Chapter 32

It happened on the sixth day of our journey. I remember it so clearly, those huge bright stars in the autumn sky, the last drops of the departing summer. It was already too cold for sleeping on the ground, and we decided to stay overnight in a roadside inn. It was called Golden Thistle.

Sometimes, I dream about it, that low-hanging ceiling, beams stained with smoke, ropes of onion on the walls—and a scarlet dress against that squalor—coal-black hair…and her voice. I don’t hear anything except for that voice. Deep, a bit husky, flowing like honey and wine, it was fitting for a royal audience rather than that place.

We had just sated our hunger when she came on stage, and I was lost. I held my breath as she sang, her voice flowing, enchanting, beckoning. As she passed through the hall, nobody dared even to move, let alone touch her or stop her. She dazzled, she ensorcelled, she bewitched. Don’t be angry with a bird who’s flying. For s