A stream of fire lit the room as it shot toward its target. The flame enveloped the wooden dummy in a blaze of orange and yellow. Hastiand lowered his right arm, cutting off the fire stream, and let the dummy burn. A moment later, he aimed his other palm at the target. An azure jet of frost from his hand swirled around the dummy and extinguished the fire.

  “Amazing,” said Amon. “Within a few short days, you’ve grasped this much.”

  Hastiand lowered his hand and stared at his handiwork. The charred dummy sat at the other end of the room encased in a thick layer of ice. He had been training since the early hours of the morning. He was tired, but the magic came much easier now than it had even the day before. Fatigue did not grip as it once did, nor did his muscles ache. Easing into a nearby chair, Hastiand sighed, satisfied and exhausted.

  “It’s like I said,” Amon continued, “once you understand how one element works, the others come naturally.”

  Hastiand nodded.

  “Are you ready to practice the earth spells again?”

  “Give me a minute to catch my breath.”

  “Of course. Take your time.”

  After several deep breaths, Hastiand’s heart rate slowed. The bard felt accomplished, and he wanted to sit like that for hours. Yet, something nagged at him.

  “There’s…something I’ve noticed,” said Hastiand, “about your stories, I mean.”

  “Oh?”

  “In all your talk of the mandolin and the Guardians, you haven’t told me much about you.”

  Amon blinked. Then, in a wary voice, he said, “Does it matter?”

  “I’ve told you my biggest failure in my life, and yet I know barely anything about you. I trust you, and I haven’t trusted anyone in a long time. I suspect it’s the same the other way. I’m also trusting that you truly want to help me. But lately, you’ve been pushing me harder like a man possessed. As though something else-”

  “The mandolin wiped out my people.” Amon’s voice was sharp. “That explanation should suffice.”

  Hastiand shook his head. “Not good enough. I can understand your hatred for the mandolin, but there’s something deeper there. Something more…personal.”

  Amon’s mouth opened and then closed as the rest of his face hardened. Neither man spoke for a good while.

  “You’re right,” Amon said at last, “there is more to the story.” He took a breath. “But I’m not ready to tell you about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I said so.” The elf stood. “And that’s that.”

  “‘That’s that?’” Hastiand repeated as he rose from the chair. “That won’t cut it.”

  “Too bad.” Amon started toward the door that led upstairs, brushing the bard’s shoulder as he passed. “You’re done for the day.”

  “I don’t have to stay,” Hastiand said to Amon’s back.

  The elf stopped and turned. His eyes turned red, a rage smoldering behind them.

  His tone became low and deliberate as he said, “And how far do you think you’ll get?”

  There was no mistaking the threat within his words.

  Hastiand jabbed a finger at Amon. “Just say what it is you want, Amon. You want the mandolin for yourself!”

  At this, Amon faltered. “What? That’s absurd! Have you forgotten all that I’ve told you?”

  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. I did hear something interesting about you. You were the musician that destroyed your people.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Amon’s eyes became a swirl of colors as red, green and blue vied for dominance. “How did—”

  “It told me.”

  “It? The mandolin? Nonsense. The binding would have prevented that.”

  “That binding broke last night, Amon.”

  “Then the mandolin is playing with your mind. He wants you to think this.”

  “It spoke to me in my dreams. It showed me its memories of what happened in Makaran.”

  Amon did not speak for a moment. His eyes settled on a halfway mix of blue and red. “I meant to tell you,” he finally said, “but at the right moment. I never lied about wanting to destroy it. You have to trust me on that.”

  “How can I trust you? For all I know, you only agreed to train me to appease me until you found a way to take the mandolin.”

  “Hastiand-”

  “I’m done, Amon. We’re done.”

  Hastiand pushed past the elf and made for the door. A gust of wind blew past him and slammed the door shut. He spun around to face Amon. The bounty hunter’s eyes had turned fully red once more.

  Amon’s voice took on a sinister edge. “I don’t remember giving you the option.”

  Amon trained his hand on Hastiand and fired a bolt of lightning hitting the bard squarely in the chest and knocking him to the ground. Hastiand winced at the pain as he struggled to get up, but Amon was already on him. He saw a brief shimmer of air around Amon’s fist just before it crashed into his jaw. Hastiand’s world shuddered and spun as fresh pain shot through him. Darkness enveloped him.

  Amon looked down at Hastiand.

  “I’m truly sorry, my friend,” he said, rising.

  Amon opened the door and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Upon entering Hastiand’s room, he looked for the mandolin in its usual spot. To his surprise, it wasn’t there. A noise came from the door. Amon turned just in time to see Hastiand flying at him. They collided and crashed into the floor in a heap. Hastiand reached for Amon’s throat, but the bounty hunter knocked his hand away, kicked the bard hard in the face and leaped to his feet.

  As Hastiand tried to stand Amon rushed forward holding a ball of flame high in his right hand. Once he rained this down upon Hastiand, he would push him to the brink of death, but at this point, Amon had no other choice. The mandolin would not escape his grasp again.

  But the fireball never hit Hastiand.

  Just before Amon reached him, Hastiand pounded the ground with his fists casting air magic at the same time. He compressed the air underneath his body just enough and released it at a precise moment. The effect of the release launched Hastiand into the air, above Amon’s head. As he came down, the bard cocked back his right arm and from his palm released a torrent of water. The water crashed down on Amon, doused the fire magic, and pinned the elf to the floor. Hastiand landed and then brought his left arm over and cast a frost spell, freezing the water and encasing Amon in a sheet of ice.

  Hastiand approached Amon and knelt beside him. Despite his anger, he didn’t want to kill Amon. He used a small flame spell to melt part of the ice around the elf’s right ear.

  “I want you to hear this,” Hastiand said. “You’ve taught me well and taken care of me. And...you've treated me like a friend no matter what your real intentions are. For that, I won't kill you. But, if you come after me, I won't me as nice.”

  Hastiand stood, opened the closet door and shouldered a travel bag. He then pulled out the mandolin from underneath the bed. With one glance back to the motionless bounty hunter, he left the room.

  “Things going well?” asked the mandolin as they descended the stairs.

  “We’re leaving.”

  “Ah, are we now?” The mandolin made no effort to hide its delight.

  He grabbed a loaf of bread from the kitchen pantry and filled a canteen. The cold night air greeted Hastiand as he ran out of the house.

  “Might I make a suggestion?” said the mandolin after they’d gone down several back alleys.

  “You can make one. Doesn’t mean I’ll listen to it.”

  “We might find those thieves who have our song sheet in Leona.”

  Hastiand stopped. “That’s a five-day ride day on horseback. Why there?”

  “With that sand rat’s spell wearing off, I can sense it again.”

  Hastiand felt as though the mandolin would be smiling right now if it could.

  “Very well, we go to Leona. We’ll have to move fast if we want to catch up.” He paused for a moment. “I have an idea.”

  He ran partway down the street, stopped, and took in his surroundings. Directly in front of him stood the eastern wall of Upper Ire. Tightening the travel bag’s strap, he steadied himself.

  “What are you doing?” asked the mandolin.

  “Putting my training to good use. I just hope I can make the landing.”

  “What landing?”

  Hastiand took off in a run toward the wall. The timing had to be perfect. Once he reached the spot he had chosen, Hastiand jumped into the air and raised both hands. As he came down, he poured all his might into compressing the air beneath him. At the moment his feet reached the stones of the street, he jumped again and released the compressed air.

  Hastiand the bard flew.

  Over the tops of the houses, over the wall of the city, over the beginning stretch of the woods, he flew. Luckily, his trajectory brought him down in a small clearing within the forest. Manipulating the air once more, he slowed his descent and landed, though not as gracefully as he had hoped. He fell on his side and lay there. Then, he started laughing.

  “Yes, you’re quite clever,” said the mandolin, annoyed.

  The bard kept laughing.

  “Are you done yet? We still have a long way to go.”

  “Let me rest a moment,” said Hastiand between breaths. “Hoo! That took a lot out of me.”

  “Fine,” said the mandolin with a sigh.

  Hastiand lay down for a good while, ate some of the bread, drank water. Once he felt a little more rested, he faced eastward.

  He smiled and said, “This ought to be a fun trip for once.”