Soooo. You missed me? :D Sorry. I was distracted by my other fanfiction (Raise the Bloodied Banner), my shiny new Windows 8, the invitation to an interview for history at Oxford, and watching Darker than Black. KIRIHARA X HEI X SUOU X HEI X YIN X HAZUKI FOREVAR. And Hei x Elephant, too.

The specs for the Tristan Restoration are based somewhat on the Lockheed Martin F-22, the ones for the South's aerial defence are based on the PATRIOT system. The-Pass-upon-Bravo, by the way, is the Britannian name for El Paso by the Rio Bravo.

Sorry if this chapter is rather plot-heavy. Just to get the point across, Faramond himself lampshades that in his narration around the middle. He's sorry, too, but he doesn't know of you guys. Yet.

Twenty-third Chapter – Hindsight

In hindsight, I had been amazingly stupid.

It had been foolish to assume that it was indeed Jeremiah who had knighted Jeanne, and she had been at first confused, then indignant when I falsely supposed that he had. She had seemed to take the idea that it had been Jeremiah as an insult, and had refused to further discuss the issue. Though she had seemingly forgiven me the day after her outburst, I still felt bad about it. On the other hand, of course, I knew nothing. In a way, it had been natural for me to assume that it had been Jeremiah for her, too. He had knighted me and seemed to be a kind of "grand master" of the Order's informal hierarchy. Judging from their reactions after I had knighted Henry, I doubted that any one of my sworn brothers and sisters would have knighted a new member without getting Jeremiah's approval.

And what if they had gotten his approval and kept Jeanne's membership secret? That did not seem particularly likely to me. The only members who had been even remotely near France in the last few years were my mother, who had paid a state visit to the Emperor of the French three years ago (the first reigning Britannian monarch to do so since Henry VIII met Francis I at the Field of the Cloth of Gold in 1555 a.t.b.), and Lieutenant-General Lady Kozuki, who at the time led the Black Knights' peacekeeping task-force in war-torn Naples, the capital of the Italian Republic. I did not know either of them well enough to be certain, but nevertheless it seemed very unlikely to me that either the Empress or Lady Kozuki had knighted Jeanne.

Furthermore, I could not see why she had been admitted into the Order. I could barely see why I had myself been knighted, and it had been due to my lineage – the Order would need imperial protection beyond the Empress' death. All of the other members had been part of Emperor Lelouch's original scheme, or figured it out during or immediately after its execution. So, why Jeanne, then? What use could a French teenage girl, even if as gifted and enthralling as she was, be to the Order?

I remembered a curious incident in April – ages ago! – when Kate had first dragged me out of my study to a gambling den. The bouncer had mentioned in passing that he had already let a student inside that day. Inside, we found Jeanne. At the time, I had ascribed her passing to bribery, a passed banknote, something like that. In fact, Jeanne never seemed to lack for money, be it for clothes, entertainment or high bets at the chessboard (which she almost invariably won, unless playing against me, in which case the odds were about even). But if there was anything the Order had enough of, it was money. One member was a sovereign empress, another was nominal viceroy of Area 2, three members held amongst them the spoils of the development of the Parceval class of Knightmares, Avalon class of airships and the infamous FLEIJA bomb. The Order had one Chief of the Imperial General Staff, two Knights of the Round Table, and Zero, who, though now unaffiliated with the Black Knights, still was incredibly prestigious. Oh, and me.

In any case, the issue seemed to be a wound spot to her. I should have seen that when she had first spoken of it, and not persisted. But I had persisted, and every time I asked, our relationship deteriorated a bit more. Even when I had learned to keep my stupid mouth shut, the inevitable elephant in the room put a strain on … whatever there was between us. I could not even apologise, because there was nothing left to apologise for. The tenderness that had once been seemed to dissolve. Meanwhile, the quicker our relation approached what might be called friendship at best and acquaintance at worst, the more often Jeanne drew me into her bed. As if neither of us were willing to accept that I had ruined it. But the tender feelings were gone.

In hindsight, I had been amazingly stupid.

After she had taken me to the opera, I had gotten a book on the composer Richard Wainwright from the school library. He had written several other, unrelated works, amongst them Tannhäuser, written before his exile from Saxony in German. The main character had entered the grotto of Venus, where he remained in spite of better knowledge, captive only by his love for the goddess and sensual pleasures. Or Odysseus, who was held by the bonds of Calypso's love for seven long years – neither was too dissimilar to my situation. It felt good to love Jeanne and be loved by her. It felt good to be with the other Student Councillors, pretend I were truly one of them. It felt too good. I had, perhaps, fallen for the illusion myself.

But, like the memory of the Mother of God redeemed Tannhäuser and the love he bore Penelope freed Odysseus, the illusion could not last. Bear with me as I continue the metaphor: an illusion, say, a stage magician's trick, can only work as long as it is left undisturbed. The moment the curtain falls, it is over. The moment an audience member dares a close look, the secret is lifted. The moment the doors open to admit a late arrival, the magic is gone. No illusion can last forever. What alone matters, in the end, are the demands of our bodies. Food, drink, sex are our highest cravings. When they demand their due, all illusions are broken.

But it does not end there. The more elaborate a lie is, the simpler it is destroyed. The more it hinges on things going just right, the less likely they are to succeed. My life as Alexander Lamperouge was just like that – an elaborate lie. It hinged on my friends not recognising me for Prince Faramond, on Kate and later Jeanne keeping my secret, on the knowledge of my absence from New Haven not spreading beyond the palace grounds, on tricking southern spies and it hinged on the support of Her Imperial Majesty's Government.

I had known that it could not last, had even known the manner of its end. I was a fool to choose to believe in it, for believing would only make the loss hurt more.

In hindsight, I had been amazingly stupid.

I had thought it did not concern me. I was half a world away from the front-lines. Ashford Academy had students from the elites of both the North and the South, and the sizeable Japanese-Britannian community honoured both sides and paid service to none. Though the Duchess of Ashford was a peer and a Lady of the Garter of the North, she tried to favour neither side. The Japanese and UFN governments, though vaguely sympathetic to the northern cause, were staunchly neutral. The war had no power here.

Or so I had thought, until one day in mid-December after classes were over I entered the Student Council room and found Shirley, Naoto and Kate already there. Kate was quietly talking to the other girl, who had obviously been crying, gently stroking her hand. Naoto was walking up and down the room, fuming, looking for something to destroy.

I should not have spoken. But I did ask, sheepish and insensitive. "Alex," Kate had told me in a grave voice, "There was a letter from New Haven … Lord Weinberg has fallen."

And the first thing I had thought of had been: what will this mean for the war?, and I hated myself for it.

I gulped. I did not know what to say. What does one say? And then I said, my throat dry, my voice hoarse, "I'm so sorry …" And though Kate gave me an odd look, and though this prompted Naoto to punch a dent into the door of a locker and scream his rage and grief for the father he had claimed to hate at everyone and no one in particular, I meant it. Two, I thought, that makes it two plus millions.

In hindsight – in hindsight those had been blissful days.

In hindsight, I still missed Henry. To be no one in a world half empty, alone with Henry whom I had given all my heart and the two little sisters I had not dared to visit since and Jeremiah with all the eccentricities of a knight too old to fight and Anya who barely ever spoke a work and with Henry. Those had been the happiest day of my life. Far off from all the destruction that I had caused, far off from all the lies surrounding me a spidery web growing tighter and tighter.

At Ashford, I could not escape fate. Could not escape the war, could not escape the lies. Jeanne was as much a spider as Jeremiah had been, a beautiful, lovely spider. I could barely look Shirley and Naoto in the eyes any more as I was eaten up from inside by guilt. I had been responsible for Gino Weinberg's death as much as the lucky southerner who pulled the trigger, I realised. If not for me, the Empress would have yielded long ago.

Hence, I had known that it could not go on like this.

The call had come late in December 2034. The twins had returned to attending school only days ago, but they still brought a gloomy atmosphere wherever they went. We of the Council had tried to visit them during their absence, but found Lady Kozuki's apartment deserted. When they returned, they wouldn't talk about where they had been, but Kate suggested that they might have been in Naples with their mother, or in Britannia for their father's state funeral. If so, they had not shown up on television.

The funeral ceremony had been solemn and vaguely uplifting. An honour guard of four Knights of the Round Table, all in black, stood by the coffin draped with the national flag, before it soft pillows displaying the orders, medals, sword and spurs of the late knight. A battery of the Imperial Horse Artillery fired a 4-gun salute. The Empress was in attendance, and Princess Cornelia and Lord Gottwald gave short addresses, full of platitudes. Lord Weinberg died a valiant and honourable death and it would not be in vain. He would be an example to the Realm's brave soldiers on the front-lines and its loyal subjects behind them. And though the Realm might be under duress, it would prevail.

But I appear to be side-tracked. Strange, in fact: of course I had known that it would have to end. Had those months been so pleasant that I would try to unmake it happening, try to go back …

I shall have to apology. I found it hard to put the events of the year 2034 on paper and forced myself to limit my account to some glimpses of special importance, in hopes to give my hypothetical reader some idea of my feelings. However, I am limited with words. I have never been a writer, more of a reader myself, and naturally not good with words. I feel my descriptions have improved since I began this, but they are still not near what I should like them to be. Furthermore – but I already said that, did I not? – those are not memories that are easily put in writing. Ink on paper can never capture what I felt throughout that year, can only ever offer glimpses, but not all. Perhaps I should have kept a diary these past years, but I suppose it is rather late for that. No, my time of Ashford cannot be described as a series of events. Rather, it had been a general feeling, a fluid dream, a stream of sounds and images. A web, more properly. Every event – every image, every sound, every sensation – was contained in itself, and yet part of a greater whole, but that greater whole was only loosely connected to its objective context; the life of Faramond of Britannia.

I sigh and wish I had some way to erase those last lines. I could scratch them out, of course. But everything in me is repulsed by the thought of disturbing the straight lines of narrow cursive ink on white paper with the letterhead of the hotel. I could have written this on my laptop, but perchance I was afraid no one would find this.

I think I should throw the stack of paper into the fire once I'm done. For what are the odds? Even if we assign a probability of 99.9 per cent to the papers being burned, there is a chance of one in a thousand that they are not burned. And if they are not burned, perhaps there is a one in a thousand chance that my writings are found, and a one in a thousand chance that they are published, and a one in a thousand chance that they are read by – by whomever I secretly wish for them to be read by. And even if the chances are against it, there is still a chance of one in a hundred millions that my writings will be read by whomever I secretly wish for them to be read by. For what are the odds? There is perhaps a chance of one in a million millions that I am not completely doomed.

I rise from my desk to look for new paper; the last batch of a hundred sheets is gone, every single sheet covered in my writing. I have made little corrections. It is the fourth batch; 400 pages. At twenty lines a page and ten words a line, some eighty thousand words. Are eighty thousand words enough for the story of fifteen years, with three more to come? – I am young – I look for more paper, cursing myself. I find some loose sheets from the past weeks, scattered in the suite. Then I finally give in to the necessity and call the room service, asking them to bring up another batch of paper. I use the following five minutes to work on my disguise; though it mostly consists of bad lighting, glasses and far too little sleep. A maid comes with another hundred sheets of white paper with the letterhead of the hotel, a weary, strained smile on her face. She warns me that it would be expensive, says it is near-impossible to get such things on the black market. I smile back, take the paper and hand her the first coinage I find – a chocolate bar from the tiny fridge. Her eyes light up as she lets the valuable sweets disappear into a pocket of her uniform, I close the door and get back to writing.

I curse myself. I don't have much time left. I certainly have no time to fritter thus. Well, time to get down to business, then.

Oh, just a little.

No.

Remember that one time when – but enough of that.

The call came on the 23rd of December, 2034. Exactly one year after Henry's death. I had no time to properly mourn him, though, as Kate, Naoto and I were busy trying to place a star on the top of the four metres fir in the school's front yard using a one-and-a-half metres ladder while Jeanne, Chigusa and Shirley were running around the school and dormitory buildings to apply some last decorations. "It's no use," I had finally said, Naoto nodding in agreement, "We need a longer ladder or a shorter tree."

Kate stood with her hands on her hips, frowning as Naoto climbed down the too-short ladder. "Don't be silly. The tree last year was barely taller and we still got the star on it. Look – it's obvious we can't place the ladder on anything else, the ground is far too slushy. I'm fairly certain, though, that we've got some kind of tongs somewhere …"

"I don't think that'll work," Naoto differed. "The star isn't particularly robust and it's slightly too small to be easily placed on the fir's tip. Quite likely, it'll break before we've placed it."

Squinting, Kate clicked her tongue. "Pff. You're just not as good with your fingers as Alex." I blushed heavily. Her tone had made the innuendo perfectly clear. "Anyway, there must be some other possibility. Ah … I think Wycliff's theology and Jigoro's PE classes still have class. We could just fetch the male students to help us lower the tree, just enough to fix the star on it …"

I looked at Naoto. He shrugged. "I suppose that could work. Alex, you go look for Wycliff's people?"

We parted, Kate staying behind to guard the cardboard boxes full of tree ornaments. I had to check for the class' location on the extensive timetables I had saved on my mobile, but did not need long to convince Wycliff to hand over his male students. The fact that it was late in the afternoon and he was as tired as any of them probably helped. Near the main entrance, however, my phone rang and I told the students to go ahead before looking at the display. The caller ID was suppressed, so I supposed it was Jeanne and found myself grinning. I took off. "Hey," I softly said.

"It's 1:20 am and I've got a video with the European prime minister at half past, so I'll make this quick," said my uncle's voice.

I froze. I had not heard this voice since the day I had been called back from Lord Gottwald's plantation. After he had murdered Henry exactly one year ago, I had hoped never to hear it again. The Prime Minister's voice was cool and smooth, as always. Eerie. As if nothing had happened.

That was, I like to think, the moment I realised that Prince Schneizel was a serpent: ever smooth, ever poisonous. Someone who had caused more deaths than even I and, in contrast, did not even feel those cruel pangs of guilt.

"Sir," I whispered. A cold shiver ran down my back. I had not wanted to call him that, but the habit sat too deep.

And then the strikes followed in close succession. "By agreement of the Privy Council, you are to return to Britannia on the 25th," he casually said. "A plane will be awaiting you at Narita, 9:43 am. Remember that. Well, if that is it –"

But this time, something rose inside of me. There was no time to think. "May I ask where I'll be going, sir?," I asked with a strained voice, and it still came out too polite.

"I would have told you had I deemed it necessary." The temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees. "But as you have already been told of the decision before your leaving, I may just repeat it. You are to take up military training at Imperial St. Joseph's Military Academy at The-Pass-upon-Bravo. That is a political necessity."

I gulped. I did not know what to say. I said the stupidest thing I could say, namely – "But what … but what about my friends here in Tokyo?"

Schneizel chuckled. "That is none of my concern." And with that, he hung up.

I do not really know what happened after that. That day's thick layer of snow seemed to have covered my memory, as well. I do believe, though, that I went back outside. The tree was already standing, star on top, by the time I reached them. The smiles on Kate's and Naoto's faces froze when they saw my expression.

I told them. I don't think I got my point across well, but I suppose Kate later filled Naoto up on the details I had omitted in my confused narrative. In any case, the result was that my friends now knew who I was and that I would be leaving. I barely remember their reactions, can only imagine them. When I spoke to them in later years, I noticed little to no change in their behaviour, to my great relief (though they all mentioned that I had changed).

So, how had they reacted? Shocked, most likely. But beyond that? Sad, because I was leaving? Angry, because I had not told them? Disbelieving?

I only know Jeanne's reaction. Of course she had known who I was, and thus remained silent all the while. In fact, we had talked little in the two days before my departure. Whenever I had tried to talk to her, she had avoided me. Late at night, lying on my bed in my empty room, I had heard her talking on the phone, though apparently the person on the other end had done most of the talking. Her voice was choked and quiet.

My friends accompanied me to the airport. It was even more awkward than I had thought. Though I did not doubt the others, only Kate's embrace seemed natural – for she had known in advance that I could not stay, and had not been thus deceived. I was more than grateful for it, and I knew that Kate was more of a friend than Jeanne had ever been.

And still, when the others had stayed back, Jeanne had accompanied me all the way to the gate: she, too, would be leaving, to France, for the holidays, but contrary to me, she would return.

We stood by the gate, awkward and silent. The second boarding call came and went.

"So … I suppose this is it," I managed to say after a while. Jeanne barely twitched. She wore a black suit, white shirt and black tie. Had gotten a new haircut, too. She looked more stern, more severe, but still beautiful. Her hypnotic eyes, though, were I looked away.

There was another long pause. "I suppose it is," Jeanne finally said.

Yet another pause. The third boarding call. I sighed and shouldered my bag. "Well …," I lamely said, "I guess I'll get going …"

I had not expected Jeanne to take my hand and hold me back. Firm and warm. "Wait," she murmured. "Just …" She broke off. I waited. This was unlike her – but so it had been unlike her to break down in tears at the opera, ages ago …

I stood and waited. Around us, people were moving to board the waiting plane, but I barely noticed them. Jeanne's breathing was slow and deep.

"Don't leave."

I turned to face her. Awkwardly, I drew her into a hug. Her silky midnight black hair engulfing my hand. Her body warm against mine. "I must," I replied.

It felt strange. Even when in bed, we had not been this close for months. I felt good, but I knew it could not last.

"No," she quietly said. "No, you don't must. You must not do anything if you don't want to. If you do something, even if forced, you want to do it. When someone is holding a knife to your throat, you want to live. To do something without the wish to do so, and be it never so faint, is weakness. Are you weak, Faramond? But even if you are, you need not do anything against your wishes. Do you wish to leave? If not, stay."

Pause. "I would I could. But … there are obligations I have. People I have to obey. No matter how much I'd love to stay here, I cannot."

"And who made those obligations, if not yourself? Who placed these people above you, if not your own wishes? If they demand things of you which you are not willing to give them, you do not need to pay any obedience to them. You are, essentially, free, Faramond. … When it comes down to it, humans are selfish. No one does anything without hoping to be rewarded for it. You may not see it, but there always is a reward. Be it money or be it affection. But, in the end, our own bodies and 85 million years of primate evolution win out. Our genes can lead us to protect those of our kin, who share these genes, even at the cost of our lives, but it is rare. And beyond that? We are selfish beings. Who would not sacrifice all the people he loved to save his life? … And that is it. The mystery of human minds. There are no others."

"Then what of love?," I quietly asked, loosening the embrace to look into her eyes.

A bitter smile played around those eyes and her lips when she answered. "There is no mystery in love. Love … is a contract like any other. A deal to feel good for a while, to reproduce and to pretend. Even if the contracting parties don't necessarily know of each other."

Her words felt like a punch in the stomach, like a slap in the face. They stung. We parted.

I could not believe her words, because believing would mean to destroy the hoard and throw away the key. And yet, in a sense, I could not deny their truth. And still – "So … why then?"

Jeanne sighed. Again she tried to smile, but this time failed to. "I don't know," she whispered. "Let us call it a misunderstanding. A pleasant one." She hesitated, then leaned in to peck my cheek. I barely reacted. "Farewell, my prince," she said. "Farewell. Be free. For my sake, if not your own. Farewell."

And she was gone, and so was the hoard.

New Haven, Duchy of Connecticut, Holy Britannian Empire

10th of December 2034 a.t.b.

Tonight, they all wore black.

Usually the service uniforms of Her Majesty's Knights of the Round Table were all white and gold, their boots and gloves shiny black leather and their swords bright silver, but such was not befitting of a wake. Four of them – Lord Gottwald, Lady Alstreim, Lady Spencer and Lord Hamley – stood around the plain black lacquer coffin underneath the crossing tower of the abbey church. All of them wore black coats, trousers, waistcoats and cloaks. They rested their hands on their sword hilts, their heads solemnly lowered. A flag covered the coffin – the banner of the late Knight of Three; the imperial arms of Britannia impaled by the arms of Weinberg. The first emperor had first done so, Richard IV, whose claim to the throne had been flimsy at best and criminal at worst, who could or could not have poisoned his lover, Queen Elizabeth III, and had gone on to be quite likely the most successful ruler of Britannia since the reigns of Elizabeth I the Great and her son Henry IX the Magnificent. He had been free of all illusions: Britain was lost, Elizabeth's sister Mary firmly seated in the throne at the side of Lucien Bonaparte. Thus, he united the ancient Dukedom of Britannia – given to his ancestor by the First Virgin Queen to prepare the dynastic unification of the realms of England and Scotland under her son – with the Crown, transformed the unruly American colonies into duchies at his disposal and had himself proclaimed Emperor of Britannia.

The Knights of the Round had become his swords and shields. "A knight should serve his king and no one else," he had proclaimed and decreed that no Knight of the Round was ever to take a wife or father children and do nothing but emulate those most Christian of knights they were named after. Their spouse was their emperor, and accordingly they impaled their personal arms with those of the Realm in a fashion otherwise reserved to wives. That practice had quickly been taken up by other Knights of Honour; and when a knight's lord or lady died, their arms were replaced by plain Sable as a badge of shame. No knight ought live who failed in his duty to protect.

Upon the flag covering the late knight's coffin lay an unsheathed sword, helmet, a pair of spurs; the insignia of knighthood. Before it on dark green cushions the orders of the deceased: most centrally, the Garter and the plain large round badge from the ceremonial collar of a Knight of the Round, but also various military and civil decorations, all carefully laid out. None should say Lord Gino Weinberg had lacked in honour in his death.

The vast interior of the abbey church was mostly dark. At this hour, only blueish moonlight shone through the magnificent colourful windows. Candles burned on altars and before shrines. That was it, and so it took Cornelia a while until she noticed that she, Gilbert and the four waking knights were not alone in the church.

A woman sat on one of the benches in the dark, a wheelchair behind her. A masked and cloaked man all in black silently stood behind her.

Cornelia looked at Gilbert. Her knight nodded and walked past her towards Gottwald. The Knight of One looked up when he approached, then stepped aside and Gilbert took over the position at the right shoulder of the deceased. Meanwhile, Cornelia approached the other woman and sat by her side.

The Empress was, once more, dressed in mourning. A modest, slim-fit black dress with white lace by the collar, a necklace of black and white onyx and deep purple amethysts, a small black hat decorated with a white lily blossom and a long black veil that obscured her fair features. Cornelia's mourning dress consisted of her scarlet dress uniform and a black armband.

After a moment, Nunnally spoke. "He was a good man," she quietly said. "A true and loyal knight and a light in the lives of all his friends. He shall be greatly missed." Gottwald stood next to Cornelia. "He and Kallen have … well, had, two children. Twins, one boy and one girl, about the same age as my own son. They're attending Ashford with him at the moment. Someone will have to tell them … I'll have to write a letter and have my ambassador in Tokyo tell them the news."

There was a short pause. Cornelia looked at Gottwald. His mien was solemn and firm. "Ma'am …," she then began, turning back to Nunnally. "There are important things about Lord Weinberg's death we have to discuss. Is this place safe?"

The Empress nodded. "This is a holy place – twice holy, in fact, if those research papers my father funded were correct. This is where I was crowned. No one will listen to us. Speak your mind."

"… very well then. Let me explain the exact manner of Gino's death to you. He was on a recon mission over southern Panama. In particular, he was to gather data on what we supposed were troop concentrations near Apartadó." She sighed and paused to gather her thoughts. "You have to understand that Gino was piloting his custom-made Tristan BK-201 "Restoration", which was an exceptionally light Knightmare built with speed of movement in mind. Also, he carried no armaments beyond the built-in machine cannons and Slash Harkens. He was travelling at a Supercruise velocity of Mach 2.31, which, at an altitude of about 17,000 metres, equals about 2450 kilometres per hour, or 2.31 times the speed of sound. Some of our most recent fighter jets can top that speed, but not for prolonged periods. The Tristan Restoration could. For comparison, the South's best ground-to-air missiles fly at Mach 5.0, which is, however, still easy to evade using the Tristan's passive defence system. It also employs the latest stealth system, which has since its introduction three years ago never failed us and never been penetrated.

"Hence, Gino could not have been shot down as he was. Sadly, we were unable to retrieve the wreckage – it was, after all, only days later that his charred remains were transferred to our embassy in Paris by the South's representative there. It's his, by the way. The dental records were clear on that. In any case, I have just yesterday received the final report from our analysts – apparently, there is evidence that up to fifty missiles were fired at the Tristan at the same time. Most of the shots were rather off, of course, which suggests that stealth was working. However, the sheer number of missiles made it impossible for Gino to evade them."

There was a long pause as the Empress let the information sink in. When she finally asked for the field marshal's conclusions, her voice sounded strained.

Cornelia once more looked at Jeremiah. She would not be the one to break the news to her sister. The Knight of One took the burden from her. "Ma'am," he said, "we are now almost certain that there is a traitor amongst us."

Slowly, Nunnally nodded. "I feared as much. Feared as much ever since you told me that Sir Gavin had waved my would-be assassin through the security check. I do suppose the only ones we can truly trust are our brothers and sisters in requiem … who knew of the mission?"

"Beside myself and Jeremiah, Lords Fisher and Fitzgerald, Lady Alstreim, General Warwick and the heads of Gino's ground support knew the details of the route we had planned out. I made note of it in my report to the Ministry of War, of course. If you will allow me the judgement, Warwick is not a traitor and Anya Alstreim was a close personal friend of Gino." She paused, looking at the pink-haired knight at the lower end of the coffin. Her face was expressionless, but Cornelia had been an officer for 24 years now. No soldier held any secrets from her, and it was clear to her that Anya was grieving.

"That leaves my knights," Nunnally sighed. "Sir Lance Fisher. Sir Percy Fitzgerald. Two young knights, the flower of our academies. The most promising nobles to enter the military for ten years. I selected and knighted them myself, at Schneizel's suggestion. And I may not like our half-brother, but no one can deny that he is capable. And the Geass makes up for what he lacks in loyalty. Would you say, Cornelia, Jeremiah, that the very knights who swore to protect me, to be my swords and shield, my husband in lack of one, have betrayed me?"

There was another pause. Then, Cornelia nodded. "Yes, Ma'am. Please consider that they are in the perfect position to betray us. From the outbreak of the war to this day, we have recorded 4,815 incidents of treason, sabotage and espionage. The greater part of those we have been able to ascribe to 512 known southern collaborators, all of whom are either in custody, dead, or under surveillance. However, there remain some five hundred incidents the perpetrators of which we have so far been unable to pinpoint. Unfortunately, that includes all of the hundred largest strikes against our forces. Little things in themselves, but they accumulate: a regiment ambushed while patrolling the no man's land, a position sabotaged, a map or timetable played into the enemy's hand, an officer sniped. There were some truly spectacular things, though – for example, when, during last years Winter Offensive, we found on the first day that the enemy had recently strengthened his defences in the very sectors we had been planning to attack the hardest. All this information was highly classified, but who would suspect a Knight of the Round? Who, indeed? They've been playing us, playing you all along, your good Lords Fisher and Fitzgerald and Hamley. Consider this: all of them are from ancient and rich families, unlike, say, Ladies Spencer, Alstreim and DeWitt. To say they are conservative would be the understatement of the century. As long as the war goes on, they know, you cannot rule without the Imperial Party's seats in the Commons and the peerage. However, the moment we win this war, all those noble and rich houses face destruction. Don't deny it, Nunnally, it's been long established that you want to cut down on the privileges of the hereditary peers. Compared to that, the South can offer them money, power, and security. Think about it."

Nunnally looked up at the vaulted ceiling far above them. "Cornelia," she then urged, "Jeremiah … I want you to find whomever is responsible for this. Find him, without a doubt. I do not care for revenge – it was clear from the beginning that good men and women would die in this unholy war, and Gino was well aware of that. However, whoever has betrayed me this time, we cannot allow that person to go on sowing death amidst us. I want him found and executed."

Cornelia nodded, smiling with relief before realising how inappropriate it was. "Of course, Ma'am. Nunnally." And, to her surprise, she noticed that she was holding her sister's hand.

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