The Raging Fires Read Free Page A

stretched, and finally serenaded under the full autumn moon, according to ancient tradition. Thankfully, my mentor, Cairpré, had devoted weeks before that night to helping me learn all the intricate verses and melodies. Even so, the moon had nearly set before I finally sang every one of them correctly—and in the right order. Now seven of the strings gleamed on the little instrument propped on the root before me.
    Grasping the last remaining string, the smallest of the lot, I brought it closer. As I twirled it slowly, its ends twisted and swayed—alive, almost. Like the tongue of someone on the very verge of speaking.
    Late afternoon light played on the string, making it shine as golden as the autumn leaves speckling the grass at the base of the rowan tree. It felt surprisingly heavy, given its short length, yet as flexible as the breeze itself. Gently, I draped it on a cluster of dark red berries hanging from one of the rowan’s lower boughs. Turning back to the instrument, I inserted the last two knobs, carved from the same branch of hawthorn as the others, whose month-long kiln drying had ended only yesterday. Rubbing against the oaken soundboard, the knobs squeaked ever so slightly.
    At last, I retrieved the string. After tying the seven loops of a wizard’s knot on each of the two knobs, I began twisting, one to the right and the other to the left. Gradually, the string tightened, straightening out like a windblown banner. Before it had grown too tight, I stopped. Now all that remained was to insert the bridge—and play.
    Leaning back against the trunk of the rowan, I gazed at my handiwork. It was a psaltery, shaped something like a tiny harp but with a bowed soundboard behind all the strings. I lifted it off the root, studying it admiringly. Though it was barely as big as my open hand, it seemed to me as grand as a newborn star.
    My own instrument. Made with my own hands.
    I ran my finger along the strip of ash inlaid at the top of the frame. This would be much more than a source of music, I knew. Unless, of course, I had bungled any of the steps in making it. Or, much worse, unless . . .
    I drew a slow, unsteady breath. Unless I lacked the one thing Cairpré couldn’t teach me, the one thing he couldn’t even describe—what he could only call the essential core of a wizard. For, as he had so often reminded me, the making of a wizard’s first instrument was a sacred tradition, marking a gifted youth’s coming of age. If the process succeeded, when the time finally came to play the instrument, it would release its own music. And, simultaneously, an entirely new level of the youth’s own magic.
    And if the process did not succeed . . .
    I set down the psaltery. The strings jangled softly as the sound-board again touched the burly roots of the tree. Among these very roots, Fincayra’s most famous wielders of magic—including my legendary grandfather, Tuatha—had cobbled their own first instruments. Hence the tree’s name, written into many a ballad and tale: the Cobblers’ Rowan.
    Placing my hand over a rounded knob of bark, I listened for the pulse of life within the great tree. The slow, swelling rhythm of roots plunging deeper and branches reaching higher, of thousands of leaves melting from green to gold, of the tree itself breathing. Inhaling life, and death, and the mysterious bonds connecting both. The Cobblers’ Rowan had continued to stand through many storms, many centuries—and many wizards. Did it know even now, I wondered, whether my psaltery would really work?
    Lifting my gaze, I surveyed the hills of Druma Wood, each one as round as the back of a running deer. Autumn hues shone scarlet, orange, yellow, and brown. Brightly plumed birds lifted out of the branches, chattering and cooing, while spirals of mist rose from hidden swamps. I could hear, weaving with the breeze, the continuous tumble of a waterfall. This forest, wilder than any place I had ever known, was truly the heart of Fincayra.