Borry, still fighting to get close enough to grip the boy with his bare hands, simply exploded. It happened spontaneously, with a shocking and terrible suddenness, pieces of the big man flying everywhere. Reyn stumbled back, shielding his eyes, trying to stay upright. But Yancel snatched at his legs from where he lay on the ground in an effort to topple him. The boy reacted instinctively, all hope of ending this any other way gone. His scream came from somewhere deep inside. It felt as if it came from somewhere else entirely, the intrusion in his own body harsh and raw. Yancel was flung backward, his arms torn from his shoulders, his blood flooding out of his body as he lay gasping out the last of his life.

Then Reyn Frosch felt the familiar disconnect, and he was tumbling into that familiar dark hole in which there was no light or sound and from which he could not extricate himself.

Everything around him disappeared, and his thoughts ceased.

SIX

WHEN REYN WOKE AGAIN, IT WAS MORNING. BRIGHT LIGHT streamed through the gap in the curtains of his room, though the light was gray and hazy rather than sunny. He lay in his bed in the loft room over the back half of the tavern, listening to the sound of voices coming from below. He remembered right away what had happened, and he took an extra few moments to check himself over, searching for injuries.

There were none.

Not to him, anyway. But two of the Fortren brothers had suffered the sort of injuries from which you did not recover. And he was the cause. Reyn closed his eyes against the visions that suddenly thrust themselves to the forefront of his mind—Borry, torn into pieces of bone and slivers of flesh; Yancel, armless and bleeding out; his elleryn, its broken remains lying scattered on the ground; himself, falling out of the world, tumbling down into the pit of non-being, everything he had brought to pass left behind.

He closed his eyes. So it had happened again, just as he had feared in those last moments when he faced the brothers. Just as it had happened all those other times. He had been provoked, had lost his temper and composure, had given way to his emotions, and had vented through deadly use of his voice. In an instant’s time he had ruined everything.

Conflicting questions rose in a rush. Why couldn’t he have prevented it from happening? Why couldn’t he have found a way to stop it? If he could control the modulation of his singing, why couldn’t he do the same when he screamed? A light and a dark side to his voice—shouldn’t he be able to manipulate both instead of only one?

He reached for the glass of water by his bedside and drank it down. He felt bereft. Two dead; two more ghosts that would haunt him forever. It didn’t matter that they had hated him and that he cared nothing for them. It didn’t matter that they had provoked him in a way that had effectively removed every other option if he wanted to stay alive. Nothing mattered to ghosts save that they haunted until they found peace, and there was no peace to be found for Borry and Yancel Fortren.

Nor any for him.

He was finished in Portlow. He would have to leave now. There were Fortrens everywhere, and they would be hunting him. And even if they weren’t, the townspeople would be appalled by what he had done. It didn’t matter how much they loved his music or admired his singing. Doing what he had done, killing two men in the manner he had—even if they didn’t know exactly how he had done it—would be beyond their understanding. In truth, it was beyond his. He couldn’t explain it any better than they could. He could barely accept it as a part of who and what he was.

He had risen and was dressing when Gammon came through the door. He saw the wariness in the other’s eyes immediately and felt ashamed.

“Feeling better now?” the tavern owner asked, closing the door behind him. “You don’t seem hurt.”

He shook his head. “No, I wasn’t hurt. I killed them before they could do anything.”

“Self-defense, though. Found Borry’s knife. Everyone knows it. So no question about what happened. But the knife was shattered all to pieces. How did you do that?”

“Rock.”

“You used a rock on him and his brother? Looked like they’d been sent through a shredder.”

“They were. In a manner of speaking. Look, Gammon, I won’t talk about it. I just won’t. I know I have to leave, and I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t like those two, but I didn’t want it to come to this. I liked being here. I liked singing in the tavern. I wish I could take it all back.” Reyn sighed. “You’ve been good to me, and I appreciate it.”

Gammon came over to him. “Look, Reyn, your business is your own. Even with this. You were attacked, and you defended yourself. They smashed your instrument, tried to take your life. Everyone knows it. No one likes the Fortrens, so losing Borry and Yancel won’t cause much loss of sleep.” He paused. “But it’s the way it was done, don’t you see? If you could just offer something … explain it a little …”

The boy smiled. “I can’t do that. I can barely explain it to myself, and trying to explain it to anyone else won’t help. I have to leave. It’s best for everyone. The rest of the Fortrens will be coming for me. That’s a given. If I’m not here, there can’t be more of what happened last night. And there will be more, Gammon, if I stay and try to explain.”

The tavern owner nodded, a resigned look on his face. “Your mind’s made up, I see. But you might not find leaving so easy. There are Fortrens already watching the roads. They know what you intend, and they will try to stop you. So don’t do them any favors. Stay a bit longer. Give this a little time. You can keep your room here. Some of us like you enough that we’ve agreed to watch over you until we find a way to sneak you out. What do you say?”

Reyn finished dressing, then picked up the remainder of his clothes and stuffed them in a travel sack. “I say you are a good friend, and I’ve found a home in Portlow that I hate to leave. But I won’t risk you and those others you’ve persuaded to help you. I’ll have something to eat and be on my way. Come now, tell me who found me last night. Was it you?”

“The old grease-dog. He heard the howling outside his door and opened it just in time to find the Fortrens—or what was left of them—on the ground and you standing there staring into space like you’d lost your mind. He couldn’t get you to talk or respond in any way, so he brought you inside and walked you up to your room and left you there. I came up later and checked you for injuries. You didn’t have any, but you still kept staring at nothing. So I tucked you in and left you. Guess you came out of it at some point and fell asleep.”

The boy shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I don’t remember any of it. I was fighting to stay alive, and then I woke up in my bed. Everything between then and now is a black hole in my memory. Can we go down and get something to eat? I want to leave right away.”

They left the room and descended the stairs together. The steps ended at the back entrance, and they turned into the kitchen through a second door that bypassed the great room. There wouldn’t be many patrons there at this hour, but even one was enough to sound the alarm. Gammon motioned him over to the cook’s table and went to pour him some of last night’s beef stew, which was simmering in the kettle set over the stove flame at a low heat.

“You really ought to give it another day,” he said, but Reyn didn’t respond. He was finishing the last of his stew when there was a knock at the kitchen door leading in from the great room. He looked up expectantly. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had knocked on that door. Staff used it mostly, and there was no reason for them to knock.

Gammon walked over and pulled the door open. The black-cloaked stranger from the night before was standing there.