‘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.