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,’ said the young man.
‘I hope that is not true. Come, let us walk into the Temple and pay homage to the Oltor.’ Together they had strolled through the entrance. The vast circular building housed hundreds of thousands of bones, laid upon black velvet cloths. Every niche was filled with them – skulls, thigh-bones, tiny metatarsals, fragments and splinters. There was little else here, no statues, no paintings, no seats. On a high table, laid upon a sheet of satin, were a dozen red stones. ‘The blood of the Oltor Prime,’ said Ranaloth. ‘One of the last to die. His lifeblood stained the rocks below him.’
‘Why did the Eldarin gather all these bones?’ Duvo had asked.
Ranaloth gave a sad smile. ‘They were a fine people, who knew the songs of the earth. We learned their songs; you now sing many of them. But the Oltor will sing no more. It is fitting that we can walk here and see the result of evil. This is what it means to confront the Daroth. How many hopes and dreams are trapped within these bones? How many wonders lie never to be discovered? This is what war is, Duvo. Desolation, despair and loss. There are no victors.’
Now, in the quiet of the dawn, Duvo began the Song of Vornay – sweet and lilting, soft as the feather of a dove, gentle as a mother’s kiss. The music filled the room, and Duvo was amazed to find that not only was the magic still there, but it had changed for the better. Where the power had been passive and impersonal, it was now vibrant and fertile. He was hard pressed to contain it,
and found himself playing the Creation Hymn. As his fingers danced upon the strings he became aware of a nest upon the roof outside the window, and the young chicks within it. And below, from the alley, he felt the tiny, irrepressible music in the heartbeat of three new pups, born in the night. Duvo smiled and continued his song.
Suddenly he faltered.
The sense of magic was strong upon him and he realized, with both dread and longing, that new life was closer still .. . within the room. Putting aside his harp, he returned to the bed and lay down beside the still sleeping Shira. As the magic faded from his mind, he reached out one last time, and felt the tiny spark of what in nine months would be his child.
His son … or daughter. A sense of wonder flowed through him, and an awesome feeling of humility linked with mortality filled his mind.
Shira awoke and smiled sleepily. ‘I had such wonderful dreams,’ she said.
Sixty miles north-east of Corduin, in a moonlit hollow, Karis studied the ancient map. According to the coordinates they were less than twenty miles from Daroth One. They had seen no Daroth warriors in the four days since they left Corduin, but everywhere there were signs of panic: small villages deserted, columns of refugees fleeing for what they perceived as the safety of the city.
The others were still asleep as the dawn sun rose. Karis added dry wood to the embers of last night’s fire and gently blew it to fresh life. Autumn was fast becoming winter, and a chill breeze was blowing down from the mountains.
The politician, Pooris, rose from his blankets, saw Karis by the fire and moved across to her. He was a small, thin man, bald – save for a thin circlet of silver hair above
his ears. ‘Good morning to you, Karis,’ he said, his voice smooth as winter syrup.
‘Let us hope it proves so,’ she said. He smiled, but the action did not reach his button-bright blue eyes.
‘May we speak – privately?’ he asked her.
‘It does not get much more private than this, Pooris,’ she pointed out.
He nodded, then swung a glance to the sleeping warriors. Satisfied they could not hear him he turned again to the warrior woman. ‘I am not blessed with physical bravery,’ he said. ‘I have always been frightened of pain – suffering of any kind. I fear the Daroth.’ He sighed. ‘Fear is not a strong enough word. I cannot sleep for worrying.’