“Kyreah!” screeched Jarla, stalking toward where Lyryk had spread her bedroll. She rolled out of the way of the kick meant to wake her.

“My name is ‘Lyryk,’” she said, ducking the hand that shot out to box her ear. The woman discovered early on how sensitive her ears were to a slap or pinch.

“Yar name be what I say it be,” the woman said, “an’ I say yar name be Kyreah! Get that through yar thick head lessin’ ya wanna end up like Tony!”

That sent a shiver up Lyryk’s spine. One of the older kids had also been a musician—until Jarla had broken his fingers when he tried to leave, then turned him loose. She never saw him again.

Lyryk learned to listen to the music in her head that warned her when the evil woman was near. For as long as she could remember, music had guided her thoughts. Even though Jarla called her “Kyreah,” she had always called herself “Lyryk Starsong.” At thirteen, she was coming into her own, and could sense the change in the older woman’s demeanor whenever she knew Lyryk was near.

The older half-elf claimed to be Lyryk’s “mother,” but she saw no resemblance between her and the woman. Jarla wore a permanent sneer that marred an otherwise pretty face. Well, that and years of hating the world because she was born poor and couldn’t figure out how to make an honest living.

That day, another village evicted the troupe for their crimes. The next town along the trade road surprised Lyryk when it welcomed them as though their reputation hadn’t preceded them. Her music had a touch of magic, or not, depending on their reception by the townsfolk.

She sensed her days with the family were ending. She’d seen what Jarla did when her “children” got too old to do as told. “Accidents” resulted in mangled arms, missing fingers, and twisted legs among the performers. Jarla left to fend for themselves.

Soon, she thought, soon, I’ll be able to escape this horrid woman.

Lyryk decided the risk of getting caught was worth the chance to escape, though. She might not have a better opportunity than now. She’d been watching how the drovers navigated the roads. Nighttime was the best time to leave, she determined. She knew that the Travel Star would rise by midnight, and tonight would be the darkest night in ages.

The day passed without incident, despite Lyryk fretting over how the night would go. Her mind went over the plan again and again. She stowed her instruments so they wouldn’t make noise when she left; then set her bedroll in its usual spot, using her cloak as a pillow.

Lyryk rose at moon dark, gathered her pack, and the weapons and armor she had stashed along the lake shore when the camp quieted. She donned the unfamiliar gear, settling everything in place. She skated across the shallow lake, hoping against hope that the ice would hold until she reached Breakwater and the bard’s college.