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

Reaching up, he grabbed the eaves, scowling at the row of gargoyle faces that glared down at him. Each one, he now realized, was grinning. I really hate these things.

Royce was breathing hard, his clothes stuck to his skin, and as he pulled himself up, he realized his muscles were weakening. Stone, he guessed, doesn’t get tired. As he reached the roof, the wind greeted him with a familiar blast of cold air. He replied with a grunt and a scowl as he was forced to remember that spring, while very near, hadn’t yet arrived. The chill sent a shiver through him and whipped what was left of his cloak over his shoulder.

Below, he spotted the golem racing up the buttress, wings extended like an acrobat’s balancing pole. When crouched and seen at a distance on the walls of buildings, the gargoyles appeared small. Up close, the creature was eight feet tall.

This isn’t going to end well.

Royce shimmied up the ribs to the fence-like peak of the roof where he would make his last stand. His options were limited. He could try to climb the bell tower as Villar had considered doing, but there was no more benefit in it now than before. He could climb down the other side of the cathedral and hope the golem would follow and fall the way Villar had. Already tired, Royce knew if anyone fell it would most likely be him. Each step inched him toward exhaustion while the gargoyle showed no sign of weakening.

The thing lost its arm! If I lost one after falling four stories, I’d quit. It hasn’t even slowed down!

Royce had to make a move while he still had the strength. The golem was one-handed now and needed both feet to stand on the roof, so it couldn’t rip him apart as it had Mercator, the thing would have to resort to slashing, biting, or crushing. But without a spear, without a weapon, fighting the golem would be suicide, except . . .

Royce pulled Alverstone from the folds of his cloak. Moonlight gave its blade a luminosity that was pleasantly eerie. Royce had few possessions; the dagger was his most prized for two reasons. The first was that it had been a gift from a man who’d shown him kindness and saved his life. The only one to do so—until Hadrian acted the fool on the Crown Tower. The second was that the blade was remarkable. He had no idea how it had been created. The weapon had somehow been forged in secret in that infernal pit that was the Manzant Prison and Salt Mine. The one good thing to come out of there. No, Royce corrected himself, not the only good thing. The dagger wasn’t the real gift he’d received; it was but a symbol, the embodiment of something more. The gleeful, thieving assassin who entered that salt mine wasn’t the same as the one who’d crawled out. As Royce straddled the peak of Grom Galimus waiting for the arrival of the golem what he held in his hand wasn’t a dagger; it was what it always had been—hope.

He didn’t wait long. The gargoyle leapt onto the roof and once more grinned with delight to find his prey waiting.

With his other hand holding on to the decorative iron fins along the roof’s peak, Royce braced in a crouch, facing into the howling wind.

Is this the craziest, stupidest thing I’ve ever done? That this was even a question made him suspect the idiocy of his past life choices.

Using the stone claws on its feet, the gargoyle pinched into the slate, creating firm footholds as it walked up the steep slope. A gust of wind hit its wings, staggering and nearly toppling the beast, but the creature folded them away and continued its climb.

This is what Villar had seen last night. An unstoppable predator. Irony, oh how I hate thee.

Royce maintained his perch along the line of the peak. When the first attack came—a wide swipe from the remaining arm—he shuffled back along the length. All this did was grant the gargoyle room to take position on the ridgeline with him. With only one arm, the golem couldn’t both attack and hold on to the fins. Still, it had claws on its feet and, of course, fangs. Royce couldn’t forget the fangs. Mercator’s blood was already drying, aided by the brisk wind. An ever-present, sinisterly sculpted smile revealed zigzagging teeth as pointed as spear tips, the invention of an artist with a sick mind and no concern for realism. The gargoyle moved forward with the confidence Royce lacked.

Facing the monster, guarding from attacks, Royce shuffled backward blindly, knowing he would eventually run out of roof, and do so without warning. He was a sailor walking a plank backward.

Royce dodged a swipe from the golem’s foot. In the process, he backed up too far and found the end of the roof. He fell, catching himself by grabbing the decorative ironwork.

The golem pressed the advantage, rushing forward. With Royce dangling and nearly helpless, the sensible thing for the golem to do would have been to crush his hand and let him fall. Instead, it grabbed his wrist and jerked him up. The golem’s grip on his wrist was exactly what Royce expected, vise-strong and cold. This was the end of the fight, but while the golem had but one arm, Royce had two. As the golem jerked Royce up, it had no defense—likely didn’t feel a need for it.

How do you harm stone?

The golem had no reason to fear a delicate dagger. Royce had slim hope himself, despite knowing the weapon was endowed with an extraordinary blade that cut wood like hot iron cut wax. Once, it’d even cut a link of iron chain. Alverstone was hope in the face of despair, and Royce hoped very hard as he jabbed at the gargoyle’s chest.

Rather than turn, deflect, or snap as it should have, the dagger’s blade punctured the stone. Not deep; it didn’t have the opportunity. The golem screamed, recoiled, and in that instant of shock, the heavy stone creature was thrown off balance. Falling from its precarious perch, the golem let go of Royce in the hope of grabbing support.

Released from bondage, Royce fell. He hit the roof’s surface, started his slide, and without thought used Alverstone the way he so often used his hand claws. Royce stabbed into the slate with the blade. It penetrated, caught, and held, leaving Royce hanging from the dagger, as beside him the golem tumbled.

The gargoyle’s weight worked against it. It managed to grab an edge but tore it free. The onetime statue fell, rolled, and picked up the sort of speed one expects from a rock rolling down a steep roof. It bounced, jumped, and finally fell, this time on the plaza side. The gargoyle’s wings spread, but stone wings did nothing to slow its fall.

Royce didn’t see the impact. The edge of the roof blocked the climax. He heard it: a loud crack. Screams and shouts followed. They were short-lived, the sort that came from the surprise of a falling stone, rather than the fear of a living golem.





Chapter Twenty-One

The Duke





The bronze doors of the Imperial Gallery—one with a massive hole torn in it—were open by the time Royce reached the street. A skittish crowd remained in the plaza, and given the way they scuttled back at his approach, they had watched his upper-story jiggery-pokery. That was most certainly what Evelyn would have made of his chase across the rooftops if she’d been in the crowd. Royce considered for a moment whether she’d been one of those people the gargoyle had injured in its murderous march across the plaza. No one would have fared well before the golem’s onslaught, but an old woman would lack any ability to get out of the way. His teeth clenched in anger. He didn’t know why. He hated that old woman.