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

His partner hesitated and in that moment was equally besieged by a dozen men who swarmed until they had him in a firm grip. Royce glared.

The crowd was filled with innocent people, the elderly, women, and children. Any hope they had to get free would require killing—lots of killing, and even then they might not get away. That sweet old couple Hadrian had seen on the way to the rally stood four rows back, still arm in arm, looking upon them with fear. Beside them, a beautiful blond girl, a mir, stared at him wide-eyed in shock. The rest of the crowd was confused and frightened. These people weren’t soldiers. They were a host of Griswolds. People who came home from a long day with nothing more than a miserable excuse for a chicken. And even so, their meager offering garnered a kiss from a grateful wife. None of this would matter to Royce.

“There’s too many,” Hadrian said.

“What are you talking about, Villar?” Mercator asked, “Who are these men?”

“They have been searching for the duchess. Asking questions and hanging out with the captain of the duke’s guard. Just last night I came upon them spying on Griswold and Erasmus. I chased the little one. And the large one murdered Erasmus Nym.”

“Nym’s dead?” someone asked, but was ignored.

Hadrian tried to pull free, but it was hopeless with so many pressing in from all sides. Someone put an arm around his neck, tilting Hadrian backward and off balance. He felt them take his swords.

Hadrian and Royce had been turned to face the front of the room. Mercator, whose arms were two-toned as if she were wearing black gloves to her elbows, stepped forward. “Is what Villar says true?” Hadrian was encouraged by the sincerity of the question. She, at least, hadn’t made up her mind.

He looked to Royce, who refused to answer. Hadrian offered as charming a smile as the chokehold allowed and focused on her. “Yes and no.”

Mercator wasn’t amused.

“No, I didn’t kill anyone. Yes, we have been looking for the duchess. No, we aren’t spies of the duke; we’ve never even met the man. Yes, I know the captain of the guard, we served together years ago.”

“I was there,” Griswold said, “I saw you chase Nym last night, and now my friend is dead.”

“Well, yes, I did chase him, but we got separated, and when I found him again, he was dead. But I swear I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“He’s lying, of course,” Villar said. “I’d lie, too, if I were in his place. He’s only trying to save his own skin.”

“And why are you looking for the duchess?” Mercator asked.

“My friend and I were hired by her father, Gabriel Winter, who’s worried about the disappearance of his only daughter; he feared for her life.”

“See! He admits it,” Villar said. “They know we kidnapped her. They know what happens tomorrow. Let them live and we die. We need to kill them; throw their bodies in the Roche; let it take their stink to the sea.”

“No!” a voice in the crowd yelled, the girl with blond hair and blue eyes. “Leave him alone.” She pushed through the crowd to face Hadrian. “I know this man, and I won’t let anyone hurt him.”

Royce looked at Hadrian and Hadrian looked back, his face mirroring the confusion.

“Seton?” Mercator asked, pushing forward toward the girl. “What are you talking about?”

“This is the rasa!” The blonde pointed at Hadrian and stared at Mercator with big eyes.

Mercator continued to appear puzzled. “The rasa?” Her eyes widened. She studied Hadrian closely. “Are you sure? How can you be . . . how could he be . . .”

“I’m positive,” Seton said. “I could never forget his face, his three swords, those eyes.”

Hadrian, on the other hand, had clearly forgotten hers. She was vaguely familiar but only because he thought she looked a bit like Arbor, the shoemaker’s daughter from Hintindar whom he’d been in love with at the age of fifteen. But this girl was a mir, and Arbor must still be living in Hintindar, married and with children by now. Hadrian had no idea why this young woman was defending him, or why she called him a rasa. Given his position, he wasn’t about to deny anything she said.

Villar pivoted. “What’s this all about?”

“This is Hadrian Blackwater,” Seton said. “Seven years ago, he saved my life.”





Chapter Eighteen

The Rasa





She didn’t say any more. The beautiful blonde mir—who literally and figuratively stood between Hadrian and Royce and death, looked uncomfortable as she faced Mercator with pleading eyes. Villar shifted impatiently. He likely wanted them dead, their bodies jammed down a sewer shaft, and while Hadrian obviously preferred to avoid that future, he was also curious to understand why this girl was so adamant about saving his life.

“Seton,” Mercator said gently. “You have to tell the story.” The blue-stained mir looked out across the crowd. “I know this isn’t the—I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to explain.”

Seton nodded but still struggled to find her voice, and when it came, her words started faint and so low that Hadrian strained to hear. “I was living in the village of Aleswerth a few miles north. That’s where I was born. Lord Aleswerth had defied King Reinhold. I don’t even know about what or why, but one day the king’s soldiers arrived.”

“Louder!” someone in the back shouted.

“We can’t hear you,” someone else said.

Seton’s embarrassment showed, but when she resumed her story, her voice was louder, and as she spoke it grew even more so. “Everyone was called into the castle. We were told that anyone left outside the walls would be slaughtered. I didn’t think they would let me in, but I guess with my hair covering my ears they didn’t notice I was a mir, and I slipped in with everyone else.” She paused and swallowed hard.

“The battle went on all day and on past sunset. I hid behind the woodpile. Then in the middle of the night, the gate burst open. They set fires everywhere, and men in chainmail carrying swords ran through the courtyard, killing everyone. They didn’t . . .” She stopped, her eyes searching the dark for the words. “They didn’t look human. They looked like monsters, cruel and horrible. One was worse than all the rest. He was tall, powerful, and covered in blood. Among my people there are legends of vicious creatures called rasas: terrible fiends, part elven, part beast, wholly possessed of evil. That’s what he looked like to me.”

She paused, regained her composure, and then continued. “He charged in swinging this incredibly long sword. Lord Aleswerth’s men attacked him from all sides, strong men, good men. I was certain they would kill this savage invader. Instead, they all died, their blood adding to his gore. He cut them down, cleaving off arms and legs, beheading, and in one case, he cut a poor man nearly in half, slicing him from the shoulder to hip.” As she spoke, her eyes focused on Hadrian, squinting as if she peered into a painful light. “He killed the horses, too, the ones the lord’s knights rode when they came at him. This man—this rasa—took down mounted knights with no more difficulty than a butcher slaughters a lamb. Before long, they were stacked around him, bodies in a pond of blood.”

The crowd was quiet as she spoke. Only the faint crackle of the campfire broke the stillness, the sound and the flickering light adding to the imagery she conjured.

“When all the soldiers were dead, the invaders came for the women. I was discovered. They liked my hair and how young I appeared. In the dark, they thought I was human.”