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

“Make it short, and I’ll try and stay awake.”

She tilted her head down and peered up at him. “You washed this morning, so I’ll let that go.” Evelyn paused to refill her teacup, set the ceramic pot down with a petite tink, and then picked up her cup with both hands. She sat back, watching the steam rise. “Yesterday, if you recall, I mentioned a fellow by the name of Glenmorgan. He was the brute who, back in the year 2450, conquered all the other petty little mongrel lords and called himself the new emperor, a title the church later changed to steward. He’s also the one who set up his capital in Ervanon and forced the Church of Nyphron to do the same. Well, he had a civilized son, but the boy didn’t live very long. His grandson, Glenmorgan the Third, was different. While still young, the child demonstrated he was just as barbaric as his grandfather, and he ran off to fight the goblins in Galeannon. To his credit, he won that battle, which was thereafter known as the Battle of Vilan Hills. At least it was until recently when another battle was fought, and now that original engagement goes by the less significant title of the First Battle of Vilan Hills.”

“I was in the second,” Hadrian mentioned.

Evelyn lifted her chin and peered at him over her cup. “Under whose banner?”

“Lord Belstrad.”

“You fought under the banner of Chadwick, Warric’s first regiment in the coalition force commanded by Lanis Ethelred? That was the conflict that turned back the Ba Ran Ghazel’s second serious invasion of Avryn. The one where Sir Breckton, Belstrad’s eldest son, had the rightful glory stolen from him by Rufus of Lanksteer. The northman’s ill-advised and downright ludicrous charge into a ravine won him the title of Hero of the Battle despite costing the lives of nearly all his men. Would have killed him, too, if the Ba Ran Ghazel hadn’t been just as dumbfounded by the stupidity as everyone else.”

Hadrian blinked, his mouth hanging in surprise.

“Close your mouth, dear. This is Rochelle, and more than mere goods flow through these ports. Here, we are fond of our history. My late husband was a particular maven of all things antiquated, and his passion became mine.” She took a sip of tea. “As I was saying, Glenny Three won the First Battle of Vilan Hills. The celebration took him across the bay to Blythin Castle, the onetime stronghold of the exiled empire and Nyphron Church—at least until they built Grom Galimus. Glenny spent the next few days drinking and basking in the praise of his nobles. When it came time to leave, they had a surprise waiting for him. The old families didn’t like the idea of a strong emperor who wasn’t sanctioned by the church. They were afraid the true Heir of Novron would be forgotten.”

“They killed him?”

She shook her head. “Heavens, no. Just as they are now, the nobility of that time were notorious cowards. They shied from murder. Instead, they locked Glenny Three in the bowels of Blythin Castle. Rumor says the granite cliff the castle sits on is riddled with ancient tunnels where the Seret have carved out a vast number of oubliettes. They sealed him in, walled him up, and walked away. As you can imagine, betraying your emperor after he’d just saved the empire from disaster generated a fair degree of guilt. So here in Rochelle, the city nestled in the shadow of Blythin Castle, there arose a ghost story to accommodate that shame. The tale tells that Glenny was upset with his fate, and being a bundle of ambition that even death couldn’t squelch, he turned into a monster and found a way out of those tunnels. Now he creeps down here to Rochelle in search of the nobles who betrayed him. They’re all long dead, but Glenny doesn’t know that, you understand, and when it sees someone that looks like one of them, the Morgan has his revenge. And it’s bloody; it’s always very bloody.”

Evelyn took another sip, set her cup down, and reached for her pastry.

“And the color blue?” Hadrian asked.

Evelyn flipped her hand in nonchalant dismissal. “Blue wards off evil, of course. That’s why proper baby boys are always covered in it, to protect them from demons and evil spirits. Superstitious fools are willing to pay the exorbitant cost to protect their precious darlings.”

Hadrian considered this. “What about baby girls? Aren’t parents concerned about them, too?”

“It’s not a matter of concern. They don’t need protection. Evil spirits aren’t interested in them.” Evelyn made no attempt to hide her caustic sneer. “They’re females after all, entirely unimportant. No self-respecting demon would waste its time with a girl, so inexpensive pink is just fine.”





“Where are we headed today, my faithful hound?” Hadrian asked as Royce, having donned his cloak once more, darted off at a brisk pace up Mill Street, heading away from the river. Once again, Hadrian struggled to keep pace with his partner as he moved swiftly uphill.

While Hadrian maintained his belief that the two had been lucky the day before, there was no denying their efforts had yielded little progress in finding the duchess. They knew the whereabouts of an Estate-employed dwarf who might, or might not, have been the driver of the duchess’s coach. They also knew that the aforementioned dwarf was in nefarious contact with a Calian who was now dead, the victim, it seemed, of the five-hundred-year-old reincarnation of a betrayed emperor. Then there was the phantom who had tried to crush them with a rock, whom Royce had thought was dead, but wasn’t. This elusive mir had survived a high dive from the cathedral roof into the Roche River well enough to pay them a visit, but failed to leave his name or address.

“Back to dwarf-land?” Hadrian asked.

“No,” Royce replied. “Today we’re going to a funeral.”

“A funeral? Whose?”

“That’s what I hope to discover.” Royce stopped when they reached the first cross street. A brisk wind gusted down its length, blowing a tumbling basket past them. “Which way leads to this wonderland of Calian shopping you love so much?”

“It’s down near the harbor, in Little Gur Em, close to where we ate yesterday.”

Royce set off down the street, staying on the walk to avoid the wagon traffic. “I’m betting the Calian with the missing face had a family, and families have a tendency to bury members when they die. If we see a funeral—a procession, a gathering at a graveyard or home—odds will be good that we’ll have found the faceless man.”

Traffic increased as they headed south toward the bay, where the salty air mixed with the smell of fish. Men wheeled laden carts uphill and empty ones down toward the docks. Others carried hods, or toolboxes, or ladders. Several in the loose-fitting dress of sailors staggered out of doors, squinting at the sun as they dragged themselves back toward the ships. Others milled about in a daze with no clear purpose. They wandered without an evident destination, looking with child’s wonder at the buildings, shops, and carts. Hadrian realized that they acted much as he did, and in that instant, he understood that these were visitors to the city, there to witness the historic crowning of the new king.