To the best of her recollection it was around 240 miles to Corduin, much of it over rough country. The fastest route would be north and west, skirting the line of the Great North Desert. She smiled at the memory of her mother’s stories. The desert was a place of myth and magic, a haunted land. Tribes of giants had once wandered there, eaters of human flesh, violaters of young girls. But with the memories came the sadness of reality, and she remembered her mother’s bruised face, the blackened eyes, and the terrible sorrow that rules when love is replaced by fear.
‘Just you and I, Warain,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘Come, let us work some of that fat from you.’ The big grey bunched his muscles and broke into a run.
High on a hillside overlooking the city of Corduin, a beautiful raven-haired girl beside him, Duvodas sat on a broken wall beside a trickling stream. His harp glinted in the sunlight as it lay on the green silk shirt he had removed to allow the sun’s autumn warmth to his skin. ‘What are you thinking, Song-man?’ asked Shira. Her crippled leg was hidden by the folds of her rust-coloured skirt, and her beauty was now unsullied. Duvodas slid off the wall to sit beside her on the grass.
‘I was thinking of far-off days and gentle music, Shira. Of sunshine on meadows, of laughter and song. There was magic there – a magic born of love and caring. Where I grew up, they would have healed your leg. Then you would have been able to run across these hills.’
‘Sometimes I try to forget about my leg,’ she said, sadly. ‘Especially when I am sitting down.’
He was instantly contrite, reaching out and stroking her cheek. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘That was thoughtless. Forgive me?’
She smiled, and he was lost in wonder at the beauty of it. Joy radiated from her, as powerfully as any music from his harp. Her hair was dark and long, her skin ivory fair. But the magic of her was in that radiant smile; it was both enchanting and contagious. Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips. ‘You are a beautiful woman, Shira.’
‘And you are a rogue, Song-man,’ she chided him.
‘How can you say that?’ he asked her, genuinely puzzled.
‘A woman can tell. How many other girls have you complimented so prettily?’
‘None,’ he said. ‘I have never met one with a smile like yours.’ She wagged her finger at him, but he knew she was pleased. Twisting round, she opened the picnic hamper and produced two plates, some fresh-baked bread and two sealed pottery jars, one containing butter and the other a strawberry preserve.
‘Customers have been asking Father where he purchased his new ale and wines. They say they have never tasted finer.’
‘Music has that effect on appetites,’ he said. ‘How is your father’s gout?’
‘You are changing the subject again. You do that
every time I talk about the effect of your music. Are you embarrassed by your talent?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘I love my music. It is just.. . when I am with you, I don’t want to think about taverns and customers. I want to enjoy the freshness of the fields, the smell of the flowers, and – most of all – your company.’ It was astonishing to Duvo that Shira, soon to be nineteen, was unmarried. He had understood the words when one of the tavern regulars told him: ‘Shame about the leg. She’s a wonderful girl, but she’ll get no man.’ How, he wondered, could a physical injury to a limb have such an effect? It was a mystery to Duvo. It was true that she walked clumsily, but her spirit was a delight and her personality extraordinary. She was kind and caring. What was it then that she now lacked in the eyes of suitors?
They ate in pleasant silence, finishing the meal with a jug of apple juice. Replete, Duvodas lay back on the grass, staring up at the sky. There was a fight outside the tavern last night,’ she told him. ‘People were queuing to get in. Father cannot believe his luck. And, to answer your question, his gout seems to have disappeared.’