Chapter 23
Cole
Miss Wepp,
I could not let another day pass without expressing my admiration for the performance you and the Wandering Songweavers gave the other night.
It was truly stellar. Your voice was so clear and beautiful that it silenced even the noisiest in the room.
A rare feat, I assure you, in such a place as the Black Boar.
Might I dare hope that you would consider singing again? I am certain that the patrons of the Boar would be eager for your return, though none more so than I. Your presence lingers in my thoughts, Miss Wepp, as does the memory of your voice.
Would you consider another engagement tomorrow night? It would bring great cheer to many, myself most of all.
With high esteem,
Nash Erlichman
Cole read the letter again, each word rubbing him raw. Nash’s tone, all smooth admiration and compliments, set his teeth on edge. He tossed the letter into the center of the table at the Ivory Spit, where he sat with Mistel, Kurtz, and Zanna.
“They want us back,” Mistel said. “That’s good right?”
“Only if you’re up for it,” Cole said. Her well-being must come first. “And if we’re all certain we can fully shield our minds.”
“I can,” Mistel said, meeting his gaze. “I’ve been practicing every moment.”
“And you don’t mind facing Nash again?” Cole asked. “He knew Crow was a bloodvoicer.”
She lowered her gaze and fingered a groove in the table. “It’s not Nash. I can’t stop thinking about that old man. But if I don’t go back, he wins. And I’m done losing to men like that.”
Cole wanted to pull her close, tell her she didn’t have to prove anything, but her strength was part of what drew him to her.
Kurtz speared a piece of roast from the platter. “It’s a rough location, it is,” he said. “And if all we do is perform, I don’t see how we’ll ever learn anything useful. So far, all we know is that Fenris has a friend who can bloodvoice.”
“You think we should spend time there just…mingling?” Cole asked.
Kurtz shrugged. “Maybe have dinner beforehand. Gives us a chance to eavesdrop a bit, maybe catch something important, eh?”
“We wouldn’t all have to go.” Zanna leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Mistel and I could arrive just before the performance. Less risk that way.”
“I can eat dinner there too.” Mistel gave a casual wave toward the letter, which had curled into a loose scroll. “Nash seems to like me, so I may as well make use of that.”
Cole’s jaw tightened. “You can make use of his interest as a friend,” he said, “which means you never meet with him alone.”
“Yes, Father.” Mistel rolled her eyes, a teasing smirk on her lips.
Cole glanced down at his plate, stabbing his eating knife into a carrot with more force than necessary. He didn’t like the way she had called him Father. He was nothing like that. Right?
Before he could decide how to respond, Rilla approached, her apron dusted with flour and her sleeves rolled to her elbows. “More ale?” she asked, already reaching for their mugs.
The group fell silent as Rilla refilled their drinks, the clink of the pitcher and the soft hum of the tavern filling the air.
“Why don’t you tell me where you’re playing next?” Rilla said to Kurtz. “I’ll come watch.”
“Looks like the Black Boar,” Mistel said.
Kurtz cleared his throat and pinned Mistel with a glare. “We don’t yet know for sure,” he said.
“Then play here,” Rilla said. “Or better yet, come dance with me at the Jig and the Jug.”
Kurtz glanced at her, then back to his tankard. “Can’t,” he said. “We’ve got business.”
Rilla set the pitcher down harder than necessary, the liquid sloshing inside. She let out a sharp breath, then gave Kurtz a tight, bitter smile. “Right. Business,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and stalked away.
“Lands!” Mistel said. “She clearly likes you. Why not go dancing with her?”
“Because that’s not why I’m here, eh?” Kurtz said. “Can we focus?”
Now that Mistel had pointed it out, Cole realized he hadn’t seen Kurtz chase any woman since they’d left Armonguard, which, to be honest, was downright odd. He wanted to ask about it, but now was not the time. He turned his attention back to Mistel.
“I suppose you’ll need to write Nash back,” he said, carefully measuring his tone. “Accept the offer to play again.”
Mistel picked up the letter and spread it flat on the table in front of her. “I can do that.”
Cole watched her closely, his chest winding tight.
He didn’t like Nash’s interest in Mistel.
Didn’t like the thought of her being vulnerable in a place like the Black Boar, with its unruly crowds and rogue bloodvoicer.
And he definitely didn’t like the idea of Nash Erlichman writing her romantic letters.
As the conversation shifted to song choices for their next performance, Cole made a silent decision. If Nash didn’t get the hint to back off, Cole would have a little chat with him, make it very clear that if anyone was going to write Mistel romantic letters, it was going to be Cole.
Her cousin.
He sighed heavily, remembering his vow to keep things friendly between them. Stupid vow, that. Stupid ruse, too, pretending to be her cousin.
Lots of stupid here in Tsaftown, starting with Cole for pretending not to care, but if he had to blow his cover to keep Mistel safe, he wouldn’t hesitate. And if that meant punching Nash Erlichman in his smug, letter-writing face, so be it.
So you killed the Eben, Achan bloodvoiced. You triumphed in battle. Why didn’t you say?
Why would I? Cole thought. He lay in bed, talking with the king, who had bloodvoiced and insisted on hearing the full story of the Eben Cole had killed during the Battle of Armonguard. It was an accident. Not skill.
Ahh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Achan said. You assessed your options in a moment, used the only tool at your disposal—a flagpole!—and made it work. You survived. That’s incredible.
Didn’t feel incredible, Cole thought. It was horrifying.
Do you feel as bad about Atul’s death?
What did Atul have to do with the Eben? I don’t feel bad about either. Atul was trying to kill you. The Eben was trying to kill me.
Interesting. No recurring memories of Atul’s death, but you went after him. The Eben came at you. Maybe it felt like reliving the past.
What past?
When you were little. I don’t mean to presume, but we were both strays…I have some dark memories of Poril beating me with his belt. Was there someone from your past who felt like a giant to you?
A sharp breath caught in Cole’s throat. He started coughing, had to sit up for a drink of water.
Cole? the king called. You all right?
Just a cough. He took a deep breath. There was someone like that. A couple someones. Did that make Drustan and Fen the cause of Cole remembering the Eben? That seemed ridiculous.
Feeling helpless as a child—feeling defenseless, desperate to survive—it stays with you, Achan voiced. Maybe with the Eben, you weren’t just fighting for your life. Maybe you were fighting that giant someone from the past.
Cole swallowed hard, his hands curling into fists. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t remember thinking about anyone else when I fought the Eben.
Doesn’t mean they weren’t there. Memories don’t always come as thoughts. Sometimes they’re feelings: terror, rage, helplessness. But listen, Cole. You’re not that boy anymore. You were never as weak as that someone made you believe.
Cole’s throat tightened.
Runt of the litter.
Unworthy to live.
Too small to protect Peat.
Kurtz had warned him, said dwelling on dark memories would make him a victim all over again. The idea that Cole might have fought the Eben from such a perspective angered him. That all these years later, Drustan and Fen’s cruelty might have cost him his life.
How do I make myself believe I’m strong? he thought to the king.
You are strong. You might have felt powerless that day with the Eben, but you weren’t. When it mattered, you fought. You won. That wasn’t weakness, Cole. That was strength. Achan paused, then added, The only way to believe it is to live like it’s true.
He made it sound so easy. How?
Remember what I said before? Stop lying to yourself. And remind yourself of the truth. Frequently, if needed. Arman’s Word tells you who you are. Strong and courageous. More than a conqueror. Bold as a cham. Confident. Armed with strength for battle.
I don’t have a copy of the Book of Arman.
We’ll get you one. Does Kurtz know about the Eben?
No.
Tell him. I mean it. Telling the story helps. I still can’t believe you killed an Eben with a flagpole. I should call you Lancecloth.
That’s really not necessary, Cole thought.
Bannerbane. Maybe Stormstaff. Achan laughed. I like Stormstaff. Write that song about yourself, will you, Cole? I want to hear it.
And with that shift in topic, Cole had reached his limit. Goodnight, Your Highness.
Night, Cole.
Several days passed before the band returned to the Black Boar.
Cole still had no idea why Prince Oren wanted them here.
Fenris? Erlichman and his ties to Thusk?
They’d found nothing last time, but he hoped tonight would be different.
The sooner they uncovered the mystery, the sooner they could move on and Cole could stop being Mistel’s cousin.
They arrived early for dinner and settled at a corner table. Cole sat beside Mistel, across from Kurtz and Zanna, trying to appear relaxed as his fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the table. The grimy, smoke-filled tavern buzzed with its usual rowdy energy.
The barmaid approached—a different one from before—and Kurtz shot to his feet, nearly toppling his chair.
“Kosotta?”
Her eyes widened, and she curled her lip. “I thought you were in prison.”
He snorted, crossed his arms. “I’ll bet you did. The young king pardoned me. Wasn’t hard since he knew I was innocent.”
“Care to introduce us to your friend, Kurtz?” Cole asked.