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

“Oh, that.” Hadrian yawned again. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, and it was starting to drag on him.

“Don’t Oh that me,” Royce reprimanded, sounding eerily like Evelyn Hemsworth. “This is not a laughing matter. You put me in a box.”

“I put you in a box? See, I saw it as me putting myself in one.”

“You did both. In our line of business, associations are liabilities. Loyalties are points of weakness. They get you killed. If they had captured you, locked you up, that would have been fine. But you—”

“How would that have been fine?”

“I would have just killed them.” Royce said this in such a matter-of-fact tone that Hadrian failed to question the boast.

If it had been anyone else, Hadrian would have passed it off as bombastic bluster, but Royce wasn’t bragging, wasn’t exaggerating to make a point. He was serious, and to him this was a practical matter. A basic trade rule, like not shoveling manure into the wind.

“But when you volunteer to act as collateral,” Royce went on, “that puts me in a tight spot. The stakes go up, and I can’t walk away if things take a nasty turn—like this one did.”

“Is this your way of saying you care about me?”

Royce continued his Evelyn Hemsworth impersonation by displaying an I-can’t-believe-you-really-exist expression. “This is my way of saying you’re an idiot, and the next time you do something that stupid, I’ll let them kill you.”

Hadrian smiled. “You really like me, don’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“I feel bad now,” Hadrian said. “I didn’t get you anything for Spring Day.”

Royce walked faster, shaking his head as he moved forward.

The sun was barely up, but already the day displayed all the indications that it would be glorious. The sky was blue, the sunshine bright, the temperature warmer than it had been in days. Birds built nests under the eaves of shops as owners threw wide winter shutters, letting the birdsong in. How rare that the first day of spring lived up to expectations. That sentiment was on every face as people crept out of dark homes to celebrate the holiday of rebirth. Mothers dressed their children in fine clothes, delivering stern ultimatums and handing out rules against doing anything beyond standing still. Young women burst out of doorways, resembling budding flowers as they twirled their dresses of bright yellows, pinks, and greens, full of excitement that they might attract the attention of a handsome bee or two.

The usual vendors were not present in the plaza. Even they had taken the day off. In their place, musical bands were in the process of setting up while men who moved awkwardly in waistcoats, capes, and shiny-buckled shoes set up banquet tables or roped off squares for dancing. One area suffered from an odd break in the boundary where several shattered paving stones created a nasty crater. Hadrian noted that even though the steps of the gallery had been cleaned, there was still a rusty tinge on some of them, and one of the beautiful doors had been battered and torn. The tragedy of the previous night had been mostly erased by the morning light and the new season, but just like winter, the hardships couldn’t be entirely forgotten. The people in the plaza moved around the crater and avoided the steps to the gallery. Still, they were unwavering in their efforts to celebrate the spring. Surviving was often a matter of moving forward. Moving forward was a matter of putting yesterday in the past, and all of it began with putting one foot ahead of the other, remembering how to smile, how to dance, and especially, remembering that laughing wasn’t disrespectful; it was essential.

Hadrian’s attention was pulled away by the grand procession underway as ten men carried a massive garland-festooned post across the bridge. The Springpole, streaming ribbons of various colors, was headed to the plaza, where it would be erected for the opening dance. Hadrian’s home village of Hintindar put up a Springpole every year as well, though not nearly so big. He imagined every town did. Rochelle planned on celebrating on a scale Hadrian couldn’t imagine. Feeling the energy and anticipation, he wanted to join in, help put up the pole, roll out the barrels, and find a partner for the Rabbit Run and the Blossom Ball. But they still had work to do.

As if realizing only then that he was walking, Royce stopped. He took in a long breath and let out a sigh of frustration.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got nothing. Villar is the only one left who knows where the duchess is.” Royce looked around at all the congested buildings. “He could be anywhere!”

“No,” Hadrian said. “He has to be somewhere special, someplace sacred.”

“Sure, okay, but what is considered special or holy in Rochelle? Do you know? Because I don’t. This is the problem with taking jobs outside our neighborhood. Even Griswold, who I’m guessing has lived here his whole life, only knew about two places. And if Erasmus was using the cathedral and the dwarf the old church, then where was Villar going? Griswold would have mentioned other sites if he knew any.”

“Villar knows of at least one more, obviously,” Hadrian said. “He’s a mir, and mir live for a long time, right? So it might be something ancient. Something everyone else has forgotten about.”

“How does that help?”

“Maybe we just need to find someone who knows a lot about the ancient history of Rochelle.” Hadrian smiled. “Can you think of anyone like that, Royce?”

Royce’s eyes widened. “Oh, you are kidding me.”





Chapter Twenty-Three

A Prayer to Novron





Like the rest of the city, Mill Street had been transformed. The quiet thoroughfare of dignified stone homes was festooned with whimsical decorations. Nearly every house had garlands of spring flowers and pastel-colored ribbons in loops beneath windows. Some homeowners extended the loops beneath two windows, creating smiling faces with flowered lips and crisscrossed-glass eyes. Here, too, groups of residents gathered in small clumps, chatting on a street devoid of its normal traffic. Five men in tall hats spoke in the middle of the road. A larger group of women in hoop skirts gathered near the lamppost, which had been trimmed with a spiraling green ribbon. One bent down to pet a little pug-nosed dog.

“Where have you two been?” Evelyn burst out the moment they entered the house. With arms tightly folded, she stood beside a table of uneaten food. “Just when I thought you’d been tamed, you prove that wild animals can never truly be domesticated.” She looked at the grand banquet she had prepared, as if she might cry. “But even a wild animal . . .” She waved at the table. “It’s food after all. Even a cave-dwelling beast will make a habit of being on time for a feast.”

“Our sincere apologies,” Hadrian said. “We were unavoidably detained.”

“Whose prison?” she asked.

Royce wiped his feet on the doormat and removed his cloak. Hadrian took off his sword belt. They needed her cooperation and couldn’t afford to irritate Evelyn any more than she already appeared to be.

“Did the duke catch you, or was it some underworld thug who locked you up?”

“What makes you—”

“Oh, honestly.” She scowled and grabbed her skirt while stepping to the head of the table. Royce moved quickly and pulled out the chair for her. She frowned. “If I look that simple-minded to you, I suggest investing in canes to help you walk like all the others Novron punished with blindness. The only surprise about you two is that my silverware hasn’t gone missing, which, incidentally, is the only reason you are still here. I have friends in the duke’s court. My husband was very popular there, you know. In a way, he, more than the duke, paid their salaries. I would have seen both of you in chains if so much as a toothpick had been pilfered.”

“I didn’t even see the toothpicks.” Royce glanced at Hadrian.