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

Villar Orphe waited where he usually did, on top of a roof. He had several favorites, but that evening he sat on the peak of the Trio Vestments Building, where a tailor, a haberdasher, and a cobbler came up with the idea of a one-stop shop for men’s clothing. Villar had never seen the inside of the Trio V, but he was quite familiar with the roof, which hid his home. Tucked in a hidden niche formed by hips and gables, his abode was less a house and more a tented nest built of canvas and discarded wood that he had dragged up at night like a giant owl. His tiny shelter was filled with the few things he valued: a salifan plant that he kept alive in a wooden cup, a torn bit of tapestry, and a sword left to him by his grandfather. That last item he mounted under the eave, so even if someone found his nest, they might not see it. He also had some food reserves—roots, nuts, and berries that he’d gathered on the outskirts of town. The berries were just starting to appear on the warm, sunny hillsides, and he’d found some mushrooms, as well. He had also hauled in a few treasures uncovered in the trash on Governor’s Isle. Someone down there didn’t like salted fish.

The sun was still up, which kept Villar’s head down. He didn’t like moving about in the daylight. He was blessed with the distinctly beautiful features of his people and refused to cover his ears or hide his eyes from the world. He was proud of his heritage; the rest of the world should be ashamed. Villar’s list of shoulds was long. He should be able to walk into Trio V’s and buy a new suit of clothes. He should be able to wear his grandfather’s sword on his hip in public. He should be able to live in a house with four walls and have an honest-to-Ferrol pot for his salifan plant. What should be and what was, however, remained widely divergent, and this kept him hunkered down with his back against the cupola where the pointing-well-dressed-man weather vane proclaimed an easterly wind.

He often mused on what would happen if he dared wear the sword. It wasn’t illegal. He’d heard that some rulers disallowed blades and bows inside city limits, except for those worn by knights, nobles, and city guards. Rochelle didn’t have a weapons law, but then there was no edict against a mir walking into the Trio V, either. Some rules didn’t need to be written down or enforced by the guard. If he was seen with the sword brazenly clapping his thigh, he’d draw looks. Then a crowd would form, and unless he was willing to use the weapon, they would beat him and rip it away. If he used it—if he acted like any other self-respecting person—the city guard would come. While wearing a sword wasn’t illegal, wounding and killing people most certainly was. Villar knew from experience that the guards didn’t like dwarves, barely tolerated Calians, but absolutely hated mir. Villar had no illusions of being able to fight off a squad of trained soldiers. He had no training with a blade, and he’d never been in a fight. He didn’t consider being beaten the same as being in a fight. So, while being a mir was reason enough for a beating, being a mir with a sword was guaranteed suicide.

Looking down between his feet, he could see the river and the setting sun as it turned gold. Carriages rolled across the distant bridges. Smoke rose from countless chimneys. Crowds crawled along the canyon-streets, flowing like some viscous slime that oiled the workings of the city. He was literally above it all, but soon he’d add a more figurative aspect to that idea.

The bells of Grom Galimus began to play their lonesome melody, marking the end of the day. He should be going. The bishop wouldn’t appreciate him being late. He started to rise, then paused. He heard the scraping again. Tiny claws on wood.

The rat is back.

Villar looked to his pile of possessions in time to see the black-and-white spotted rodent scurry into a crack in the roofing. The thief was at it again. This time he had gotten the box open.

Villar fished the old wooden container out of his pile and, in a panic, he searched the contents while guarding against any mischief that the demon wind might be plotting. Everything that had been there appeared safe. He drew out his most cherished possession: a small portion torn from a tapestry that was at least a thousand years old. According to the story his grandfather told, the tapestry had belonged to the Orphe family and had once been the size of a three-story wall. This two-foot scrap was all that remained. The rest had been confiscated and burned by the church—for obvious reasons. Even Villar’s little scrap showed the detailed image of pointed-eared heroes in armor, riding horses and holding swords aloft. This, his grandfather had told him, was a depiction of the Fall of Merredydd. The image commemorated the battles against barbarians that eventually brought low the ancient and magnificent imperial province. A place that had once been ruled by mir for mir.

Villar spread the bit of tapestry across his thighs and lovingly caressed the fine needlework.

A mir had ruled a province.

He stared into the thread-woven eyes of the faces and made them a promise. “If Ferrol is willing, another one will yet rule a kingdom.”

Seeing the sun touch the distant mountains, Villar lifted the cloth to his lips and kissed the image, then folded it and put the torn corner back.

Time was growing short, and he had much to do.





Villar took his usual rooftop highway route to the cathedral, dropping down in the shadow of the alley. With the workday over, the mass migration of weary people slogged home. Shoulders slumped, heads bowed, few looked up. Even if they had, even if they saw him, no one would have noticed, or cared about, another mir on the street.

The sun was dipping behind the Estate, most of its face gone, its power fading. A host of shadows crept out of the low places and claimed dominion over the world. The coin of chance was flipping. At last tails was coming up.

His kind couldn’t safely enter most shops, but a few proprietors were sympathetic and looked the other way when a mir slipped in. Those rare merchants would only sell to mir if no one else was in the store. Common practice was to wait and watch for a lull in traffic then slip in, buy what was needed, and hurry back out before anyone saw. If someone did see, the mir would be turned away. The Crow Tavern on the east side went a step further. Each night, they threw bones and unwanted leftovers on the street for the mir from the nearby Rookery to grab. A crowd gathered religiously and fell to their knees, gathering what they could carry in arms or the folds of skirts. Villar had witnessed the event only once; that was all he could stomach. He had felt nauseated and decided that the Crow would be the first building to burn. Its operator, Brandon Hingus, would be the first executed. Maybe he meant well, but the result was the public humiliation of his people. Such a blight would need to be erased with extreme prejudice to expunge the ugly memory.

Despite the common-knowledge ban on most commercial venues, there were a few places mir were tolerated so long as they didn’t make trouble. Public squares were generally safe, as were bridges—beneath which many lived. They were allowed to draw water from common wells even though the law clearly prohibited it. The mir were also allowed to enter Grom Galimus. They couldn’t go past the Teshlor windows, the first pair of stained glass panes that illuminated the nave and depicted the ancient imperial order with images of grim armored warriors who appeared to watch so that not a toe crossed the line.