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

“She’s not like that.”

“Maybe it isn’t stupidity, maybe you’re so indoctrinated into accepting their views that you’ve forgotten who you are. Ours was once a proud and respected people, and we can be that again. I’ve called for a meeting tomorrow, and I expect you to attend . . . and support my plan. You’re the head of the Sikara family. Your great-great-grandfather was Mir Sikar and mine, Mir Plymerath. It’s time that those who currently rule accept the truth about this region’s past and give us the respect we deserve.”

“Things will change, but not all at once,” Mercator said. “You can’t obtain respect at the point of a sword, not from people who despise us. Respect needs to be earned. Trust needs to be built up over time, over generations.”

Although she argued against him, Mercator understood his hatred all too well and, even more, the damaging effects of ridicule. In many ways, she wanted to join in his outrage. They only disagreed over methods. Her outrage of principle was as acute as his. But after more than a hundred and twenty years, she had learned that wisdom was superior to passion, and that the easy and the fast never changed much; in fact, it often made matters worse. At a mere sixty years old, Villar hadn’t learned that lesson yet. Knowing Villar, she wondered if he ever would.

“At this meeting you’ve called, will Griswold Dinge and Erasmus Nym support your plan? If they don’t, will you reconsider?”

“No need, their people have suffered nearly as badly as ours.” He stole a look at the locked door and frowned. “We can only achieve our goals by force. Change—real change—happens no other way. And you’re wrong. The only means of gaining respect is at the point of a sword because power is the only thing people respect.”

“So you respect the duke, do you? Because he has plenty of swords. And the king—whoever he turns out to be—will have even more at his disposal. If you shed blood, you’ll be starting a war we can’t possibly hope to win. No, not a war. That presupposes a conflict between reasonably able forces; this will be a slaughter.” She fixed him with a steely gaze. “Do you know what a scapegoat is?”

“I know the term.”

“But do you know what it really means, its origin? Ages ago, before the time of Novron, people lived in small villages. They were superstitious and easily frightened. Once a year they would take a goat and cast all their faults and offenses on it. Then they drove it out of the village to die in the wilderness. They did this in the hope that the gods would punish the goat instead of them. As it turns out, people haven’t changed much.” Mercator walked over and grabbed a blue cloth off the line and held it up in a fist. “They’re still just as superstitious and ignorant as ever. The nobility of Alburn will use us as their scapegoat. They’ll point at us and say, There is the cause of our hardships, punish them. Only they won’t wait for the gods to deal out the retribution. They’ll take it by their own hands.”

“Would that be any different than how things are now? Our people are starving! I doubt Amyle will live to see another week’s worth of dawns. Histivar—you pass him every day—he lives under a bridge! Under a lousy bridge! How can you stand there and suggest things can get worse?”

“Because they can. Right now, we are alive, and alive is better than dead.”

“No, it’s not. Not like this.”

“You’ll only get us killed. And not just here. You do this, and the repercussions will ring out all over the world. Our people everywhere will suffer.”

“I don’t care. Better to die than live and suffer in poverty and humiliation. Better still to take some of them along.”

Villar snatched up his cloak, threw it back over his shoulders, and started toward the exit. “And one more thing.” He paused, turning back. “You need to prepare yourself. When this happens, you have to do your part, too.”

“My part?”

He nodded and pointed at the door that trapped the duchess.

Mercator shook her head and mouthed the word no!

“The revolution will start here.” He spun and walked back out.

Mercator stood staring at the drape, but not seeing it. She felt cold. Mostly because her dress was soaked from working with the dye—mostly, but not completely.

“Are you going to kill me?” the duchess asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft, hesitant.

Mercator looked at the blue-black of her stained hands. Even to her, they looked like the hands of a monster.

She didn’t answer.





Chapter Seventeen

The Gathering





Breakfast the next morning was a surprisingly civil affair. Royce and Hadrian were on time, and Evelyn showed her approval with a slight nod before taking her seat. The meal was every bit as sumptuous as the morning before, but this time with waffles pressed into the shape of elephants. Evelyn didn’t bother asking either of them to do the benediction, but Hadrian and Royce waited patiently for her to do so, and showed respect by bowing their heads.

“These waffles are excellent,” Hadrian said, mostly to break the silence, but also because it was true. Evelyn was an incredible cook, and he was wondering if she did indeed employ an army of fairy helpers.

“Thank you,” she replied. Then, as if in acknowledgment of their fine behavior, she scrutinized Royce, who not only had risen early to wash and shave but had also elected to leave his cloak in their room. “That’s much better breakfast attire. I approve.”

“Thank you,” Royce replied with equal propriety.

Then Evelyn narrowed her eyes at Hadrian. “Is that a new scarf?”

Hadrian sat up and smiled. “Yes, do you like it?”

“It’s blue.”

“Popular color in Rochelle, I’ve discovered.”

“Only among idiots.”

This brought a surprised smile to Royce’s face, but shocked Hadrian.

“Your front door is blue,” Hadrian pointed out.

“I didn’t paint it,” the old woman said. “That was my late husband’s doing. He had some fool notion it would protect us from a monster.”

Hadrian looked down at his scarf, disappointed. He had expected the old woman to appreciate his adoption of the local style. Why he cared remained something of a mystery, but perhaps his desire to please her stemmed from the loss of his mother. Hadrian couldn’t remember much about her. She had died when he was still young, but he imagined Evelyn was what mothers were like, or supposed to be: stern, correcting, fault-finding, and great cooks. Her disapproval, as ridiculous as it was, bothered him more than all of Royce’s scoffing. Her mention of the monster, however, opened a door too tantalizing to let close without a peek. Hadrian gave up trying to win approval for his choice in fashion and asked, “You don’t believe in the Morgan?”

Evelyn’s brows rose as she delicately tore a pastry in half. “Yesterday you didn’t know basic history, but today you’re steeped in local arcane folklore, are you?”

“We’re trying to educate ourselves,” Royce offered.

Evelyn wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth, then sniffed. “Well, you won’t do it by listening to gossip and ghost stories, gentlemen. The Morgan is nothing more than a silly old legend. Honestly, I would think two grown men would know better. But of course you aren’t the only ones. Tomorrow, you’ll see. If you go to the Feast of Nobles, the whole lot will be attired in a bewildering spectrum of sapphire, cobalt, ultramarine, navy, turquoise, cyan, cerulean, and azure, all in an attempt to ward off a monster straight out of a children’s tale.” She focused on the scarf. “I think a man who carries three swords ought not fear a ghost.”

“What exactly is this ghost story?” Royce asked.

“You won’t like it. There’s more of that icky history stuff you’re not fond of.”