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