His fingers lightly stroked the strings, and a jangle of discordant notes jarred the night air. At first he was untroubled and tried to re-tune the instrument; then his fingers touched the strings again. The noise that came was a screeching travesty of music. With increasing panic he sought the notes of the Hymn, but there was nothing there. No music at all moved within him.
All night he struggled, but with the coming of the dawn not one pure note had sung from his harp. It was as if he had never known how to play. He thought of the simple melodies he had learned as a child, lullabies and dancing songs. Not one could he remember.
Through the long day he sat upon the ledge, and at the last he remembered the words of Ranaloth so many years before. ‘Many among the Eldarin did not want to see a child of your race among us. But you were lost and alone, an abandoned babe on a winter hillside. I had always wondered if a human could learn to be civilized
– if you could put aside the violence of your nature, and
the evils of your heart. You have proved it possible and made me happy and proud. The triumph of will over the pull of the flesh – this is what the Eldarin achieved many aeons ago. We learned the value of harmony. Now you understand it also, and perhaps you can carry this gift back to your race.’
‘What must I beware of, sir?’ he had asked.
‘Anger and hatred – these are the weapons of evil. And love, Duvo. Love is both wondrous and yet full of peril. Love is a gateway through which hatred – disguised and unrecognized – can pass.’
‘How can that be so? Is not love the greatest of the emotions?’
‘Indeed it is. But it breaches all defences, and lays us open to feelings of great depth. You humans suffer this more than most races I have known. Love among your people can lead to jealousy, envy, lust and greed, revenge and murder. The purest emotion carries with it the seeds of corruption; they are hard to detect.’
‘You think I should avoid love?’
Ranaloth gave a dry chuckle. ‘No-one can avoid love, Duvo. But when it happens, you may find that your music is changed. Perhaps even lost.’
‘Then I will never love,’ Duvo had promised.
But he had loved, and the Daroth had stolen it away, torn it from him on the point of a spear.
In despair now, Duvo returned his harp to the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then he climbed from the ledge and, leaving the Pearl where he had placed it upon the mountain-top, began the long walk from the desert.
For weeks he wandered, coming at last to a high mountain valley. There, on top of a hill a mile above a lake, he came upon an old man sitting in the captain’s chair of a fishing boat. The old man waved
to him as he approached and Duvo climbed to the deck.
‘Why are you staring at me so?’ asked Duvo.
‘You have flames around your soul, young man. You must be in great pain.’
‘You see a great deal, sir. Tell me, why have you built a boat upon a mountain?’
‘First you tell me why you have scarred your face with blood.’
As they sat quietly in the sunshine Duvo told him of the death of Shira, and the war against the Daroth, and lastly of the Pearl and his failure to bring back the Eldarin. The old man, Browyn, listened, and at dusk led Duvo back to his cabin, where they ate a simple meal of hot oats and milk sweetened with fruit syrup.
‘I think you should stay here for a while, my boy. Rest. Let the mountain air clear your mind.’
Duvodas had nowhere else to go, and was grateful for the invitation. He stayed throughout the summer, and on into the autumn. Then, as the weather grew colder, Browyn caught a chill which became pneumonia. Duvodas could not help him, for he had lost the power to heal.