The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “You know that for a fact?” Hadrian stared in shock.

  “I know it as well as you’re sitting here. I told Genny he only wanted her money. Guess he didn’t need my girl once his debts were paid. No reason to keep her. Nobles aren’t like you and me. No loyalty, no civility. They behave all righteous and proper, but it’s just an act.”

  Gabriel turned to Royce. “Will you make them suffer the way you did in Colnora?”

  “Expensive,” Royce said.

  “You know who I am. What street I live on. I can afford it, and I want blood. I’ll give you fifty gold for your time and another twenty-five for every life you take, double if they suffer.”

  Hadrian dragged a hand down his face. “All this talk of blood and bodies; she could still be alive.” Gabriel started to speak, and Hadrian put a hand up to stop him. “Granted, it doesn’t look good, and it does sound like something bad has happened to her, but she might not be dead. Could be she’s locked up somewhere. Killing a duchess is dangerous, even if she’s new to the family.”

  Gabriel thought about this for a moment. “Fine. I’ll pay one hundred and fifty yellow stamped with Ethelred’s ugly head if you find, rescue, and bring Genny back alive. But if she’s dead, my original offer stands.”

  “Depending on the extent of involvement, this job might prove costly, even for you.”

  Gabriel Winter’s rage returned. He made fists on the table. “I have a lot of money, but only one daughter. And if she’s gone, what need have I for gold?” He wiped his eyes. “Make that goddamn duke and all those working for him bleed. Turn the Roche River red for me, for me and my Genny.”

  “How far is it?” Royce asked.

  Hadrian stuffed the round of fresh bread in the small sack tied around the horn of Dancer’s saddle. This was his quick-access bag where he kept his travel essentials for riding: gloves, some peanuts, three strips of jerky, a rag, a few apples, cedar grease to keep the bugs away, a tinder kit, and a needle and thread. The loaf was fresh out of the oven and still warm. Though he’d just finished a fine breakfast, Hadrian knew the odds of the loaf surviving even the short distance to the Gateway Bridge were slim. He considered stuffing it into the big leather bags behind his saddle, but the loaf would be crushed there, and that was no way to treat a gift from Gwen.

  “To Rochelle?” he asked. “I dunno, five, six days maybe, assuming the mountain pass is clear, which it should be since Gabriel Winter has been getting letters from there. We’ll have to cross to the eastern side of the Majestics.”

  “And we’ll need to skirt around Colnora,” Royce reminded while he finished tying down the last of his gear across the rump of his horse. “Will it be hot down there?”

  Hadrian considered this. Rochelle was nearly as far south as Dulgath, but the regions didn’t share the same climate. Dulgath had the most magnificent weather of anywhere he’d been. In contrast, Alburn, as he remembered, was a cold, wet place. “Bring your heavy cloak and boots.”

  “Already have them.”

  “When do you think you’ll be back?” Gwen asked. She stood on the porch of Medford House along with Jollin, Abby, and Mae, all out to see them off. The sun was just rising, and, except for Gwen, the girls were still in their nightgowns and wrapped in blankets. Behind them, painters set up scaffolding to continue turning The Medford House blue.

  “Might be a while,” Royce said, his voice soft, regretful.

  Gwen met him in the street, and the two stood an arm’s length apart. Hadrian watched and waited, as did the girls.

  “This job could be more complicated than the one we did in Maranon, more . . . well, I don’t know, just more.” Royce held on to the lead of his horse, the distance between him and Gwen remaining undiminished. “Don’t get worried if we aren’t back for . . . I don’t know, could take several weeks. Let’s just say that, okay?”

  Gwen nodded. “We’ll say that, then.”

  “Right.” Royce didn’t move, just stared at her.

  A moment, maybe two, went by and Hadrian considered whether Royce would ever move, wondered if he could. Hadrian couldn’t understand what prevented his partner from hugging and kissing her goodbye. Then he remembered this was Royce he was watching, and it all made sense.

  “Right,” Royce said again, and nodded. He then led his horse down Wayward Street, and Hadrian followed.

  The trip was quiet. Hadrian didn’t even attempt to chat.

  Over the last three years, they’d gone through various conversational stages. Initially, Hadrian sought to draw Royce out, mistaking silence for social awkwardness. This served only to irritate Royce, who refused to be manipulated into doing anything, even talking. Hadrian then tried pretending Royce was a normal person who simply couldn’t speak. Thus, Hadrian took it upon himself to fill the many hours of slow travel with his own meanderings, and, when needed, he would supply both sides of a conversation. Royce had silently endured this. Given that Hadrian felt some of his musings were insightful, even entertaining, his companion’s muted reaction irked him. Once, Hadrian had performed an improvisational debate between a work-obsessed honeybee and a flighty dandelion that ought to have resulted in a stirrup-standing ovation, but Royce had ignored it completely, which caused Hadrian to wonder: Why am I doing all the work?

  Several hours after setting out for Rochelle, Hadrian finally concluded that it wasn’t his job to entertain Royce. If the thief was too self-absorbed to participate in a simple conversation, then fine. They would ride in silence. Hadrian hung back, nibbling bread, waving to the milkmaids, and making silly faces at the boys herding sheep. He sewed up a hole in the thumb of his glove, and after he spotted a hawk that failed to catch a field mouse on its third attempt, he managed to stop himself from commenting on the bird’s need for spectacles. And so it was that they rode the entire day without a word between them.

  For the most part, they followed the Old South Road, which was also called the Colnora or Medford Road, depending on where one lived. As far as roads went, this was one of the best. Wide, firm, and mostly straight, it ran through a dignified countryside of respectable forests and friendly fields. Farms and small villages appeared, with names like Windham and Fallon Mire, places not unlike where Hadrian was born.

  Just before sunset, Royce led them off the road and into a small stand of trees without saying a word. Silently, he tied his horse, unsaddled her, and removed his gear. Hadrian waited for the thief to say something, anything, but once his gear was in place, Royce went off on his usual security-patrol-and-wood-gathering ritual.

  “It’s like he’s forgotten we’re here,” Hadrian whispered to Dancer as he tethered her to a branch. “Do you think he’s mad at me?”

  Hadrian shook out his bedroll and laid it on what looked to be a soft patch of grass, still matted from winter’s recent retreat. While the surface looked dry, he discovered the ground was actually quite wet, so he went back for the tar-covered canvas to lay beneath his blankets. “Do you know anything I might have done?” he whispered to Dancer as he scanned the trees, looking for Royce. “Quiet is one thing, but it’s like we’re on our way to the Crown Tower again.” He clapped the horse on the neck. “We left you tethered in a field, and Royce was unconscious while I floated down an ice-cold river. Not a good time for any of us, was it?”

  When Royce returned with an armful of wood, he sported his usual miserable expression. The light was nearly gone, the camp set, and Royce still hadn’t said a word. Hadrian wondered just how long the silence would last. He’s going to have to say something eventually. Maybe he’ll ask where the bread is. While Hadrian had saved half the loaf for Royce, he planned to respond that he’d eaten it all because Royce hadn’t said he wanted any.

  After lighting the fire, Royce sat down on his blankets and watched the flames.

  I’m not making a meal until he says something. He’s going to have to ask. He’s going to have to open his mouth and say, ‘Well, are you going to make something or what?’

  He didn’t
. Royce continued to sit and stare as if he’d never seen fire before.

  Oh, for the love of Maribor! Hadrian got up and dug through the food bag. I can’t believe he’s—

  “I’m not mad at you,” Royce said.

  Hadrian glanced at Dancer, showing her a guilty expression. He heard that? Royce’s hearing was unusually acute, but Hadrian hadn’t known it was that good.

  “Why so quiet then?”

  Royce shrugged, which Hadrian knew was a lie.

  “Is it the job?”

  Royce shook his head. “Best we’ve had in ages.”

  “Are you upset this Cosmos person knows you’re in Medford?”

  “No. I would have been shocked if he didn’t know.”

  “So, what is it?”

  Another lying shoulder roll was followed by an unnecessary adjustment of his blanket.

  Hadrian gave up and set the pot on the fire. Then he searched for the lump of lard, which always managed to find its way to the bottom of the pack.

  “Do you think she likes me?” Royce asked.

  “Gwen?”

  “Yeah.”

  His arm still in the pack, Hadrian looked over. “Is this a trick question? Is there more than one Gwen?”

  “I know she likes us, but she likes everyone, doesn’t she? Even Roy the Sewer.” Royce got to his feet and threw a stick at the fire with enough force to burst forth a cloud of sparks. “Roy traded the trousers she’d given him for a bottle, then nearly froze in the street, but she still smiles at him, still gives him free food. She’s a nice person, obviously, but—”

  “She likes you, Royce. And yes, more than Roy the Sewer.” Hadrian rolled his eyes at the absurdity.

  Royce stared back, his brow knitted tighter than a miser’s purse.

  “Are you serious?” Hadrian asked.

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  Hadrian had to admit his friend did appear grave, even more than usual.

  “She’s always so nice, makes me feel . . .”

  Hadrian waited, shocked that Royce might finish such a sentence. He didn’t.

  “It’s just that most people consider me . . . well, you know. If Medford took a vote for the person to avoid the most, it’d be a toss-up between me and old Roy the Pantless Wonder.”

  “Wait.” Hadrian forgot the lard and walked back around the fire. “I always assumed . . . but . . . what are you saying? I mean, you two have kissed, haven’t you?”

  “Kissed?” Royce glared. “No! By Mar, are you insane? What kind of question is that? Gwen is . . . she’s . . .”

  “She’s a woman who’d probably like you to kiss her.”

  Royce sat back down on his bedding, his eyes tense, angry. His hands clenched with unconscious energy.

  “So, you two haven’t done anything?”

  “What do you mean by anything?”

  “I mean—”

  “I’ve hugged her,” Royce declared proudly.

  “That wasn’t what I meant, but have you? Have you really? Or did she hug you, and you didn’t cringe? Because that’s not the same thing, you know.”

  “Look, just because you’re quick to—”

  “This isn’t about me, and it isn’t about Roy the Sewer, either. The woman’s in love with you, Royce. And don’t tell me you don’t feel the same.” Hadrian shook his head. “You can’t stand leaving her and can’t wait to get back. The two of you act as if you’re already married—still in that honeymoon phase, too. I just don’t understand it. You’re normally so—” He paused. “Oh! That’s why you’re so quiet. You’re not mad at me; you’re angry with her.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re angry at Gwen because she ruined your perfect little world. Everything was so neat and orderly, all painted the same color of black. Now she’s gone and made a mess by spilling hope and sunshine all over the place. You’re in love with her and it’s killing you, isn’t it?”

  Royce didn’t answer.

  “Admit it, you love Gwen, and it scares you. You’re terrified because you’ve never loved anyone before.”

  The hood came up, as it always did.

  “That’s not an answer, you know.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Chapter Four

  Rochelle

  Rolling hills and quaint farms disappeared as Royce and Hadrian headed into the Majestic Mountains. The jagged snow-swept peaks that ran from the Senon Uplands to Amber Heights divided Warric from Alburn, west from east, new from old. As always, Royce left the road to avoid the city of Colnora, maintaining his truce with the Black Diamond Thieves’ Guild. They found the byway again near the Gula River and followed it into Alburn rather than risk the snows of the Amber Heights pass. Crossing to the far side of the Majestics, they entered a different world. The landscape reflected the transition. Rolling green hills turned into jagged mountains, river gorges, and ocean cliffs. Oaks and maples became pines and junipers. Snow reappeared at the higher elevations and dense fog hugged the seaside. The population was isolated in pockets—valley villages, they were called—and Royce and Hadrian had passed through several of these hamlets without stopping. The local folk didn’t seem to like strangers.

  “Is that it?” Royce asked as the two sat astride their mounts looking at a city clutched in a river valley below. Although the town wasn’t as sprawling as Colnora; the buildings were packed tighter and appeared taller. Hadrian and Royce were still miles away, and from that distance and at that height, the place looked peaceful. Surrounded on three sides by snowy peaks and the open ocean on the fourth, it looked idyllic.

  “I think so,” Hadrian replied. “I haven’t actually been there, but that’s definitely the Roche River, and the city of Rochelle is supposed to be where it meets the sea, or the bay, I guess. The Goblin Sea is farther east. I think this—” he pointed to the cliff beside them, which dropped to an ocean inlet where waves announced the incoming tide—“is called Blythin Bay. At least it was six years ago, and I don’t know why they would have changed the name.”

  By then, the two had been on the road for five days, always camping and avoiding cities or towns. The trip had been warm and dry, but according to the sky, all that was about to change.

  The hood tilted upward, scanning the darkening sky. “Bad weather on the way. Best get down there. What do you know of this place?”

  “I never came to Rochelle. I was only in Alburn for a few months. That was when I served in the military for King Reinhold. Most of that time I was bivouacked up on Amber Heights. I spent my days watching Chadwick’s First Regiment, waiting for them to invade.”

  “Why just a few months?”

  “Because less than a year before, I was in that same regiment. Lord Belstrad, the commander, gave me a medal for my part in the Second Battle of Vilan Hills. I knew all those men. Several were my friends, and everyone knew old Clovis was itching to attack Alburn and take the heights. So, I left. Disappeared in the middle of the night.” Hadrian looked east across the inlet to where he could just make out the far coast, a thin green line fading in a rising mist. “I shipped over to Galeannon and kept right on going, all the way to Calis. Amber Heights wasn’t the first time I faced the prospect of fighting past friends. So, I figured if I went far enough away, it couldn’t happen again.”

  “Did it?”

  “No.” Hadrian sighed. “Instead, I only slaughtered strangers.”

  Hadrian expected a quip from Royce or at least a snide comment. The hood was silent.

  “So, I can’t say I know much about Alburn, even less about Rochelle. As a whole, about the only thing I remember is it being odd.”

  “Odd?”

  “Unfriendly, secretive, and above all, superstitious. The east is different. Those who live in the sunset shadow of the Majestic Mountains are peculiar, and not in a good way. You’ll see. None of my memories of Alburn are good ones, but . . . well, I can’t say as I recall much that was good from those years. Maybe I’m biased.”


  “Good to hear you don’t have fond memories, given the nature of this job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re not here for a social call. None of this helping to save people or advising nobles. We’re here to hunt. Been a while since I did wet work. There’s a certain . . . clarity that comes with executions.”

  “We’re not here to kill anyone,” Hadrian said. “We’ve come to rescue the duchess.”

  Royce drew back his hood to look at Hadrian, or maybe it was merely so Hadrian could see the mocking smile. “You understand Winter’s daughter is dead, right?”

  Hadrian shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  Royce’s eyes widened. “The Duke of Rochelle married her for her money, then arranged a convenient accident to rid himself of the excess baggage. He’s probably done it before, and he’ll likely do it again with another rich daughter or perhaps an elderly widow.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  They reached a ridge where the trail twisted down a narrow pass, which was steep enough that the rocks kicked by the horses’ hooves started a tiny cascade. Seabirds cried overhead, and the wind coming off the water howled.

  “Of course I do. Gabriel Winter was right. Dukes don’t marry middle-aged, ugly merchant’s daughters for love. He wanted the money. That’s how the world works. People are motivated by money, power, security, and . . . well, that’s pretty much it. Actually, when you think about it, they’re all variations on the same theme.”

  “So, you don’t believe in love?”

  “Love is another word for lust or dependence. People confuse it with all sorts of other things, fantasies and wishful thinking, mostly.”

  “Oh really?” Hadrian urged his horse to catch up, as Royce’s mare had a tendency to inch ahead. “Then tell me, O wise one, was it lust or dependence that caused you to risk your life to rescue Gwen from prison? And what fantasy or wishful thinking drove Gwen to hide and nurse us back to health despite the danger?”