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

She paused, her face tense, her sight dropping to her own feet. She took another breath. “I could smell the beer on their breath. The battle was over, the celebration begun. Everyone was drinking. I held onto the hope that I might survive, that if they continued to think I was human, they would let me live. I feared they would . . . would . . . but they didn’t want me for themselves. Instead, I was dragged to the rasa. The blood-soaked man was in the middle of the courtyard beside a barrel of beer, his giant sword still in one hand, a cup in the other. He was drunk.

“The soldiers threw me and three other girls down at his feet. ‘To Hadrian Blackwater, the hero of the battle, go the spoils,’ they yelled. ‘Pick your favorite, Blackwater.’ He picked me.”

Seton paused there and began to cry. “I was terrified. After seeing what he’d done to the knights of Lord Aleswerth, I was certain this man was capable of unspeakable horrors. I knelt in the dirt, made muddy by the blood of so many, and I waited. All around me was fire, smoke, and screaming. My stomach was so bound in knots that I vomited. I didn’t care if he killed me. I just wanted it to be over. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”

It took her a moment to find her voice again, and when it returned she looked directly at Hadrian, as if she were speaking only to him, like they were alone. “Then he did something so unexpected, so unfathomable, that I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly. He said, ‘I’m sorry.’ The rasa’s voice wasn’t what I expected. It was soft—soft and gentle, and sad. I thought he was speaking to me. I thought he was telling me that he regretted what he was about to do, but he never moved. He just kept saying it, repeating those two words. I realized he wasn’t talking to me at all. He was looking at the pile of bodies. Staring at it, he drank and repeated his apology. Finally, he did look my way. He acted as if he’d just noticed I was there. I was sobbing, and he stared. I thought my life was about to end. When he reached out and grabbed me, I screamed.”

“And then?” another from the crowd asked, a woman who glared at Hadrian with hate. “What did he do?”

“He . . .” Seton lifted a hand in Hadrian’s direction, reaching out. “He held me. He held me tight, but gently. I was still terrified, expecting the worst at any minute; he, too, was crying. Then he let go. A couple of other soldiers came up. They saw he wasn’t doing anything with me, and they tried to pull me away. Said they didn’t want the blond bitch to go to waste. He told them no. They weren’t happy with that, but he said if anyone touched me—anyone—that he would kill them and their horse.”

“And their horse?” Hadrian asked. “I really said that?”

Seton nodded. “You did.”

Hadrian started to remember now. It was seven years ago, not long after he had joined Reinhold’s army. Most of the memories from that night had been mercifully washed away with beer, but some returned to him in nightmares or came in flashes triggered by fire and screams. The last time was when Queen Ann of Medford died, when Castle Essendon went up in flames.

“The next day,” Seton went on, continuing to look at Hadrian. “I was alone. Just me and the ruined castle walls. The army of the king had gone, and so had the rasa who had protected me. I searched. I looked everywhere. Not a single person was left except me. I later heard folks who said the king was teaching his nobles a lesson. I only learned one thing—that I, too, would have died if it weren’t for this man. This man who scared me so much that I vomited out of fear. He protected me. I’m the only survivor of the infamous Sacking of Aleswerth Castle, and I walked out with my life, dignity, and virtue all intact. And all because of him. Now, for whatever reason, fate has seen fit to swap our places, and so help me Ferrol, I’ll fight anyone who tries to harm him.” She peered into Hadrian’s eyes, and added, “And their horse.”

Seton took Hadrian’s hand, kissed the back of it, and rubbed it along her cheek. “Thank you,” she told him, and lifting his fingers to her lips, gently kissed each one. “Thank you, thank you.”

Hadrian couldn’t imagine that a young mir, even given her gift for storytelling, could dissuade a mob bent on killing two outsiders threatening their existence, and yet the demeanor of the crowd had markedly changed. Whoever this girl was, she held significant status in this underground society of theirs, one that exceeded her apparent age.

“They still must die,” Villar demanded. “Seton, you’ll have to step aside.”

The blonde, who had appeared so shy and gentle until then, sharply spun to face him. “You want him dead? Fine, but don’t ask others to do it for you.” Seton pushed one of those holding Hadrian aside. “Let go!” She pulled on the fingers of another man. The others released their grips, and she pushed them back.

“There! Go ahead, Villar. You kill him, but by your own hand. Show us the way to your bloody revolution. Be the first to draw blood. Go ahead. Don’t let my foolish little story worry you. The man is unarmed. Surrounded. Go on!”

Villar stared at her, not Hadrian. In his eyes smoldered a seething hatred.

“Do it!” The girl’s voice rose to a shout.

“We don’t have to kill them,” Mercator said. “We only need to keep them from informing the duke or his guards of our intentions. If we vote for revolution, our actions will make what they learned here moot. If we take no action, then there is no crime, and no one will believe a crazy story of murderous plots from two foreigners.”

“They know about the duchess,” Villar reminded them. “The duke will kill us for that.”

Mercator nodded. “Yes, us. You and me. No one else. Her abduction was our doing and our responsibility. Even so, they have no proof, and it’ll be our word against that of outsiders.”

“But if we kill them, then we—”

“He’s right here, Villar!” Seton exploded again. “No one is stopping you. Go ahead.” She took a step toward him, staring him down. “You tell us that we must fight. You say we have to stand up for ourselves, but what you really mean is we have to die—to die for you, for your pride, your hate. You want us to sacrifice ourselves so you can have a better future. That’s not leading, Villar, that’s exploitation. You want any of us to listen to you? To follow you? To risk our lives for your vengeance? Then give us more than words. Risk your own life first. Take his life yourself—or shut up.”

Villar was shaking. Sweat glistened on his face in the torchlight. Hadrian thought he would attack her, hit the girl, make her stop. Instead, without a word, Villar turned away, pushed through those watching, and disappeared into the crowd.

“Griswold, can you get some rope?” Mercator asked. “We can—”

In the drama, nearly everyone had forgotten about Royce, who hadn’t said or done anything. Those holding him had relaxed their grip, likely believing they were in charge of the quiet one. They discovered their mistake when one cried out in pain and another doubled over as the thief twisted free of all the rest. In a flash, Alverstone appeared, followed by gasps and a sudden retreat of those closest to him. “Sorry, don’t like ropes.”

“Royce.” Hadrian spoke in a measured voice, the same one he would use when calming a spooked horse. “Don’t . . . don’t do anything that you’ll . . . I mean . . . that I’ll regret.”

“Would be more productive if you told them that.” Royce spun, blade out, and everyone took another step back.

“We aren’t going to hurt you,” Mercator said. She was one of the few moving toward him, but not quickly.

Smart woman, Hadrian thought.

“Not going to tie me up, either.”

“We can’t just let you walk out. If you were to tell the duke—”

“Who said anything about walking out?” Royce fanned the dagger as he moved closer to Hadrian. “We came for the duchess, Genny Winter. You’re going to give her to us.”

Mercator stopped and folded her arms, staring at him. “Or what? You’ll kill us all with your dagger?”

Royce frowned, glanced at Hadrian, and sighed. “Why does everyone jump to that conclusion with me?”

Polka dots, Royce, Hadrian thought. Polka dots.