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.
Then, one night, for reasons he never found out, he was attacked by a group of boys. They came at him in a swarm, and they overpowered his feeble and ineffective efforts to defend himself. They beat him until he was unconscious. They broke bones and cracked ribs. They nearly blinded him. He begged them to stop, pleaded with them to tell him why they were doing this, but they ignored him and continued pummeling him until he lost consciousness.
His parents and the village healers nursed him back to health. No one could identify the boys responsible or say why they had chosen to make an example of him. No one seemed to know anything about what had happened. His father went door-to-door and spoke to everyone who would listen. He did this for days. One man told him he’d heard it was a mistake, that the boys thought he was someone else. Another man said he thought it was something Reyn had said or done. Nothing came of any of it.
Months went by. He recovered from his injuries, and the details of the incident dimmed in his memory. Life returned to normal.
But all too soon the boys came again. They caught him coming home after an afternoon of fishing. It was night, and he was alone. They came at him in a clutch, whispering what they were going to do to him. Terrified, he screamed. And something happened. His voice slipped out of register, the level of intensity shifting dramatically. He lost control of what he was doing. All at once his scream had an impact to it, a punch that struck his attackers like a physical blow and sent them sprawling. Many were left unconscious. They others picked themselves up and ran. The boy stood staring after them. He had no idea what he had done.
Several days later, a couple of them found him again. But this time one of them had brought his father. The man was big and mean and drunk, and he was carrying a knife.
“Gonna carve you a new face, boy!” he hissed. “Gonna cut that wailing witch tongue right out of you!”
Reyn Frosch never hesitated. He screamed again, but this time with dark intent and terrible purpose. The big man slowed, dropping to his knees, hands over his ears. He screamed back at the boy, then scrambled to his feet and lurched toward him anew.
And then he simply disintegrated. His body blew apart; separating at the joints, bones breaking, blood emptying out, he turned into a lump of raw, shredded meat.
In that moment Reyn seemed to lose consciousness. He didn’t fall, didn’t collapse; he simply lost track of what was happening. He stood there in a daze, his mind gone somewhere else, and it was several long minutes later before he even realized where he was.
By then, the boys who had brought the man had fled. Reyn stared at what was left of his attacker, appalled by what he had done. Even to save his life, he shouldn’t have done this. But the power of his voice was new to him, and he had been frightened so badly by the size of the man and the presence of the knife that he had simply reacted. He ran home to tell his parents.
The boys who had attacked him had run home, too. But they still weren’t finished with him. Over the next few days they revealed themselves, telling everyone what he had done. A black haunt, they called him. A wraith of darkness and destruction. He’d killed a man for no reason. He was possessed and should be stopped before he could hurt others. No mention of their intentions toward him; no mention of the knife.
Eventually, they stirred up a response from the already superstitious townspeople. They came for him then, dozens of them, men and women from the taverns and ale shops, intoxicated and angry, their courage emboldened by numbers, a mob made wild at the thought of a creature in their midst that was inhuman and capable of doing great harm. The family of the dead man was among them, fueling the flames of fear and rage, knowing only one way to deal with things they didn’t understand.
A miller from the next town over and a friend of their father’s who did business with the bakery and had stopped in one of the taverns for a drink before heading back rushed to tell the family. Reyn’s father persuaded the miller to hide the boy in his wagon and spirit him to safety until matters settled down. The miller, an older man with grown children and better sense than those who were hunting for the boy, agreed to help.
So Reyn was hiding in the miller’s wagon beneath an old canvas covering, rolling down the road leading out of town when the mob surged past, heading for his home. He never saw what happened after that, but he heard. Just hearing was enough to imprint on his mind the scenes that followed. The mob breaking into his home and dragging his parents out. The destruction that followed as his home was torn apart by those searching for him. The deaths of his parents, whom the mob decided quickly enough were likely the same as he was, creatures of the netherworld who spawned this demon that had escaped them, and so should be stoned.