The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Royce turned back to Evelyn Hemsworth, who waited with a cringing expression, a look that was half dread and half curiosity. She wanted to know, and at the same time she didn’t. Royce used the moment it took to chew and swallow to mentally sort through the most reasonable replies. None worked for this. After his acrobatics, and his admission that they were seeking to save the duchess, he couldn’t exactly pretend they were traveling merchants or agents for such. He toyed with the idea of saying they were undercover Seret Knights, but Royce was certain Evelyn knew more about the Seret than he did. He also considered refusing to answer at all, but that wouldn’t do. They needed her help, and while his message of grace had blunted her anger, she was many leagues from trusting him.

  With all other options eliminated, and this being an absurd situation, Royce tried something utterly ridiculous. He once more borrowed from Hadrian’s example. “We were hired by Gabriel Winter of Colnora to come to Rochelle and find Genny Winter, his missing daughter. Mister Winter thought she might have been murdered. What we discovered was she hadn’t been killed but kidnapped. She was taken by a loose coalition of the city’s underprivileged, who hoped to influence the duke’s policies by a route that avoided a full-scale revolution. However, it turned out that not everyone wanted to avoid the insurrection. A mir named Villar intends to use dwarven magic to create another stone golem to kill everyone at the Feast of Nobles today.”

  Royce waited for the explosion. He expected Evelyn to demand that they leave, or to see if she would shout for the city guard, calling for their arrest. At the very least, she would loudly deny everything he said. He also expected a good helping of disbelief concerning the raising of golems. Royce had arguments ready, but they weren’t good ones. The truth was a poor weapon when fighting faith, but he was prepared to do battle nonetheless.

  “Oh my blessed Novron!” she exclaimed in shock. Her hands came down, two wrinkled fists pounding the table, soundly ringing the porcelain plates. “Then why are you just sitting here?”

  Royce and Hadrian looked at each other, surprised.

  “You . . . you . . . believe me?” Royce asked.

  “It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?”

  “It does?” Royce looked at Hadrian, who had a mouthful of pastry and could only shrug.

  “Absolutely,” Evelyn said. “And besides, everyone saw you and the golem wreaking havoc through the gallery and across the cathedral. That’s hard to argue with. So, shouldn’t you two be out looking for this Villar fellow? If what you say is accurate, he’s been recruited to murder every noteworthy noble in Alburn.”

  “We are,” Hadrian said. “We didn’t actually come for breakfast.”

  She watched him chew a huge mouthful. “No?”

  “We need to ask you about Rochelle,” Royce said. “We’re looking for any special places, ancient churches or something that might be considered deeply sacred.”

  “Grom Galimus,” she replied instantly.

  “Besides that,” Hadrian managed to say after he swallowed.

  Evelyn thought a moment. “Well, there is supposed to be an ancient burial ground up in Littleton. Dates back to the early imperial age. I’ve never been there. Littleton, or ‘Little Town’ as it was once called, is the dwarven ghetto. Not a safe neighborhood, you understand.”

  “We’ve been there,” Royce said. “But that’s not it, either. There has to be another place, maybe something related to mir?”

  Evelyn pondered while pouring tea for herself. Royce and Hadrian watched as she deposited two cubes of sugar and stirred. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyplace else like that. Of course, you could visit the gallery. That’s what I’d do.”

  “Already been there, twice,” Royce said.

  “And from what I’ve heard, I shouldn’t send you a third time lest the entire place be destroyed, but there are old maps. One in particular hangs on the third-floor wall. It’s very big and believed to have been drawn by the original surveyors who laid out Rochelle. You might find what you’re looking for on it.”

  Royce and Hadrian pushed away from the table.

  “Good luck, gentlemen,” Evelyn said.

  Royce stopped and looked back. He reminded himself he hated this strict, authoritarian, erudite woman, but with no success. Had life seen fit to give him a mother, Royce suspected she really would have been something like Evelyn. Anything less would have been useless. “You might want to leave,” he told her.

  “Leave?” Evelyn said. “Leave what?”

  “Get out of the city.”

  “Are you suggesting I flee?” She signaled her indignation with a raised eyebrow.

  “Look, Villar harbors a good deal of resentment against those he feels suppressed his people. You’re pretty much the face of that fellowship. Everyone knows about your hatred for mir, and if you’re—”

  “I do not!” she snapped. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because we learned about your room for rent from one.”

  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-mâché 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 Hadria
n 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

  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 t
o 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?”