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.
Soon enough, the miller and his wife had decided Reyn could no longer stay with them. The townspeople who had killed his parents were still hunting for him, obsessed with their task and consumed by their fears. Already, the search was widening to the surrounding communities. The boy would have to go. The miller would take him to one of the cities, far enough away and sufficiently populous that he would not be found.
Thus, at the age of eleven, he found himself making his own way in the world and discovering just how badly equipped he was to do so.
And all this had happened because of his voice, because of a magic that caused him to do terrible things. There was no escaping the truth of the matter, though he tried for years to deny it, arguing in the privacy of his mind that he had only done what instinct and fear had driven him to do. Had he known the truth about the sort of power he possessed, he might have been able to change the way things turned out. Had he known, he might have been able to save his parents’ lives.
So he believed, and the belief hardened into certainty and became a weight around his neck that would not release itself. He carried it everywhere, and after another few incidents in which he reacted spontaneously and foolishly with similar results, he needed no further convincing that it would always be there. If not for adapting a regimen of strict control over his life that mostly separated him from encountering the extreme emotional moments that would cause the dark side of his voice to resurface, he would have remained cursed every waking moment for the rest of his life.
But it was the singing that saved him, too. The discovery that he could infuse listeners with whatever emotions he chose to stir, just by modulating the sound of his voice, provided him not only with a way to make a living but also with the realization that he could control his own fate. Now his voice became a gift as well as a curse, and he employed it to good advantage. A sense of self-confidence followed, his growing skill and experience in using his voice providing reassurance that he needn’t go through life afraid that he was without hope.
Of course, there were still lapses. And there was that odd and troubling disconnect he experienced each time one happened, a going away from himself that left him empty and vulnerable …
“Well, well, look what we have here.”
His thoughts and memories scattered, and the night closed in about him, its silence suddenly oppressive. He glanced over to find Borry Fortren standing only a few feet away.
“He looks a little surprised, don’t he?” Yancel, moving up beside him, laughed. “Guess he thought he could slip out the back door, and we wouldn’t know.”
“That what you doing, chicken-boy?” Borry Fortren pressed, his smile an ugly sneer. He made a rude gesture and spit. “You