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I didn’t know their faces, nor their crimes. But the warning was clear. Razak had always been vicious, always cruel, but this was extreme, even for him. Power had tipped him over the edge, and now he was accountable to nobody.
It was time to face my brother, but first, I had my own message to send.
Shifting my traveling bag on my right shoulder, I pulled the black violin and its bow free of its own bag. Rain patted the shiny surface, then streamed like tears across its body. That same rain hissed on the street, the people, tapping on umbrellas, gurgling down gutters. Boots splashed through puddles. But the water could not wash away the acrid smell of fear. It clogged the city in a smog.
It hadn’t always been like this, and it didn’t need to be in future. Pain was necessary, it was a part of life, but its citizens had become Pain’s prisoners.
I walked on, passing a second warning. This time the heads had been placed on spikes jutting from the bleak building facades. I slowed, then stopped, pushed back my hood, and studied their wrought faces, forever frozen in death. Razak’s council, what had remained of them. He had no use for people who tried to reason with him. He had no use for reason itself.
Sighing, I swept my cloak back, raised the violin, and pinched it between my chin and shoulder. The bow rested on the strings, poised in anticipation. This was it, the moment everything changed. As soon as I played a single note, I’d be sealing my fate. Right now, I could still go back. All I had to do was turn around. Arin would welcome me, the war would begin, and thousands would die.
Fate rested on me, and my violin.
I was doing thisforlove. There was no going back.
I breathed in, listened to the rain, and pulled the bow across the strings in one thin, tight note. The sound pierced the hissing rain and march of the hundreds of people around me.
Someone bumped my shoulder.
I stumbled, regained my balance, and pulled the bow over the strings again, freeing three notes in quick succession, letting the city swallow those too.
Rain blurred my vision and clung to my lashes. The people marched on. Taking another breath, I tipped the violin and danced the bow across the strings. The music began slow, a tease of a few notes, and then grew, building, drifting, sweeping. People veered around me like water around a stubborn rock. I played faster, spilling notes from the strings now, coming alive, louder than the rain, than the thump of marching feet. The rain no longer drowned it out. The melody filled the street, rising high above our heads, and poured into every open window, every door, and all who listened.
Yes, see me, hear me. This is my song…
It doesn’t have to be this way.
I walked on and played, making the music dance in the dismal gloom of Pain’s streets. I was no longer a man playing a violin, I was magic. It beat through my heart, my veins, and it pushed me on. I played and exposed my soul.
The people slowed their relentless march. Some stopped, others joined them, until all around eyes watched, ears listened, and finally, they saw me. Lark, the player, the dancer, the boy who sang for coin, who’d only ever been free in music. And they heard that promise of freedom now.
Rain splashed from my bow’s slashes, my arm burned from keeping the violin raised, and the cold tried to numb my fingers on the strings. But I played on and on, and it seemed as though the entire city stood and watched.
The music built and built, setting my soul ablaze like a beacon in the dark. I played as though my life and the lives of thousands depended on my every note. I played until I was lost.
A thick, heavy clapping rang out, landing like a hammer’s blow, shattering the spell.
I tore the bow from the strings and stood, panting, in front of the tower, facing my brother atop the steps. He wore Pain’s crown, and while the blood had gone, the crown’s barbs remained fixed in his skull. Cruel madness gleamed in his eyes.
“Bravo, dear brother, bravo!” He went on clapping and descended the steps, dragging the hem of his purple cloak through wet puddles. “Quite the spectacle you make.” He eyed the people gathered behind me, standing defiant in their motionless silence.
I saw them all, each and every one.
And they saw me.
Razak had a choice to make: kill me and hang my head above the streets, or welcome me home. The whole of Pain’s world watched.
I lived, I breathed, I existed. I was Pain’s prince too. And now the people had seen me, they’d heard me, and theyknewme. I’d bared my soul to them.
Razak couldn’t kill me, not without risking unrest. He was one man, king or no, and even with his stolen power, Pain’s people were many. He studied them and me, then stretched out a hand. “Give me that violin.”
Rain poured down my face, my neck. Rain dripped from his crown and beaded on his dark lashes.
Breathless, I met his gaze and handed over the violin.
His cruel smile ticked his lips. “You and yourgames,” he purred, then slammed the violin over his knee, shattering it. He tossed its fragments into the gutter and snarled, “Welcome home, brother.”
And so began the most important performance of my life. If I failed in this act, my audience wouldn’t leave dissatisfied, they’d die. And so would I.
