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.
