Sir Baramon stared at the metal. His look wasn’t lascivious—he didn’t run with my sex—but rather one of shocked recognition. “That’s your grandfather’s mail.”

“Was my grandfather’s mail.”

His expression clouded. “I’m sorry. How did he die?”

“His heart gave out.” I fought to keep my expression placid. Just because he’d died in his sleep didn’t mean my wounds had healed. I’d been given no time to mourn.

“You have my sympathies. He was a good man.”

“Thank you.” I picked up the helmet left on the table and gazed at the black painted metal. Most of the core armor pieces used in tournament fighting are every bit as sturdy as any armor soldiers might wear on the battlefield. Tournaments aren’t without risk, even in bouts less calculated than Captain Dedreugh’s demonstration. Sir Baramon might have been a drunkard on his last legs, but he hadn’t shaken his training; the helmet was well maintained and practical. It would serve.

I set it down. “Do you think Talaras would let me ride him? Arasgon is willing, but someone might notice he’s not the same fireblood.”

“Arasgon’s here?” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Silly of me. He never leaves your side.”

“He did once.”

Sir Baramon didn’t take the bait. He picked up his wine bottle and jammed the stopper back in. “Why would you want to play the Black Knight? It’s an ugly crowd out there. And with the way this tournament is going, leaving while you can sounds like a better use of your time.”

“It’s a matter of idorrá. Besides, if I don’t do this, you’ll have to face the choices you made at Lonezh Canton a second time.”

Dorna’s face went gray. “What?”

Sir Baramon stood and snatched the helmet back, which I let go rather than fight over. “What foolery is this? You shouldn’t try to scare people with ghost stories.”

“Oh, don’t claim you’re a skeptic. How often have you listened to the new Baron Barsine claim his banner is overrun with witches and their summoned demons?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Just how do you think a Hellmarch starts?”

“This witchcraft business is just the paranoid delusions of a child still mourning his father.”

“Oh no,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “It’s much worse.” I’d admit I hoped it would be easier to sell Sir Baramon on this idea. I suppose I’d hoped he’d jump at the chance to regain his honor. But …

Demons. Could I blame him for flinching?

It meant I would have to play a harder game.

“Don’t make me take what I need, knight. I won’t be denied this.”

“You’re a little girl,” Sir Baramon chided. “A little girl who needs to go home.”

“You abandoned my mother to die.”