Running up the stairs they came to a bolted door. Dace opened it and stepped inside, but the room within was empty. He swore and moved to the window. There were three more turrets visible. ‘Is there no magic you can use to find him?’ he asked Duvodas.
The Singer shook his head. ‘Not magic – but have you noticed only that turret window has bars?’ he said, pointing across the courtyard. ‘The question is, how to reach it.’
‘That, at least, is simple,’ said Dace, opening the window and climbing out on to the narrow sill. The courtyard was some sixty feet down, but below the window, to the right, was a parapet that connected the turrets. Dace tensed, then leapt the gap. Duvodas took a deep breath and climbed out. Closing his eyes, he made the jump. Dace grabbed him, hauling him to safety, then together they ran along the parapet, entering a small door and emerging into a narrow corridor and a second circular stair.
At the top they unbolted the door and stepped inside, where a man was lying in a pallet bed. His face was hideously burned on the left hand side. Pus was seeping from the ruined eye-socket, and his hair had been burned away. He was unconscious.
‘He looks close to death,’ said Dace. ‘You want me to carry him through?’
‘You are right. He is on the verge of death.’ Duvodas unwrapped his harp and sat beside the bed. His fingers rippled across the strings and the scent of roses filled the room. ‘What in Hell’s name are you doing?’
hissed Dace. ‘The Daroth could be on their way here now!’
‘Then watch out for them,’ said Duvodas calmly. His fingers danced upon the strings.
Dace ran from the room and down the stairs. Far below, someone screamed. Moving to a window, he gazed down to see a priest staggering out into the courtyard, blood streaming from a gaping wound in his back. The huge figure of a Daroth moved slowly after him. Other screams began. ‘Well,’ said Dace softly, ‘you were right about the end of the world. Your world, anyway.’ To Dace the screams were more musical than the hideous noise coming from Duvo’s harp. How, he wondered, could people enjoy such sounds?
‘I do,’ said Tarantio.
‘Then you enjoy them, brother. Call me when killing is needed.’ Dace faded back and Tarantio rose and moved back up the stairs. The wounded man was awake now. His face was still badly scarred, but the wounds were clean.
Sirano sat up. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I am Duvodas and this is the warrior, Tarantio. We have come to find the Pearl. We must return it to the lands of the Eldarin. We must bring them back.’
‘What are the screams I hear?’
‘The Daroth are killing the priests.’
Sirano gestured to a canvas pack by the far wall. When Duvodas moved to it and opened the flap, the Eldarin Pearl lay there. Reaching into the bag Duvo tenderly stroked the surface, which was warm to the touch. His hand trembled. The Eldarin were here, trapped within an orb of pure magic together with their homes, their lands, the rivers and streams that fed the earth, and the forests where Duvo had played as a child. All existed beneath his palm. Reverently he closed the canvas flap. ‘Now we
can go,’ he said, looping the bag over his shoulder. ‘Now there is hope.’
‘We can talk about hope back in Corduin,’ said Tarantio. ‘Are you ready, Duvodas?’
‘Ready for what?’
‘To get us back with your Oltor magic?’
‘We must make it back to level ground,’ Duvo told him. ‘Otherwise we might appear a thousand feet above Corduin.’
Tarantio swore. In the courtyard below three priests had tried to reach the mountain path. A long spear plunged through the back of the first, pinning him to the gates. The second was almost cut in half by a swinging broadsword. The third, a young man, fell to his knees and begged for his life. A Daroth warrior grabbed him by the hair and dragged him back into the building. Tarantio drew back from the window. ‘There is only one way out,’ he said, ‘and the Daroth are there. Our only chance is to find a rope to climb over the battlements.’