Fernan XIII: Down in the Muck
Fernan woke in the late afternoon, feeling better rested than he had since the last night he’d spent in Villechart. As usual these days, there was no need to wipe the sleep from his eyes, so he simply got up right away and changed his clothes, pawing his beard into something presumably presentable—it wasn’t as if he could use a mirror to check.
“Good morning, Maxime!” Fernan held the door frame as he swung into his companion’s room, his step light. “Luce invited us to stay for the New Year’s festival rather than let it go by as we travel, so I thought it might be fun to go into town and see if there’s anything we can do to help.”
Maxime was sitting on his bed, an unknown book in his hands. “You’re more than welcome to go, if you’d like. For my part, I intend to stay in our quarters for the duration. As it happens, I’m quite engrossed with my current reading material.”
Well something’s obviously wrong, then. “That negotiation book by Marcel Aureaux you were reading on the ship? He sounded so stuffy and arrogant. Plus, the negotiations are over, now.”
“Indeed, that was quite some time ago, so in the duration since then, my reading acuity proved sufficient to complete it yesterday.” Maxime had been acting a bit like this ever since the summit, but at the time, Fernan had just put it down to exhaustion. They’d been cooped up in that room for so long—or out in the hall, in Maxime’s case—arguing over increasingly minute details just to hammer out an accord that no one else seemed particularly satisfied with.
At least we pretty much got everything we could possibly have hoped for. Having Luce’s backing had really been invaluable there, especially with the precedent he’d been willing to set with his own dissaffected territories.
“Well, what are you reading now, then?”
“A People’s History of the Plagette Republic. Fascinating to see how their Senate, while always exclusionary and aristocratic, devolved from a genuine problem-solving forum representing myriad elite perspectives into functional cults of personality around the Merlans and Aureaux, polarized factions who could only communicate what remained of their principles through overwhelming defeat of their respective opponents. It turns out that Hélise Merlan was the first person to speak when the Senate first convened, and that set a precedent that her word was more valuable. Avalon does the same thing with their Great Council’s ‘First Speaker’, as it happens. Perhaps the populace presumes the prime palaver preeminent for posterity, primarily, or perhaps people’s predilection for pursuing power provides the provocation.” His tone was cordial, but lacking in warmth.
And now Fernan knew why, though it seemed like a minor thing to fixate on. “Michel asked me to give the first address! I’m not even a representative of the Assembly! It was just... like if Edith Costeau had played a song on her harp before we started. Ceremonial! It’s hardly a cult of personality. And if you didn’t want me to do it, you should have asked me.”
“Ah, alas, why didn’t I think of that? No doubt you would have listened thoughtfully to my every word, patted me on the back, then ignored the substance of my critique. Just the same as when I advised you to run to represent the Spirit Quartier, instead of allowing Lumiére’s acolyte to assume the mantle.”
“I told you I don’t want that kind of power! How many times—Ugh look, I’m sorry if I made it feel like I don’t listen to you. I really do value your insights, Maxime!”
“I believe you think you do. You try, but... The fact of the matter, Fernan, is that you do have that kind of power through your influence, and worse, you’ve drawn it to yourself outside the strictures the Montaignards are building in Guerron, delegitimizing their every word in the process.”
“I’m stepping back! My role in the Commune was in securing its existence. Now—”
“Now you need to stop deluding yourself!” Maxime slammed his book shut, then seemed to grimace at how extreme the gesture was. “Look, you told me you wanted to step back, take a lighter role in things, ensure that the Commune stood on its own instead of on your back. That’s a fine choice—an admirable one, as a matter of fact. Little Nicolas would be proud.”
“So what’s the problem?” Fernan asked hesitantly, bracing himself for the cutting but accurate criticism that Maxime seemed to specialize in.
“You haven’t actually done it. Not in the slightest! When you chased away those mercenaries, you didn’t mention your plan to anyone. No discussion, no consultation, no consensus.”
Alright, you’ve got a point, but it’s not like there was time for that. “I had to act fast. They were closing in on the city, and Courbet was already sneaking into their camp to put a knife to Delune’s throat. Waiting would have been worse. Plus, the government was still provisional back then.”
“So you just got to decide on your own? Like when you declared that Jean Lemoine would get to keep his seat, even though you personally caught Bourbeau intimidating the electorate into selecting him?”
Not an easy decision, but picking apart the legitimacy of our own elections risked destabilizing the entire coalition. The Southern Hills had chosen him, too, with hours of voting to change their minds after Jean Bourbeau’s arrest. “I took care of Bourbeau, and Lemoine is a pariah in the Assembly. No one takes him seriously.”
“The hundreds of people who voted for him do, as do the hundreds more who were afraid to vote against him. And I’d caution you not to act as if Bourbeau’s treatment is a point in your favor. He’s still being held without formal charges, let alone a trial. Is he to die in prison while you try to think of something to charge him with?”
“Of course not! But that’s not my role.” It didn’t help that Lemoine and a few of the Assembly members thought Bourbeau hadn’t done anything wrong, simply expressing himself, while others like Lantier wanted him executed for intimidating the electorate. “I’m just an ambassador, formally appointed to represent the Commune on this negotiation, and maybe called upon to do something similar if another situation like this came up.”
“Just an ambassador? You sat in a room with a Prince and an Empress and decided the fate of hundreds of thousands of people. And you blithely signed a deal that lets Avaline soldiers kidnap Lyrion Leaguers in the streets and haul them back to Avalon, and apparently didn’t even notice!”
“Madeline Nella agreed! I wasn’t going to be the one to keep harping on it once she and Luce settled it. Besides, it’s just to keep Cya’s forest safe, not... whatever you’re implying.” And it was hard to doubt the necessity of enforcement, when already several factory owners had crossed the Rhan to start tearing Cya’s forest down—brazen attempts right under Luce’s nose—and hadn’t even been deterred when their colleagues were pushed back.
“For now. But it’s in the terms of the Treaty of Charenton, and Prince Lucifer won’t be the only one deciding when and how to use it. He’s not the saint you make him out to be, either. Were you aware that he’s held court with the Red Knight of Lorraine? That man brutally butchered hundreds of people, and ‘Luce’ allowed him to occupy the eastern bank of the Rhan simply because it made things easier for him. He threw dissidents in prison because they opposed Avalon’s occupation.”
“Simone Leigh’s people? They were caught plotting to kidnap him, and then when they escaped, they burned half the harbor down.”
“According to the prince?”
“Well... Yes, but I have no reason to doubt it. I’ve gotten the measure of him. He’s trustworthy, nothing like Magnifico.”
Maxime set his book aside, sitting up with a grave look on his face. “You told me that you used to trust Magnifico too, until this Jethro fellow told you not to, presumably while employing his absolutely dreadful impression of a Condorcet affect. Honestly, listening to his malformed, blatantly appropriated patterns of elocution would guide a neutral observer to tar the whole of our polity as naught more than sesquipedalian imbeciles.” Maxime muttered the last part, then seemed to realize he was getting off-topic. “Perhaps Prince Lucifer is different, as you believe. It isn’t strictly impossible. But the point I am trying to make is that, by your own declaration of intent, this isn’t your decision to make.”
“I—”
“You cannot expect to have things both ways. If you truly want to step back and relinquish power, then I commend you. But if you were ever truly attempting to do it, you have failed. Politics is often a dirty business, and I sympathize with your desire to remain above the salacious fray, but you are not. And yet you keep saying that you are, acting as if you are.”
I guess I kind of let things get away from me. Too much thinking like Florette. Hearing all of it at once like that... Individually it was easy to justify every decision. Even taken together, Fernan wasn’t sure he’d really done anything wrong.
But Maxime wasn’t wrong either. I could have started a war with Malin going after those mercenaries, or talking the way I did to Camille, and I did that all on my own. And Bourbeau needed a trial, immediately. Keeping him in penitentiary purgatory was in direct contradiction to the Commune’s values. “I’m sorry. I really was trying, I just... I step back, and then there’s a crisis, and people need me, and I feel like I don’t have a choice.”
Maxime rose from the bed, aura softening to warm orange. “I understand, Fernan. I bear no anger against you, to be clear. But, in comparing your words and your actions... It’s difficult to fully ignore my own disappointment, either. Perhaps that’s why it took me so long to communicate my... critiques.” He placed his hand on Fernan’s shoulder, letting it linger. “You do have a choice. Your propensity for taking the time to thoughtfully consider what would do the most good, what would do the least harm, that is what earned you my respect in the first place. And you haven’t lost it. But I fear where this path will take you.”
“I do too. I thought I got past the contradiction when I scared off the mercenaries but... Maybe that was just more of the same—or how I acted afterwards was. I don’t know.” Fernan felt his eyes dim, Maxime’s aura billowing a dark blue. “When we get home, I’m making changes. Bourbeau, Lemoine, even the Maréchal’s people. We need to be definitive, and we—the two of us—need to set the precedent that violence isn’t acceptable.”
That finally got a smile out of him, which warmed Fernan to see. “Excellent. And... I do apologize for holding my tongue for so long, then ejaculating all of this criticism while you were celebrating the very real achievement of peace on the continent and recognition of the Commune’s statehood by none other than our would-be suzerain. Such behavior ill becomes a relationship such as ours. I’ll endeavor to be more frank, earlier, and assume your charitable intent.”
Sorta thought you did already, until just now, but I guess maybe that was the problem. “Then you’ll join me in town for the festival?” Fernan held out his hand in offering, implicitly accepting the apology.
“I would be delighted to.” Maxime took his hand and followed Fernan out, noticing Fernan’s hesitation but remaining silent as they passed Luce’s office. There are things I ought to clear up with him before we leave Charenton, but that can wait.
It was raining when they left the Magister’s palace, so Fernan created a sizzling disc of fire above their heads to fizzle it out while they were exposed, drawing stares from the townsfolk clearing out debris and preparing the festivities.
“Wow!” cried out a little girl running up to examine it. “If you light a lantern, does that burn green too?”
“Jeanne, get back here! It’s not safe,” called a burly member of a work crew, obviously a parent.
Because fire is dangerous? Or did Avalon’s influence turn them against sages? Considering what Luce had said about respecting Camille’s guest-right, it could have been fear of him too, Fernan supposed. They didn’t know, necessarily, that Luce was hardly the type to punish a child for curiosity.
The girl looked torn, clutching onto her lantern as her head wheeled between Fernan and her father.
“Could I see that for a moment?” Maxime bent down and held out his hands. “I’d like to find out as well.” He took the offered lantern and passed it to Fernan, who set it alight with a flick of his finger.
The girl darted forward and grabbed it out of his hands, running back towards her father, but Fernan could still see the flame burn green long after his influence ceased.
“We should see if anyone else wants one,” Fernan said as they continued walking. “These people could definitely use a good distraction now. Or maybe there’s better ways to help.”
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“Wait.” Maxime held out one arm to stop Fernan, pointing towards a muffled figure with the other. “That’s Courbet.”
“What? What is she doing here?” For obvious reasons, the overzealous Condorcet Khali follower had been kept as far from the diplomatic party as possible. If Fernan hadn’t been able to stop her from killing the mercenary leader, she might have been kicked out of the Commune entirely. “You’re sure?” Her aura wasn’t particularly distinct, especially at this distance, but Maxime had traveled with her long before reaching Guerron.
“I’d know her face anywhere.” Maxime paused, watching her scurry away with an undefined warm object in her hands. “And apparently so does Lamante.”
Oh... “Scavenging faces from Levian’s victims? This is a new low. We’re following her to Lamante. Quietly.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Maxime uttered in a hushed tone, falling a half step behind Fernan as they ducked into a soggy alley. “Though our lack of authority or leverage over the face stealer could prove problematic should this erupt into a confrontation.”
“Let me worry about that,” Fernan reassured him, frowning. Why would they need to come here at all? It was grim even to acknowledge it, but after weeks upon weeks of darkness, bodies were hardly in short supply. For a random face, Courbet could have crept into any deserted farm house in Lyrion, not that that would be any better, morally. But it would be easier, which makes this all the more bizarre.
The sun was just beginning to set as Courbet reached her destination, a still-shattered portion of the Charenton docks, not yet one of the areas Luce was even attempting to repair. She handed Lamante—presumably, though the aura looked perfectly unremarkable—the face and bowed her head.
“Who knew they were working that closely together anyway?” Fernan whispered. “I thought Courbet was all about Khali.”
“Khali is absent, and Lamante is not. Though even the likes of Courbet would surely need more reason than merely that.” Maxime jumped back as soon as he was finished speaking, pointing open-mouthed at the intensifying sun growing on the horizon.
“Why are you still waiting there?” Probably-Lamante called out, hands cupped around her mouth. “We have important matters to discuss, Fernan Montaigne.”
“Well I suppose that’s our cover blown, if e’er indeed it existed.” Maxime sighed. “We may as well see what she wants.”
Lamante reached for her face, momentarily assuming her full-sized mantis form, then replaced it with another mask from her pack, shrinking to a smaller, denser aura than the form she’d called out to them with. “As we speak, your patron spirit is helping to rectify a grave injustice.”
That explains the sun approaching then, I guess. “A grave injustice like carving the faces off of the victims of Levian’s attack?”
“My mistress of faces refers rather to the attack itself,” Courbet cut in, her shadow casting longer and longer as the setting scarlet sun approached. “I’m aware of your absurd weakness on the topic of doing what must be done, but surely even you can see that Levian must die.”
Now? Today? It wasn’t like the sea spirit hadn’t done horrible things, but they’d just hammered out a peace with Camille. In time, without offerings, he would wither into irrelevance without any need for an attack.
“This is the moment,” Lamante added. “For all the tyranny of arbiters past, they fiercely kept the peace between spirits lesser than themselves. Soleil and Khali would never have allowed Corro and Glaciel to fight, or Levian and Flammare. But that time is over, and Levian’s usefulness is at an end. He won’t listen to me anymore, and his actions have largely been counterproductive, leaving me little to work with. Aside from which, if we waited any longer, I’d no longer be able to grant Leclaire’s wish.”
If you think Camille Leclaire wishes for Levian’s demise, you’re more delusional than Courbet.
“Fernan has no intention of squirming around in the muck doing your dirty work,” Maxime insisted. “Since apparently you had no intention of including him in the first place, I think it highly likely that you already knew that.”
Lamante shrugged. “Perhaps. But, as you are already here, you can do what Gézarde and myself cannot.” From behind her back—possibly her pack, hidden in this masked form?—she pulled out two swords, handing one to Courbet and holding out the other in Fernan’s direction. A void of light in blade form, Fernan recognized it well. “This sword has ended the lives of more spirits of greater power than perhaps any other, carving a pattern into its blade. Pelleas Grimoire, Harold Grimoire... Florette... You would merely be the latest wielder.”
I already tussled with Levian, and I would have died without Florette rescuing me. He’d come far too close as it was. Moreover, if they were going after Levian, his High Priestess was sure to be there defending him, whatever platitudes she’d given at the peace summit. “I’m not interested.”
“Is it not suitable? You already have flame and light to draw upon; the Blade of Khali would better compliment your abilities. Unless you’d rather I provide it to Courbet along with Volobrin’s sword?”
“No. Fine.” Fernan shook his head, grabbing the dark blade. Even if all I do is hold on to it, that’s better than leaving it with Courbet. Florette had used this to kill Flammare—and in so doing, ruined Laura’s life, though Fernan of course held the ultimate responsibility for that. Even holding the ominous void of light in his hands, feather-light yet imbued with no end of gravity, it felt like it was leeching the light out of him, threatening corruption of his soul. “Volobrin is the new Hearth spirit, right? I remember he beat out Fala despite Gézarde’s endorsement. Why do you have his sword?”
Lamante’s face brightened cheerily. “All it cost were a few words in the right ears. They wanted information I could provide on an artifact worth more to them, but less to me. The fire and ice of Volobrin are better suited to the task at hand for young Courbet here, just as the Blade of Khali is a better fit for yours.”
Is she going to slice off faces with the sword? The thought of that was horrifying enough, but considering what else Lamante might have planned for it was even worse.
Suddenly, a scorching heat cut through the rain, sizzling it into vapor within a column of yellow-green light. The heat intensified over the water, boiling the ocean faster than water could pour into the gap. It only grew stronger the closer Gézarde got, until the seafloor was exposed beneath his glowing green form in the distance.
“I believe that’s our cue, Courbet.” Lamante dipped her head in a bow that somehow managed to come across as sarcastic, then turned away from the water.
“Until next time, Montaigne. Hopefully you can overcome your willful hesitancy at last.” Courbet followed her from the ruined harbor, headed for parts unknown. The two of them disappeared into the city just as a massive wave rose up towards Gézarde in the distance, overwhelming his light as it pushed him beneath the water.
“We have to help Gézarde,” Fernan decided at the same instant Maxime said, “We must stop Lamante.”
Fuck, that’s important too. No doubt she was counting on all of this to do her evil business unimpeded, though Fernan hadn’t the slightest idea what it might be. “We have to split up. You should take this sword.”
Maxime nodded, then jerked his head back at the sight of Gézarde tearing free from the ocean in a brilliant corona of light, the scorching sun momentarily overcoming the torrential rain. “I think you had better keep it. Lamante wasn’t wrong, and she was in such a hurry to be rid of us that I think a witness alone may well disrupt her schemes.”
“That just means she’ll have Courbet kill you.”
Maxime shrugged, then took off running after the face stealer and her underling.
Damn it. Fernan could fly after him, but there wasn’t any time to waste. If Maxime thought he could handle the risk, he’d have to trust him.
Instead, Fernan took off to the west, away from Charenton and the harbor, towards the battle of titans taking place just off the coast. Bolts of lightning flew down from the sky past him, though whether they were merely a result of the storm or a weapon of Levian, he couldn’t say.
A wave nearly brought Fernan down, dissipated at the last second by a scalding ray of light that left Fernan’s beard smoking until he quelled it. Thanks, Gézarde. After the second explosion of light and fire knocked Fernan down into the water, he wasn’t feeling quite as grateful.
Luckily, Levian was distracted by a much stronger opponent, since he didn’t make moves to drag Fernan under again, so after a bit of haphazard blasting, Fernan managed to get himself into the air again, the Blade of Khali still fastened tightly to his belt.
More than anything, he wished Mara were with him right now, for all that he wouldn’t want her part of this danger. They’d worked together perfectly in the White Night, and her father didn’t seem to have that same coordination. They couldn’t even communicate, apparently, if Fernan’s several shouts going unanswered was anything to go by. Either Gézarde couldn’t hear him, or didn’t care to listen.
“Fernan!” a faint voice called out from the beach... Was that Jethro?
Fernan flew his way, alighting down on sand that had been tossed and torn up worse than Glaciel’s castle.
Jethro aimed carefully out at the water, then blasted a bolt of lightning from the gauntlet on his hand, the same that Magnifico had used to fight Lumière. “Sorry we didn’t get to catch up properly, before. I suppose this isn’t really the time either.”
“Is Camille here?” Because if not, she’s probably waiting to make her move—and most likely it’d be against us.
“Levian dragged her under the water. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. But your sun spirit showed up at just the right time. Levian doesn’t have her now, so she might still be alive.”
Despite everything, Fernan felt relieved to hear that. “She’s fighting her own patron spirit?”
“I think you might have underestimated her, Fernan.”
Levian’s tail thrashed, sending a vertical slice of water towards them on the beach. Jethro pushed himself out of the way with a gust of wind from his gauntlet, while Fernan flung his hand up to block it with a wall of fire to boil it away.
“Maybe I did.” I was overestimating my own moral character, why not misjudge someone else too? Florette’s accusations of being judgemental came roaring back in Fernan’s ears as he gazed into the dark abyss of the ocean, looking for any signs of life.
“There! She’s on the seafloor, probably in a bubble of air.” At least, that made the most sense, considering she wasn’t moving with tides as the poor fish were. Though given her position, she could have also been a corpse wedged in the rocks.
The sky danced between desolate drought and torrential downpour, the fighting spirits rising up above the water as they clashed only to come crashing back down to the sea. Even if she had energy to spare, Camille couldn’t last down there for long.
“Hold this,” Fernan said, handing Jethro the Blade of Khali.
“How did you get my father’s sword?” he asked incredulously, gingerly grasping its handle.
Fernan’s eyes flared with curiosity, so much to unpack from the implications of that statement, but there wasn’t time to be inquisitive. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want it getting lost at sea.” And I trust you more than Courbet, if nothing else. Though now more than ever, Fernan wished Maxime had just taken the damned thing.
Following Gézarde’s example, Fernan blasted a pillar of flames through the water towards Camille, boiling the water into clouds of steam wherever it touched. Though it’s not like she’ll be any safer if it reaches her... A signal, at least?
A signal to do what, though? What could it possibly accomplish? No, Fernan needed another strategy.
“Nevermind.” Fernan grabbed the sword back from Jethro before he had a chance to contest it, then took to the skies again.
“Get him on land!” Jethro called out, accenting his words with a stream of lightning flying past Fernan with a crack.
Makes sense. If Levian and Gézarde were this evenly matched over Levian’s domain, removing him from it might just be enough.
Instead of flying into the heart of the weather war, Fernan circled around, leaving himself vulnerable this far out to sea, if Levian cared to do anything about it. But Gézarde was more than keeping him occupied, even in the moments where the Torrent of Deep had the upper hand. The two spirits plunged beneath the waves once more, though the skies continued to clash between rain and sun.
Fernan waited carefully, hovering over the raging sea as he carefully chose his moment. Maxime was right. I’m about as ‘in the fray’ as it’s possible to be without dying, and I would never have just sat it out... Another lesson learned, another responsibility to take on.
Gézarde’s wings unfurled as he crashed up out of the water, Levian following directly after him on a spiral of water propelling him up. Just as he was about to reach Gézarde, Fernan blasted fire at him with everything he had, catching Levian in the expanding vortex of fire as it carried the spirit towards the beach.
In doing it, Fernan blasted himself back so far that he could barely see what was going on, barely had the energy left to fly back to the beach, but from the looks of the clearing skies above, Gézarde hadn’t missed the opportunity. Before Levian could thrash free of Fernan’s weaker blast, Gézarde joined Fernan with power a thousand times stronger, blasting Levian through the air towards land.
Bright sun was shining down on the beach as Fernan returned, a tinge of green shading the pillar light. The beach had been absolutely torn apart, massive waterlogged gouges crisscrossing the sand, so much of which had been flung into the air that Fernan could still feel it pelting him as he approached, though fortunately there was no need to shield his eyes.
“Thank you,” Fernan heard, startling him. Camille was leaning on Jethro, her shoulder bleeding heavily, hair sodden and disheveled. “I didn’t think you’d want to help me, after...”
I wish you hadn’t been right about that. Fernan pulled the blade of Khali from his belt, weighing what to do next.
“May I?” Camille reached out, and Fernan let her take it. He’d done his part.
And hanging back, not striking the final blow, it doesn’t make me any less responsible.
On a distant hill overlooking the beach, he saw a ghostly apparition of Alderman Jerome hiking across it. As soon as Fernan got a good look, he caught fire, metal wings spreading out in the likeness of Flammare.
No more hiding from my responsibility. They’re dead because of me just the same as if I’d killed them myself.
His hands now free, Jethro jumped at the opportunity, blasting a continuous stream of lightning at Levian’s limp form on the beach, his endless serpentine coils just out of reach of the water.
Camille limped grimly towards Levian, still stunned and twitching under the continuous barrage of lightning. “Great Spirit Levian, Lord of the Lyrion Sea, Guardian of Raging Waves, Torrent of the Deep, receive my offering, repayment of the centuries of debt my family owes to humanity.” She raised the dark blade above Levian’s piercing blue eyes, then swung it downward, separating the serpent’s head from his writhing body. At last, the end of the raging waves.
Out on the hill, Flammare’s metal wings twisted into Levian’s slippery coils, another fallen corpse for the pile Fernan had built.