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is not in itself evil, you understand, but it prepares the soul for potential evil. The human is ejected from the mother, and its first instinct is to rage against the violation of its resting place in the womb.'
    'We can learn, though, Master Ranaloth. I have learned.'
    'You have learned,' agreed the old man. 'As an individual, and a fine one. I do not see great hope for your race, however.'
    'The Eldarin were once hunter-killers,' argued Duvodas.
    'That is not strictly true, Duvo. We had - and we retain - a capacity for violence in defence of our lives.
    But we have no lust for it. At the dawn of our time, so our scientists tell us, we hunted in packs. We killed our prey and ate it. At no time, however, did we take part in random slaughter as the humans do.'
    'If you hold the humans in such low regard, sir, why is it that the Eldarin invest the rivers with magic, keeping the humans free of disease and plague?'

    'We do it because we love life, Duvo.'
    'And why not tell the humans about the enchantment in the water? Would they not then lose their hatred of you?'
    'No, they would not. They would disbelieve us and hate us the more. Now, once more, try to reach the purity of Air Magic.'
    Duvodas dragged his mind from the warmth of his memories now and gazed down at the hunter.
    Without the healing waters, plague and disease had ripped across the land. Lifting the harp, his fingers touched the strings, sending out a series of light, rippling notes. The scent of roses in bloom filled the cabin, rich and heady. Duvodas continued to play, the music swelling. A golden light radiated from his harp, bathing the walls, flowing through doorways, sending dancing shadows on the low ceiling. Dust motes gleamed in the air like tiny diamonds, and the atmosphere in the cabin - moments before pungent with the smell of disease - became fresh, clean and sharp as the breeze of spring.
    There was a pitcher of curdled milk on the table beside him. Moment by moment it changed. First the fur of mildew on the pitcher rim receded, then the texture of the semi-liquid contents altered, re-emulsifying, the lumps fading, melting back into the creamy richness of fresh milk.
    The music continued, the mood changing from lilting and light to the powerful rhythms and the rippling chords of the dance.
    The hunter groaned softly. The black boils were receding now. Sweat bathed the face of the singer as he rose from his chair. Still playing his harp he opened his grey-green eyes and slowly made his way into the back bedroom. The music flowed over the dying woman, holding to her, soaking into her soul. Duvodas felt a terrible weariness weighing down on him like a boulder, but his fingers danced upon the strings, never faltering. Moving, on he came to the second bedroom. The golden light of his harp shone upon the bed and the faces of the two girls, the oldest of them not more than five.
    Almost at the end of his strength, Duvodas changed the rhythm and style once more, the notes less complicated and complex, becoming a simple lullaby, soft and soothing. He played on for several more minutes, then his right hand cramped. The music died, the golden light fading.
    Duvodas opened the window wide and took a deep breath. Then moving to the bedside, he sat down. The two older children were sleeping peacefully. Laying his hand upon the head of the dead toddler, he brushed back a wisp of golden hair from the cold brow.
    'I wish I had been here sooner, little one,' he said.
    He found an old blanket and wrapped the body, tying it with two lengths of cord.
    Carrying the corpse outside, he laid it gently on the ground beside two freshly dug graves a little way from the cabin. There was a shovel leaning against a tree. Duvodas dug a shallow grave and placed the body inside.
    As he was completing his work, he heard a movement behind him.
    'How is it that we are alive?' asked the hunter.
    'The fever must have passed, my friend,' Duvodas told him. 'I am sorry about your son. I