The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  She scuttled away, kicking out with her legs like a crab. When she rolled to her knees and started to stand, he grabbed her.

  The duchess was no dainty woman, no slender flower. She equaled his height and outweighed him by twenty pounds. With a sharp lurch, she slammed her body against his, knocking him back against the wall, nearly throwing him to the floor. The assault also knocked the duchess off balance, and she went down to one knee.

  He was after her an instant later, but the old cow threw everything she could find at him, including two of the heavy urns. One hit his hand, knocking the knife free. He grabbed it up just in time to see the duchess making for the door.

  He was on her then, catching her in the middle of the room. One hand latched on to her butchered hair, pulling her head back, while the other brought up the knife. She continued to twist and kick until the knife reached her neck.

  “Stop!”

  Villar looked up as the two foreigners burst into the temple.

  The smaller one had that white knife, the one that had stabbed the golem and somehow cut his chest. The other—the big one Seton had called the rasa—held two blades, one in each hand.

  “Kill her and you die,” Royce shouted.

  A portly woman whom Hadrian assumed to be the Duchess of Rochelle was on her knees, panting, sweating, her head pulled back. Villar stood behind her, his left hand holding a fist of the woman’s hair, his right holding a dagger near her throat.

  “Help me,” Genny Winter cried.

  Irritated by the outburst, Villar pulled her head further back, causing the duchess to cry out once more.

  “Drop your weapons,” Villar said.

  Royce made a sound like he was clearing his nose. “Why?”

  “Do it or I’ll kill her!”

  Royce glanced at Hadrian. “Didn’t I already explain that if he kills her, I’ll kill him?”

  “You did.”

  “So, what is this idiot doing? Threatening us with suicide?” Royce asked.

  “He’s under the impression you care about her life.”

  “Really?” Royce chuckled.

  “It’s an easy mistake. You did order him not to kill her, and, besides, he doesn’t know you.”

  “Okay, sure, but even if I were someone else—I mean, why would anyone surrender? Would you? Even if that person cared if she lives, Villar is still at a disadvantage. It’s like trading pieces in chess. Sure, we would lose her, but then he loses the entire game. On the other hand, if we surrender, he’ll kill all of us and we get nothing. No one would take that deal. It’s stupid. Not to mention I’m going to get paid whether she’s dead or not.”

  Hadrian focused on Villar. “That’s his way of saying we aren’t going to put our weapons down, but if you kill her . . . well, I’m sure you got the rest.”

  Villar hesitated, the knife unsteady at the woman’s throat.

  “You need to make a deal, boys,” Genny said, her voice steady. “Villar made you an offer, so now you counter. That’s how haggling works. So, now it’s your turn. What do you propose?”

  Royce shook his head. “Don’t have to counter.”

  “Yes, you do!” the duchess cried. “You want me to live, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation, right? Of course, right. But we’re at an impasse. So, you need to deal. Got it?”

  “Whose side are you on?” Royce asked.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “My own, obviously. I want to live. Now listen.” She allowed herself to swallow; in the small room it made a sound they all heard. “I don’t want to die, but that’s beside the point because bizarrely this has nothing to do with me. It’s between the three of you. You don’t want him to kill me, and Villar doesn’t want you to kill him. That’s good because you both have something the other wants. Everyone can win here—even me.”

  No one said anything as all three waited.

  “Okay, good. How about this. Villar lets me go, and you let him go? How does that sound?”

  Royce smiled. “Fine with me. Go ahead. Let her go.”

  “There, you see?” Genny said.

  Villar shook his head. “You think I’m an idiot? The moment I let you go, they’ll rush me. This won’t work! It’s stupid. We can’t make a deal. And if I’m going to die then I’m taking—”

  “It’s not stupid!” Genny shouted as the blade pressed against her skin. “I can make any deal work. It’s what I do. Now shut up and listen to me.”

  “I’m not letting you go so long as they can chase after me the moment I do.”

  “Fine, fine. No problem. This will be easy.”

  “It will?” Hadrian asked.

  “Absolutely,” the duchess replied. “Villar? How would it be if these nice gentlemen and I got into the cell and you locked us in. That way, you’re free and no one can harm you.”

  “What’s to stop him from—” Royce started.

  “Shut up!” Genny shouted. “Whoever you are, please just be quiet.”

  “His name’s Royce, and I’m Hadrian Blackwater.”

  “How nice. Now Royce, Hadrian, please shut up and let me handle this, will you?” She forced a smile. “The two of you will keep your weapons—that way, you won’t be at Villar’s mercy. Locked in a room, sure, but safely locked in a room.”

  “That’s not a very—” Royce began.

  “Shush, I don’t want to hear arguments or counterproposals. We have a deal on the table. Will you agree?”

  Royce looked at the door, huffed, then said, “Fine.”

  “Hadrian?”

  “Yeah, sure, why not.”

  “Villar? You want to live, and so do I. This is a fair trade, a better-than-equitable exchange. My life for yours. Will you take it?”

  Villar didn’t reply.

  “Lower the knife and let me move back while these two enter the cell. Then I’ll get in. You can lock the door and just walk out.”

  He still didn’t answer, but slowly, the knife moved away from Genny’s throat. She waved for Royce and Hadrian to enter the cell. “Gentlemen, if you please?”

  Royce looked disgusted but stepped in. Hadrian went so far as to sheath his swords before entering. Then Genny Winter followed the two of them. Villar shoved her forward into the room, slammed the door shut, and turned the key that he’d left in the lock.

  The moment the door sealed, Genny threw her arms around Hadrian and kissed him. “I love you!”

  After the embrace, she started toward Royce, whose dagger was still out.

  Hadrian pulled her back. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Royce isn’t much of a hugger.”

  “Well, gentlemen, you have my eternal gratitude, but who in Maribor’s name are you? And what are you doing here?”

  “Your father sent us to rescue you,” Hadrian said.

  “He hired us to discover what happened to you,” Royce corrected as he moved to the door. He knelt before the latch.

  “And you did both! You’re my heroes. I’ll knight you, or make you earls or something.”

  Hadrian smiled at her. “I think only kings can do that.”

  “Kings!” the woman burst out. “Leo! I need to find my husband. I need to show the bishop I’m still alive so Leo can be crowned king.”

  “Should have thought of that before locking us in a stone room,” Hadrian said.

  “I did,” Genny replied. She pointed at Royce, who had just managed to pop the lock and open the door.

  Royce immediately raced out like a dog released from a cage after being teased by an arrogant squirrel.

  “You knew he could pick locks?” Hadrian asked the duchess.

  “I knew he wasn’t the type to allow himself to be confined in a cell unless he was positive he could get out. Business is like a card game: You have to judge people quickly and play the odds.”

  Hadrian looked out the open door. Royce was already so far away they could no longer hear him. At that moment, the only sound came from the breeze and birds.

  “Look, I have to help R
oyce find Villar,” Hadrian said. “You need to stay here. Safest place, really. I know you want to go down to the feast, but right now that’s not such a good idea. We’ll be back after we find Villar. Then we’ll escort you back to town.”

  “And if you don’t return, shall I stay here and starve? Or should I wander through the wilderness until I die of exposure?”

  “Look, we will be back, I promise. But if it makes you feel better, town is straight that way.” He pointed at the door. “Just keep heading down the hill, and you’ll run right into Rochelle. Just don’t go until we get back.”

  “Why not?”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  The duchess scoffed. “I’m not some fragile debutante. I’m sure I can manage a hike downhill to town.”

  Hadrian glanced outside. I’m never going to catch up with Royce now. I didn’t even see which way he went. “Look, I’m wasting valuable time. You just have to trust me on this. If we can’t find Villar, if he gets away, there’s a chance he might create a monster and attack the feast.”

  Genny Winter blinked.

  Hadrian saw the confusion on her face. “It’s called a golem, a monster made of stone.” The explanation sounded absurd even to him. “Villar made one before. If he does it again, he’ll slaughter everyone at the feast. So you don’t want to go there, understand?”

  Her hand went to her mouth. “Leo!” she whispered, and her eyes darted toward the door.

  “Look, I know you’re worried, but there’s nothing you can do. Truly, you need to stay here. Don’t leave. Keep yourself safe.”

  With that, he ran out in pursuit of Villar and Royce.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Spring Feast

  Genny had never been in the best of shape, and being trapped for over two weeks in a small cell, eating next to nothing, had only made matters worse. The moment Hadrian left she bolted toward the city and was soon sweating rivers and heaving for breath. Blood pounded in her head; her chest burned; and she’d only run fifty feet.

  Three times she stumbled; twice she nearly fell.

  Run, feet! Run!

  Her whole focus was on the ground before her.

  Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Rock! Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Tree!

  On and on she went, only vaguely registering the blur of green and brown and the warmth of a hot sun baking her skin, something she hadn’t felt in days. The heat was nice, but it made her perspire. By the time she hit pavement, she was soaked, struggling to see through sweat-filled eyes.

  She had come down out of the trees and fields and entered the broken ruins of the Rookery. She’d seen the place before, but only from the window of a carriage and only the part of the destitute neighborhood that bordered Little Gur Em near the harbor. When she emerged from the forest, she was in the shattered heart of this neglected corner of the realm. Grass grew up through the cobblestones and the entrances to buildings. Last year’s leaves remained in corners where the wind had gathered them. The old buildings with their empty windows and missing doors looked hollow, cadaverous. Some were missing walls. Rotting plows and the rims of broken wheels rusted on the street or in the yards. Despite the neglect, Genny spotted yellow and purple wildflowers sprouting everywhere, even on the roofs of some buildings. She loved flowers, and seeing them again made her smile to the point of crying.

  I’m alive.

  Genny found she couldn’t get enough air, as if the world were suddenly in short supply, and her chest burned from the effort of trying. Blood flushed her face; she could feel it hot and full, and her heart continued to pound a loud beat. When did running become so difficult? When she was younger, and a whole lot thinner, she used to run everywhere. Never once had her head felt like a cork in a shaken bottle of sparkling wine.

  When did that change?

  The answer came quickly and in the form of another question. When was the last time I ran? When I was a child. When I was thin. Now I’m . . . little wonder Leo doesn’t love me. No one could possibly love this.

  Tears added to her torment. She ought to hate Leo, but at that moment what she wanted most was to see his face and know he was safe. All she could remember were the laughs they shared. He was so comfortable to be with, never making her feel ugly or awkward, never hurting or belittling her. Even Genny’s father had a tendency to condescend, to trivialize her feelings. Leo actually listened, or did a damn fine impression of it. He never told her no. Never tried to rein her in or told her to behave. Thinking about it, she wondered if his refusal to protect her from ridicule was less evidence that he didn’t care and more a sign of respect that she could handle herself. And they agreed on so much; at times it felt as if they were the same person.

  Genny slowed down. She was out of the Rookery, somewhere between Littleton and Little Gur Em. This was the trade and business district, filled with warehouses and workshops . . . and strangely few people.

  Everyone is at the festival.

  Leo was most certainly there, seated as close as possible to the bishop, trying to impress Tynewell and sway his favor. If I’m not there, will he be disqualified? Will someone else be chosen?

  For Maribor’s sake, how pathetic am I being? What does it matter who wears the crown? I nearly died, but I’m still alive! I’m free! I’m married to a goddamn duke and live in a lavish estate! What’s there to complain about? So what if he doesn’t love me. Who cares? I love him, and I’ll keep on loving him.

  Bishop Oswal Tynewell stood behind the many panes of glass that formed the great rose window directly above the front doors of Grom Galimus. Eight stories up, he had a perfect, unobstructed view of the plaza below. The dancing had stopped, and the rope dividers had been removed. Everyone advanced to take their seats at one of twenty tables set up in four rows circling the statue of Novron. Oswal marveled at the accuracy with which they were placed. No one down there could see the spacing the way he could. The fourth row on the right side was off a little, and it irked him for no reason he could fathom. The banquet tables appeared tiny from his vantage point, though he knew each seated twelve, and that meant more than two hundred nobles were gathered. From where Oswal stood, they appeared as little colorful dots—bright-blue specks.

  The rest of the city’s citizenry, as well as the throngs of visitors, were forced to stay back behind rope barriers that outlined the plaza. Those who, until recently, had been dancing and singing on the paving stones before the cathedral became sweaty spectators of the momentous event that they expected to reveal itself soon.

  The event will certainly be momentous and absolutely worth witnessing—just not too closely.

  Not everyone was there. Some of the lesser nobles, such as those who had resigned themselves to monasteries, hadn’t come. Also absent were women who were old and unmarried. Inviting them would have appeared strange, if not openly suspicious. Monks and spinsters were nothing for Oswal to be concerned about. None of them could be considered serious contenders for the throne.

  Oswal’s immediate concern centered on the fact that food was being brought out, yet nothing had happened. If the servants pulled the lids off the plates—if they began serving without his presence—there would be concern. Already heads were repeatedly turning to look at the door of Grom Galimus. Everyone was waiting for his entrance. Waiting for him to give his speech and explain who the new king of Alburn would be, or at least how the person would be chosen.

  Oswal had no intention of coming out. The church was one of the few safe places in the city. At least that was what Villar had told him, and he ought to know. That mir was dabbling in powers best left untapped, but if doing so got the job done, who was he to argue with results? Still, magic could be unpredictable, and Tynewell didn’t want to leave his survival in the hands of those who might not be able to control the evil they were planning to unleash.

  While the Novronian Empire had once employed wizards, magic had also been the source of its destruction. As such, after the fall of the great capital city, m
agic had been eradicated from the world by edict of the church. Only the truly evil practiced the forbidden art. Its use was grounds for both excommunication and execution. That Villar planned to employ the dark art was further evidence of his vile character. Oswal shivered at the thought of his association with the mir, and yet what else could he do? To obtain what he wanted, some rules needed to be bent and some lines needed to be crossed. Oswal felt that so long as he closed his eyes beforehand, he could step over those lines and still absolve himself of guilt by way of ignorance. Besides, no one could tell him that the sinking of the Eternal Empire was virtuous. Sin was often the bridge to salvation.

  Time kept ticking, and still nothing happened. No revolt, no attack from magical creatures. Oswal pondered what excuse he would give when at last he was forced to emerge. Perhaps he could put them off, saying he still hadn’t decided. No, that wouldn’t work. The kingdom had already gone five months without a king. A contest. He would have to go with that, but what sort? One that was impossible to achieve might be good. It would buy him time to—

  From outside the window and through the many panes of glass, came the sounds of shouts. At first, they were merely cries of surprise. Then they turned to exclamations of fear.

  In the plaza below, faces looked up and fingers pointed at the great marble statue of Novron that graced the center of the square. Some seventeen feet tall, the sculpture was a marvel of artistry, a source of inspiration, and a point of reverence, but never before had it elicited cries of fear. Oswal couldn’t understand the source of the panic until he realized that Novron, who for generations had looked across the plaza to the cathedral, was now looking down at his feet.

  A moment later the statue shifted, twisting its torso and drawing forth its sword.

  A miracle!

  Oswal stared in stunned wonder. The god Novron has come to life!

  Many of the nobles believed similarly as they remained in the square, moving away but not fleeing. A few even went so far as to approach the giant figure. Floret Killian, for instance, who was dressed in his long velvet gown of solid blue with a matching cape, was the first to advance. The attire was so inappropriate for the weather, but so apropos for a man to be crowned in. Perhaps Floret saw this animated statue of Novron as a machination of the church—maybe he thought it was the test their bishop had arranged to find Alburn’s next king: Fleeing from it might prove a lack of faith. Surely the bishop knew Novron would attend in person, and he would be the one to anoint the next ruler. Why else would the bishop insist that all nobles in the kingdom be present? Why else would he wait so long to declare the identity of the new ruler? Yes, of course, Maribor had told the bishop that his son would make an appearance at the Spring Festival and he wanted to ensure that everyone would be on hand to view this miracle.