Chapter 21
Cole
Cole had sung plenty of ballads about Ice Island and the villains trapped within—never once imagining he’d one day ask to be let inside.
He and Kurtz rode toward Cliffwatch, the larger of the two watchtowers guarding the prison.
The stone sentinel loomed above, its walls weathered by salt and wind.
Beyond it, the frozen sea stretched beneath restless drifts of snow toward Ice Island: a gray stone fortress, half shrouded in fog.
No waves lapped the shore, no ships cut through the harbor, only silence and the bitter wind gnawing at Cole’s exposed skin.
“Try and lose the fear behind your eyes, eh?” Kurtz said. “That’ll give you away, it will. You have to believe you’re just a minstrel looking to visit your uncle.”
Cole swallowed hard and nodded. He’d always been a decent playactor, but the sight of the infamous prison had turned him inside out. A minstrel here to see his uncle. That’s who he was. Should be a simple request. Yet the weight of the sword at his hip felt foreign. He should be carrying his lute.
“What if he wants to hear me play?” Cole asked.
“We’re here on Nash’s recommendation,” Kurtz said. “That should be enough.”
Again, Cole nodded, as if doing so might convince him.
Their horses’ hooves crunched over the snowy road as they neared the gatehouse. The rhythmic clang of hammers on stone and distant voices carried on the wind.
“What’s going on?” Cole asked.
“Who knows?” Kurtz said. “Verdot is always stirring up trouble.”
The gatehouse abutted a smaller, square mural tower jutting out from the larger, circular one.
After giving their names, they were let inside a tiny bailey where laborers swarmed over stacks of timber and stone, hammering, hauling, and shouting.
Cole followed Kurtz past carts of mortar and tools and up a narrow stone staircase to Verdot Amal’s office.
“Look there.” Kurtz gestured above the door to a series of faint gray markings on the stone.
Something like a letter Y, what looked like waves, and a diamond with two circles that resembled an eye. Cole hadn’t seen their like before. Not even in the Magosian priestess’s apartment back in Armonguard.
“Runes,” Cole said.
“Not just any runes,” Kurtz said. “They repel bloodvoicing magic.”
“Verdot doesn’t want anyone spying on him,” Cole said.
“Which means he’s up to something.” Kurtz pushed open the door.
Inside, a thin, white-haired man stood behind a desk cluttered with scrolls, ink pots, and a tarnished brass lamp. Verdot Amal, Cole presumed, and he wasn’t alone.
In front of the desk, his back to the door, stood a short, plump man with a flushed face. He clutched a ledger to his chest. His coat, once fine, was travel-stained and rumpled.
“…not my decision,” Verdot was saying. “That order comes from above.”
“But you could fix this,” the man said. “You run this prison.”
“And just you remember who runs you,” Amal shot back.
Cole froze just inside the doorway. He glanced at Kurtz, who merely leaned against the doorframe, watching with mild curiosity.
“Drop it, Tom,” Verdot said. “I don’t want to hear about it again.”
The man—Tom, apparently—shifted on his feet. He reminded Cole of an abused puppy, starved and begging for food.
Kurtz cleared his throat. “Are we interrupting something?”
Both men turned toward the door.
“Not at all.” Clutching his ledger, Tom scurried past, and Cole caught a whiff of pickled herring and brine as the man disappeared down the staircase.
“Friendly fellow,” Kurtz muttered, closing the door.
Verdot sighed deeply. “Kurtz Chazir.” His gaze fell on Cole.
“And you must be young Master Tanniyn. I’m honored, truly.
Though I confess, I have little time for unexpected visitors.
” He paced behind his desk, shuffling scrolls, as though their presence was an unbearable inconvenience.
Finally, he waved toward two chairs. “Sit if you must.”
Cole exchanged a glance with Kurtz before they both sat.
“Who was that?” Cole asked, nodding toward the door.
“Tom Raven. My clerk,” Verdot said.
Kurtz hummed, as if that explained a great deal. “What’s with all the construction? Expanding the gatehouse?”
Verdot unrolled a scroll. “A remodel,” he said absently. “I tested the idea at Stormwatch—three apartments there. Cliffwatch is larger, so it will hold six.”
“Apartments for guards?” Cole asked.
“Mercy no.” Verdot chuckled. “High-end accommodations for prisoners willing to pay for an upgrade.”
Cole’s stomach churned. “You’re extorting incarcerated men?”
Verdot finally looked at him, his smile thin. “It’s called a business model, boy.”
Kurtz shifted in his chair. “Eric know about this?”
“He’s Lord Livna to you now,” Verdot snapped. “And no, I don’t believe he concerns himself with prison operations.”
“Which suits you just fine, I’ll bet,” Kurtz said. “You do your best scheming when no one’s looking over your shoulder, eh, old friend?”
Verdot slammed down the scroll and finally faced them directly. “What do you want?”
Cole’s stomach twisted. “Didn’t you get my letters? I wrote twice. And Nash Erlichman said he spoke to you about me.”
“Letters?” Verdot said, as though the question was absurd.
“I have no idea. I’m terribly busy. Dozens of letters pass through my clerk’s hands each week, most from people begging favors.
” He waved a dismissive hand, the rings on his thin fingers catching the light.
“Tom knows I hardly have time to read them, let alone reply.”
Cole’s jaw tightened. “This was a simple question.”
Verdot sniffed, brushing something off his sleeve. “Then how fortunate you’ve come in person to ask it where I can hear you.” He arched an eyebrow. “Go on.”
Cole straightened, glanced at Kurtz. “I’d like to visit my uncle, Crispen West.”
Verdot stepped closer, looking down his nose at Cole. Something in his sneer brought to mind Drustan Fawst, Osrik Nath, the Eben warrior—all looming while he was too small to fight back.
Cole jumped to his feet, refusing to let Verdot tower over him. Even so, the man had a few inches on him, which only fueled his irritation.
Verdot’s smirk deepened. “We don’t allow visits.”
“Nash implied there were ways,” Cole said.
“Nash Erlichman does not work here.” Verdot waved his hand. “Truth is, nothing is free, boy. You might think you have friends in high places, but I have a business to run. You want to see your uncle? You make a donation.”
Cole’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”
Verdot shrugged as if the number meant nothing to him. “The going rate for an hour-long visit is two golds.”
“You filthy crook.” Kurtz shot to his feet, knocking his chair over. “Let’s go, Cole. We’ll see what Eric Livna has to say about this, we will—and about that construction.”
“Wait,” Verdot said, raising his hands. “Calm down, and I’m sure we can come to an agreement. I’ll waive the fee if Master Tanniyn and his pretty cousin play a concert at Ice Island.”
Heat flared in Cole’s chest. So the man did know about them? And Mistel? “No,” he said flatly. “I don’t want Mistel out there.”
“There’s no danger, I promise you,” Verdot said. “Not when you’re with me.”
Cole shook his head. “I don’t think—”
“I’ll personally vouch for her safety. And yours.”
Cole glanced at Kurtz, who grimaced and flexed one shoulder. Yeah, he didn’t like it either, but he didn’t see any other option. “One performance.”
“One hour-long performance for an hour-long visit,” Verdot clarified. “And if you want to visit again, you perform again.”
Cole took a deep breath. “Agreed. Shall we play tonight?”
Verdot laughed. “Mercy, no. I need time to arrange things. Plus, I’ll need to hear you first. Nash said you’ll be at the Black Boar soon. If I like what I hear, I can arrange something next week.” He flashed an oily smile. “I’ll send word.”
Cole clenched his fists, breathing deeply. “Fine. When you’re ready, we’ll return.”
“Almost lost your temper back there, eh?” Kurtz said.
The road wound through a sparse forest of spruce and pine, branches heavy with frost. Cold air stung Cole’s cheeks, his breath puffing in small clouds.
“You did good,” Kurtz added. “It was the best offer we were going to get without involving Eric, and it’s best we don’t involve him.”
“I didn’t like that man,” Cole muttered, still wound up by Verdot Amal.
“He’s a weasel.”
“A weasel who was taller than me.”
Kurtz snorted. “Still dwelling over your height? Listen. Men who care too much about what others think tend to be so paranoid they’re unstable.
Constantly blow things out of proportion, worry, whine.
That kind of man makes a terrible leader, he does.
And no woman feels safe around a man like that.
Be content with who you are, eh? Know your strengths and use them well.
That’ll make you stand out, no matter how tall you are. ”
Cole glanced at Kurtz, his words lingering. “What if I am paranoid and unstable?”
Kurtz blinked, then grinned, his dimples tucking in. “You’re funny, poet. I love it, I do.”
Cole hadn’t been joking. He let Kurtz’s laughter fill the silence while his thoughts churned—runt of the litter, unworthy to live, too small to protect anyone.
Peat’s final breaths haunted him, as did the Eben warrior. His childhood had left him battered inside and out, and the war had only deepened the scars. No matter how much time passed, the pain remained, branded deep inside him, tattoos he couldn’t scrub away.
“Do you ever think about Ice Island?” Cole asked.
“I try not to.”
“But you can’t help it, right? It’s part of you.”
Kurtz sighed. “I suppose. Lots of things remind me of it.”
“What do you do when you remember?”
“I thank Arman and our king for getting me out.” Kurtz shot him a sidelong glance. “What’s on your mind, eh, poet? I can tell when you’re stewing, I can.”
Cole fidgeted with the reins. “It’s just…When something happens—like with Verdot Amal back there—memories rush back. Bad ones. I feel small, angry, trapped. I either cower or lose my temper. I don’t know why, but I can’t stop it from happening.”
“Takes time, it does, to get over certain things. Shadows from my past sometimes return in a rush of heat and shame.”
Shadows. Good word for it. “What do you do?”
“I remember other things.” Kurtz grinned, dimples tucking above his beard. “Anything pleasant to get my mind off the ugly, but Eagan warned me, some happy thoughts lead to trouble. Instead, he said to remember what Arman has done.”
Arman? “You mean like sending his son?”
“Aye, but also the good Arman has done in our lives. For me, I remember Achan springing me and Eagan from Ice Island. It’s easy to dwell on the ugly.
Gets us all riled up and ready to fight scrappy for our worth, it does.
But if a man lets himself get swept up in the ugly, he becomes ugly inside.
Angry. Spiteful. A victim. Eagan says when I start dwelling on the ugly, I should remember the good instead.
And while I don’t know all you’ve been through, poet, I’ve seen plenty of good. ”
Cole thought of Nonda selling him to Lord Yarden, who put him in the stables with Lunden, who taught him about dogs and horses and playing the lute—gave him music.
He thought about Lord Yarden giving him to Achan, who set him free, put him in charge of his horses and later made him a squire.
He thought of Sir Caleb’s wisdom and kindness, how he’d given Cole parchment and charcoal to use to write songs, and how Cole had used them to teach Matthias to write his name.
And he thought of Mistel, solving the mystery of her friend’s death, singing with her, kissing her.
Yes, there had been plenty of good in his life.
So why did he believe the voices of Nonda, Drustan, and Fen more than those of Achan, Sir Caleb, Kurtz, and Mistel? People who mattered.
Why did cruelty echo louder than kindness? Was he letting those memories make him a victim all over again?
Cherix huffed, and Cole patted the horse’s neck. Beside them on the road, Kurtz hummed under his breath, oblivious to the storm still raging in Cole’s mind.
Maybe Kurtz was right. Maybe Cole should focus less on how others measured him and more on how he measured himself. And when the ugly memories came, remember the good instead.
As they neared the city, Cole took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure it would work, but if he listened to the people who cared about him instead of the ghosts that didn’t—if he dwelled on the good instead of the ugly—maybe he’d find a way to mend what was broken inside him.