The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Did you get into the Estate? Were you able to see the Duke?” Hadrian asked.

  Royce nodded. “And he has Wyberg and a group of guild leaders in the meeting hall right now. They’re discussing the duke’s intentions and what changes will be coming. Looks like Mercator accomplished that much at least. There won’t be any revolution.” He looked at Hadrian. “I told Roland we’d take care of getting the duchess back to the Estate.”

  Hadrian’s fingers suffered the dreaded pins and needles as blood flowed back to them. To his surprise, Seton, whose face was streaked with tears, took his hands and rubbed them.

  With his hands returning to normal, Hadrian clapped and rubbed them together. “Let me get my swords, and we’ll get going. So, where is she?” he asked Royce.

  “Don’t know.” He looked to Griswold.

  The dwarf began shaking his head, though Hadrian doubted the dwarf was aware of it. He had a lost, horrified look, as if he’d just woken up with blood on his hands. “I don’t know. No one does.”

  “What do you mean no one?” Hadrian asked.

  “The duchess was the mir’s responsibility, and only Villar and Mercator know where they took her. But the duchess isn’t the real problem.”

  “Then what is?” Hadrian asked.

  “If Villar doesn’t want reforms and is only after bloodshed and violence, then . . .”

  “Then nothing. He has no mob to follow his—”

  “He doesn’t need anyone’s help. You don’t understand,” Griswold interrupted, his face white. “He knows how to create a golem. You have no idea how much damage they can do.”

  “Think I have a pretty good idea,” Royce said. “Had one chasing me most of the night.”

  “Trust me it can be much worse.”

  “But why?” Hadrian asked. “Why would Villar be so bent on violence?”

  Royce shrugged. “Frustration, revenge, hate. He blames others for his lot in life. His father never appreciated him. The weather has been cloudy. Take your pick. People have an inexhaustible supply of excuses to wreak havoc.”

  “In this case, however, Villar has a once in a lifetime opportunity,” Griswold said. “He can raise an unstoppable monster and later today, all the nobles of Alburn, the very people Villar blames for his misfortunes, are going to be gathered in one place. It’d take no time for him to tear through that crowd.”

  Hadrian shook his head. “Villar’s last golem had to have made an impression. It’ll keep everyone away. People are probably fleeing the city as we speak.”

  “We’re talking about nobles vying for the crown,” Royce said. “No one is going anywhere.”

  Selie Nym nodded. “It’s Villar that we have to find.” She turned to the dwarf. “Maybe you don’t know exactly where he is, but you know something—some way to narrow the search.”

  Griswold nodded. “To raise a golem, you have to be on consecrated ground.”

  “What does that mean?” Royce asked.

  “It has to have been blessed, sacred. Otherwise, you’re committing suicide.”

  “How so?”

  “Raising a golem requires trapping a demon and forcing it inside a statue. They don’t like that, and the first person they’ll kill is their creator. Golems can’t step on consecrated ground, so that’s the only safe place to raise one. If they can’t reach the summoner, they’re forced to act as his puppet.”

  “Does that have something to do with the boxes you were handing out? Do they have to spread it around or something?” Hadrian asked.

  “No, the boxes are filled with the residue, the waste bits and chips, that were chiseled off the statues when they were created. Using them, the summoner can animate the statue related to its corresponding bits. The plan had been for Erasmus, myself, and Villar to raise golems to aid in the uprising. I was going to use the church near the graveyard. The place where you saw me give Erasmus his box of gravel.”

  “So, where else can this be done?” Hadrian asked. “Will any graveyard work? Any church?”

  “That’s the thing. There aren’t many places in Rochelle that meet the requirements. It’s not like anyone can throw salt around and say some magic words. The site must be on a focal point.” Griswold looked at them and sighed again. “It’s hard to explain if you aren’t a dwarf. Even hard for some of us to understand. So many of the old ways have been lost since we were scattered to the winds by the empire.” He cupped his hands. “It’s like this. There are places—natural places—in the world that are centers of power. You’ve heard of Avempartha, right? That’s an example. Drumindor is another. Power rises to the surface in places like that, and people have built structures on them to harness that strength, sometimes without even knowing why.”

  “Grom Galimus?” Royce said.

  Griswold nodded. “That’s where Erasmus”—he looked at the widow and cringed—“was going to raise his golem. Villar was going to be somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “How long can a summoner control his golem?” Royce asked.

  “It comes down to a force of wills. The summoner needs to conduct the actions of the golem. You see through its eyes and direct its movements. But it hates being used, so the whole time you have to concentrate and be mindful about the amount of time the connection is in place. Keeping control for too long is dangerous.”

  “How so?”

  “Hang on too long, and you lose your soul and become permanently trapped inside the golem. It becomes immortal and nearly indestructible.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Royce said. “That’s worse. How long does that take?”

  “Generally, we try to not hold the connection for more than a few hours, but a golem can do a lot of damage in that amount of time. Best way to stop the summoner is to force him to sever the connection.”

  “And how do you do that?” Royce asked.

  “Distract, threaten, or kill him.”

  “So the connection is broken if the summoner dies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” A smile grew on Royce’s lips.

  “I think I would prefer stopping him before he makes another one,” Hadrian said, moving to the steps.

  “What are you going to do?” Griswold asked.

  Hadrian shrugged. “We have a tendency to make this stuff up as we go.”

  A mir had been waiting at the top of the stairs and handed Hadrian his weapons without saying a word. After Hadrian strapped them on, he jogged to catch up to Royce.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked as they walked down a roadway. He knew it was called Center Street only because the name was neatly stenciled on a wooden road sign that the birds loved more than the residents did, as evidenced by the white streaks on the placard and pole. The street, as far as Hadrian could tell, tracked due west toward the plaza. He knew this not due to any growing understanding of the city, but because he could see the spires of Grom Galimus straight ahead. The tallest building by far in the city, the cathedral could always be seen rising above the other roofs.

  “Not sure. I’m thinking.”

  The two were as alone as they could be that morning in a cramped city that was coming alive with the rising sun. Griswold, Seton, and Selie Nym had remained to aid Roland with quelling the rebellion.

  “Happy first day of spring,” Hadrian offered along with a yawn as they walked by a shop where the owner flipped over a sign, presumably for the first time that year. It had read DRIED HERBS but now announced FRESH FLOWERS.

  Royce gave him a sidelong glance. “Don’t do that again.”

  “You have something against spring? When did that happen?”

  “Don’t offer yourself as a hostage.”

  “Oh, that.” Hadrian yawned again. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, and it was starting to drag on him.

  “Don’t Oh that me,” Royce reprimanded, sounding eerily like Evelyn Hemsworth. “This is not a laughing matter. You put me in a
box.”

  “I put you in a box? See, I saw it as me putting myself in one.”

  “You did both. In our line of business, associations are liabilities. Loyalties are points of weakness. They get you killed. If they had captured you, locked you up, that would have been fine. But you—”

  “How would that have been fine?”

  “I would have just killed them.” Royce said this in such a matter-of-fact tone that Hadrian failed to question the boast.

  If it had been anyone else, Hadrian would have passed it off as bombastic bluster, but Royce wasn’t bragging, wasn’t exaggerating to make a point. He was serious, and to him this was a practical matter. A basic trade rule, like not shoveling manure into the wind.

  “But when you volunteer to act as collateral,” Royce went on, “that puts me in a tight spot. The stakes go up, and I can’t walk away if things take a nasty turn—like this one did.”

  “Is this your way of saying you care about me?”

  Royce continued his Evelyn Hemsworth impersonation by displaying an I-can’t-believe-you-really-exist expression. “This is my way of saying you’re an idiot, and the next time you do something that stupid, I’ll let them kill you.”

  Hadrian smiled. “You really like me, don’t you?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I feel bad now,” Hadrian said. “I didn’t get you anything for Spring Day.”

  Royce walked faster, shaking his head as he moved forward.

  The sun was barely up, but already the day displayed all the indications that it would be glorious. The sky was blue, the sunshine bright, the temperature warmer than it had been in days. Birds built nests under the eaves of shops as owners threw wide winter shutters, letting the birdsong in. How rare that the first day of spring lived up to expectations. That sentiment was on every face as people crept out of dark homes to celebrate the holiday of rebirth. Mothers dressed their children in fine clothes, delivering stern ultimatums and handing out rules against doing anything beyond standing still. Young women burst out of doorways, resembling budding flowers as they twirled their dresses of bright yellows, pinks, and greens, full of excitement that they might attract the attention of a handsome bee or two.

  The usual vendors were not present in the plaza. Even they had taken the day off. In their place, musical bands were in the process of setting up while men who moved awkwardly in waistcoats, capes, and shiny-buckled shoes set up banquet tables or roped off squares for dancing. One area suffered from an odd break in the boundary where several shattered paving stones created a nasty crater. Hadrian noted that even though the steps of the gallery had been cleaned, there was still a rusty tinge on some of them, and one of the beautiful doors had been battered and torn. The tragedy of the previous night had been mostly erased by the morning light and the new season, but just like winter, the hardships couldn’t be entirely forgotten. The people in the plaza moved around the crater and avoided the steps to the gallery. Still, they were unwavering in their efforts to celebrate the spring. Surviving was often a matter of moving forward. Moving forward was a matter of putting yesterday in the past, and all of it began with putting one foot ahead of the other, remembering how to smile, how to dance, and especially, remembering that laughing wasn’t disrespectful; it was essential.

  Hadrian’s attention was pulled away by the grand procession underway as ten men carried a massive garland-festooned post across the bridge. The Springpole, streaming ribbons of various colors, was headed to the plaza, where it would be erected for the opening dance. Hadrian’s home village of Hintindar put up a Springpole every year as well, though not nearly so big. He imagined every town did. Rochelle planned on celebrating on a scale Hadrian couldn’t imagine. Feeling the energy and anticipation, he wanted to join in, help put up the pole, roll out the barrels, and find a partner for the Rabbit Run and the Blossom Ball. But they still had work to do.

  As if realizing only then that he was walking, Royce stopped. He took in a long breath and let out a sigh of frustration.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve got nothing. Villar is the only one left who knows where the duchess is.” Royce looked around at all the congested buildings. “He could be anywhere!”

  “No,” Hadrian said. “He has to be somewhere special, someplace sacred.”

  “Sure, okay, but what is considered special or holy in Rochelle? Do you know? Because I don’t. This is the problem with taking jobs outside our neighborhood. Even Griswold, who I’m guessing has lived here his whole life, only knew about two places. And if Erasmus was using the cathedral and the dwarf the old church, then where was Villar going? Griswold would have mentioned other sites if he knew any.”

  “Villar knows of at least one more, obviously,” Hadrian said. “He’s a mir, and mir live for a long time, right? So it might be something ancient. Something everyone else has forgotten about.”

  “How does that help?”

  “Maybe we just need to find someone who knows a lot about the ancient history of Rochelle.” Hadrian smiled. “Can you think of anyone like that, Royce?”

  Royce’s eyes widened. “Oh, you are kidding me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A Prayer to Novron

  Like the rest of the city, Mill Street had been transformed. The quiet thoroughfare of dignified stone homes was festooned with whimsical decorations. Nearly every house had garlands of spring flowers and pastel-colored ribbons in loops beneath windows. Some homeowners extended the loops beneath two windows, creating smiling faces with flowered lips and crisscrossed-glass eyes. Here, too, groups of residents gathered in small clumps, chatting on a street devoid of its normal traffic. Five men in tall hats spoke in the middle of the road. A larger group of women in hoop skirts gathered near the lamppost, which had been trimmed with a spiraling green ribbon. One bent down to pet a little pug-nosed dog.

  “Where have you two been?” Evelyn burst out the moment they entered the house. With arms tightly folded, she stood beside a table of uneaten food. “Just when I thought you’d been tamed, you prove that wild animals can never truly be domesticated.” She looked at the grand banquet she had prepared, as if she might cry. “But even a wild animal . . .” She waved at the table. “It’s food after all. Even a cave-dwelling beast will make a habit of being on time for a feast.”

  “Our sincere apologies,” Hadrian said. “We were unavoidably detained.”

  “Whose prison?” she asked.

  Royce wiped his feet on the doormat and removed his cloak. Hadrian took off his sword belt. They needed her cooperation and couldn’t afford to irritate Evelyn any more than she already appeared to be.

  “Did the duke catch you, or was it some underworld thug who locked you up?”

  “What makes you—”

  “Oh, honestly.” She scowled and grabbed her skirt while stepping to the head of the table. Royce moved quickly and pulled out the chair for her. She frowned. “If I look that simple-minded to you, I suggest investing in canes to help you walk like all the others Novron punished with blindness. The only surprise about you two is that my silverware hasn’t gone missing, which, incidentally, is the only reason you are still here. I have friends in the duke’s court. My husband was very popular there, you know. In a way, he, more than the duke, paid their salaries. I would have seen both of you in chains if so much as a toothpick had been pilfered.”

  “I didn’t even see the toothpicks.” Royce glanced at Hadrian.

  Hadrian shook his head.

  Evelyn tilted hers and peered sternly at the both of them. “At this point, there is nothing either of you can say to redeem yourselves. I told you no jiggery-pokery, did I not? No shady business. But here we are. I’d throw you out now, but I can’t stand wasting food. So, sit down and eat your last meal under my roof. Immediately afterward, please gather your things and leave. I’ll have no more to do with either of you.”

  “But—” Hadrian started.

  She shut him down with a raised hand. “N
o! No, I don’t want to hear your excuses! Just eat and get out. The eggs are ruined, and the pastries are likely hard, but that’s your fault.”

  They settled into chairs. Hadrian reached to uncover the food plates but Royce stopped him.

  “What are you waiting for?” Evelyn asked, annoyed.

  “We haven’t given thanks.” And before Evelyn could reply, Royce bowed his head. “We thank you, Lord Novron, for the food Mrs. Hemsworth has made for us, and apologize for being late. We weren’t in a prison. Well, Hadrian was, sort of, but only because he volunteered to risk his life to save the Duchess of Rochelle. She’s still alive, by the way, but being held prisoner by a murderous mir—the same one who brought the stone gargoyle to life and hurt all those people in the plaza. Oh, and it killed Mercator Sikara, a mir who was only trying to keep peace between the Pitifuls and the nobles. More would have died if I hadn’t managed to lure the thing to the top of Grom Galimus and cause it to fall, shattering on the plaza. Despite all this, we would have still been on time except we haven’t yet found the mir holding the duchess, and we’re in a bit of a hurry because he may kill her at any moment. Oh, yeah, and he’s intent on unleashing a great deal of bloodshed later today. So, Lord Novron, we’ve been a tad busy. We hope you understand and forgive us for our tardiness.”

  Royce looked at Evelyn, who stared at him incredulously.

  “May we prove worthy of your kindness.” She concluded the prayer with wide eyes that looked back at Royce, dumbfounded.

  Hadrian gave her a big smile as he uncovered the food and scooped spoonfuls onto his plate, then passed it on to Royce.

  “Are you . . . was that true?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t lie to Novron,” Royce told her through a mouthful of eggs, which were not at all ruined.

  “Who are you?”

  Royce glanced at Hadrian. Normally this was where his less experienced partner would put them in jeopardy, openly admitting everything because someone had gone to all the trouble of asking. Hadrian, however, kept himself occupied with the meal. Neither of them had dined the night before, and Hadrian was fond of repeating the military axiom: Never pass up a chance to eat or sleep, as you don’t know when you’ll get another opportunity.