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

They took me to the surrounding countryside, but where and why?

She tried to remember the night Villar grabbed her. So much of it remained muddled, like a nightmare recalled hours after waking. She’d witnessed Devon’s death. Villar had wanted her to see, but it wasn’t a matter of pride. The man wasn’t a professional, no expertly slit throat or precisely inserted blade. It’d been brutal and bloody. Villar had stabbed Devon repeatedly with a small knife. The violence and gore paralyzed her. Genny was no pampered debutante, and before becoming the newest member of the nobility, she often enjoyed gambling at cards and impressing men with her capacity for holding hard liquor, but she’d never been exposed to anything like that. Watching a man butchered close enough to feel the spray of his blood was more than enough to horrify. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The hood came next, a bag placed over her head and cinched tightly. Then she was shoved into a cart, covered with rough blankets, and off they went.

Too afraid to scream or cry, she cowered, something she hadn’t done since she was eight. At any moment, she was certain she’d be killed. If she’d been thinking, she might have taken note of the trip’s length, turns, bumps, or accompanying sounds, but all she could think of was the way the knife had sounded when plunging over and over into Devon’s chest. That and the gasping gurgle that came from his mouth. He’d been trying to say something, and Genny thought it might have been please stop, but she couldn’t be sure. When the cart had finally halted, she was carried quite a distance before being dropped into the cell. A metal collar was fastened around her neck, and a chain secured her to a wall. A door slammed, and she heard a lock click. A lock, not a bolt. She took note of that. While lying on cold stone with the bag still over her head, she heard her assailants talking, their voices muffled by the door. The memory of the quarrel was so vivid because it had provided hope. Genny could recall it word for word.

“Where did the blood come from?” the woman had asked, her tone full of fear.

“She wasn’t alone,” Villar replied.

“Who did you kill?” The woman’s tone had changed to anger.

“I have no idea, a courtier of some kind.”

“No one was supposed to get hurt!” she shouted.

“No one was supposed to be with her, either. He saw me. Did you want a witness?”

“This is bad.”

“It’s what it is. Deal with it.”

Genny clung to the most important line from that argument: No one was supposed to get hurt. If that was true, her death wasn’t inevitable; it might even be unlikely.

That first night, she had waited for hours, until certain she was alone, before finding the knots, untying the string, and pulling the hood off. She found herself in the small stone room, no window and only one door. Light from a small fire on the far side seeped underneath and around it, as did an awful vinegar odor. The door was new and very sturdy. The freshly cut wood still smelled of the forest, and sap dripped from knotholes. The collar around Genny’s neck was closed and fastened to the chain by a large iron padlock that hung on her chest like the gaudy pendant of a horrid necklace. The other end of the chain was bolted to the wall opposite the door. The restraint granted her full range of the room, but nothing more. There had been a pile of straw, which she assumed was meant to serve as her bed, but it had since been scattered and matted. She scooped it into a pile each night, but each morning it was strewn about, which made her wonder about her dreams. She couldn’t recall them, but was sure they weren’t pleasant. She had the bucket, the straw, and two surprisingly thick wool blankets. She lay on one; the other she wrapped around herself, tucking the corners down under her legs and shoulders. The cell was cold but, thanks to the blankets, not unbearable. She was able to sleep, and that was something.

She hadn’t been hurt, and nothing was taken from her. Not that Genny had much when pulled from the carriage, just the dress she wore, her shoes, and a tiny wrist bag. She was surprised they hadn’t taken the purse. Not that it had much money in it, only a few silver—emergency coins—she called them, but why had they abducted her if not for money? The purse also had one other item, the key to her traveling trunk. She’d used the big sea chest as luggage when she moved to Rochelle and continued to keep it in her room as the one personal space she reserved for herself. It held nothing of value to anyone but her. The trunk was filled only with memories and mementos. She had a bottle of whiskey from “the old days,” and a diary, and her mother’s rings that were too small for Genny, and letters from her father. She kept those in the chest because she didn’t want Leo reading how much Gabriel hated him for “stealing” his daughter. The trunk couldn’t help her now, nor could her dress or shoes, but the coins and key were treasures. She had long since hidden them in her cell, in the stone’s cracks, fearful her captors would finally notice the purse and take it. She couldn’t afford to lose her treasures.

Most of the time, Genny was left alone in her cell. She was pleased that Villar was rarely there. When he did appear, his visits were mercifully brief. Erratic and berating, he would argue with the woman, insult Genny, or rant about the misdeeds of others. He usually left in a huff. Genny preferred the other warden. She was quiet, reserved, and respectful.

A noise outside the door caused Genny to stop in mid-stroke. She stashed the coin, went to the door, and quickly pressed her cheek to peer through the crack in the slats. She was relieved it wasn’t Villar. Standing near the entrance and shaking the rain out of her soaked shawl was the woman, the one Villar called Mercator Sikara.





Mercator pulled off her soaked dress and dropped it on the floor. Long ago she’d given up trying to save her kirtle. Surrendering to the inevitable, she’d dyed the whole thing, but it didn’t help. The front and sleeves were darker by several shades. Still, the garment fared better than her skin. The creamy white cloth had turned blue, but Mercator’s brown skin became a blackish purple. Standing naked in the faint light, she looked like one great bruise.

On the bright side, I have to be the safest person in Rochelle.

She dried off and wrapped up in one of her blankets. Soft, thick, and warm, it ought to sell for close to a gold tenent, considering the ridiculous amounts nobles paid for anything blue. Mercator bought raw material from Calian weavers who either didn’t know or, like Erasmus, didn’t care she was a mir. Mercator had an excellent eye for quality, and made good deals buying cloth for five to eight copper. When able, she sold the blankets to merchants like Erasmus for double. The blue dye made all the difference. After more than a century, Mercator knew how to cultivate and harvest woad, a genial flowering plant that produced a less-than-effective blue dye. To compensate, she had to soak and dry each woven cloth or bolt of yarn, then repeat the process a dozen times. The process was time consuming, but she couldn’t possibly afford to purchase indigo, a rare imported plant that was exceedingly expensive. The source of the dye wasn’t what mattered; the only thing people cared about was the deep-blue color. Her process, while time consuming, produced the desired result. If she weren’t mir, she would’ve been rich.