None of that, now. There could be no pining after the girl. Cole had vowed to keep things platonic. He turned his gaze back to the road, which only submerged his thoughts right back in the haunting echoes of his childhood.
He’d never traveled the King’s Road through Therion Duchy, but it wasn’t far from where he’d grown up. Around him, soldiers remarked on the changed landscape—after a decade under the suffocating curse of Darkness, the forest lived again. Once-rotted trees stood tall beneath fresh snow, and faint birdsong wove through the air.
Yet all Cole could think about was how they’d just passed the road that led to Mitspah.
Kurtz Chazir.
Cole lowered his shields. Sorry, he thought. Sir Caleb was on me so much to always stay shielded, it’s hard now to keep myself open.
Not open to everyone, eh? Kurtz bloodvoiced. Just to me.
Cole had tried many times to do what Kurtz asked, but he’d never been able to succeed for long. It all feels the same to me, he thought.
You went a bit pale for a minute, Kurtz voiced. You all right?
It’s strange, Cole thought. A place can feel like a cage when you’re living there, but once you’re on the outside, looking in, you see no bars. Why did I stay in Mitspah so long?
You didn’t know any better, Kurtz said.
No, he hadn’t. I spent my whole life wanting to leave, so why do I feel it tugging me back?
The past doesn’t like to let go, even when you do, Kurtz voiced.
True, Cole had a handful of good memories from Mitspah. Lunden mentoring him after he was sold to Lord Yarden, teaching him to play the lute. Some fond moments with Nya before her games became clear. And Peat, his puppy. He could still see those huge black eyes, that lolling pink tongue.
Then the dog was dead in his arms while Drustan and Fen laughed.
The switchbacks grew steep. Cole recalled helping Shung track the cham bear the prince had killed, the mix of emotions that day: the horror of the slaughtered horses and the joy of being freed from Lord Yarden by the prince, no longer a slave.
And here he was, just over a year later, on a mission for the king. Yet this was different. Cole could have said no, and Achan wouldn’t have forced or judged him. When a man could walk away, there was no bit in his mouth. He was free.
As the army climbed higher into the mountains, days passed in relative quiet. Each night, Cole and Kurtz helped Mistel raise her tent, and each morning they helped her take it down. The cold nights stifled any revelry. Cole began to doubt his choice. How could anyone spy in freezing temperatures? Surely even villains would stay indoors.
One crisp morning, nearly over the last ridge of the Chowmah Mountains, two days from Tsaftown, Cole rode Cherix beside Mistel and Bart, trailing Derby Wenk and Kurtz, who was regaling the squire with a tale from his days living at Fat Vandy’s tavern. Cole had heard this one before, but watching the eager faces of the listeners amused him.
“One evening, the place was packed with travelers swapping tales about ghosts and curses,” Kurtz said. “Now, you’ve got to understand that living in a tavern was a lot of work, it was. Always something to prepare, deliver, or clean. So, I had to make my own fun, I did.”
“What did you do?” Derby asked. “Put a hex on the boarders?”
“Naw, but you’re on the right track, you are,” Kurtz said. “Earlier that day, Serra had asked me to move an empty ale barrel out of the kitchen, and I’d placed it just inside the back door to return to the brewer come morning. But when I heard all those ghost stories, I climbed inside it, figuring I’d give them something to talk about.”
The soldiers ahead of Kurtz chucked.
“I started with a low moan. Nothing too obvious, eh? Just enough to prickle the hairs on the backs of their necks. Then I added a bit of scratching, like some poor tormented soul clawing to get out.” He released an exaggerated moan that had the group snickering.
Mistel glanced at Cole, her grin as wide as his.
“Well, that did the trick, it did,” Kurtz said. “How they carried on! ‘Did you hear that?’ ‘There’s a ghost under the stairs!’ I kept at it, I did, and eventually they started ghost hunting. When I heard footsteps growing closer, I let out the most bone-chilling wail I could muster.” Kurtz paused for effect, corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s when things got…interesting.”
“What happened?” Derby asked.
Kurtz slapped his knee. “Well, as it turned out, I underestimated just how superstitious that lot was. One of them—a merchant with more gold than sense—shouted, ‘It’s cursed! Burn it before it brings ruin upon us all!’”
The soldiers erupted into laughter, drowning out Mistel’s gasp.
“Before I knew it, they’d picked up the barrel and were hauling me toward the fireplace. I kept quiet, I did, hoping they might give up when the ghost made no more fuss, but when they started fetching kindling, I burst out of that barrel like a demon from the Lowerworld and shouted, ‘Who dares disturb my rest? I’ll haunt you forever!’”
The soldiers roared, Derby cackled, and up ahead, Lord Livna turned on his horse and glared back at his squire. “Master Wenk! On your post.”
