Hastiand awoke with a gasp. He sat up, eyes wide. Sweat covered his body and soaked his clothes. He lay on a bed in a simple room. No lanterns or candles had been lit, and the shutters were closed, allowing only thin slivers of light through the cracks. Memories came back in fragments. That man, or elf rather—Amon was his name—had chased him. Then, the dead-end alley and the black smoke. The bard shivered and hugged his knees as he remembered the feeling, the most horrible sensation in the world. He hated it when the mandolin forced itself on him.

  Wait, where was it?

  Throwing the covers off, he frantically began searched the room. He tripped as he rounded the edge of the bed and fell to the ground. As he got his knees, he spotted it. The mandolin lay against the wall under one of the windows on the far side of the room. He stood and crossed to the instrument.

  He held out a hand to touch it.

  “Why not leave it alone for now?”

  Hastiand turned. Amon stood in the room’s only doorway. His mask gone, the elf has a face that would have been handsome were it not for the scar. Starting just to the right of his forehead, the scar ran down the bridge of his nose and ended on the left side of his mouth. Hastiand noted that his eyes looked green with swirls of gold and blue coming and going.

  “The mandolin is resting now,” said Amon. “Touching it could wake it.”

  Hastiand’s made no effort to hide the anger in his voice. “Who are you?”

  Among blinked. “I can see you’re still rattled. You had a rough couple of days-”

  “A couple?! I’ve been asleep for two days?”

  “Well, a day and a half, really. But, to the subject at hand-”

  “Let me out of here. There’s someone I have to find.”

  “I understand, but if you wou-”

  “No, you don’t understand. There’s no way you can understand. I’m dangerous. You saw what the mandolin can do.”

  “That is precisely why you’re not going anywhere. That,” Amon held up a piece of paper, “and there’s a price on your head.”

  Hastiand stared at the wanted poster. He sighed and said, “I guess Forst had to do that.”

  Amon rolled up the poster. “No one but me knows where you are, so please sit down and let me explain a few things.”

  A tense silence hung in the air as they stared at one another. Finally, Hastiand grunted and sat in one of the empty chairs beside the table. Amon moved to the windows and opened the shutters. The bard blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light.

  Taking the armchair across from him, Amon crossed his legs and asked, “What do you know about the mandolin?”

  Hastiand eyed the bounty hunter. On one hand, the elf had thrown a dagger at his arm, chased him down and captured him. On the other, he had somehow subdued the mandolin, if only temporarily. Amon clearly knew things about the mandolin that he did not. He decided to proceed cautiously.

  “Not much,” said Hastiand. “It plays great music, and I never have to tune the thing. It also talks to me, but I think you already know that.”

  “Have you wondered why it can talk with you?”

  The bard shrugged. “I suppose a ghost or demon trapped within as a form of eternal punishment or some such.”

  “Have you ever considered that it could be a god?”

  Hastiand raised an eyebrow. “You’re not serious.”

  “Admittedly, it seems farfetched, but the mandolin has existed for centuries. A mere demon could not survive for so long and still be so powerful. The being inside would have to be much more powerful. And then there is the seal.”

  “Seal?”

  Amon leaned forward. “The scrolls.”

  “You know about those, too?”

  “More than I should. What did you think they were?”

  Hastiand shrugged. “Don’t know. I assumed they gave it more power.”

  Amon cocked his head to one side and regarded Hastiand with a look that said he didn’t quite believe the bard. “And?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Hastiand shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “And,” he said weakly, “each scroll is one sheet in a larger song. Gathering them all would grant the player a wish, but the strength of the mandolin’s power, and, in turn, the wish, depends on how much of the song is played. At least, that is what the mandolin told me.”

  “The reason its power increases is because a part of the seal has been removed temporarily. Do you know what happens when the song is played in its entirety?”

  “No,” said Hastiand, which was partly true.

  “Have you ever played one of the song sheets?”

  Hastiand did not reply.

  “Devastating, isn’t it?” continued Amon. “Two years ago, the town of Dandree was destroyed, wiped clean from this world in one night. You passed through Dandree around that time if I’m not mistaken.”

  Hastiand’s face flushed. “I wasn’t—I didn’t—is this going anywhere? If you’re going to take me to prison, let’s get on with it.”

  “I’m not taking you in. I wanted to see how much you knew about what you carry. Experience is the best teacher, but the second is history. My goal is to help you understand and in understanding, you might be able to help me.”

  “Understand what?”

  Without shifting his gaze from the bard, Amon gestured to the mandolin. “I am of the Vai’Aneen. Our nation was, at one time, a vast empire. At its height, it stretched across the entirety of the Great Neyhajin Desert, a good part of the Jimra hill country, and even parts of Tirian. Because of the mandolin and the one who played it, our people were...destroyed.”

  Amon paused, allowing Hastiand to soak in the words.

  He continued, “Whether or not it could have been avoided is for historians to debate. The way it crept into our society was subtle. No one suspected anything when the Player first appeared in the capital city, Makaran. The music that flowed from the instrument made the people feel wonderful, so wonderful that they would all gather around to listen to the bard as he played the instrument.

  “Harmless in the beginning, it gradually grew into an obsession. They yearned for it constantly. They would fight for the best seats to listen. When the music wasn’t being played, the people were distracted and longed to hear more. The Player realized the power he held over their minds and used this to his advantage. He would charge high prices for his shows. For those who couldn’t pay in coin, he accepted…other forms of payment.”

  Amon’s face saddened as he said this and a hint of blue flowed into his eyes. He seemed to drift off to somewhere inside his mind momentarily, before coming back.

  “In time, the Player became the most powerful man in the empire, manipulating those in positions of authority including the foolish emperor . Taking what he wished as his own, the Player relished in the control he held over people. Nearly everyone danced to the tune he strummed from that mandolin. Everyone, that is, except for a small group not swayed by his music. They knew that something evil flowed in the music. Try as they might, they could not convince the others of the dangers of following the Player. Those that would not follow the Player eventually united, forming a clandestine group known as The Guardians of Vai’Aneen. They worked together from the shadows to end the Player’s reign. Junay’d Traern, a leading noble and merchant within Makaran, became the group's leader.

  “Their first task was to find like-minded individuals throughout the empire. Those recruited to the Guardians came from every walk of life: carpenters, merchants, smiths, government officials, soldiers, and even a few priests. They established an underground communication network to maintain the group’s secrecy. Each member of the organization swore an oath to restore the Vai’Aneen Empire to its original glory, even in the face of death. And many of them did die.

  “To compound their problems, not only were they concerned about resisting the Player, they did not know how the people would react once the Player was removed. The seduction of the mandolin was so strong that they knew it likely they would be killed once the music stopped. But, all accepted the risk willingly.”

  Hastiand did not attempt to mask his sarcasm and asked, “And I take it you were one of these brave and wonderful Guardians?”

  “Don’t be rude,” said Amon.

  “Well, your story is dragging on a bit.”

  The bounty hunter’s eyes turned a shade of red. “A little decency and respect would be appreciated.”

  The edge in Amon’s voice sent a shiver down Hastiand’s back. He cleared his throat, leaned back in his chair and gestured for Amon to continue.

  “Now where was I? Ah, yes. The Guardians. The Player was too well protected to kill him outright. While corrupt and manipulative, the Player was not stupid. He knew some were not swayed by his music. He was wary of them and took measures to protect himself, going so far as to build a private fortress in the desert outside Makaran. A hidden passage connected the fortress to the city. The Guardians spent years trying to discover the entrance to this passage. To do this, they needed access to the Player’s inner circle of people. With someone close to him acting as their spy, they would be able to launch a plan to take him down. However, attempt after attempt failed, and their missions looked hopeless. That is, until one of the Player’s bodyguards, a man named Terza, approached the Guardians offering his help.”

  Hastiand broke in, “Sounds like a trap.”

  Amon nodded. “Exactly the Guardians’ reaction. Some even wanted to kill Terza on the spot. To prove his trustworthiness, he supplied the location of the passage leading to the fortress. Still, some felt he was setting them up. None of the Guardians would guess that the events that followed would become the catalyst for the eventual downfall of Vai’Aneen.”

  “How did they deal with the bodyguard?” Despite his misgivings, the story began to intrigue Hastiand.

  “I’m getting to that. They posted scouts at the entrance to the passage but did not explore it further. To test the bodyguard’s loyalty, they ‘allowed’ him to learn of an unrelated operation, something that could worked around if compromised. If there were any signs that the information had been leaked, they would know he had betrayed them. To their surprise and delight, Terza proved himself worthy.

  “They devised a plan to infiltrate the fortress. Terza would be a crucial part of that plan, but the Guardians were divided on using him. Some saw this as the perfect opportunity to strike while others were still suspicious of a trap. Eventually, the leadership of the Guardians proceeded with the plan. With a strategy in place, they bided their time until the Player retreated to his fortress. Their opportunity came most unexpectedly.”

  Amon stopped and looked curiously at Hastiand. “Are you all right?”

  The bard’s face had gone pale, and he wavered in his chair.

  “I think,” said Hastiand, “my head...hurts...”

  The bard wheezed and fell from his chair. The last thing he saw before passing out was the mandolin’s eye glaring at him.