Camille VI: The Vieillarde

Twenty-five.

Camille stared at the date at the top of the journal with a sense of mute resignation.

Her anniversary had arrived, a celebration of the time passed since her birth. Twenty-five years, and her life would end.

Mother was thirty-four when she died, and that still seemed so very young. If anything remained of her, deep in the grip of the sea’s cold embrace, she would weep at the thought that her precious daughter would die even younger.

Last year, Lucien had thrown a massive celebration, with bards crying her name from the rooftops in a song he’d commissioned in her honor. Banners of blue had hung from every crenelation of the castle walls, and for a moment, it had felt like the family Leclaire lived once more, rather than being reduced to one exiled scion.

And now the dynasty Leclaire dies forever, along with me. It might have several times earlier this past year, risks taken without the same thought given to what would happen if success eluded her: the duel with Lumiére, scheming under Perimont’s nose, swearing oaths to the Prince of Darkness, rallying the Acolytes against Whitbey and his thugs…

It wouldn’t have taken much. Her unconscious magic failing, that detective discovering her early, Florette getting caught for doing something reckless, failing to honor the letter of her oaths and finding Luce in a vengeful mood for it… Even at the end, if Jethro hadn’t called a halt to the fighting at the moment he did, Anya Stewart would have ended her.

Camille had walked into each of those situations with clear eyes, aware of what she was risking, and she would do it again if she had to, knowing it would take her here: a free Malin, an Empire ascendant, Annette and Lucien safe and secure.

But that didn’t mean it had felt real. Facing death had been a calculated risk, nothing more, allotted no more thought than it strictly deserved.

It wasn’t like Camille to dwell on this, to sulk when there was work to be done.

And so little time left to do it.

Something about the anniversary made it real, perhaps. Her last.

Camille Thérèse Leclaire, 93-118 AG. Twenty-five years on this earth, with so many of them squandered. Seven as a useless child, another sixteen as a petty exile. Those sixteen in service to a monster, gleefully slaughtering criminals to fuel his power and my own. Only in the last few months had she finally done something worth being remembered for, and now her life was set to end.

I’m an old woman at twenty-five, staring down a death far surer than that of even the oldest vieillard.

And she couldn’t even stop to think about it, because there wasn’t enough time left to waste on sulking, to give this existential crisis the consideration it deserved.

Camille threw the journal aside and stopped biting her lip. “Send in the first one, please, Margot.”

The day's first appointment included one Eloise Clochaîne. Scant surprise Margot put her on top of the queue. More intriguingly, Eloise was bringing someone else to the meeting: one Cynette Fields, the solicitor that had first freed Camille, back in those distant summer days.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you properly,” Fields said, overly stiff, then extended her hand. With all the Avaline influence in Malin, the gesture was so common that Camille had largely gotten used to it, so she took Fields’ hand and shook it with minimal hesitation. “The Maiden of Dawn’s reputation precedes you.”

“As does yours,” Camille said politely. “Chief council for Clochaîne Candles is no small role, nor an easy occupation, especially with all of the other organizations under the larger umbrella.”

“Thank you, Lady Leclaire. If we may—”

“Are you serious?” Eloise shook her head in disbelief. “You two already met when she got you and Claude out of jail. He told me the whole thing. It’s just us in here. Who are you trying to fool?”

Claude, Camille thought with a pang. The first to die in Perimont’s coup, but far from the last.

“It’s considered polite not to mention such things,” Camille said with a glare towards Eloise. “Ms. Fields obviously knew better than to dredge such matters up, lest it appear she was trying to leverage her knowledge.”

“Indeed,” said Fields, clearly just as unamused.

“But since the matter has been brought up anyway, I don’t believe I ever formally thanked you. I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for your aid at that crucial moment.”

“Simply doing my job,” Fields demurred, something sounding false about it. She’s trying to ingratiate herself… She wants something from me. “If we may turn to the principal subject of this meeting… I want to make it clear that I applaud the work you’ve done, and I know that integrating the factions of Malin is no small task.”

Yes, she definitely wants something. “But?”

“I cannot help but lament the antiquated legal system of the Empire, though I hope I do not offend you in saying so.”

“The Fox-Queen’s Code Renart laid the bedrock for centuries of law and order. There’s good reason that nearly all of the Imperial splinter groups maintained it even after their secessions. Even Micheltaigne, who never claimed to be an heir to the Empire.”

“I’m aware,” Fields said, somewhat surprisingly. “The Code Renart was fair for its day. Codifying all of the disparate continental laws into one place alone was a monumental feat, and one that subsequent kingdoms have been wise to emulate and iterate upon. But the world knows better now. This very city knows better.”

“Because of Avalon?” Camille narrowed her eyes. “I’ve seen what their rule of law looks like.”

“And I’ve seen what yours looks like,” the solicitor said bluntly. “Your own friend Annette was nearly denied crucial representation. She had to send her cousin scurrying to find the first sage he could from some backwater mining town. Montaigne comported himself ably enough, but the facts were also on his side, and the judge was about as far from impartial as it’s possible to be. Had things gone even slightly differently, the Duchess would be condemned for parricide, your fiancé still in chains.”

She has a point… Fernan had even worked for Lumiére as part of the ruse. If he’d simply been won over by whatever offers the sun sage had sent his way, rather than holding steadfast…

“Surely you can see that this needs to change. No trial should run like that, and the more that do, the further distanced from justice your code points you.”

“I can,” Camille said, after a moment. We don’t even have enough sages in Malin to properly enforce the Code Renart if we wanted to. “Eloise, you’re asking for this as well?”

“No, I don’t care about being involved when the laws change. Why would that matter to me? It’s completely trivial to stay on the correct side of it with everything I do.”

Right. Camille turned to Cynette. “Reform is needed. Are you the woman to make it happen?”

“Yes.” Fields left it at that.

“A Code Leclaire, something the Empire can be proud to live by, synthesizing the best of modernity and tradition while exposing Avalon’s barbarity for what it is, doing away with their veneer of civilization…” Really, I should have thought of this much sooner. It was exactly the type of legacy she wanted to leave behind. “I’ll have Margot set a meeting for a month from now. Get me a comprehensive accounting of Avalon’s ordinances and separate out any you’d sooner do without. I can’t expect you to do the same with Imperial law, but I can provide you with most of what we should need there.”

“It would be my greatest pleasure, Lady Leclaire. You’ve chosen wisely today.”

Next was Scott, so Camille retrieved the vexingly dated journal from its heap on the floor and folded it properly before calling for Margot to invite him in.

“My stagiaire will be observing,” she informed Scott. Criminal solicitors were one thing, complicated further by Eloise, but there was no reason Margot couldn’t get a bit of education here, and Scott had no reason to object. “I see you’ve kept up your good work, left to your own devices. I trust that has no reason to change.”

Camille was walking a delicate line in Malin, trying to unify former collaborators and even Avalon-born denizens under Lucien’s banner, and by extension, the journal had to tread just as lightly.

So far, Scott had managed ably enough, even iterating on Mary’s fashion column with the addition of recipe pages drawing on both Imperial and Avaline traditions, including a thorough set of cassoulet instructions well-suited to the autumn and food precarity both in one issue, then a delightful potato pastry from Nymphell in the next.

More substantively, Lucien’s return had been treated with all of the adulation it was due, while all who’d turned their cloaks back towards the light had been treated as delicately as was warranted, pardoned in sum without any sympathy for disloyalty.

Even the scuffle between Mesnil’s man and the guardian had been buried under a torrent of reconciliation without any special prompting, the front page of the journal showing a massive engraving of the two shaking hands in solidarity.

It wasn’t even fabricated, given Camille had actually forced them to do it under quiet threat of exile, and combined with a suitable address to the public, it seemed that the wounds were beginning to heal.

Beginning, and that’s the most I’ll ever get to see. And that’s if I’m successful.

“None, my lady.” Scott smiled, as was his wont, in a manner that made the formal address sound seem faintly facetious. “All continues to go well. Sales have only continued to increase through these interesting times, and with the recent purchase of Eserly’s Avaline Citizen journal, Malin is officially free of any seditious competitors. Once the hippodrome reopens, we’ll be testing a section covering the races to increase our readership, and I feel very confident in its success. People used to love the races. Finally, some youths covered the old guardian headquarters in paint, and our editorial has yet to decide on the tone of the coverage.”

“The hippodrome is reopening?” Margot cut in. “I thought Avalon tore out every last brick.”

“It’s more of a replacement than a reopening, but I thought it best to connect it to the lineage of the best of the Empire’s past. Something uncontroversial.” Camille turned back to Scott. “What kind of paint?”

“Different colors, splotched into different shapes. If they’re words, it’s impossible to tell. Nothing overtly provocative, aside from the disruption of putting it there in the first place. Still, former guardians fear that it’s only the beginning.”

Which it might be, if they’re bold enough. And if they reacted, that too would invite a response. It was all too easy to imagine petty vandals sparking a larger conflict that Malin could ill afford.

“If it’s not a threat to us directly, it’s not sedition, it’s art,” Camille decided after a moment. “Get one of your reporters to track down the vandals and get an interview, positively-framed, talk about how it’s letting out these restless youthful energies without hurting anyone, how the children come from both Malin and Avalon.”

“Do they?” Scott asked.

“You only need to find one of each before you can say it’s a mix. Then get a quote from one of Mesnil’s people about the importance of keeping order. Leave them as restless scamps that aren’t truly disrupting anything, and it will help make it so, and hopefully quiet some of the louder guardian voices.”

“A statement from Mesnil is easy enough, but the vandals themselves…” Scott shook his head. “Criminal youths aren’t usually inclined to talk to reporters.”

“I can set it up,” Margot offered. “I think I know the people you’re talking about.”

Camille laughed. Of course you do. “Anything else, Scott? I don’t have a lot of time today.”

“One more, if you’ll forgive me. Your public appearances have caused a bit of confusion, given the lack of the Maiden of Dawn’s trademark blue hair. I don’t mean to overstep, but have you considered redying it?”

“Right…” Camille blinked, sitting back in her chair. First, she’d needed to blend in, and every inch that her roots crawled across her head made that easier. Then, she’d wanted to wait for victory, a true reaffirmation of herself at the moment of triumph. But that had made more sense to save for Lucien…

And now, is there any point when I’ll be dead in a few months?

“What’s wrong with it now?” Margot asked. “You still get the blue around the sides, there’s just more different colors.”

“It’s not really about that,” Scott answered, vaguely.

“It’s a symbol of legitimacy.” Her mother had said as much, so long ago that Camille could scarcely remember it. “It lets the people know I am who I say I am, that I will protect them with the fervor and grace that only a legitimate Empress can. It says that I am still a sage, with all of the power and wisdom that entails.” Even if I despise the spirit I serve, and plan to die before he can take his due. “Symbols have value. People look to them. Like the Fox-Queen’s crown in the War of the Three Cubs. The fact that Colin Renart wore it showed the world that he was her chosen successor, the rightful Fox-King, unlike his traitor siblings. Or Micheltaigne’s sword, Nuage Sombre. His ancestors fended off the Rhanoir with a rain of arrows that blackened the sky, and High Queen Arèse led a charge down the mountain with that sword aloft to finish them off. Every time the High King brandishes it, he shows his people that he will protect them just the same.”

“Not just here,” Scott added. “The eternal flame burning in Forta represents a similar promise, or the unadorned metal of Avalon’s crown.”

“So that’s why Claude and the Acolytes dyed that streak of their hair? To show they’re connected to the Leclaires?” As little as possible, while plundering from the Temple’s supplies… But it was a connection to the old, and it had surely helped Camille win them over at the moment it had mattered most.

“Yes,” Camille simply said, then dismissed Scott Temple.

It was dark by the time she returned home. Keeping busy had succeeded at making the day go by faster, at least.

Lucien wasn’t in their bedroom, but Aude had given the nod that everything was clear when Camille entered, so he was probably back at the sorely-in-need-of-renaming Governor’s Mansion, or out drilling the soldiers with Mesnil.

Perhaps that’s for the better. I’m not really in the mood.

Camille swept the blankets out of the way and collapsed onto the bed, trying to get a few minutes of rest before her meeting with Fernan.

I wasn’t thinking, scheduling it for today. That had been a poor choice, but it wasn’t as if there was anything to be done about it now.

After five minutes or five hundred, Camille rose from the bed, grabbing her flask of marigold wine on the way out, leaving her coat behind. An autumn night might not normally be ideal for sitting out on the beach as the waves crashed around her, but heating herself with the water’s motion had been so successful in the darkness that there seemed to be no reason not to do it now.

Thank you for the tip, Luce, she thought, with no small amount of chagrin. It was necessary, but that doesn’t mean it can’t also be distasteful.

Since it took about an hour to properly set in, Camille downed the wine before she’d even left the house, sending a chill through her body.

This far south, the coast more truly represented the Sartaire than the Lyrion sea, but that wouldn’t be an issue. Fenouille was even friendlier these days, if anything, swollen with power from the tribute directed his way.

Levian might have earned the same, had he been on the right side of the White Night, or even just sat it out. Instead he almost killed my Lucien, trying to plunge the world into eternal darkness for a scrap more of power for himself.

It was good to remember why Camille wouldn’t see a twenty-sixth anniversary. Not comforting, but valuable. Important.

The path down to the water had been freshly swept, the stones taking on a faintly blue cast in the moonlight. Soon, that blue was flecked with red, petals of wildflowers scattered across the stones, growing more dense the further Camille walked.

Lucien had done the same thing for her on her sixteenth anniversary, even though they’d had one of their more intense fights ever mere days before.

He didn’t do this though, Camille thought, gaping at the site on the water.

Fire licked the sky, sitting atop the Sartaire in burning little fishing boats, anchored in place to keep their position. He didn’t…

The perspective was just right as she took her first step into the sand, the flames on the water spelling out a simple yet powerful message: I LOVE YOU CAMILLE.

Lucien was kneeling on the beach, his sword sunk into the sand in front of him.

Camille didn’t want to ruin whatever he had planned, but she couldn’t help but run up and sweep him into her arms, nearly tackling him into the sand in the process. “I love you too, Lucien. This is incredible.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, flashing that wry smile of his. “Happy anniversary.”

They lay together on the beach for a while, taking in the stars above, faint echoes of the power of distant sun spirits, only small shards of which ever reached Terramonde.

“Camille, I know we’ve both been so busy lately, there hasn’t really been time to talk about it… But I want to ask you properly, as something between us instead of our parents, as a celebration of everything you’ve worked so hard to accomplish… Will you marry me this spring?”

Camille stiffened, her eyes reaching for an answer from the dark sky that she knew it wouldn’t give her.

Lucien didn’t seem to notice, continuing. “We can celebrate in place of the Festival of the Sun, with the whole city basking in your glory. I know you always wanted to do it on the beach, but I was thinking we might try the cliffs above, where the castle used to sit. I think our parents would have liked that. But only if that’s what you want.”

I want all of it, Lucien. I want to grow old with you, to raise our children together, to leave our family and Empire strong for generations to come. I want to be there.

But I can’t.

“Camille? Are you alright?”

“No,” she answered, a touch too curtly. “Sorry.”

Lucien didn’t let go of Camille, but she could feel him tense up.

“Lucien, there’s something I have to tell you.”

Camille couldn’t even really hear the words as they were coming out of her mouth. All her attention was on Lucien’s face, watching his face twist in horror.

“You’re dying?” His words were barely more than a whisper.

“I’ve been on borrowed time ever since the duel. I… I’m sorry, Lucien. I never wanted to leave you behind.”

Lucien pulled her closer, tucking her head under his chin. “Don’t worry about me. This is about you…” He took a shuddered breath. “You just found out? What happened?”

“A part of me always knew, I suppose. But it didn’t sink in until I heard about Levian and the White Night.”

Eyebrows slanting, Lucien pulled his head back. “You knew before I even got here and you didn’t tell me? I understand not passing it through Fernan, it’s an important secret, but… Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

Because I didn’t want to see you like this. And I didn’t want this to be how you remember me. “Saying it out loud makes it real… I don’t know. I wanted to give you a bit of happiness first, maybe.”

“Like a lame horse, before you put it down.”

“Like someone I care about who I didn’t want to have to go through this.”

Lucien sighed. “I’m sorry. I just wish I’d known. We could have gone away together, to that isle in the center of Paix Lake we went to celebrate our majority, or…” That had been a special trip, in more ways than one. The thought of going back there one last time, of seizing a moment just about them, it was intoxicating. “Why have we been spending all this time working?”

But there isn’t time. “Because we’re needed. You know that. I can’t leave you an Empire in flames.”

“I know. But you know I know that, right? You don’t have to hide things from me to get me to do my duty.”

Don’t I? You just said you’d have us run and hide, away from all our responsibilities. “Of course I do, Lucien. But I couldn’t take the chance until things were more settled here. I wouldn’t even have told you at all, but for all of this…” She gestured towards her name in lights, still mostly legible as the boats slowly came apart in the water.

“You never would have told me. Really?” Lucien grit his teeth. “Now why is that? Were you afraid I’d do something stupid? Ruin your carefully laid plans?”

Damn it, not this again. “You do have a habit of it, Lucien. I admit that I lost that duel, and it set us back, but you were the one who went on a bloody rampage seconds later and practically burned the beach down.”

“I was defending your honor!”

“Florette told me the whole thing. You attacked the sun sages unprovoked, and that’s how you ended up captured, that’s how Lumière ended up in charge of Guerron. That’s on you. So no, I didn’t want that to happen again. I wanted everything to be lined up just right, for you, because I want the best for everyone. I’m spending my last days on this earth making your life easier, so if I were you I’d do less complaining.”

“Oh, of course. Because you never complain.”

Camille felt her teeth digging into her lip, a slow-burning pain that was hard to notice until it came all at once. “I don’t want to talk about this. I was hoping I’d have your support for the time I have left. Don’t do anything rash. Promise me.”

“If you promise to stop treating me like a child.”

“If you promise to stop acting like one!” Camille pulled herself free of his grip, straightening her dress as she stood. “Honestly Lucien, it’s been one blunder after another. You used to value what I have to say, but lately everything’s been a negotiation.”

“Blunder—” He exhaled sharply. “I saved Guerron from the Queen of Winter when she wanted the city destroyed and the world plunged into darkness. Not alone, of course, but I led the defense and made the final decisions. I mobilized almost everything I had to come rescue you here when you got yourself stuck trying to hold a hostile city with a couple dozen soldiers and a song. Do you know how hard it was to get two thousand people across the Sartaire as the snow was melting?”

“And Annette handled that, not you.” Camille clicked her tongue. “It’s not my job to make you feel smart, Lucien. This is about more than your ego.”

“My ego? This coming from Camille Leclaire…” He pressed his hands to his face, sighed, and dropped them down, revealing the tears in his eyes. “Look, I don’t want to do this. I forgive you. It’s fine. We shouldn’t spend this time fighting.”

You forgive me? Camille bit back her retort, trying to take his words in the spirit in which they were intended. “I agree. And in the spirit of telling you everything, you should know that my death will incense Levian when it occurs. He’ll feel robbed, and he might come after you for it.”

“I’ll be on my guard. We fended him off before, in far more adverse conditions than defending our own cities. Still, better seawalls wouldn’t be inappropriate for Malin, along with better perches to mount our defenses…” He trailed off, mind still clearly focused on the tactics of it, before coming to a belated realization. “You made a bargain with him, didn’t you? Borrowed time back amongst the living, in exchange for… What did he want in return?”

“One thousand souls,” Camille answered, since there seemed to be little point in keeping anything back. “And Malin in our hands. I succeeded at the one, and refuse to provide the other.”

“Refuse— Camille, a thousand souls is nothing in a war. All we need to do is declare our kills for Levian, and you could be saved in a battle or two. I can’t believe— And you think I’m the dumb one. I’m telling Mesnil, we march for Lorraine tomorrow.”

“Don’t.” Camille tried to keep her voice cold, but she could hear it crack. “This is exactly what I was talking about. You’d plunge us into a war right now, when we’re devastated from the White Night and barely holding on to what we have?”

Lucien didn’t hesitate. “I’d slaughter a thousand souls myself with my own two hands if it meant keeping you safe, and then a thousand more just to be sure. I know you’ve had to go it alone for a long time, but I’m here now.”

The image of Lucien the Conqueror standing triumphant on a bloody field rose to mind, impossible to banish. Hearing that, Camille wanted very badly to leap into his arms.

But one of us has to be smart. This is about more than me. “You’d be endangering every single one of your subjects. Magnifico as our captive is powerful leverage, but if we join a war against Avalon, they’ll have no compunction about burning Guerron to the ground. Malin as well, and Dorseille, and everything we’ve managed to build.”

“They’ll try. We fended off the Queen of Winter, we can—”

“No, we can’t, Lucien. That’s what our parents tried, and they failed. In time, with proper build-up, we can make ourselves enough of a threat that Avalon would hesitate to attack us. Eventually. But not in three months. It’s just a fantasy, better left in our heads.”

Lucien knew she was right, Camille could see it, but it didn’t seem to comfort him. “You’d have me watch you die, knowing I could have stopped it? How could you ask that of me?”

“I didn’t want to. That’s why I didn’t tell you. All that’s left now is the legacy I leave behind. That’s why I don't think we should marry. I wouldn’t want to leave you as a widower.”

“Of course.” Breathing heavily, Lucien turned his head towards the sky. “Of course you’d want that to die too.” Squaring his jaw, he faced Camille directly. “Well, if that’s really how you feel Camille, we’ll do what you want. You always know what’s best, after all. Like when you pushed Jean Bourbeau off a boat for calling me a beggar king. I had to spend six months wining and dining his father to stop him from defecting to Condillac.”

“I was fourteen! And I was just trying to look out for you.”

“Like with Laura?” He stared through her with penetrating green eyes. “Was that about ‘protecting’ me?”

Camille bit her lip, turning away. “It’s poor form to hold grudges like that. We’re meant to be partners.”

“Are we? Because it sounds like you don’t want to get married. You certainly don’t think I have anything valuable to say. No, you’d rather enshrine your own legend as the perfect Maiden of Dawn, forever young, forever beautiful, and leave the rest of us behind to deal with reality.”

Camille would be lying if she said the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, more as an attempt to salvage whatever she could than anything else. It was still hurtful to accuse her of it. “I’m doing this for the people. The same ones you’d see bombarded into dust so you can fight a war for me.”

Lucien didn’t respond, keeping his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Well, I’m the Fox-King. At the end of the day—”

“Don’t you dare. We’ve always been in this together, since we were seven years old. Don’t make it about rank and title now, or you’ll never be able to put it away. I’ll never be able to look at you the same way again.”

“Is that right?” Lucien stared at her quietly with his piercing eyes, the fire on the river dancing behind him. For a moment, Camille was worried he would go through with it anyway, but he seemed to finally come to his senses, head snapping forward. “Well then, I won’t. The peace will last as you wish, my lady. But I can’t be around you right now.”

I wish I could blame you for that, but… “Maybe it’s best if we spend a bit of time apart. I’m sure Annette will let me stay with her for tonight, and after—”

“What kind of cad do you take me for? I’ll stay with Miro.” He wiped his eyes, marshaling a determined expression. “Good—Goodbye, Camille.”

“Goodnight, Lucien.”

Camille barely slept that night, the weight of Lucien and her death and the Empire and the thousands dying in the Arboreum all pressing down upon her. What little she managed was tarred by nightmares like a mountaintop crumbling into dust, and a man stabbing himself in the face with a dark knife. Later, once she realized she’d missed her meeting with Fernan, she saw Guerron from high above, a simmering flame that threatened to engulf the entire city, but there was nothing she could do.

She was four hours late for her meetings the next day. Margot, mercifully, had handled all of it, even preemptively moving the afternoon’s calendar as well out of caution, though Camille could have done without the latter. A distraction would have been useful right now.

Her day clear, Camille collapsed into her chair, nearly slamming her face down on the desk in front of her before she saw the note placed there.

From Lucien.

I need more time. I trust you to run things here while I’m gone. I love you.

He was gone, and no one knew where. Mesnil and a dozen knights had followed him, but hadn’t left any record of their destination either. That hurt more than the departure, that he wouldn’t even tell her where he’d gone.

Even if it’s only fair play.

But Camille had expected Lucien to trust her. Now all that was left was to hope that he would come back in time for her to see him ever again.

To trust him in return.