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

Oswal Tynewell concluded what he knew to be his final service as the Bishop of Alburn. By the end of the day, his title would be different—his world certainly would be. Standing on the raised altar, he watched the people leave. They spilled out like water swirling through a funnel. Choked by the big doors, they clogged into a crowd. The exodus took longer than usual because the high masses always drew greater crowds. Usually, the cathedral never got close to full. Grom Galimus was a monster of a church, his grand flagship that sailed the stormy seas of iniquity. There simply wasn’t enough faith in the city to satisfy its belly. Normally such an idea distressed him, made him feel he wasn’t succeeding in his role as spiritual leader. That morning, he couldn’t have cared less about that role, and he wished for a smaller flock. Or at least a faster one.

He wanted them out, all of them gone so he could shut and bolt the doors. The time had arrived, and Oswal was uncomfortable watching his sheep as they went to slaughter. Not so distressed as to stop or warn them, of course. He felt merely a disquiet, the sort of unease one faces when delivering a white lie. That’s what it was, a positive wrapped in a negative, a good intention shrouded in wolf’s clothing. He would benefit the most initially, but everyone would make out in the long run. They would all see that in time.

Oswal knew this was true. He accepted it without reservation, but that hadn’t always been the case. At first, Oswal had ignored his calling. Grom Galimus has a voice, it was said. She spoke to people who took the time to open their hearts and listen. When first appointed, Oswal believed this to be a metaphor that dovetailed neatly with the strange and inexplicable creaks and groans of the old cathedral. He knew better now.

Thinking back, he was surprised it had taken a whole year.

He’d been working in the office and had left his feathered quill in the bottle. The wind from an open window had blown the inkwell over, ruining hours of carefully worded letters to his fellow bishops—the sort of mindless drudgery that was a grind to get through. The whole pile of silly, pointless reports had been soaked, making them illegible. He’d cried out in despair. Smashed his fists on the desk and wept. He sobbed like a child, not merely for the loss of the letters, but the need for them in the first place.

What has my life become? he had thought.

It wasn’t merely the letters, it was everything. He was the Bishop of Alburn, curator of Grom Galimus, but he saw his future grow clear out of the mist. His life would be no more than a handful of ledgers and reports, the same as his predecessors’. How can this be? he’d thought as he cried into the ink-stained desk. I always thought I was chosen—destined for more. How could I have risen to this seat merely to keep it clean and tidy? Something has to happen.

And something did. That was the night he first heard the whispers, the voice of Grom Galimus. Only it wasn’t one voice, it was two, and they called his name.

The last of the faithful funneled out, including the boys and the ushers who were all eager to join the festival crowds, and Oswal personally shut and locked the great doors. This left him alone in the church. No, he thought, I’m not. The Calian had to be around somewhere, but he didn’t want to know where he was or what exactly he was doing. He refused to involve himself further in the details of the day’s events. A blind eye was best.

My part in this is done.

He returned to his office, slipped inside, and locked the door. He didn’t want visitors. Or more precisely, he didn’t want any more of them. Tynewell was never alone in that office.

He removed the miter from his head and set it in the case, careful to pull the tails up before closing the cabinet doors. After slipping off his high vestments and hanging them up in the wardrobe, he poured wine into a silver chalice and sat down in his undershirt. Kicking his slippers off, he threw his hairy legs up on the desk and drank. He paused and raised the cup.

“To a better future, gentlemen,” he said, hoping they didn’t notice how his hand shook.

But of course they do. They see everything, don’t they? No sense denying it. They know what I am.

“I suppose you two never had doubts as you piloted the waters of your own lives, did you? Never had . . .” He almost said fears but caught himself. “Concerns. Well, we all know I’m not either of you.” He turned to Novron, who was forever holding up either the exact same silver chalice Oswal now held or its sister. He gesticulated with his goblet so that the wine spilled. “After all, I’m not the son of a god like you are. You have to admit that’s a pretty big advantage. Not really fair, when you think about it. And I’m certain things were easier in your day. Fewer people to deal with at least, less bureaucracy. And you had the Rhelacan. I don’t have any magic weapons at my disposal to sweep aside my enemies.”

His words were forceful, loud, and confident; no humble self-effacing blather allowed. That was how he had to talk to Novron. The emperor couldn’t hear him otherwise. Then Oswal gestured at Venlin, a bit more slowly, but the wine still spilled down his knuckles. “And you! What are you crowing about? What competition did you have? You were revered, and already the undisputed head of the church, and you had an army that would”—he paused to lick the wine from his fingers—“take turns cleaning your sandals with their tongues if you told them to. So don’t look at me like that. I have it hard—harder than either of you.” He swallowed a mouthful of wine. It was much better than the watered-down service vino. “I have to claw my way.” He held up his empty hand. “Do you see these fingers? Worn to a nub, every one. And these feet!” He sat back and held the bottoms out to the painting. “Sore from the bloody balancing act I’ve been doing. I’m a lion tamer trapped in a cage with a dozen hungry beasts. ‘Up! Up!’ I yell, but do they listen?”

Oswal settled back and breathed, letting the chalice rest on the arm of the chair. Outside the window, he could hear laughter, shouts, and musicians’ instruments being tuned up. Such children, he thought. They have no idea what’s about to happen.

He didn’t worry so much about his flock. They were docile things. But the Alburn aristocracy, the wealthy merchants and clerks, and the military were another matter. He couldn’t run the kingdom without them. If they refused to recognize him as ruler, which they would if they suspected his involvement in the massacre, or if they found a suitable surviving noble, he’d have a civil war on his hands. A war that he had no army to fight. All he had was faith. That, too, could be taken away.

“What will the patriarch do? Will he recognize me as the rightful ruler of Alburn?”

Of course! Venlin said, his smooth delivery two parts velvet and one part barrel-aged whiskey. Venlin was the intellectual of the two, the brilliant confidant and adviser, the shrewd politician. That old recluse granted you complete freedom to choose the best successor to Reinhold. He did so because you know each of the candidates personally. Who better to select the most devoted, the most pliable, the best ally. You’re doing that. He can’t get upset because you did what he asked.

“But it’s probably not how he expected me to do it.”

Novron scoffed. Are you serious? Doing what people expect gets you nothing and nowhere. Honestly, man! How did you rise in the ranks with that attitude?

“I should have asked permission, shouldn’t I? I mean, it feels like such a deception.”