Kindred Souls Complete Series: Books 1-4
Chapter One
Perched on a stoolin the center of the smoky tavern, my fingers plucked at the strings of my ukulele as I began my song. I sang out in protest of Faligrey’s laws, against the kindred souls. My bitterness and heartbreak painted my voice with low, husky tones.
This was for my parents, for the drudge of a life they led because they dared to love each other and build a life together despite not being kindred souls. I refused to rest, to accept the life they led, the life I led. The banishments, always moving from village to village, never accepted, never making friends.
It was a lonely life, but the three of us had each other. Then the poverty got to them, bending them until they broke and the sickness took them both in the same week.
On my own ever since with nothing but my father’s ukulele and a small pack of belongings, I made my way as a traveling bard, singing in taverns until my seditious lyrics got me thrown out of town.
The patrons stirred with unease as my lyrics sank in. Most listeners paid more attention to the music instead of the words. Sometimes it took a bit for it to click in their brains.
One man leaned forward from the shadows, a hood over his head like he was trying to remain hidden, but my voice drew him forward. His eyes shined like starlight and they caught me in their deep, gleaming pools.
Tearing my attention away from the mysterious man, I moved into the second song, one crooning with nostalgia and longing. My emotions rose, trying to cut off my voice, but I shoved them away. I’d release them once I was alone with the stars, not here, not now.
A small roll sailed towards me, but it fell a foot short. They hoped it would send me running away, but it wouldn’t. Boos and hisses whispered from the shadows and corners of the tavern.
My songs weren’t technically illegal, we were supposed to have freedom of expression, but it still made people uncomfortable and angry to hear songs against one of the strictest laws in Faligrey.
But I wanted those who never found their kindreds, those whose kindreds were a disappointment, those who lost theirs and had to spend the rest of their lives without love, those who were branded bastards to know they were not alone. That someone understood their plight, that someone saw them, that someone spoke for them, fought for them.
Sometimes it felt like I was screaming into an empty void with only the stars to hear me. But there were times. Times when desperate voices have whispered their thanks under the cover of night, the press of a grateful hand, the small gifts wrapped in cloth, the coins slipped into my hat.
It made every piece of thrown food, every bruise, every sneer, every hateful word worth it.
My third song was different. I tucked the ukulele onto my back and stood behind the stool, slamming down a beat with two tin cups onto the wooden surface. Instead of singing, I spoke the lyrics, a poem loud and angry and full of fire. My boots stomped the planks on the floor, harmonizing with the tin cups, pounding out my rage.
My voice rose over the muttering and jeers of the tavern patrons.
As I began the last stanza, a harsh hand wrapped around my upper arm. I didn’t let it distract me and kept speaking my truths even as I fumbled with my cups. I managed to shove them into the pockets of my coat and I pulled my ukulele around to my chest to keep it safe from harm as they dragged me towards the door. The last words of the song fell from my lips as I was shoved outside, barely keeping my feet.
The tavern owner spit in my direction. “You’re not welcome here. I suggest you get out of town before I call the royal guard on you.”
I straightened my coat and shot him a crass gesture with my free hand. This was why I got my payment upfront before I performed. The few people still milling about on the darkened streets gave me curious looks, but I avoided eye contact and hurried to the edge of the village where I hid my bag of provisions. I learned the hard way years ago to not bring my things with me. It was hard enough to escape sometimes with my father’s ukulele still safe in my arms.
Time to try the next village. Hopefully before word of my inflammatory songs reached them. Once I had my pack strapped over my shoulders, I walked through the night for an hour, wanting distance between my home for the night and the village. I’d had people try to follow me before to teach me a lesson.
A copse of trees and bushes arranged in a fairy ring circle would make the perfect home for the night. The leaves on the trees were thick, providing coverage. I perched on a fallen log, stretching out my sore legs in front of me while I rummaged through my pack. I pulled out my flint and one of my few remaining tins of food and the last scrap of cheese. I needed to purchase more supplies before I performed in the next village.
With a small fire crackling and keeping me company, I smiled up at the stars and raised my tin cup of warm brandy at their friendly light.
“Mama, Papa, if you’re up there, I miss you. I hope you’re together, finally free and happy and safe.” I was convinced my whispered, broken words reached them. It was the only thing that comforted me in their absence, the thought of them reunited in death.
I drained the drink and snuggled into the blankets I had laid out on the spongy moss, using my pack as a pillow. Exhaustion plucked at me, the usual memories and worries not plaguing me on this night.
A tension in my chest, so tight it was painful, woke me up. My eyes popped open as I searched the blackness of the night for a threat.