“But—”

“It nearly got you killed by the dwarf patrol at the river,” he reminded her.  “Maug told me how he first mistook you for a Believer. You cannot continue wearing it. What if the next time a Mandrian knight on patrol puts an arrow into you and asks questions later, or dwarves attack, or the Netherans—” “Your majesty makes his point,” she said with acerbity. “But ‘tis my war trophy.”

“Then put it in a saddlebag and use it to adorn the walls of your ancestral hold. But wear it no longer.”

She scowled, stubbornly defying him. Dain swallowed a sigh. In truth, she was about as easy to handle as the darsteed.

Finally she asked, “Am I then to ride no more into battle? Stripped of my armor, am I to fold my hands and retire, of no further use to your majesty?” Her voice was rough with appeal, and now even Sir Thum was frowning at Dain.