Gemmell, David – Dark Moon

‘It does not matter,’ Browyn told him, lying back on his pillow with eyes closed. ‘I am ready to die.’

‘I think that I am too,’ said Duvodas.

‘Nonsense. You have not yet brought back the Eldarin.’

‘I cannot. I have told you – the magic is lost to me.’

‘Then find it, boy! Don’t you understand? Nothing in terms of the soul is irrevocable. Once you were pure, and the magic flowed in you. It will do so again. Already, in your time here, I see the chains of fire have died down. You know what you must do. Begin the journey back to what you were.’

‘It is not possible.’

‘Pah! Nothing is impossible – especially not in terms of the human soul. If that were true, every soldier would become evil and every priest would have healing hands. You know what talent makes us great?’

‘No.’

‘The best of us just never know when to give up.’

True to his own description Browyn survived the pneumonia, much to his surprise, and lived throughout the winter and the spring of the following year. But in the summer he developed a hacking cough and began to lose weight. By the first day of autumn he was barely skin and bone, and Duvodas knew that he was dying. Towards the end Browyn became delirious. Duvodas took to carrying him up into the mountains, where the old man could sit and look out over the vistas and the distant lake.

On the last morning of Browyn’s life, as he sat on the mountainside, he became suddenly lucid. ‘I have always wondered,’ he said, ‘if my boat could sail.’

‘We shall see,’ said Duvo. Taking a large hammer, he knocked away the restraining planks and focused his energies on the earth below the boat, drawing up water from deep in the ground. It bubbled through the grass and pooled around the hull, slowly lifting the vessel, which began to move down the hill on a cushion of water. The slender craft sped down into the valley, spearing into the lake before bobbing up gently on the surface, its momentum carrying it forward towards a pine-crested island.

‘Ah, what a beautiful sight,’ murmured Browyn. He died soon after, and Duvodas buried him in the shade of a spreading oak.

‘Farewell, my dear friend,’ he said, when the grave was completed. Then he sighed as he realized, with a touch of

regret, that Browyn had never told him why he had built a boat on a mountain.

Duvodas stayed on in the cabin. There was nowhere else he wished to be. On the last day of autumn he tried to play the harp again but, as ever, the music was a travesty. Laying the instrument on the floor, he walked out into the meadow beyond the cabin.

And froze.

Twenty Daroth horsemen were riding slowly up the hill. Gazing at them, he knew he could kill them all without effort. The thought was not a good one, and a great sadness fell upon him. I will kill no more, he told himself, and he strode out to meet them.

The leader climbed down from his horse and ap­proached. He was carrying a small, sleeping child wrapped in a blanket. ‘You are the harpist Duvodas?’ he asked, his voice deep and resonant.

‘I am.’

‘I am the ambassador to Loretheli. We came upon an old human dying on the road; he told us his name was Ceofrin. He was trying to reach you, to bring you this child, but his heart was not strong.’

‘Why should he send a child to me?’ asked Duvo.

‘He is your son,’ said the Daroth.

‘My son died,’ declared Duvo, feeling the anger rise in him. ‘Torn from life by a Daroth spear.’

‘Not so, human. As Ceofrin lay dying we touched his mind. We know how Shira died, but when they came to bury her a female saw the child move. Nursed to health and taken to Loretheli, he was returned to his blood kin Ceofrin when the war ended. The old man tried to find you, but no-one knew where you had gone. Then word reached him of a man with the face of blood, living in the mountains. Ceofrin knew he was dying and wanted

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