Crossing the Duchy of Montfort was like marching into a mouth full of rotten teeth. It was a land of narrow mountain passes, fortifications perched on impossible peaks, and a silence that was not peace, but ambush. Tancred's army moved with discipline, but the tension was palpable. Every shadow among the rocks could hide a Night Goblin or an Orc ambush.
Geneviève rode at the head of the column, beside Sir Baldrick the One-Eyed. Her new black Gromril armor absorbed the pale light of the mountain sun. She did not feel physical fatigue—her Divine Health and dwarven endurance sustained her—but she felt a different kind of tiredness. That of the actor who can never leave the stage.
Every night, when they camped, Geneviève had to withdraw to "pray." Only in the dark, hidden behind rocks or trees, did she dare lift her visor to hastily eat dry bread and salted meat, or to wipe a wet rag over her sweaty face. She watched the campfires, heard the coarse laughter of the sergeants and the songs of the Knights of the Quest. They were brothers. She was an island of iron. If they knew that beneath that indestructible metal was the body of a woman, a "simple daughter of Eve" according to their dogmas, they would have cast her out or worse, "protected" her in a convent. The King knew. The Dwarves knew. The Lady knew. But for these men, she had to be Sir Gilles, the necessary monster.
Three days after leaving the gorges of Montfort, descending toward the gentler valleys anticipating Quenelles, they passed near Parron.
It was not a town. It wasn't even a village anymore. It was a burnt skeleton on the hill.
Geneviève stopped Duraz. The horse felt the change in his mistress's heartbeat and froze, ears pinned back.
"Ruins," spat Baldrick, stopping beside her. "Probably an Orc raid from a few years ago. There's nothing here for us, Gilles. Let's move on."
Geneviève didn't answer. Her eyes, hidden in the dark slit of the helm, were tracing the lines of the collapsed foundations. She recognized the well, now filled with debris. She recognized the ancient oak, now a black and dead trunk, where as a child she used to climb to watch the knights pass on the high road. And she recognized the forge. Or rather, what remained of it. A solitary stone chimney standing like a tombstone amidst the ash. There her father had beaten iron. There she had learned that fire burns but purifies.
A wave of grief, sharp and physical as a knife between the ribs, hit her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to get off her horse, run among those stones, cry out the names of her parents and neighbors, massacred not by orcs, but by the indifference of the nobles who were supposed to protect them and the monsters she was now going to hunt.
But she couldn't. If she cried, if she showed weakness, "Sir Gilles" would die. And Bretonnia needed Gilles, not Geneviève the weeper.
"Sir Gilles?"
Tristan's young voice brought her back to reality. The Duke's nephew had caught up to her, worried by her statuesque stillness. "Are you well? You seem... petrified."
Geneviève gripped Duraz's reins with such force that the leather creaked. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She activated the vocal technique. "Checking the wind," croaked the gravel voice, cold and detached. "The ashes carry the scent of the enemy."
Tristan looked at the ruins with the superficial pity of someone who has never lost a home. "Poor people. I hope they died quickly. My uncle says we will rebuild all this one day."
"The dead don't rebuild, Tristan," replied Geneviève, turning her horse sharply. The hardness in her voice made the boy recoil. "They avenge themselves. Or they are forgotten. We are here to ensure they don't have to avenge themselves alone."
She spurred her horse. Duraz started trotting again, moving away from Parron without looking back. Geneviève focused on the rhythm of the hooves. Clop-clop-clop. Every step took her away from her past and deeper into her lie. She touched her chest, where the Three Nails were painted over her heart. I am no longer that child, she told herself fiercely. I am a Sword. And a Sword has no memories.
Leaving the mountains and ruins, the landscape changed drastically. The Duchy of Quenelles was the garden of Bretonnia. Rolling hills covered in endless vineyards, forests of ancient oaks where fey spirits were said to still live, and fairytale castles with blue roofs and golden spires.
The air was sweet, scented with grapes and flowers. For the soldiers, it was a relief. They took off their helms, laughed, pointed at the peasant girls waving from the fields. But for Geneviève, that beauty was an insult. How could they live so calmly, a few leagues from the horror of Mousillon? How could they drink wine and sing while the cancer grew on the border?
The black Gromril armor looked like an ink stain on a pastoral painting. Geneviève remained closed in her shell. She felt like an alien. A predator in the midst of a flock that didn't know it was at the slaughterhouse.
"There is the city," announced Duke Tancred, pointing to the valley.
Quenelles rose magnificently, its white walls shining in the sunset. But Geneviève wasn't looking at the walls. She was looking at the banners fluttering on the towers. There weren't just Tancred's colors. There were the crests of Bastonne, of Aquitaine, even a contingent from Carcassonne.
"We are not alone," murmured Geneviève.
Tancred smiled, a predatory smile. "I told you I would gather forces, Sir Gilles. My call to arms has been answered. And your victory at the tournament gave credibility to the cause. Those nobles are here because they fear being left out of the glory, or because they fear what you recounted."
He turned to Geneviève. "Prepare yourself, Knight. In Couronne you fought to be heard. Here you will have to fight to lead. Many of these barons will not take orders from a stranger without a shield."
Geneviève straightened her back. Her Vesper's Light pulsed slightly at her side. "They don't have to take orders from me," said the gravel voice. "They just have to follow me. And if they won't... well, Duraz is hungry."
The army began the descent toward the city. Geneviève let the shadow of her helm hide her eyes. She had said goodbye to the ghosts of Parron. Now it was time to create new ghosts for the enemies of Bretonnia. The Iron Mask was firmly in place. And beneath it, the girl wept, but the Paladin smiled.