“I need no-one to save me. I am Dace. I am the best there is, the best there ever was. Hell’s teeth, I am the best there ever will be! I am not weak. When an enemy comes for me I slay him—human or Daroth, lion or wolf.”
“And yet you wept when Sigellus was cut down. You tried to stop him duelling; he was drunk, his powers fading. You almost begged him to let you fight in his place. But he was proud. When he died, you felt as though a hot knife was being dragged across your soul.”
Dace’s hand flashed for the dagger at his belt. He staggered. “I did not know that,” said Tarantio, his hand dropping to his side.
“He lies!” shouted Dace.
“There was never a need for lies in a culture that knew no violence, no anger, no despair,” said the Oltor. “That is why the Daroth fooled us. They are telepaths, and they presented a mental wall through which we did not pass. It would have been discourteous to try.”
“We are now facing the Daroth,” said Tarantio. “Your help would be appreciated.”
“I will heal your wounded, but more than that I cannot offer. I will rest now. Perhaps you would like to speak with Brune?” The Oltor closed his eyes. Brune opened them. “He is very sad,” said Brune. “He wants to die.”
Moving to his clothes, Brune dressed himself. His leggings were too short now, and his clothes hung upon his slender frame. He sat down by the window. “Can you do nothing for him?” he asked Tarantio.
“What can I do? He is the last of a dead race.”
“But he’s so sad,” said Brune. “And he’s my friend.”
“Yesterday you were frightened,” said Tarantio, “and rightly so. Can you not see that he is taking over your body?”
“I don’t mind,” said Brune. “All my life I’ve been frightened. Never knowing what to do, what to say. So many things I couldn’t understand. People. Wars. I couldn’t remember things. Places. I used to get lost. I’m not lost now. He teaches me things, he looks after me.”
Tarantio smiled, and patted Brune’s shoulder. “We all look after you, my friend. That is why we are concerned.”
“I’ll be all right, honestly I will. You won’t let no-one hurt him, will you? He’s not like us. He won’t fight.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Tarantio promised.
“He has knowledge that could end disease and famine,” said Brune. “The Oltor may be gone, but we humans could learn so much from him.”
“If we survive the Daroth,” said Tarantio.
Chapter Eleven
Shira was nervous as she lay upon the bed, the golden creature sitting beside her. “Do not fear me, child,” he said.
“I have no fear of you, sir. It is just that it pains me to have anyone . . . view my deformity.”
“I do understand, Shira. If you do not wish me to continue, I will understand that also. It may be that I can do little, for I have never encountered humans before.”
She smiled at him, then looked to Duvo. “Do you think I should?” she asked him. He nodded and Shira closed her eyes. “Very well, then,” she said. Duvo moved to the bedside, his harp in hand.
“There will be no need of actual music,” said the Oltor. “The song I sing cannot be heard by you.” The scent of roses filled the room. He laid his slender, golden hand on Shira’s brow and her breathing deepened instantly. “She sleeps,” he said, drawing back the sheet. Shira was dressed in a simple cotton shift, which the Oltor raised to her hips. The deformed leg was ugly and twisted, the muscles knotted and misshapen like rocks under the skin.
The Oltor Prime placed his hand on her thigh. Astonished, Duvo watched as the hand began to glow, becoming at first translucent and then transparent. Slowly it sank beneath the surface of Shira’s skin. “The bones of the thigh and shin were broken badly,” whispered the Oltor, “and they have been set awkwardly and suffered severe calcification. The muscles around them are badly fibrotic, no longer wet tissue, and the tendons are now too short.”
Duvodas tried to mask his disappointment. “It was kind of you to examine her,” he said.
“Be patient, my friend, we have just begun.” Shira’s thigh was glowing now, and Duvo could see the Oltor’s hand moving below the surface of the skin. There was a sudden crack, the noise like a whiplash in the quiet of the room. Duvo jerked at the sound.
“What are you doing?”
“Breaking the thigh-bone and resetting it straight. It is difficult; it is taking longer than I had thought to heal and stretch the muscles.” Slowly the knots and lumps of Shira’s thigh began to shrink. After an hour the Oltor removed his hand, and began again below the knee.
As dusk approached, the room grew gloomy and Duvodas lit a lantern. “How long now?” he asked.
“Not long. Help me to turn her over.” Gently they rolled the sleeping woman to her stomach.
“The leg looks perfect,” said Duvo.
“It is, but the muscles of the lower back are also misshapen, as is the spine. This is natural after years of limping. I must be careful now, for your son must not be touched by the magic.” His hands moved over Shira’s lower back, the long fingers gently kneading the flesh. At last he stood, and covered her with a sheet. “You may wake her now,” he said.
Duvo sat on the bed and took Shira’s hand, kissing it. “Wake up, my love,” he told her. Shira moaned softly, and yawned. Her eyes opened. “Time to get up,” said Duvo.
Sleepily Shira pulled back the sheet and allowed Duvo to help her to stand. There was no surprise as she straightened. “This is a lovely dream,” she said.
“It is no dream. You are healed, Shira.” The girl stood for a moment, then took several tentative steps. Ignoring both men, she sat back down on the bed and drew up her cotton shift, staring down at the now perfectly formed leg. She stood once more, then spun on her heel in a graceful pirouette.
“She still believes it is a dream,” said the Oltor.
“Perhaps you should pinch yourself, Shira,” suggested Duvo.
“I don’t want to wake up from this,” she said, tears in her eyes.
“I can promise you that you will not,” Duvo assured her. Shira hesitated, then dug her nails into the palm of her hand.
“It hurts,” she said. “I am awake! Oh, Duvo!” She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck.
He kissed her, and held her close. “You are thanking the wrong person,” he said at last, and Shira turned to the Oltor Prime.
“I don’t know what to say to you,” she said. “I cannot believe it! How can I thank you?”
“Your joy is enough, Shira,” the Oltor replied. “I think the journey to Loretheli will be a little easier now. How soon will you be leaving?”
“As soon as the weather begins to break,” Duvo told him. “There are more than eight thousand people preparing for the journey. You should come with us.”
“I think not,” said the Oltor. Looking down at Shira, he smiled. “Your baby is strong and healthy, lacking nothing. His development shows he will be a lusty infant.”
“A boy, then,” she said, taking Duvo by the hand. “A son for you, my love!”
Duvo sat down upon the bed, holding her hand in both of his. “A son for us,” he corrected her. Releasing her hand, he stroked her raven hair. “I cannot tell you how happy you have made me. And I cannot believe how I could think that love would destroy my music. Every day with you makes the power swell within me.”
“I think you are embarrassing our guest,” chided Shira.
“Not so, Shira,” said the Oltor. “But I think I will leave you. Tell me, Duvodas, is there a place within this city where land magic still flourishes?”
“Not with any strength,” said Duvo.
“I feared not. You humans are similar to the Daroth, in that you draw magic from the land without replacing it. You carpet the ground with dead stone. It is not healthy.”
“What is it that you need?” asked Duvo.
“I need to touch the stars. There are truths I must find, and riddles w
hich must be answered.”
“There is a park close by,” said Duvo. “Whenever I need to feel the magic, I go there. As I said, it is not strong, but then you are far more powerful than I.”
“Will you take me there?”
“I will. In summer it is a haunt of evil men—robbers and thieves. It is too cold for them now. We should be safe.”
Hooded and cloaked, the Oltor Prime walked through the winding streets alongside Duvodas, coming into Gallows Square just as the moon emerged from behind a screen of clouds. The Oltor paused and gazed at the line of corpses hanging there. “You find it so easy to kill,” he said sadly.
“I have never killed,” Duvodas told him.
“I apologize to you, Duvodas. But you cannot know how much pain such sights cause me. Come, we must move on swiftly. This place is like a Daroth city. It is not just that the magic has gone, but there is force here, like a whirlpool that devours. I can feel the power being leached from me.” They hurried on, through the park gates and up the ice-covered slope to the small group of hills at the centre of the park. The Oltor Prime turned to look back at the glistening city. “What will you humans do when you have drawn all magic from the land? What will you become?” he asked.
“Perhaps we will also find a way to put it back,” said Duvodas.
The Oltor Prime nodded. “That is a good thought. Hold to it.”
“You say that without conviction,” Duvodas pointed out. “Do you believe we are incapable of finding a way?”
The Oltor Prime shook his head. “No, not incapable. Just different. If all the Oltor were struck blind, save for one man, then the rest would look to him for leadership. They would seek a way for all to see. You humans would not react in this way. The blind would be jealous of the man with sight, and seek to put out his eyes also. I learned much from Brune. There was a woman in his village when he was young. She had power; she was a Healer. But they burned her in a great fire, and rejoiced when they had done so. However, let us not dwell on such matters. Do not be concerned with what you are about to see,” he said. “No human in the city below will observe it.” The Oltor walked to the highest point of the hill and knelt down in the snow. Within moments it had melted away and Duvo felt the warmth of a summer day radiating from the golden figure before him. The Oltor began to sing in a low, sweet voice, creating music more perfect than any Duvodas had heard. He sat down, lost in the wonder of the moment.
A shimmering blue light grew around the Oltor, and Duvo sat amazed as he saw the creature’s spirit swell out from his body, shining and wondrous, growing, filling the sky—a colossal, towering figure, whose gigantic arms reached out to touch the stars, cradling them in his palms. Flowers sprang into life around the Oltor’s body—small snowdrops, yellow daffodils, shining in the bright moonlight. Time ceased to have meaning for the human, and as the music faded he felt a wrench, and a sense of great loss. Tears fell from Duvo’s eyes and he fought back a wave of sorrow threatening to engulf him. The Oltor Prime laid his hands on Duvo’s shoulders. “I am sorry, my friend. The magic was almost too powerful for you. Be at peace.” The sorrow faded, replaced by a sense of melancholy.
“I watched you touch the stars,” said Duvo. “How I envy you that power!”
“There is more to see, if you have the desire,” the Oltor Prime told him.
Duvodas heard the sadness in his voice. “What is it?” he asked.
“I have the answers, Duvo, but they are painful. When the Daroth had destroyed my people, they set themselves to obliterate the Eldarin. Like us the Eldarin would not fight, but they honed their magic and cast a mighty spell.” Reaching out to the edge of the snow, the Oltor swept his hand across it, scooping it, then rolling it into a ball. This he tossed into the air—where it instantly vanished. “The Eldarin spell ripped out across the land, gathering power, swallowing the Daroth cities, and containing them in a black Pearl which the Eldarin hid within the topmost peak of the highest mountain. The threat was gone, yet not one Daroth was slain. When the human armies came against the Eldarin there were those who considered repeating the magic, trapping the humans. But the Council of Elders chose a different route. They cast the spell against themselves—leaving one elder to take charge of the new Pearl.
“The humans killed him. And the Pearl became a cause for yet another war. It was perceived as a magical artefact—which indeed it was. And now, as a result of the greed and lust for power of one man, the Daroth have returned and the Eldarin Pearl is far from its home.” The Oltor Prime sighed, then he turned to Duvo and laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Would you like to see the city of Eldarisa again?”
“More than anything.”
“Then stand close to me.” The Oltor rose and lifted his arms, and once more the bitter cold of winter enveloped the hillside, the circle of flowers dying within minutes. Clouds gathered, and fresh snow fell upon the parkland and the city. But it did not touch Duvodas or the Oltor. For now they stood on the barren rocks that had once been the land of the Eldarin.
And here there was no snow.
Karis was very drunk. She stared gloomily at the empty jug. Rolling to her knees, she forced herself upright, staggered, and fell heavily to a couch. It had seemed so easy when she had promised the Duke to control her rebellious, volatile nature. Day after exhausting day she had forced herself to behave like a general, coolly detached as she supervised training routines, discussed logistics and supplies with politicians and merchants, planned strategies with her captains. Today she had watched Forin take delivery of the new axes, double-headed and deadly, each weighing thirty pounds. Even the strongest of Forin’s men had been surprised at the weight of the weapons. She had gone from there to the forge of Ozhobar, and viewed the construction of the catapult, and from there to the barracks building roof where carpenters and builders were arguing over the best way to strip it and lay a flat surface for the weapon. And that was only the morning.
An appealing thought struck her. She should run to the stables, saddle Warain and ride off into the mountains, heading south for Loretheli! There she could book passage to the southern islands, where winter had no hold. I could run naked on the sands, she thought, and swim in the warm sea.
Rising once more, she tugged off her shirt and leggings, throwing them across the room. Lifting the empty jug, she hurled it at the wall, where it burst into scores of jagged fragments.
Hearing the noise, a servant entered, and stood staring open-mouthed at the naked woman. “Get out!” she bellowed. The man turned and fled.
Karis staggered to the balcony window, pushing it open. The cold struck her as she walked out and leaned over the rail, staring down at the snow-covered courtyard below. Brushing the snow from the rail, she hooked her leg over it. A strong hand grabbed her, dragging her back into the room. Swinging, she aimed a punch at Necklen’s grey-bearded face, but he blocked her arm and threw her to the couch.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “Get out of here!”
Necklen turned to a servant who stood cowering by the door. “Fetch me a jug of water and some bread and cheese,” he ordered. Then he knelt by Karis. “Let’s get you to bed,” he said. Her fist snaked out, but sailed harmlessly over his shoulder. Ducking into her, he hauled her upright and half carried her to the bedroom. She fell back on the bed, and noticed that the ceiling was gently revolving.
“I want to dance,” she said. “I want another drink.” She struggled to sit up, but Necklen pushed her back.
“You just lie there, princess, until we can get some food into you.”
Karis swore at him, loud and long, using every gutter insult she knew. Necklen sat silently throughout the tirade. The ceiling was spinning faster now, and something horrible was happening to her stomach. Groaning, she rolled to the edge of the bed, where Necklen held an empty bowl beneath her and she retched violently. And passed out . . .
When she awoke the room was dark, a single candle flickering on the table beside her bed. She sat up. Her
mouth tasted vile, and her head pounded. There was a jug of water on the bedside table and she filled a goblet and drank deeply.
“Are you feeling better?” asked Necklen. The old soldier was sitting in a chair in the shadows. He rose and moved to the bed.
“I feel like death,” she told him.
“The thaw has begun, Karis. Spring is almost here.”
“I know,” she said wearily.
“This is no time to be dancing naked on balconies. Giriak told me how you stood on the rail at Morgallis. He thought you were mad, but I told him you were merely eccentric. Eccentric and unique—and far too easily bored.” Tearing off a chunk of bread, he handed it to her. Karis chewed on it without enthusiasm. “Everyone here is relying on you, princess.”
“You think I don’t know that? And don’t call me princess!”
Necklen chuckled. “I’ve known many commanders during my life—steady ones, reckless ones, cowardly ones. But you are an original, princess. You can’t be read. With you it is all instinct. I had a horse like you once: sweet as a berry one moment, vicious and deadly the next. Highly strung, he was. But a thoroughbred, faster than the wind, stronger than a bull. And fearless. Rode through fire for me, he did. I loved that horse, but I never understood him.”
“What are you prattling on about?” demanded Karis, swinging from the bed. She groaned as the pounding in her head increased.
“Drink some more water.”
“Shemak’s Balls, but you sound like my mother!” Karis drank another goblet, then ate more bread. Glancing up, she grinned at him. “But I love you, old man!”
“So I should hope.”
She saw that the bandage around the stump of his left wrist was seeping blood. “Oh, Hell, did I do that?”
“You didn’t mean to; you were thrashing around a little. It will heal. Now, to more important matters. I have sent scouts out to the north and south-east. And the Weapon Maker wants to know if you will be there when they set up the catapult.”
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