The Field of the Lily was an ocean of colors that hurt the eyes. Thousands of silk flags fluttered in the wind: the yellow and blue of Couronne, the red of Gisoreux, the green of Quenelles. In the stands, the entire aristocracy of Bretonnia sat like a pantheon of judging gods, eating candied fruit and betting lands and horses. At the center of it all, on the Royal Box, sat King Louen Leoncoeur. The Grail King. His aura was so powerful that even from a distance Geneviève felt a tingling on her skin. He was a man who had drunk from the sacred cup, a demigod among mortals. Beside him, Duke Tancred watched the lists with narrowed eyes, hands clasped under his chin.
Geneviève, encased in her new mirror-polished Milanese armor, was motionless at one end of the track. Duraz, barded in white and silver with the symbol of the Chevron and Nails, did not paw the ground like the Bretonnian destriers. He stood still, planted like a rock, breath coming out of his steel nostrils in rhythmic puffs.
The first opponent was Sir Gaspard of Parravon. A young knight, famous for his speed and his contempt for anyone who didn't have at least four quarters of nobility.
Gaspard lowered the visor of his hawk-headed helm. Through the slit, he looked at the knight at the other end. Ridiculous, he thought. That man is a statue. His horse is a draft beast in a silk dress. He has no elegance. No momentum. I will hit him on the left shoulder and spin him like a top. Gaspard smiled. He had already decided how to spend the winnings. "For the Lady!" he shouted, launching his horse into a gallop.
Geneviève did not shout. She gave a mental command to Duraz. The horse started. It wasn't an elegant gallop. It was a brutal, mechanical acceleration. Duraz's hooves dug deep furrows in the beaten earth. The world slowed down. She saw the tip of Gaspard's lance oscillating slightly. She saw the weak point in his guard, just below the gorget. She didn't need luck. She had geometry.
The two lances met. Gaspard's hit Geneviève's shield, but slid off the curved, polished surface without finding purchase. Geneviève's dwarven stability absorbed the shock without her moving a millimeter from the saddle. Geneviève's lance, however, hit Gaspard in the center of his chest. It didn't break immediately. It transferred all the kinetic energy of Duraz and Geneviève's enhanced musculature into the knight's thorax. Gaspard was lifted bodily from the saddle. He flew backward for three meters, landing in the dust with a clangor of scrap metal that silenced the crowd.
A murmur ran among the ladies. "Did you see?" whispered the Countess of L'Anguille. "He didn't move. It's as if he were nailed to the horse." King Louen arched an eyebrow. "Brute force," he commented, "but applied with unsettling precision."
The second opponent was Sir Theobald the Red, a veteran of a hundred tournaments. He did not underestimate Geneviève. He had seen Gaspard fly.
He is solid, analyzed Theobald as he took the lance from his squire. Too solid. If I hit him in the center, I will lose. I must aim for the helm. A blow to the head will stun him. Theobald was a master at directing the lance at the last second.
They ran. The dust rose like a golden fog. Geneviève saw Theobald's intention. She saw his lance rising toward her visor. A normal knight would have raised their shield to protect their face, blinding themselves. Geneviève did not. She kept her head still. An instant before impact, she did something no one had ever seen in a joust. She didn't hit the knight. She hit the knight's lance. With an imperceptible movement of her wrist, the tip of her lance intercepted Theobald's shaft, deflecting it upward. The veteran's lance hissed harmlessly over Geneviève's helm. Geneviève, with the opponent's guard open, drove the blow into his right pauldron. Theobald spun around, unhorsed by the pure physics of leverage.
"Impossible," murmured the Marshal of the Tournament. "He parried a lance with a lance?" Duke Tancred smiled, sipping his wine. "It is not impossible, Marshal. It is just... different. That man fights as if the lance were an extension of his arm."
The Final of the Joust. On one side Sir Gilles, the mysterious knight with the crest of Nails. On the other, the absolute favorite: Baron Odo d'Outremer. Odo was a giant, almost as big as Geneviève. He rode a huge black destrier, known for biting squires. His armor was decorated with golden lion heads and his shield bore the symbol of an iron fist. Odo didn't play. Odo hurt people.
Odo spat on the ground as his squire closed his helm. A vagabond, he thought with hate. A landless dog who dares challenge me before the King. I will break his neck. Oops, "tournament accident". No one will cry for a stranger. He decided to use the dirty trick. He would slightly loosen his grip on the lance at the last moment, to turn the blow into a bludgeoning impact instead of a piercing one, aiming for the throat.
The silence was total. Only the wind in the banners could be heard. Everyone felt the malice radiating from Odo. And everyone was fascinated by the statuesque stillness of Sir Gilles.
The trumpet sounded. The horses started. The earth shook. Odo screamed, a barbaric war cry. Geneviève remained silent. She saw everything. She saw Odo's grip change. She saw the malice. You want to kill me, thought Geneviève coldly. Fine. Then it is no longer a sport.
She activated Punish Evil. She didn't make her armor or lance glow with visible light, to avoid being discovered as blessed, but she infused her muscles with sacred power. As they approached at the speed of two locomotives, Geneviève rose slightly in the stirrups. She ignored Odo's shield. She ignored his armor. She aimed for the exact center of the "Iron Fist" painted on the Baron's chest.
It was like thunder. Odo's lance hit Geneviève's gorget. The metal bent, the air left her for a second. But her neck, trained and reinforced by her Warrior level and dwarven toughness, did not break. Geneviève absorbed the pain and turned it into an anchor.
Geneviève's lance hit Odo. It didn't break immediately. It was hard ash wood, chosen by her personally. The blow was so devastating that Odo's breastplate dented inward. The Baron was not unhorsed. He was launched. He flew out of the saddle as if hit by a ballista. He flew five meters, landing on the wooden fence bordering the lists, shattering it with his weight.
Duraz stopped after ten meters, locking his hooves and sliding on the dirt, turning immediately to face the fallen enemy, ready to trample him if necessary. Odo remained on the ground, groaning, his ribs likely dust.
For three seconds, no one breathed. Then, the populace exploded. A deafening roar. They had seen arrogance punished. They had seen brute force bow before iron discipline. "GILLES! GILLES! GILLES!"
Geneviève trotted toward the center of the lists. Duraz was covered in foam, but held his head high. Geneviève, with her dented gorget and heavy breathing booming in the helm, stopped in front of the Royal Box. She lowered her lance in salute. She did not remove her helm.
King Louen stood up. The Grail King clapped his hands. A slow, regal applause. "You have a heavy arm, Sir Gilles," said the King, his voice magically amplified to be heard by all. "And a hard head. The Joust is yours."
Geneviève tilted her head. "For Bretonnia, Majesty," croaked her gravel voice, audible only to the front rows.
As she exited the arena amidst the cheers, Geneviève did not smile. The easy part was over. Tomorrow was the Grand Melee. There were no lanes there. There were only swords, axes, and chaos. And there, Geneviève knew, she could finally use her true art. The Dance of the Kensai was about to begin.