“I wouldn’t say that,” he mumbled, bowing his head.
Brother Qown sat down on the rope bed’s edge. The ropes creaked. The sound broke the spell. As soon as Sir Baramon looked up to see who had caused the noise, he turned back to me with a hard expression on his face.
“What is it you want?”
“A boon,” I explained. “I’m going to take over your role as Black Knight for the day.”
Sir Baramon laughed outright in surprise, but his expression sobered as he realized I hadn’t shared his laughter. “Are you—? What? You’re not—” He cleared his throat and started over. “We’re not the same size, my lord.”
“You and a rhinoceros ain’t the same size either,” Dorna said, “but I don’t see it stopping you from trying to impersonate one.”
“Dorna,” I chided. “Stop it.” I turned back to the knight. “In all fairness, the armor is a bit, hmm, small for you. It doesn’t need to be a perfect fit. I have a shanathá mail shirt I’ll wear under it.” I opened my sallí cloak, revealing the blue mail underneath.
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.”
He flinched. “That was uncalled for.”
“If my father were alive, he’d disagree. My grandfather would disagree. You failed the Theranons. When we needed you, you deserted, thinking of yourself—”
“No!” Sir Baramon’s eyes were wet. “That’s not true. Frena ordered me to go. Your mother begged me to take you and get you to safety. She said the gods demanded it. The demons couldn’t be allowed to have you under any circumstances. You were the hope of the world. I—” His voice broke off in a choking sob.
Dorna handed the man a handkerchief and patted him on the shoulder, her expression unreadable.
I blinked and stepped back, not saying another word. My mother had ordered Baramon to take me to safety? If true, then on some level, she’d known fending off the demons was hopeless. She never would’ve sent me outside the castle’s walls if she thought we’d repel the demonic onslaught. It implied something terrifying …
I’d grappled with this guilt for years, you understand; the suspicion that my capture by the demons, my possession by Xaltorath, wasn’t coincidence. That Xaltorath had searched for me, rather than picking out a little girl at random. I know, I know—we all want to think we’re special. But this sort of “special” would have given me nightmares, if I dreamed. I found the idea as horrible as it was arrogant: that half of Jorat and Marakor combined had fallen to the Hellmarch as demons searched for one girl. And only ended when Xaltorath decided she was done playing.
I didn’t outrun the demons, you see. Not even close.
But I couldn’t let myself be distracted.
“Now I need your help,” I said. “You were my grandfather’s best knight, and now? You’re my grandfather’s last knight. I need your aid. I call you back to serve the House of Theranon. I call you back to repay your debts.”
He wiped at his eyes with the handkerchief and scowled. “I serve—”
I shook my head. “No. You don’t. Not anymore. Tamin isn’t worthy of you. You’re my man now, as you always should have been.”
His jaw tightened, and he stared at me until I started to wonder if I’d made a mistake.
Sir Baramon held out the helmet. “The strap’s a little loose.”
Dorna intercepted it. “Well, now. Just you let me take care of that.”
9: THE CONTEST
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since the last day of Gadrith D’Lorus’s reign
Kihrin said nothing at first when Janel paused her story and motioned for Brother Qown to continue. He ch9ewed on his lip for a moment. “You know, I hate to say this, but I think … I think you’re right. I think Xaltorath was looking for you. Specifically, you. Just like I think he … she … was looking for me back in the Capital. It was intentional.”
“While it’s a distressing idea, I concur,” Brother Qown said.
Janel swallowed and then nodded. “I know now. I hate it. I hate it with everything in me, this idea—that people have died just because I exist. It’s so senseless. I do feel guilty.” She raised a hand. “I know it’s not my fault, but it doesn’t change my feelings.”