Chapter 22
Mistel
“Keep your back to the wall and your mouth out of trouble.”
That was Kurtz’s only advice to Mistel before they entered the Black Boar. With Zanna on prison duty, Mistel would have to be doubly careful.
The stench nearly knocked her off her feet.
A roaring hearth and a few flickering lanterns barely cut through the smoke-filled air, revealing a packed room that reeked of sweat, cloudweed, wet fur, and rancid fat.
The latter, Nanette Swain had once told Mistel, came from overusing cooking oil in a kitchen that prioritized quantity over quality.
Kurtz led them to a small platform in the corner. Cole pulled a chair from a table, sat, and began tuning his lute. Mistel withdrew her tambourine from her satchel and surveyed the lively crowd.
Beneath the watchful glare of a massive stuffed boar’s head above the bar, patrons laughed, talked, and clinked tankards.
“So many people,” Mistel murmured.
“It’s a base for Fenris Yarden and his Howlers,” Cole said. “See the man in the back with his feet up? That’s him.”
Mistel searched the crowd. “The one Kurtz fought in Lytton Hall?”
“Yeah,” Kurtz said. “Let’s steer clear of him tonight, eh? But if anything happens, distract, disable, and get out.”
Mistel finally spotted the notorious man, lounging in a high-backed chair at the back of the room, feet propped on a barrel like he owned the place. He looked close to Kurtz’s age, maybe older—too much curly blond hair, too loud a laugh, too gaudy a tunic, too many rings. A preening rooster.
“That’s Ikard beside him,” Cole added. “He helped Fenris fight Kurtz.”
“Man has no manners, eh? Barging into another man’s brawl like that.”
Mistel eyed Ikard, whose shaved head gleamed in the lantern light as he toyed with an ax on his belt. He reminded her of Osrik Nath, her former slumlord.
On the other side of Fenris sat an old blind man with a linen cloth over his eyes.
“Who is—?” Mistel started.
“You made it!” A cheerful voice cut her off. Nash approached the stage, grinning, snow dusting his slicked-back hair and coat. “Can’t wait to hear you sing.”
Recalling Cole’s warning, Mistel offered a polite smile. “Thank you. We’re excited too.”
“Did Drustan show you the storage room?”
“We haven’t seen Master Fawst,” Mistel said, which was a very good thing, or she might have throttled the man for what he’d done to Cole.
Lines pinched on Nash’s forehead as he scanned the room. “He’s probably in the office. Let me show you the room, in case you need a private place to rest between performances.”
Cole set down his lute. “I’ll come with you.”
Nash led them down a hallway toward a back door. “That leads to the alley,” he said. “But this…” He pushed open a door across from the kitchen. “It’s not much, but it’s yours whenever you perform. I’ll have the lamp lit.”
The storage room was cramped and dark, the air heavy with ale-soaked barrels and dried herbs strung from low beams. A battered table sat against the wall, its top cluttered with three upside-down mismatched stools and an unlit oil lamp.
“Oh, this is perfect,” Mistel said. And it smelled ten times better than the main room. “Thank you.”
Nash leaned in, bracing a hand against the wall beside her head. “I’ve been looking forward to this since I heard you sing at the Dale. Tsaftown’s been a wasteland of talent until you came along.”
Cole cleared his throat. “We need to run through a few last-minute things before we start.”
“What things?” Mistel asked.
Cole shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “Just…band things.”
Mistel hid a grin. Last-minute, indeed. He just wanted Nash gone.
Nash laughed good-naturedly. “All right, all right, I’ll get out of your way.” Before he left, though, he hesitated, letting his gaze linger on Mistel.
She had long been used to such attention from men, but Cole glared at Nash’s back as they followed him out to the main room. She touched Cole’s arm lightly, a silent thank-you for his rescue, but if he felt it, he pretended not to notice.
Nash joined Drustan Fawst at a nearby table. Sitting with them was a thin, white-haired man, whose many rings gleamed in the low light.
Mistel leaned toward Cole. “Who’s that old man with Drustan and Nash?”
“Verdot Amal,” Cole murmured as he sat down and began tuning his lute. “We need him to like our performance so he’ll invite us to play at the prison—and let me visit my uncle.”
So that was the man who’d put Cole in such a foul mood the other day. Honestly, Cole didn’t look much better now. Mistel moved behind his chair and hesitantly placed her hands on his shoulders.
He tensed up. “What are you doing?”
“Relax,” she said, rubbing the knots in his shoulders. “It’s going to be great. You’ll see.”
Cole nodded. Her touch had calmed his stiff posture, yet his brow stayed pinched adorably. Mistel leaned over his shoulder and pressed her finger to the wrinkle between his eyes. “Relax!” she teased.
He turned and grinned up at her. Good. He’d been carrying the weight of their mission for too long.
Kurtz’s boots thudded against the wooden floor as he approached. “If anything goes wrong, that hallway leads to the alley. Run and don’t stop until you reach the stables.”
Mercy. Kurtz was wound up too. “We know about the back exit,” she said, “but nothing’s going to go wrong. It’s a great crowd.”
“It’s a drunk crowd,” Kurtz muttered, tapping his drumstick against his thigh. “Which makes it anyone’s guess how things will go.”
“It’s time,” Cole said. “Kurtz, count us off for ‘Stars Above.’”
Mistel blinked, confused why Cole had changed things. “Not starting with ‘Hear the Pretty Maiden’?”
“No offense,” Cole whispered, “but I’m not leading with a song that calls attention to how pretty the maiden is. Not with this crowd.”
Mistel clicked her tongue. “Cole…”
“I’ll sing lead for the first two songs,” he said. “Then you can start us out on ‘The Messenger.’”
“I think you’re overreacting, but fine.” She’d rather not relive the Ice House.
Kurtz struck the tabor drum, launching them into “Stars Above.” The melody rose, steady and strong, with Cole’s voice carrying the lead.
“Oh, stars above, eternal bright,
Keep vigil through the darkest night.
Protect us all from evil’s sway,
Against the storm, we make our way.”
The crowd responded instantly—clapping, stomping. Two men linked arms and danced in a circle. Mistel’s heart soared. See? Cole and Kurtz had nothing to worry about. The audience loved them already.
But when she took the lead on “The Messenger,” the mood shifted. Whistles and crude remarks erupted. Mistel’s practiced smile faltered, though she did her best to ignore the drunken hunxes.
She sought a friendly face to focus on—the trick she’d taught Cole for playing the Ice House—but even Nash’s eager gaze made her uneasy. She finally settled on the old blind man beside Fenris. He sat still, except for his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. She sang to him, relieved, until—
Never seen a blind man before? A voice boomed inside her mind.
Mistel’s breath hitched. A sharp ache seized her skull. She began to tremble as she recalled how Atul Shakran, the evil bloodvoicer, had taken control of her mind months ago in Armonguard—had tried to kill her. Could it be him? Back from the dead?
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
“Mistel?” Cole’s voice cut through the haze.
She opened her mouth to respond. Nothing. No! Not again.
She fought against the bloodvoicer in her head, but invisible strings pulled her forward, as if she were a puppet. She began to dance—against her will. Then her lips parted, and she continued singing.
“On weary steed, he braves the night,
Through shadows cast by fading light.
No sword he wields, for peace he keeps,
Yet bears the words that others reap.”
Her feet moved unbidden, carrying her into the crowd.
No, she thought. I don’t want to leave the stage.
But she did, and hands reached for her, grabbed at her arms, her hair. Laughter and jeers swelled around her.
Who’s doing this? she thought.
Her gaze snapped to the blind man. He smirked, head tilted as if he could see her perfectly.
Very good, he said inside her mind. You catch on quickly.
Stop! she thought. Leave me alone.
Tears streaked her face as she fought the unseen force, but her body continued to betray her. She sashayed to Nash’s table, trailing her fingers over Verdot Amal’s shoulders and the back of Drustan’s neck.
Then, to the roaring delight of the crowd, she sank onto Nash’s lap and launched into the chorus.
“Stay your rage against the messenger,
For his duty is but to relay.”
Around them, spectators turned their heads between Mistel and the old man in back, laughing, and the realization hit her hard. They knew! But how?
Cole pushed to his feet, still strumming, and maneuvered through the crowd as Mistel belted out the final verse, trying in vain to move herself off Nash’s lap.
“The herald’s road is paved with fear,
Each hoofbeat loud, yet none to cheer.
Condemned for truths he cannot sway,
A pawn upon the board in play.”
Halfway through, Cole reached Nash’s table.
He strummed a slow chord, letting the sound ring out, then seized the break to bow to Mistel and offer his hand.
When she didn’t react—she couldn’t!—he took hold of her hand, tugged her to her feet, and twirled her under his arm, somehow breaking the spell.
Mistel stumbled, her body finally her own again.
Just as Cole, her knightling hero, resumed playing the lute and joined Mistel in the final chorus, Nash grabbed her hand and pulled her back to his side, tucking his arm around her waist.
“Stay your rage against the messenger,
For his duty is but to relay.”
Three quick strums, and Cole ended the song. The crowd erupted in applause as Cole pulled Mistel away from Nash and told him, “We’re done.”
Laughter rippled through the tavern.
Tears blurred Mistel’s vision, but she still had control of her body. She yanked free from Cole and fled to the storage room.
Cole followed her inside and shut the door. “Mistel? Talk to me. Are you all right?”
The enormity of what had happened crashed over her. “The blind man,” she choked out. “He’s a bloodvoicer. He controlled me. Just like Atul.”
Then she burst into tears.
Cole set his lute on the table and reached for her. She stepped into his embrace, pressed her forehead to his chest. His arms slid around her back and held her tightly.
“I wondered if it was him,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair. “I saw him staring at you and everyone looking back and forth between you. They all know he’s a bloodvoicer. Nash knows.”
She cried harder.
“You have to shield your mind from now on,” Cole said, one hand making slow circles on her back. “Do you remember how?”
Her stomach twisted. What if the bloodvoicer pried into her thoughts, overheard their plans, and ruined everything?
Cole gripped her shoulders and pulled back, his hazel eyes intense, his freckled face so entirely endearing that tears blurred her vision. “Mistel?”
“I need to shield my mind,” she whispered, blinking hard.
“You do,” he said. “Do you remember how?”
She nodded, forcing herself to block out the terror and focus. A tiny voice whispered that she wasn’t strong enough, and that terrified her more than anything.
“Do it now.” Cole pulled her close again and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Mistel concentrated, almost certain she’d succeeded.
She sagged against Cole and let him hold her.
She’d always dreamed of someday being a famous minstrel, never needing to depend on anyone.
That the old man had controlled her with his magic was one thing, but that Cole had to save her?
That was another. What if he hadn’t been there?
She could have been trapped forever, at the mercy of another madman.
Kurtz entered the room. “She all right?”
“She will be,” Cole said, smoothing his hand down her back. “Can you get our cloaks? It’s time to go.”
“What about Verdot Amal?” Mistel asked. “I thought you wanted to talk to him.”
“Not anymore,” Cole said. “If he didn’t like us, he’s a fool. We’ll find another way into Ice Island.”
“The only other way is getting arrested,” Kurtz said. “I don’t recommend it. Wait here.”
While they waited, Mistel cried a bit more. Cole hummed in her ear, rocking her gently. Kurtz returned with their cloaks, and the rest was a blur until Mistel found herself on Bart’s back. The horse carried her through the freezing night, away from the Black Boar and the evil within.