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

Griswold scowled at her. “And I suppose you were there?”

“Before my time. Even before Mercator’s, I think.”

“One cold night, mobs came into Little Town—that’s what they called our ghetto back then—and set our houses on fire. Everyone was dragged into the street for a beating. Almost a hundred of my people died on the same night that the rest of the world calls Wintertide. Strange way to celebrate the rebirth of the sun, don’t you think? In the aftermath, the elders found a way to protect us. At that time, the city was under construction, Grom Galimus only half built. My people did the stonework. Cheap, skilled labor is what we were. The archbishop commissioned many sculptures, and we were happy to oblige. Right under his nose and with his blessing, we created weapons that we could call on in time of need.”

Griswold smiled. “Surely you’ve seen all the fanciful downspouts and carvings, malevolent faces that spit rainwater out to the streets?”

Hadrian nodded.

“Those were our creations. Every one of them sculpted by my people. We made them fierce and grotesque as a means of embodying what they are—monsters. The archbishop thought they were fanciful—funny, he called them. What he didn’t know was that each one was sculpted ritualistically, and the shards were saved so that we could use them when necessary. If the day came when we were threatened again, we could breathe life into these decorations and send them to fight for us.” Griswold’s glare hardened. “The nobles have their soldiers, and we have ours. Ours sit upon their perches high above the city, awaiting the day when all debts will be paid in full.”

“You can be really creepy, you know that?” Hadrian asked.





“What exactly is a golem?” Royce asked. “Is it alive? Can it be killed?”

“I’m not an expert on dwarven magic,” Mercator said, “but I know golems are sculptures brought to life. Creatures that are supposed to retain the characteristics of the material they were made from.”

“This one is made from stone.” Royce stared at the bronze doors with their detailed reliefs, nine framed images that told the life story of a grand city. “How do you harm stone?”

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The gallery echoed with the sound of drumming on the doors by what could have been a huge hammer. They both watched as the elegant images were distorted by dents, the metal puckering where it was struck.

Mercator and Royce backed up.

“Can’t burn it. Doesn’t have any blood, so slitting its throat is useless. Pretty much nothing sharp will be helpful . . .” Royce was thinking out loud as he scanned the chamber for a weapon. “What is this place?”

“The Imperial Gallery,” Mercator said, bumping into a bust of a balding man. The sculpture toppled, fell, and shattered on the marble floor. She stared aghast at the ruined artwork. “The noble houses brought a lot of this stuff with them after the fall of Percepliquis. They keep the best pieces in their homes, and the rest is displayed here.”

“I don’t suppose there’s an ancient weapon around that kills stone gargoyles?”

Mercator flashed him a scowl that he guessed had more to do with the beating on the door than his poor attempt at humor.

Hadrian would have appreciated it.

Royce found a pair of hammers set on a display pedestal, one large, one small, both old and crude. He felt the weight of the heavy one, thinking it might be useful. “Why is it after us?”

Mercator stared at the door. “It’s being controlled by Villar.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s one of the few people who know how. Erasmus Nym is dead, and Griswold is busy guarding your friend. It has to be Villar.”

“So what does he want with us?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes darted back and forth in thought, then they widened. “Wait, you said no list of demands was found in the carriage?”

“No one but you appears to know anything about a list.”

Mercator placed a cupped hand over her mouth in disbelief. “The list wasn’t overlooked or blown away; he never left it. Everything makes sense now. Villar didn’t kidnap the duchess to seek concessions. He never wanted a peaceful solution. He was only placating me, pretending. And now—”

The bronze door ruptured. A stone fist punched through. Claws reached in and began ripping the hole wider. The metal screeched as it tore.

Mercator stuffed Genny’s note into Royce’s hand. “Take this to the duke.”

“What are you going to do?”

She looked back at the doors and Royce couldn’t tell if she was scared or angry. Both maybe.

“Stop him, I hope. He’s driving that thing, running it like a puppet. He can see and hear through it, so I can talk to him, reason with him.”

The golem pushed in farther, and Royce dropped the hammer and sprinted for the stairs. The extra weight would only slow him down, and speed was what he needed now. He took the steps three at a time. Four flights up, he glanced back.

Mercator remained in the middle of the main room next to a statue whose plaque read GLENMORGAN THE GREAT. The gargoyle had opened the hole to the size of a window, and it was pulling its body through, emerging like some hideous insect splitting a pupa sac.

“Villar!” Mercator shouted. She had both hands up, palms out. “Stop! You don’t have to do this. I’ve talked to the duchess. She’s on our side and wants to help.”

The creature appeared to be listening, or maybe it was merely having trouble getting through the ragged opening it had made. The bronze had left deep scratches across its stony skin.

“I know you want your war, Villar. You think it’s the only way, but it isn’t. Genny can get the duke to change the laws, and they will force the guilds to change their rules. The duchess was already working on it. The very night you kidnapped her she was on her way back from . . .” Mercator stopped. “Oh, my Lord Ferrol.” She staggered as if from a blow. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew all along that she was working on a solution. That’s why you did it. You wanted to stop her. You needed to stop her.”

The gargoyle cleared the door. Using its feet and the knuckles of its hands, the thing scrambled monkey-like across the room. It slowed down as it neared her.

Mercator shook her head in disbelief. “Villar, how could you?”

The golem hesitated for a moment, and Royce thought she had a chance, then the thing sank both sets of claws into her body. Royce was no stranger to violence. He’d seen—he’d performed—brutalities that many would label gruesome, even sick. He was as used to bloodletting as a butcher, and yet what he witnessed in that artifact-filled chamber unsettled him. It didn’t so much vivisect Mercator as tear her open like a cloth bag with poor stitching. Royce heard muscles shred and her bones make a greenwood-splinter sound. The Calian mir whom Royce had only begun to know, and thought he might like, died in an explosion of blood that splattered the statue of Glenmorgan and stained the perfect marble floor.

The gargoyle showed fangs and pointed teeth, grinning its delight. Then, as tears of blood ran down stone skin, that grotesque monkey-face tilted up. No more encouragement was required. Royce resumed his rapid climb.

The window on the top floor was his goal, his exit, the broken one Villar had shattered the night before.

Reaching the top floor, Royce once more spotted the suit of armor standing against the wall, still holding its long spear. Behind him, the gargoyle was climbing the steps. Royce listened to the crack of stone on marble as if someone were clapping rocks together.