Dark Moon

'I don't know - exactly. I saw a painting once of three women on a castle wall, staring down over the sea. I remembered it for years. But when I saw it again one of the women was wearing a green dress, though I had remembered it as blue. Suddenly the picture looked wrong to me, as if an artist had changed it.' He paused, then returned to his harp. Balancing it to his hip, he played the chorus notes of the Love Song of Bual. When he had finished, Shira clapped her hands. 'I love that,' she said. 'You played it the first night you were here.'

'Not like that,' he told her. 'The music has changed.'

'How can music change?'

He smiled. 'I draw my music from the magic of the land. Either the magic has changed, or my ability to channel it has altered. The first time you heard the love song you wept. Tears of happiness. That is the magic of Bual. But you did not weep today. The magic touched you differently. Your reaction is more of the mind than the heart.'

'Perhaps that is because it is no longer new to me,' she suggested.

'No. The magic should have brought tears. Something is wrong, Shira.'

'You are very tired. You performed for over two hours last night.'

'You have put the cart before the horse, pretty one. I performed for two hours because something had changed. You remember the group who complained about the pies? Said they were tasteless? The food should have tasted exquisite. I know my skills remain, and I trust my abilities. I have eaten no meat, drunk no wine. It is a mystery. I have long understood that magic does not swell brightly within cities. The stone walls, streets, roads and foundations close us off from the land and its power. The murders, the hangings, the robberies, the violence -these also taint the purity. But I know how to deal with that, Shira. I make myself immune to the pettiness of the world, to its dark side.' He fell silent for a moment, then he took her by the arm. 'Will you walk with me to the hillside? Perhaps I can find the answer with grass below my feet.'

'I cannot today. Two of the cooks have fallen ill and Father needs me.'

'Were the cooks here last night?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'Then they should not be ill. They heard the music.' Without another word he strode from the yard and out into the streets of Corduin. Back in Eldarisa he would have sought out one of the many seers, and received his answer within moments. Here, in this giant sarcophagus of a city, there were no seers of worth. There was no magic, save his own. There was sorcery. Sometimes he could feel its emanations coming from the palace of the Duke. But it was small sorcery, childishly malevolent. His music was stronger.

What then, he wondered, was drawing the life from his songs?

Duvo wandered on through the streets. The gates of the park were open and he strolled through, following the path to the High Hill, then leaving it and walking upon the grass. He lay down on his back, stretching out his arms and closing his eyes, feeling the power of the land like a gentle voice whispering to his soul.

Yet even here it was changed in an - as yet - indefinable way.

His upbringing in Eldarisa had taught Duvo never to worry at a problem, but to let his mind float around it.

Master Ranaloth had told him many times that lack of focus was the key.

'That does not seem to make sense, sir,' the ten-year-old Duvo had told him, as they strolled through the scented gardens of the Oltor Temple.

'Focus is only required, young human, when the core of the problem is identified. You are angry because of what Peltra said to you this morning. You are focusing now on what made her say it, and this might help you. But lose your focus, and let your mind free, and you will find yourself asking why the words hurt you, and what it is in you that drew the words from her.'

'She hates me because I am human. She calls me an animal, says that I smell.'

'That is still your anger speaking. Lose it. Float above it.'

Duvo sighed. 'I don't think I can do what you require of me, Master Ranaloth. I am not Eldarin.'

'But Peltra is, and she cannot do it either . . . yet.'

'I do not know why she is angry with me. I have never harmed her. Equally, I cannot say why her words hurt me. I am a human. I am an animal - as we all are. Perhaps I even smell.' He laughed. 'Why did it hurt me, sir?'

'Because it was intended to. And because you care about what Peltra thinks of you.'

'I do care. She is normally a sweet person. I thought she was fond of me.'

'Your essay on the healing powers of mountain herbs was very fine, Duvo. Well researched.'

'Thank you, sir. The library is wonderfully well equipped.'

'And what led you to the Book of Sorius?'

Duvo thought about it. 'It was Peltra. We were walking on the hillsides and she was telling me about it.' He reddened. 'I won the prize, but I wouldn't have won if she hadn't told me about the Book.'

'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?