Jo’s gaze fell one last time to the ashes before her, the ghostly image of a man’s body seeming to take shape amid the charred remains of oak and elm. Jo blinked once, and the form was gone. The embers had finally died out in this tiny glade in the Wulfholde Hills. All that remained of the finest knight the lands of Penhaligon had ever known was ash and distorted bone.
Flinn the Mighty was no more.
The squire’s hand fell to her belt where a small, beaded leather bag hung—the one other possession of Flinn’s. The pouch carried the abelaat crystals they had used for scrying. Three of the stones were orange in hue, created from the abelaat’s own blood, but the other four were deeply red, formed from Jo’s blood. A twinge of pain gripped Jo’s shoulder as she remembered the eight-fanged creature biting into the joint, its poisonous saliva turning to stone in her wounds.
Jo touched the beaded bag. “Do I dare?” she whispered, unsure of her ability to control the crystals. When the stones were heated, they could be used to see or contact whomever the bearer wished. Some said they could even contact the dead.
The squire rubbed her tired eyes once again. “No, I can’t,” she murmured to the ashes. “Not now, anyway. I’d need Karleah’s help.” Jo looked behind her to the trail that led through the woods to her companions. The trampled snow had melted, leaving the brown richness of earth and a tinge of green. She blinked. Always before, spring had filled her with hope, but now she felt only empty.
They’re waiting for me.
She blinked again and realized she didn’t care. They’re waiting for me, she repeated to herself, and I must go. Reluctantly, Johauna turned back to the remnant of the pyre. She held Wyrmblight before her, crosswise, and bowed low, her movements trembling and weary.
“Farewell, Fain Flinn, my lord—” Jo’s voice faltered and could not continue, though her thoughts ended with “—my love.” Jo closed her eyes wearily, then bit her cracked lips in sudden determination. “I will avenge your death, Flinn! Verdilith will die, and Wyrmblight will deliver the death blow,” she said grimly. Jo clenched the sword again, this time drawing blood from her palms. She turned and hurried down the path, refusing to look back.
But she didn’t need to look back to remember. The trail evoked the memory of the first time Jo had traversed it. Less than a week earlier she had stumbled through these woods, seeking Flinn and praying he was still alive after his attack on Verdilith, the green dragon. Jo had followed the path of blood, muddied snow, and broken branches all the way to the tiny glade she had just left—the glade where Flinn had died. Now the trail was brown and pungent with raw earth, and clumps of green lined its edges. It showed no evidence of Flinn’s passing, as if it, too, had forgotten.
Suddenly Jo dropped Wyrmblight and fell to her knees. Cold mud clung to her legs, but she didn’t care. Her arms crossed in a ragged embrace as she doubled over in pain. “Flinn! Flinn!” Johauna rasped, remembering how she had found his battered body, lying facedown in the trampled snow. She had turned him over, fearing the worst, but Flinn had been alive then, and for one precious moment Johauna had believed he would live.
But he didn’t. He didn’t live. Jo pressed her face between her hands, determined not to give in to the despair and grief and anger that threatened to engulf her.
“How am I to live without you, Flinn?” Jo whispered, finally giving voice to the fear that had haunted her ever since Flinn had died in her arms. Who else will believe in me, teach me? Who else will have hopes and dreams for me, will have pride in me? Who else will love me? Jo wondered, her anger growing. Each day since Flinn’s death, she had held her grief at bay. First she had stood vigil at the pyre, guarding his body for four days and nights from the wolves. Then she had waited the long hours it had taken for Flinn and the pyre to burn, not ceasing her vigil until the last ember died.
But now, there was nothing to stop her grief.
Jo doubled over and beat her clenched fists against the ground. Chunks of ice and rock bit into her skin, already fragile and damaged; chilblains opened and pus mingled with the blood of fresh cuts. “Why? Why? Why?” Bitter tears flowed from her unseeing eyes, and roaring filled her ears.
Jo paused and held out her hands before her, palms upward. Her hands were raw, the skin battered away. “Oh, Flinn,” she murmured hoarsely, “let me join you.” Jo looked past her hands to Wyrmblight, shining bright on the ground where she had dropped it. Catching a small, fearful breath, she placed her wrists to the sword’s finely honed edge. The thin, razor-sharp edge of silvern steel stroked her skin.
A strange heat suddenly radiated from the sword.
Jo closed her eyes and slid her wrists against Wyrmblight’s edge. She felt the fragile skin give way, and blood run in a sluggish stream from her veins, hot tears for the ground. Jo looked down at the stain of red on the white blade. A single tear escaped her eyes and splashed on the sword, hissing when it hit.
The young woman blinked, dizzy, vaguely wondering what she was doing. She raised her wrists from the edge of Wyrmblight and looked at the ragged wounds. Blood spilled forth and dripped onto the sword, splashing onto the sigils and hissing. One of the four sigils on the flat of the blade began to glow, and intense heat emanated from it. For a moment Jo was mesmerized by the pure white beauty of the glowing sigil; then she noticed that the blood on Wyrmblight had disappeared. Her eyes traveled from the sword to her bleeding hands and wrists. As she looked, a waving thread of white light stretched from the sigil. The light circled one wrist. Jo watched, speechless, as the white light took on the hue of blood and stitched itself about the gash. As it reached the opposite end of the laceration, the light gradually became pure white.
Jo blinked. “Flinn … ?” she whispered. The thread of light wove between her fingers, turned pink and paused, then encircled her other bleeding wrist. Jo held up her left hand and gasped. It was healed, completely healed. Only a tiny scar remained. She held up her other hand and it, too, was healed.
The waving thread of light retreated back to the third sigil. Jo reached out with her finger and tentatively touched it, marveling that she could despite its heat. “Faith,” she murmured. She shut her eyes briefly, then stared above her at the surrounding trees. “Oh, Flinn!” she shouted. “You were the only one who ever had faith in me!”
The light from the sigil shot out and enveloped Jo. At first she was aware only of its warmth. Then, little by little, she felt the sorrow in her heart ease and become bearable.
The pain and grief still remained, but somehow she had gained the strength to bear them. Her mind was clearer, and the horror of the past week receded.
The words have faith in yourself rang inside Jo’s mind. She thought it came from the light surrounding her. Have faith, Johauna Menhir. Slowly the light withdrew from Jo’s body, leaving behind an unexpected calm, however small. Jo watched the light retreat inside Wyrmblight. Suddenly the warmth and glow were gone—Wyrmblight lay cold and lifeless once more in the trampled mud and snow. Jo stared in awe at the white blade, the words have faith ringing in her ears.
How long Jo knelt there in the melting snow and spring mud, she didn’t know. She knew only that the sword had been a balm to her spirit, a balm that eased her sorrow. And now, in place of the pain, a new passion rose in Jo’s weary mind: vengeance. At the pyre, she had vowed to avenge Flinn’s death, and now she was suddenly determined to carry out that vow.