Flinn said nothing for several moments, contenting himself to watch the emotions flitter across the girl’s expressive face. Finally he forced himself to say, “You’re quite a storyteller, Jo.” It was feeble praise indeed-her telling had equalled any he had heard.
Johauna only smiled in return.
“Now,” said Flinn, leaning forward and locking his eyes on the girl, “ask your third question, and let’s be done with this.” He balled one hand into a fist and wrapped the other around it.
She returned his look steadily. “I want to know about the Quadrivial. I’ve heard it mentioned in legends about the knights of the Order of the Three Suns, but I don’t know what it is. Tell me about it, then point the way to the castle and I will leave you.” Her lips tightened.
Flinn’s face clouded, and he looked away. “The Quadrivial is the path to true knighthood, a path that turns Four Corners: honor, courage, faith, and glory. Knights who don’t attain-and then retain-the four points of the Quadrivial aren’t really true knights.” He looked at Jo. “There’s nothing more to say.”
The girl looked down at her hands and then about the room. “You are out of water and wood. May I fetch you some?”
“Why?” Flinn asked abruptly, disconcerted by the offer.
Jo stared at him intently, chewing her lower lip. “Because I want more than anything to be a knight of the Order of the Three Suns. If I fetch the wood and the water, perhaps you’ll tell me what the Quadrivial is really about. Perhaps you’ll tell me how to get the council to accept my petition.”
Flinn saw the girl’s cheek pulse, and he realized she was grinding her teeth-something he did every night in his sleep. He saw, too, that the bruise on her face had darkened. Again a pang of shame rose in him, and again he found himself relinquishing. He nodded slowly.
“All right, girl. If that’s what you wish.” Standing, he grabbed the water pail and set it on the table. “You know where the stream is-wade out into it and fill the bucket at the deepest part. The water’s cleanest there. The wood pile’s beside the barn, but I’m out of small kindling. I think you’ll find some dead wood not too far west from here. I’m going to tether the animals in the high pasture.”
Flinn’s long legs carried him the two short strides to his weapon cupboard, which stood beside the door. He strapped his sword to his wide belt. The blade certainly wasn’t the quality of the accursed Wyrmblight, which he’d deliberately lost in a dice game, but it was serviceable nonetheless. Opening the cupboard doors, he took out a ragged fur vest and threw it at the girl. “This’ll keep you a bit warmer.” With another stride he was out the door.
Jo waited for Flinn to leave the cabin before she let out the breath she’d been subconsciously holding. She was bemused. Today, more clearly than ever, she realized just how important her lifelong dream of knighthood was. True, she had enthusiastically pursued other positions, only to lose interest in them in time. Somehow, she felt sure her desire for knighthood was different. She really did want to be a knight-and not for only a year or two. Just thinking about it made her hands tremble as she put on the fur vest. She grabbed the bucket by its willow-wrapped handle and headed out the door.
Outside, snow was falling in silent, fat flakes. Jo stopped just beyond the shelter of the buildings and looked around. Having lived in the bustling city of Specularum for the last thirteen years, she was unnerved by the strange silence of the wilderness. She turned to the path that led to the stream, taking care to keep the snow out of her tom shoes. The path was frozen and icy. As she made her way along, Jo grabbed at branches to keep from falling. Once the bucket fell from her hands and slid down the slope, but she quickly retrieved it.
The bank of the stream was surrounded by scrubby bushes and water-loving birch and willow. A few twisted river oaks stood nearby, their leaves still clinging to the branches. The stream’s bank was wet with snow and water and Jo wrinkled her nose. She hated getting wet-the morning’s ablutions had been torture enough. Still, Flinn told her to draw water at the deepest part of the stream, and Jo saw no way to reach that point without wading.
Toward the middle of the stream, she spied a large, flat rock standing about a foot above the waterline. Gingerly she fingered the blink dog’s tail dangling at her waist. She could easily blink that distance, but the landing could prove tricky. The flowing water that broke against the rock and splashed over it had coated it with ice. She looked again at the icy water of the river and made her choice.
With a low growl and a shake of the tail, she blinked onto the rock. Jo struggled to retain her footing on the icy stone. Abruptly she slipped to her knees, her hands groping for the sides of the rock. She had the sense to hold on to the handle of the bucket so it wouldn’t be swept downstream. Her fingers tightened upon the rock’s edges and she stopped sliding. Ignoring the pain in her knees, she lowered her bucket into the waiting water.
Jo looked back to shore. She didn’t dare try standing before she blinked back, for fear of slipping off the stone. She touched the tail and growled. A moment later she was back on the bank, kneeling in the sloppy, wet snow. Then, above the sound of rushing water, she heard the quick intake of breath. She jerked her head up and screamed.
The round white face of a young boy peered back at her through the brush. One dirty hand held thin branches aside.
His pale blue eyes flared in fear at her outcry, then shifted up the pathway.
Something was crashing down the path.
The boy turned back to Jo, gave a shy, sweet smile, and vanished. Jo stared dazedly at the spot where he had been. She could hardly believe what she had seen. The rumbling footfalls on the trail neared. Jo leaped to her feet, clutching a thick branch in her hand.
It was Flinn. He leaped over a log and landed precariously on the icy ground. His wide eyes searched the woodlands around Jo, his sword drawn and ready.
“I’m sorry I screamed,” she said, pointing the way she imagined the boy must have gone. “There was this child-”
Flinn rolled his eyes and returned his sword to its scabbard. “I might have known,” he said, shaking his head.
“Might have known what?” Jo asked. “He just appeared in front of me. I looked up and there he was. What’s a little boy doing out here? Do you know him?”
Flinn shrugged. “I know of him. I first saw him about a year and a half ago. He never says anything, and I doubt he’d ever harm you.”
“No, I doubt he’d harm me, either.” Jo shook her head. “He smiled at me.”
Flinn cocked an eyebrow. “Usually he disappears the moment I make eye contact with him.”
“Does he have kin around here?” Jo asked, her curiosity aroused.
Flinn made for the path. “Not that I know of,” he said casually. Jo watched him go, shaking her head. Flinn showed little concern for the boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten winters old. Frowning, she picked up the bucket and followed Flinn up the steep path.
The path to the cabin was slippery, and Jo walked cautiously to keep the bucket from spilling. She left the water in the cabin by the hearth, then went back outside to gather firewood. Flinn came out of the bam, carrying a yoke dangling two more water buckets. He pointed off to the west and shouted, “Kindling,” then headed for the second time down the path to the stream. Jo smiled, grateful he hadn’t asked her to fetch the water for the animals, too.
Walking through the silent woods of larch and beech, Johauna felt the weight of the winter day close in on her. The silence seemed almost palpable. Everywhere she looked, she saw only the still woods, bare trunks of strange and twisted trees. A dark red oak leaf or two waved feebly at her passing, as did one brave clutch of golden aspen leaves. Their colors were dimmed beneath the looming clouds. Jo cast her eyes toward the leaden sky: thankfully, the snow had stopped.
The silence began to gnaw at her. The forest itself seemed to be watching, holding its breath. Where are the sparrows? she thought. Or the chipmunks or ground-squirrels? She chided herself and tried to ignore the eerie sensations. She began to whistle her favorite tune as she gathered small twigs. But the whistled notes sounded loud and conspicuous in the silence. The tune trailed off and stopped. She looked up. Aspens stood in a cautious ring around her, as though warning her not to disturb the hush. Alarmed, she stooped, picking up the branches as quickly and quietly as she could.
