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

Hadrian nodded his support. “A young mother living on the street just a block down from here with her child. Said she could knock on your door all day, but you’d never take her in.”

“I can assure you, she never came here. I don’t see how she could conclude such a thing if she never bothered to so much as knock.”

“When the Dirty Tankard refuses to let you a room,” Royce said, “it doesn’t seem too likely that the wealthy widow on Mill Street is going to invite you into her parlor.”

Evelyn looked at the rug with a thoughtful frown.

“Would you have let her a room?” Hadrian asked. “A mir with a child in her arms?”

Evelyn hesitated. “I let you two in, didn’t I?”

Royce nodded. “And what does it tell you when you compare two shifty foreign men to a homeless mother and her child? I’m just saying, if we can’t stop Villar, there’s a good chance he might seek vengeance in places like Mill Street. Leave. Stay. It’s your choice, but if I were you, I’d disappear for a while.”

Evelyn folded her arms with her normal self-righteous indignation. “Well, I think we can be quite thankful that I’m not you. Now get out of here.”

Royce picked up his cloak and a pastry. Hadrian grabbed his sword belt, strapping it on as they headed for the door.

“Wait!” she called to them as they started down the hill toward the gallery.

“What?” Royce asked.

Evelyn once again hesitated as she stood on the stoop, then said, “Don’t be late for breakfast again, or I really will throw you out.” With that, she stepped back inside and slammed the door shut.





No one stopped Royce and Hadrian from entering the Imperial Gallery. The two didn’t draw attention even when they climbed the steps and slipped through the bent gap in the bronze doors. Inside, the grand hall was a mess, debris everywhere. What looked to Hadrian to be a giant scaffold lay strewn across the floor. The snapped wooden beams were splintered and wrapped in cloth that had been ripped and torn. The thing had a papier-maché head like an alligator and huge leathery bat wings. Little more than thin material stretched over bowed sticks, it reminded Hadrian of toys he’d watched kids play with in Mandalin. They would run with playthings tethered to strings until the wind blew the toys into the sky. Maybe that’s what this is, a giant wind toy.

Under the ripped cloth and broken timber were shards of broken vases, the remains of chalky, white busts of dignified people, and toppled pedestals. Tears of blood, dried drips on statues and paintings, had yet to be addressed. He surmised this was where Mercator had been killed—torn apart, Erasmus Nym’s widow had said. There had been an uncharacteristic look of revulsion on Royce’s face, but such sights weren’t unfamiliar to Hadrian. In Calis, men were ripped apart by bulls or torn to shreds by lions, both in the name of entertainment, and while arenas always had sand-covered courtyards that could be raked, the walls were dyed a ruddy brown from the layers of splatter. Gore on a grand scale was one more love letter addressed to Hadrian from an unwanted past. They were stacking up.

The gallery had an odor. Hadrian knew what death smelled like, and it wasn’t that. At least, it wasn’t the stench of decomposing bodies, nor even blood; but it was similar. The scent reminded him of rotting straw, or a stagnant pond, a musty, almost spicy fragrance of decay.

Hadrian had an urge to look around. The gallery was filled with so many strange and wondrous items set out as exhibits. Weapons both refined and crude. A large bow hung on the wall beside a spear and a series of swords, two of which bore a close resemblance to the one on Hadrian’s back. There were shields, cups of painted clay, woodcarvings, sets of armor, musical instruments, furniture, cloaks, hats, lamps, rakes, and still-corked bottles; even a window, complete with its frame, hung on the wall. He only managed a glance as Royce led him in a rush up the stairs to the third floor.

The marble steps bore sharp chips and cracks and indents the size and shape of large feet. The golem? Hadrian wondered. Looking down, he placed his own feet in the same spots. The golem would have dwarfed him. A giant stone beast wasn’t something he wanted to fight.

The map wasn’t as easy to find as it should have been. The thing was huge and took up one whole wall, but it didn’t look like a map. The ones Hadrian had seen comprised fine lines of iron gall ink on parchment. This was a tapestry. A massive wall hanging with needlework so fine it must have taken years to complete. The artwork was colorful, filled with shades of green for the forests and blues for the ocean and rivers; in the fields were dazzling splashes of yellow, pink, and purple wildflowers.

The perspective of the image was as if the viewer were a bird flying at a slight angle so that buildings and hills had depth and dimension. The coast was easy to recognize, as were the Roche River and Governor’s Isle, but little else was familiar. The map showed a bridge linking the banks and the island, but there was no building on the isle itself. Instead, cows grazed on what looked to be a pasture. The plaza wasn’t on the map, either, nor Grom Galimus. Instead, a little clump of trees marked that spot. There were roads, but few followed the same paths as the modern ones. Mill Street was nothing but a path that led to, not surprisingly, a mill. The city center was located farther to the east, centered on the smaller stream that today ran through Little Gur Em and the Rookery. A dock was there, not far from the modern one, and several small homes clustered up the slope. The town was tiny, rural, and more a village than a city. The focal point of everything, in the exact middle of the tapestry, was a round building east of the Rookery. It possessed a dome like Grom Galimus but was significantly smaller. Pillars held the roof up, forming a circular, open-air colonnade that stood on a raised dais.

“What’s that?” Royce asked, pointing to the same building Hadrian was puzzling over.

“A church?”

“Doesn’t look like any church I’ve ever seen.”

“A temple?”

“To whom?”

Hadrian peered at the map, but there was no writing. He shrugged. “How old do you think this map is?”

“It obviously predates the city, or maybe this was the start of it. The graveyard and Grom Galimus aren’t shown, so . . .”

“So, what? Imperial times?”

“At least; maybe even earlier.”

“What does it mean?” Hadrian asked.

“It means we should have dragged Evelyn here, because I have no idea.”

“But that”—Hadrian pointed to the temple—“that looks like something special, right? Something . . .”

“Sacred?” Royce finished for him.

Hadrian nodded. “Do you know where it is?”

Royce shook his head. “Up on a hill. Looks like if we go to the Rookery, head east, and search for high ground, we might find it.”

“How long do you think we have before Villar attacks?”

“The Feast of Nobles is midday, right? That’s when it’s held in Colnora and Ratibor.”

“Same in Hintindar and Medford.”

Royce looked at the windows. “So, we still have a few hours if Villar sticks to the plan to catch all the nobles at the feast.”

“What are the odds of that?”

“At this point?” Royce scowled. “We should hurry.”

Hadrian agreed but was disappointed. “We should come back here. I’d love to look through this place.”

“Absolutely not,” Royce said. “We are never coming back.”

“Be careful,” Hadrian warned him. “My father used to tell me: Never say never on any endeavor; it sounds like a dare to gods that don’t care. If the likes of us prosper, fail, or falter; it matters not while they roll with laughter on an altar, at our miserable, sad little lives.”

Royce looked over and smiled. “I think I would have liked your father.”





Chapter Twenty-Four

Haunted