Guy III: The Patriot
“You slandered my sister so badly that she was disowned for it,” Valentine spat defiantly at the mountain boy, wasting precious time they desperately needed to escape. “I don’t even know if she’s still alive, Montaigne. You used her help, then threw her to the shadowcats the instant she wasn’t useful to you anymore.”
Laura was always on the right side of things, but she lived and died a careless fuck-up. Avenging her here and now accomplishes nothing. Valentine had very little energy left, practically none she could call upon without tapping into her own life, while Fernan Montaigne had melted Glaciel’s castle into a pit the size of a mountain on the White Night. Even if she prevailed, gratifying as it might be to see Montaigne beg for mercy as the life drained from his eyes, they’d still be bedraggled fugitives in their own homeland, still stuck on the run from rebel peasants and abandoned by the Fox-King and the wife piloting his every action.
“You can’t have gotten much sleep,” Montaigne said, the green fire in his eyes surging far beyond his head. “You rode that airship straight into the ground, then clawed your way out of the wreck. My power has only grown since last we fought, Valentine Valvert, while you can’t have much energy left after burning four years’ worth of savings on your escape. Even if you use a sage’s last resort, it will truncate a life that could yet last decades. Surrender now, and you’ll be escorted back to Guerron with no further charges added to your ledger.”
All true, though surrender would only mean another mockery of justice before our deaths. “We have to go,” Guy hissed, tugging Valentine on the arm.
“Or what?” she said, ignoring him. “I think not.” Whether she meant it towards Guy’s missive or Montaigne’s declaration, it was clear she meant to fight. “All I have to do is kill you now and I’ll get away clean, my sister avenged. A few years of life is more than worth it.”
Which means you’ll lose, and thus we will too.
Guy stepped back as the earth began to rumble, actively turning away from the conflagration as the earth split beneath Montaigne and breaking into a run once the fire began to fly. Ere long, the burn in Guy’s legs felt no better than it might have had Montaigne hit him, his lungs fairing little better as he panted and wheezed his way south.
Thank Soleil for that book of star maps, or I might have run straight back into the enemy’s jaws.
Several times, bursts of fire flew over his head, either a missed projectile intended for Valentine or a warning for Guy, directing him to stop. As if I’d ever be such a fool as to listen to the man who took everything from me. Valentine’s stupidity made the odds of success quite long, but surrendering left no chance at all.
They’d already voted to kill him—how could a failed escape attempt possibly improve anything?
As he crested the top of a small hill, Guy chanced a look back, and saw the landscape wholly transformed. Six new ravines had been cleaved into the earth, massive spiky pillars of stone jutting out towards the sky at odd angles, though none of them had pierced the evasive Montaigne. Massive swathes of ground were scorched and blackened, including several of the pillars, but Valentine still looked unharmed.
Not that I can be sure, exactly, at this distance. But she made her choice after I warned her it was foolish. If the most she could accomplish now was distracting Montaigne as Guy ran, it would still be the most his wife had ever done for him.
Well, aside from pulling me out of my cell last night, Guy supposed as he turned and ran again. But that was hardly of her own initiative. Despite the rebel purges, it seemed there still remained allies sympathetic to the rightful Lord of Guerron. He hadn’t shown his face, but Valentine had shown the letter left for her, explaining the airship and confidently declaring that Guy would be able to navigate it as far as Torpierre.
Which means that they must have left me the star charts too, confident I would read them. Had it been one of Guy’s guards, smart enough to duck under the thorough investigation of “Paul the Wall”? A rogue infiltrator? A rebel defector? It was impossible to say.
At the moment, it didn’t seem particularly important.
Guy kept to the shade of the rocky terrain, trying to stay out of sight as much as possible, but when Montaigne could fly, it seemed impossible to imagine doing so for long enough to escape.
What I wouldn’t give for a horse right now. Guy had never been an exceptional rider, but like all young squires he’d acquired a baseline competency, and the extra speed would make a crucial difference. Perhaps Montaigne’s soft bleeding heart would balk at harming the animal, too, though after the boy’s vicious turn Guy could hardly count on that.
After minutes or hours of running, getting far enough away that the battlefield was well out of sight, Guy felt the rumbling stop.
And that, my dear wife, is why you were foolish to challenge him in such a weakened state. There was no doubt at all that Montaigne had triumphed, and now that Valentine was dead, Guy would be his next target.
The urgency lent a burst of swiftness to Guy’s legs, but his exhaustion was beginning to catch up with him already, far in advance of Montaigne doing the same. And I truly have no choice but to run. Chancing upon that hovel with the old woman had been lucky enough, and even she had betrayed them in the end. Hiding out in another home or village was sure to result in the same capitulation once Montaigne showed up, if Guy could even find one in the first place.
It was impossible not to imagine Montaigne bearing down on him even now, patrolling the skies like a vulture awaiting the slow death of its prey. But Fernan Montaigne is no carrion-feeder. He’ll be sure to kill me himself, an agonizing death as my flesh melts and sizzles in the flames. The same death that Valentine had surely endured, the results of her own poor decisions.
Imagine if I’d just married Louise, as I emptily promised her so many times. Valentine Bougitte had seemed so perfect at the time, prettier and more reserved than her sister Laura, but still bringing the might of a powerful House behind him. The Stone Tower was an ancient marvel, Torpierre a rich and prosperous city just across from the capital of Condillac, and their wealth and strength—not to mention the magical power at their disposal—should have been a panacea to the likes of Camille pushing him around. And the savings on Plagetine imports would have finally let me furnish Dorseille the way its Count deserves. Alas, intricately carved armoires were the least of Guy’s concerns at the moment.
Instead, Valentine had scarcely made it past their wedding before bringing everything to ruin. Had Guy not married her, Torpierre would no longer be a refuge to run to, Count Cédric no longer with any reason to shelter him, but it wouldn’t matter when Guerron would remain his. This foolish business with her poor, dumb, dead sister had cost Valentine everything, and now the same fate awaited Guy, just as soon as Montaigne caught up.
Guy glanced backwards again, feeling his heart jump at the clear skies behind him, but it was only a matter of time before they were filled with green fire. Turning his head back caused him to trip over a rock, tumbling to the ground as the rocks slashed at his clothes and skin.
And even after an inadvertent moment of rest, Guy found that he hadn’t the energy to rouse himself. Now my vanishingly unlikely odds of success have diminished yet further. The only hope that remained now was Montaigne coming upon him and thinking him already dead, without bothering to verify it or retrieve his corpse as a trophy for the rebels.
Not bloody likely.
Bereft of options, Guy began to crawl. The rocky terrain bit into him with every inch he moved forward, his hands and knees soon slick with blood as the fabric of his clothes came apart, but still he moved, every rock ahead of him an inch closer to freedom.
I’ve never worked this hard for anything in my entire life, Guy realized as he lost a shoe, the spring sun high enough in the sky that his throat began to cry out for water. Who would have thought I had this kind of determination? Perhaps nothing so precious as his own life had ever really been on the line. If by some miracle Guy made it out of this, a comfortable life of caviar and champagne awaited, such a contrast to the charred bones Montaigne would reduce him to that Guy felt a tear in his eye.
Though it’s just as likely from the pain. He’d read about people going numb as their injuries escalated, too overwhelmed to feel any pain anymore, but it seemed that his body had other ideas, each grueling movement feeling like it must be his last.
Until eventually, one was. As Guy felt his eyes close forever, he could only hope that he died before Montaigne could get any satisfaction from it.
If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
≋
Awakening in a soft featherbed, Guy’s first thought was to wonder if those fringe cultists had been right about an afterlife paradise after all, a just reward for a life well lived.
The strange unease only compounded once he craned his head towards the window and saw a dried riverbed lined with thousands of graves, a bronze spear poking up out of each one. I’m dead after all, was his first thought, before his mind caught up to the view he’d seen twice before in his youth.
This is the Stone Tower. I made it to Torpierre.
Fleeting memories of a tall woman on a white horse lifting him up filled his mind, though Guy couldn’t quite place the knight in question.
His whole body ached, hundreds of small cuts spread across it, but after everything, he’d made it. Burn that, Montaigne.
Countess Hermine Bougitte was the first to greet him, saying all the right words sympathetic to his captivity and appreciating that he’d made it out alive, though she was notably evasive when it came to details. Though her hair was grayer and her figure stouter than the last time Guy had seen her, she carried all of the stern strength she’d used to discipline them on far too many occasions. Even as an adult and a Count in his own right, Guy was so at her mercy that he couldn’t help but tread lightly around his mother-in-law.
“It was Sire Renée who saved you,” Hermine was at least willing to clarify, shedding light on Guy’s foggy memories. Renée Raspail, Guy remembered fondly, my white knight. They’d taken a few tumbles on Guy’s last visit to Torpierre, when they’d only been squires, both despairing that they might never attain their proper knighthoods. I found a higher office, and it seems she got exactly what she wanted.
“Is she around? I’d like to thank her personally.” For old time’s sake, if nothing else.
“With the other knights, as it happens. You might consider joining them once you feel up to it.” Countess Hermine glared down at him “When we received that letter from Guerron, my husband dispatched knights to patrol as far as we dared, hoping we might be able to direct Valentine to safety.” She paused, letting the name hang in the air, emitting a foul aura of disapproval. “And her husband, I suppose. We were led to expect an airship.”
“It ran out of fuel,” Guy answered curtly, as your daughter did. He was suddenly aware that his primary tie to House Bougitte was naught but charred bones, which carried the risk that their shelter would be a temporary one. As soon as I’m back to myself, finding an exit route ought to be the first priority. Not necessarily something to take immediately, but rather to keep in his back pocket should the need arise.
Failing to do that in Guerron had been absolutely ruinous, and very nearly fatal.
After a few more unspoken accusations regarding Valentine, Countess Hermine took her leave, and Guy took the opportunity to rouse himself. Bathed and dressed in the clothes the genial Lord Cédric had provided, he felt the slightest shade more human. For the first time since Montaigne had torn everything away from him, his fortunes were improving.
And not a moment too soon, by the sounds of it.
“This whole sojourn was a mistake! We should have stayed and fought, instead of slinking away into exile!” Guy could recognize the voice of the knight shouting, Sire Alexandre Varennes, from around the corner before he even entered the hall, so loud was the declaration as it echoed across the stones. “In all that confusion and disarray, we never had a better opportunity.”
“We ought to have taken the pardon,” rebutted a voice that Guy was fairly certain was Lady Madeleine Lazarre, one of the first that the rebels had ransomed back to Malin, who’d apparently had no compunction about leaving her liege lord behind as they did it. “Camille promised as much for all but Alvis, Raoul, and myself, and I’m sure that further negotiation could have rectified that remaining outrage. Even after Calignac.”
“You call her ‘Camille’, as if you’re close enough to trust her, but I assure you, she would have found a way around her words. This is what she does,” a third voice added to the conversation, and not one that Guy recognized at all. “A strong nobility is an obstacle to her dreams of absolute monarchical control, and no promise would ever change that.”
Guy walked in just in time to see Madeleine shake her head. “Tosh! She’s always been one of us, and now she cannot break her word. Just because this whole thing has gotten out of hand doesn’t mean there might not yet be a path back to reconciliation, as we ought to have pursued from the start. Her promises must be ironclad, which gives us untold power to ensure negotiations are held to.”
“This is Camille Leclaire we’re talking about. No words can truly bind such a snake.” Wearing a crisp blue racing uniform with red on the trim and épaulettes matching his long red hair, Guy wondered briefly if the man before him wasn’t Lucien Renart, but the resemblance was slight aside from the superficial characteristics.
“He’s right,” Guy added, watching with satisfaction as the whole room bowed at his presence. “I can think of a half-dozen ways she could get around such a promise right now: pardon you for the one crime and then charge you for another; leave you intact and go after your families instead; dispatch you on some doomed mission sure to result in your deaths... Myriad opportunities are available, bound to the letter of her word or not. It’s what I would do—You can’t allow revolt to fester. It builds up gradually and then comes slamming down all at once when some minor infraction incenses them a hair too much.”
“Like the Chariot Championship itself. Such avenues would hardly be beneath her,” the red-haired man agreed. “Well met, Lord Valvert. I am Alvis de Sableton, rightful champion of the Chariot Racing Grand Prix. We were all delighted to hear of your escape.”
“And I’m delighted to see you stalwarts finally taking a stand against Leclaire.” Guy had yet to be filled in on the details, but the company present and the nature of their discussions, at least that much was clear. “What happened in Calignac, exactly?”
“Flight,” Alvis answered grimly. “It was our first redoubt after the riots, but soon Leclaire’s legions were upon us, and we scarcely escaped with our lives.”
“More running,” Alexandre Varennes grumbled.
“From a fight we would surely have lost.” Alvis pressed his lips together, looking none too pleased at the results himself. “As it was, it was a near thing. If Leclaire had been there herself to turn the Rhan against us, we would surely never have had the pleasure, Lord Valvert.”
“Duke Valvert,” Guy corrected. “My cousin forfeited her rights when she signed away Guerron to the communards, leaving me as my uncle’s heir, the rightful Duke of Guerron.”
And none of them objected. I must be the luckiest man alive—an entire company of brave and loyal knights, fallen straight into my lap. And he didn’t even have to share them with Valentine.
“We must surely liberate Guerron,” Alvis agreed, “but I hope you will forgive me for hesitating, my lord Duke. In time, absolutely, the communards must fall. But if we march north now, we risk strengthening the Treaty of Charenton and uniting Montaigne and Leclaire. Condillac may even backstab us from the south, now that Leclaire has their Duke captive.”
“Then the regency council should have no love lost for her. This could be an opportunity to win Condillac as an ally,” said Varennes. “Send your letters and piss about for a few more weeks, then we can get right into the action! Surely that’s an equitable compromise.”
“If you want us dead, perhaps,” Alvis told him soberly. “For one thing, we might not even have weeks to correspond. Count Cédric faces pressure every day to turn us out, from Malin and Guerron both. With Gaume just across the water, any of the Regent Councilors who wish to keep their Duke alive might join in pressuring him. None of them can be seen to be callous about the life of their liege. So long as Duke Étienne remains captive, they will not fight for us. Should we approach this wrong, they may even act against us.”
“Then what remains but taking our chances with Camille?” Madeleine shook her head. “You say the Bougittes won’t march with us, that they might not even let us stay. You say that Condillac is held hostage along with their Duke, that Guerron remains in the hands of traitors we cannot afford to incense, that Malin alone is a match for us. We have nowhere left to go, Alvis, no allies to support us. It’s over.”
“Perhaps not,” Guy said, a grin on his face. “Avalon, those swine, have good reason to oppose Leclaire. They already propped up the communards for that very reason. Approached in the right way, they might at least send us arms, if not soldiers too.”
Avlis nodded. “Then I shall write the Prince of Darkness. Of everyone in Avalon, he has the most to gain from Leclaire’s fall.”
“Don’t.” Guy shook his head. “He’s bosom companions with Fernan Montaigne. Even if you conceal my involvement, his most like response will be a politer version of ‘fuck off’. But his brother...” Guy chuckled, at once delighted and astounded that everything had fallen so perfectly into place. “Prince Harold has no affection for the communards, nor is he like to balk at arming a thorn in Malin’s side. He has the weapons and the ships to deliver them. As soon as we get what we need, we needn’t depend on Bougitte hospitality a moment longer, nor risk being caught between enemies on all sides.”
Alvis looked suitably impressed, and Varennes was practically drooling at the thought, though Madeleine still seemed skeptical. “And then what?” she asked. “Can we afford to stay here? If not, where would we even go?”
“I actually might have an idea for that,” Alvis said, matching Guy’s smile. “A way to cut straight to the heart of the Empire, winning hearts and minds all across the continent.”
“Really?” Madeleine questioned flatly.
“Of course he does,” countered Guy, having no idea whatsoever what Alvis was thinking. “Assuming Prince Harold of Avalon is willing to help us, we’ll make way as soon as the supplies are delivered. Perhaps we can even rouse the countryside in support along the way.”
“I see you know exactly what I’m thinking,” Alvis said, mistakenly. Gently, he turned to Madeleine Lazarre. “Why don’t I tell you what I have in mind, and hopefully assuage your doubts?”
As he began to talk, Guy struggled to maintain his jovial expression. It was an audacious plan, to be sure, and perhaps one that might even work, but the perils of such an approach were astounding.
And I can’t in good conscience oppose it. He almost hoped Prince Harold would turn him down, strangling Alvis’ plan in the crib and leaving Guy to a luxurious but quiet life of exile. Even if Bougitte kicked out the rebel knights, he would surely allow his son-in-law to stay. There were worse places to be than the Stone Tower, with all the amenities required of Guy’s station.
But if this works... Leclaire could be undone, Guerron returned to its rightful ruler. Perhaps even more. There would be no greater opportunity. Guy wrote the letter as soon as the meeting was over, hoping despite himself that Avalon would deliver their aid.
With everything coming up my way, why shouldn’t I roll the dice?