01 - The Tainted Sword Read online

  “No,” he said gruffly. “I always check out the camp before I go in.” He blinked, realizing he had volunteered information.

  The girl shrugged. “It’s too dark for me to go back to Bywater tonight. I’ll clean your bam for a night’s lodging and supper.”

  “You’re claiming pilgrim’s rights, I take it?”

  The girl nodded. “You bet I am. It’s too cold to bed down under the trees.”

  “One night’s worth—that’s it,” Flinn replied.

  She nodded again, then took a deep breath, her eyes scanning the treetops. “Think you’d answer just a few questions about how to become a knight at the Castle of the Three Suns?” the girl ventured, one hand touching the cheek he had slapped. Her tone carried a faint suggestion of hurt.

  Flinn stared at the girl. By Diulanna, he thought, I am guilty! I had no right to hit her! He pursed his lips and then said curtly, “Too late for questions tonight. In the morning, perhaps.” Then he led the griffon and mule down to the stable, resolutely ignoring the girl who followed him. Briefly Flinn checked out the fallen rail and decided the wind did indeed blow it over; he resolved to find a longer pole in the morning. Opening the shed doors, he let the animals loose while seeking the lantern that hung inside the doorway. With practiced ease, he grabbed the tinderbox next to it and sparked the light.

  Ariac and Fernlover eagerly sought their respective stalls.

  The griffon made mewling noises and clawed his bedding as he sniffed the warm and familiar odors of home. The mule grazed his head along a rough-hewn log, scratching an itch against a familiar burl in the post. Flinn carried the lantern over to the griffon’s stall and hung it on a nearby wooden peg.

  “You can start by seeing to the mule,” Flinn said gruffly, then entered Ariac’s stall and began loosening the saddle on his back. He removed the saddle, blanket, and bridle, taking care to gently remove the bit from the griffon’s sensitive beak. He went outside, his eyes adjusting quickly to the lack of light, and retrieved a frozen rabbit carcass from the meat cellar. Ariac clicked his beak eagerly when the carcass landed in his food trough. Picking up a coarse brush, Flinn began to rub down the griffon’s lion hair.

  The girl had entered the mule’s stall and was worrying at the knots that held the supplies to Fernlover’s back. But the knots were of Flinn’s own design—he was certain the girl couldn’t loose them.

  “Best leave them to me,” he stated briskly, appearing at the front of the stall. He realized he had said more words today than he had spoken in the last year. “The knots are—”

  A sudden whump announced that the pack had fallen to the stable floor. The girl was watching Flinn expectantly.

  “Let me guess,” he said sarcastically, “you worked as a sailor’s mate.”

  The girl grinned. “Close. I knew an old man who mended nets down by the wharfs of Specularum. He taught me a trick or two.”

  Fernlover sniffed the pack delicately, then gave the bundle a tentative nibble.

  “Ssst!” Flinn leaped across the bam floor and swatted the mule. The animal jerked his head and backed away. After pulling the pack out of the stall, the warrior returned to finish Ariac’s grooming. The girl began removing Fernlover’s tack and preparing him for the night.

  Idly, Flinn rubbed Ariac’s skin, unconsciously checking the griffon’s eaglelike legs for strains. As usual there were none. The leather balls he had made for the griffon to clutch while walking were working perfectly. He didn’t mind that this was the third set he had made in the last year—Ariac had avoided a sprain the entire time. Flinn was relieved. A flightless griffon prone to sprains would have to be put down. But Ariac had twice journeyed to Bywater and back in one day without injury. He patted the bird-lion’s neck and turned to check on the girl’s progress with the mule.

  On the ground outside Fernlover’s stall lay the girl. She was curled up between his bundle of supplies and the chest that held the animals’ tack. She was sound asleep. Lines of exhaustion traced her lips and dark patches shadowed her eyes. Flinn wondered if she suffered nightmares, like he did. Her reddish brown hair—once neatly plaited down her back—was disheveled and matted. Its very disarray lent a vulnerable look to her….

  The child, for so she seemed to him in the feeble light of the lantern, was dirty, thin, and obviously poor. The thorn bushes had torn her clothing to tatters. The girl shifted in her exhaustion and whimpered, her hand clutching the blink dog’s tail. He wondered whether she ever blinked in and out during her sleep.

  Quietly he entered Fernlover’s stall and checked over the mule. Every now and then he glanced down at the sleeping girl. The mule was perfectly tended; the girl mustn’t have been lying about having worked for a hostler. Even Fernlover’s hooves had been checked, for no mud encased the tender frogs.

  Flinn wondered if he should wake her for the supper that was part of her recompense, but decided not to. “No need to encourage her,” he muttered. If in the morning the girl fulfilled her promise to clean the barn, then he would give her a meal. Not before.

  That’s it, he said to himself. I’ll leave her here and hope she’s gone in the morning. Like as not she will be. Flinn’s lips tightened and grew bitter, the scar across his brow whitening. He looked down again at the girl. Without really thinking, he pulled Ariac’s blanket off the rail and covered her. He took the lantern and looked about the stable, taking in the familiar sound of Fernlover chomping his hay and Ariac whistling in his sleep. To those sounds was added the rhythmic breathing of the girl.

  “By Tarastia and Thor and Diulanna,” Flinn said, calling on the Immortals he honored, “I don’t even know your name.”

  Chapter II

  Morning dawned cold and gray. Flinn awoke early, as was his wont, and glanced out one of the two windows of his cabin. Snow loomed in the low clouds. With a muffled groan, he threw back the pile of blemished furs on the bed and swung his legs out. The leather thongs strung across the bed frame were stretched beyond the point of support. Flinn’s weight made him sink nearly to the floor. He needed to replace them before his back gave out.

  He sighed, wondering if he should just make a proper mattress and be done with it. His hand idly smoothed the rough hair of an owlbear’s pelt on the bed. I am a warrior, Flinn thought, and by all that is holy, I don’t need a mattress. It’s sorry enough I don’t sleep on the floor.

  Flinn threw back the furs and stood. He stretched his arms overhead and felt the old bones along his spine shift into place. Then he remembered the girl and his eyes narrowed. “Is she still here?” he wondered aloud. In two strides, Flinn reached the cupboard standing against the opposite wall. He pulled his breeches off a peg on the cupboard’s door and hurriedly dressed in the cold morning air. Then he glanced at the hearth; the fire was almost out. Three quick paces brought him to the fireplace, which stood between the bed and the shelves where he kept his foodstuffs. Flinn quickly coaxed the embers into flames.

  “If she’s still here and has cleaned the bam, I’ll have to feed her,” Flinn muttered. He glanced at his fresh supplies from Bywater. Flinn detested cooking. He turned away from the cabinet and peered out the window. The girl’s probably gone, and with a good pelt or two, he thought caustically. The warrior pulled his warm, gray woolen tunic over his head, then opened the rough-hewn door and strode to the bam, twenty paces away.

  At the stable door he halted, his hand stopping as it reached for the bar. Is she in there? he thought suddenly. Does it matter if she isn’t? his mind countered. He ignored the questions and opened the stable door. Ariac let out a shrill squeal at the sight of his master, and even Fernlover gave a little snort of recognition. Ariac’s red-and-black blanket was hung neatly on the rail by the griffon’s stall. The girl was nowhere in sight.

  Flinn opened Ariac’s stall gate and led the creature out the side door to his half of the corral. The griffon nibbled his shirt, looking for dried meat treats. The warrior gave Ariac a gentle tap, then watched the animal pace once around th
e pen, settle onto his haunches, and fluff his wings. Flinn went back for Fernlover.

  The girl was standing in the bam, her arms filled with dried bracken. Her gray eyes were wary in the wan morning light, and he could see the beginnings of a bruise marking her left cheek. When he didn’t speak, she gestured toward Fernlover’s stall. “The mule needed fresh bedding.”

  Flinn merely nodded. “You missed supper last night, so breakfast will have to do.” He paused, fighting down the desire to make amends for bruising her. “Thank you, by the way, for staying to clean the bam. I thought you’d left.”

  “I’m not in the habit of breaking my pacts,” the girl said, dropping the bracken to one side of the stall. She cocked her head and then added, “My name’s Johauna, Johauna Menhir. Or Jo for short—I answer to both.” She inhaled, glancing up at him. “I appreciate the opportunity you’re giving me.”

  Flinn pulled up short. He fixed his eyes on hers, intent on putting her in her place. “Don’t think I’m going to any great lengths for you, girl. A few questions are all I’m answering.”

  He took hold of Fernlover’s halter and led the mule through the side door. After letting him loose in his corral, Flinn returned to the bam. He grabbed the pitchfork and moved toward Jo, who was standing in the center of the barn. She ran the back of her hand over her bruised mouth and cheek. His eyes met hers, but he refused to acknowledge the hurt accusation there. “Look,” he said, holding the pitchfork out to the girl. “You clean the stalls, and I’ll get some breakfast ready. Come in when you’re finished.” He stalked out of the bam and into the open air.

  Snow had begun falling. The early morning sunlight dwindled away to a blanket of gray. The air felt heavy, still, and silent. Flinn stopped abruptly near the door to his cabin. The quiet was palpable, unnatural. He could almost hear the snowflakes fall. He sucked in his breath and sank to a crouch, his knife in hand.

  Something’s out there, Flinn thought. Warily, he scanned the black lengths of trees surrounding him. Nearly all of the foliage had fallen by now, and the utter white of the falling snow filled the air. Flinn couldn’t see beyond the perimeter of the camp. Nothing moved, nothing but the steadily falling flakes.

  Slowly, carefully, he turned to eye the animals. Fernlover, as usual, was lying on the ground, resting. Ariac, however, was watching his master. The griffon’s ivory beak was pointed directly at Flinn. He saw one feathery ear-tuft, then the other, flick toward him. The bird-lion’s beak snapped once or twice, but otherwise the creature seemed at ease.

  Flinn felt his muscles loosen. Ariac’s senses had always proved reliable in the past, and Flinn had no reason to doubt his mount now. Perhaps the wildboy’s out there, he thought to himself. Perhaps he knows the girl’s here and is spooked. Flinn entered the cabin, shrugging off the strangeness of the moment. He paused at the hearth to add some small pieces of wood, then the lone chair caught his attention. The girl would have to sit on an upended piece of firewood or else the floor. He set aside a likely looking log.

  The warrior pulled the cookpot away from the flames and peered inside. He scraped the pot’s bottom with a thick wooden paddle. When only a little muck came away, he smiled. Clean enough, he thought.

  He poured in a little water from the nearby bucket and added two handfuls of grain from one of the burlap bags beside the cupboard. He looked into the pot and then added half a handful more. Checking a small wooden canister for salt, he frowned. Not much left, he thought. It’s a shame I couldn’t afford any yesterday, and this certainly won’t last until spring. Shrugging, he added a pinch of the white grains to the gruel. The girl looks peaked, he rationalized. A little salt will help her back to Bywater.

  The grain was boiling away by the time the girl came through the door. Flinn knelt at the hearth, stirring the mush. He watched her as she closed the door.

  She had obviously found the stream nearby, for much of the grime was gone from her face and hands and legs. She’d also removed the brambles from her hair, combed it—apparently with her fingers—and rebraided it. The bits of hay had been brushed from the shapeless shift she wore. From her leather belt hung the blink dog’s tail. He nodded in approval. In the wilderness she was sensible to keep the magical item close at hand. Her shoes—what was left of them—had obviously once been quite finely crafted, and he wondered if she had stolen them. She had wrapped a shawl over her shoulders and across her chest, and tied it at her back—a shawl so old its pattern was indistinguishable.

  “The barn’s cleaned, Flinn,” the girl said quietly, setting her knapsack beside the door. Her eyes were fixed hungrily on the pot before Flinn, and he wondered how long it had been since she’d eaten.

  He gestured silently to the table, and she sat down on the only chair. Grunting, he pointed to the piece of wood standing by the hearth, and she changed her seat. The warrior paddled porridge into his only two bowls—a large wooden mixing bowl and a small clay serving bowl. He pushed the second bowl toward the girl and gave her the only spoon he owned.

  She ate greedily, apparently unconcerned by the heat of the food. Flinn ate more slowly, trying to get the thick gruel to pour from the bowl into his mouth. He was marginally successful, and what little fell to his cheek or beyond he smeared away with his hand. The girl was beginning to slow now as the first pangs of hunger were satisfied. Turning to the cupboard behind him, Flinn pulled out a small loaf of bread. He tore it in half and handed part to her.

  “Here,” he said gruffly. “It’s flat and bland, but edible.” He used the bread to ladle up the gruel from his bowl.

  She tried a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Did you make this?”

  He nodded and dipped his only drinking mug into the bucket of water, placing it on the table between them. They finished their meal in companionable silence.

  When they finished and she had drunk the last of the water, Flinn sat back and folded his arms. “All right, girl,” he said. “Your pilgrim’s right is up. You’ve cleaned my barn; I’ve sheltered and fed you. Because my hitting you was uncalled for, I’d like to make amends. Now ask your questions—I’ll give you only three—and then be off with you.”

  The girl looked up, her eyes startled like a doe’s. She glanced down toward her lap, and then up again, obviously formulating her questions. “What’s it like to be a knight of the Order of the Three Suns at the castle? Is it as grand as I’ve heard? Is it?”

  Flinn found himself smiling, albeit grudgingly. “Is that one or all three?”

  She held out her hand. “Oh, only one! Only one. The other two I want to ask after you’ve answered the first.”

  Flinn’s eyes met hers, and then he began. “To be a knight of the Three Suns is the greatest thing a man—” he nodded to Jo “—or woman—can be. First and foremost, it is a way of life. By the way, do you know why it’s called the Castle of the Three Suns?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll tell you. It’ll be a free question for you,” Flinn smiled with less hesitation this time. “The Castle of the Three Suns is so called because, for much of the year, the sun rises behind two peaks to the east of the castle. These peaks are the Craven Sisters, named after two witches whose spirits are said to inhabit them.

  “Anyway, the rising sun is split by the hills into three parts, or three suns. That’s how the castle was named. The Order of the Three Suns was formed by the first baron of Penhaligon in honor of the three suns,” Flinn finished.

  “How interesting!” Jo exclaimed, her voice enthused. “In all the tales I’d heard of you as a knight of Penhaligon, none ever mentioned how the castle got its name!”

  Flinn felt a familiar dread wash over him at the mention of his past deeds. He averted his gaze. His mouth tightened, and for a moment he was lost in the memory of his past disgrace. But he felt the girl’s eyes still on him, and he turned back to her, an unsteady smile on his lips.

  “You asked what it’s like to be a knight at the castle,” he said slowly, turning back to the matter at h
and. “I’ll tell you. It’s hard work, daily drilling—regardless of the weather—constant tutelage, not only of you but by you. You see, you’re taught by those who are your betters, and in turn you teach those less skilled than you.”

  “What could I teach anyone?” Jo interrupted. She added hastily, “That’s not my second question. I just want to know what you mean.”

  Flinn nodded. “You wouldn’t be in a position to teach anyone for quite a while. You start out as a squire before you advance to knighthood, and squires aren’t expected to know too much—though you could probably teach the other squires about caring for their mounts!” He smiled at the girl again, then his expression sobered. “The point I was trying to make is this: It’s hard work to become a knight. The demands are strenuous, and only a few squires meet them well enough to actually become knights. I knew one boy who was a squire for six years before he was finally ready to be promoted. It isn’t all glory and pomp. No, the path to knighthood is fraught with difficulty and requires much dedication.”

  “Dedication?” Jo repeated. “Do you mean like priests who take vows of silence or celibacy?”

  “Not quite,” Flinn replied, “though knights do take certain vows. By dedication I mean that becoming a knight is not something to be considered lightly. The ruling council appoints only a limited number of squires every year, and it chooses only those who can prove themselves responsible, those who are dedicated to furthering good in Penhaligon.”

  “I’m dedicated. I’m responsible,” Jo offered.

  Flinn looked at her intently. “How old are you, Jo?”

  Jo rubbed her calloused hands together nervously, then responded, “Nineteen. This will be my twentieth midwinter.”

  “And you’ve held—what?—four jobs already?” Flinn queried.

  Jo squirmed. “Er, five if you count my work at the shoemaker’s.” She held a foot out from underneath the table. “That’s how I got these.”

  The warrior looked at the girl for a long, steady moment. “Jo,” he said at last, trying to gentle his gruff voice, “the council doesn’t want flibbertigibbets, people who can’t take their responsibilities seriously—”