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He could still sense his presence, but the lack of conversation was welcome.
    The following morning he continued on his way, across narrow valleys full of alder and birch and pine. The weather had cleared and the sun shone now in a clear sky, the snow on the distant peaks glowing like white flame.
    As he walked, his mind was far from battles and war, recalling gentle days with Gatien, researching ancient texts, trying to make sense of the tortured history of this fertile continent. If ever these wars end, I will become a scholar, Tarantio decided.
    Even as the thought came to him he could hear Dace's mocking laughter.

Chapter Two
    Three hundred miles to the north-east, at the centre of a new desert of barren rocks, a slender, blond-haired man climbed to the top of what had once been Capritas Hill. His green cloak was torn and threadbare, the soles of his shoes worn thin as paper. Duvodas the Harp Carrier stood at the summit and fought to hold down a rising tide of desolation and despair. His gentle face and soft grey-green eyes reflected the sorrow he felt. There was no magic left in the land. Black and grey mountains bare of earth reared up from the plains like rotting teeth, and Duvodas felt as if he was sitting in the jaws of death. Where once had been sculpted beauty, amid forests and streams and verdant valleys, now nothing remained. The flesh of the land had been stripped to the bone, clawed away by a hand larger than eternity. The four cities of the Eldarin had vanished, and even the whispering wind flowing over the dry rocks could find no memory of their existence. Not a trace. Not a broken cup, not a tombstone, not a child's toy.
    His grey-green eyes scanned the jagged peaks, pausing at the Twins, two pinnacles of rock that for centuries had been an elegant backdrop to the city of Eldarisa. Upon reaching the age of majority the children of the Eldarin would climb Bizha, the left-hand peak, then leap the eight feet to the rugged platform atop the neighbouring Puzhac.

    The pinnacles had graced the Enchanted Park, and many and glorious were the flowers that grew there.
    Now all was dead stone. Not a single blade of grass grew here now, and even his memories could not flower in this barren place. Duvodas rose and unwrapped his small harp.
    It seemed almost blasphemous to consider music in such a cold and empty landscape, but music was all he had, and his slender fingers danced upon the strings, sending out a stream of melancholy notes to echo among the rocks. Closing his eyes he sang the Song of Elyda, and her love of the Forest King, his voice almost breaking as he reached the chorus of farewell, where Elyda stood by the dark river watching as her lover's body was borne away to eternity on the black barge of the night.
    The music faded away and Duvodas covered the harp and swung it to his shoulders.
    Leaving the hillside, he took what once had been the forest road and walked swiftly towards the distant plains. Eight years before he had travelled this way, striding under the overhanging branches, watching sunlight dapple the trail, listening to the ceaseless music of stream and river. Bird-song had filled the air then, sweet and piping, and the scent of the forest had intoxicated him. Now dry dust billowed around his feet, and not a sound disturbed the graveyard silence.
    For most of the day he walked, angling his journey to the north-east. By dusk he could see the long black line of earth, like a ten-foot dike thrown up against a threatening sea. It stretched for miles across his path.
    He reached it as night was falling and scrambled up its loose banks, pausing at the crest. This was once the northernmost border of Eldarin land. Shrouded in mist, protected by magic, it was here that Duvodas had crossed during that long-ago autumn night. There were still oaks growing here, but it was no longer a wood. Many trees had died through lack of water.
    He had expected to feel more comfortable with earth once more beneath his