Chapter 19
Mistel
If Mistel focused on the view, she could almost forget her numb toes. Almost.
The Erlichman estate perched on a rise east of the city, commanding a breathtaking view of the frozen harbor. Mistel rode Bart between Zanna and Cole along the snowy road. On the horizon, the brilliant blue sky blurred into the sea. Absolutely gorgeous.
She pulled her cloak tighter. Tsaftown could freeze the joy right out of a person, but at least their destination looked warm.
Ahead, just past a set of large iron gates and framed by frostbitten pines, stood a sprawling, snow-blanketed estate, larger than any Mistel had seen in Armonguard’s Hamisha Hills.
The three-story manor’s pale gray stone walls contrasted with dark wood beams. Smoke curled from a dozen or more chimneys spaced along steep, snow-laden roofs.
Icicles hung from their ledges, gleaming like crystal daggers.
Mistel counted seven outbuildings, not including all the tiny doghouses—some occupied by dogs lounging atop their roofs—and a vast stable adorned with decorative iron horseshoes.
They left their horses with the stablemaster and approached the manor’s grand double oak doors. Mistel spun in place, imagining the parties she could throw in such a location.
“Everything is so clean and tidy,” she said. “I half expect a royal procession to arrive.”
“Undeniable wealth,” Cole said.
“And excellent taste,” Mistel added. “If they have warm pastries, I might stay forever.”
A steward ushered them into the spacious manor, and warmth immediately swept over Mistel.
They passed by a small hall with a high-beamed ceiling and four long wooden tables.
The perfect place to throw a ball. The elevated platform at the end could serve as a stage for their band to perform. Yet the hall sat empty. Too bad.
The steward led them to a modest chamber warmed by a crackling fire. Dark wood paneling, velvet-upholstered chairs, and a silver tray of steaming mulled wine gave the place a luxurious feel.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” the steward said. “I’ll inform the master of your arrival.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Kurtz poured them each a cup.
Mistel wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, inhaling the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg.
She had drained her mug by the time the steward returned. He escorted them down a hall lined with towering tapestries and crystal candelabra. The mouthwatering aroma of roasted meat curled around her. How was she supposed to sing with such a feast taunting her?
They entered an elegant dining room where a hearth blazed.
Four people sat at one end of a long table adorned with fine linens and silver platters heaped with food.
Mistel recognized Nash Erlichman and Drustan Fawst, the rude one Cole admitted on the ride up that he’d known in his childhood.
The older man and woman must be Nash’s parents.
The steward cleared his throat. “Sirs and madam, may I present the esteemed musicians who have graciously accepted your invitation: Master Cole Tanniyn, Master Kurtz Chazir, Mistress Mistel Wepp, and Mistress Anna Tankel.”
“At last!” Nash stood, his smile broad. “I bid you welcome. Please, have a seat.”
Mistel’s heart leaped. Sit at the table?
“You don’t want us to play?” Cole asked, raising his lute.
Nash winced. “A misunderstanding. I simply wanted to get to know you all better.”
Mistel couldn’t believe it. They were guests!
They took their seats, men on one side, ladies on the other. At the head of the table sat Joonas Erlichman, Mistel assumed. Only when they were settled did Nash resume his place on his father’s right. “Father says you’ve come from Armonguard and might even know our new king and queen.”
“I grew up in Sitna,” Mistel said. “Achan—er, the king—and I weren’t close, but I saw him often enough. Cole squired for him.”
Drustan, who sat between Nash and Kurtz, let out a chuckle. “Not sure I like what that says about the king.”
Master Erlichman cut in sharply from the head of the table. “Don’t be rude.”
Indeed. Drustan Fawst was a complete and utter hunx.
The conversation shifted to the estate, its history, and the family’s thriving business.
“This place has been passed down through generations,” Master Erlichman said. “One day, Nash will take over. He’s already running parts of it.”
Cole leaned forward. “We saw the kennels on our way in. What do you do with so many dogs?”
“He sells them,” Drustan said.
“Well, not those,” Nash said.
His father’s face brightened. “The dogs you saw are our sled dogs. But I do sell hunting dogs, boar, and most recently, horses. Boar are my specialty, though. Started with just one boar and sow, and now my stock is famous across Er’Rets.”
Mistel admired the man. Ambition, drive, and success—qualities she knew well.
Kurtz inquired about Erlichman’s clients while Zanna discussed falconry with Madam Erlichman.
“What got you into singing, Miss Wepp?” Nash asked from across the table.
“Oh, I’ve always loved it,” she said. “Cole is my cousin. When he invited me to join him and Kurtz, I couldn’t pass up the adventure.”
“Your cousin?” Drustan glanced between Mistel and Cole and chuckled darkly.
How odd. Mistel took a sip of her wine to put something between her and Drustan’s piercing gaze.
“Do you plan to wander forever?” Nash asked. “Or might you one day be convinced to marry and settle down?”
My, what a question. Mistel swirled her goblet, considering how to answer. “Perhaps someday, but not now. There’s too much of Er’Rets left to explore.”
After they’d eaten a delicious feast, Master Erlichman stood and helped his wife to her feet. “It’s been a pleasure, but we must retire. Please, enjoy yourselves. I’m sure Nash and Drustan will be good hosts.” He offered his wife his arm. “Come, my dear.”
As they left, Mistel shot Cole a glance and found him wide-eyed. They’d missed their chance to ask about the Black Boar.
Nash retrieved a dark bottle from a cabinet and poured a generous amount of amber liquid into his goblet. “Anyone for a drink?” He grinned as he made the rounds.
Drustan held out his goblet first.
Kurtz followed with a casual, “I’ll have one.”
“No, thank you,” Zanna said.
Nash turned to Cole. “A drink for the road?”
Cole’s expression was unreadable. “I’ll pass.”
Mistel shook her head. “I’ll stick to mulled wine. Best to keep my wits when riding a horse side saddle.”
“More for us then.” Nash winked and raised his goblet. “To friendship.”
“To friendship,” Mistel echoed, sipping her now-cool wine.
“We’ve been performing all over Tsaftown,” Cole said, the statement awkward and out of place.
Drustan snorted. “More like begging for scraps.”
Mistel shot the lousy hunx a glare, then dove in to help steer the conversation. “We heard your family owns the Black Boar. Someone told us to speak with a man named Fenris about playing there. Do you know him?”
“He’s our best customer,” Drustan said. “We rent rooms to him and all his men. It’s perfect because now we never have vacancies.”
Nash’s grip tightened around his goblet, his smile polite but strained.
He cast Drustan a brief glance before answering.
“Technically, I own the Boar. My father passed control to me last year. I’ve left the day-to-day to Drustan, but with it being Fenris’s base of operations, most assume he runs the place. ”
“Sir Fenris has been protecting this town since the army went south,” Drustan said. “That’s why people think he’s in charge.”
“Protecting it?” Mistel raised an eyebrow. “How noble.”
“Not noble—practical,” Drustan said. “He’s rich and has his own army.”
From what Zanna had told Mistel, the Howlers hardly counted as an army but more of a band of lowborn mercenaries who broke skulls first and never asked questions.
“Rich yet he lives in a tavern?” Kurtz asked.
“Wealthy men don’t do their own dirty work,” Drustan said. “They hire it out, like Nash did with me.”
“Fenris used to have an estate,” Nash said, “but years ago he helped his father try to take over House Livna. The former lord threw them in Ice Island for treason.”
Kurtz grunted and drained his drink.
Mistel raised her eyebrows. “Mercy! That sounds like the start of a ballad.”
“Depends whose side you’re on,” Drustan said.
Cole leaned forward to see Nash around Kurtz and Drustan. “How does a man who lost his estate afford to rent rooms and pay mercenaries?”
“A fair question, that is,” Kurtz said.
Nash poured himself another glass. “Not through honest work, that’s for certain. While we built our fortune breeding the finest animals in the kingdom, Fenris had another approach—burn down a house and steal its gold.”
Drustan lounged back in his chair. “He didn’t steal it. That gold was his father’s. Rightfully his.”
Zanna tilted her head. “What gold?”
Nash exhaled. “Frederick Yarden’s estate was seized after the coup, but before that happened, the old man hid his wealth with friends so he could get it later.
He never got out, though. Rotted away in prison.
But Fenris? The moment your young king pardoned him, he went straight for his father’s gold. ”
“Where was it?” Cole asked.
“Buried in an estate south of the city,” Nash said, sipping his drink. “A place called—”
Drustan tossed his wadded napkin at Nash. “Don’t tell them that.”
“—Glodwood Manor,” Nash said.
Mistel perked up. She knew that name.
Drustan groaned and fell back in his chair. “Remind me not to tell you my darkest secrets.”
“And they just gave the money back?” Zanna asked. “After so many years?”
Nash barked a laugh. “Of course not. They claimed it was gone. Said they’d never seen it.” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “But Fenris didn’t buy that. Oh no. He tortured the lot of them until they talked, then killed them, took the gold, and burned their house to ash.”
Mistel’s hand flew to her mouth. “He didn’t!”