Chapter 26
Cole
“If any guard so much as reaches for shackles,” Kurtz said, “I’m putting them in the ground, eh?”
Cole sat beside him in a dogsled driven by Verdot Amal, while Mistel rode in a sled steered by Zanna. Apparently, horses weren’t suited for the icy terrain, so Verdot had supplied dogsleds for the journey to Ice Island.
As they raced over the frozen harbor, bitter wind stung Cole’s eyes and made them water. His breath seeped through the gap in his scarf, turning the fabric damp and frosty. How could the sun blaze in a cloudless sky and do nothing to warm the day?
Kurtz had been grumbling since they left, clutching an unlit oil lantern like a child with a favorite doll. “We’ll be coming back after dark,” he’d said, “and I’m not crossing a barren wasteland blind.”
Had Zanna’s underground tunnel been this cold? They hadn’t mentioned it to Verdot—Kurtz’s call. He’d bloodvoiced Prince Oren, who had never heard of Bahram Rakkel. This had set everyone on edge, Kurtz most of all.
“Spent thirteen years trying to leave this place,” he muttered. “Seems it had other plans.”
Ice Island loomed ahead, a diamond-shaped monolith of gray stone rising twelve stories high.
Jagged icicles clung to its crevices, glinting in the pale light.
They were headed for Smokegate, the prison’s southern entrance, where the five-level curtain wall was half buried in snowdrifts.
The dogs skidded to a stop before the gate: two watchtowers flanking a narrow iron portcullis.
As Verdot barked orders at a fur-clad guard, Kurtz muttered, “Looks worse in daylight. Swore I’d never set foot here again. Should’ve sworn louder.”
Cole elbowed him, nodding at white runes painted on either side of the gate. “Same as Cliffwatch.”
Kurtz’s eyes narrowed. “Won’t be able to bloodvoice here either. Zanna saw the same runes inside the tunnel’s cave.”
The portcullis groaned upward, and the dogs surged forward, pulling them into a snow-blanketed bailey.
Trenches had been shoveled between wooden outbuildings and the Pillar, which was the towering heart of the prison that loomed overhead like a tanniyn ready to strike.
Crates stamped “Thusk Shipping Exchange” had been stacked outside several structures.
So, Master Thusk delivered goods to the prison, did he?
Cole would have to wait to discuss that with Kurtz since the sleds halted at the Pillar’s entrance, and he didn’t want Verdot to hear.
Kurtz sighed, tipping his head back to take it all in. “Last time I entered this place kicking and screaming. Let’s hope history doesn’t repeat itself, eh?”
Into the Pillar they went, and the cold seeped into Cole’s bones. The only way to reach the prisoners was up a one-way stairwell to the roof, then descend back down into the yard in the center of the diamond.
So, up they went.
No number of torches could heat the twisting stairwell, but the effort of climbing soon warmed Cole’s body. Still he wondered if his fingers would thaw enough to play his lute.
When they reached the roof, a gust of wind nearly sent him stumbling. Kurtz steadied him. Mistel shrieked as wind caught her skirts like a flag. Zanna wrapped an arm around her, and they hurried after Verdot toward the entrance where the steps went down.
Relief came inside the second tower, but as they descended, the prison’s weight pressed in. Kurtz had lost his usual swagger, nervously tapping his lantern like a drum.
The spiral stairwell fed into a corridor that echoed with clanking chains and disembodied whispers. Fingers clawed under doors. Voices garbled together. Cole didn’t need to understand the words. The sound alone was chilling enough.
Finally, they emerged into the yard, a vast, diamond-shaped atrium stretching twelve levels high.
Cells stacked upon cells, iron bars like a thousand unblinking eyes.
Dozens of prisoners shuffled through the yard or sat around crates that bore the same “Thusk Shipping Exchange” mark.
Shackles clinked as prisoners walked or gambled.
Cole nudged Kurtz, then tapped his temple.
“Can’t in here,” Kurtz reminded him. “The runes, remember?”
Right. The warden couldn’t allow bloodvoicers to communicate with prisoners or spy on the place. Cole leaned in. “See the crates?”
Kurtz glanced at them and frowned. “Thusk must be a regular patron. Wonder how much he makes off this place?”
Verdot led them to a wooden platform positioned at one end of a large grate in the ground. Prisoners lurked on the far side, jostling for a better view. Beneath the grate, faint movements hinted at something—or someone—below.
That must be the Prodotez where Kurtz had lived for so many years. Cole gestured toward it. “That what I think it is?”
“The Pit.” Kurtz retreated to the back of the platform. “Let’s do the show and get out of here, eh? I don’t like how—”
“Hey, Kurtz!”
Kurtz’s head snapped up, eyes wide and unblinking.
“It’s the Chazir!” someone else hollered.
Kurtz set his lantern by his feet. “Of all the places to send a spy,” he muttered, “they pick the one place that already knows my face.”
Cole’s fingers were stiff as he tuned his lute. “Hopefully, we’ll learn enough from my uncle that we won’t need to come back.”
Kurtz grunted.
Out in the yard, Verdot shouted, “Circle up! On this side of the Pit if you want to see the show. Move it.”
Cole didn’t wait for Verdot to walk over and introduce them. He struck up “Woe to the Five,” hoping the ancient ballad might calm the crowd. Mistel stepped forward, poised despite the leers and crude remarks flying her way. The moment she sang, silence fell.
“Woe, woe, woe to the Five.
Woe, woe as they flee for their lives.
As the Father God grieves how they fail to believe,
Woe, woe to the Five.”
Her haunting voice cut through the noise like sunlight through frost. Cole grinned. He’d read the crowd right. But by the second verse, the jeers returned. Mistel held firm, though the tightness of her jaw and her clenched hands betrayed her unease.
Cole went straight into “The Messenger” next, hoping an upbeat tune would shift the mood.
Some clapped or danced, but the rowdy ones only grew bolder with their remarks to Mistel.
Zanna stalked forward, hands on her hips, and looked ready to beat some sense into them.
That only provoked the men, who diverted their jeers to her.
A few shouted for silence, but a fight broke out, and guards started dragging prisoners away.
By the fourth song, some of the taunts from the Pit turned vile. One man clung to the grate, hanging by his fingers while somehow rattling the metal. Cole stopped mid-strum and glared down at the man, only then realizing the prisoner was perched on another man’s shoulders.
“If you don’t settle down, we’re going to leave,” Cole shouted.
“What do we care?” the man sneered. “If you want to give us a gift, pass down the girl.”
Howls of laughter erupted. Mistel’s smile trembled, but she held steady while singing the chorus of “Stars Above.”
Cole backed up from the grate until he could no longer see the men in the Pit. He scowled at Verdot. “This is our last song.”
Verdot crossed his arms. “You promised me an hour.”
Blazes. How were they supposed to last that long?
Grinding his teeth, Cole played on. They didn’t have enough songs to fill an hour without singing those with royalist or religious themes, so he eventually played “I Bless my King,” “The Pawn Our King,” and “The Sparrow that Was a She.” He honestly didn’t notice a change in the rowdy crowd.
Ending with “Light of the World” turned out to be a mistake though. The verses dragged on, and the jeers gnawed at Cole’s nerves. When the last chord finally rang out, he stormed off the stage.
“We’re done,” he told Verdot. “Take us to my uncle now.”
Verdot hesitated, but at the band’s hard stares, he finally motioned for them to follow him toward a narrow doorway on the far side of the yard.
A few paces before they reached it, a shabbily dressed nobleman limped up and seized Kurtz’s arm. “Master Chazir, do you know me?”
Kurtz frowned. “Should I?”
“Let him go, Your Grace,” Verdot said. “This is Yagil Hamartano, imprisoned for treason after the Battle of Armonguard. He fought for Nathak.”
Cole had never seen the former Duke of Cela Duchy, but he had watched his son Silvo die, killed by Lord Nathak’s black magic. The duke’s tattered silk tunic and leather jerkin hinted at his former wealth, but his gaunt face and trembling frame showed the toll of starvation.
“Can’t the duke afford one of your special apartments?” Kurtz asked. “Or at least a decent meal?”
“Not everyone qualifies,” Verdot said. “Leave him.”
“They killed my son,” the duke whispered. “Now they’re trying to kill me. Look!” He held out a fistful of white petals. “I found these in my bed.”
“That’s because your daughter, Princess Jaira, sent money for flowers,” Verdot said. “A generous amount.”
The duke’s eyes bulged. He clutched Kurtz’s sleeve. “They’re working with the women now, don’t you see? The black knights and the mages together. Tell your king. Get me out, or no one will be able to stop them.”
“All right, Your Grace. That’s enough.” Verdot gestured to a pair of guards.
They seized the duke, who thrashed against them. “No! If you don’t listen, I’ll die! They’re working together. Trying to kill me. Have mercy and help me!”
Mistel clutched Cole’s arm and tucked her face behind his shoulder. He covered her hand with his.
“He’s not well,” Verdot muttered, leading them forward.
“What kind of flowers did you buy him?” Kurtz asked.
“If you must know, I had Tom purchase a starfrost plant,” Verdot said. “Rare, expensive, and fitting for winter.”
“Very fitting,” Zanna said.
“And not at all poisonous,” Verdot added.
He led them through a series of dimly lit corridors. The air reeked of mildew and decay. Their boots scuffed over frosty stone, and chains clanked in the distance.
Cole’s heart pounded. He was about to see Uncle Crispen, whom he’d long thought dead. Would the man even remember him?
Verdot halted before a scarred iron door where two guards stood watch.
“He in there?” Verdot asked.
“Yes, sir,” one of the guards said.
“Open it, and keep it open. You go inside. Benton stays out here with the rest.”
“Yes, sir.” The first guard pulled a ring of keys from his belt and swiftly found the right one.
“Just you, Master Tanniyn,” Verdot said as the guard unlocked the door. “The rest wait here with Benton.”
“And you?” Kurtz asked.
“I’ll be in my office. When you’re done, Benton will bring you to me. One hour.”
Mistel squeezed Cole’s hand. Kurtz nodded as Cole passed over his lute.
Time to face a ghost.