The boy was an Ohmsford scion, and had inherited the use of the wishsong from his ancestors.
But what to do about it?
That he would do something was a given. That boy would give him the means to alter the history of the Four Lands in a dramatic fashion. He knew the legends of the wishsong. He knew what it was capable of doing–what it had done for various Ohmsfords over the years. That there was one member of the family still alive was no small surprise, even after the rumors had reached him of this boy’s gift. He had suspected the truth then, but had not been convinced until now. What this boy could offer him, what he could provide in the way of support, was immeasurable. Paxon Leah had held promise as a bearer of the Sword of Leah, but a user of the wishsong could offer much, much more.
He struggled to contain his excitement as he sat staring down at the tabletop, thinking. He didn’t show it, his face impassive and his body still, but his insides were roiling. With this boy as an ally, anything was possible. With this boy’s power …
A chair scraped, and when he looked up the boy was sitting across from him. “Did you like my singing?”
Arcannen steadied himself, then smiled and nodded. “You have great talent.”
“I saw you staring at me.”
“I admit, I was staring. I apologize. But I was surprised by how good you were. Much better than any singer I have ever heard. Who taught you?”
The boy drank from a glass of water. “I taught myself.”
“How did you end up here?”
“I just did. Let’s back up. I think you were staring at me because you know me from somewhere. Am I right?”
Arcannen hesitated. “I know of you. I know something of the magic you possess.”
The boy said nothing. He just stared. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, but he was very self–possessed and calm where others would have kept their distance. Arcannen admired that.
“Who says it’s magic?” the boy challenged him at last.
“I know it is magic because I have the use of magic myself. Tell me more about it. How long have you had it? How well can you control it?”
The boy rose, his face tight. “Right now, I have to sing.”
Then he turned abruptly and walked away.
FIVE
REYN FROSCH WASN’T SURE HOW MUCH OF WHAT THE BLACK‑cloaked man had told him he believed, but of one thing he was very certain–the man knew entirely too much about him. And that frightened him–badly. He had spent his life hiding what he was, and to be revealed now was deeply troubling.
Reyn crossed the great room to the kitchen door, noting as he did so that the Boar’s Head was even busier now than it had been earlier. There were no longer any seats or tables to be found, and what little space there was to stand was down to almost nothing. He was forced to maneuver his way using shoulders and elbows to get through the raucous, hard–drinking crowd, and it occurred to him that if any sort of fight broke out at this point it would be difficult for Gammon to get out from behind the serving counter to put a stop to it.
He made a mental note of that as he reached the bar and worked his way around one end toward the kitchen door.
“You in a hurry, boy?” a familiar voice spat at him, one hand clamping on his shoulder.
Borry Fortren. He stopped and turned, facing the bully. The face that leaned into his was big, battered, and ugly. Nothing new there. Huge shoulders, massive arms, lots of muscle on display. “I’ve got a job to do,” he said evenly.
“Singing that sissy music for these cow heads? Making everyone go all soft and squishy inside with your pretty words? What do you do to them, anyway, to make them all into chicken guts?”
Reyn smiled. “I take their minds off faces like yours. Now get away from me or I’ll show you something really bad.”
Borry hesitated. As he did, the boy turned away and continued on, forcing himself not to look back. Stupid oaf. He wouldn’t give this up until the two fought–something Reyn did not intend to do. Borry’s reputation suggested that he won fights however he needed to. He always carried an extra blade or two tucked into his clothing. One man he fought had him beaten, but Borry had used the knife and left the man with one good eye and one good ear. People were frightened of Borry and his brothers for a reason.
Reyn passed through the kitchen door and went over to the coatrack to retrieve the elleryn. Strapping it across his shoulder, he drank another glass of water and went back out into the crowd and their immediate applause.
He played for another hour after that, trying to calm his fears about the black–cloaked stranger. He worked his way through his repertoire of songs, using his voice and the elleryn to maximum effect, swaying the crowd’s responses by using the skills with which he had become so adept. Only once did he catch sight of the Fortrens, standing at the bar, heads bent close once more, backs turned. The only backs in the room that were, he noted.
And he found the black–cloaked stranger, as well, still seated at the same table, still nursing the same glass of ale, his head lifted now, watching him, a noticeable gleam in his eyes as he listened. But looking at him made Reyn’s mind wander and his concentration on the music slide. He regrouped quickly, looked away from the stranger and refocused on what he was being paid to do.
When he finished and was standing in the midst of the crowd’s applause, he took a moment to look around once more but couldn’t find the stranger or the Fortrens. The table at the back of the room sat empty, and the brothers were nowhere to be seen. He took a short bow and walked off the stage for the kitchen. He had just passed through the door when Gammon followed him in, clapping him on the back.
“Aye now, that was your best, Reyn! Just wondrous singing and playing. Everyone loved it. They’re all staying put for the last set, so you get whatever you need to eat and drink before you go back out. Really, you were amazing, lad!”
The boy nodded and smiled, thinking that if Gammon knew what else he could do with his music he might not be quite so complimentary. That if he realized Reyn’s parents were dead because of him, he might feel differently. But the boy accepted the tavern owner’s accolades wordlessly, and the other beamed with satisfaction and disappeared back out into the great room.
Reyn started to hang the elleryn on its peg with his cloak, but changed his mind and decided to keep it with him. He walked over to the counter and poured himself another glass of water, drank it down without stopping, then did the same with a second. He would need to relieve himself before he went back out to play, but he felt dried out and empty inside, and the cold well water helped with both. He lingered for a few minutes, trying to decide if he needed food. But food didn’t seem necessary just then, so he set down his glass and went out the back door into the night.
It was cool and overcast, but the rain had stopped. He fingered the strings of his instrument for a few minutes, taking advantage of the silence to adjust the sound of each as he plucked them one by one. Satisfied, he stood staring into the darkness and found himself remembering another night like this one. He had been eight years old, the only child of a baker and a home–keeper living in a Southland village below the Duln–a small community that in most ways was very much like every other. It seemed a long time ago now, though it was only a little more than seven years. He still remembered his parents’ faces and a few of their expressions and mannerisms. He remembered them as kind and good and caring. He used to fish with his father in the streams that ran through the woods surrounding the village. He used to take walks to the market with his mother to purchase goods.