“About the tournament,” he said, as though it was obvious.

“You go out there and act as though nothing’s wrong,” said Lance.

Arthur slowly let out a breath and nodded, recognizing the logic in what Lance was suggesting.

“There aren’t many people who know what the scabbard does,” said Emry. “For those who do, Lance can watch how they react.”

“And what about you?” Arthur asked.

“If you want my help,” Emry said hesitantly, as though she wasn’t sure he would, “I’ll be there with my wand out, ready to stop anyone who tries to . . .”

“Kill me?” Arthur suggested quietly.

“. . . do violence to your person with the sharp end of a sword,” she finished.

Lancelot laughed. “It’s so much better now that she’s a girl saying these things,” he said.

“I was always a girl,” Emry reminded him.

“Well, sure, theoretically. But—”

“Finish that sentence and I really will turn your nipples into garden slugs,” she threatened.

Arthur groaned. Apparently some things were exactly the same. Like the way the wizard never knew when to keep her mouth shut. As charming as it was to listen to his friends bicker, he really didn’t have the time.

“Squire, my armor?” Arthur said sternly.

Lance picked up a gauntlet, and expertly buckled him into the rest of his armor in record time.

CHAPTER 32

Arthur staggered back into his tent, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. He could hardly believe it. He’d just won his match against Sir Ban of Berwick. The knight was forty-five if he was a day, and Arthur had almost underestimated him, until he’d seen the fire in the man’s eyes, and the knight’s thirst to prove his mettle against men half his age.

Thankfully, Arthur had also seen a weakness on the man’s right side, where he held his shield just wide enough to admit the clever thrust of a blade.

Which meant that Arthur advanced to the next round. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

“I told you training with the guard would whip you into shape,” Lance said, thumping him on the back.

“That remains to be seen.” Arthur pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “How do you breathe in this thing?”

“You don’t,” said Lance.

Arthur collapsed into the chair, unscrewing his water pouch and drinking greedily. He shook the last drops onto a linen cloth and draped the wet fabric across his neck.

“Well, anything?” he asked.

Lance shook his head, his expression grim. “Sir Kay looked pretty annoyed when you won, but that might just be his face.”

“I’m not looking forward to fighting him,” Arthur said, reaching for his water pouch, and remembering too late that it was empty.

With a grimace, he unstoppered the decanter of ruby wine, pouring himself a glass. “Plenty for two,” he offered.