It had happened only that handful of times, but he remembered the consequences of each one vividly. He didn’t want any more memories to add to that bin.

He stood behind the bar and drank from a glass of water, smiling and waving at his listeners. Off to one side, the Fortren brothers stood talking, heads bent close. Scheming, he corrected himself, not talking. Like weasels. The music never seemed to affect them in the way it affected others. They weren’t immune to the magic; they couldn’t be. They seemed mostly enraged by it, as if it awakened something in them that they would have preferred to leave sleeping. They had threatened him on more than one occasion because of it, never saying exactly why they were so troubled.

At the back of the room, the stranger in the black cloak was staring at him, his narrow features revealed, bladed and flat. His eyes glittered, but there was no malice or ill intent reflected.

Odd, Reyn thought. Then the head lowered, and the face disappeared back into shadow.

The boy studied him a moment longer, then he turned and went back into the kitchen for something more to eat. The singing, the turning of his audience from doubters into believers, the giving what they didn’t even know they wanted—it was all hard work and it made him hungry. Standing at the griddle, he made himself another sandwich, casting occasional glances at the old grease-dog as he cooked food, prepared plates, and called off the orders to Sorsi and Phenel, the two serving girls.

His gaze shifted to a tiny window and the darkness outside. He wished he knew more about the source of his power. He didn’t question that it was a form of magic; he had accepted that a long time back. If you could use your voice to do the things that he had done—good and bad—you commanded magic. But where had it come from? Why did he have it? His parents hadn’t told him, assuming they had even known. They were dead before he was even old enough to ask the questions that plagued him now. He could still see them in his mind, dragged from their home by the townspeople to be stoned until they were dead.

Because of him. Because of his voice. Because of what he was suspected of being by frightened, superstitious fools.

He shut his eyes against the thoughts and memories. He hadn’t seen them die, though he knew they had. He had been gone by then. He had done what they had told him to do and hidden in the old man’s cart so he could be spirited away from what was coming. He hated himself for having allowed it. He could have helped them. He could have stopped what had happened.

Or he could have died with them. Or the old man who took him could have left him and gone his way.

But none of that had happened. That was how life worked.

At the back of the great room, Arcannen sat pondering the contents of the tankard of ale in front of him. He was not drinking from it; he was using it as a prop to suggest that he was just another customer, albeit one who valued his privacy. He had just finished exchanging a long, searching look with the boy, and now he was considering, still wanting to make certain that what he believed to be true actually was. But having witnessed an hour of his singing and watched the effect it produced on the raucous crowd, he felt there could be no mistake.

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.