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

Hadrian threw his cloak out the doorway.

A marble foot came down, crushing the garment. Hadrian dived directly between the pair of white polished legs. His plan was to somersault to his feet and run. But the green grass beyond the door was an illusion. The turf lied about the rocks beneath its blades. Hadrian slammed his shoulder against a hidden stone the size of a saddle horn, making him cry out in pain and killing his forward momentum.

A moment was all he had before the golem turned and another foot came down.

Hadrian log-rolled downhill, feeling the ground jump with the golem’s second failed attempt. Finding his feet, he ran for the thickets. The golem chased after him. Hadrian wasn’t certain it would. If Villar had heard their conversation, there was a good chance he might ignore the self-proclaimed decoy. Either Villar hadn’t heard or suspected the verbal planning was a ruse. Or maybe he simply didn’t care. In any case, Hadrian had the statue on his heels, a marble god he had no hope of outrunning and couldn’t fight.

Hadrian plunged into the mass of thickets, hoping to slow the golem down. The thorns slashed him, tore his clothes, and cut his cheek just below his left eye. Like a rabbit chased by a wolf, he clawed his way into the underbrush, aiming for thicker branches and better cover.

Behind him, the ground shook. Branches snapped, and vines were ripped clear. Thorns didn’t bother the god emperor.





Royce didn’t waste a moment.

The instant the golem turned its back, he was out the doorway. A strong leap gave him a fingertip purchase on ancient decorative molding. After that, he relied mostly on cracks—small ones to be sure, but there were many to choose from. He pulled himself up as fast as he could. Everything was working perfectly. Too perfectly. No plan ever unfolded so nicely.

Why did the golem chase Hadrian? Villar must have heard. He knows I’m the real threat. Unless . . . I’m not.

Royce cleared the rim of the roof and ran up the curve to the peak of the dome. The roof of the temple was empty.

Villar wasn’t there.





Stones!

Hidden beneath the brambles and old tree roots, Hadrian discovered a graveyard of tumbled slabs. Once part of the temple, these stones had fallen away and collapsed upon one another like playing cards. Three mostly buried slabs formed a hole that Hadrian crawled into.

A deep cave would have been nice, a tunnel even better; what he found was little more than a pocket.

Better than nothing.

Peering out the opening, he watched the world grow brighter as saplings and brambles were ripped away by Novron the Great. The god was digging down toward him.





Villar wasn’t on the roof, but he had to be nearby. Royce climbed back down and reentered the temple. Hadrian couldn’t survive much longer.

Royce stood in the little room, frustrated. Villar had to be there somewhere, but he couldn’t find him and Royce was almost out of time.

I told you there were no unicorns!

Royce looked at the smoldering coals of the fire.

But the world is filled with vicious, merciless killers.

Then he noticed the heaping piles of wool.

I should know . . . I am one.





Hadrian squeezed himself as deeply as he could into the stone burrow. The slabs were massive, far from trivial impediments, even to a seventeen-foot marble god, but Hadrian was reminded about Villar’s resolve as the golem grabbed the first stone and heaved it clear, tossing the giant granite block like a bag of grain. The second slab followed the first, leaving Hadrian exposed, his cozy refuge destroyed.

He scrambled to his feet. There was no fighting the thing; all he could do was run and dodge. Hadrian watched Marble Novron, hoping he might be able to evade whatever attack it made. If he could, he’d try running again. The golem raised a fist to smash him with, but its arm didn’t come down. Hadrian waited, but Novron continued to stand there, perfectly still. Its eyes were blank, vacant . . . like a statue.

Royce had been quick, just quick enough.

Inching away from the marble god, Hadrian moved back up the slope. He found the ruined temple engulfed in flames. Black smoke and orange tongues of fire licked out the doorway. Royce was out in front of the door, dagger in hand, watching the place burn.

“What happened?” Hadrian asked.

“Villar wasn’t on the roof,” Royce replied, not taking his eyes off the doorway. “And I sort of got tired of looking. How about you, where’s your playmate?”

“Standing over in the thickets looking a lot like a statue.” Hadrian peered into the smoke and flames. “You think Villar’s dead?”

Royce shook his head. “Not yet.”

“No? Then why isn’t the golem moving?”

“Only a guess, but I think when the smoke reached him, Villar panicked and broke the connection.”

“You know where Villar is, don’t you?”

“I can’t prove it, but I think so,” Royce said. “If he wasn’t on the roof, the only place left is underneath.”

“Makes sense. It would have been hidden,” Hadrian said.

“What would?”

“The tomb. That’s what this place is, a monument or crypt to someone. This one was secret, so the entrance to the burial chamber is disguised. Villar set his box to burning, then crawled inside to run the golem.”

The two watched the fire grow. The inferno was thirty feet away, a distance required due to the heat. When the fire spread to the undergrowth, they retreated farther.

“How did you figure out it was a tomb?”

Hadrian pointed at one of the fallen slabs the golem had thrown, now only a few feet away. On it was chiseled a passage of text:



Falkirk de Roche

First Disciple of Bran

Rest With Maribor





“Any idea who that is?”

Royce shook his head. “Must have been someone important, but I suppose given enough time, even really important people are forgotten. It could have been—” He stopped, and then pointed. “There!”

Something moved just inside the doorway. It slowed, then collapsed before getting outside.

Royce nodded. “Now he’s dead.”





After the killer statue had inexplicably run away, Genny took a few minutes to catch her breath. When the marble monster didn’t return, she found two boys cowering in the carriage shop. They looked like good kids, the sort to help a woman who could barely get to her feet. They said they were Wardley Woffington’s sons. After a good deal of coaxing, which ended when one recognized her, Genny convinced them to come out. Once they did, she ordered them to build a stretcher and carry Armand Calder to a physician, which they managed with the skill of those desperate to have some normal task to concentrate on.

After that, Genny walked—very slowly—down the hill. She had no idea where she was going or why. The plaza was a gory scene, but maybe someone else might need help, and . . . it was downhill. She reached the river’s edge, but got no farther than the start of the paving stones when everything finally caught up to her, and she broke down and sobbed.

She wasn’t alone.

People began to spill back into the square from all corners. They came across the bridge, down Vintage Avenue, from Center Street, even through the alley between the gallery and the cathedral. All the faces were the same—shock, horror, bewilderment, sadness. No one could do much more than stare and cry. Hundreds of men, women, and children, most of whom were dressed in the blue clothes of the wealthy and noble, lay dead alongside those who had served them at the feast. Out of that sea of morbid faces emerged an oddity.

Genny saw him through blurry eyes. A portly fellow with a salt-and-pepper beard was dressed in a poorly fitted metal breastplate and carrying a sword. He dropped the weapon and ran toward her, his arms spread wide. He crashed into her, his embrace so tight she could barely breathe. His bushy beard pressed hard against her cheek.