The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)

Tucked between the old open-air sewers and river spillway, the derelict Rochelle neighborhood—known as Melrah by the inhabitants, and the Rookery by everyone else—lacked paved streets, and the rain turned the narrow paths of dirt, ash, and night soil to slop. Most of the buildings in that part of Rochelle had long been abandoned. Since the residents had no means or right to repair them, roofs and walls collapsed as support beams rotted. Mercator’s people used the timber remnants as firewood on cold nights, gutting their shelters for warmth. The old forest encroached on Melrah as it sought to take back what had long ago been stolen. Cutting firewood wouldn’t have been difficult, except they weren’t allowed to down trees. Technically, they weren’t allowed to burn the fallen walls and stairs. The grand total of what the inhabitants of the Rookery weren’t allowed to do seemed endless. Still, Mercator counted her blessings. There was still one thing left off that list: The mir were allowed to live.

But is this really living?

Mercator stepped around those bundled in rags, who huddled in every windbreak and dry patch. She made for the light of the little fire where half a dozen mir still warmed themselves beneath the surviving roof of the old mill. Seton was the first to spot her, and a smile stretched the girl’s face. Girl. This was another absurdity. She should have considered her a gyn, but even in her own mind the old language was being replaced. A girl was a human female child, not an eighty-three-year-old mir who had so little human blood that she possessed the traditional blond hair and blue eyes of the ancient Instarya and looked to be just beyond adolescence. But just as with the shattered homes, they worked with what they had. And, at least compared with Mercator, Seton was a child.

“You’re back!” Seton called and left the warmth of the fireside to hug Mercator.

The hug was a surprise. Mercator hadn’t expected it, and the open expression of affection overwhelmed her. Feeling the unabashed arms of the girl, who ignored Mercator’s soaked clothes to squeeze her tightly, made the old mir tear up. She thanked the rain for hiding it.

“Has there been any word?” Seton asked.

“It’s been two weeks,” Vymir said. “Something must have happened by now. It’s nearly spring.”

Mercator shook her head, and their happy expressions deflated. “No,” she said, and then pulled out the coins. “But we have this.” She moved around the fire’s circle and dropped a coin into each person’s hand.

When she got to Seton, the girl refused to lift her palm. “It’s your money.”

“You helped me gather the plants for the dye.”

“But that’s all,” Seton protested. “If you let me, I would—”

Mercator took the girl’s hand and forced the money into it. “Unlike you, I don’t need to look pretty.”

Seton’s face darkened. “Beauty has always been a curse for me. You know that. Would have been better if I had been born a twisted wretch. If it hadn’t been for the rasa . . .”

“That was years ago.”

“Still haunts me. Besides, what good are looks when I’m a mir, a filthy elf that—”

“You’re beautiful,” Mercator said firmly. “We all are, even Vymir.” She gave him a wink. “Don’t let the opinions of the ignorant convince you truth is a lie.”

Seton scowled, looking down at the mud on her own feet. “An eight-year-old boy threw a rock at me today. I was in the street—just walking, for Ferrol’s sake!—and he threw a chicken-egg-sized rock—one that his mother had given him. When he missed, she gave him another. After a while, it’s hard not to see yourself as they see you.”

“After a while?” Mercator smiled while still holding tight to the girl’s pale hands with her own bluish-black fingers. “I’m a hundred and twenty-three years old, and let me tell you something. After a while, you learn the truth about people, which is people don’t know anything. People are dumber than spooked cattle chasing one another off a cliff. It’s persons you need to listen to.”

Seton’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Look,” Mercator told her. “You can talk to a person. You can reason with an individual. Usually. But people, that’s another thing altogether. In a group is where they lose their way. Doesn’t matter if it’s humans, dwarves, or mir, if you put three or more in a room, they’ll manufacture stupid like it was spun gold. They’re like honeybees that way, except the product is never sweet. Don’t listen to them. Listen to me. Don’t listen to people, listen to a person.”

Mercator bent down to lock eyes with Seton, offering a reassuring smile. “Things will improve. I’m going to make it better. That’s my responsibility as matriarch of the Sikara. I owe that to my grandfather and his father before him.”

“It’s been this way for centuries,” the girl said.

“Yes, it has, but spring is coming. Trust me. Spring is coming.”

Seton sighed and nodded, but she clearly didn’t believe.

Mercator couldn’t blame her. She had a hard time believing it herself. “Good. Now take that coin to the Calian Precinct tomorrow and buy something nice to eat.”

Mercator turned to leave.

“We have food,” Estrya announced to her gaily.

“You do?” Mercator turned back.

They all nodded proudly.

Estrya pointed to the black pot on the fire. “Vymir and Bista found mushrooms growing in the alley under a crate. You’ll stay, won’t you? It’s the least we can do.”

Mercator shook her head. “I don’t have to lift that pot’s lid to know you don’t have enough to feed three mouths, much less seven. Besides, I need to get back. I’ve been gone too long as it is.”

“Where is it you go?” Seton asked.

Mercator smiled wryly. “It’s a secret.”

“You can’t tell me?” Seton looked shocked.

“Not even you.”

Her expression turned pained. “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not a matter of trust; it’s a matter of responsibility. I’m matriarch, so the unpleasant tasks fall to me.” Mercator raised her arms, letting the sleeves fall back, revealing the blue skin that ran up to her elbows. “See? Perfect example. Some things leave marks that cannot be erased, and what I have to do is another one of those things.” She turned away from the fire. “Enjoy your meal. Soon it will be better. I promise.”

With a final wave, Mercator walked back out into the cold rain.





Chapter Six

Over Lamb and Small Beer





Royce was stunned when they reached the top of the stairs and opened the door. The room was the very definition of cozy. A large, elaborately carved dark-wood chimney breast framed the fireplace and dominated one wall, a fire already crackling behind a brass screen. A figurine of a boy skating on a pond adorned one side of the mantel and a candelabra the other. Deep-burgundy paper covered the walls, heavy drapes framed the tall windows, and a plush Calian rug lay on the hardwood floor. Soft chairs, dressers, and tables made a pleasant sitting area near the fire; a big bed all but filled an adjoining room. Paintings hung on the walls, and a bellows rested in a basket beside a full set of hearth tools. The chamber was bedecked with lamps, pillows, and a mirror. Even paper and pen lay upon a desk.

Hadrian dropped his bags near the door. “This is the nicest room I’ve ever been in.” He looked down at his dirty boots. “I’m afraid to move.”

Royce eyed the place, confused. He made a quick tour, peering behind the wardrobe, checking the backside of the drapes. In most places they stayed, he would find dry rot, mildew, rat droppings, and sometimes blood. Here, he found pristine wood and polished glass. “No wonder she didn’t dicker.”