Reyn was less than convinced by what Gammon might or might not have told them. He would have been happier if the barkeep had just thrown the Fortrens out in the first place. But he knew he couldn’t do anything about it except what he always did, which was to keep an eye out for trouble because trouble had a way of finding him. It had a strong attraction to him, one he understood all too well because it had charted much of the course of his life.
Still, he was able enough that even the Fortrens didn’t frighten him. He was a boy technically—just past his sixteenth birthday, no whiskers showing on his face in spite of his size, which was considerable. Already, he stood six feet tall, and his broad shoulders and strong arms suggested he could look after himself well enough if he had to. He had been on his own since he was eight, no mean feat in the outland villages of the eastern Southland, orphaned and set adrift—well, set to flight, actually—with no idea how to look after himself and no clue of where to go to find out. But luck and providence and common sense had seen him through, and now here he was, supporting himself nicely, a member of a community that for the most part liked him well enough to welcome him into its fold.
He brushed drops of water from his shaggy blond hair and snatched a roll from a pan cooling on the stovetop. The cook gestured threateningly with his spatula but without enough emphasis to be convincing, then motioned to the platter of meat sitting next to him. Reyn helped himself, building a sandwich and devouring the results. Gammon found him a glass of ale to wash down his food and brought it over to him.
The barkeep paused, watching him, then headed for the door. “Soon as you’re done, come on out and do some songs. They’re getting restless out there. If you can soothe them a bit, maybe they’ll fuss less.”
“Voice of an angel, is it?” the grease-dog purred and grinned broadly.
Reyn knew better than to say anything back and simply nodded as if it were a complement rather than a taunt. One thing he could say for certain—there wasn’t an insult he hadn’t heard or a name he hadn’t endured. It came with the territory, and he’d learned long ago to absorb the blows.
His voice—that was the spark to the fire. His fortune and his misfortune. Hard to know which, sometimes. Both, he supposed. Right now, it was paying for his way in the world and his place in Portlow, so he was feeling good about it. Other times, it had been a different story. That was the way life worked, though. He’d learned that much along the way.
He finished his sandwich and drained his glass of ale. Moving over to the coatrack, he took down the elleryn, removed it carefully from its case, and slung the strap over his shoulder. Standing in the kitchen amid the smells of the cooking and the rise of the heat from the stove and griddle, he tuned it carefully, turning the pegs that tightened the eight strings one after another while plucking experimentally to bring them all into sync. Then he fastened the metal slide in place at the apex of the instrument’s narrowing neck and fretted multiple chords to check for tuning.
When he was satisfied with the results, he took a deep breath, exhaled, gave a cheery call to the grease-dog, and headed for the tavern door.
It was pandemonium beyond. Shouts and jokes and raucous laughter, voices seeking to be heard over the roar of other voices, empty tankards of this and that libation slammed on the bar in search of a refill, feet stamping and backs being slapped, the room jammed with patrons locked elbow-to-elbow and shoulder-to-shoulder, heads bent close, bodies radiating heat and sweat. There was barely room for him to get to the small platform where he performed, set back against the wall at the far end of the room. The tables and chairs closest were pushed right up against the edge of his four-by-four space. As he neared, shouts and whistles rose from listeners familiar with his playing, sounds of encouragement and approval that caused him to flush with pleasure. He knew he was good. He knew he could make them feel things they didn’t even know they were capable of feeling. He had the gift.
He stepped onto the platform and settled himself on the stool placed there for his use. The room began to quiet immediately. He tested the strings of the elleryn once more, strumming chords, ear held close so he could hear accurately. By the time he was finished, voices had quieted almost to silence, and all eyes were on him.
Without preamble, he began to play. He chose a crowd favorite, a tale about a highwayman and the woman he loved—who betrayed him to the authorities so that he was trapped and died calling out her name. It was sweet and poignant, its refrain instantly memorable after one hearing:
Call, he did for Ellen Jean
She who was his sweetest dream
Call for her in spite of cost
For Ellen Jean, his life was lost.
When he was finished and the highwayman was dispatched and Ellen Jean was revealed for the faithless woman they all knew she was, you could have heard a pin drop. Then the clapping and pounding began, and the room was on its feet, calling for more. He went back to it immediately, another crowd favorite, a drinking song featuring an old woodsman and his dog.
He played with almost no pause for the better part of an hour, his music and his voice ensnaring them like wondering children, mesmerizing them as they listened. He wove their emotions into each song, making it live and breathe for them in ways a mere tune never could. All felt the emotional ache his music aroused within, rejoicing in the happy songs, mourning with the sad. All were caught up in a transformative experience that for a few minutes at least changed everything about them.
It was his gift that captured them, that wove through their hearts and minds and made them smile or cry. It was not the playing, which was only an accompaniment. It was in his voice where the real magic could be found, in the way he worked a song through changes in modulation, pauses, slides up and down the scale, emphasis added and withdrawn. With his voice, he could make them believe. No one was immune. Wherever he went, whomever he played for, they were his for as long as he sang.
The problem was that it didn’t end there and the result wasn’t always pleasant. His voice could provide a healing balm, but it could be a weapon, too. And in the heat of a moment’s careless lapse or an ill-considered emotional surge, it could shift from the former to the latter.
And even that wasn’t the worst of it. What it did to him was even more terrifying. When he used the magic in the wrong way, in an ill-advised response to anger or fear, it whisked him away and dropped him into a deep, dark nothingness, into a place where everything disappeared and time stopped. It happened all at once and without warning. It was as if he had been yanked outside himself. This has happened only a scattering of times—but they were times that were among the blackest of his life. To lose all sense of what was happening, to be stripped of control and become a helpless prisoner in a timeless nothingness was something he could barely stand to think about.
He did not want it to happen to him ever again. He would do anything to prevent it.
He sang his last song for the hour and stood up to receive the resultant applause before departing the tiny stage and moving back behind the bar to gain some space. Calls for drinks for the player, the singer, the music man rang through the great room, but he declined them all. Drink fogged his mind, and a fogged mind was dangerous for someone with his condition. As marvelous as his gift could be, it could also be unpredictable. No matter the urges he felt, he couldn’t let his guard down. With a moment’s carelessness, the darker emotions could take control and his singing could turn lethal.