the twelfth level, the thirteenth being largest, buttressed by massive diagonal concrete struts connecting it back to the tower. Each of the five levels above were alike in its rigid right angles and rectangular shapes, but smaller than the last, creating a step pyramid of glass and concrete without any peer in the world.

The ground below had also been developed, mainly to ensure that smaller-scale testing could be safely administered on solid ground without having to run to the bombing range for every last experiment. The concrete corridors and tunnels were far less visually stimulating than the tower above, and the assignments down there were accordingly less generous, but most of Luce’s scientists agreed that the accommodations there were still superior to the older construction at Ortus Tower.

It should have taken decades to build, but funding the best and fastest construction had fortunately been one area where Luce hadn’t had to fight his brother. He’d always known that Harold had studied binding under Rebecca’s father, but had not until then realized what kind of appreciation it had given the Prince Regent of the sheer power and potential of magic.

Spiritual research remained illegal within Avalon, of course, and Luce had barely even considered putting up a fight to change it. Why bother, with the Memorial Tower just a ship ride away from Cambria? Ortus Tower still attracted the best talent, with easier access to myriad resources, but Memorial Tower was an institute of research and technology not merely commanded by Luce, but built by his hand, crafted perfectly for its purpose.

And where it was impossible to keep things truly separate, as with the Nocturne Gate at the top of Ortus Tower, the Memorial’s mere existence provided a cover for any resulting discoveries. It wasn’t as if Harold’s lunkheads were ever going to break into Ortus to audit it. Nor would they understand anything if they did.

A mechanical chirp sounded as Luce, similar to the sounds from the older pulsebox models. Ever since the Tower had been built, every trip to his office on the thirteenth floor had meant an unceasing wave of researchers and scientists trying to grab his attention on the way up.

Rather than fight the inevitable, Luce had formalized the process with the audible announcement, prompting any who wished to speak to him to ready themselves as he passed their floor.

It also means I can’t take the elevator that took so much time to design. But that was a small complaint next to the risk of being uninformed, cloistering himself in his workshop again. Accordingly to Charlotte, he needed the exercise anyway.

Today, the first of them was Kelsey Thorley, son of the disgraced railyard director from Malin, who’d fortunately chosen a more enlightened path than his father. The smell of Naca clung to him as he approached, causing Luce to wrinkle his nose, but he wasn’t one to stand in the way of productivity tools, even the ones still banned in Avalon.

“Your Highness,” Kelsey began. “The Charenton Circulatory System is on-pace for the Year 125 rollout, and our connections to Lyrion have been improved as much as they can on our end.” Luce didn’t have to guess what he was leaving unsaid—Lyrion delighted in the supposed virtues of private commerce, which in practice seemed to mean that every infrastructure job they contracted was done as cheaply as possible.

“Perhaps if we added the Transportation Division as a corporation to their registry, we could take on their bids ourselves and spare our travelers their shoddy workmanship.”

Kelsey laughed, though Luce hadn’t really been joking. “If you want that done before the Circ launches, you’ll have to hire twice the engineers and four times the laborers. And they’d still keep sending their awful trains down at just the right intervals to break down and block the tracks.”

Probably true, but there are other benefits to taking on a greater role in Lyrion development. “Try to look into what it would take, if you can spare the staff. We’ll want to hit the ground running once the Circ is up and running.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Kelsey was trying to work on something similar in Cambria too, an underground network of smaller railways intended purely for passengers, but the dense and aged configuration of the city meant that digging the tunnels alone would probably take the rest of the decade. And in Cambria, the Prince Regent’s capriciousness had to be worked around. “Otherwise, the regional network is the best it’s ever been... I know this is a delicate subject, but our division is still getting the same requests. The people of Charenton really seem to want better transport to Malin. I talked to Rebecca, and she thinks she can clear out the tunnel that collapsed on Perimont without endangering the other line. One break-down wouldn’t have to shut off the whole connection with a second path, and—”

“Do it,” Luce said. I can’t let my feelings about Camille deprive my city of what it needs. “Try to get Rebecca out there before the Birth of Spring. She’s already requested a week’s leave in Cambria.”

Kelsey nodded, ducking his head and falling out of step as Luce continued upwards, a new report from each division head on each floor.

The most exciting of them was from Wallace Wellesley, who’d been working with Charles des Agnettes on a device to replicate some of the function derived from the magical communication that was only becoming more prevalent between sages. While it was far from the best medium of communication on its own, his lethiograph device allowed a skilled operator to pick up information from the location it was calibrated to, even as far away as Cambria, provided it was fueled with the appropriate energy.

The only problem was that it could only pick up the vaguest of impressions, nearly useless for any kind of coherent communication, especially by anyone not trained in its intricacies. Charles, experienced sage of the spirit Fala, had offered a solution in the form of arch symbols affixed to the lethiograph’s dials, moving into place when fueled and directed to. It might not yet be possible to have a conversation, or even write a letter, but when the dial shifted to the tides symbol, for example, three wavy lines set atop one another, you could be sure of water, blue, adaptability, resurrection, or change.

“The kind of direct earthly scrying you’re talking about is generally seen as missing the point. The magic fights you every step of the way, and it hides from you the greater truths of the past and present unless you already have a personal connection.” Charles’ input had prompted them to step back from the literal letter designs that had proven so fruitless and employ a more abstract approach, which seemed to be working well enough that they could roll them out in the two Towers for further trials.

Kelsey’s husband Toby, unfortunately, was still pouring all of his time into the frivolous phonojector device, a monstrously complicated appendage to the pulsebox instrument whose magical fog could allow a skilled player to conjure images as well as sound. The idea had enormous potential for imagery and optics, but Toby insisted on crafting a consumer model before delving into any of that. At least he was well on his way to being done.

I said I wanted civilian projects; I can’t complain when that’s what I get. Still, it seemed unfortunate that Luce had apparently managed to hire the one engineer in the world who cared more about the arts than his own work. None of the other scientists at either tower shared that particular defect, even Kelsey.

Though it wasn’t without some level of exhaustion after climbing thirteen floors and hearing thirteen reports, Luce felt satisfied as he slumped down in his overstuffed chair. He poured himself a glass of brandy and looked out his window over the Lyrion Sea, the faintest shadows on the horizon either fog or Avalon. Knowing Cambria, both.

Really, aside from the increasingly vivid hallucinations and pain from his left eye socket, the last four years had only seen things get better, in stark contrast to Luce’s record prior to the Treaty of Charenton. That particular feat of diplomacy was perhaps his greatest achievement yet, the stone foundation upon which Memorial Tower and a revitalized Charenton had been built.

And if that peace were to be disrupted by means outside Luce’s control, regrettable though it would be? Charenton would be ready, prepared to end the fighting before it began and ensure a more lasting peace. If the Treaty held, so much the better. Otherwise, the city walls were lined with hundreds of reasons not to break it.

Though all that would be nothing without men and women I could trust to wield them. As much as Luce’s natural inclination was to praise the technology over the human vessels for its implementation, Charlotte was the only reason he could spend time managing the Towers and playing politics without having to lie awake at night watching his own back.

She’d thwarted no less than six rebel plots, from bombings to assassinations to full-blown militia attacks, conspiracies of Lyrion Leaguers or Condillac infiltrators or, as was most often the case, home-grown Charentine. There had also been that rather embarrassing incident where Sir Gerald Stewart had entered Charenton on Harold’s behalf to spy, only to be immediately discovered when the letters in his valise were spotted, but given his rapid confession and general acuity, it was hard to justify lumping that in with the actual security threats Charlotte had thwarted.

She’d even managed to apprehend Robin Verrou’s shipmaster, a woman whose only known name was Cordelia. The pirate had been trying to infiltrate Memorial Tower in the guise of a building inspector, but failed to provide the necessary password and documentation. If she’d run then, she might have escaped, but she’d continued trying to bluff her way out, right up to the moment the cell door slammed shut.

Thanks to Charlotte, there was order. Security. Progress.

But even she can’t do everything, as good as she is at making it look like she can. Exterminating those ridiculous rumors, for example, seemed to be just as impossible for her as it was for Luce. The conspiracy theories swirled around the Prince of Darkness so constantly that he’d nearly given up on contesting them. Somehow, it never seemed to matter that so many of them contradicted each other, nor that they tended to also contradict basic logic and rationality.

Charlotte had mentioned once in a private moment that these people were beyond help, lost in their hate and anger. But ceding control of the narrative had lost him Malin, and he had no intention of letting it tear down everything he’d built in Charenton. Not without a fight.

As hardened as so many were against him, Luce’s efforts had borne fruit. Every Charentine recruit to the Shadow Guard was evidence enough of that, as were the needlessly extravagant Sauin celebrations of the last few years, each more spirited than the last in defiance of Levian’s attack after that sacred day.

Even if the Massacre wasn’t really that close to Sauin. Luce had been there, as had most of Charenton, and they all surely knew that more than a week had passed in between the holiday and the Massacre that bore its name. Perhaps it was more evocative to frame it that way, as if Levian had descended directly upon feasting and merriment rather than the first shots of a rebellion that only his arrival had thwarted.

Luce could understand that, and in truth the revised emphasis that came with the mistake was to his benefit, even if the inaccuracy grated. The expenditures were far worse, swelling each year as the festivities had to outdo the last, but every happy Charentine celebrating in the streets under Luce’s rule was one less inclined to oppose him. The return on that investment was of unquestionable utility, a lesson from Camille Leclaire that Luce had learned too late in Malin.

Say what you would of Camille—as Luce found himself doing on more occasions than he felt comfortable admitting—but her Code Leclaire had managed to end the longstanding tradition of spiritual sacrifice through reform, rather than the imposition of an invading force. She’d done what Uncle Miles and the Perimonts had failed for seventeen years to do, and she hadn’t been too proud to sign the Treaty.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to let her poach Marbury, though. This ‘guest lecture’ she’d been invited to Malin for was as transparent a ploy as they came, little different from her prolonged holiday on the Isle of Shadows back when Esterton and his parade of imbeciles had been doing their level best to discard all talent at Ortus with a destructive mix of spite and incompetence. Marbury knew that alternate offers only gave her more leverage, and Luce fully expected to have to make concessions of some kind when she returned.

But trying to stand in the way of the trip would have only set her further at a distance. Better to allow her to see the ramshackle, knock-off research taking place there, easily a decade behind what Luce oversaw, and the regressive accommodations she’d be subjected to if she defected.

The last report was on Luce’s own project, written in his own neat but less-than-elegant hand. Darkness left traces, after all, and where did it concentrate in greater quantity than in Nocturne? Even a century out from the sealing of the gates, Khali’s power persisted across Terramonde through the many gates and artifacts scattered across it, potent and comparatively plentiful.

According to Harold, few spirits but Khali had the power to bind one artifact on the level of the Cloak of Nocturne, let alone twoscore and a host of others.

If Luce could open those gates just a crack, the world might find the power to leap forward centuries, on the back of technology the likes of which could scarcely be imagined.

Would that that were the only reason for the project.

In either case, the readings were clear. The right application of light, at the right frequency, could resonate with Khali’s dark magic. If they could calibrate the right pulse, that resonance could cascade out through the material and sustain itself. Small-scale tests on pieces cut from a Cloak of Nocturne had proven very promising. The last experiment, judging by the reading, had more than delivered the result they hoped for. From an empty void of fabric to a mirror sheen.

Applied to bits of the cloak, it was a parlor trick, showing you your dark reflection in the cloth. Applied to a Nocturne Gate, with sufficient care and caution? Unlimited power, without endangering Khali’s seal.

Which meant that his time in Charenton, for the moment, was done. Luce wasted no time in returning to his ship, taking the elevator to the ground and then assembling his guards for the short, wind-powered trolley ride to his private cove at the north of the city. Intended to ease transportation costs for construction materials, the low weight capacity meant that it mostly served to marvel new graduates arriving in Charenton for the first time, but it also helped to get to and from the Memorial in a hurry.

“The password is eigenvector, Your Highness,” Graves greeted him as he approached the entryway, Shadows spreading out to cover any approach. “Sir Sidney has assured me that the Progress is fully repaired and ready to travel.”

“Good.” I never thought I’d see pirates with cannons, nor that they’d be bold enough to attack us directly. With any luck, their burial slab on the ocean floor would serve to deter any others from trying the same. “Unexpected development from Memorial. I’ll be returning to Cambria immediately. I’ll need you to supervise while I’m gone.”

“At once, Your Highness.” Graves dipped his head as he departed, climbing onto the trolley back.

From there, descending the Progress was the work of a few moments. On his ship, it was known that Luce was not to be disturbed outside of emergencies, and no research took place outside Luce’s own workshop.

About a quarter of Luce’s quarters aboard the Progress were devoted to a different sort of equipment than either Tower — various sizes of weights and rods. There was even one machine that used pulleys to lift the weights from odd angles, apparently essential to efficient training of certain muscle groups. His head swam just trying to understand it, but Charlotte deserved nothing less than the best. He’d spent many a morning in bed with his notebook, distracted from his work as he watched her train.

“Tilland,” Luce addressed the guard at his door. “The Lieutenant and I will be deliberating on strategy in my chambers tonight. We are not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” He dipped his head with barely a second thought, aware that similar excuses were employed almost nightly. Charlotte’s own chambers aboard the Progress were little more than a perfunctory formality, though they’d been outfitted with every furnishing and amenity that a Prince’s Lieutenant deserved. Mostly, they served as storage for some of the larger, louder exercise equipment.

But tonight, first, there was actual strategy to discuss.

“Another message from the Prince Regent,” Charlotte began glumly, holding the letter up in front of her as if her gaze could set it afire.

Luce took it from her hand and began to read, grimacing. “He commands that the Avalon Navy be allowed a recruiter’s booth at the upcoming Charenton Exhibition, and that I make a full presentation of my latest findings to the Great Council to receive their oversight and critique.” Each syllable was more sharply enunciated than the last, his frustration only growing. “The Navy already offers the best engineer salaries in Avalon, and now he wants to dangle them right in front of my people to peel them away.”

“The war’s at a stalemate. He can’t move on Hiverre until he pacifies Micheltaigne, and he can’t do that without a breakthrough,” Charlotte offered, strangely understanding of his motives. “But that’s been true for some time. This latest affront is personal. He must have seen you at the theater with Princess Elizabeth.”

Of course. “I wanted to meet somewhere more private, but she hadn’t seen Black Moon, Green Sun and insisted.” As if seeing her wasn’t already enough of a trial. How could he meet her eyes without seeing the woman that had acquiesced to her brother’s death? Who was prepared to sit and wait for Father to meet his end so that he could usurp Harold’s body from him?

“Why does my family have to be such a mess? If ever Father knew restraint, many lifetimes of invincibility have torn it from him, leaving an egotistical murderer. Aunt Lizzie enabled him at every step of the way, even knowing what he was, along with countless Grimoires before her.” Along with me, if Father had his way. It wasn’t hard to see, in retrospect, the path in life that King Harold had been grooming his younger son for. Especially with Luce’s predecessor staring right at him. “Whatever his other follies, I can’t blame Harold for his anger at that.”

“None of them are worthy of your consideration,” Charlotte told him bluntly. “At their best, they can hold themselves back from evil in the name of pragmatism, and usually not without having to be convinced first. At their worst, the world is plunged into darkness. You’re building the future, Luce. You actually believe in something.” She traced her fingers up his arm. “Get whatever you can from them, and don’t fret over what happens to them along the way. King Harold might find another life after his death, but he won’t be greeted by the same Avalon he expects, nor the same compliance your aunt showed him. Princess Elizabeth still thinks you an ally, and she’ll keep the Owls behind you as long as she goes on believing that. The Prince Regent—”

“Is my brother.” Luce wrapped his fingers around her hand, lingering as he removed it from his face. “He doesn’t deserve to have his life taken from him before his time by Pantera’s curse. Father has stolen enough lives from his children.”

“If only we were all granted the fate we deserve,” Charlotte said somberly, perhaps thinking back to the blatant injustice that had seen her ejected from the Guardians in Malin. “But your first duty is to yourself, then to the world. You have no obligation to save those people from each other.”

As if obligation is the only reason I would do this. “I know you understand the implications of what I told you. The Nocturne project is ready, a chance to save Harold from the fate that awaits him.”

“So that he might continue his wise and prosperous rule?” she asked, an eyebrow raised. “Your plan requires having your father on hand as it is. If both of them were in our custody, then we could simply—”

“No!” How many times must I forbid this plan of yours before you understand? Charlotte flinched, her expression cracking in a manner it rarely did. Luce wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close as he lowered his voice. “I apologize, my lady. That was unseemly.”

“I’m no lady. You know that.”

“Is that right? Hmm...” Luce grinned. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

“That’s not... I didn’t mean...” she stammered with a reddening face. What a sight, Lieutenant Charlotte anything less than completely composed and self-assured. Luce wasn’t sure anyone else had seen it, at least not in years. After a moment, it was gone. Back to the business at hand. “I’ll have the helmsman set a course for Cambria at once. If Ortus sent you this news, I’m sure they’ll be expecting you.”

Luce shook his head, pulling her towards the bed. “I’ll speak with the helmsman tomorrow. I’m afraid I have rather pressing business tonight.”

“What else is there to—Oh!”

Luce tried to put family far from his mind for the rest of the night, sparing only one more fleeting thought. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.