Fernan III: The Elegiac
Though the lavish celebrations of the Commune often struck Fernan as a foolish expenditure— the same sort of unwise revelry that Guy Valvert had rubbed in the faces of regular people to accentuate just how much better aristocrats had it—Gabriel Rochaort de Gaume, erstwhile Viscount of Miroirdeau, was certainly deserving of the honor if anyone was.
Beneath the snow-capped mountains piercing the grey sky above, so far as Fernan had been told, a massive pyre had been constructed in the castle courtyard. The funerary edifice was a more extravagant duplication of the mountain tradition, since Rochaort’s last testament had requested such a ritual instead of the more customary departure for a peer of the Empire, one final demonstration of his commitment to the Commune.
Rochaort hadn’t been in the room with the Montaignards, before the Revolution. He hadn’t had any real grievances against Valvert’s regime, nor had he anything to gain by upturning the status quo. Yet still, Gabriel had stood up for what was right. He’d supported the Commune in innumerable ways both material and social, not least among them as a voice for moderation when it came to the Valverts’ punishment, persuasive enough that even Paul Armand had backed away from any direct calls for their execution.
Now that he’s dead, unfortunately, it may only be a matter of time before that topic is reopened. Armand and his cronies had already begun to circle around the Assembly like a vulture around its prey once Rochaort’s health had begun to decline, and the Committee of Public Safety was an impotent compromise, lacking in any real authority, which was unlikely to hold them at bay for long.
Hopefully killing that copy protection law shored up support with Costeau and the others, at least, even if I’m sure to get an earful from Luce about it. Nominally, the Commune still recognized the validity of foreign copy restriction rights, including Avaline technologies, but with no enforcement mechanism, duplication of anything and everything was still permitted for all practical purposes, as was profiting from it.
“I’m so sorry, Mélisse,” Fernan told Rochaort’s daughter, roughly double his own age. “If there’s anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Sure,” she said flatly, eyes facing elsewhere as if she hadn’t really been listening. Not that Fernan blamed her for that—there was no wrong way to grieve, nor one way people could be expected to do it. Especially after their relationship had grown so strained, if what Fernan had heard was any indication. He’d been a hundred times worse after losing his own father, rude and petulant beyond all measure, even to Mom. For all that people had understood the reason for it, fully mending those bridges had taken years of work.
Fernan nodded to her, then moved away, allowing Doctor Sézanne to step forward and offer his own rote condolences. Soon enough, it would be time to speak for the dead, celebrating Gabriel’s great achievements and moral character, but before Fernan could get very far practicing his speech, quietly muttering far away from the gathering in the hopes that no one would disturb him, he felt a tug on his coat.
Behind him was Aubaine Lumière, the twelve-year-old’s aura already nearly as bright and golden as his father’s had been, despite not being a sage himself. Fernan couldn’t really see it, but Maxime had dressed Aubaine for the occasion, going so far as to borrow Edith’s tailor to ensure he looked just right. “Fernan? Can I show you something?”
“Of course.” Most likely, it was a stick he’d found on the ground, or a mountain toad, or some other artifact of nature whose discovery would have surely sullied the boy’s new waistcoat. Fernan knew this routine, and it still managed to be cute every time, all the more so at a time like this, when levity was in such short supply.
Instead, to his surprise, Fernan saw Aubaine hand him a letter coated in wax, sculpted into the same ridges and grooves as Avalon’s tactile type, though clearly carved by hand. “Who sent you a letter like this?” he asked as he flipped it open, starting to read.
“It was a normal letter. I copied it myself so you could read it!”
Fernan’s heart just about melted to hear that, so he pulled Aubaine in for a hug with one arm as he held the letter in the other, rubbing his thumb over the surface to ascertain what it said.
Quickly, his smile faded.
To Aubaine Aurelianis Apollinaire Lumière,
Lord of the Skies and Inheritor of the Sun,
Though we have not had the pleasure of meeting since you were merely a babe in arms, surely beyond the bounds of a child’s fickle memories, I had the pleasure to know your father well, and even to call him a friend. Ignoble as his end may have been, he served his patron spirit and his liege with dignity and grace for decades beforehand, leal service that ought not go forgotten, even allowing for his betrayal at the late hour of his life.
With the death of Gabriel Roachaort de Gaume, I fear for your safety more than ever. Even the noblest of peers, even those who forsook their liege and collaborated with the rebels, are not guaranteed safety in the wretched regime squatting atop the once-great city of Guerron. The revolting peasants who hold you captive rail against the wise guidance of the spirits, dear departed Soleil most of all, and cannot be trusted to keep safe the son of the man who was the sun’s High Priest.
It has become clear that you must be rescued from the false knight, Fernan Montaigne, and protected from any attempt at retaliation from his rowdy band. If you have any fond memories of your father, you would do well to heed my words. You shall always have a place with us, Aubaine, just as my beloved daughter had a place with your father.
My son Edouard is of age with you, sure to be an excellent companion. The two of you would be as brothers, your father’s legacy bestowed upon you as is your right as his son and heir. We would bestow upon you your birthright, and protect it as we would our own.
All you need do is present yourself on the Gold Road to the south of Guerron on the day before the Vernal Equinox, while the rebels are distracted with the Festival of the Sun. We shall take care of the rest.
Yours Faithfully,
Count Cédric Bougitte de Torpierre, Lord of the Stone Tower
“Aubaine, did you show this to anyone else?” Fernan asked quietly, his mind reeling.
Aubaine shook his head, aura dimming as he picked up on Fernan’s distress. “I don’t have to go, do I?”
If Armand and his goons get ahold of this, they’ll be clamoring to go to war against Torpierre. And when you don’t show up at the anointed hour, the Bougittes just might try to force the issue themselves. This had to be handled very delicately if there was to be any chance for peace.
“Everything’s going to be fine.” Fernan rustled Aubaine’s hair, reassuring him the same way he had when the boy had first asked about the fate of his father. “They tried to take you away before the Revolution, but we put a stop to that. No one’s going to take you away.” The problem is the damage they can do just by trying.
“But what do they mean, my birthright? Did Father want to give me something? A present?”
I suppose you’re old enough for the truth, rather than the artful evasion I gave you when Aurelian first died. Though I’d rather Bougitte hadn’t forced the issue. “Your father was the High Priest of the previous sun spirit, Soleil. Soleil was a bully and a tyrant, who forced your father to do all sorts of things he didn’t want to, but the man who wrote this letter didn’t see it that way, because he didn’t really know your father well at all.” Considering how seldom and reluctantly Laura ever mentioned her home life, I’d guess Count Cédric didn’t know her all that well either, ‘beloved daughter’ or not. “Aurelian didn’t want to put you in that position; he wanted to save you from that ‘birthright’. It’s the reason he schemed against Soleil at all, even though he benefited greatly from the Sun’s success. The man who wrote this letter doesn’t just want to snatch you from us, but also to force you into the role your father died to save you from.”
It doesn’t make up for everything else he did, all the sacrifices and injustice, downright tyranny in Guerron at the end of his life, but he did want what was best for you, Aubaine.
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“Do you have the original letter?” Fernan asked after a moment of quiet contemplation, folding the tactile translation into his pocket.
Aubaine handed over another letter, unreadable to Fernan, his hand trembling.
Fernan forced a smile. “Everything’s going to be alright, Aubaine. I won’t let them take you. Why don’t you go find Maxime?”
After a reluctant nod, Aubaine ran off, aura gradually returning to its usual intensity the further away he went. Fernan waited until he was fully out of sight before burning the original letter to ashes, watching the flickering sparks scatter into the wind. It took him another moment to compose himself before he was ready to return to the departure celebration, another still before he mustered the will to stand before the pyre and begin his eulogy of Gabriel Rochaort.
“We gather today to mourn not only a peerless statesman, but also a friend,” Fernan began, then launched into a thorough accounting of the erstwhile Viscount’s warmth and geniality, his stern and incorruptible moral character, and his measured wisdom in the face of rowdy thoughtlessness, finishing with the unveiling of a statue of his likeness, the cleanly polished bronze at the base reflecting his figure just as his old domain reflected the world above it, a mirror of water referred to often enough that it became the name of the place, shortened and crunched together over the centuries.
And to his relief, everyone erupted into applause, even Mélisse, who’d coldly refused the honor of speaking for her father herself, claiming the wound within her was too raw to tear open. Whatever the truth, Fernan seemed to have done his job, which meant that he could turn his attention to quietly addressing the threat posed by Cédric Bougitte.
Maxime could be trusted, as could Mom, but beyond that, no one could know how close they’d come to disaster. If Aubaine’s childish carelessness had been complemented with even a bit of teenage rebellion, Bougitte might have snatched him right out from under them and sparked a war. As it was, things still needed to be handled delicately.
Fernan set the pyre alight with a long exhalation, green fire spreading across until the tendrils of flame stretched into the sky, carefully cached plants and perfumes within the wood covering up any scent of burning flesh.
“Well spoken,” Paul Armand told Fernan as he came upon him, perhaps mollified at last after his futile search of Gabriel’s belongings, which had surely turned up nothing. “It’s a shame it was all lies.”
What now? Fernan started to respond, but Armand was already crying out to everyone there, disrespectful and dangerous in equal measure.
“Citoyen Gabriel de Gaume was no communard, but a traitor most foul, corrupt to the core.” Armand withdrew from his coat a piece of paper and a purse of florins, jangling loudly enough to be heard over the crackle of the burning wood. “I lay the evidence before your eyes, a conspiracy to free Citoyen Guy Valvert and stoke the flames of war with foreign tyrants. Rochaort was paid to run messages to the Duke of Condillac, promising that Guerron’s gates would be open, its government unawares as the Condillac fleet descended upon our shores.”
He must have planted it, was Fernan’s first thought, followed closely by the horror of what it would mean. Armand couldn’t contest Gabriel in life, so he’s trying to sully his ideals in death. This was a new low, and Fernan had no intention of allowing it to continue, much as he might not want it to be true.
Luce had told him all about the fall of Malin to Camille Leclaire, how he’d buried his head in his books and ignored the problems in front of him until the city was lost.
“He was not the only one,” Armand continued, even as Fernan walked right up to him with burning fury in his eyes. “The corrupt are everywhere among us, and they must be rooted out for the safety and security of the Commune. I call upon all you now to—”
“Enough!” Fernan shouted, thankfully shutting him up. “Even if what you’re saying is true, this is neither the time nor the place. And I find it highly suspect.” Fernan turned to address the rest of the guests. “Rest assured that this matter will be investigated thoroughly, and given all due consideration. Until then, in the absence of any other evidence, I bid you all continue to enjoy the ceremony of departure, and celebrate the life of Citoyen Gabriel Rochaort.”
“You’re going to let him get away with it?” Armand shouted, stupefied. “To send him off with the honors of an office he abused and disdained? You put me in charge of the Committee of Public Safety, and yet when I protect the safety of the public, uncovering this vile misdeed, you silence me? I’m beginning to wonder if you—”
“With me, now.” Fernan commanded, determined not to let this escalate out of control. He brusquely pulled Armand aside and began marching into the castle.“I put Michel in charge of the CSP, not you. I granted you leave to search Gabriel’s chambers, not insult the man at his own departure.”
“But Michel isn’t here right now! There was only me. I acted to protect the Commune!” Indignant as Armand was, at least he was following Fernan instead of grandstanding further. Small mercies. “Where are you taking me?”
“To see Valvert. You are to remain silent while I question him. I’ll have the truth of this, one way or another, and we’ll put the matter to bed. Am I understood?”
“But the First Speaker doesn’t have any duties on the CSP. Is it not my job to—”
“No,” Fernan told him bluntly, hating the feeling of throwing his weight around like this. “Now follow me, silently, and we’ll discuss this further when I’m done with Valvert.”
Stripped of the crowds he was so adept at riling up, Armand was chastened enough to listen. “Yes, First Speaker.”
“Good.” Perhaps there was hope yet, if Armand wasn’t simply biding his time to manufacture more ‘proof’ of malfeasance to prop up his own power.
Only time, and a conversation with Guy Valvert, would tell.
“What did the letter you ‘found’ say, exactly?” Fernan asked him, regretting that he hadn’t taken Maxime with him to verify it from a more trusted source.
Paul Armand seemed surprised that Fernan was actually asking about it, and pulled it forth from his pocket to read the exact words aloud. According to Armand’s dubious ‘evidence’, Guy Valvert had offered Rochaort a thousand florins for sending a message to Condillac and returning his response. That message itself offered the Duke Guerron in exchange for his help retaking it from us. Apparently Valvert meant to be his puppet and spite his cousin and Camille both, revenge for the treaty of Charenton; a distressingly plausible course for him to take, given what Fernan knew of his character.
Fernan watched Armand’s aura closely and noticed no signs of nervousness or passion, nor was there even a hint of hesitation in his speech as he read aloud. If he were lying, he was doing it adeptly enough that Fernan saw no signs. And why bother, when the evidence itself was either genuine or forged to read exactly what he wanted it to?
As they approached Valvert’s tower cell, far more decadent than he deserved per their terms with Camille, Fernan tapped one of the door guards on the shoulder and quietly asked to borrow his helmet. With the visor closed, his eyes were hidden enough that Fernan could blend in perfectly, unassuming and anonymous. He directed Armand to do the same with the other guard’s helm, then opened the door.
“Count Valvert,” Fernan whispered, trusting that the prisoner wouldn’t remember his voice and using the same aristocratic titles that a bribed guard might. “Message for you from the Viscount of Miroirdeau. He didn’t want it written down, so he told me to tell you.”
“Oh, finally!” Valvert cried out, his aura brightening passionately. “It took him long enough. I was half worried that he’d keel over before he could do his job. So what did the little duke have to say? Will he help us?”
“I see,” Fernan sighed quietly. So much for this scheme being faked for a political agenda. That made things significantly more difficult. Even beneath his helm, Armand’s smug satisfaction was obvious.
“He’s open to negotiation, but he wants more for his trouble,” Fernan said, louder. “I’ll let you think it over and come back for your response.”
“Very good,” Guy nodded. “The usual price?”
“Yes,” Fernan hissed, feeling his blood begin to boil as Guy slipped him fifty florins. Where is he getting all this money? We seized all his riches, yet he offered Gabriel a thousand!
That betrayal was galling in its own right, the grief of his loss compounded by the realization that every argument he’d made against capital punishment had surely been bought and paid for by Valvert.
Fernan mustered the composure to withdraw, Armand following silently after him, then gave the guards back their helmets.
Armand wasn’t a forger, like Jethro, but a zealot. More virtuous of character, perhaps, but no less dangerous. Just because he’d told the truth didn’t mean leaving him in charge of this was a good idea. As soon as they were out of earshot, Fernan turned to the beaming Armand and issued his command.
“Effective immediately, I’m appointing myself interim chair of the Committee of Public Safety until Michel’s return. You have proven incapable of demonstrating the care and caution the position demands.” But if I cast you out entirely, it will look like I was involved in this plot. “You have, however, proven adept at uncovering evidence of treason. For the moment, all of Valvert’s guards need to be replaced with fresh faces, closely vetted. As for the old set, you’ll interrogate them and tell me what you find. Document every interview extensively. If even one innocent is caught up in your investigation, I do not care how many guilty ones you find. Am I clear?”
“Yes, First Speaker.” Armand nodded crisply, his aura a sharp yellow that radiated sincerity. “I can’t blame you for your doubt; I know you and Gabriel were close. But I’m pleased to see you taking this threat so seriously now.” Giving him recognition and purpose seemed to genuinely be pacifying his threat, at least for now, mollifying him far better than the empty CSP appointment had.
But I still missed all the signs about Gabriel’s betrayal. Even when Armand put the evidence right in front of my face, I didn’t believe him until Valvert exterminated all doubt. Was it because I didn’t want to realize? Am I making Luce’s mistakes after all, despite my best efforts?
And what does that mean for the people of Guerron?