The dawn came, the sun rising towards noon. Exhausted now, Duvo played on. Moving to the centre of his web, he calmed himself for the Creation Hymn. He stood silently for several minutes, breathing deeply, calming his mind. Then his fingers danced upon the strings and his strong clear voice sang out. Sunlight shone down
upon the glade, and several birds flew into the branches of nearby trees. Duvo walked as he sang, and not once did the music waver.
The magic was back!
He slumped down upon the boulder and laid his harp beside him, his fingers cramped and trembling.
Master Ranaloth emerged from the tree-line, sunlight shining on his snow-white fur. His own harp was slung across his shoulder.
‘You did well, Duvo,’ he said, pride in his voice. ‘You are a human beyond compare. And in you I see hope for your race.’
‘Thank you, sir. It was harder than I could have believed. Tell me, though, why only this glade? Is it because the end came here?’
‘It was not just this glade,’ said Ranaloth. ‘It was the whole forest. The glade was the last point of emptiness.’
Duvo stared at him. ‘The forest covers hundreds of square miles. And you . . . ?’
‘It took many centuries, Duvo. But it was necessary.’
‘But you could not have done it alone?’
‘It is my gift. And now it is yours. Without magic the land dies. Oh, you can still grow crops upon it, but it is spiritually dead nonetheless. The evil of the Daroth is that they live to kill – and they destroy not only races, but also the soul of the lands they inhabit. That is a crime beyond comprehension. You humans do it also. Though you do it more slowly, with your cities of stone, your lusts and your greed. But among you are those who care. Among the Daroth there are none.’
‘You speak as if the Daroth still live. But the Eldarin destroyed them centuries ago.’
‘The Eldarin do not destroy, Duvo. The Daroth live.’
‘Where?’
‘Where they can do no harm.’
Duvo had asked many questions, but Ranaloth would say no more. ‘But what if they return?’ Duvo asked.
‘As long as the Eldarin survive, they will not return.’
Now, on the grass of the hillside above Corduin, Duvo rose and stared towards the north. His throat was dry, his heart hammering. He knew now why the magic of the land was changed. He could feel it; the slow, almost imperceptible pull towards the north, the power seeping away like water through a cracked jug.
The Eldarin had not survived.
And the Daroth were back …
Tarantio sat at a corner table, his back to the wall, and finished the last of the meat pie. The gravy was thick and rich, the meat tender. The atmosphere in the Wise Owl was tense, for the musician had not appeared this evening and many of the guests were complaining. Ceofrin moved among the tables, making his apologies and assuring his customers that the harpist would appear momentarily. One group of four young nobles rounded on the innkeeper, claiming that the food tasted like dung and they had no intention of paying. Shira moved to the table and spoke to them, and they settled down, explaining they had travelled across the city to hear Duvodas play. Then they apologized for the outburst. Tarantio was impressed by the harmony she radiated, and he glanced across at Brune, who was staring at her with undisguised admiration. Ceofrin backed away from the table, relief showing on his round, fat face. Shira refilled the wine goblets and then, with a last dazzling smile, returned to the kitchen.
‘I hope the harpist does appear,’ said Brune.
‘I don’t think he is in the building,’ Tarantio told him. Brune’s disappointment showed.
Dace, however, was delighted. ‘How do people listen to that dreadful screeching?’ he asked.
‘Because it is beautiful,’ Tarantio told him. It was impossible to lie to Dace, and he could feel his confusion at the answer. ‘Explain it to me,’ Dace insisted.
‘I don’t think that I can, brother. I hear it and it moves me to tears. Yet I can feel your discomfort.’