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.”
