A boisterous cheer came from the audience as Hastiand finished his last song. It was a cheerful little number he had written called, “Lady of the Meadow.” He liked playing it for three reasons. One, the people loved it which in turn meant that they dropped more coin at his feet. Two, it irritated the mandolin when it was used for such a cheery song. The third was more personal. A reminder of a time of happiness and joy in Hastiand’s life. A time long since gone.

  He heard the clatter and clink of coins as the crowd continued to praise him. He bowed low several times and gathered up the money from the floor. Climbing down from the stage, he blew kisses to the women and shook hands with the men. The people swarmed over him, hoping to get a chance to meet him, talk to him, and, in some cases, touch him. The city guards had to help Hastiand break free of the mob, forcing them to scatter.

  Hastiand sauntered away, carrying a nice sack of coins in his hand. He headed for an empty alleyway and thought to himself, Nice haul today.

  Babump.

  A thumping in his chest.

  That feeling. It can’t be!

  Babump.

  It’s nearby.

  Babump babump.

  It’s getting closer.

  He spun around, eyes scanning the alley.

  Bumpabumpabumpa.

  Then, looking back toward Ledion Square, he spotted three people. A redheaded girl staggered into the alley with a hazy look in her eyes headed in his direction. Farther back, an older man and a small boy ran after her.

  One of them has it.

  The mandolin whispered with playful, sinister glee, “Found one.”

  Hastiand nodded and began to move. He kept his focus forward and concentrated on the pressure in his chest. Hastiand shifted his gaze between each of them as tried to figure out which of them had what he sought; the thing that would free him from his curse. He drew within a few feet of the girl just as the old man and the boy entered the alley.

  “Can I help you, young lady?” he asked, doing his best to stay calm and collected.

  “Your songs,” she replied. “They’re so...so beautiful. I wondered if you might play more of them for me.”

  “While I am truly flattered, I’m afraid I’ve finished for the afternoon. But, I have been invited to play again in the square this evening. You’re welcome to listen to me then.”

  “No, I want to hear them now!”

  The girl flung herself toward him, arms outstretched. Hastiand shifted to one side, allowing her to stumble and fall to the ground. Just then, the boy ran to her to help her up.

  “Addie, are you hurt?” he said.

  The old man addressed Hastiand and said, “I’m sorry about this, bard. I don’t know what’s come over her.”

  Hastiand smiled as he said, “It’s quite all right. Happens more often than you’d think.”

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  She sat up as the boy knelt beside her. She shook her head, as though waking up from a deep sleep.

  “Satchel, what happened?” she said.

  “You lost your head, foolish girl, and chased after this poor minstrel,” said the old man.

  Hastiand chuckled. “Think nothing of it.” He held out a hand to the man. “My name’s Hastiand. And yours?”

  The man hesitated, and then took it saying, “Jarek.”

  When their hands met, the thumping in his chest went mad.

  He has it!

  “Say, are you all right?”

  Hastiand noticed that his hand shook. Not only his hand, but his whole body trembled.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied hurriedly.

  “Let me kill them,” whispered the mandolin. “We can check their bodies afterward.”

  Hastiand’s body shook more and more as his hand reached back. He felt the cold touch of the strings and the frets on the neck of the mandolin. There was no one around to notice. The mandolin could make it quick.

  “I heard that.”

  The statement startled Hastiand. It had come from the boy called Satchel, who now stood and stared straight into the bard’s eyes. He had his guard up, with one hand perched on a dagger handle.

  “What did you hear?” said Jarek.

  “That thing spoke. The instrument. It wants to kill us.”

  “You’re as daft as the girl.”

  Hastiand’s mind worked quickly. He couldn’t blow this opportunity. It had been nearly a year since he’d last found one of the scrolls. He was not about to let it slip away. He forced a smile on his face and did his best to look calm.

  “Look,” said the bard, “I don’t know what you heard. I’m merely a traveling musician. I meant no trouble for any of you. So, I’ll just be on my w-oops!”

  Hastiand tripped on his own feet and fell straight into Jarek. With a deft hand, he reached for the pocket inside the old man’s cloak. His fingers touched the thin parchment. He went for the grab.

  Got it!

  To his surprise, he found his hand slipping away from the scroll and then away from Jarek altogether. The man shifted backward the moment he saw what Hastiand was doing and pushed off. Hastiand stumbled a bit but regained his balance. Jarek had assumed the same defensive stance as Satchel.

  “What’re you trying there, bard?” said the old man.

  The group stood in heavy silence for several moments. Hastiand’s gaze jumped back and forth between the boy, the man, and the route back to the Square. Thoughts in his mind competed for attention. He wanted the scroll, but he had botched the grab. He could escape and make another attempt later. However, to do even that he would have to get past Jarek, a prospect that did not appeal to him. The old man clearly had skill. Despite the mandolin’s abilities, Jarek could probably make quick work of Hastiand if he tried anything. On top of this, he felt the oppressive anger of the mandolin as it bore down on his mind.

  The loud crash of a drunken man falling onto a pile of garbage distracted Satchel. Hastiand took advantage of the boy’s brief moment of inattention and shot toward him, wrapping his left arm around the boy’s neck. He produced a dagger. Satchel squirmed under his grasp, but the bard tightened his grip.

  “Satchel!” shouted Addie, jumping to her feet.

  “Let him go,” demanded Jarek.

  “Hand over the scroll and I will,” said Hastiand.

  A look of surprise came over Jarek. “The scroll? What do you want with it?”

  “None of your concern.”

  Jarek and Hastiand’s eyes drilled into each other. Neither man moved.

  A sudden bolt of pain hit Hastiand’s right arm, making him drop his dagger. A silver throwing knife protruded from his shoulder. As pain raced through his arm, he glanced in the direction where it came from but saw no one. The shock loosened his grip on Satchel. The young thief struck Hastiand in the abdomen with an elbow and ran.

  Jarek waited for Satchel to get clear before making his move. Dagger bared, he lunged toward Hastiand. The bard recovered and dodged the incoming blade. What Hastiand failed to dodge was Addie’s kick. It landed firmly on the side of his head, causing him to stumble. Jarek came in for another strike and caught Hastiand’s left arm, cutting into the muscle. Hastiand cried out as the girl came at him again.

  Despite the pain in both arms, the bard could still move surprisingly well. He sidestepped Addie’s second kick and countered with a hard knee to her gut. She crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Hastiand whipped around, the momentum causing the mandolin to swing round to the front where he caught it. Jarek stopped, hesitating.

  “I didn’t want to do this,” said the bard, “but, you leave me no choice.”

  A yellow line formed within the sound hole and black smoke started to pour out. Just as Hastiand was about to pluck the first string, a shout came.

  “Stop!”

  The interruption came from a man in a black coat that appeared from a nearby cross street, his face obscured by a hood and mask.

  Hastiand cursed. He had lost the upper hand, and now things had become even more complicated. Time to leave. Straining against the pain in his arms, he strummed the top three strings and the mandolin spewed forth a huge, black cloud, shrouding the whole street in momentary darkness.