Lord Maldrake, stepped forward. The man had come to the Castle of the Three Suns and been given knighthood status immediately-something rarely, if ever, done. Flinn had seen very little of the man and had never spoken more than a few cursory words with him.
“It is no he,” the knight repeated again, this time more loudly. He pointed at Flinn and said, “I saw Flinn slay the ogre, too. Sir Brisbois is telling the truth.”
“You misunderstand!” Flinn’s voice rang out authoritatively. He struggled against the men who held him. “The ogre didn’t-” one of the knights holding him punched him beneath his breastplate. Flinn doubled over in pain. He fought for breath and shook his head. When he looked up again, Yvaughan stood in front of him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh, Flinn, how could you? You have defiled my house and my name,” she cried out in sad bitterness. “You have shamed the niece of Arturus Penhaligon, a man you profess to revere. How could you deny an enemy mercy? You have committed an act of absolute shame.” Brisbois, Maldrake, and several of the other knights murmured ill- tempered words loudly.
Yvaughan’s voice shook and her tears came faster. “You have dishonored the house of Penhaligon, Fain Flinn, and as a Penhaligon I strip you of your knighthood!” She shook her fists at the knights, her tears mingling with her anger and shame. “Cast him down, O true knights! Cast down this aspersion on the conscience of the righteous!” The older knights, who hadn’t believed Brisbois’ allegation initially, were swayed by loyalty to the house of Penhaligon. Their voices joined the growing roar.
“Yvaughan!” Flinn shouted. “Listen to me!” His words were swallowed up, and Yvaughan never heard them. She picked up a head of lettuce from a nearby peddler’s cart near her and threw it at her husband. It hit Flinn squarely in the chest. The old peddler chuckled and feebly tossed a carrot.
What happened next was something Flinn had always carefully blocked from his memory. But now he confronted the thought, his lips curled in a sneer of grim fear and rage and shame. His eyes narrowed to slits, his shoulders slumped forward ever so slightly, and one arm crossed his stomach as he continued to ride toward the castle.
Flinn’s fellow knights of the Order of the Three Suns-his friends and cohorts who had often fought by his side and who would gladly have given their lives for their commander-beat the man they hailed as Flinn the Mighty. With the flat of their swords they turned on Flinn, but Flinn refused to draw Wyrmblight. Instead he wielded his sheathed sword this way and that, trying to block the blows. He shouted at the men to stop, hoping to seek a council session rather than this mob trial to settle the matter. But Yvaughan’s white bird panicked at that moment and fluttered into his face, scratching Flinn with its tiny claws.
Then Flinn caught sight of Yvaughan, her ladies and the young blond knight hurrying to her side. They grabbed the peddler’s produce and threw it at Flinn. Peasants, servants, and even a few knights joined in. Vegetables and fruits and bitter taunts battered him from all sides.
In a single afternoon, Flinn the Mighty became Flinn the Fool, the Fallen. The shouts that rang that day mortally wounded his spirit. He leaped onto his horse and fled.
A single groan escaped Flinn’s lips, and the sound brought his thoughts back to the present. He looked around warily, fighting back the horror of his memories. He gritted his teeth. I survived being falsely accused, and I will survive whatever pain is to come in overturning that accusation. I will right the wrong done to me, and I will avenge myself of Sir Brisbois.
Flinn sighed and consciously buried the thoughts of his disgrace once again. He sat taller in the saddle and moved his free hand to Wyrmblight’s pommel. His lips were once again grimly pulled together, but a new hardness and assurance marked them.
The Castle of the Three Suns lay just ahead.
Flinn entered the main approach and pulled Ariac to a stop. He was grateful the wyrm Verdilith hadn’t attacked him out on the road; Flinn’s instincts had been right. Two guards flanked either side of the entrance, and a handful more stood nearby. “I’m here to seek council with the baroness and her court today,” Flinn responded to the guard’s inquiry. He jerked his thumb back at Jo and added, “She’s with me.” The guard waved him through, and Flinn nodded for Jo to follow him.
They crossed through the approach and passed under the guard towers flanking the entrance to the castle. Low buildings lined the perimeter of the castle’s grounds. Next came the guards’ dormitories, craftsmen’s dwellings, shops, stables, and the like. Inside the perimeter stretched a huge courtyard, paved in rose granite, leading to the castle proper.
The metalmaker’s wagons were nearby, Flinn noted, and haggling already filled the air around them. Hundreds upon hundreds of people filled the castle’s courtyard, moving from stall to shop to wagon. Open council days always drew big crowds, but Flinn had forgotten just how many people the Castle of the Three Suns could hold. The air rang with bickering voices and laughter. Hawkers and merchants milled about, trying to steal each other’s customers away. Ragged peasant children ran wild, playing games or begging for food. A pair of mages cast minor spells to amuse a small crowd of onlookers. A number of knights and their squires engaged in practice swordplay. A trio of washerwomen sang a ditty as they did their daily scrubbing. Soon a man joined them, lugging his own bundle of clothing, and added a pleasant baritone.
Flinn and Jo tied their mounts to one of many hitching rings lining the courtyard, and Flinn tossed a peasant girl a coin to keep an eye on the animals. Etiquette demanded that those who dwelt outside the keep tie their mounts here.
Few people appeared to take note of the rough, fur-clad warrior and his young assistant. Flinn’s sharp eyes caught sight of a female knight, however, who seemed to find them of particular interest. She had been watching the swordplay practice but not participating in it. With a nod to her comrades, she excused herself and hurried off. Flinn lost sight of the woman far too soon for his liking, but he gave her no further attention. He was intent on reaching the castle’s large central tower: the donjon.
Someone caught his arm and stopped him midstride. Flinn’s hand flew to Wyrmblight’s hilt.
“Did you see-” Jo said, tilting her head in the direction the knight had gone.
Flinn relaxed his grip on Wyrmblight and nodded curtly. “Yes. I had thought I could get to the keep without being recognized, but apparently I was mistaken. If memory serves me, that was Madam Edwina Astwood. Watch my back!” He continued his way through the crowds, impatiently trying to find the quickest route. Within ten minutes, he stood before the keep.
The donjon was eight stories high, its windows placed at equidistant intervals. The white of the limestone looked grayer, dirtier somehow, than Flinn remembered. He looked at the southern tower and saw that its walls, too, had darkened over the years. Every window of the tower had been fitted with bars of black iron. Behind the bars flitted birds of all colors and sizes. The southern tower had once been Flinn’s home.
So Yvaughan did make the rest of our home into an aviary, Flinn thought. He had always liked Yvaughan’s birds well enough, but her enthusiasm for them had grown into an obsession. Her passion for two birds in particular had bothered him. She would go nowhere, not even the bedchamber, unless one of them went with her. Yvaughan favored the white bird and its buff-colored mate above everything-including her husband. Flinn frowned. Just when had she gotten the two birds? Shortly after he had attacked Verdilith? Was it really that long ago? He shook his head and turned his attention to more important matters.
As Flinn and Jo approached the donjon, he noted a new addition to the castle’s defenses. A steep-sided, deep canal circled the tower. The channel was fully twenty feet deep and twice that wide, with sides that stood at nearly right angles. The far wall of the canal extended straight up to form the walls of the donjon; no ledge ran between them. At the bottom of the canal, thousands of spearheads gleamed, rising from three-foot shafts. “Quite a deadly fosse,” Flinn murmured.
A sturdy wooden and iron bridge spanned the dry moat’s gap. The bridge was lowered now because of all the traffic the castle received on its monthly open council sessions. Long ago, Baron Arturus had reinstated the abandoned practice of arbitrating the common people’s concerns. On council day, the baron had permitted anyone to appear before him and the council to seek judgment or retribution. Flinn was glad to see that Baroness Arteris had upheld her father’s policy.
He turned his attention to a guard standing at the little gatehouse on the near side of the fosse. Flinn and
