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

“In the hands of a skilled dwarf, dirt, stone, metal, and wood are all dangerous.”

Hadrian felt that rope ought to be included on that list, as his wrists were starting to ache and his hands throbbed. In binding him, the dwarf had exhibited a level of skill that his people were known for when creating stonework or anything mechanical.

“I don’t understand,” Seton said.

“Of course you don’t. How could you? It’s old magic. Older even than you. Older than Rochelle, older than Novron.”

“What are you talking about?” Seton asked.

“Do you think only mir hold the claim to ancient secrets? For all your age, our collective history goes back far beyond yours. Before Novron and his empire, before the mir, before humans, the Belgriclungreians lived and thrived. I’m talking about the days when only full elves and dwarves roamed the lands, when Drumindor was the world’s greatest forge. There was a time when we had a king, an age of greatness, an age of wonder. They say it was Andvari Berling and King Mideon who did it, but the magic predates even them. It goes back to the gods of the ancient giants, to the ones known as Typhins. They were prohibited from having children of their own, according to legend. But they found a way to bring forth life from earth and stone. A magic they used to create the giants themselves. My people discovered that secret, but because it was outlawed by the gods, it was forbidden. Only once was it attempted, and that was during the War of Elven Aggression when King Mideon saved our people. Elves had used their magic to crush the Tenth and Twelfth Legions on the Plains of Mador, and then Mideon called on the legendary Andvari Berling and asked him to crack the forbidden scrolls and make a weapon that could defeat the elves. Some say Andvari never succeeded; others claim he did, but that something went terribly wrong. They claim it was his failure, rather than the attack of the elves, that actually defeated the Kingdom of Mideon and laid waste to Linden Lott.”

“What did King Mideon ask this Andvari to make?” Seton asked.

“The only real magic our people ever had.”

“Which is?”

Griswold paused a moment. Then a twinkle flickered in his eyes and he leaned in and whispered, “A golem, a protector made of stone.”





No one in the plaza had noticed the gargoyle come to life. All eyes were on the acrobats, the dancers, or the juggler. Mercator nimbly raced through the oblivious crowd. For someone who claimed to be old, the Calian mir moved as well as the acrobats they dodged. She and Royce ran through the ring of dancers, breaking the chain of clasped hands, causing a disturbance. Like rambunctious children running through an adult party, they turned heads and provoked shouts. Royce was reminded of his youth. Fleeing had been a daily occurrence back when he survived by picking pockets in the squares of Ratibor. Just as wind was a bird’s ally, crowds were his. They provided cover as well as opportunity, but just as too much wind could kill a bird, too dense of a crowd could jam him up, lock him in, and give his pursuer the chance to catch up. Being able to read a mass of people, to see the patterns and guess the timing, had made the difference between getting away and losing a hand.

Royce was older now and out of practice, but it didn’t take long to rediscover the familiar skills and remember old techniques. Mercator did a fine job of finding and exploiting holes as well. Anticipating openings, she managed to stay out ahead. She looped the fountain, heading for the steps of the gallery. He wasn’t sure what her plan was, but then Royce wasn’t certain about the extent of the danger. Seeing a gargoyle come to life was disturbing, but the fact that Mercator felt the need to flee was the real worry. Why, was something he could ask her later. As it turned out, why was answered sooner than expected.

People pointed at something behind Royce, then the screams started, and finally he understood why Mercator was making for the steps of the gallery. The plaza was like a river where a dam had burst upstream. He needed to reach the safety of the bank before the rush of the flood. Whatever the gargoyle was doing, it had caused a panic, and the once happy crowd turned into a mindless mob as people began to push in a frantic attempt to get away.

A man bowled over a woman and her daughter, causing him to trip and fall to the ground, where he, too, was stepped on. The juggler and the dancers were consumed in the tidal surge. Royce and Mercator reached the marble steps of the gallery just as the wave burst. She wasted no time running to the big bronze doors. Royce finally saw her plan and was once more impressed by the level of strategic forethought. And she was a mir.

If she knew, she could say the same about me, couldn’t she?

The gallery wasn’t as big as Grom Galimus, but it was still large and almost entirely made of stone. There weren’t any ground-floor windows, and its doors opened out. Royce and Mercator would only have a few seconds to get inside. The swell of the crowd fleeing whatever mayhem had ignited their stampede would realize what Mercator had: The gallery was protection from this storm. If Royce and Mercator were inside when that happened, the bottleneck would inhibit the gargoyle . . . brilliant.

“Locked.” Mercator pulled angrily on the door. “You can open it, right?”

“How’d you know?” Royce knelt at the door, making a quick study of the basic lever-tumbler mechanism.

“Anyone expecting a severed finger seems the sort to have a background in theft.”

Royce inserted his curtain pick into the keyhole. Lifting the lever, he popped the latch. Although the process had taken only seconds, the crowd moved faster than Royce had expected; a mass of revelers-turned-stampeding-herd pushed up behind them. Unable to pull the door open wide, the two barely managed to slip in before the pressing weight of the mindless crowd slammed it shut again. Part of Royce’s cloak was caught, and he freed himself by ripping it in half.

The two looked back at the pair of bronze doors, backing slowly away, listening to the muffled cries of the terrified crowd that grew louder as the seconds passed. The interior of the gallery was tomb-quiet and dark, but Royce knew the building and remembered the room. He’d been there only the night before. This was the rotunda with the murals and paintings, odd artifacts on pedestals, and that big chariot with the stuffed horses yoked to it. The strange beast he’d seen from above he now saw from level ground. This was the proper viewing position for everything, and from there the dragon hoisted overhead was suitably terrifying.

“What is that thing outside?” Royce asked.

“A golem.” Mercator’s eyes remained fixed on the doors as the two backed away. The fear on her face did nothing to convince Royce that they were safe. “Dwarven sorcery, old, deep, evil magic.”

“That thing was a statue a minute ago. What is it now?”

“Still a statue—in a way.”

“It was after us, right?”

“Still is.”

“Can it get in here?”

Mercator looked up at the broken window in the upper colonnade where the night before Royce had chased Villar. “I think so.”

“Maybe you’d better tell me exactly what a golem is. I hate getting visits from total strangers.”





Sitting in the chair was aggravating the pain in his arms, so Hadrian switched to the floor where he could stretch out his legs. Seton helped him, brushing away a pile of rat pellets.

“What does ancient dwarven magic have to do with you, Erasmus Nym, and Villar?”

Griswold reached up and ran fingers under his beard, his lower lip jutting out. He paused there, and Hadrian thought he might not say anything. “We doubted our forces would be enough to prevail against the duke and the city guard. We needed more. We needed what Andvari offered King Mideon.”

“I’m guessing that’s knowledge you can’t pick up just anywhere,” Hadrian said.

Griswold nodded and addressed Seton. “Do you know about the Night of Terror?”

“That was centuries ago,” Seton said.