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 hand. “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—”
“But I do take my responsibilities seriously!”
“Perhaps, but not the responsibility you owe to a master! Think how the council is going to view you: a nineteen-year-old vagabond seeking her sixth master in probably as many years! Forget about this nonsense and go back to Specularum, perhaps back to one of your former masters. Or go back to Bywater and see what the village can offer.” Flinn settled back in his chair, hoping he had gotten through to the girl.
Jo crossed her arms, a determined look settling about her mouth. “Flinn,” she hesitated, then proceeded boldly, “Flinn, it’s true I’m a… a ‘flibbertigibbet’, but I do have solid experience that will hold me in good stead as a knight. If you took me on as your squire and trained me, the council would be sure to accept—”