As Braddoc had said, more than seven years had passed since Flinn last saw the Castle of the Three Suns. He and several other knights had spent the day routing a band of ogres foolish enough to cut across Penhaligon lands. An easy dispatch, the attack was little more than a training exercise for the younger knights. Flinn and Brisbois, being the only senior knights, had led the expedition.
They headed home, meeting up with another group of knights along the way. Both parties had been victorious, and their cries of triumph rang in the air. Flinn was content, for he had done a good day’s deed and was returning home to his wife. Only the devotion and loyalty he’d had for old Baron Arturus, his wife’s uncle, could compare with what Flinn felt for Yvaughan.
As the knights entered the courtyard, their shouts and laughter died down and were replaced by a growing murmur. Flinn looked over at the other knights curiously, wondering what was wrong. Brisbois had been unexpectedly quiet the entire trip home, but was now whispering to the younger knights in their party. A young blond knight, Lord Maldrake, began jabbing his cohorts and pointing toward Flinn. Flinn was about to question Brisbois and the others when he saw Lady Yvaughan in the courtyard, looking over a peddler’s fresh produce. She was surrounded by several of her handmaidens, and she carried her pet bird of the moment, a dazzling white creature with a crest of brilliant green.
Flinn forgot his comrades’ actions and called out, “Greetings, dear heart!” He dismounted and strode toward his wife.
“Halt!” Brisbois shouted, maneuvering his horse between Flinn and Yvaughan.
“What is the meaning of this, Sir Brisbois?” Flinn demanded, trying to walk past Brisbois’ horse.
The knight spurred his horse forward and shouted, “Do not move! You will not taint your wife with your base dishonor!”
Annoyed and not a little affronted, Flinn put his hands on his hips and demanded hotly, “Dishonor? What have you, Sir Brisbois? Why do you keep me from my wife?” Yvaughan’s expression was coolly poised, and he was surprised. His wife was usually volatile, and the slightest incident distressed her. The peddler, a ragged old man who was missing one ear, moved closer to Yvaughan and Flinn. His eyes were alight with overweening interest. Other peasants and servants, hearing the commotion, drew nearer as well.
Brisbois dismounted and signaled for the other knights to do the same. The younger knights, the ones Flinn had seen Brisbois talk to, did so with alacrity. Some of the older knights looked puzzled and frowned at Brisbois, but the younger knights quickly urged their comrades to comply.
Brisbois turned to Flinn and pointed at him. “Knight of the Order of the Three Suns, I accuse you of dishonoring our most sacred code—that of denying mercy,” Brisbois declared, his voice ringing out in the courtyard. Servants and peasants pushed closer. Flinn was too stunned to say anything. “Sir Flinn,” continued Brisbois, “today an ogre beseeched you for mercy on the battlefield, and you did not grant it. Instead you laughed and slew the creature where he lay!”
“You lie!” Flinn shouted, outraged. He advanced on Brisbois, determined to tear the truth from the man’s lips. But at a signal from the knight, two young men interceded and held Flinn at bay. “Why are you lying, Brisbois?” Flinn demanded, trying to pull his arms free. “What foul treachery are you planning?” He managed to free one hand and strike Brisbois with it. The knight staggered back a step.
“It is no lie.” The words, softly spoken, came from the ranks of Flinn’s comrades. The young blond knight, 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, s
tables, 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 Johauna approached the man.
“I wish to enter the donjon, gatekeeper,” Flinn said decisively.
The guard casually looked at Flinn and sighed, indifferent. “State your name and business, ruffian. We don’t let just anyone into the keep, you know.”
Flinn drew himself to his full height, Wyrmblight resting on the ground between his hands. “I am Flinn, former knight of the Order of the Three Suns,” he said. “Today is the open council, and I wish to speak before Baroness Penhaligon.”
The young guard’s eyes bulged. “I thought you were dead,” he said inanely. He opened the gate leading to the drawbridge and beckoned Flinn through.
“Not hardly,” Flinn growled between clenched teeth. He’d encountered this sort of response before, and he was in no mood for it today. His palm itched, and he rubbed it against the metal-clad pommel of Wyrmblight. He and Jo stepped onto the bridge, Jo following him at the requisite distance. A pair of guards wielding spears strode forward, and Flinn saw more lurking in the shadows of the archway. He halted halfway, as did the guards.
“Is something amiss, good sirs?” Flinn called out pleasantly enough, though a thread of irritation laced the words. Madam Astwood had doubtless informed the castle guard of his presence. Flinn prayed Brisbois wouldn’t be so cowardly as to flee.
“We have orders to escort you to Lord Maldrake’s chambers, peasant,” one guard said stiffly. “Will you come with us peaceably?”
Lord Maldrake? Flinn thought quickly. Why Lord Maldrake? To admit he’d misunderstood Flinn’s actions regarding the ogre? That seemed highly unlikely. Perhaps Maldrake had been promoted to castellan and was in charge of security. Or perhaps Maldrake was trying to protect Brisbois.
“I am here for the open council,” Flinn said as easily as he could. “I will be delighted to meet with Lord Maldrake either at the council hall or later today in his chambers.”
“But, sir, we have—” began one knight. She was interrupted by someone walking up behind the two guards.
“I’ll handle this, Gerune,” an approaching man said gruffly. When the guards hesitated, the man fixed them with an icy stare and said, “You may go now. Lord Maldrake may think this is a peasant matter, but it isn’t. This man will answer to me.” The guards turned and walked quickly away.
Sir Lile Graybow, castellan of the keep, strode forward and grasped Flinn’s wrist in greeting. He wore fine clothes and a gyrfalcon pendant, which signified his office. He had gained an extra chin, Flinn noticed, and his hair was thinner and grayer, but he was still Lile Graybow. Flinn sensed the steel that bound this man’s soul. The castellan’s position had always been, by tradition, filled by the knight most revered in all Penhaligon, and the rule still held true. Flinn had once hoped to take Graybow’s place when the man was ready to step down.
“Fain Flinn. As I live and breathe, I always knew you’d return one day, but events like this are unexpected, nevertheless,” Sir Graybow said.
“It’s good to see you again, Sir Graybow,” Flinn said formally. “I’m on my way to the council to explain the truth about what happened when I left here so many years ago. Aren’t you on the council anymore?”
“Yes, I am. However, I couldn’t pass up welcoming you back personally. I have my spies, and they told me you were here,” Graybow added conspiratorially. “It’s about time you returned. I wish I’d been around when you were accused. You deserved a fair trial and not a mobbing. I’d have kept the young hotheads in tow if I’d been there, believe me. But today will be your chance to amend old wrongs. Be careful—the same people who wished you ill back then are still here.” Sir Graybow gestured toward the donjon, and they began walking into the keep. As they did, the old knight looked over his shoulder at Jo. “See you’ve found yourself a squire. ’Least she knows protocol. Things have gotten a bit slack around here of late, but the baroness is trying. We make do.”
“You mentioned people who wish me no good, S
ir Graybow,” Flinn said after a moment’s silence. “Sir Brisbois, for one, obviously. Is Lord Maldrake another? I barely remember him. Exactly who is he?” Flinn stopped abruptly inside the castle. He’d forgotten how lovely the donjon was, with its soaring stone pillars, patterned granite floors, and magnificent tapestries. Warm light beamed from hosts of magical lanterns.
The castellan came to a halt and turned to Flinn. He said slowly, “You mean you don’t know who Lord Maldrake is?”
When Flinn shook his head, Graybow continued, “He’s the man who married your wife.”
Flinn stared in stunned silence at the castellan.
“Come,” Graybow said, nodding toward the council chambers. “Justice is long overdue.”
In silence the two men passed through the giant doors into the great hall where the open council was held. The roar inside the hall was almost unbearable, as was the heat. Nearly two thousand men and women crowded into the great hall, all waiting their turn to state their case before the baroness and her council. Many had arrived in the night and waited for the doors to open at cock’s crow. At that time, pages and squires had immediately begun collecting names and complaints to give to the junior knights, who in turn filtered the more interesting or faster cases on to Baroness Arteris. The fourteen other council members handled the more mundane cases. Matters were swiftly presented to a council member—and swiftly decided. Although many peasants would have their case resolved that day, still more would be turned away once cock’s crow hailed the next morning.
Flinn and Graybow fought their way toward the front of the hall, and the castellan used his office more than once when someone protested their passage. Finally they reached an area that was cordoned off around a long rectangular table on a dais. Only the pages, squires, and knights presenting the commoners’ cases were allowed into the cordoned area. At the center of the table sat Baroness Arteris. Around her, the other council members stood or sat. Flinn bit his inner lip when he saw Sir Brisbois at the far end of the table. The knight had been given Flinn’s seat on the council! Flinn looked at the rest of the members and recognized only a few of them. His eyes paused at an elegantly dressed, blond man who looked strangely familiar. Then realization dawned:
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