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.”