The Tainted Sword

Chapter III

Flinn kicked open the door, his breath ragged. He had carried Johauna’s body through the icy woods, struggling to hold onto the girl during her sudden convulsions. But she was in the cabin now, and here they would be safe. Flinn gently placed the girl on the bed’s furs. She lay still and lifeless; her spasms of pain had stopped nearly fifty paces ago. At the time he’d been relieved because she was easier to carry, but now her stillness scared him. Jo’s skin, once the color of clear honey, was flushed crimson. She was sweating and fevered to the touch.

Flinn pulled off her shift and threw it on the fire, hoping the stench of the creature would be consumed with the fabric. He drew his softest fur over her. Then he turned to the mawed shoulder. The girl had lost a considerable amount of blood—more than he thought she would. Clearly some of the abelaat’s poison remained in her body. The fever was proof of that.

Carefully, Flinn cleaned the wound. A circle of eight fang marks ringed Jo’s shoulder, each still pulsing blood, albeit slowly. Flinn washed out what debris he could find, grimacing at the strange chunks of rusty crystal he removed. As he withdrew the last chunk from the eighth hole, he stopped to look at the granular substance more closely. The creature’s poisonous saliva must have solidified in Jo’s wounds, he thought. He put the chunks in a bowl, set them aside, and searched the flesh one last time for anything he may have missed.

The girl had turned deathly pale, but her sweating had stopped. Her shallow breathing filled the cabin with its irregular rhythm. For a moment, Flinn stroked the damp tendrils of hair on her brow. He knew he couldn’t take her to Bywater for a cleric’s ministrations—she wouldn’t survive a day’s ride.

He went to his cupboard and sifted through the few herbs he had. He pulled out a dried bouquet of yellow flowers. “Feverfew,” he murmured, gazing at the petals, “But her fever is down.” He set the bouquet beside a batch of bloodwort, which could have stanched the blood flow, but Jo’s punctures had stopped bleeding. The other herbs were useful in times of tainted water or spoiled food, bee sting, or nettle itch. None would help the girl now.

Shutting the cabinet door, Flinn spied movement outside the cabin. “The abelaat,” Flinn whispered. He drew his sword and, in one swift leap, positioned himself before the door. He yanked the door nearly off its wood-and-leather hinges, his sword arcing through the air at the same time. The wildboy stood in the doorway. Flinn grunted and twisted the whirling blade away from the ducking boy. The sword’s tip whistled past the wildboy’s ear and struck the doorjamb, biting deep.

The wildboy huddled on the step, paralyzed with fear. He looked up as Flinn yanked on his sword, struggling to free it from the wood. Seeing that he was safe, the boy turned his attention to the crudely made willow basket he held. His furtive hands darted in and out of the basket, arranging its contents. Then, standing, the boy gestured for the warrior to take it. Flinn stopped yanking on the sword and turned a dumbfounded gaze on the boy. He took the basket, slowly examining its contents.

“I saw the fight with the abelaat and brought these herbs to heal the pretty one. Use all but the narrow-leaved ones in a poultice,” the child’s voice was barely more than a whisper. Flinn looked sharply at the boy, surprised that he could speak at all, let alone in complete sentences. The boy continued, “Use the narrow-leaved ones in a tea. You may have to force her to drink it.” Before Flinn could speak, either in thanks or protest, the wildboy disappeared into the gloom surrounding the cabin.

Flinn shook his head, struggling to believe the incident even occurred. He stared, befuddled, at the basket in his hands and then back at the girl lying in the bed. He kicked at the side of his blade and knocked it loose from the wood, taking a sizable chunk from the doorjamb. This time he barred the door after closing it.

The warrior set two pots over the fire and added a few more pieces of wood. Sitting at the hearth, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He glanced once at the girl, who now lay strangely motionless, as if paralyzed. Listening closely, he heard Jo’s quick, irregular breath, and he thanked the Immortal Thor.

Flinn turned to watch the flames lick at the bottoms of the black iron pots, unaware that his lips had pulled into a grimace. The girl would likely die here in his cabin tonight, for he didn’t have the knowledge to heal her himself. “She is so young,” he murmured, shaking his head sadly. And the death of this innocent girl would be another stain on his honor as a former knight. It was he who had sent her off into the forest, he who had come too late to save her life, he whose lack of healing knowledge left her to die. But something else bothered him. The aging warrior rubbed his chin with one hand, then gazed past his fingers and thought about the girl. Her persistent questions about knighthood, her childlike trust in Flinn the Mighty—both had reminded him of what being a knight had meant to him. Her quest for knighthood reminded him of his own need to be a good and honorable man.

She couldn’t die now, he thought, not when she has awakened these feelings in me.

Flinn sighed and began crumbling the herbs into their appropriate pots, adding grain to the poultice pot to thicken it. He hesitated a moment, the crumpled leaves sticking to his hand. “What if this is poison?” he asked himself. Glancing at the lifeless Jo, he realized she would die if not treated, and any chance was better than none. Brushing off his hand, he leaned back and let the potions brew for a few minutes. Then he stirred the paste once more and removed the tea from the heat.

Rifling through the cupboard where he kept his weapons and personal effects, Flinn searched for something suitable to bind the poultice in place. Grunting in annoyance, he discovered he had no clothes left except for those on his back and the ceremonial tunic he had worn in the knightly Order of the Three Suns. He pulled out the silky, midnight-blue cloth and held it up, looking at the brilliance of the three embroidered suns on the front. In the murky light of the cabin the tunic shimmered; the golden threads in the cloth were enchanted, radiating a faint, continual light. Even after all these years, the tunic’s three suns still glowed.

Flinn looked at the garment and then looked at the girl lying helpless on his bed of furs. Biting a notch in the hem, he ripped the tunic, pulling it into long, usable strands. The cloth was old and tore easily, the metallic strands of gold breaking away and falling into the cracks of the pine board floor.

Seeing that the poultice had thickened properly, the warrior pulled the kettle off the fire, and then scooped some into a bowl to let it cool. Flinn checked Jo’s punctures one more time, wiping away both fresh and dried blood. The wounds would receive the poultice best if they hadn’t closed over.

He gathered a tankard of the tea and the remaining things he would need and settled himself on the bed. He drew the girl into his arms. Applying the poultice to the injured shoulder, he gently pressed the skin surrounding the wounds, noting that red streaks of infection radiated from the fang marks. He hoped the poultice would draw out the pus. Jo gasped at the heat of the grain-herb paste but gave no other sign of wakefulness. Flinn bound the poultice in place with the strands he had torn from his knight’s tunic, wrapping the cloth around her neck and under both arms to anchor the paste to the torn shoulder.

Flinn pulled the furs around the girl to keep her warm and leaned her against him. He picked up the tea and tested it for warmth. “Just about right,” he murmured. He set the mug to her lips, holding her head, and tried to get her to drink a little. She did swallow some, but then convulsed and spat out the rest. Flinn held her nose shut and tilted her head back, pouring the tea as fast she could reflexively swallow. Once or twice she tried to turn her head, but Flinn’s grip was firm. He stroked her throat to force her to swallow the last of the liquid, and then he wrapped his arms about her.

“You’ll be all right,” he whispered, hoping the words would penetrate her haze of pain. “Hold on, Jo. Don’t die,” he added gruffly. His arms tightened briefly about her. Then he laid her back into the waiting furs. He loosened the hair still bound in her braid and covered her with yet another fur, then rose from the warm bed.

Her breathing had become deeper and more regular. Although her arms were still blanched and clammy, Flinn fancied he saw a little color returning to the girl’s cheeks. He tucked the skins more closely about her neck, noting the moist sheen of her lips.

“Better tend to Ariac and Fernlover, what with that abelaat around…” the words trailed off. He peered at Jo, thinking she should be safe alone for a few minutes. Flinn unbarred the cabin door and went outside, taking his sword with him. Warily he looked about, but the afternoon light had faded already and he could see little. He listened to the wind and was reassured by its quiet chatter. Flinn broke into a lope up the path behind the barn, heading toward the northern meadow where the beasts were hobbled.

The bird-lion and mule stood waiting for him when he crested the rise, for they had heard his approach. Flinn removed the hobbles and took hold of the braided leather halter he kept on Ariac whenever the griffon wasn’t wearing a bridle. He did not take hold of Fernlover—the mule would follow Ariac back to the stable readily enough. Together they retraced the trail to their home.

Flinn quickly settled the animals in for the night, foregoing care of the griffon to return and tend Jo. Before he left the barn, he retrieved some tanned hides from a chest to make her a new shift.

The girl had grown restless in his absence. She had thrown back the covers and curled into a tight ball, her good arm stretched over her furrowed brow. Flinn wondered if she were dreaming about the attack and trying to defend herself. Carefully he returned her to a more comfortable position.

Johauna moaned in protest and pulled her good arm closer across her face.

An hour or so later Flinn felt the poultice; it had grown cold and needed to be replaced. He sat before the fire and returned both pots to the flames. As Flinn waited for the concoction to heat, he wondered about the abelaat. Why is it here? Did it attack Jo deliberately? Or is it after me? Flinn’s thoughts whirled. Who had released it into these woods? Johauna’s wounds bore testimony to the strangeness of the creature; the abelaat’s bite yielded a puncture wound from each of its eight canine teeth.

The mixture had grown suitably hot as had the tea, and Flinn repeated his ministrations. This time the girl seemed nearer consciousness; she struggled as he applied the steaming poultice. Flinn set his jaw, restraining her clawing hands as he fixed the new poultice and administered another cup of the tea.

Jo fell into a deep slumber, exhaustion written across her pale face. Rubbing the scratches Jo had left on his arm, Flinn began pacing the narrow confines of the cabin.

What am I supposed to do with this girl? he thought suddenly. Because I gave her pilgrim’s right, I’m now responsible for her? Then he remembered that it was he who had sent her after kindling. He sighed, dropping into his chair. The girl was awakening in him the old honorable principles he had once championed. Those selfless impulses ran counter to the baser instincts he had developed during his seclusion.

The girl stirred and moaned in her sleep then, her eyes fluttering in an effort to open. At last they did open, and her gray irises struggled to focus on him. She whispered a word, but her voice was too frail to hear. Approaching the bed, he leaned over her and coaxed her to speak a second time.

“Water,” came the hoarse whisper.

Flinn poured water into the tankard he had used for tea. Returning to the bed, he pulled Johauna into a sitting position and set the tankard to her lips. She drank thirstily. Jo sighed and fell asleep in his arms. He laid her back on the fun and then touched her throat gently. The fever had returned. He fetched a bowl of water and a soft rag and began sponging her body, taking special care around the injured shoulder. In the flickering firelight, he saw that the angry red streaks had spread farther across her skin.

Flinn pulled a few of the lighter furs over Jo, then wet the rag and wrung it out one more time. He draped it across Johauna’s throat in an attempt to cool her. Standing, he stretched his weary muscles, feeling the bones along his spine shift into place. Then he moved to the chair before the fire and began his lonely night’s vigil. He prayed to the Immortal Diulanna that the girl would live until morning.

The next day, Flinn stoked the fire in the cabin and looked at the girl lying in his bed. She still breathed, and in time her eyes opened.

“Flinn,” Jo said, her voice frail and labored, “tell me about the Quadrivial. …”

Flinn hesitated; the Quadrivial was a code he had failed, a way of life to which he was exiled. Still, he couldn’t refuse her request, not when he had—however indirectly—caused her pain. He didn’t know how much she knew of his fall from grace and his banishment from the Order of the Three Suns, but perhaps he could tell her about the Quadrivial without going into either of those. He fervently hoped so.

Flinn settled himself on the side of the bed and looked down at the pale face before him. Jo’s gray eyes were luminous in the light, and dark shadows of pain circled them.

“As I told you,” Flinn began wearily, “the Quadrivial is the path to righteousness. All knights who are true and noble, good and virtuous, follow the Quadrivial. The path of the Quadrivial leads to four comers—four points of truth. The path is never-ending, and not all knights reach every corner. But these are the goals all true knights strive for. The first point is honor; without honor a knight can never attain the other three points of truth.”

“You fell from honor, didn’t you? The ‘Fall of Flinn’ says you did.” The quiet words cut into Flinn’s heart.

His voice was husky and hesitant. “Aye, I fell from honor, Jo. But the story as you know it is wrong.”

Jo’s breath caught short. “I never believed it. Not for one moment. You wouldn’t deny mercy on the battlefield, not even to an ogre! Surely the baron’s court was wrong, and the people, too!” She gasped for breath and her eyes clenched tight.

Flinn’s heart contracted in pain. For the first time in seven years, he opened his mouth in his own defense.

“The ogre never sought mercy, and I killed him as a matter of course. But a knight who wanted to tarnish my reputation accused me upon our return to the castle, claiming I had denied mercy. Unfortunately, some people chose to believe him—” most notably Yvaughan, Flinn thought bitterly “—and I left the order in disgrace.”

“Why didn’t they believe you when you told them the truth?”

“I—” Flinn swallowed his words. I don’t need to tell her anything, he thought suddenly. But some impulse drove him on. “I didn’t argue my case strongly enough for two reasons. The first, I’ll admit, was pride. I didn’t think the court would believe the other knight over my reputation—I was near to attaining the fourth point of righteousness. The council wouldn’t have believed the knight, either, if it hadn’t been for someone else’s testimony.”

“Whose?”

Flinn paused, gall sharp and bitter on his tongue. “My wife’s.” He swallowed hard. “The second reason why I didn’t tell the truth was because Yvaughan, my wife, sided with the other knight. My telling the truth would have harmed the people’s respect in her, for she is niece to old Baron Arturus Penhaligon. I… I didn’t want that on my conscience.” Flinn shifted his gaze to the floor, then turned back to the girl. Jo doesn’t need to know I held my tongue out of love for Yvaughan, he thought.

The girl’s eyes regarded him thoughtfully, but he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. At last she spoke, her words hushed, “I believe you, Flinn.”

“Yes. Well,” Flinn faltered, gratitude a long-forgotten emotion to him. “The … ah… second point of righteousness that a knight must attain is courage. Without courage, a knight can’t battle evil in the world. Without courage, he can’t prove himself worthy of the other two points of the Quadrivial.”

“Have you always had courage, Flinn?” The girl struggled to keep her eyes open. Flinn planned to stop talking the moment they closed.

“Always, except for once,” Flinn responded, then grimaced at his immodesty. All his life he had been courageous, knowing what needed to be done and doing it. Until the day of your fall, his inner voice mocked him. You couldn’t face Yvaughan. He quelled the voice. “Only once did I fear a beast so much as to flinch from challenging it. But I did confront Verdilith.”

“Verdilith?” The name caught the girl’s attention. “The great green dragon who’s back in the territory? The same one from the tale?”

“Yes, the same,” Flinn said wryly. “I was much younger when I faced Verdilith, and I was scared. But following the path to courage doesn’t mean a knight can’t be afraid—only that he must overcome that fear, as I did.” Flinn touched the scars on his face. “This is my badge of courage, the result of confronting my fears and facing Verdilith.”

Jo said slowly, “The merchant in Bywater spoke of a prophecy…”

Flinn looked away for a moment and closed his eyes. He blinked, breathing deeply. “There’s a mad wizardess who lives in the hills near the Castle of the Three Suns. Karleah Kunzay, the wizardess, says she dreamed of the fight between Verdilith and me. She prophesied that the next time we meet, one of us will die.”

“Is that why you never fought Verdilith again?” Jo asked slowly, her voice trembling. Flinn studied her face, knowing she feared his response. His answer could shatter her image of him. He felt strangely humbled.

“No. To be quite honest, no,” Flinn answered. “I don’t believe the prophecy. I never have. Verdilith was badly injured in our fight, and he flew off. I thought he was mortally wounded, but he’s returned to Penhaligon in the last year. Green dragons are notoriously slow to heal.” Flinn smiled at Jo, unconsciously seeking her belief in him again. “No, Jo, I fought Verdilith only once, and only once it will be, but not because of the prophecy.”

“Why don’t you go after the green? Like Baildon asked you to?”

Flinn shook his head. “Hunting dragons is a job for knights, not hermits. It’s the order’s duty to protect Bywater—not mine.”

“But the prophecy implies that the two of you will meet again—”

“I told you, I don’t believe the prophecy. I won’t hunt Verdilith again,” he said bitterly. “They’ve stripped me of my knighthood, they’ve spit on me and reviled me, they’ve set my name with villains and traitors, yet still they expect me to slay the dragon. That’s their job, not mine,” Flinn finished, pacing stiffly toward the fireplace.

The girl stared at him, her eyes shining once more. “I understand, Flinn, I really do. When I’m better and I become a squire at the castle, I’ll tell the knights what you’ve said—I’ll get them to hunt that dragon and kill it like they should. Maybe I’ll hunt Verdilith, just as you did.” Wishful longing showed on her face as her words trailed off.

For one moment, Flinn envisioned himself as a knight in her company. He thought of long, tiring days in the saddle and the easy camaraderie of the shared campfire. His heart ached. Flinn braced himself against the mantle. Abruptly, he realized he was lonely. His self-imposed exile seemed suddenly pointless and childish. He wanted to whirl around and propose an expedition to slay the dragon with Jo by his side. Then his eyes shifted to the mantle, where his calloused and scarred hands lay. You are a hermit, not a knight, he thought.

“The… third point of the Quadrivial,” he said slowly, trying to remember the injunctions he had learned in the past, “is that of faith. A knight must have faith in himself and must deserve the faith of the people. The true measure of a knight’s worth is the faith placed in him by his fellow knights and the world around.

“Without faith,” Flinn continued, “a knight can never achieve glory—the fourth and final corner on the path to righteousness. The first baron of Penhaligon, who established the Order of the Three Suns, decreed that a knight of renown is equal to his deeds. Acts of righteousness should be sung as a testimony to all folk everywhere.”

Jo was silent for several heartbeats before she spoke. “Did it… did it hurt much when the people at the castle lost their faith in you, Flinn?”

Flinn flinched and released a long sigh. “Yes,” he said raggedly, “yes.” Anger rose like a sudden flame around his heart. He turned from the fireplace, averting his eyes. In two quick strides, he reached the door and stalked out into the gathering dusk.

He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. Part of him longed to return to the cabin and rage at the girl, to take out his bitterness on her. He stomped toward the stable, muttering imprecations about Jo. But he knew that he couldn’t blame her, that he had brought about his own hurt. He should have defended himself against the accusations of Yvaughan and Sir Brisbois. His fall was his own doing, and no one could ever change that. Not he, not Johauna Menhir.

Three days later Jo had recovered enough to leave the stuffy cabin and walk about outside, exercising her cramped muscles. She paused in the knee-deep snow, pulling the fur tighter about her shoulders. Even the new leather shift Flinn had made for her didn’t stop the cold. Slush trickled into her worn shoes. She sighed heavily, watching the breath whirl away like a ghost before her. Turning, she trudged tiredly back toward the cabin door.

Some instinct made her stop in the act of opening the door, and she looked into the surrounding woods. The barren trees formed a black lace against the overcast sky.

Movement along the cabin wall caught Jo’s eye. She peered closer at the bushes near the cabin, then realized with a start that she was staring directly at the wildboy. His scraggly blond hair, smudged face, and ragged clothing blended well with the surroundings. Jo waved at the child.

The boy gave a shy nod in return and said, “My name’s Dayin. What’s yours?” Despite his rough clothes, the boy’s voice was surprisingly sweet and clear.

“It’s Jo. My name is Jo,” Johauna smiled reassuringly. The boy nodded and then vanished. Jo scanned the wall of the cabin and the woods that lay beyond. She saw no trace of him. Shrugging, she entered the cabin.

Flinn was kneeling by the fire, stirring gruel. Jo stomped her feet at the door, trying to shake off the snow. As she removed her shoes, she noticed that Flinn was watching her. He shifted away from the pot of gruel and began to rise.

“I can take off my shoes, Flinn,” she said a little breathlessly. “I made it all the way to the privy, and I can remove—” her struggles got the better of her, and she stopped talking. Flinn turned back to the porridge, taking it off the fire and ladling it into the bowls. He pulled a loaf of bread from the cupboard and filled the tankard with water. By the time he had put all the food on the table, Jo had donned the warm fur slippers Flinn had fashioned for her yesterday. She sat on her log beside the table.

“I saw the wildboy just now,” Jo said, between alternating bites of gruel and bread. “He says his name is Dayin. I wonder if he knows about the attack.”

“He does,” Flinn answered brusquely. “Dayin, huh? That scamp saved your life. He concocted the herbs that drew out the poison.”

“What do you know about him, Flinn?” Jo asked, chewing a piece of the flat bread. Her appetite was slowly returning, and this was the first regular meal Flinn had fed her since the attack.

Flinn shrugged, disinterested. “He doesn’t bother me and I don’t bother him. What more can I say?”

“But why’s he all alone in these woods?” Jo persisted. Flinn looked up from his bowl, his left eyebrow arching deeply. “Why are you all alone out here in the woods? Why am I?”

“But that’s different, Flinn, and you know it. I’m here because I wanted to find you—”

Flinn interrupted, his voice mocking and bitter, “You wanted to find Flinn the Mighty, not me.”

Johauna ignored him. “And you’re here because this is where you want to be. But that doesn’t explain why…” Her voice trailed off as a scowl deepened across Flinn’s face and his cheek pulsed.

“Sometimes you have no idea what you babble about,” he spat out, standing up. He strode about the cabin, collecting gear and cooking supplies. Jo watched him in shock as he packed the items into a backpack. “I have trap lines to tend, and this—” he waved his hand about the room “—is only keeping me from them. You’re well enough to fend for yourself here in the cabin.”

“You’re leaving, Flinn?” she asked, her voice unexpectedly small and pained. For a moment Flinn’s eyes caught hers, and she thought she saw some emotion flicker there, but he averted his gaze.

“I’ll be gone a week, maybe ten days, to check the trap lines. I’m a trapper, remember. The griffon and mule will be with me, so you won’t need to worry about tending either of them.” He was backing out the door, finally turning his stony face toward her. He pivoted and began walking toward the barn, leaving Jo at the doorway.

“What will I do while you’re gone?”

Flinn stopped in the yard, then turned about slowly. “If—” he stressed the word “—you’re still here when I return, we will see.” His eyes caught hers again. “We will see.”

He turned and left.

A week passed, then a fortnight before Flinn finished his trapping and returned to the cabin in the woods. Snow had fallen recently, and in some parts of the woods it reached his waist; he had had to dismount from Ariac and lead the animals through snow-blocked passages. Now Flinn peered down at his cabin, studying the few tracks surrounding the buildings. He wondered if Johauna had indeed left. Then he saw smoke curling lazily away toward the blue, afternoon sky. He sighed.

The girl is still here, he thought. She is still here. Praise the Immortals.

Giving Ariac’s flanks a light tap, Flinn pressed onward. Fernlover brayed in anticipation of the comforts the barn promised. Flinn wasn’t surprised to see the barn door swing open and the girl emerge. He nodded at her but said nothing, not even after she broke into a wide smile.

“Flinn!” she shouted and raced to meet him. “You’re back!”

“Obviously.”

“I expected you a week ago.”

“I told you I might be longer than a week.”

“You said ten days, outside. It’s been two weeks.” She took Fernlover’s lead from him and led the pack animal into his own stall. “I was beginning to worry.”

Flinn halted his dismount in midstep to look at her, his eyebrow arching in amusement. “I find it unlikely you’d ever worry, girl, save perhaps when your next meal is postponed.” He finished swinging off the griffon. “Besides, I left plenty of food, and you obviously didn’t starve.”

She faced him squarely. “No, I didn’t starve.”

He eyed her slowly, noting that she had fashioned herself some breeches from the damaged hides he couldn’t take to market. She was wearing the shift he had made her, and she also had a new fur vest. Her damaged shoes, he noticed, had been repaired with some leather.

“You also didn’t leave.”

The words hung in the air between them. She moved her hand and pursed her lips, as if words threatened to spill forth that she couldn’t give voice to. At last she said, “I didn’t want to leave, Flinn.”

Without taking his eyes off Jo, Flinn opened the saddlebag next to him. He pulled out the blink dog’s tail and threw it at her. “Good. I’m glad.”

Jo caught the tail and cried, “Flinn! You found my tail! How? When? I thought too much snow had fallen! I thought I was never going to see this again.”

“I brought Ariac over to the scene of the fight. He’s got a keen nose—he found the tail without much trouble.” The warrior turned to the griffon and began undoing Ariac’s tack.

Jo stepped into the stall’s doorway. “Flinn,” she said tentatively.

“Yes?” he drawled, his back to her.

“Flinn,” she repeated, “why were you glad I hadn’t left?” The warrior paused, then continued undoing the buckles of the griffon’s girth strap. Still, he wouldn’t turn to her, but said instead, “How’s your shoulder? Any pain?”

“A little—not much. It itches,” Jo replied.

“Good. That means you’re healing.”

“Flinn? You were saying…”

“Saying what?”

Jo sighed in exasperation. “Unless my ears tricked me, you were saying you were glad I hadn’t left. Why?”

Flinn ground his teeth, then shook his head. He turned around, his expression serious. I can’t tease her anymore, he thought. I must tell her what’s on my mind. “I’ve decided to teach you a few things you’ll need to know to petition as squire.”

“Flinn!” the girl cried, her voice breaking an octave. She looked positively stunned. Jo took a step forward, her hands out to embrace him, but she stopped short. Flinn felt a wave of both relief and disappointment wash over him.

“Oh, Flinn!” Jo said again. Suddenly she looked out the barn door. “I’ve got something on the fire that needs watching, Flinn. I hope you like it! Hurry in!” The girl whirled out the stable and raced toward the cabin.

Flinn shook his head ruefully as she ran off. “What have I done,” he muttered to himself. Turning, he stabled the animals, tending to their ice-crusted hooves and pads. Then Flinn walked to the cabin. A savory smell wafted from the pot Jo was stirring.

“That smells good,” he said, putting some of his belongings in the cupboard by the door. “What is it?”

“Rabbit stew.” Delicately she blew on the ladle and tentatively tasted the sauce.

“Rabbit?” Flinn asked over his shoulder. “I know I had some stored vegetables, but where’d you get rabbit?”

“I trapped them yesterday.”

Flinn was dumbfounded. “You—a city girl—trapped them?”

Exasperated, she glared at him. “Don’t look so surprised, Flinn. Not all city girls are helpless, you know. Some of us do know how to hunt. There’s really no difference between trapping rabbit for the pot and wharf rat for the spit.” She turned away and began ladling the stew into bowls.

“Wharf rat?” Flinn’s voice rose. “You ate wharf rat?”

Johauna nodded. “It wasn’t bad, really. You have to eat something, so when you’ve got no money, you hunt whatever’s around. At the wharfs in Specularum you hunt wharf rat. There are worse ways of surviving. The sailors would’ve paid handsomely for… favors, but…” her voice trailed off and she was suddenly still.

Silently Flinn’s hand reached out to touch the glossy braid down her back. She moved briskly away, fetching the bread and water. He drew back his hand.

Jo faced him across the table as they sat down to the meal. “What made you decide to teach me how to be a squire?” she asked awkwardly.

Flinn shrugged, then sniffed happily. He didn’t cook very well, and the rabbit stew smelled excellent. “I… I’m not sure I know why. Suffice to say that I think you’d be a good squire, and that I think I could teach you a few pointers.”

Jo said nothing, only looking at him inquiringly.

“In a few weeks I’ll find out your ability to learn—your strengths and weaknesses. I’ll also know how the council’s likely to react to you. You won’t have a formal sponsor—that is, a knight or a noble to vouch for you,” Flinn added.

Jo’s eyes were wide and unblinking. “Must I have a sponsor, Flinn? And—” she hesitated “—can’t you sponsor me?”

Flinn returned her gaze, a strange pain in his chest. “No. I can’t sponsor you. I’m no longer a knight,” he said heavily. “As to whether you need a sponsor, the answer is no, but you’d be better off to have one. Still, we can get around it.”

Jo nodded, her gaze intent. “Fair enough, Flinn, fair enough.” She smiled quickly, handing him the plate of bread. “Now, let’s eat. You’ve had a long journey. Time enough to talk about this later.” Her eyes were shining, and he sensed a terrible tension in her. “Flinn,” the girl’s voice was barely more than a whisper, “thank you.”

“The rabbit stew’s excellent, Jo,” Flinn said after a few swallows. “Tell me more about Specularum, and… tell me about you,” he added after a moment’s consideration.

The girl looked at him abruptly, as if unsure what to make of his last remark. She looked down at her bowl and finished chewing a bit of food.

“It’s true that I did hunt wharf rat for food. I learned how from a crippled fisherman who lived by repairing nets. Pauli taught me how to make a thin, strong twine from unsalvageable netting. He showed me how to place a loop trap where the rats’d run.” She shrugged. “I had a choice: I could hunt wharf rats, scavenge rotten fish, or steal marketplace food.” The girl leaned toward him. “I chose to hunt.”

“Tell me about the city,” Flinn requested.

“Specularum? It’s crowded, filthy, and unwelcoming. What would you expect from the largest seaport around? The stench is unbelievable. Even a week after I left the city I couldn’t smell anything.”

“Why did you leave the city? Really?” Flinn asked suddenly.

Jo looked at him for a moment, then her eyes crinkled and she laughed. “I left because a drunken lord tried to get frisky with me in an alley—he must’ve stumbled down the wrong way in the dark, for no lord had ever been down that street before, I’ll warrant. Anyway, I bit his ear off.”

Flinn snorted derisively.

“The next day there were warrants out for the arrest of the ‘fiend who had accosted Lord Arston’. It seemed a good reason to leave Specularum. I stowed away on a river caravan heading north for the Castle of the Three Suns, but the captain found me and threw me overboard. I followed the river north, but somehow I ended up in Bywater instead of at the castle.”

Flinn smiled at her, freshly amused at the girl. “You came up the Castellan instead of the Hillfollow. The Hillfollow would’ve taken you straight past the castle.”

Jo smiled back and shrugged, then she said, “There’s something I want to show you.” She went to the bed, reached under a soft fur, withdrew a foot-wide square of blue silk, and handed it to him. “I found what was left of your tunic and did what I could to salvage it.”

Flinn fingered the square of cloth in his hands. The girl had skillfully taken apart the embroidery of the suns and used the thin yellow strands to sew the midnight blue cloth together. From a distance the contrasting stitches were hardly noticeable, but close up they created a pleasing mosaic pattern. The three suns, though now much smaller, were still situated on the front of cloth.. Flinn touched the frail golden threads that ran through the yellow threads, surprised to see the strands shimmer.

“The gold threads are still enchanted, Flinn,” the girl said. “When I pieced them together they glowed, though only faintly. Whoever cast the spell must have been a powerful wizard.”

“Camlet the seamstress took great pride in her work. I’m not surprised the threads still glow.”

He looked up at Jo standing beside him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. “It’s beautiful, Johauna,” he said simply. “Thank you for saving as much as you could.”

Her voice was breathless. “You’re more than welcome, Flinn.” She stroked the three suns briefly. “I know this square can’t replace the tunic, but perhaps you can keep this as a… a favor, I think the knights call them.”

“They do.” Flinn pointed at one of the sacks he had brought in. “I have a present for you, too. Take a look in there.”

Johauna looked in a long, narrow bag and pulled out a wooden sword. The dull gray wood that formed the blade had a fine, tight grain. Although the sword was thicker than a normal steel sword, its beveled edge was very sharp. The leather-wrapped hilt and fitted, wooden guard fit perfectly in Jo’s hand. She said nothing, her eyes searching his inquiringly.

“I didn’t give it to you earlier because—” Flinn paused, rubbing his neck uncomfortably, “—I didn’t know if you were serious enough.” He gazed toward her, his face reddening. He continued, “It’ll do for us to parry with. I figured I would teach you first how to defend yourself.” He took the sword from her and gave it a few swings. “I made it from a piece of ironwood. It’s virtually indestructible and almost as heavy as steel.” He shrugged. “It’ll make a good practice blade for you. It doesn’t have the bite of metal, of course, but it’ll dent just about anything you’ll find in these woods.”

A shadow crossed the girl’s face. “Even the creature that attacked me?”

Flinn considered his words, then nodded slowly. “Even the creature that attacked you.”

“I don’t understand!” Johauna shouted at Flinn, one week later. She was lying flat on the now-packed snow of the commons between the cabin and the barn. The tip of Flinn’s blade rested squarely on her chest.

“That’s because you’re not trying!” Flinn shouted back. He abruptly stuck his sword into the ground and jerked her to her feet. “You’re not listening! You’ve got to learn defense before you can think about attacking!”

“What do you think I was trying to do? I had my sword out! I tried to stop you!”

Flinn’s hands clamped firmly on his waist. “Well, it didn’t work, did it?”

“I did everything you said!” Jo mimicked Flinn’s posture. “You’re not teaching me right!”

“Hah!” Flinn snorted. “You’ve got another think coming there, you thick-headed girl!” Angrily he picked up Jo’s sword where it had fallen in the snow and then grabbed his own. He threw the wooden blade at Jo, who caught it handily this time. Flinn grunted his approval. “That’s better,” he snorted again and went into a crouching position. “This time, let me attack and you defend,” he said.

Johauna, too, crouched in the ready position and held her sword like a bar before her. “I don’t know why you won’t let me have a shield, Flinn,” Jo said as she blocked Flinn’s initial move.

“I told you!” Flinn whirled his blade in a fast, low arc. Jo barely jumped in time. “You don’t need a shield. Your sword’s everything you need to stay alive. The shield might protect you, but it won’t save your hide like a sword will.” He swung his blade overhead, letting it come crashing down on Jo’s wooden blade. She winced at the force of the stroke and fell to one knee, but she didn’t release the blade.

“Good girl,” Flinn said quickly and backed away, preparing his next move.

“What if I lose the sword? Then I’ll need the shield,” she said. She blocked his next move easily and smiled, only to find his sword at her stomach.

Flinn sighed in exasperation, backing away. “If you lose your sword, Jo, you’re dead! Think! Hold onto your sword as though your life depends on it—because it does. A shield is expendable; you haven’t time to worry about expendable distractions. Devote your attention to what is necessary. Now—prepare yourself!”

Flinn advanced toward her again, his blade swinging out in faster strokes. His gaze passed over the spot on her calf where one of his strokes had nicked her. He had taken extra care since then. Jo fended the first few strokes well enough, but then Flinn’s sword flashed faster. She stepped back, fumbling with the blade.

“Parry! Parry!” Flinn shouted. “Quit using the sword as just a shield!”

“You told me to use it as a shield!” Jo retorted.

“Never mind what I told you! Parry the stroke, don’t just meet it!” Flinn shouted in return.

Spurred on by his words, Jo stepped forward, forcing his blows back rather than merely blocking them. She successfully turned six strokes in a row. Astonished, she smiled.

Suddenly she was lying on her back with Flinn’s sword at her waist again and her own beyond reach. Flinn shook his head at her, clicking his tongue. He pulled her to her feet.

“You got cocky, girl,” he said. “Worse thing that can happen to a fighter—think the fight’s over and gloat. You had a couple of nice moves, but don’t let those go to your head. That’s why you’re in the snow again.” He gestured toward her sword and shook his head. “Never, never lose your sword, Jo, no matter what the cost of keeping it in your hand.” His dark eyes were serious as he peered into hers. “Losing your sword will cost you your life.”

“But I was afraid you were going to break my arm. I had to drop the sword.”

He shook his head. “No, you only thought that. Human bone is strong, Jo, particularly with a little armor.” He rolled up the left sleeve of his woolen tunic and traced the deep scar in the middle of his forearm.

“I lost my shield once in a fight. The next blow struck my left arm. The blade bit through my armor, gouged out some flesh, and broke the bone in two places. I survived and lived to win the fight.” Sighing, he continued, “The point is, don’t be afraid to suffer some pain in the short run if it can save your life in the long run.”

Johauna hesitated, then reached out and lightly traced the ridged scar. “I’ll remember, Flinn.”

“Now,” Flinn said briskly as he rolled down the tunic’s sleeve, “do you want to continue or are you tired?”

Jo knew she was tired. She also knew Flinn enjoyed these practice bouts, particularly because she became a more worthy adversary daily. “Continue,” she said, retrieving her sword and returning to her starting stance.

This time Jo concentrated on parrying each of Flinn’s moves without trying to anticipate them. She carefully avoided being maneuvered next to the buildings or the fence, where she might be trapped. At one point, Flinn drove her toward the corral’s gate. Jo dropped and rolled toward Flinn, bringing her wooden sword upward in a thrusting stroke inches from his gut. Flinn leaped neatly aside. “Good move!” he cried.

Jo rolled to her feet and took the offensive, slashing enthusiastically with her blade, forcing Flinn toward the barn wall. Flinn laughed, the first genuine laughter Johauna had ever heard from him. The sound spurred her on. Each stroke fell with greater force, sharper precision. Even so, Flinn stepped back, parrying the blows easily.

At last Jo cried, “Enough!” She released her sword and dropped to the ground. Her nearly healed shoulder throbbed with the exertion. Flinn plopped down beside her on the packed snow.

“Well done, Jo, well done!” Flinn proclaimed and began massaging her sword arm. He had stressed the importance of stretching her muscles before any exercise bout and chasing away any knots in her muscles afterward.

Jo’s heart pounded loudly in her ears. Her lips parted and her breath became shallow.

Flinn was still speaking. “You’ve improved quite a lot since we first began practicing. Anyone who can keep showing progress will…” Flinn’s words trailed off as he gazed into her face. His lips pursed and his eyes darkened.

She wondered if he thought she was trying to seduce him. She abruptly pulled her arm from his hands and leaned away. “Thanks, Flinn. My arm’s fine now.”

Flinn stood, picking up the weapons and taking a few brisk strides about the yard. “You’re progressing very well, Jo. I’m pleased.” He paused to look down at her. “I think you should spend the rest of the day practicing with the bow. The target’s still set up by the barn.”

The warrior extended his hand and pulled Jo to her feet. “You want me to practice target shooting?” Jo asked, “Or should I do the run-and-shoot maneuvers?”

“Target shooting,” Flinn said, smiling. “Your archery isn’t nearly as advanced as your swordplay. We need to fix that.”

“Will you watch and tell me again what I’m doing wrong?” Jo asked, moving to the barn where Flinn kept his bow and arrows.

“No, Jo, you’ll do fine without me,” Flinn answered, then paused. Jo turned around in the silence. Shaking his head, Flinn spoke again. “I’m going inside to work on restoring my armor.”

“I can do that this evening. It’s part of my job as a squire.” Flinn held up a hand to forestall her. “I know, I know, Jo. But there’s a lot of work to be done, and you can’t do it all.”

“…A lot of work to be done?” An odd chill ran down her back.

Flinn only nodded. “Yes,” he said curtly, his eyes glinting. “We’re going after the abelaat.”

Jo felt as though her throat was closing in on itself. “When?” was all she could say.

Flinn’s eyes were dark with compassion. “This week, depending on the weather. When I think you’ve advanced a little more and I get the armor back in order, we’ll head out. I’m tired of keeping Ariac and Fernlover here in the corral. And I want us to be able to gather firewood without looking over our shoulders every minute.

“We’re going to kill the abelaat—before it kills us.”