“Damn right I will! . . . How are you getting on with him?”
“At first he seems a pompous bastard, but his heart is in the right place. I like him. And he knows his craft, by Heaven!”
“Don’t try to steal his oatcakes,” warned Karis.
Necklen laughed aloud. “He makes them himself, you know. They are damn good. He let me have one from a fresh batch. Just the one, mind!”
Karis lay back. “How long before the dawn?”
“Another couple of hours.”
“I’ll sleep,” she said. “Will you wake me at dawn?”
“I’ll be here.” Reaching out, she took his hand and squeezed it gently. He kissed her fingers, then covered her with a blanket. “May your dreams be sweet,” he said. “And don’t forget to say your prayers.”
“Thank you, mother,” she said, with a smile.
He blew out the candle and walked back into the main room, shutting the bedroom door behind him.
Duke Albreck was tired, his eyes bloodshot and gritty. Pushing away the mass of papers before him he rose, opened the door to the gardens and stepped through into the moonlight. The fresh cold air revitalized him and he shivered with pleasure. A servant announced the arrival of the soldier, Necklen, and the Duke returned to the warmth of his rooms. The old soldier looked wary.
“How is she?” asked Albreck.
“Very well, sir. She is resting.”
Albreck had never known how to communicate with ordinary people. It was as if their minds worked at a different level; they were rarely at their ease with him, nor he with them. “Sit you down, man,” he said. “I see your wound is bleeding again. I shall send my surgeon to you.”
“It’s stopped now, sir. Scar tissue broke, is all.”
“You are a brave man,” said Albreck. “Karis tells me you have served her before, and know her well.”
“Can’t say as I know her that well,” answered Necklen, guardedly. “She’s good, though. The best there is.”
“I think that is a fair estimate,” agreed the Duke. “However, the pressures here are very great. The burdens are onerous. Sometimes even the best find such situations . . . intolerable. There are many stories about Karis. She has become something of a legend during these last few years. One man told me she once danced naked through a town, following a victory. Is it true?”
“There’s always lots of stories about generals,” said Necklen. “Might I ask where this is leading?”
“Oh, I think you know where it is leading,” said Albreck. “This is my city, my responsibility. It is threatened with death and destruction, by an enemy more powerful and more evil than any it has faced in its long history. I have no right to ask you for honesty, Necklen. You are not sworn to me. But I would value it, nonetheless. Karis is a great fighter, and a fine tactician. She has courage, I don’t doubt that. But is she steady? For that’s what we need.”
Necklen sat silently for a moment, staring into the fire. “I am not a skilled liar, my lord—never felt the need to acquire the skills—so I’ll tell you plain. Karis isn’t like anyone I’ve ever known. She’s a mass of opposites, tough and tender, caring and callous. And she has a love of wine—ay, and men. She pushes herself too hard sometimes, and then she drinks. Too much, usually.” Necklen shrugged. “Despite that there is a greatness in her. That will carry her through, don’t you worry none about that. When the Daroth are before the walls, you’ll see that greatness shine. I promise you that.”
The Duke smiled thinly. “I hope that you are right. I am a capable swordsman, but I was never a soldier. Nor did I wish to be one. My skill lies in judging men. Women, I am glad to say, remain a mystery to me.”
“A wondrous mystery,” said Necklen, with a grin.
“Quite so.” In that one, small moment, there was a flicker of camaraderie. The Duke felt it, and drew back.
Necklen sensed the change of mood and rose from his chair. “If that is all, my lord?”
“Yes. Yes, thank you. Stay close to her. See that she doesn’t . . . push herself too hard.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” As he left, the Duke leaned forward, lifting a sheaf of papers, and returned to his reading.
Duvodas and the Oltor moved across the desert of rocks which once had been the Enchanted Park of Eldarisa. Together they climbed to the first sandstone ridge of Bizha. Duvodas remembered the first time he had climbed the Twins, scaling Bizha and standing on the top of the natural stone tower, from there to leap across the narrow space to land—breathless with excitement and fear—atop Puzhac. All the Eldarin children made the jump. It was said to epitomize the journey from childhood to manhood.
Now, on this first ridge, Duvo shivered, more at the sadness of his memories than the cold winds howling around the rocks. “Why are we here?” he asked the Oltor.
“Observe,” said the Oltor Prime. He began to sing, his voice melting into the wind, becoming part of it, dark as the night, icy as a winter peak; a song of starlight and death. The music filled Duvo’s heart, and he unwrapped his harp and began to play the notes clear and clean in perfect harmony with the Singer. Duvo had no idea where the music came from. It was unlike anything he had ever played, weaving a mood that was dark and contemplative. Then it changed. The Oltor’s sweet voice rose. Still matching the bitterness of a bleak winter, the Oltor introduced a light rippling chord, like the first shaft of sunlight after a storm. No, thought Duvo, like a birth on a battlefield, incongruous, out of place, and yet beautiful.
A gentle light began to glow some twelve feet above the rocky ground, spreading out like a mist across the land. Then it rose, fashioning itself into ghostly, translucent images. Duvo ceased his playing, and watched in silent awe as the city of Eldarisa was slowly sculpted in light. Not just the buildings, but the flowers of the park and the people of the Eldarin: frozen in place, transparent. Duvo felt he could step from the rock and become part of the light, for it glowed mere inches from the ridge on which he sat. He was about to do so when the Oltor ceased his song and laid his hand on Duvo’s shoulder. “You cannot walk there, my friend. Not yet,” said the Oltor Prime.
The golden figure raised his hands, palms pressed together as if in prayer, then drew a vertical line through the air. As his hands swept down Duvo felt a rush of warm air strike him. His eyes widened with shock as he saw sunlight stream through the line made by the Oltor’s hands. The line opened farther, and through it Duvo could see the City of Eldarisa, not fashioned in light but in stone and wood, solid and real, the grass of the park green and verdant.
“I have opened the Curtain,” said the Oltor Prime. “Follow me.”
On trembling legs Duvodas stepped through. There were children, statue-still, throwing a ball which hung in the air like a small moon. Older Eldarin were sitting on park benches. Not a movement could be seen. There was not a breath of wind. Duvo glanced up at the summer sky. Clouds stood motionless.
“How can this be?” he asked the Oltor.
“Time has no meaning here. Nor will it. Come, help me in what I must do.”
The Oltor Prime moved across the Great Square and up the broad flight of granite steps to the entrance of the Oltor Temple. There were some Eldarin inside. A father, statue-still, was pointing towards a section of bones laid upon a velvet-covered table. Beside him his children stood in silent, frozen wonder.
The Oltor Prime stood in the centre of the enormous hall, scanning the thousands of bones. Then he strode towards the high altar, and lifted a chunk of red coral. Duvodas followed him. “This was once my lifeblood,” said the Oltor Prime. “Now it will be the lifeblood of my people.” Lifting a section of blue velvet cloth, he tore a long strip loose. “You will need to cover your eyes, my friend,” he said, “for there will be blinding lights that would melt your sight away for good.” Duvodas took the velvet strip and tied it around his head. The Oltor handed him his harp. “You will not know the song I am to sing, but let your harp follow it as your heart dictates.”
Onc
e more the Oltor’s sweet voice broke out in song. Duvo waited for several moments, feeling the rhythm, charting the melody. Then he began to play. Even through the velvet blindfold he could see the brightness grow. It was sharp and painful, and he turned away from it. The music was similar to the Song of Morning which Ranaloth had taught him many years before. But it was infinitely more rich and multi-layered. And slowly the song swelled, other voices joining in, until it seemed that a great choir was filling the Temple with a magic so potent that Duvo’s senses swam.
He sank to his knees and let fall his harp. The music washed over him like a warm wave, and he lay down upon the stones and dreamed. In his dream he saw the Oltor Prime, standing before a host of his people. The Curtain of Time was open once more, and the people filed slowly through it to a land of green fields and high mountains: a place of peace, harmony and tranquillity. Duvodas longed to go with them.
He awoke as the Oltor Prime touched his face, feeling more rested than at any time in his life. Pulling clear his blindfold, he saw that the Eldarin father was still pointing towards the high altar. But now there was nothing upon it. Swiftly Duvo scanned the great hall of the Temple. It was empty. Not one shard of bone remained—save the skull held in the hands of the Oltor Prime. “You brought them back from the dead!” whispered Duvo.
“We brought them back, Duvodas. You and I.”
“Where are they?”
“In a new land. I must join them soon, but I need your help one last time.”
“What can I do?”
The Oltor lifted the skull. “This is all that is left of me, my friend. I cannot join to it, for I cannot both sing and be born again. You must play the song you heard.”
“I cannot do it like you. I do not have the skill.”
The Oltor Prime smiled. “You do not need the skill. You need the heart—and this you have.” The Oltor retied the blindfold. “Join with me in the music. And when I fall silent, play on!”
Once more the song sounded. Duvo’s fingers danced upon the harp strings. There was no conscious creation of sound, no planned melody. The music he played was automatic and instantaneous. He failed to notice when the Oltor’s voice faded away, and his fingers continued to dance effortlessly along the strings of his harp.
A hand touched his shoulder, and he let the music die away. “We are here, Duvodas,” said the Oltor. Duvo untied the blindfold and rubbed his eyes. Lying on the floor was the sleeping figure of Brune. No longer golden-skinned, he was the sandy-haired young man Duvo had first seen in the Wise Owl tavern with the swordsman Tarantio. Beside him stood the tall, naked figure of the Oltor Prime.
“I must leave now,” said the Oltor, “and you must return to the world.” He handed Duvo a small piece of red coral. “I have imbued this with a spell, which will open the Curtain twice only. It will take you to the land below a monastery on a high mountain some forty miles south-east of the ruined city of Morgallis. There you will find Sirano. He has the Pearl with him. Take Tarantio with you, if he will go.”
“Could you not stay and help us?”
“I wish to see no more wars. I have touched the stars, Duvodas, and seen many wonders. The Eldarin allowed the humans through the Curtain many centuries ago. Do you know why?”
“Ranaloth told me it was because our world was dying.”
“Yes, there was charity and kindness involved in the deed. But the underlying reason was that the Eldarin knew you were similar to the Daroth. They felt great guilt for imprisoning an entire race. You humans were not as grossly evil as the Daroth, but you had a capacity for vileness which the Eldarin were trying to understand. They believed that if they could master relations with the humans it would better help them when they restored freedom to the Daroth.”
“We are not like the Daroth! I cannot believe that.”
The Oltor sighed. “But, deep down, you do, Duvodas. Yours is a race whose imagination is limited to its own small appetites. Greed, lust, envy—these are the motivating forces of humankind. What redeems you is that within every man and woman there is a seed that can grow to encompass love, joy and compassion. But this seed is never allowed to prosper in fertile ground. It struggles for life among the rocks of your human soul. The Eldarin came, at last, to this realization. And here they are all around us, unmoving. Alive, and yet not living.”
“I thought this but a frozen moment in time,” said Duvodas. “I thought you had opened a Curtain on a heartbeat from the past!”
“No, my friend, though it is a heartbeat frozen in time. This is the present. We are inside the Pearl.” For a moment only the words failed to register. Duvo looked around him at the silent buildings and the statue-still Eldarin. “Rather than fight or kill,” continued the Oltor Prime, “they chose to withdraw from the world. They left behind one elderly mystic to carry the Pearl to a place of safety. He did not survive.”
“How can I help them?” asked Duvo. “How can I bring them back?”
“First you must find Sirano and the Pearl, then bring it to the highest mountain above Eldarisa. Lodge it there and climb the Twins. Then you must play the Creation Hymn. You know it—Ranaloth taught you.”
“I know it. But I was here once before. I cannot find the magic in these rocks.”
“And yet you must, if the Eldarin are to live again.”
Brune took a deep, shuddering breath and woke. He sat up and looked at the Oltor. “You . . . are not with me anymore,” he said, fear in his voice.
“A part of me will always be with you, Brune. And now it is time to say goodbye.”
Ozhobar was a large man, and distrustful of the spindly ladders giving access to the stripped barracks roof. Yet he climbed steadily, unwilling to allow his invention to be set in place by inferior hands. Coming to the roof, he stepped out and cast an expert eye over the work of the four carpenters, who stood by expectantly. They had constructed a large, flat surface of interlocking planks, set on four huge beams. Ozhobar strode on- to it, stamping his foot here and there. It was solid, the joints neat, the pins planed down perfectly. Satisfied, he took a piece of string and summoned one of the workmen. “Hold this in place with your thumb,” he said, laying one end of the string on the centre of the platform. Stretching the other end to its full length of five feet, he took a piece of chalk and traced a circle with a diameter of ten feet on the wood. The carpenter watched with curiosity as Ozhobar shortened the string by three inches, then traced a second circle within the first. Returning the string to his pocket, he called the carpenters to him. “I want a series of holes drilled within the chalk lines, three inches deep and set four inches apart. No more, no less.”
“What are they for?” asked the team leader.
“Pegs,” said Ozhobar. “I need the work completed by noon. The rails are being delivered then.” The Weapon Maker strode away from them to where a series of pulleys had been constructed, the ropes hanging down to the street far below. He had designed it himself to take three times the expected weight of the weapon and its ammunition. Even so his mind was full of calculations, possible problems and their likely solutions. Crossing the roof once more, he scanned the countryside beyond the northern wall. He already knew it was 400 yards to the first probable Daroth catapult site, 375 to the second, and 315 to the third. Prevailing winds in spring came from the south-east—but not always. In terms of maintaining optimum accuracy, the wind might still prove a problem.
He saw Karis on the wall some sixty feet to the north. She was talking to several officers and the veteran warrior Necklen. Seeing him she waved and smiled. Ozhobar gave a cursory nod and turned away. Could he build a catapult? Could a blind man piss in the dark? Irritating woman.
His natural sense of fairness asserted itself and he felt guilty about his rudeness. It was hardly her fault that she, like all the others, failed to recognize his genius. People rarely did. The world was full, it seemed to Ozhobar, of men with small minds and little imagination. “Why are there so many fools in the world?” he had once asked
his father.
“Well, boy, the world is ruled by fools so that other fools might prosper. Men of imagination are not highly regarded, as I fear you will find.”
How true it had proved! At thirty-five Ozhobar had seen many of his inventions scorned by lesser minds, his written papers mocked by the wise men of the day. Only now, with Corduin about to be destroyed, had they come to him. And for what? His water-pumping machine? His designs for an inter-connected sewage system to alleviate the spread of sickness and plague? His water-filtration device? No. For crossbows and armour and giant catapults. To call it galling would be an understatement.
“What diameter holes do you want, sir?” asked the team leader, moving up behind him.
“One inch should suffice.”
“I’ll have to send down for new drill bits. It’ll take time.”
“What size do you have?”
“Three-quarter, sir. And we’ve plenty of pegs that size to fit them.”
Ozhobar thought the problem through. The pegs would lock the wheels of the catapult into place, the rails allowing the weapon to be turned through 360 degrees. When the throwing-arm was released there would be a savage kick-back, driving the wheels into the pegs. Would three-quarters be thick enough? Should he design pegs of iron instead? That would be simple enough. But then iron pegs could damage the peg holes.
“Sir?”
“Yes, use three-quarters. But deepen the holes. If a peg snaps, it will need to be hammered through, so as to allow a fresh peg to be inserted.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man walked away. Ozhobar heard a distant voice call his name and he ambled across to the edge of the roof, gazing down to the street below. There was a cart drawn up there, carrying twelve of the huge pottery balls he had ordered; they were packed in straw. His irritation rose. They were not due until later this afternoon, and the canvas-roofed shelter had not yet been constructed for them.