The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Then the marble Novron began killing people.

  One of Novron’s giant sandals came down on Floret’s side and crushed him against the paving stones. From that point on, the statue left red prints wherever that foot landed. With the other leg, Novron kicked Killian’s two sons across the plaza. Oswal was certain from the stain on the marble shin that they had died the moment the leg hit them. This was merely the preamble. Once Novron was off his pedestal and had his feet firmly planted, he began swinging the sword. A good eight feet in length, the huge marble weapon hewed through swaths of people, all conveniently clumped together. With each successive stroke, the once immaculate statue turned scarlet from the spray and splash of blood.

  Oswal clutched his throat in horror. He stood transfixed by the speed of the massacre. He was appalled. That a mir had chosen to defile the most sacred symbol of the church as his instrument of murder caused him to hit the panes of the rose window with his fists.

  How dare he!

  His horror at the shrieks of the dying and the soon-to-die was overpowered by outrage at the humiliation being wrought upon the faith by a mir using the image of Novron as a tool of destruction.

  This is intolerable.

  Revolution was one thing. Dark magic another. But this, this was an inconceivable perversion. He had to do something. He jogged to the stairs and raced down. Tynewell had no thought as to what he would do when he got to the bottom, but his indignation was overwhelming. He tripped on his own robes and fell the last three steps, but he refused to feel the pain.

  Grabbing up a wrought-iron candlestick, he ran from his office to the massive front doors. There he stood, puffing from exertion, leaning on the iron stand and staring around at an empty cathedral while outside the screams continued. He didn’t dare open the doors. Instead, he peered out through the windows at the massive animated statue wreaking havoc on the plaza. And just when the bishop felt it couldn’t be worse, another towering statue arrived.

  Villar didn’t notice the arrival of Glenmorgan, which was odd given that the onetime ruler of the Steward’s Empire stood a good twelve feet tall, and his boots crushed cobblestone to gravel. Villar was preoccupied—giddy—by his delight in crushing the life out of Alburn’s rulers using their own god.

  The statue of Novron was huge, and so different from the smaller gargoyles he had been used to. It moved slowly, reacting on a delay, but it was powerful beyond belief. And he liked the view. The statue was so tall he could see everything—everything except Glenmorgan. That revelation reached him in the form of a tackling blow.

  Villar wasn’t actually in the plaza; he was remotely operating the golem just as he had done with gargoyles so many times before. And while both Novron the Great and the statue of Glenmorgan—who normally stood on a pedestal in the center of the Imperial Gallery—slammed into a stone pylon that commemorated the war heroes of the First Battle of Vilan Hills, Villar didn’t feel a thing. He also didn’t feel the repeated blows Glenmorgan hammered him with. He did, however, see the chips of marble broken from his chest by Glenmorgan’s fists.

  Griswold! With Erasmus Nym dead, only the dwarf had the knowledge and ingredients to raise another golem. He’s trying to stop me.

  Villar rolled away, pushing back to his stony feet.

  Glenmorgan refused to let up and grabbed him from behind. Leaping on Novron’s back, he threw an arm around the emperor’s neck and squeezed.

  Griswold might be a dwarf, a member of the race who had unlocked the secrets of the golem, but he lacked experience at running one. They had let Villar do all the work, all the prior murders in stone form. They had been lazy, and now the dwarf would pay the price. Griswold fought like a person, an easy mistake. Villar had done the same his first few times. Only neither one was flesh, and stone doesn’t breathe. Choking was pointless. Crushing and falling, on the other hand, was devastating.

  Before she arrived, Genny was met by a stampede. Hundreds of gaily dressed people fled from the plaza. Ladies in spring gowns and men in hose and buckles ran as if Uberlin were in pursuit.

  A woman in a light-blue dress with white lace cuffs waved harshly at her. “Run!” she cried. “Novron is killing everyone!”

  She might as well have said Grom Galimus was dancing a jig for all the sense that made, and Genny didn’t even slow down. Not that she was moving all that fast. Her one bit of luck was that everywhere she had run that day had been downhill.

  “No! No! Go back!” A man holding a fanciful hat in his hands waved at her. “Everyone is being killed down there!”

  Genny did slow down then. The man’s words hadn’t retarded her speed, but the smear of blood across the side of his face gave her pause. That streak of gore made her take his warning seriously, and yet it still didn’t stop her. She continued down Center Street to where it joined Vintage Avenue. From there she had an unobstructed view of the plaza. Two giant stone statues were locked in battle, one on the other’s back with an arm around its neck. Below them was a horrific display of colors. Like blueberries in strawberry jam, bodies lay on the blood-soaked paving stones of the plaza.

  Genny continued moving forward.

  Leo?

  She scanned the bodies. They were a ghastly mess, and she didn’t think she would be able to identify him in that tumbled macabre mass, but she thought she might spot the vest. It was so bright. Then Genny remembered she hadn’t bought it. But even if she had, she wouldn’t have had the chance to give it to him. They took her before she returned home.

  I wish I had given you something. She cried once more.

  If any doubt hid within the shadows of her heart that she still loved Leo Hargrave, it was washed away by those tears.

  Even if Leo doesn’t love me, he is a good man, a kind man. I couldn’t love anyone this much if that wasn’t true.

  Something blue moved.

  A man near her edge of the plaza struggled to crawl. One of his legs was twisted unnaturally and he hauled himself away by the strength of his arms, leaving a trail of red in his wake. Overhead, the giants staggered, their massive stone legs bashing the paving stones so hard they shook the Spring Day decorations off the walls. The statue of Novron was struggling to throw off the statue of Glenmorgan and in the effort, four feet repeatedly bombarded the plaza, threatening to crush the desperate man.

  Genny’s heart leapt at the possibility that it might be Leo, and she rushed forward into the red sea beneath the stone-footed hailstorm. She quickly realized it wasn’t him. This man was younger, thinner. She didn’t stop. Even if it wasn’t Leo, it could have been, and she wanted to help him just as she hoped someone was helping the man she loved. Without even looking at the statues, and gasping for every ounce of air she could haul into her chest, Genny grabbed hold of the man by the shoulders of his tunic and pulled.

  In her younger days, the Duchess of Rochelle had hauled, rolled, and stacked casks of whiskey along with the men. The cripple on the plaza was lighter than any cask she had ever hauled. She dragged him away from the carnage with speed, if not gentleness. Genny wasn’t certain where this extra burst of energy came from. It didn’t matter. She had it and was going to make use of the newfound strength. She pulled the survivor out of harm’s way.

  Then the ground shook, and there was a great crack!

  Novron had managed to lift Glenmorgan, flip him over his shoulder, and slam him down hard on the plaza’s pavers. While the emperor god had been chiseled from solid marble, Glenmorgan had been sculpted from lesser stone. The huge ruler of the Steward’s Empire, who had once stood in the center of the Imperial Gallery, broke. Just to be certain, Novron brought his foot down and shattered his adversary, scattering the pieces across the plaza.

  Genny had dragged the wounded man a short way up Vintage Avenue. But it wasn’t far enough. The giant marble monster was finishing off the wounded, crushing them under his massive feet. He would notice them before long.

  The wounded man knew it, too, and she felt him cringe.

  Vintage
Avenue was one of the finer streets in the city and equipped with storm drains. The large pipes ran under the street and flushed rainwater to the nearby river. Their mouths were as big as barrels; a normal-sized man could wriggle in and disappear.

  “Crawl into that drain, and get as deep in as possible without falling in,” she told him. “I’ll be right behind—” She heard the slam of stone on stone. Looking back at the square, she realized the golem had spotted them. The giant statue began its uphill charge. “Damn,” she cursed.

  They couldn’t both shimmy into that drainpipe in time.

  “Tell Leo I love him,” she said, and ran away from the wounded man. As she did, Genny flailed her arms and shouted, “Villar! You son of a whorish werebat! I’m still alive, and you’re still ugly.”

  She wasn’t committing suicide, although she realized it might have looked like it. To the wounded noble, she probably appeared to be sacrificing herself to save him. In reality, she had a plan. Her strategy was to catch Villar’s attention and lure the golem away, granting the nobleman time to escape. This was an easy decision and a simple choice, given that Genny had concluded she couldn’t possibly fit into even a barrel-sized pipe. The second part of her plan was less thought out. She hoped to make it to the carriage shop across the street in time to find shelter for herself. This latter part wasn’t likely, not by a long shot.

  So maybe this wasn’t such a smart idea after all.

  The reality of her situation crystallized when her exhausted legs finally gave out. With muscles screaming from fatigue, Genny stumbled on the uneven cobblestones. Then she fell face-first in the street as the giant statue of Novron closed in.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Hide-and-Seek

  Royce followed a dirt path outside the ruin, looking for clues. He wasn’t certain what he hoped to find; a dropped note penned by Villar saying I went this way would have been helpful. Hadrian had eventually exited the ruins and circled them twice before wading into where the hawthorn bushes were thick. Royce had no idea where the duchess was—still in the cell if she was smart.

  Villar might have returned to the city or gone deeper into the forest. Both plans had advantages and drawbacks. The city was downhill, but the terrain was mainly open. The forest was closer and offered cover. Which way did he go?

  Hadrian emerged from the brambles. “Find anything?”

  “Nope,” Royce replied.

  The two met back at the ruins.

  The search was extra credit, and it wouldn’t result in any higher payment. Royce was only looking because Villar had nearly killed him on not just one but two occasions. He didn’t like loose ends, and Royce made a point of not letting those that opposed him live.

  He scanned the domed building. Such an odd place.

  The roof was the most striking feature, forty feet high and massive. Royce was no engineer, but he couldn’t imagine that creating a dome out of stone was an easy task. The only other one he’d seen was on the top of Grom Galimus, and he wasn’t certain what that was made of—looked like gold but probably was just painted that color. This roof was assembled from solid, hand-cut rock—no mortar—each stone precisely fashioned.

  What is this place? Too small for a cathedral, monastery, or church, too elaborate for a house. It appeared to be a temple of some sort, like an overgrown chapel.

  “You want to give up, don’t you?” Hadrian asked.

  “Not giving up. We found Genny Winter, even saved her life. I bet Gabriel will pay us extra for that. Job is done. Besides, Villar could be anywhere.”

  “Pretty good bet he went to Grom Galimus,” Hadrian said as the two entered the temple. “Villar doesn’t seem like the type to just give up.”

  “Not our problem, we did—”

  They both halted abruptly only a few steps inside the ruined temple.

  The first thing Royce noticed was the smell. The interior had an awful odor akin to—

  “Smells like someone roasted a dog in here,” Hadrian whispered. The whisper said more than the words. Hadrian had come to the same conclusion Royce had.

  Royce took another step and peered into the cell. The room, the whole temple, was deserted, but if that was true . . . “Where’s the duchess?” he whispered back.

  “I’m guessing on her way back to Rochelle,” Hadrian replied. He had one hand on the handle of his short sword as he carefully moved toward the fire.

  What had been a nearly extinguished pile of faintly smoking ash had come back to life. Flames continued to lick a mostly consumed stack of wood. Royce glanced behind him at the doorway they had entered. He looked at the floor near the wall and found it bare.

  “There was a box here,” Royce said. “I saw it when I came out of the cell.”

  Hadrian nodded. “Like the one Griswold gave Erasmus. I think that’s what’s burning.”

  Royce stared at the fire. “Villar didn’t run away . . . he doubled back.”

  “That’s crazy. We were just outside, looking for him. That’s a huge gamble.”

  “All his stuff is here. He had to come back. He waited for us to leave; probably figured we would go back to Rochelle and look for him at the cathedral, just like you said. When we ran out, he rushed back in. Not a bad idea, considering it’s the one place we knew he couldn’t be.”

  Royce and Hadrian began a systematic search of the debris but found nothing. “So, where is he now?”

  Genny expected to be crushed.

  She thought the stone Novron would stomp her like a bag of grapes, but instead, the god emperor’s head cocked to one side as if listening; then it abruptly turned and charged east between the gallery and the cathedral. It didn’t quite run—Genny wasn’t certain something that big and heavy could—but the long legs gave it the speed of a horse. She watched it leave, dumbfounded.

  Where’s it going?

  “Genevieve?” the man she had pulled clear called out from the mouth of the drainpipe, looking like a groundhog peering out of its hole.

  Genny rolled to one side. She wasn’t getting up. That was way too much effort. Instead, she crawled over the cobblestones. She recognized the blood-smeared face of Armand Calder, Earl of Someplace. She didn’t know him well, had only seen him once, during her wedding. She seemed to recall he might have kissed her hand. He was a lesser lord, no one of great account in the world of Alburn politics.

  “Hullo, Army, how you doing?” she responded with a ridiculous smile. “Hanging in there, right? You’re gonna be fine. Might not be dancing for a while, but you’ll be up and about in no time; trust me, I’m going to see to that.”

  Armand shook his head. Either it was the pain—which looked considerable given the condition of his leg that had been facing the wrong way when she’d found him—or the terror had finally caught up, but she saw tears in the Earl of Someplace’s eyes.

  “It just came to life and started killing everyone . . . everyone.” He shuddered as he spoke.

  Everyone. The word hurt to hear, yet hope, like a wisp of smoke in the temporary absence of a breeze, lingered.

  “What about . . .” Genny stopped herself. She needed to know. “Have you seen my—”

  “Leo wasn’t here,” Armand stated.

  Luckily, Genny was already on her hands and knees. Even so, she nearly collapsed. “Are you saying . . . I mean . . . are you sure?”

  The news was too wonderful to accept. Genny so desperately desired to believe Armand that her need made her hesitate. I’m only hearing what I want to hear.

  “His spot, the chair next to Floret’s, was empty all morning,” the earl told her.

  “Are you sure?” Genny replied. “We’re talking about Leopold Hargrave, Duke of Rochelle.”

  “Yes,” Armand nodded. “Your husband.”

  “But Leo—he . . .”

  “He never showed up,” Armand said. “Guess he didn’t want to be king as much as the rest of us. Lucky him.”

  Genny’s body was still begging for air from all her exertion, but
at that moment she held her breath. “Do you know where Leo is?”

  “He was out looking for you. Everyone was talking about it.”

  Genny breathed. “Army,” she said, crawling the rest of the way to the Earl of Someplace. “Army, you sweet, sweet man.” She helped pull him out on the cobblestones and covered him with a discarded cloak, tucking the edges around his neck. “You hang on. I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to see you get through this. I swear by every god there is that I will.”

  She meant it—every word. Genny decided then and there that she would defend Armand Calder with the last beat of her heart, for he had given her a gift beyond value, beyond imagining, beyond her wildest dreams.

  Leo wasn’t just alive. Leo loved her.

  They were beneath the dome in a generally round room with the fire pit in the middle. The interior was a mess of overturned crates, urns, and scattered piles of wool, of which there was a surprising amount. Royce and Hadrian had dug through the clutter: several tall clay pots stained with tears of blue dye, an overturned wooden tub, mounds and mounds of raw wool. But no Villar.

  Royce heard something outside, a distant thumping sound like someone running. He darted out, certain that Villar had broken from cover and was making a dash for it, but the sound was louder than the pounding of hooves. It sounded like—