Chapter 18
Cole
Some men had no shame.
Cole’s stiff fingers moved instinctively over his lute strings, but his focus drifted.
Mistel danced and sang before him and Kurtz, her hair unbound and spiraling freely, her new red dress swirling around her legs.
She was radiant—utterly in her element—and the way some onlookers gawked made Cole’s jaw tighten.
They had set up to play in the Dale, the city’s sprawling festival grounds where the community gathered to celebrate and compete.
Though the vast amphitheater had a main stage and stone rings for feats of strength, the band kept to the open yard, near one of the many firepits that blazed against the afternoon chill.
The flames in the pit crackled, sending glowing embers spiraling into the clear sky.
Distant laughter, music, clashes of steel, and the occasional burst of cheering did not distract their small audience.
Coins clinked steadily into Mistel’s wide-brimmed farmer’s hat, which she’d tossed on the ground near the fire.
They’d already earned more than the previous night at the Ice House—something to be thankful for—yet Cole couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at his bones.
Mistel was a firebrand, wild and untamable.
He’d told her not to come to the Ice House, and she’d shown up anyway, as if his warnings had been mere suggestions.
Keeping her out of trouble felt like trying to hold onto a lark determined to fly.
Yes, he’d trusted her to Arman, but to what extent?
Did Arman expect Cole to do nothing? Or had he put Cole here to act as Mistel’s protector?
If the latter, Cole couldn’t afford to fail such a purpose.
The moment they’d stepped foot in the Dale, Kurtz had muttered, “Keep your eyes on her,” and Cole knew the advice had been sound. With the way Mistel flitted from one admirer to the next, gracing them all with her dazzling smile, some fool might get the wrong idea.
Snow fell, flurries at first, then flakes the size of rutahs, so they finally packed up and returned to the Ivory Spit.
Zanna was working Ice Island today, so the trio played Citadel in the common room to pass the time.
This allowed Rilla, who worked days, to chaperone Mistel until Zanna finished from her shift.
That night, their performance at the Ivory Spit earned them four times what they’d made at the Ice House. Merrygog was so pleased, he invited them back.
The next day, they went back to the Dale.
The snow had lightened, as had the crowds, but they still earned twelve rutah just from passersby, which thrilled Mistel until Cole reminded her they weren’t here to build a career as musicians.
They needed to get hired at the Black Boar.
And he still had no idea how they’d get to Ice Island to speak with his uncle.
Cole had sent two letters to Verdot Amal.
So far, no response. And Zanna told him that guards weren’t permitted to bring visitors.
That afternoon, their merry band visited local taverns to offer their services.
Markim at the Jig and the Jug had a regular musician and refused them.
No answer at the door of the Gathering or at the Driftwood Pub.
The owners of the Tipsy Taproom and Belanna’s Barrelhouse insisted they perform on-the-spot auditions, which resulted in invitations to play both venues.
If they could get someone to listen, they were as good as hired. That—and the fact that they hadn’t seen Jeffrey Korngold anywhere—reassured Cole that they were on track.
So it went. Days in the Dale, nights in alehouses.
One clear afternoon in the Dale, Zanna, off duty from Ice Island, went scouting. The milder weather drew such a thick crowd that after an hour, Kurtz emptied Mistel’s hat into a satchel, wary of leaving such a bounty in plain sight and tempting thieves.
While they were taking a break, Zanna crouched between Cole and Mistel, her dark eyes scanning their surroundings.
“Joonas Erlichman is here selling horses,” she said. “I saw him in the east stables.”
Mistel brightened and gazed across the yard. “Maybe he’ll hear us.”
This might be the North, as Kurtz was fond of saying, but Master Erlichman was one merchant who hadn’t returned to the Dale following the Poroo attack. Some said he’d been busy with the ruling council. Others said he was afraid. Cole was simply glad he was here.
“Maybe we should set up near the stables tomorrow,” he suggested.
“Not a bad idea,” Kurtz said. “What shall we play next?”
“Let’s do the set that starts with ‘Mountain Song’ and ends with ‘Chamswrath.’” Cole started them off, and the moment Mistel began to sing, a handful of people in the crowd applauded.
Cole grinned. Mistel was so talented, he sometimes forgot what it must be like to hear her for the first time.
After the final note of “Chamswrath,” a young man stepped forward, his focus on Mistel.
“Simply fantastic.” He bowed. “I’m Nash Erlichman. This is—”
Mistel’s face lit up. “Erlichman? Are you any relation to—”
“Joonas Erlichman? He’s my father.” Nash flashed a grin and gestured to the tall man beside him. “This is my friend, Drustan Fawst.”
Cole’s stomach dropped like a stone, for this was one person he’d hoped to never see again in his life. Drustan, his former stepbrother, had grown taller, stronger. The moment their eyes met, recognition flashed across Drustan’s face.
Mistel dipped a polite curtsy. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Mistel Wepp, and this is Cole Tanniyn and Kurtz Chazir.”
Drustan’s grin widened, making Cole’s skin crawl. “By the depths, I thought you’d died. That’s what Mother told us. Said you caught something from one of those mangy dogs you used to coddle.”
Cole grip tightened on the neck of his lute. “Drustan.”
His stepbrother laughed, sharp and mocking. “You always did have the luck of a cockroach.”
Mistel stepped between them. “Is there a problem?”
Drustan’s gaze lingered on Mistel like a cat sizing up a mouse. “None at all.”
Nash, oblivious to the tension, said, “We’re having dinner tonight at my father’s estate. You should come.”
A private performance for Joonas Erlichman? Cole couldn’t believe their luck. This could be a major step toward getting hired at the Black Boar.
Mistel looked at Cole. “Don’t we have something tonight?”
He thought it over and winced. “Oh, unfortunately, yes. Belanna’s Barrelhouse.”
“Perhaps tomorrow?” Nash offered.
“You would reschedule your dinner for us?” Mistel asked.
“Dinner does tend to come along daily.” Nash gave directions to the estate, then left with Drustan, who shot Cole a final glare before they disappeared into the crowd.
Kurtz’s bloodvoice sounded in Cole’s mind. You all right?
Cole remembered to think his reply. Fine.
I know the look of a man whose nightmares just came to life, Kurtz voiced. Who is he?
Former stepbrother, Cole thought. He and his brother used to…They weren’t kind.
We don’t have to take the job, Kurtz said. Or you don’t. Mistel can play chords now. We can manage.
No. Cole would not let Mistel out of his sight, especially around Drustan Fawst. He glanced at her, then, and found she was already chatting with another admirer. Blazes, she was a handful.
But the king had put Cole in charge of this mission, and Arman trusted Achan as king. So when Cole had agreed to let Mistel stay, keeping her safe—and alive—had become his responsibility, even if that meant he had to face Drustan and the ghosts of his past.