Page 96 of Across an Endless Sea

One of them opens his mouth to start talking—or yelling, given the puce colour his face is rapidly turning—but he can’t speak either.

I’ve completely silenced the trio without meaning to.

The faun to his left clutches his stomach, dropping his lute as he laughs his head off without sound. That only infuriates the lead faun more. He pounces on his own friend and begins smashing him over the head with his lute, while their third companion looks on, blinking like he just can’t comprehend what’s happened.

The fight is completely noiseless, and the crowd begins to chuckle, then full on guffaw. They goad on the fighting fauns, laughing harder when the third tries to separate the other two and becomes embroiled in the disagreement by mistake. It’s a silent brawl. The original leader has his horns locked against the laughing one, and the third is pinned between them.

The crowd are cheering along, enjoying the new entertainment until a troll wades in and manages to separate the three. The fauns are summarily evicted from the tavern to hoots and more than a few cries of disappointment.

“Was that magic?” Rose asks. “A prank or something?”

She has no idea it was me. Part of me wishes I could pretend it wasn’t, but I won’t lie to her—even indirectly.

“It was an accident,” I admit, ears twitching as my cheeks heat. “I… wasn’t a fan of the song.”

Rose grimaces. “Sorry, I picked this one because they had music. I thought you’d enjoy it.”

Is it possible to feel lower than dirt? I’m pretty sure it is. Not only have I just ruined her enjoyment of the music, but I’ve disrespected her efforts on my behalf in the process.

“Your magic acted out because of me, didn’t it?” she continues. “Because I haven’t—”

“My feelings on the matter won’t change,” I reassure her. “It doesn’t matter if I lose control and start demolishing buildings. I want you to be ready more than I want control of my powers.”

Rose blinks, then offers me a shy smirk. “It was pretty funny, though.”

I suppose it was, in its own way. The fauns weren’t harmed. In fact, when I swivel my ears just right, I can hear them arguing outside the tavern.

“A shame that the music disappeared, though,” Rose finishes.

“They were butchering the song,” I reply, before I can stop myself. “That ballad is supposed to be subtle and slow. It’s an homage to Siabetha in the sunset, and it was composed for the harp, not the lute—” I cut off when I notice the sparkle in her eyes.

“You really like music, huh?”

“Goodmusic,” I emphasise, ears twitching. “Besides, that song was an early work, barely worth repeating. It’sliterallyfour hundred years old.”

“Why don’t you go up there and show them how it should be played?” she asks, and I freeze. My panic must show on my face, because she quickly backtracks. “I mean, of course, you don’t have to. I imagine it would be scary. I definitely wouldn’t want to perform for a crowd. The fauns might come back.”

I doubt it, given that I can’t hear them anymore. They’ve probably left—their egos unwilling to risk being ‘pranked’ again.

I could play it, though it’s been years. I’m probably rusty. The Toxic Orchid used to let me play in my own time, but that was before I took the opportunity presented by the Call to run away.

It’s been a quarter of a century since I held an instrument, but my magic would soothe out any rough notes. I suppose I do miss it, and there’s little chance I’d be recognised. My harp may be unique, and my name might be on the songs, but I was never the front of our act.

I paraded all the way through the city when Rose first arrived and people didn’t connect me with Lyarthorn.

My hand inches towards my ribs, and the harp there, only to stop midway and touch Lox for reassurance instead.

“It’s up to you,” Rose whispers, as if sensing the internal battle within me. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

She should never have to regret asking me for anything, and that thought solidifies my determination as I stare at the table.

“One song,” I promise. “While we wait for our meal.”

My gut clenches with fear as I stand up, heading for the corner. I ignore the abandoned lutes and let my hand caress my own harp instead. Black ink bursts from my body, summoning the heavy ebony instrument into my hands. My palms caress the gold inlays across her body, relearning the vine patterns, tracing the carved outlines of the Siabethan nightshade blooms. I drop onto the stool without meaning to, my fingers caressing her strings absently. Even after all this time, each one of them resonates with memory.

Any fear I had of forgetting the chords evaporates as I play the first note. Just as my animals are a part of my soul, so are my instruments, and even though my magic hovers nervously, ready to correct any errant twangs, I won’t need it.

I don’t sing—that was always my father’s part of our performance, and my voice is too wrecked to attempt it—but a few in the crowd know the words. It’s hardly the rich baritone I’m used to, but it’s surprisingly in-tune, given how drunk they are.

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