Conquest of Avalon

Epilogue: The Duke of Guerron

There was no other way to describe it: this was a colossal mess.

The king’s anger was more than understandable, his fury as righteous as his vision was clear, but given the results…

All Refuge had done was negotiate with the Lyrion Emperor, hosted him in exile more for the status it granted them than any real desire to retake his homeland. And for that, it had been reduced to a wasteland, slaughtered to a man. Even four years later, the forest had yet to regrow, the petrified husks of the once-vibrant forest granting succour to none but the ghosts of the past.

When King Romain had sought him out, asking for the benefit of his age and experience to help decide whether it would be wise to arm and train Lyrion rebels, Duke Fouchand had been nothing but supportive.

If the entire continent stood petrified of becoming the next Refuge, Avalon would encroach across it, conquering each fragment of the Fox Empire one by one.

The Charentons and Île Dimanches of the world it would bring in peacefully, and the Lyrions and Refuges it would destroy, but in the end they would prevail, spreading their taint across the world until nothing else remained. Provided everyone remained fractured. Provided none stood up to do the right thing and push them back.

Who better to fight back than King Romain Renart, blood of the Fox Queen of old, ruler still of the heart of the Fox Empire — he who had corralled rebellious Leclaires and decadent Valverts and brought them heartily to heel under one banner. There was not another man Fouchand would have chosen to lead the counteroffensive against Avalon.

And what an offensive it had been. For a moment, it had seemed as if good would prevail. The Arboreum had agreed to occupy the territory of Refuge and begin to heal the wastelands of once-vibrant forest; Plagette had been uncharacteristically open handed with sale of its plentiful arms, despite not committing soldiers to the fight; and Gueron and Malin had pressed forward with one voice, pushing Avalon back to the tip of Lyrion with the might of the spirits.

How had it all fallen apart so thoroughly?

Fouchand’s mother, the late Duchess of Guerron, had once told him that the term ‘Avalon’ was a mere convenience of phrase, rather than any political reality. A Shadow Islander and a Cambrian had as little in common as Fouchand did with a supplicant of the Winter Court, and they probably hated each other even more.

“Mark my words, son,” she had told him when he couldn’t have been more than thirteen. “Harold Grimoire may have united their islands, but he was hardly the first to try, and he won’t be the first to fail. The moment he dies, the splintering will make the Fox Queen’s death look like a well-maintained succession.”

Florette the Great, the people had called her. The Duchess who brought Guerron into prominence, turning a rough backwater into the right arm of the Empire with the point of her spear. At the time, she had seemed so wise.

Harold Grimoire was a once-in-a-lifetime figure. Now King Harold I of Avalon, he possessed unparalleled tactics in the field, an ingenious head for inventions, and a sheer determination to see Avalon united under one banner. He had even wed the daughter of the Great Binder, uniting his dynasty with the saviors of the world.

But his son was a disaster. By all accounts Prince Harold spent his time occupied with nothing more than philandering and drinking, possessed of an entitlement sufficient to make even other princes blush.

By all accounts, she should have been right, but her prediction had been wholly defied when Harold II took the throne of Avalon and somehow maintained his father’s hold on the country without so much as an interruption in leadership. And now Harold III was following in those footsteps, a warrior possessed of a hunger beyond even that of his forefathers..

Florette the Great had never been afraid to fight; Fouchand could do no differently. Now more than ever, her name was at the tip of every peasant’s tongue to condemn for remaining in Guerron rather than joining the offensive. He had even heard whispers that Guerron would be better off with his sister Rosette as Duchess, younger and far more spry, still no stranger to fights, rather than a weakened Duke who sat behind his walls.

She was Florette’s true daughter, the right and honorable inheritor of her legacy. All Fouchand had managed was being born first. They’re not even wrong. But now…

All of that will only worsen, but I have no choice.

“I want to see the children first,” he softly requested. “Bring them here, if they’re still awake.”

Guy, his nephew and squire, nodded sharply and scurried off to fetch them. Ever since his mother had gone off to war, he’d been more subdued, more dutiful even as he had grown quieter. But who could blame him, with his mother away at war. When she returned, the boy would no doubt find a way to return to his jovial self.

If she returns… The reports of the battle were a muddle of information, but the fleeing boats all told a tale of failure. King Romain dead, Lady Leclaire lost at sea, and Rosette and the twins still missing. The fact that they hadn’t made it onto the boat was concerning enough; even if they lived, Avalon was likely to capture them as it consolidated control over Malin. And if not…

Well, that didn’t bear thinking about. This day was already tragic enough.

Fouchand dismissed Guy as he ushered the children in, dark circles under both of their eyes.

Prince Lucien—King Lucien now, Fouchand supposed grimly—had a face as red as his hair, still wet with tears so recently wiped away. Unlike Romain, he’d cut it short, to the point that it looked almost brown, but above all he looked lost. And who could blame him for that?

Little Camille, on the other hand, was the spitting image of her mother Sarille, her hair now dyed blue to match the Leclaire tradition. But it was not the ice-cold deliberations of the Leclaires he saw in her eyes, but a burning fire. Her little fists were clenched tightly, her eyebrow pointed down in a mighty scowl. “Why did you do it?”

How could he explain to the children why he had surrendered to the monsters that had taken everything from them? Fouchand took a long moment to stare back into the girl’s defiant eyes. “The full might of the Empire defended Malin, and it failed. Fighting on right now gives us nothing, but maintaining our autonomy grants a chance for the future. Right now we need time, time to recover and mourn. For King Romain, and Rosette, and Sarille. For my sons… Give it ten years—”

A vase next to him shattered, shards flying around the room, with one even embedding itself in his arm.

“Camille.” He sighed as he pulled the piece of ceramic out and clenched his hand around his arm. “I know it isn’t what you want to hear. But—”

“Mother isn’t dead!” she shrieked. “She’s coming back! I know she is!” As she shouted, the spilled water swept across the floor in a haphazard wave, nearly knocking Fouchand off of his feet. Only a jump spared him a nasty fall.

As he landed, he stepped closer and held his arms around Camille. “We will get through this together. I’m here for you, no matter what. If you can calm your anger and think rationally—”

“Fuck you!” She wrenched herself out of his grip. “My feelings are real! You can’t act like they aren’t.”

“You’re right,” he realized. “You have my apologies.” Even without that, it’s the last thing a child ought to hear. It had been so long since Femor and Teland were this age, when they’d depended on him like this. “I’m sorry, Camille. Guy, would you take Lucien back to his room please?”

His nephew nodded, in a hurry to make himself useful, and took the child king by the hand out of the room.

“Forgive me.” Fouchand tentatively reached out his hand, and to his surprise Camille grabbed it tightly back. “I’m… I know better than most what you’re going through right now. Just please, try to realize that I’m on your side. I’ll die before I let Avalon come for you or Lucien.”

...

I couldn’t manage even that.

Seventeen years had done nothing to cool Camille’s patience, and ultimately all of Fouchand’s assurances of safety and support had proven hollow. He hadn’t attended the duel, worried his presence would give it a sense of legitimacy, but the reports of those who had were clear enough about what had happened on the tournament platform: the deafening, thunderous crack through the air, Camille doubling over, bleeding from her shoulder, and Lumière callously kicking her into the sea.

The thought was utterly sickening. But it was nothing compared to the fact that Fouchand had let it happen.

It had all seemed so convenient: Lumière finally stepping out brazenly enough that he could be punished instead of merely reprimanded, removed from the Duke’s Council without overly angering the Sun Temple or the peasants who spent such time giving them offerings and support.

I trusted her to succeed, and she did. But all this time, she hadn’t been fighting Lumière, but Avalon itself. The metal tube that harnessed the power of thunder, one of the infamous cannons of the Foxtrap sized to fit in one hand, made that more than clear. Had Fouchand known that, he never would have let Camille proceed.

I shouldn’t have, anyway. He had let the politics endanger the child, and she had paid dearly for his mistake. Perhaps permanently.

This was always the worst part: the days of dread and fear gradually giving way to resignation as more and more time went on.

I waited months after the Foxtrap, and not one of them lived. One might have thought he would have learned his lesson.

All he could do now was try to pick up the pieces, to once and for all discard the restraint and politicking that had helped him feel clever while he’d only made things worse. If the Sun Temple and the peasants resisted him for it, at least he would know that he had done the right thing.

Once the dust had settled, forty-seven people were dead, with hundreds more injured. Even King Lucien still held his arm in a sling and wheezed when he breathed, according to Annette. Fouchand dared not let himself be seen entering Villemalin to visit him, not when half of Guerron wanted to burn it to the ground in retaliation.

Her harbor guards had barricaded the gates to the north, keeping any of those would-be belligerents from reaching that area east of the harbor, but the situation was untenable. By forbidding all passage through the north of the city, food from up the Gold Road was blocked from the city, as were any shipments from the harbor. Not that there were guards sufficient to keep the customs officers safe anymore, stretched as thin as they were by the additional duties at the northern gates.

Opening them even a crack to let the necessities through before tempers cooled raised the possibility of a full-scale storming of the quartier, so even putting exceptions into place for the essential goods to pass through was not an approach without its risks.

Nor did Fouchand dare trust Guy Valvert’s command of the city watch, not after his full-throated endorsement of Lumière. The possibility of his nephew renouncing his friendship with the vile sun sage after seeing his association with Avalon was the one possible benefit of this horrid situation, but Guy had done little save brood and drink in the days that had followed.

His leadership of the Bureau of Land and its City Watch had been so consistently hands-off that it seemed unlikely that his influence would prove vital, but by the same token, it meant that their discipline could not be trusted. It only took a few guards to open the gates, and half of Guerron would burn.

Not for the first time, Fouchand regretted elevating the boy to his seat, but with the de-facto capital of the Empire moved to Guerron, including Dorseille and the Valverts in central governance had been crucial to emphasize their unity in the wake of the Foxtrap. And Fouchand had hoped the post would give Guy a sense of purpose, a way to harness his directionless anger and ennui like his duties as a squire had seemed to, for a time.

Yet another decision of mine that was all for nothing.

Decades of compromise, of the slow and safe play to help protect his city and his people, and what did Fouchand have to show for it? Fouchand Failure, they’ll call me. The coward, the Duke who lost the Empire. But concerns of his legacy were nothing compared to the present reality, the absolute mess he’d be leaving behind for Annette.

When Fouchand emerged from the Château and stepped out, he was almost defeated by the roar of people gathered outside. The Debray household guards were holding them at bay handily, but the way through the pass was blocked tight with people.

The cacophony was so overwhelming that Fouchand couldn’t even understand what they were saying, but it was easy enough to guess. Down with King Lucien, down with the Malins, justice for the people…

His people, consumed by misguided hate and fear. Fouchand had let this go entirely too far.

“Shall we break them up, Sire?” the captain of the shift asked him once his presence was known. “Shouldn’t be too hard. This place was built to fend off armies.”

“No, that would only make things worse,” Fouchand sighed. “My business in the city was less than urgent anyway. We can afford to wait, and let their tempers cool.” Provided their anger faded before the northern barricade impacted the city’s food supply, anyway. But they were still days out from that being too serious an issue.

A nearly blinding golden light emerged from the crowd, dimming as it stepped forward to reveal none other than Aurelian Lumière, a cocksure swagger in his step. The guards moved to block his approach, but Fouchand waved them down.

“Aurelian,” he greeted him, maintaining a neutral tone. “I’m pleased to see that you’ve recovered so quickly.”

“Are you?” Lumière grinned. “It is good that you are no sage of Soleil, my Lord Duke, or such lies would have seen your soul claimed in a matter of days. My patron always demands truth in his presence before proceedings can begin, and it has a way of making things difficult. Though not as difficult as the situation was for poor Camille, I’m afraid.”

Fouchand narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be an ass. You’ve had your victory, now act like a Lord and have the honor to be graceful about it.”

“Honor?” His hair caught the light just right, a gold shimmer highlighting parts of it as his head moved. “Honor demands that King Lucien answer for his crimes. As well as all of those vile criminals in Villemalin.” Aurelian gestured behind him to the crowd. “Your people demand it, my lord Duke.”

“He’s received official condemnation.”

“Empty words. Guerron demands action. Storm his pathetic barricade and detain him forthwith. Then we can begin returning the lives due to Soleil unto him. There were more than fifty rioters harming our people at the duel, but I think they will make an excellent start. Soleil gets the lives the late Camille promised him, and the people begin to get a measure of justice. Burning two logs with one flame, if you will.”

“I will consider it,” Fouchand lied. “After tempers have cooled. No good can come of consorting with mobs like this.”

“If you think it best.” Lumière shrugged. “Myself? I’d want to act now, before being beaten to it. The mob has no need to take justice into its own hands if their good Duke protects them as he ought to. Either way, I’m sure that things will work out the way they need to.”

“Of course.” Fouchand owed it to Camille, to Rosette, to everyone he had failed in his life. The time to rebuild and recoup had come and gone. Now was a time for action. “I’m afraid you may be right, Aurelian. Would you mind coming with me to the council chambers to discuss it further? The last thing I want to do is ignite that crowd, and you seem to have a good grasp of their feelings and desires.”

“Really?” The smug expression on his face broke for instant, before returning twice as strong. “Of course. It’s only natural. I am so pleased that you’re seeing reason with this, my Lord Duke. It will make this ordeal so much easier.”

“You go on ahead. I need to speak with Annette first. It’ll only be a moment.” Fouchand waved at the diminishing figure of Lumière outpacing him down the hall, waiting until he was out of sight to flag down his guards.

“Aurelian Lumière is a traitor to me and to the Empire of the Fox. He’s consorted with Avalon to weaken us, and he must stand trial for it.” He believed himself invincible, that killing him would only make him a martyr to the crowd. And perhaps he was right, but they would not grieve for a puppet of Avalon, not after the extent of Lumière’s collaboration was made clear to them. “He was bedridden yesterday. I believe his show of strength is a bluff, but if I’m mistaken, killing him is better than leaving him be. Do not underestimate his power.”

With that, he left them to their task. Let the consequences fall where they may; the careful, measured approach had amounted to nothing.

Fouchand retired to his chambers at the top of the château’s highest tower, waiting for Annette to arrive.

Getting through the crowd would be no small feat, but his granddaughter was not so well known by the commons, nor without protection from her guards, thinly spread as they were. She would find a way through, and if not, then their discussion could wait. But it would make things difficult.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before he heard a knock at his door.

“Annette?” he asked as he pulled it open, but on the other side was the captain he had dispatched with Lumière’s capture, soot and singes all over his clothes.

“It’s done,” he said. “He’s manacled in the deepest cells, ready to await his trial. It was just as you said, my lord Duke.” He waved down at his clothes. “I got it the worst of anyone, and it’s all superficial.”

“Excellent.”

At least he would have good news for Annette now, to counterbalance the unfortunate realities. Lucien was poison to Guerron at the moment, and dragging down Lumière wouldn’t necessarily change that.

Etienne Clément, the Duke of Condillac, had fled the city the moment of the riots, withdrawing with all of his household and swords before the festival had even begun. Of course, now it likely never would. Fouchand couldn’t even blame him, necessarily, but it demanded a response.

Plagette was their best hope now. Old enemies of Condillac might be eager to step in now, and allies would be absolutely essential to accomplishing anything. Avalon could not be defeated alone, nor even forestalled, not with such powerful enemies within and without.

“I’m impressed, Duke Fouchand.” A dark silhouette appeared at the edge of his balcony. “You never struck me as a man of action. Shame it was too late to matter.”

“Circumstances must.” Fouchand pounded the door three times in a signal to the guards outside. “Wouldn’t the door have been easier, Magnifico?”

“Oh perhaps.” The bard jumped down in front of him. “Only someone jammed the keyhole, it seems. It could be ten minutes before anyone breaks the door down, something as sturdy as that.” He smiled as the sounds of pounding filled the air. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

“No,” Fouchand spat out. It wasn’t even worth asking him how he had done it.

Magnifico frowned. “You would be no territory, I emphasize, but a full voting province of Avalon. You would have a seat at the Great Council, and your granddaughter would marry Prince Luce. Surely you realize that things have changed!”

“You’re a better bard than a diplomat, pawn of Avalon. Once you’re permitted to leave, you can tell your king what he can do with his offer. It’s nothing but conquest by another means.”

“This is the best way that can be done!” Magnifico smashed his hands against the wall, joining the roar through the door. “Have you primitive wretches learned nothing from the Foxtrap? From the Fall of Refuge? The longer you refuse to embrace the future, the worse things get for you, and the sooner you accept it, the better your life will get. The ingratitude of you people boggles the fucking mind!”

Fouchand shook his head. “And so the imperialist drops his veil of civility at long last, and the true face of Avalon’s diplomacy is laid bare. It bewilders me how you could engineer a scheme to rend my city apart and wonder why I wouldn’t want to fall before you and your king in worship. Kill me, if that’s what you’re here to do. But you won’t get what you want.”

“I always get what I want. If you fucking people would just realize that, all of this madness could stop in an instant.”

“Because King Harold will pet his dog on the head for a job well done? You’re nothing more than a tool, to be used and discarded as he pleases. Even this trip, you could have been captured or attacked at any time.”

Magnifico snarled, stepping close enough to Fouchand that he could feel his breath on his face. “I will build a better world, even if I have to drag you all into it kicking and screaming.” He grabbed Fouchand by the throat and threw him back across the room. “Every voyage here is like traveling back in time. Even your people know we’re better, or else why would they work so hard to steal our ideas and technology?”

Despite everything, Fouchand smiled. Now this was out of his hands. “Because King Harold is a monster, incapable of wielding them without untold destruction. You ought to have realized that, the way he employs dogs like you to bring other nations to ruin.”

“Dog?” Magnifico took a deep breath. “You ignorant fool. You have earned your death at the hands of none other than King Harold IV, of the dynasty Grimoire. Ruler of Avalon, Arbiter of the Western Isles, Slayer of Spirits, Aegis of the Realm, and the best thing that’s ever happened to this miserable world since the Great Binder saved it from the dark goddess Khali. It’s more than you deserve.”

“Then you are an even more vile little man than I thought. With a kingdom to run, you play at diplomacy and conquest, acting the part of a bard simply to bring the world to its knees. Does it amuse you, to play the part of a fool?” Fouchand coughed, feeling a sharp pain in his chest. “Because I’m not laughing. If this is your idea of rulership, then you are not only evil but stupid, placing your sadism and ego above even your own country, let alone the good of the world.

“How do they justify it, back in Avalon? I truly shudder to imagine it,” he wheezed. “Entire peoples suborned to the war machine destroying their brothers and sisters, entire kingdoms razed to the ground simply for entertaining the thought of resistance. And a king who would abandon them to prance around playing music and igniting riots on faraway shores.”

“Why must you all be so stubborn?” The fool, red in the face, grabbed Fouchand and dangled him over the balcony. “Your traditions and ideas have failed! It’s over!”

Fouchand coughed once more, this more painful than the last. “Your country has in its grasp the greatest technologies imaginable, and yet your pitiful minds are so lacking in imagination that you feed them only into your machines of war. I might pity you, if the cost of your folly were not so great.” He spat on Harold, a defiant glare on his face. “Get on with it already, you arrogant, bloviating, conceited—”

Harold pushed him off with an inarticulate scream of rage.

Fouchand didn’t even feel the pain before the darkness swallowed him.