Fernan VI: The Jailor
The air was thick with rain as Fernan arrived back in Guerron, forcing him to pour more energy into sustaining his fire, sizzling under the assault. Valentine Valvert’s limp body rested in his hands, the crush of wind and rain dimming her aura to the point that Fernan couldn’t be certain she was still alive.
But she has to be. I know she is.
Fernan could scarcely tear his mind away from the clash, the earth’s power turned against the sun’s. The ground had quaked and split open to swallow him, followed by massive pillars lurching towards him once he took to the sky, blending in with the ground they’d been pulled from. Fernan had needed to navigate using Valentine herself, lunging towards the ground as two tons of stone missed his head by inches.
The first time Fernan had been forced to fight against her, in the enclosed environment of the courtroom, surrounded by Valvert guards, he hadn’t so much won as lost in a convenient position. Someone else had subdued her with a pistol, nearly killing her themselves.
This time, in the open sky, it wasn’t nearly as hard to find a path of safety, even considering the difficulties of visibility. This time, only the ground had been trying to kill him, rather than an additional four walls and a roof. Valentine herself was also far more lacking in power, unable to make offerings to Tauroneo to replenish herself in the intervening four years.
Even with all his advantages, it had still been a near thing.
Despite her distance, Mara had saved him, providing the only way Fernan could find to subdue Valentine safely. Even if it puts a pit in my stomach just to think about it. Valentine Valvert could no more resist an airtight sphere of flame surrounding her, draining her of air to breathe, than Jerome of Villechart.
And I still can’t help but wonder if I should have let her go. With Guy gone, there was no hope of covering up their escape. Worse, recapturing the woman whose only crimes were going too far in pursuit of a justified vendetta and attempting escape risked seeing her suffer for the very real crimes her husband had visited against Guerron.
How could it not, when she’s the only left they have to blame? The only alternative Fernan could provide would be himself, should he choose to leave them free and take the fall for allowing the escape. And then where would Guerron be?
Can a sacrifice be worthy if it’s made to save the unworthy? In principle, yes. And Fernan wasn’t one to lightly discard his principles. But then he thought of what would follow, the barrier against bloodshed firmly swept aside. Executions would follow, growing in number, until Guerron was no better than Condorcet, a barbarous backwater where once stood a nascent government composed of and turned towards the good of its own people.
It was like the Farmer and the Forager, forced into an impossible situation where every choice led to failure. Was it nobler to give the knight what he wanted and avoid spilling any blood, only to starve after losing everything? Or to make a defiant stand, doomed though it might be? Did it even matter in the end?
Everyone had told him to stay away from pardoning Guy Valvert to save his life, and yet Fernan had been prepared to do it anyway. In theory, nothing ought to have changed save a reduction in the guilt of the Valvert. In practice, it was hard to escape the thought that it might be better to open the flood gates a few inches instead of allowing the dam to burst.
He still hadn’t fully made up his mind by the time he came upon a wooden box swinging from beneath the tallest tower, high above any earth that might be used for another escape attempt. Well done thinking ahead, Paul. Fernan lowered the unconscious Valentine into the cage as gently as he could, securing the door only once he was sure the entire cage was firmly lashed in place.
Fernan doubted it was Paul’s intention, but a secure prison would actually be helpful in arguing for clemency, showing that it was indeed to hold a sage of the earth securely, even if she felt vengeful enough to burn more of her own lifespan in an escape attempt.
The assembly members and advisors Fernan had gathered in advance of his pursuit were still gathered when he arrived, and looked clearly disappointed once he told them of Guy’s escape.
“He’ll be safe in the Stone Tower by now,” Mom mused grimly. “Unless we want to start a small war with Cédric Bougitte, we have no hope of making him face justice.”
“It’s not all bad news. Fernan found Valentine Valvert.” Michel raised an eyebrow. “How did you manage that, anyway?”
“I flew south until I came upon the airship, wrecked. Ran out of fuel, just like Félix said it would. They were sheltering with an old woman in a mountain hut who pointed them out once I convinced her. Guy fled during the scuffle.”
“Well there you go: A failed flight, driven by idiocy and cowardice, where the bravery of one peasant managed to turn them back over to the proper authorities. All things considered, this could have been a lot worse.”
“Is that so?” Fernan could scarcely imagine that.
Michel nodded. “We have a narrative, at least. A Hero of the Commune stood up for what was right, while the cowardly Citoyen Valvert abandoned Guerron and his own wife. It should at least help us avoid some of the blame that would otherwise be splashed our way.”
You’re sounding a lot like Camille Leclaire, Fernan couldn’t help but think, for all that Michel wasn’t wrong. Politicking remains my least favorite part of politics.
“Then that’s a start, but it doesn’t solve our safety issues.” Someone coordinated Guy and Valentine to leave at the same time and served them up the airship, ready to go. Someone who almost certainly remains in the city, ready to work their mischief again. “Continue managing the situation here. I need to talk to Paul Armand.”
≋
“A threat from Cédric Bougitte. You are to surrender his daughter to him in the next fortnight or face his wrath.” Maxime sighed, tossing the letter aside without even reading it in full. “If the last four years were sufficient to dissuade him from taking such a risk with his daughter’s life, it’s difficult to see how Guy Valvert’s escape would substantively change anything. His daughter remains in the very same position.”
“Not exactly.” Fernan frowned at the news. “Before, she was only a captive. Now we’re putting her on trial, and he already knows what the result was for Guy. I’m starting to think commuting her sentence is the only way to avoid going to war. Anything short of a pardon might still not be enough.”
“I fear you might be right, but such an act is liable to cost you dearly...” Maxime scratched his chin, beardless without any particular effort on his part to keep it so. “So long as Valentine’s sentence allows her to live, I believe the Bougitte status quo can be maintained. If it’s death...”
“Then it’s just a matter of time...” Surely there’s a better option than hoping the result is what I want to be... “What else?”
Maxime lifted another letter from the massive stack on the table. “This one’s a status report from Paul Armand. All it says is ‘the flower is blooming.’ I presume you know what that means?”
“Yes,” Fernan answered, not elaborating further. Paul Armand had been assigned to track down the mysterious mastermind of the escape attempt, whom they’d given the name Fleur de Lune after the moonflower left tauntingly behind in the cell. ‘Blooming’ meant that Paul still didn’t know their identity, but that he had discovered useful information.
So it’s worth finding a time to meet with him soon, but it’s not direly urgent. Not what Fernan had hoped for, since catching the Fleur de Lune might be the only thing that could sate the Assembly’s yearning for the righteous spilling of blood. “What’s next?”
“This one’s from Avalon.” Maxime’s aura brightened as he opened the letter. “It’s in tactile type.” He handed it to Fernan to read himself, granting him privacy in this rare area where it was even possible.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Fernan ran his fingers across the paper, quickly identifying it as a letter from Luce Grimoire asking for a favor. And what a request it is... Fernan was always happy to help where he could, but what Luce was asking for had massive geopolitical implications. For one thing, it could mean losing the most important hostage in history, though after four years of cooperation under the Treaty of Charenton and his personal relationship with Luce, that didn’t seem quite so vital as it once had. Still, I have to think about Guerron first.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t considering it. In a very real way, this would put Avalon’s future in Fernan’s hands, and being owed a favor from the most powerful nation on Terramonde was no small thing in its own right. I already managed to talk Luce into implementing elections in parts of Avalon... If I help him succeed here, it could set us up to spread reform all across the land.
Fernan placed the letter in his pocket and hurriedly excused himself, filled with the need to verify if this would even work. None questioned him on the way to prison cells, his presence there hardly unusual after several recent investigations with Paul, searching high and low for evidence to catch the Fleur de Lune.
But it wasn’t the Valvert chambers Fernan was here for. Rather, the immoral, immortal King of Avalon.
Surprisingly, Magnifico seemed happy to see him. “Fernan! At last, a friendly face. I was beginning to worry I’d go to my grave without having another conversation.”
“Magnifico.” Fernan kept all warmth from his voice. “Or should I call you Harold?”
“As you like. I’m happy with a bit of news and some interesting conversation. It’s been so dreadfully dull ever since they started rotating out the guards. Was that your doing? Devious. I can barely get a word out of them these days that isn’t ‘Paulisade’. What the hell does that mean, anyway? Shouldn’t it be ‘palisade’?”
Why is that what you’re fixated on? “Paul Armand is the man tasked with weeding out corruption. Since he stands in between the people and this treachery—”
“Paul the Wall. I get it.” Magnifico let out the slightest chuckle. “I can see why the guards like it so much.”
They’re not the only ones. I heard it most from the people gathered at the Guy Valvert trial, chanting it alongside calls for death. As soon as Valentine’s trial began, they would no doubt do the same with her. Fernan was considering skipping the Convocation of the Spirits just to be able to keep an eye on everything, even if having a good reason to duck the trial would have provided him a bit of relief.
It’s not a responsibility I can shy away from. Mishandling it could mean war, and festering rot inside the Assembly.
“I’ve met people like that before, the kind of wall that makes you want to break out the sledgehammer.” Like an immortal king who amuses himself by slaying spirits and throwing old men off their balconies? “But enough trivialities. How fares Prince Luce?”
“He’s doing well with Charenton, and his research is proceeding in very interesting directions.” Fernan answered him honestly, seeing no reason to deny him the truth. “As it happens, I just got another letter from him, one of the few actually printed on tactile type.”
“He’s a gentle soul,” Magnifico agreed. “And I’m pleased to see that the two of you have grown so close.”
“I suppose it says something that you care for one of your sons, but it’s not all that impressive.” Fernan shook his head ruefully. Should I even be standing in here with this monster? He’d done enough damage for eternal condemnation even before I learned how old he truly is and what it took him to get there. “Yet you never seem to ask about the one that bears your name.”
Magnifico’s purple aura darkened to the point that it was nearly black. “You know, don’t you?”
Fernan nodded. “Jethro told me. But anyone could find it, now that your crown has dissipated the magic of the darkness you used to try to hide it.”
“Fuck,” he swore in Avaline, one of the several words Fernan had managed to pick up over the past few years. “This damned cold steel had to foil me again, of course. You know, the woman who gave this to me has been dead for the better part of a century, yet somehow it feels like she’s still getting the last laugh. Infuriating.”
“You should pay her a visit. You’re overdue.” Fernan tried to contain the burning of his eyes. “I knew you for an evil man, Magnifico, or Harold Grimoire, or Harry Martin. Whoever you are, I’ve seen what you’re willing to do when you think ít’s justified, from conquest to deception to wholesale murder. You plunged the entire world into darkness for weeks, condemning thousands to starve!”
Fernan paused, the fire in his eyes threatening to engulf his face. “And yet, somehow, you still found a way to disappoint me. How could a man do that to his own son? Over and over again? It’s despicable.” I should never have come here, Luce’s request or no. There was nothing to be gained from losing his temper, but how could he possibly not when confronted by this nihilistic agent of chaos?
“It’s not like that, Fernan,” he replied calmly. “I don’t have a choice.”
Fernan scoffed.
“Truly. Every time I’ve ‘died’, my heir has had children already. I tried asking them to stop, sending them away to scholarly orders or interrupting the marriages, but it was such insane dynastic politics that they all thought I was joking. The curse runs through my blood no matter what. And my eldest, he... I won’t say he deserved his fate, because no one would, but he brought it on himself.”
“You must think I’m still the same naive teenager you knew before darkness fell.”
“I’m telling you the truth.” His aura pulsed emphatically. “Yes, I’ve used the extra time I was given to better the world as I saw fit; yes, I’ve considered the fact that theoretical apex of government is a wholly benevolent dictatorship with an immortal ruler; yes, I can’t look those poor boys in the eye, knowing what’s in store for them. That doesn’t mean I asked for any of this.”
It’s not impossible, but I have no reason to believe you’re not lying. Really, why wouldn’t he try to frame his position more sympathetically, now that he was aware Fernan knew the truth?
“Besides, it’s over now,” Magnifico mused melancholically. “Harold knows, now. He’ll never have children and subject them to the same fate. If this body should die before his, I assure you, Fernan, I will end the cycle once and for all myself. You can trust me.”
“Under no circumstances is that true. Including if this remorse is genuine.” Even if you’ve been wholly honest, I find it hard to believe that an immortal polymath binder and scientist couldn’t find a way out of the curse with over a hundred years to try. Either he was lying wholecloth, or it wasn’t the priority he was making it out to be.
“I understand... I haven’t exactly been a pillar of honesty. But this... I swear on my wife’s grave, Pantera’s Curse is not a fate I wanted for my bloodline, nor for myself. If I could think of a way to prove it to you, I would.” He snapped his fingers in realization. “The crown! Simply remove it from my head, and you will see that I have no fell designs. No magic would be turned against you, and you would gain a powerful artifact for subduing sages in the Crown of Cold Steel.”
“I think not,” Fernan snorted, swatting the suggestion aside without further consideration. “But if you’re willing to make some small amends for your crimes, woefully short of ever making up for them, perhaps I will distrust you that slight bit less.”
“Is that right?” The melancholy in his voice had quickly faded, replaced by curiosity. “And what form might these ‘amends’ take?”
Fernan told him Luce’s plan, watching his aura sour with irritation, then quickly shift to a more optimistic indigo.
“So all I have to do is write this down and sign it?” He sat down at the small desk in his chambers, pulling out a pen and paper.
“And read it aloud as you go. I want to hear every word.” He’d have Maxime take a look when all was said and done, too, to ensure that Magnifico stayed true to his word. But if there were any words to haggle over, it would be better to do it now.
“Very well.” Magnifico lifted the pen with resignation and began to write. “I, King Harold of the dynasty Grimoire, fourth to bear the name, King of Avalon, Arbiter of the Western Isles, Slayer of Spirits, and Aegis of the Realm, do hereby disinherit my firstborn son, manifestly unfit for my crown. Harold, fifth to bear the name, may no longer claim Pantera Isle as his domain, nor the title, ‘Prince of Pantera.’
“I name as heir in his stead my second born son, Lucifer Charles Grimoire, Lord Protector of Charenton, Overseer of Ortus Tower, and Prince of Crescents. I grant to him the domain of Pantera Isle and the title, ‘Prince of Pantera’. When my reign reaches its end, it is my will that he succeeds me as King.”
“Good,” said Fernan. As soon as you sign the will, I can keep it in my pocket until Luce agrees to Guerron’s terms. Fernan didn’t intend to deal in bad faith, nor to be punitive in the bargain, but it wouldn’t be fair to Guerron not to ensure concessions in advance. Once Magnifico’s part in this was done, how and when to distribute the will would be entirely up to Fernan. “And?”
Magnifico frowned. “Is it truly necessary? Luce is surely a worthier Regent, and if I cannot be set free to assist him myself, I have no objection to smoothing his ascent from here. But I didn’t build this kingdom just to cast it aside. Must my last death strip from me what defines me? I am Avalon.”
Fernan folded his arms, eyes burning brighter, but refrained from saying a word.
“Then so be it.” He lifted the pen again, his strokes slower and more hesitant. “Further, I hereby abdicate the throne of Avalon, entrusting this noble kingdom to my son and lawful heir. All hail Lucifer of the dynasty Grimoire, first to bear the name, King of Avalon, Arbiter of the Western Isles, and Aegis of the Realm.”