‘If we survive the Daroth,’ said Tarantio.
Chapter Eleven
Shira was nervous as she lay upon the bed, the golden creature sitting beside her. ‘Do not fear me, child,’ he said.
‘I have no fear of you, sir. It is just that it pains me to have anyone . . . view my deformity.’
‘I do understand, Shira. If you do not wish me to continue, I will understand that also. It may be that I can do little, for I have never encountered humans before.’
She smiled at him, then looked to Duvo. ‘Do you think I should?’ she asked him. He nodded and Shira closed her eyes. ‘Very well, then,’ she said. Duvo moved to the bedside, his harp in hand.
‘There will be no need of actual music,’ said the Oltor. ‘The song I sing cannot be heard by you.’ The scent of roses filled the room. He laid his slender, golden hand on Shira’s brow and her breathing deepened instantly. ‘She sleeps,’ he said, drawing back the sheet. Shira was dressed in a simple cotton shift, which the Oltor raised to her hips. The deformed leg was ugly and twisted, the muscles knotted and misshapen like rocks under the skin.
The Oltor Prime placed his hand on her thigh. Astonished, Duvo watched as the hand began to glow, becoming at first translucent and then transparent. Slowly it sank beneath the surface of Shira’s skin. ‘The bones of the thigh and shin were broken badly,’ whispered the Oltor, ‘and
they have been set awkwardly and suffered severe calcification. The muscles around them are badly fibrotic, no longer wet tissue, and the tendons are now too short.’
Duvodas tried to mask his disappointment. ‘It was kind of you to examine her,’ he said.
‘Be patient, my friend, we have just begun.’ Shira’s thigh was glowing now, and Duvo could see the Oltor’s hand moving below the surface of the skin. There was a sudden crack, the noise like a whiplash in the quiet of the room. Duvo jerked at the sound.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Breaking the thigh-bone and re-setting it straight. It is difficult; it is taking longer than I had thought to heal and stretch the muscles.’ Slowly the knots and lumps of Shira’s thigh began to shrink. After an hour the Oltor removed his hand, and began again below the knee.
As dusk approached, the room grew gloomy and Duvodas lit a lantern. ‘How long now?’ he asked.
‘Not long. Help me to turn her over.’ Gently they rolled the sleeping woman to her stomach.
‘The leg looks perfect,’ said Duvo.
‘It is, but the muscles of the lower back are also misshapen, as is the spine. This is natural after years of limping. I must be careful now, for your son must not be touched by the magic.’ His hands moved over Shira’s lower back, the long fingers gently kneading the flesh. At last he stood, and covered her with a sheet. ‘You may wake her now,’ he said.
Duvo sat on the bed and took Shira’s hand, kissing it. ‘Wake up, my love,’ he told her. Shira moaned softly, and yawned. Her eyes opened. ‘Time to get up,’ said Duvo.
Sleepily Shira pulled back the sheet and allowed Duvo to help her to stand. There was no surprise as she straightened. ‘This is a lovely dream,’ she said.
‘It is no dream. You are healed, Shira.’ The girl stood for a moment, then took several tentative steps. Ignoring both men, she sat back down on the bed and drew up her cotton shift, staring down at the now perfectly formed leg. She stood once more, then spun on her heel in a graceful pirouette.
‘She still believes it is a dream,’ said the Oltor.
‘Perhaps you should pinch yourself, Shira,’ suggested Duvo.
‘I don’t want to wake up from this,’ she said, tears in her eyes.
‘I can promise you that you will not,’ Duvo assured her. Shira hesitated, then dug her nails into the palm of her hand.
‘It hurts,’ she said. ‘I am awake! Oh, Duvo!’ She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck.
He kissed her, and held her close. ‘You are thanking the wrong person,’ he said at last, and Shira turned to the Oltor Prime.