Page 82 of Fires of the Forsaken
“Yer father, then. Now go. Away! I have real customers to tend to.” Beda marched toward me, her bony, gnarled hands flailing through the air.
Anger flared inside me. “Anyone with coin is areal customer.”I waved one of my coins in front of her face.
Her eyes followed the movement, but she didn’t relax her stance.
“You Wicked Witch,” I muttered as I closed my fist around the coin and turned away.
It was a term I’d learned from the stories Terrick had read to me in Swindon.
“What is a Wicked Witch?” I’d asked him.
“An unkind person, lass,” he’d told me. “One who delights in tormenting others.”
Beda’s brow furrowed. She knew I’d insulted her but had likely never heard the phrase before. “Away with ye,” she snapped again. “If I catch ye here again, yer knuckles’ll be bleedin.’” She clutched her knife and turned to apologize to herreal customers.
“Children,” she huffed. “There’s a group of ‘em that are always causing me grief. Sticking their fingers in me cheese…”
My eyes and cheeks burned as I walked away. I was so angry, so disappointed, and so preoccupied with listening to her talk, that it took me a moment to notice the itch in my palms. I rubbed them against each other to alleviate the prickling, and my stomach turned to rot.
My two silver coins had melted.
I stopped, staring at my hands, which had grown hot enough to liquefy silver. There were no flames yet. But the itching beneath my skin grew.
Panic swelled inside me. I couldn’t stay here! People brushed against my arms as they navigated the congested market. I would hurt someone!
My breath escaped in ragged gasps as I staggered off the street, going behind a line of booths and stumbling into the stone wall of a nearby building. I clutched a hand to my chest, willing the itch to subside…
And then I heard the sound.
It was a sharp noise, bordering on shrill. Melodic. Haunting. Music, clearly, but unlike any I had ever heard before. It caused a strange stirring in my chest; a tingling sensation one normally feels before they’re about to laugh. Or, perhaps, cry.
The itch eased. The tight, dreadful sensation in my stomach quieted, as though the emotive melody had swept it away.
I turned, desperate to find the source of the music.
And I saw him through the half-open door of a tavern. He sat beside a large wooden sculpture, his fingers dancing over the strings stretched through the center of the instrument. His head was bowed, and his hair obscured much of his face, but I knew it was him. The blue-eyed boy.
He was every bit as talented as he’d claimed to be.
The sounds he produced from that wooden sculpture—theharp,as he’d called it—were hypnotizing. Both hopeful and heartbreaking. Upbeat and sorrowful. I never knew a simple tune could induce two polarizing emotions at once.
I was not the only one entranced. Indeed, there were several people inside the tavern watching him intently, their drinks and meals forgotten. A few others had paused their market perusal to listen as well.
The boy didn’t seem to notice he’d garnered an audience. Or, perhaps, he didn’t care. He kept his head down, his eyes closed, as his fingers plucked at the delicate strings. Each chord produced a distinct note, some shriller than others. Under an inexperienced hand, the instrument may have sounded grating. But, beneath the boy’s nimble fingers, it was…
Magikal—Magical.
Another word from Terrick’s fiction books: something extraordinary. Otherworldly.
Magical.
I didn’t know how long I stood there. A few minutes, at least. The market life swirled around me, but I paid it no heed. I was unable to tear my eyes away from the blue-eyed boy who produced such wondrous music.
“There he is. The impudent child…” A harsh voice drifted over my head.
Two men, both clad in leather armor and wearing swords at their belts, walked past me.
Soldiers.
