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

Villar didn’t notice the arrival of Glenmorgan, which was odd given that the onetime ruler of the Steward’s Empire stood a good twelve feet tall, and his boots crushed cobblestone to gravel. Villar was preoccupied—giddy—by his delight in crushing the life out of Alburn’s rulers using their own god.

The statue of Novron was huge, and so different from the smaller gargoyles he had been used to. It moved slowly, reacting on a delay, but it was powerful beyond belief. And he liked the view. The statue was so tall he could see everything—everything except Glenmorgan. That revelation reached him in the form of a tackling blow.

Villar wasn’t actually in the plaza; he was remotely operating the golem just as he had done with gargoyles so many times before. And while both Novron the Great and the statue of Glenmorgan—who normally stood on a pedestal in the center of the Imperial Gallery—slammed into a stone pylon that commemorated the war heroes of the First Battle of Vilan Hills, Villar didn’t feel a thing. He also didn’t feel the repeated blows Glenmorgan hammered him with. He did, however, see the chips of marble broken from his chest by Glenmorgan’s fists.

Griswold! With Erasmus Nym dead, only the dwarf had the knowledge and ingredients to raise another golem. He’s trying to stop me.

Villar rolled away, pushing back to his stony feet.

Glenmorgan refused to let up and grabbed him from behind. Leaping on Novron’s back, he threw an arm around the emperor’s neck and squeezed.

Griswold might be a dwarf, a member of the race who had unlocked the secrets of the golem, but he lacked experience at running one. They had let Villar do all the work, all the prior murders in stone form. They had been lazy, and now the dwarf would pay the price. Griswold fought like a person, an easy mistake. Villar had done the same his first few times. Only neither one was flesh, and stone doesn’t breathe. Choking was pointless. Crushing and falling, on the other hand, was devastating.





Before she arrived, Genny was met by a stampede. Hundreds of gaily dressed people fled from the plaza. Ladies in spring gowns and men in hose and buckles ran as if Uberlin were in pursuit.

A woman in a light-blue dress with white lace cuffs waved harshly at her. “Run!” she cried. “Novron is killing everyone!”

She might as well have said Grom Galimus was dancing a jig for all the sense that made, and Genny didn’t even slow down. Not that she was moving all that fast. Her one bit of luck was that everywhere she had run that day had been downhill.

“No! No! Go back!” A man holding a fanciful hat in his hands waved at her. “Everyone is being killed down there!”

Genny did slow down then. The man’s words hadn’t retarded her speed, but the smear of blood across the side of his face gave her pause. That streak of gore made her take his warning seriously, and yet it still didn’t stop her. She continued down Center Street to where it joined Vintage Avenue. From there she had an unobstructed view of the plaza. Two giant stone statues were locked in battle, one on the other’s back with an arm around its neck. Below them was a horrific display of colors. Like blueberries in strawberry jam, bodies lay on the blood-soaked paving stones of the plaza.

Genny continued moving forward.

Leo?

She scanned the bodies. They were a ghastly mess, and she didn’t think she would be able to identify him in that tumbled macabre mass, but she thought she might spot the vest. It was so bright. Then Genny remembered she hadn’t bought it. But even if she had, she wouldn’t have had the chance to give it to him. They took her before she returned home.

I wish I had given you something. She cried once more.

If any doubt hid within the shadows of her heart that she still loved Leo Hargrave, it was washed away by those tears.

Even if Leo doesn’t love me, he is a good man, a kind man. I couldn’t love anyone this much if that wasn’t true.

Something blue moved.

A man near her edge of the plaza struggled to crawl. One of his legs was twisted unnaturally and he hauled himself away by the strength of his arms, leaving a trail of red in his wake. Overhead, the giants staggered, their massive stone legs bashing the paving stones so hard they shook the Spring Day decorations off the walls. The statue of Novron was struggling to throw off the statue of Glenmorgan and in the effort, four feet repeatedly bombarded the plaza, threatening to crush the desperate man.

Genny’s heart leapt at the possibility that it might be Leo, and she rushed forward into the red sea beneath the stone-footed hailstorm. She quickly realized it wasn’t him. This man was younger, thinner. She didn’t stop. Even if it wasn’t Leo, it could have been, and she wanted to help him just as she hoped someone was helping the man she loved. Without even looking at the statues, and gasping for every ounce of air she could haul into her chest, Genny grabbed hold of the man by the shoulders of his tunic and pulled.

In her younger days, the Duchess of Rochelle had hauled, rolled, and stacked casks of whiskey along with the men. The cripple on the plaza was lighter than any cask she had ever hauled. She dragged him away from the carnage with speed, if not gentleness. Genny wasn’t certain where this extra burst of energy came from. It didn’t matter. She had it and was going to make use of the newfound strength. She pulled the survivor out of harm’s way.

Then the ground shook, and there was a great crack!

Novron had managed to lift Glenmorgan, flip him over his shoulder, and slam him down hard on the plaza’s pavers. While the emperor god had been chiseled from solid marble, Glenmorgan had been sculpted from lesser stone. The huge ruler of the Steward’s Empire, who had once stood in the center of the Imperial Gallery, broke. Just to be certain, Novron brought his foot down and shattered his adversary, scattering the pieces across the plaza.

Genny had dragged the wounded man a short way up Vintage Avenue. But it wasn’t far enough. The giant marble monster was finishing off the wounded, crushing them under his massive feet. He would notice them before long.

The wounded man knew it, too, and she felt him cringe.

Vintage Avenue was one of the finer streets in the city and equipped with storm drains. The large pipes ran under the street and flushed rainwater to the nearby river. Their mouths were as big as barrels; a normal-sized man could wriggle in and disappear.

“Crawl into that drain, and get as deep in as possible without falling in,” she told him. “I’ll be right behind—” She heard the slam of stone on stone. Looking back at the square, she realized the golem had spotted them. The giant statue began its uphill charge. “Damn,” she cursed.

They couldn’t both shimmy into that drainpipe in time.

“Tell Leo I love him,” she said, and ran away from the wounded man. As she did, Genny flailed her arms and shouted, “Villar! You son of a whorish werebat! I’m still alive, and you’re still ugly.”

She wasn’t committing suicide, although she realized it might have looked like it. To the wounded noble, she probably appeared to be sacrificing herself to save him. In reality, she had a plan. Her strategy was to catch Villar’s attention and lure the golem away, granting the nobleman time to escape. This was an easy decision and a simple choice, given that Genny had concluded she couldn’t possibly fit into even a barrel-sized pipe. The second part of her plan was less thought out. She hoped to make it to the carriage shop across the street in time to find shelter for herself. This latter part wasn’t likely, not by a long shot.

So maybe this wasn’t such a smart idea after all.

The reality of her situation crystallized when her exhausted legs finally gave out. With muscles screaming from fatigue, Genny stumbled on the uneven cobblestones. Then she fell face-first in the street as the giant statue of Novron closed in.





Chapter Twenty-Eight

Hide-and-Seek