“Move yourself,” she said, aloud. “You don’t have time to stare into mirrors.”
Once the shock of her defection had worn off, Sirano would take steps to stop her. Of all the mercenary leaders Karis was, quite simply, the best. She knew it. He knew it. He would not allow her to join one of his enemies, and Karis had no wish to be strapped to an altar and sacrificed to the Pearl.
Looping her sword-belt around her slender waist and twirling her sheepskin riding cloak about her shoulders, she took a last look around the room. The dagger she had hurled at the Eldarin ghost lay against the far wall. She sheathed it in the hidden scabbard of her right boot. Lastly she opened the small chest by the far wall and took from it a heavy pouch containing forty gold pieces, which she thrust deep into a hidden pocket inside her jerkin. Gathering her hunting-bow and quiver, she walked from the room, moving silently along the corridor and down the winding stairs to the courtyard door.
At the stables she bridled and saddled Warain, the strongest and fastest of her geldings. It irked her to leave behind the other two, but they were stabled at the barracks and fetching them would add an hour she could not afford. Warain’s great grey head nuzzled her, and she rubbed his broad brow with her knuckles and then led him from the stall.
A bleary-eyed stableboy rose from his bed of straw. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.
Karis loomed over the child, then took his chin in her hand. “Do I look like a man to you, boy?” she asked him.
He blinked nervously. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was half asleep.”
Karis shook her head, annoyed at the irritation she felt. The boy was probably not yet past puberty, but even so . . . “Go and fill me a small sack of grain,” she ordered him. He ran off to the far end of the stable, returning with the feed-sack moments later. Looping it over the high pommel of the saddle, Karis ruffled the boy’s hair. “Do not mind me, child. It has been a long and exhausting day.”
“I saw only the boots and the sword, ma’am. You are very beautiful,” he said gallantly.
“Tell me that in ten years, and I’ll promise you a night to remember!” Karis swung into the saddle as the boy opened the stable door. She ducked down into Warain’s neck and steered the gelding through the open doorway. Warain was over sixteen hands tall and the lintel stone above the door brushed her shoulders.
Sitting up, she heeled Warain forward and rode slowly down Long Avenue towards the Western Gate. She had left behind all of her clothes, and various gifts and souvenirs that others would have considered of sentimental value. But Karis was not a sentimental woman. She had only one regret—not being able to say goodbye to the veteran warrior, Necklen. The old man had become a friend—and friendship with a man was rare for Karis. He loved her like a man should love a daughter. Anger flared as old memories burst to life. If she had known a father like Necklen, maybe now she would be happy.
Tugging on the reins, she halted Warain. There was still time to find Necklen and urge him to ride with her. He would come willingly. Karis was torn. His company always lifted her spirits, but the perils would be great and she had no wish to lead the old man to his death. “I will send for you,” she whispered, “when I have a new command.”
The streets were deserted as she rode, but everywhere there were signs of Sirano’s obsessive desire to open the secrets of the Pearl. Huge cracks showed on the sides of buildings and several walls had fallen. The road ahead was buckled, sharp paving stones twisted up from the surface like broken teeth. She could see the main gates now, and the two sentries standing below the tall arch. She had timed her departure well, and the dawn light was just creeping above the eastern mountains. No-one was allowed out of Morgallis at night without a pass.
“Good morning,” she said, as she drew abreast of the men.
“Good day to you, Karis,” said the first guard amiably. He gave her a wide smile. His face was familiar, and she struggled for a link. The name came first.
“You are looking well, Gorl. Perhaps too well,” she added, pointing at the man’s paunch. “How long since you marched on a campaign?”
“Almost a year—and I don’t miss it. Got me a wife now, and two nippers.”
“A wife? And you swore no one woman could satisfy you.”
He shook his head, and grinned. “That was afore I knew you, lady. You taught me different.” Then she remembered: Gorl had been one of her many lovers. Was it on the Mountain Campaign, she wondered? No, that was the slim bowman who had died near Loretheli. “Where are you riding to, this chilly morning?” asked Gorl, the question cutting through her thoughts.
“I quit Sirano’s service last night. I think I’ll ride for the sea. Rest up with a few sailors.”
Gorl chuckled. “By the Gods, you’re a wonder, Karis! Live like a whore, fight like a tiger, look like an angel. It was two years before I got you out of my blood. Or thought I had.”
“I think of you fondly too,” she said. “Now open the gate.”
Stepping back, he winched the bar out of its broad sockets while the other guard pushed open the gate of oak and bronze. “You stay healthy, you hear?” shouted Gorl as she heeled Warain into a canter. Karis waved and rode out into the hills.
Maybe it was after the siege of that garrison fort near Hlobane . . . No. A fleeting memory touched her, and she recalled making love to Gorl in the shade of a willow tree beside a fast-flowing stream. There were no willows near the garrison. Oh well, she thought. It will come to me or it won’t.
Once out of sight of the city, she swung to the west, and by midday had ridden almost a complete semi-circle, the city now south-east of her. It would not fool any pursuers for long, but by the time they figured out her true direction she would be long gone. How far would Sirano go to see her captured or slain? she wondered. A long, long way, she decided. Then she laughed aloud. “You arrogant strumpet,” she told herself. “Maybe he has forgotten you already.”
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 touch 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 a
sked 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.”
“That is good news.”
“Where are you from, Duvo? Where is this land where my leg could be straightened?”
“It is in a far place,” he said softly, sitting up. “A place we can no longer journey to. It exists only in here,” he said, tapping his temple. “But I remember the joy of it. I will always treasure those memories.”
“Where was it?”
“It is better not to speak of it.”
She leaned in close to him, so close he could smell the perfume of her hair. The effect was disconcertingly pleasant. “You lived with the Eldarin, didn’t you?”
He sighed. “Yes. With the gentle Eldarin.”
“They were going to destroy us all—that’s what our schoolteacher told us.”
He shook his head. “The Eldarin were peaceful; they had no wish to dominate others. But truth counts for nothing against the evil lies of men like Sirano. What I will never understand is the reason behind it all. What did Sirano and the others hope to achieve by destroying the Eldarin? The world has been at war ever since. Thousands have died. And for what? Did they envy the Eldarin their civilization, their knowledge? Was it just greed? I don’t know. Hate seems so much stronger than love. A sculptor can spend years fashioning a statue from a single piece of marble. Another man can wreck it in a heartbeat with a heavy hammer. Love and hate.”
“I am sorry,” she said. “Now I have saddened you.”
“You must not mention the Eldarin to anyone. I like my life as it is. Quiet.”
“Your secret is safe with me. All your secrets are safe with me.”
Leaning in he kissed her cheek. “So chaste, Song-man,” she whispered. “Is that all you wish for?”
“I wish for many things,” he told her, drawing her close. “Most of them I cannot have.”
“You could have me,” she told him. He looked into her eyes and saw the fear of rejection there.
“Please do not fall in love with me, Shira,” he said. “Soon I will be moving on.”
“Why must you go? Are you not happy here?”
“It is not a question of happiness.”
She pulled away from him, but as she did so she raised her hand and ran her fingers through his long blond hair. “You cannot ask someone not to love you,” she said. “It lessens love if you believe it can be controlled by mere will. I have loved you from the moment I saw you. You remember when you came into the tavern? Father said he had no need of a singer, and you told him that you would double his takings in the first week?”
“I do. I didn’t know you were there.”
“I was in the kitchen doorway. When you came in the sun was at your back, and your hair shone like gold. I’ll never forget that day.”
Drawing her down to the grass, he kissed her gently on the lips. Then he sat up. “There is no deceit in me, Shira. I love you as I have loved no other. That is the truth. But there is another truth.”
“You have a wife?”
“No! That is something I cannot have. What I mean is that it will not be long before someone—as you have—begins to question my music and the spells it weaves. Then I will be forced to flee into the night.”
“I would go with you.”
Tenderly he took her hand. “What kind of life could I offer you? I am a wanderer with no home and no people.”
She sat in silence for a moment. “Would you have taken me with you had I been able to run across these hills?” she asked.
“No, never that. I love you, Shira. I love you for everything you are; for your sweetness and your love of life, for your caring and your courage.”
“You speak of courage, Duvo. Where is yours? I know how hard life can be. Two of my brothers have died in this senseless war, and I have spent my life in constant pain. From the day the wagon wheel crushed my leg—until you played for me—I have rarely known a moment when I could not feel the scraping of bone as I moved. But I go on, Duvo. We all go on. Life is harsh, life is cruel, life is uncaring. But we go on. I could take it with better heart if you did not love me. You could say farewell then, and I would be sad for a long while. But I would recover, I would take the wound and let it heal. Yet to love me, and still leave me . . . that is hard to bear.”
Duvodas sat very still, staring into her large, dark eyes. All tension flowed from him, and he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. Then he sighed. “None of us can help the way we are, Shira.”
They returned the plates and cups to the hamper and Duvodas lifted it to his shoulder. Shira gathered up his green shirt and his harp and took his arm. Her twisted left leg, several inches shorter than the right, made her movements ungainly and clumsy. Slowly they made their way down the hillside and onto the path towards the gates. Several children ran by and two of them stopped and laughed at Shira. She did not seem to mind, but the sound cut through Duvodas.
“Why do they laugh?” he asked her.
“My walk is comical,” she said.
“Would you laugh at another’s misfortune?”
“Last winter the merchant Lunder, a large man and very pompous, came to collect a debt from Father. As he left, his foot slipped on the ice. He struggled to stay upright, then his legs flew up in the air and he fell into a ditch. I laughed so much there were tears running down my face.”
“I don’t understand where the humour lies,” he told her.
“Did the Eldarin not laugh?”
“Yes. They knew great joy. But it was never as a result of brutality or derision.”
They fell silent and walked on. Outside the gates they turned onto the main street and on through the square. There were four fresh corpses hanging from the gibbet there. Three had placards around their necks proclaiming the single word: THIEF; the fourth placard said DESERTER. Several women were standing in front of the gibbet. Two were weeping.
“So much pain in the world,” said Shira. Duvodas did not reply. Few were the days when the gibbet went unused.
They moved on, reaching the tavern just before dusk. Shira’s father stepped out to meet them. Fat, tall and bald, Ceofrin was every inch the tavern-keeper, his face ruddy with good health, his smile swift and reassuring. Duvodas sensed that Ceofrin was hoping for good news, and hi
s heart sank.
“Did you two have a good picnic?” he asked.
“Aye, Father,” said Shira, letting go of Duvo’s arm. “It was very pleasant.” Slipping past him she limped into the tavern.
Ceofrin took the picnic hamper from Duvo. “You two make a fine couple,” he said. “I’ve never seen her so happy.”
“She is a wonderful girl,” Duvo agreed.
“And she’ll make a fine wife. With a handsome dowry!”
“With or without the dowry,” said Duvo. Shira had placed his harp on a nearby table. Now he gathered it up and began to walk towards the stairs.
“Wait,” said Ceofrin. “I’d like a word with you, lad—if you don’t mind.”
Duvo took a deep breath and turned back, his grey-green eyes focusing on Ceofrin’s blunt, honest face. There was no hiding his emotions; the innkeeper was worried, and it showed. He sat down at a table by the leaded glass window and gestured to Duvo to sit opposite. “This is not easy for me, Duvodas.” He licked his lips, then rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m not a fool. I know the world is a harsh, cruel place. Two of my sons are buried in unmarked graves somewhere south of Morgallis. My daughter—the most beautiful child you ever saw—was crippled beneath a wagon. My wife died of the Eldarin Plague—as did nearly a quarter of the people in Corduin five years ago. You understand what I’m saying? I don’t see life like one of your songs.”
“I understand,” said Duvo, softly, waiting for the man to get to the point.
“But Shira now . . . she’s different. Never complained about the leg, did you know that? Just took the hurt and got on with her life. Everyone loves her. She’s like a . . . a living embodiment of your music. When she is around people smile. They feel good. She’s nineteen now, an old maid. All of her school friends are married; some with babes. But not many suitors will consider a crippled wife. Shira understood this, yet still she fell in love. Not with a baker, or a tailor’s clerk, but with a handsome musician. I am a plain man, and not good with the ladies. I can tell those who are, though. You could have your pick. You understand what I’m saying? She loves you, man, and that means you have it in your power to destroy her.” Ceofrin rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if trying to wipe a bad taste from his lips. “So where do you stand?” he said at last.
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