Camille VIII: The Sacrifice
Distant tendrils of sunlight shone through the ocean’s depths, casting over the Leclaire library a dappled, ever-shifting mixture of light and shadow.
It wasn’t so secret, not anymore. Camille had led the Acolytes and civilians holed up in the temple through the tunnel to protect them from the worst of the fighting, and couldn’t help but notice several valuable ancient tomes missing when she’d returned to assess the damage. Everything remaining had needed to be moved to lesser caches under the sea, distributed amongst the ones that hadn’t collapsed in the absence of seventeen years of maintenance.
Striding beneath the water had been trivial in a logistical sense. Levian’s power flowed through her more smoothly than Camille could ever remember, even compared to the morning after sacrifices she’d personally administered, let alone the paucity she’d had to make do with after burning so much power and life just to stay alive.
Almost as if he doesn’t know I’m actively and consciously failing him, scheming to deny him his due in the name of all the people who’d have to die if I didn’t.
If it weren’t for the very real risk of important spiritual texts falling into the wrong hands, Camille might still not have done it yet. It wasn’t as if she lacked a full slate of tasks, ever-expanding faster than she could complete them in the rush to leave a functional state behind when she died.
Using Levian’s power made her sick, knowing where it came from. It did so in an unfortunately literal way, after hearing what had happened in Charenton. It was harder to remain settled in general these days, in no small part due to the impending doom hanging above her head.
This is the spirit I swore a life of service to. Perhaps it’s all for the best.
But every swish of water made it harder to forget that.
The scale of the devastation was still hard to grapple with, as was the apparent lack of motivation. It was hardly unusual for a spirit to be swollen with power after a major battle, especially a slaughter such as that, but spirits had to be given souls; if they could simply take them from humans they slaughtered, sages would have nothing to offer them. If Camille’s share of his power was so much stronger now, that implied that Levian had another human ally.
Yet every major sage of Levian was accounted for in Malin, whether they’d endured the occupation or returned from exile or perished in the meantime.
Every sage save Uncle Emile, whose departure from Guerron in advance of the rebellion could only be so comforting when he still hadn’t arrived anywhere. Camille was absolutely certain that he had no hand in the Charenton massacre, almost certainly no awareness of it either. Emile could be pragmatic on occasion, but he was ever driven by his heart, not any lust for power. He’d always been the voice of caution with Camille’s schemes, urging restraint.
Almost as if he knew where the end of that path lay. Perhaps he did, in a sense. He’d seen what happened to Mother too, consumed beneath the waves to secure their escape. She’d been everything a Leclaire ought aspire to: a powerful sage, an influential politician, a master of her domain.
And she died young too, with half her Acolytes cursing her name for abandoning them, the other barely mentioning her sacrifice. Levian, Camille was certain, had already forgotten her name, if indeed he had ever learned it. What was Sarille Leclaire to him but the latest vessel of many, a means to deliver him souls and little else. What was Camille?
The last time she’d quaffed some marigold wine to begin visions, right before that disastrous conversation with Fernan, Camille had seen a chorus of her ancestors, stretching back into the distant mists across the sea, silently evaluating their scion as they examined the permanent end of everything they’d spent centuries building.
As Camille peered through the glass, her thoughts turned to Mathille Leclaire, who’d created this hidden chamber on the floor of the sea, burning most of her life and falling afoul of a deal with Levian for the sake of securing her family a permanent base in Malin, outside the reach of any Fox-King.
And Levian had casually referred to it as an ‘impetuous encroachment’, a stain on the seafloor to be ‘cleansed’ given the slightest reason.
Now just a room full of empty bookshelves, known to nearly a hundred random laborers and peasants throughout the city along with everyone they might have seen fit to mention the chamber to. Would she despise me, the Last Leclaire, or see the necessity in what I did?
Would Murielle Leclaire, High Priestess when Levian had ascended to Pantera’s seat as Torrent of the Deep? She’d had little to do with the ascension herself, yet her rewards had been significant, crucial to the family’s ascent. Camille had no less of an opportunity, and instead she was diminishing them into near-extinction.
Going back further, how might Tiamille Leclaire, the feared general of the Fox-Queen, look at her failure of a scion? Betrothed to the Fox-King and poised to build a dynasty that could reunite the continent, instead Camille had carelessly rushed to her defeat, and the end of any hope of that dynasty too.
The sickness and exhaustion she’d been enduring for the past few weeks was only salt in the wound, a mocking reminder of what might have been if she’d made the right decisions from the beginning.
My father didn’t want me to make my pact; he thought it too dangerous, and he was right.
Ybille Leclaire had built the shore temple, the first to formalize the succession of High Priestesses and officially declare herself Sage of Levian. Formal strictures and dynastic strength were her legacy, and Camille had no doubt at all that she would look upon all of this with naught but cold judgment and shame.
She had been the first sage in name, but not the first to enter into a compact with Levian. Had Castille of Onès realized where all of this would lead, when first she’d approached the sea spirit? Why had she needed that power so badly, and what had she done with it? Peering through the haze of time, little was left save her name.
In so many ways, it would have been easier to honor the deal, to dedicate what remained of the year to the extermination of Levian’s thousand souls, no matter the cost. Likely to fail, too, with failure rendering all of that slaughter for nothing. With the support Lucien had pledged, perhaps Camille could even have succeeded, though unworthy to rule the world they’d leave behind in doing it.
I could have lived, only then I couldn’t have lived with myself. Small comfort, when the world was falling into shambles that Camille had little hope of fixing in the time remaining to her. Rebellions, famine, industrialization, war, Lucien…
In that moment, even knowing where it had led her, Camille wished she could borrow back some of her youthful confidence, the utter assurance that everything would end up right back where it needed to be. She’d survived certain death and liberated her homeland, and yet she felt less certain than ever.
I could just step out of the dome and drown, and spare myself another moment of indecision. In the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t really make much difference whether Camille died now or in a few weeks. She certainly wouldn’t know the difference.
But Lucien would, and Annette and Mary and Margot and Aude and everyone else left behind in a world of turmoil and ruin. Camille owed them better, along with everyone else in the world. Nobility obliged her, just as it called upon her to sacrifice her own well-being to serve the common good.
She’d thought Lucien had understood that, even better than she ever had. He was always the one inviting people up to his table, feasting and fêting alongside them, living in a tent in Villemalin rather than take his rightful place in the castle. But now he’d abandoned them all for a childish tantrum.
He abandoned me, because he couldn’t trust me. Because I lied to him.
And now I’ll never see him again.
Camille ejected her sickness into the deep blue abyss of Levian’s domain, then left the Leclaire enclave behind, feeling the silent judgment of her ancestors peering through her soul. None burned more painfully than her mother’s, pity and grief and disappointment all bundled together into a greater package of regret.
She was five minutes late to the council meeting, a personal embarrassment that fortunately none of the other members saw fit to comment on. Nor had they started without her, which was only sensible. Camille had been the one sitting in Lucien’s chair since his departure, trying to set everything into place for the Code Leclaire and the Empire in the time that remained.
Annette sat at the opposite end of the table, a dour expression wrapped across her face. Simon, just to her left, did not seem to be in much better spirits, even though he had no direct ties to the mess in Guerron. Perhaps it was on Annette’s behalf, though Camille doubted their conciliation had stretched quite that far. Working together on their governmental duties seemed to be the limit of it, though considering the acrimony of that first council meeting together, it was more than she could possibly have hoped for.
Eloise and Mordred Boothe sat to Camille’s right and left, seemingly not in much better spirits, though the reasoning was likely different. Camille knew better than to imagine either of them were too distressed at her impending death, for all they knew about it, so it likely had more to do with Guerron and the inevitable response it demanded.
Just about the last way I want to spend my final days. Valvert had better not live through this after a failure of this magnitude, or I’ll ensure he faces a fate far worse.
Camille began with the customary greetings, calling the meeting to order, then invited in Eloise’s first item of the day: Ysengrin, returned from the failed expedition to Guerron. He began recounting his tale, answering several pointed questions from Annette in the process, then finished with a despondent incline of his head.
“...If that’s what you heard, my lady, I’m afraid it’s all true. Fernan greeted me with a smile, never letting on about the dagger behind his back. I barely escaped his assault with my life, as did the Châlice Mercenaries.”
“Who bravely turned and fled, it would seem.” Annette snorted dismissively. “Mme. Clôchaine, Camille and I made no secret of our distrust for mercenaries, but you insisted they protect our assets instead of loyal soldiers.”
“Loyal to you. Those are my lands, unless you’re pulling the rug again.” Eloise sank into her chair, head angled towards the ceiling. “But yes, it’s completely my fault that Fernan Montaigne turned traitor, obviously. You all anticipated this, but I didn’t listen.” She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like imbeciles, then folded her arms.
“The Châlice Mercenaries have never been known to break a contract like this,” Ysengrin loyally added in her defense. “Jacques used them for years without any trouble. I doubt soldiers would have fared any better against Fernan’s brutality; he stormed the camp with his flaming gecko and damn-near burned the place to the ground. He had a confederate infiltrate ahead of him and hold a knife to the commander’s throat, then cruelly extorted her son until they left.”
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Khali’s curse. Fernan had shown unexpected steel when they’d talked, but stooping to that level? It seemed so uncharacteristic that Camille knew something else had to be going on, like as not influence from malign actors in his illegal Montaignard group. But even then, this is more of a reversal than anyone could have anticipated.
“They were hired to babysit a few coal mines, not storm a fortified city against multiple sages,” Eloise added.
“We need an army that can, immediately,” Simon said. “We can’t even begin generating steam power without that first shipment of coal, let alone properly open our manufacturing plants. Half of our public works projects are dead in the water!”
And the longer it goes on, the less we can bring to bear against Avalon. Even our hostage is in the rebels’ hands.
Margot slipped in quietly, passing Camille an envelope sealed with black wax and the image of a crescent moon.
“Do you need an army, or a saboteur?” Boothe slouched in his seat, twirling the tip of his finger around a glass of Rhanoir Red, likely Jaubertie, judging by the shade. “Harold Grimoire managed to turn Ombresse against its Duke in an entirely bloodless coup, and temporarily conquered Guerron in a similar way.”
“Bloodless? He threw my grandfather off his balcony!” Annette shook her head. “No. No infiltrators or saboteurs, satisfying as it might be to see these rebels fall apart on their own. It leaves too much to chance. And Jethro, I mean no offense, but you have yet to prove the level of trustworthiness required for a task such as this.”
“We can’t afford a slow play, either,” Simon added. “As things stand now, even if the rebels dip their banners the moment our forces arrive, we’ll be weeks behind schedule. Months, in the event of a siege.”
“Not to mention our credibility,” Annette added. “Camile, you know this. The longer these rebels are allowed to stand, the more our credibility is undermined. This division makes us ripe for foreign conquest and exploitation, especially since the Prince of Darkness seems to be on an acquisitions spree after Charenton, and has a personal grudge against you. All the more so after Levian’s attack, I don’t doubt.”
“Let me deal with Luce,” Boothe insisted, though by his face he seemed strangely unsure about the prospect. “If need be, that is.”
“Once again you ask for trust we cannot in good conscience grant you. You’re a defector from Avalon, the least safe prospect for handling the Prince.”
“So is Lord Perimont!”
“Simon has earned—”
“Stop,” Camille said gently, and the entire table fell silent. She lifted the letter to the light, beckoning the council to examine it. Simone recognized the seal immediately, for it had been pressed into red wax for countless edicts from the Governor of Malin they’d both worked for, Prince Lucifer Grimoire. “It seems we have new information to discuss.”
Annette grit her teeth, but didn’t contest the point.
If Fernan really did offer him Magnifico, we might already be doomed.
Camille sliced the letter open with her nail, then pulled out a rather sorry water-stained letter and began to read aloud.
“To Lady Camille Leclaire of Onès, High Priestess of Levian and Maiden of Dawn,”
Camille frowned at the formal address, either out of character in its obsequiousness or mocking beyond any aptitude Luce had ever demonstrated.
“Despite your patron spirit’s attack, Charenton stands strong. Levian was deterred, but not before Simone Leigh and a large share of her rebels, armed with stolen Avaline weaponry they sourced in Malin, were cruelly slain. More concerning, hundreds of Charentine lost their lives, and that number is only expected to grow.
“I cannot know how you feel about this, but for all your treachery, I never thought you so cruel as to take pleasure in such wanton slaughter. But then, were I capable of reading you correctly, I would still be in Malin. It is impossible not to consider the obvious conclusion when Levian attacks his High Priestess’s enemies.”
Camille’s hand shook slightly at the obvious implication, refutable by no one but herself. The other councilors held their breath, awaiting her reaction, so Camille simply continued reading.
“Still, I cannot help but hope to prevail on your humanity. I believe an attack like this can never be allowed to happen again, and perhaps I am a fool, but I truly believe that you would feel the same.” Camille bit her lip, trying to discern his true intentions. “You represent the Fox-King’s government in Malin, and the spirit Levian. I have control of Charenton, and can speak for Avalon. We have much to offer Malin, from assurances to technology to resources, and a vested interest in preventing future slaughter. I am ready to discuss terms if you are.
“Join me in Charenton before year’s end and we can work out the details. I guarantee you safe passage and conduct in and out of the city, though I must warn that the accommodations may not be up to your usual standards. I’m afraid our premiere hotel was reduced to rubble in the attack.
“Sincerely,
Lucifer Grimoire, Prince of Darkness”
Camille let the paper flutter down to the table, dropping her hand to her side. “It’s unbelievable, the faith he claims to have in my good intentions.” Heartwarming, if only for an instant. “And I mean that literally. I do not believe him.”
“Nor I,” Mordred agreed. “We stabbed him in the back, and now he’s setting himself up to do the same to us. Thanks to you and Scott, his word and reputation is already worthless. What more would it add to blow us to dust the moment we arrive? It would solve his rebel problem and make up for his failure in Malin.”
“You really think Luce would do that?” Simon raised an eyebrow. “We’ve seen what he does with power, and it mostly amounts to sitting in his workshop with the door locked. He’s hardly a schemer.”
“He’s surprised me before,” Boothe said.
Camille nodded. “That was then, this is now. The Luce I know would have gone home to sulk and barricaded himself in his workshop. Instead, he seized power in Charenton and set himself to crushing the Lyrion League. If he’s made it this far, he must be colder, more pragmatic, hardened against the risk of any future betrayal.” I want to believe it so badly, but this is the last person in the world who would ever trust my good intentions. “Mordred, in our honorable society, we hold safe passage and guest protections sacrosanct; else no diplomacy could ever occur. Does Avalon hold the same values?”
“It did.” Mordred shook his head slowly. “But Harold Grimoire was a hard man for hard times, and he took advantage of those norms on countless occasions. You saw it yourself in Guerron, where he was a guest of the Duke and didn’t hesitate to exploit that, even stooping to murder. With such a monster at the head of the serpent, his beloved father, no less, I can’t say that such values would hold Luce back.”
“Not a bad trap,” Eloise said. “Invite your enemies in to blow themselves up, and hope they’re stupid enough to accept. Maybe he hasn’t changed that much.”
“That’s what the carrot is for, to dazzle us into missing the whip behind his back.” Simon sighed. “But if there’s even a grain of truth to what he’s offering… Even two or three scientists lent to our efforts could massively speed up production; a few of the right schematics, a loan, perhaps even coal? Avalon is engaged in a two-front war right now; might they not finally be taking the sensible approach and shoring up peace with us?”
“Avalon might,” Camille agreed. “But Luce has no interest in their other fronts, and protecting the Avaline war effort isn’t his aim. He wants the threat of Levian gone. The threat of me, eliminated. That’s true even if he’s telling the truth, let alone in the more likely event that this is a trap.”
Boothe nodded. “Despite Eloise’s protestations to the contrary, this is a surprisingly brilliant gambit. Certainly, nothing his countrymen would ever consider. Beckett Williams would be leading an army south, while King Harold would probably already be slipping into Malin to assassinate you. No one else would have the credibility to even attempt such a ruse of diplomacy, either. He’s trading on his unique advantages.”
Annette snorted dismissively. “It’s hardly all that brilliant when we can defeat it by simply refusing him. So long as no one is sent into his trap, all it amounts to is a letter worth less than the soggy paper it’s written on.”
“Can we afford to overlook the possibilities?” Simon asked. “I hardly want to put anyone at risk, but what he’s offering could make all the difference in the world. Shouldn’t we at least send someone to treat with him?”
“You volunteering, slick?” Eloise laughed. “I bet he’d love to see you again after you sided with Camille here.”
Simon coughed, awkwardly looking away without outright refusing.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Fact is, he’s got a grudge against everyone sitting at this table, other than the Duchess. None of us are likely to survive the trip.”
“Then couldn’t we send someone expendable?” Simon asked hesitantly. “Then we’d be the ones who come out fine either way.”
Camille buried her face in her hands. “Do you know anyone you’d trust to negotiate international diplomacy who wouldn’t be missed if Luce detonated a bomb under their seat? Because I don’t. Not to mention the insult of sending an underling getting things off on the wrong foot from the start. We’d have about as little to gain as if we sent no one at all.”
“Then send no one!” Annette shook her head, clicking her tongue. “You knew the man, so perhaps you cannot see it, but this is nothing more than a distraction! We have urgent business to resolve in Guerron, and can’t afford to endanger diplomats with this lunacy. The Prince of Darkness’s word is dirt, and trusting it would be the height of foolishness.”
“He’ll have a surprise in store. I have no doubt about that.” Boothe wavered, melancholy writ plain on his face. “He was always the king’s favorite, always the recipient of his love and wisdom. He’s not a cruel man, but if he thought it were for the greater good? For a better world?” He nodded slowly, seemingly more to himself than the other councilors. “After what we did, knowing who we are, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill us all, if he thought it was the right thing to do.”
“I think you’re right.” Camille sighed. For all that he lost the city, he was still canny enough to secure his escape with a lie: “Be right back.” And now he thinks I ordered a massacre of his city, and knows how precarious a position the Empire is in, the power and influence Avalon can wield against us. “We should assume anyone sent to Charenton will not return.”
“Good!” Annette sat back in her chair. “Then if we can return to the topic at hand—”
“I’ll leave tomorrow,” Camille interrupted. “Annette, write to Lucien on the Île d’Artres and inform him that I’ve left and he may return. Until he does, you and Simon are in charge.”
“What?” she sputtered. “Camille, you can’t. We all just agreed it’s a trap! You could die.”
Mordred and Eloise exchanged a knowing look.
“This is my decision, and it’s final. When I return, if there’s still work to be done against the Guerron rebels, I’ll keep my promise to you.” Though I’ll never get the chance. This is a better way to spend my final days, negotiating for Malin’s future instead of tearing our Empire apart from within, setting a betrayal to rights one way or another instead of terrorizing a city I called home for seventeen years.
And if Luce blows my head off the moment I arrive, that would be no less than I deserve.
“I’m coming too,” Boothe announced, prompting bewildered looks from the entire table. “I’m the most familiar with explosives, and I have the greatest chance at spotting the trap in time to disarm or avoid it.”
Eloise let out an aborted laugh. “After which he’ll point thirty guns at you and fire them until you’re nothing but sweetbreads on the ground.” She turned her head away, contemplating her words, then faced Mordred. “If you get the chance? Tell him I’m s—” Her thin lips curled inward. “I’m glad he survived the coup.”
“You have my word,” Boothe swore.
“This is folly,” Annette warned. “And folly at a time Malin can ill afford to lose you. What about the Code Leclaire?”
“Cynette Fields has all of the language ready, and I’ve reviewed it to my satisfaction. As soon as Lucien returns, he can sign it without any need for me.” Perhaps I might even live to see it, though it’s far from likely.
“Your bravery is without peer, Lady Leclaire, as is your commitment to your peoples’ future,” Simon said, a look of awe lighting up his face. “I hope dearly for your safe return.”
“So do I,” Camille assured him, knowing it to be a lie.