Conquest of Avalon

Camille I: The Empress

“All rise for Empress Camille Thérèse Leclaire!” the announcer cried, his voice echoing around the carefully designed contours of the hippodrome. “Queen-Consort to the Fox King! Spirit of Dawn! Liberator of Malin!”

Camille spent a moment savoring the raucous applause as she stepped out onto the balcony of her box, feeling the spring breeze ripple through her hair. An ever-flowing cascade of water in the colors of the sea, it no longer took well to dyes, nor reflected the golden color she’d been born with, but she’d kept it blue since she was seven, so the adjustment was minor.

The scales that had begun to grow on her wrists where she’d channeled Levian’s power, less so, but even then careful application of makeup and bracelets were sufficient to conceal any inhuman features for public appearances—and Lucien had insisted half a hundred times that it made no matter to him when they were alone.

The scar on her shoulder, a jagged hole torn by Lumière’s bullet then mended with Levian’s touch, Camille displayed openly, a defiant statement that—no matter how many times she was pushed to the brink of death—she would survive. All the more important to remember now, when eternity stretched into the distance, her power preserving her for millennia to come. Though it would be a mistake to consider myself immortal—spirits have proven to be quite the opposite, of late. And if anyone had the power and artifacts to kill her, it was Avaline binders and other spirits, neither of whom were particularly kindly inclined to the Empress of Dawn.

But they are, Camille thought as she looked out at her people, still shouting and clapping in raucous adoration. They understand what I did for them, if not what it cost.

“Welcome all!” she shouted, hearing the crowd fall silent as her words rippled out. It was the first chariot race of the season, the third since the Restoration, and for just a moment, Camille could pretend that all was well. “Let the contestants present their teams,” she continued, stepping in for the hippodrome announcer now lest she feel obliged to craft a bespoke speech later.

The first driver spurred his horses forward, four creatures in the prime of their life, bred across the river to be the best in their field. Each wore a blue mask, keeping their eyes forward, and matching the base color of the coat of arms inlaid onto the chariot itself.

“Your Grace.” The driver bowed his head as his horses settled to a stop below her box. “I am Sire Charles de Monflanquin, Captain of the Equipe Bleue. I would be honored if the Spirit of Dawn would bless the team that bears her colors.” His chariot bore the Monflanquin coat of arms, the same one found on the shield of Lucien’s Master of Arms, Christine: a silhouetted hill in gold poked up from the bottom, representing the one the town was built on, the ‘mon’ in ‘Monflanquin’, with a golden Sartaire flowing above it. Two stars were placed between them to represent the two cities on either side of the river.

“May the tides of change guide you, Sire Charles.” Camille had to be careful not to be seen taking a side, even though the Blue Team was obviously the one she hoped would prevail—with their choice of color and distinguished background, how could she not? “And your opponent?”

“Fernanne de Calignac, Your Grace. It is my privilege to captain the Equipe Verte.” Her head dipped, though not nearly as far as Sire Charles’ bow. Her horses were noticeably leaner, a motley assemblage of browns and greys in color, especially compared to the consistent white horses of the blue team. And as for the insignia on her chariot, it was even more basic than the already simplified banner of Calignac—a small village to the south whose largest claim to fame was its proximity to the forest where Teruvo had made his seat, irrelevant after Avalon’s binders had hunted him down. While the village, as far as Camille recalled, had five towers on a green field surrounding a single spider, Fernanne’s chariot showed the same green field, but Teruvo and the towers were replaced with three wavy lines set atop one another, giving the barest symbolic suggestion of flowing water.

“May the tides of change guide you,” Camille said, even though the green team hadn’t asked for any blessing. Better to seem impartial. That so many at court were openly wearing the colors of their favored team was more reason to stand strong on that front, rather than less.

Though I must question what politics has come to when cheering at a chariot race means taking a political stance. The product of four years of peace, Camille supposed.

“Let the contestants take their marks!” the announcer cried once the pageantry was finished, taking back over for Camille as she took her seat, far enough back from the edge to observe the race without needing to endure too much scrutiny from the crowds. Those that were close to the box had their sightline blocked by its edge, while the far side of the hippodrome was distant enough that Camille could only make out a viridian haze, the blues and greens that each team’s fanatics sported blending together in her eyes.

To her right was an empty chair, an ornate throne of red and gold reserved for the Fox-King, while Camille’s own was a hard seat of blue marble salvaged from the old castle’s ruins. And behind her, the endless throngs of courtiers: Lord Simon Perimont and Duchess Annette, both dressed in blue, Sires Miro Mesnil and Christine de Monflanquin matching beside them. The green supporters were also clustered together, from Eloise and Margot Clochaîne and Laura Sunderland to the unlikely Mary Perimont, with half a dozen more lesser knights and merchant families surrounding them. Camille had insisted that Aude, now Commander of the Acolytes, remain in neutral colors for this season, but last year she’d numbered among the green supporters as well.

Perhaps the least surprising Green was Her Verdance, exiled sovereign of the Arboreum whom the Red Knight had rescued twice over, first from Lorraine and second from her would-be hideout in Fleuville. Though she’d made a terrible first impression arriving in that ridiculous pixie costume, she’d proven to possess a better sense of fashion than her disguise would have suggested. Today, she was sporting a fairly modest green dress with floral patterning around the neck and chest. In her lap was a sketchbook, flipped open to a half-finished horse on one page and an intricately detailed portrait of Mary on the other.

All had to be balanced, managed carefully with the appropriate words and deeds, but none were as important right now as Lucretia Marbury, the visiting scientist from Charenton reputed to be the most talented and intelligent of all the Prince of Darkness’ underlings. And chafing under his moral imperatives, if the reports I’m receiving have any validity at all. She was standing awkwardly to the side, not talking to anyone until Camille turned and met her eyes.

“It doesn’t look like they have a seat for me,” she said quietly, a trace of resentment in her tone as she disregarded the Fox-King’s for obvious reasons.

“Take mine,” Camille offered, standing up and moving over to Lucien’s chair. And why not? If anyone has the right to sit in it, it’s me. Who could dispute the Empress? The Spirit of Dawn? Certainly not these hangers-on. Actual decisions were made behind the closed doors to her private council, but favor had to be doled out properly to the rest at court, lest resentment breed, and an invitation to the Emperor’s box was a relatively trivial gift to grant that carried significant symbolic importance.

And, of course, it’s an opportunity to flatter a guest where a normal seating arrangement would have gotten me nothing. Flattery would be important, but insufficient on its own. Marbury was ruthless and capable, and knew her own value. Winning her over would take careful work, all the more difficult when bound to truth, but Camille had overcome worse.

“How do you find the Hippodrome, Lady Marbury? Or might I call you Lucretia?”

“Crete,” she said as she sat down, offering her nickname. Dark hair tied back, with brown boot-cut trousers and a long-sleeved unpatterned black shirt, Crete looked more ready to show up for a day’s work in the permit office than a major public event. “It’s impressive you rebuilt it so quickly, but sporting such as this never much held my interest.”

“Nor mine,” Camille admitted, the truth thankfully helping to build solidarity, though the fierce rivalry between the teams had managed to intrigue her in a way the races alone never had. “But these events were without peer before the Foxtrap, stretching all the way back to the first Fox-Queen. The occupation took it from us, and it’s important to show the world that we’ve built it back up.”

“Hmm.”

Crete looked bored by the historical reflection, so Camille changed her approach. “Of course, it was no easy feat of engineering. We had to be faithful to the original design while ensuring its robustness met our modern standards, the archways as stable as any in the Empire’s history.”

At that, Crete perked up slightly, though not enough for Camille to think it wise to keep dwelling on it. Where best to take the conversation next? “I’m sure your work has its own such challenges, the balancing of competing directives...”

She was interrupted by the appearance of Simon to her right, Ysengrin hanging back behind him in a green vest, thankfully having finally taken Camille’s advice to leave behind that ridiculous, unnecessary eyepatch. Though, seeing him without it, I kind of miss it. That wasn’t of any particular importance, though, especially with Crete sitting right there. “What is it?”

“With apologies, Your Grace, but our train had to be taken in for repairs, so we’ll have to leave by ship today to make our appointments in Lyrion.”

Again? Camille held back a seething sigh. Those damned contraptions spend as much time being tinkered with at the yard as they do riding the rails. Back when they’d first consolidated control when Lucien had arrived, Annette’s functionaries had pored over the railyard only to find an unpleasant surprise: someone, most likely one of the fleeing Guardians expelled after the sun’s return, had ripped components of the engines on their way out. Even with the plans Florette had stolen, Malin’s recreations never quite seemed to work as consistently, and they still took five times as long to build.

As Camille prepared her response, she was jarred out of her thoughts by the crash of a large cymbal hanging in the center of the racetrack, signaling the start of the race. They’d tried using a pistol for the first few matches, and the noise it made certainly traveled farther and more clearly, but every time it sounded, it conjured horrific memories for Camille, and she was far from the only one.

“You mentioned a briefing before we left?” Simon continued, his eyes following Charles de Monflanquin as he cracked his whip and his horses took off. Fernanne de Calignac was slower to start, her horses failing to reach top speed before de Monflanquin was already halfway down the track.

“Right.” Camille glanced back at Crete Marbury, staring bored as the chariot racers rounded the bend. “I’m sure you understand the diplomatic stakes of these negotiations, but I also want the benefit of your eye. How fares the Lyrion League, beyond the front they put up for visiting diplomats? What’s become of Charenton under the Prince of Darkness’ rule?”

“And him?” Simon pointed back at the former pirate standing in his shadow.

“Don’t mind Ysengrin, unless you find yourself in imminent danger. His task is unrelated to yours.” More specifically, he’d be making contact with the sparse network of spies that Camille had planted across the league, trying to glean any information or technologies that they or Avalon had elected not to share with Malin. “Mend your bridges with Luce, if you can. If he can sit down at a table with me, I’m sure he can find it in his heart to forgive you.” And it’s not like there’s anyone else in Avalon’s power structure we can hope to cooperate with.

“I very much hope so.” Simon bowed, understanding that he was dismissed. “Your Grace.”

The blue fans cheered as Monflanquin put more distance between himself and the green captain, halfway to lapping her, while an undercurrent of jeering and booing erupted from the greens. The ones in the Emperor’s box, thankfully, were sensible enough to keep quiet, though their disappointment was also plain to see.

Camille waited an instant, watching Simon turn around, then decided to add one more order. “Oh, and one other thing: I want you to research and document the Lyrion Famine on your visit. At this moment, relations with Avalon and the League are calm enough that it would be all too easy to sweep the whole thing all under the rug.” But we won’t be on good terms forever. “We can’t allow the world to forget that a once-thriving nation was broken and starved until few but the colonists remained.” And that most of the people left in power are the ones that carried it out. Even if they weren’t happy following those orders, even if they rebelled right afterwards, they still perpetrated an atrocity.

Simon’s back-of-envelope math had estimated that over a quarter of the Lyrionaise had died from starvation, disease, or exposure, with twice as many fleeing Lyrion. Given the total dearth of Lyrionaise in the League’s government, business, and technology sectors, it was entirely possible that the impact of the famine Avalon had imposed on them was even worse.

No small amount of fleeing Lyrionaise had settled in Malin, helping populate the northern end of the city, where ruins of the Foxtrap had still lingered even eighteen years on from the tragedy. Avalon had stolen most of their wealth, all the more so for those who had fled, but that made them more pliable workers than both the Malinoises accustomed to Avaline rule and the Foxtrap evacuees with all of the entitlement they’d carried back with them from Guerron. Hundreds of them were here at the hippodrome today, overwhelmingly backing green rather than blue.

Perhaps most usefully, in their desperation, they’d been easy recruits for Camille’s Acolytes, filling out the lower ranks of the peacekeeping forces that only four years ago had been meager and struggling—a haphazard mix of Cadoudal’s Acolytes and Guardian converts, questionable in both loyalty and aptitude. Today, every cutpurse and bandit feared the wrath of the Acolytes, lest they end up apprehended and prosecuted under the full authority of the Code Leclaire.

“You didn’t need to do that in front of me,” Crete observed once Simon and Ysengrin had departed. “Now I know what you’re looking for.”

Camille let out a laugh. “I invited the Tower’s top scientist to give a guest lecture at the Debray Institute, paid your way here, and provided you with comforts and amenities fit for a queen. Only a fool would fail to notice what I’m trying to build, and I respect your intellect too much to act as if you hadn’t already figured it out.”

Crete cracked a smile at that. “I doubt it even takes that much evidence to figure it out. You exhausted what Luce’s treaty made us share, and now you want more. No particular intellect necessary. And it’s more than a bit desperate.”

Camille shrugged, ceding the point. “We don’t have the resources Avalon does, no. That doesn’t mean that you won’t be provided with more comfort and respect here than you ever would there. If anything, it means we’d value your contributions all the more.”

“Oh, really?” she scoffed. “How’s that?”

And here’s where I have to hope my information on you was correct. “Luce is a pacifist. I suspect, as I’m sure you do, that he’s only keeping you in your position because he’s too afraid of the great things you’re capable of once you’re out from under his thumb—otherwise you’d have been tossed aside along with the Estertons.”

“But I wasn’t,” Crete countered. “Whatever his reasons, he does respect my work. Just last month, he rolled out mortars with my new project loaded in them all around Charenton’s walls. If he fears what I’m capable of, that only strengthens his need to keep me content.”

“And that project is—?”

“Confidential,” Crete said, a frustrating non-answer that left the horrors of her new ordnance fully to the imagination. And considering she reportedly got her start modifying the blight of Refuge into something more inexpensive and compact without losing any of its impact, I can hardly stand to imagine it. The projects she wasn’t even willing to allude to, no doubt, were even worse.

And yet she was still in Luce’s employ, and that gave Camille an opening—otherwise, she probably wouldn’t have come to Malin at all. “Why move you to Charenton, then? Isn’t Avalon’s best work still being done in Ortus Tower, in Cambria?”

“He needed someone he could trust in the new facility. The Memorial Tower didn’t even exist four years ago; Charenton itself was a wreck. And he had to split his time there with Cambria, unless he wanted to let his brother run Avalon into the ground.” Interesting that she’d be so open about that. “Especially since spiritual research is still banned in Avalon—setting up facilities in Charenton was the only way around that restriction, and it’s an exciting new frontier to be part of.”

“Ah. Well that certainly wouldn’t be a problem here,” Camille assured her.

The picture was becoming clear, Marbury’s loyalty to Luce affirmed in opposition to the enemy of greater scope, allowing her to ignore any disrespect that the Prince of Darkness did visit onto her. That also explained why she hadn’t left his team for more favorable waters—any competitors with enough prestige and funding to catch her eye were under Prince Harold’s thumb.

“So you run the Charenton Tower, then? You built it?” It’s not a lie if it’s a question, even if I know that the answer is ‘no’. With Camille’s words as limited as they were, that had become one of the best tools available to steer discussions the way she wanted them to go.

Crete shrugged. “Formally, he’s the Overseer of that one too. I’m sure you knew that. But he relies on me.”

“And he trusts your judgment? Funds the projects you want to fund?”

“Well...”

“Because I heard that you had a grand vision for enhancing soldiers, crafting your own spirit-touched without relying on the whims of the spirits themselves. And right when you were beginning human trials, the esteemed Prince of Darkness scuttled the whole endeavor over ‘ethical concerns’ about human experimentation.”

Glowering, Crete remained silent.

“I’m not a scientist, Crete. I hold no pretensions that I know any better than you do. So when you want to work on something, however you might want to work on it, I’ll take your word that it’s the correct course. None of the Institute’s scientists have half your talent or ingenuity, but they’re a humble group, ready to stay in line and learn from the best. They didn’t study in Cambria or Bellowton, so they know that there is always more for them to learn. They’ll listen, as I will, because we understand that progress is not for royalty to define, but the people whose work actually makes it possible. You know that I speak true on that score, as I must on all others.”

Marbury opened her mouth briefly, then thought better of it.

“Think it over. We’ll arrange another guest lecture, perhaps, so you have all the excuse you need to stay a little longer, and consider my offer to work somewhere you’re valued instead of tolerated. Luce never has to know.”

Lips curling inward, Crete considered for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I did get a great question about exponential propagation after the last one, and I didn’t have nearly the time needed to give it a proper response.”

“The Institute will hang on your every word,” Camille assured her. “If the match is boring you, you’re welcome to start preparing now.”

“Oh, really? From what I heard about you, I thought you were all about standing on ceremony. I can just go?”

“Absolutely,” Camille assured her. “Next time, I’ll invite you to something better suited to your interests. The opera, perhaps?” At the sign of Crete’s slight hesitation, lips pursed on the edge of a refusal, Camille cut in. “Or whatever you’d prefer. I want your every need and desire seen to during your stay here.”

And with any luck, we’ll be able to poach you to run the Institute. Most of its ranks now were made up of the most flexibly-minded of Annette’s bureaucrats and disgraced washouts from Avalon, though two scientists from Lyrion had accepted the move in exchange for better pay. None who’d come per the terms of the Treaty of Charenton had even considered staying, in one case even laughing in her face at the prospect of it, asking what she could possibly offer that the most advanced country in the world could not.

It was irritating, being so obviously behind, but that irritation was one Camille had been forced to endure for twenty-two years, and she knew well how to manage it.

Camille stayed in Lucien’s chair even after Crete left, turning her attention back to the race. The blue captain was on verge of lapping the green, his chariot half a horse behind her, when Fernnane swerved, her chariot crashing into the foremost of Charles’ horses and sending his entire chariot careening off the track.

“Fie!” Annette stood up and yelled, the blues in the box joining the ones in the stands in their enraged jeering. “Honorless scourge!”

Camille remained in her seat, watching carefully as de Monflanquin cut his injured horse loose, untangled his other reins, then flipped his chariot back into position. He was a lap behind de Calignac by the time he made it back into the track, looking more determined than ever. He’ll make it up, Camille assured herself, then gestured to Aude to come fill the vacated Empress’s chair. “What have you heard?” she asked the commander of her Acolytes, keeping her voice soft enough not to be heard by the others in the box.

Now High Priestess of Fenouille, Aude looked uncomfortable sitting on the cold stone, though perhaps her expression was more a reflection of the news she needed to give. “Fenouille cannot delay any longer—Rhan’s people cry out for their aid, and they seek the power of the Deep to repel the invaders.”

Oh, so now they care about resolving the Convocation quickly. It would have been nice if they’d carried any of that urgency back when the Sun had been dead, the world pushed to the brink of frozen starvation. For that matter, it’d have been nice if spirits had been willing to step in to defend their peoples fifty years ago, when all this madness began. If Marais had fought the Avaline to defend Lyrion back when they’d first invaded, they might both still be thriving.

But it was what it was. Four years would have to be enough.

“It’s impressive we made it this long,” Camille conceded. Her assumption of Levian’s duties had always been on an interim basis, and she’d been careful not to make waves with her nominal powers. Still, the delay in holding a proper Convocation had only been possible even for four years—an instant, for the spirits—because of the deadlocked division of support between Rhan, favorite of Tauroneo and the traditionalists, and Glaciel, the favored candidate of the Arbiter of Darkness and her faction. Lamante’s brazen murder of Lunette had been more than enough for the traditionalists to dig in their heels and ignore any tentative moves towards reform that they might have entertained before. “Both of the strongest candidates have reason to despise me, but their outlooks differ greatly. There’s opportunity there, provided I can approach them in the right way.”

Aude’s eyes widened, her mouth hanging open. “Your Grace, As the Commander of your Acolytes, I must counsel you not to attend it, lest they kill you then and there. Even a traitor is more easily ignored when you do not tweak their nose, reminding them of your crimes.”

Good to see you’re doing your job, then. “Your counsel is noted and appreciated, but I will attend, and I will prevail. I have a plan.”

“Your Grace...” Aude glanced to the side, then leaned in closer to Camille, speaking softly. “I know you always find victory in unexpected places, but you’ll never hold Levian’s seat. You’re the usurper, the ultimate traitor. Even Fenouille will not support you there, nor heed your counsel on who else he should cast his vote for.”

A strange thing, to be held in contempt by the spirits just the same as Laura Bougitte. It had even affected earthly politics, with Condillac and Plagette terrified to treat with her, lest they too be branded as enemies by the most powerful beings alive. It wasn’t a tenable position, and it had to be resolved—even if breaking the stasis of the last four years carried profound risk.

“Focus on Malin, for now,” Camille ordered, trying to calm her down. “If the time comes when I truly see no path to victory, I will withdraw.” I’m confident, not foolish. “And... when you talk to Fenouille, please tell him I’m sorry again. I didn’t think I had a choice.”

Even though I did. I first chose death, then jumped at the opportunity for more power. Jethro’s rebuke still stung her from time to time, a warning and a condemnation both.

You’d be abandoning your humanity, withdrawing from all you’ve known to embrace the world of the spirits.

Would he still have said that, if he’d realized how much of a pariah she’d become? Perhaps not, but that was never his greatest objection.

They’re not your people; they’re just people! And ruling over them as an immortal tyrant isn’t going to do a thing to help them.

Camille had to keep herself centered, had to find the balance between victory and tyranny, to protect her subjects and allow them to flourish.

You haven’t thought this through.

He hadn’t been wrong. Every challenge in front of her was solvable—if Camille hadn’t believed that, she’d be dead thrice over—but that didn’t change the fact that she’d been backed into a corner, the Empire of the Fox further shrunken and declining.

Even down one horse, Charles the blue still had the faster team, and he managed to close the distance to Fernanne the green in the final lap of the race, though his horses were visibly straining under the higher weight than they’d trained for. The win was his, but as if to gild a wildflower, he swung his whip towards his competitor, striking her in the face and forcing her chariot to swing wildly off-course.

Fernnane couldn’t even right herself long enough to complete the race, nor could Camille hear what the announcer was saying with so much shouting echoing off the walls. Noble courtiers were right alongside unwashed immigrants as they hurled invective at the contestants, and—quickly—at each other.

All it took was one green-clad woman leaping over the banister and onto the track for the dam to burst, and soon the riotous fanatics were fighting openly in the middle of the field, rushing towards the fallen Fernanne and the victorious Charles both.

I’m lucky that Crete already left, though it’ll be bad enough when she hears about this. Hardly a sterling impression to leave.

Without even needing to be asked, Aude dispatched an Acolyte to open the valves, letting water pour onto the field from every side of the hippodrome. Camille waited until it pooled two inches off the ground, then leapt down from her box, dissolving to water as she landed before reforming herself in hardened ice.

“Cease with this madness immediately, in the name of your Empress,” she commanded, filling her voice with the power of the spirits as she froze over the arena, trapping or tripping all of the brawlers. “The match is finished. You are all to return to your homes forthwith, or face my justice.”

Camille unfroze the water, curling it around herself to propel her into the air, then landed with a splash back in the Emperor’s box. Once she recomposed her form, the sodden, dejected rioters were already plodding out of the arched exits, the crisis seemingly averted.

Scott Temple would massage the message appropriately without even needing to be asked, thankfully, so whatever Crete read in tomorrow’s journal would be less of a catastrophe than the actual event—probably something about their passionate appreciation for sportsmanship, or the like.

Neither competitor had been harmed by the fanatics, though Fernnane had a swollen eye where the whip had hit her, and both agreed to let the matter lie, under penalty of the Empress’s personal attention.

Drained and exhausted, Camille still made sure to visit the royal nursery before resting, dismissing the governess long enough to peek in on the sleeping prince in his bed, and the princess in her crib.

“Sleep well, Fouchand,” Camille whispered, careful not to wake her son up, then leaned over the crib. “Rest easy, Sarille.” In time, your challenges will be ever greater than mine. But I will ensure that you’re ready. “I promise.”