David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'Thank you, sir. The library is wonderfully well equipped.'

'And what led you to the Book of Sorius?'

Duvo thought about it. 'It was Peltra. We were walking on the hillsides and she was telling me about it.' He reddened. 'I won the prize, but I wouldn't have won if she hadn't told me about the Book.'

'There is no shame in that,' said Ranaloth softly.

'I think perhaps there is, sir. I didn't think. She was so proud of discovering the mystery you set that she bragged to me of it. Then I too studied the text - and won the prize.'

'Your perception, then, is that you were at fault?'

'I believe that I was. But it was not intended, it was merely thoughtlessness.'

Now on the hillside Duvo tried to float free of the problem, letting his mind wander. Many things could alter the flow of magic from the land: death, violence, disease, fear - even joy. Equally, the mind or body of the musician could be out of harmony with the magic. Calmly and carefully Duvo examined his thoughts.

His mind was sharp, and attuned to the flow. Likewise his body had been fed no flesh, consumed no alcohol. Nor had he succumbed to his physical desire for Shira. Confident that he was not the problem, Duvo relaxed and took up his harp, playing the ancient lay of the Far Time, and the Dying of the Light. As he played he felt the power of the land flowing through him, filling his veins and drawing him in. He was at one with the grass and the earth, with the trees and flowers, feeling the heartbeat of life swelling around him.

The land welcomed his music. As the lay ended, Duvo took a deep breath.

At eighteen Master Ranaloth had taken him to a glade at the centre of Oltor Forest, where together they had sat upon a flat boulder. 'What music would you play here?' asked Ranaloth.

'That is simple, sir. There are three. Each would be apposite. A forest song, a river song, or a mountain song.' He shrugged. 'Is there more to the question than I can see? Is it a riddle of some kind?'

'You will not know until you play, Duvo.'

Taking up his harp, Duvo reached out for the forest music. There was nothing. Rising he glanced down at the boulder. Perhaps the stone was blocking the flow. He took two steps, then reached out again. Nothing.

He glanced at Ranaloth, and saw the sorrow in his golden eyes. 'Am I doing something wrong, sir?'

Ranaloth shook his head. 'You know the history of Oltor Forest?'

'This is where they all died.'

'Yes,' said the Eldarin sadly. 'This is where a race was obliterated. The Oltor were a gentle, independent people, but they could not stand against the Daroth. Their cities were systematically destroyed and the last remnants of their people fled here, to this forest. A Daroth army surrounded it - sixty thousand strong - and the slaughter began. The last Oltor, twenty women and more than a hundred children, managed to reach this glade. They went no further.'

'And now there is no magic in the glade?' whispered Duvo.

'No magic,' agreed Ranaloth. 'Bring it back, Duvo.'

The elderly Eldarin rose, patted the young man's shoulder and walked away. Duvo sat down. A race died here, he thought. Not just a tribe, or a clan, or even a nation. But a race. He shivered, and felt the enormity of the task he had been set. How does a man restore magic after such an act?

Holding his harp to his hip, Duvo tried to play, but there was no music to be found. For several hours he sat in the glade. The sun fell, and the moon rose; still the young man waited for inspiration. An hour before the dawn he rose and moved across the glade, reaching the edge of the trees. Here he could feel the tiniest tremor of magic, like the breeze from a butterfly's wing. Slowly he circled the glade; then he began to play as he walked, the softly lilting Song of Birth. As the music swelled he edged away from the magic, towards the centre of the glade. Three steps he made before the music died away. Again and again Duvo returned to the trees, drawing the magic forward, letting it flow through him into the earth below his feet. Inch by weary inch, he slowly created a magical web that criss-crossed the glade.

The dawn came, the sun rising towards noon. Exhausted now, Duvo played on. Moving to the centre of his web, he calmed himself for the Creation Hymn. He stood silently for several minutes, breathing deeply, calming his mind. Then his fingers danced upon the strings and his strong clear voice sang out. Sunlight shone down

upon the glade, and several birds flew into the branches of nearby trees. Duvo walked as he sang, and not once did the music waver.

The magic was back!

He slumped down upon the boulder and laid his harp beside him, his fingers cramped and trembling.

Master Ranaloth emerged from the tree-line, sunlight shining on his snow-white fur. His own harp was slung across his shoulder.

'You did well, Duvo,' he said, pride in his voice. 'You are a human beyond compare. And in you I see hope for your race.'

'Thank you, sir. It was harder than I could have believed. Tell me, though, why only this glade? Is it because the end came here?'

'It was not just this glade,' said Ranaloth. 'It was the whole forest. The glade was the last point of emptiness.'

Duvo stared at him. 'The forest covers hundreds of square miles. And you . . . ?'

'It took many centuries, Duvo. But it was necessary.'

'But you could not have done it alone?'

'It is my gift. And now it is yours. Without magic the land dies. Oh, you can still grow crops upon it, but it is spiritually dead nonetheless. The evil of the Daroth is that they live to kill - and they destroy not only races, but also the soul of the lands they inhabit. That is a crime beyond comprehension. You humans do it also. Though you do it more slowly, with your cities of stone, your lusts and your greed.

But among you are those who care. Among the Daroth there are none.'

'You speak as if the Daroth still live. But the Eldarin destroyed them centuries ago.'

'The Eldarin do not destroy, Duvo. The Daroth live.'

'Where?'

'Where they can do no harm.'

Duvo had asked many questions, but Ranaloth would say no more. 'But what if they return?' Duvo asked.

'As long as the Eldarin survive, they will not return.'

Now, on the grass of the hillside above Corduin, Duvo rose and stared towards the north. His throat was dry, his heart hammering. He knew now why the magic of the land was changed. He could feel it; the slow, almost imperceptible pull towards the north, the power seeping away like water through a cracked jug.

The Eldarin had not survived.

And the Daroth were back ...

Tarantio sat at a corner table, his back to the wall, and finished the last of the meat pie. The gravy was thick and rich, the meat tender. The atmosphere in the Wise Owl was tense, for the musician had not appeared this evening and many of the guests were complaining. Ceofrin moved among the tables, making his apologies and assuring his customers that the harpist would appear momentarily. One group of four young nobles rounded on the innkeeper, claiming that the food tasted like dung and they had no intention of paying. Shira moved to the table and spoke to them, and they settled down, explaining they had travelled across the city to hear Duvodas play. Then they apologized for the outburst. Tarantio was impressed by the harmony she radiated, and he glanced across at Brune, who was staring at her with undisguised admiration. Ceofrin backed away from the table, relief showing on his round, fat face. Shira refilled the wine goblets and then, with a last dazzling smile, returned to the kitchen.

'I hope the harpist does appear,' said Brune.

'I don't think he is in the building,' Tarantio told him. Brune's disappointment showed.

Dace, however, was delighted. 'How do people listen to that dreadful screeching?' he asked.