The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Royce?” Hadrian poked his head out of the doorway and then joined him. “Royce, what is that?”

  Peering between the oak tree and a spruce, Royce saw the sun glint off something brilliantly white, something moving toward them at the speed of a galloping horse. As it cleared a gully, Royce got a good look.

  “Royce, is that . . . ?”

  “The statue of Novron from the plaza,” Royce finished for him.

  They could both see it clearly as it traveled through the open, its long legs stomping with ease across the same fields and thickets they had just struggled up. The god’s chest was marred: Chips of marble had been chiseled away. Other than that, he was perfect as only an artist could create: broad shoulders, narrow hips, lean muscle. This was exactly how Royce expected Novron to look. Not surprising, given that Royce’s understanding of the god had been formed by various statues like this that he’d seen in and around churches. This one had been the best of those, the most realistic—in many ways, too realistic. Seeing it move felt less strange than knowing the life-like statue was only stone. As the statue grew nearer, Royce saw dark stains on its legs, as if the Son of Maribor had been stomping grapes for wine.

  “Don’t suppose it’s just out for a stroll, eh?” Hadrian said, even as he drew his two swords.

  “What are you going to do with those? It’s stone. You’d do better with a hammer and chisel.”

  “Don’t have those.”

  The statue crashed through a copse, kicking the trees into a cloud of splinters. A branch too heavy for Royce to lift landed twenty feet away. Novron was close enough for him to see the marble god’s expression. The normally stoic, proud, and noble features were twisted in vicious rage.

  Royce pulled Alverstone out of the folds of his clothes.

  “Oh, okay,” Hadrian said. “A dagger is sooo much better.”

  “A very sharp dagger,” Royce replied. “When I was on Grom Galimus—”

  “Grom Galimus! Sacred ground!” Hadrian burst out. “Get back inside!”

  They ran through the doorway.

  Having fought the gargoyle, Royce knew all too well the impossibilities of combat with living stone. He had managed to do some tiny damage with Alverstone, but Hadrian was right: A dagger wasn’t a match for a giant. The fall from the roof of Grom Galimus had destroyed the golem, but that wasn’t going to happen this time. Novron the Great looked a whole lot more dangerous than the stone monkey with its useless wings. But the thought that they could hide inside the ruin and wait out the golem like a summer downpour felt like little more than wishful thinking.

  “Not going to work,” Royce said as outside they heard, and felt, the rumble of the charging marble giant.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The golems-can’t-tread-on-sacred-ground thing can’t be true. I fought the gargoyle on top of Grom Galimus,” Royce said as if admitting some terrible sin. He had to shout to be heard over the hammering of the statue’s footfalls as it closed the remaining distance. “Doesn’t get much more holy than a cathedral.”

  Royce and Hadrian waited, each with a wincing expression.

  Nothing happened. The footfalls ceased.

  Through the open doorway, they spotted a pair of marble legs. They stood still like a pair of birch trunks.

  Hadrian looked at Royce and smiled.

  Royce shrugged. “Maybe because I was on the roof it wasn’t literally sacred ground? Or perhaps only the altar is sacred.” He didn’t think the golem’s restriction would be that specific, and yet he couldn’t come up with any other reason why Villar’s Novron wasn’t crawling through the door to kill them.

  “It’s not reaching in the doorway, either,” Hadrian said. “Just standing there. Maybe it can’t enter the interior space?”

  Royce bent down and peered out at the legs. “We can’t stay here forever, but I’m thinking the God of Man might.” Giant Novron also bent down and peered in at them.

  “Remember what Griswold said? There’s a time limit. The person animating the golem can’t keep the connection too long or his soul will get stuck permanently, making the golem an immortal, indestructible terror.”

  Royce sighed. “And anyone willing to stick around to roast a child’s heart while we were outside searching for him is bound to be the type to go down with his ship, the HMS Revenge. So, waiting for Villar to break the connection might not be such a good plan.”

  “Probably not. Good news is that the duchess is safe.”

  “Yes . . .” Royce said with a sour look. “By all means, let’s thank Maribor for that.”

  “Why not thank Novron. He’s literally right outside.”

  Royce frowned. “If only—” he started to say, then stopped as a new thought distracted him. “Villar has to be on sacred ground to summon that thing, right?”

  Hadrian nodded.

  “And if he leaves it, the golem would kill him.”

  “Theoretically.”

  “So he must still be here.”

  The ruin wasn’t a big place. There were no adjoining rooms except the cell, no cabinets or curtains to hide behind. Just the big dye pots, piles of wool, and the cook fire. Nevertheless, Royce moved around the space, nudging the blankets and looking inside the pots, which were huge but still far too small for even a mir to hide.

  Where? Hadrian silently mouthed.

  Royce shrugged in frustration. He looked back down at the crates and the piles of wool. He had to be close. He wasn’t in the room with them, which meant . . .

  Villar had led Royce on a merry chase across the rooftops of Rochelle. That tour of the city wasn’t random. The mir knew where he was going, what transom led to what windows, what ledges could be leapt to, and what streets were narrow enough to cross at a running jump. He’d been that way before.

  Villar has a thing for roofs.

  Royce looked up and pointed at the dome.

  Hadrian’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “Can’t be. The golem is out there. Why doesn’t it just climb up and kill him.”

  “Can’t reach him.”

  “But you said the gargoyle—”

  “The gargoyle was small. Well, smaller. And Grom Galimus had all kinds of ornaments and handholds. I don’t think Novron can climb up the smooth walls of this temple. Villar, on the other hand, would have no problem.”

  “Probably been up there this whole time—that’s why we haven’t found him,” Hadrian whispered. “Now what?”

  Royce didn’t answer.

  “The only way to stop that thing is to kill Villar. One of us has to get up there.” Hadrian looked out the door. The legs hadn’t moved. “And that means the other has to distract the god.” Hadrian sighed. “You’re the expert climber, so—”

  “There you go again!” Royce snapped.

  “What?”

  Royce shook his head in disbelief. “Didn’t we just talk about this? About your stupid habit of playing the hero? That’s not grape juice on its legs.”

  “No . . . no, it’s not.” Hadrian’s voice lowered. “But time’s running out, and I don’t see another option, do you? I can’t climb up these sheer walls, but you can.”

  “Obviously, you should be the one to distract that thing, but that’s not the point!” Royce snapped.

  “What is the point?”

  “You don’t have to be so eager. You should try to persuade me to be the bait out of self-preservation.” Royce took a step closer to the door, to the marble legs. They were massive.

  Hadrian smiled. “You think if I go out there I’m committing suicide?”

  Royce nodded.

  Hadrian shook his head. “I’m not. I have complete confidence. I’ll be fine.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “Because there are unicorns in my world.”

  “There aren’t any stupid unicorns, Hadrian.”

  “Yes, there are, I’m looking at one right now. And I know you’re a very fast one.” Hadrian pulled off his cloak. “Ready?”


  “Villar probably heard all of this,” Royce told him.

  “Then I have nothing to worry about.”

  Royce held out Alverstone “Take this. It hurt the gargoyle before.”

  Hadrian shook his head. “You’ll need it more than me, little unicorn. Ready?”

  “Don’t ever call me that again, or when this is over, assuming you’re still alive, I will kill you.”

  “Deal.”

  Hadrian threw his cloak out the doorway.

  A marble foot came down, crushing the garment. Hadrian dived directly between the pair of white polished legs. His plan was to somersault to his feet and run. But the green grass beyond the door was an illusion. The turf lied about the rocks beneath its blades. Hadrian slammed his shoulder against a hidden stone the size of a saddle horn, making him cry out in pain and killing his forward momentum.

  A moment was all he had before the golem turned and another foot came down.

  Hadrian log-rolled downhill, feeling the ground jump with the golem’s second failed attempt. Finding his feet, he ran for the thickets. The golem chased after him. Hadrian wasn’t certain it would. If Villar had heard their conversation, there was a good chance he might ignore the self-proclaimed decoy. Either Villar hadn’t heard or suspected the verbal planning was a ruse. Or maybe he simply didn’t care. In any case, Hadrian had the statue on his heels, a marble god he had no hope of outrunning and couldn’t fight.

  Hadrian plunged into the mass of thickets, hoping to slow the golem down. The thorns slashed him, tore his clothes, and cut his cheek just below his left eye. Like a rabbit chased by a wolf, he clawed his way into the underbrush, aiming for thicker branches and better cover.

  Behind him, the ground shook. Branches snapped, and vines were ripped clear. Thorns didn’t bother the god emperor.

  Royce didn’t waste a moment.

  The instant the golem turned its back, he was out the doorway. A strong leap gave him a fingertip purchase on ancient decorative molding. After that, he relied mostly on cracks—small ones to be sure, but there were many to choose from. He pulled himself up as fast as he could. Everything was working perfectly. Too perfectly. No plan ever unfolded so nicely.

  Why did the golem chase Hadrian? Villar must have heard. He knows I’m the real threat. Unless . . . I’m not.

  Royce cleared the rim of the roof and ran up the curve to the peak of the dome. The roof of the temple was empty.

  Villar wasn’t there.

  Stones!

  Hidden beneath the brambles and old tree roots, Hadrian discovered a graveyard of tumbled slabs. Once part of the temple, these stones had fallen away and collapsed upon one another like playing cards. Three mostly buried slabs formed a hole that Hadrian crawled into.

  A deep cave would have been nice, a tunnel even better; what he found was little more than a pocket.

  Better than nothing.

  Peering out the opening, he watched the world grow brighter as saplings and brambles were ripped away by Novron the Great. The god was digging down toward him.

  Villar wasn’t on the roof, but he had to be nearby. Royce climbed back down and reentered the temple. Hadrian couldn’t survive much longer.

  Royce stood in the little room, frustrated. Villar had to be there somewhere, but he couldn’t find him and Royce was almost out of time.

  I told you there were no unicorns!

  Royce looked at the smoldering coals of the fire.

  But the world is filled with vicious, merciless killers.

  Then he noticed the heaping piles of wool.

  I should know . . . I am one.

  Hadrian squeezed himself as deeply as he could into the stone burrow. The slabs were massive, far from trivial impediments, even to a seventeen-foot marble god, but Hadrian was reminded about Villar’s resolve as the golem grabbed the first stone and heaved it clear, tossing the giant granite block like a bag of grain. The second slab followed the first, leaving Hadrian exposed, his cozy refuge destroyed.

  He scrambled to his feet. There was no fighting the thing; all he could do was run and dodge. Hadrian watched Marble Novron, hoping he might be able to evade whatever attack it made. If he could, he’d try running again. The golem raised a fist to smash him with, but its arm didn’t come down. Hadrian waited, but Novron continued to stand there, perfectly still. Its eyes were blank, vacant . . . like a statue.

  Royce had been quick, just quick enough.

  Inching away from the marble god, Hadrian moved back up the slope. He found the ruined temple engulfed in flames. Black smoke and orange tongues of fire licked out the doorway. Royce was out in front of the door, dagger in hand, watching the place burn.

  “What happened?” Hadrian asked.

  “Villar wasn’t on the roof,” Royce replied, not taking his eyes off the doorway. “And I sort of got tired of looking. How about you, where’s your playmate?”

  “Standing over in the thickets looking a lot like a statue.” Hadrian peered into the smoke and flames. “You think Villar’s dead?”

  Royce shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “No? Then why isn’t the golem moving?”

  “Only a guess, but I think when the smoke reached him, Villar panicked and broke the connection.”

  “You know where Villar is, don’t you?”

  “I can’t prove it, but I think so,” Royce said. “If he wasn’t on the roof, the only place left is underneath.”

  “Makes sense. It would have been hidden,” Hadrian said.

  “What would?”

  “The tomb. That’s what this place is, a monument or crypt to someone. This one was secret, so the entrance to the burial chamber is disguised. Villar set his box to burning, then crawled inside to run the golem.”

  The two watched the fire grow. The inferno was thirty feet away, a distance required due to the heat. When the fire spread to the undergrowth, they retreated farther.

  “How did you figure out it was a tomb?”

  Hadrian pointed at one of the fallen slabs the golem had thrown, now only a few feet away. On it was chiseled a passage of text:

  Falkirk de Roche

  First Disciple of Bran

  Rest With Maribor

  “Any idea who that is?”

  Royce shook his head. “Must have been someone important, but I suppose given enough time, even really important people are forgotten. It could have been—” He stopped, and then pointed. “There!”

  Something moved just inside the doorway. It slowed, then collapsed before getting outside.

  Royce nodded. “Now he’s dead.”

  After the killer statue had inexplicably run away, Genny took a few minutes to catch her breath. When the marble monster didn’t return, she found two boys cowering in the carriage shop. They looked like good kids, the sort to help a woman who could barely get to her feet. They said they were Wardley Woffington’s sons. After a good deal of coaxing, which ended when one recognized her, Genny convinced them to come out. Once they did, she ordered them to build a stretcher and carry Armand Calder to a physician, which they managed with the skill of those desperate to have some normal task to concentrate on.

  After that, Genny walked—very slowly—down the hill. She had no idea where she was going or why. The plaza was a gory scene, but maybe someone else might need help, and . . . it was downhill. She reached the river’s edge, but got no farther than the start of the paving stones when everything finally caught up to her, and she broke down and sobbed.

  She wasn’t alone.

  People began to spill back into the square from all corners. They came across the bridge, down Vintage Avenue, from Center Street, even through the alley between the gallery and the cathedral. All the faces were the same—shock, horror, bewilderment, sadness. No one could do much more than stare and cry. Hundreds of men, women, and children, most of whom were dressed in the blue clothes of the wealthy and noble, lay dead alongside those who had served them at the feast. Out of that sea of morbid faces emerged
an oddity.

  Genny saw him through blurry eyes. A portly fellow with a salt-and-pepper beard was dressed in a poorly fitted metal breastplate and carrying a sword. He dropped the weapon and ran toward her, his arms spread wide. He crashed into her, his embrace so tight she could barely breathe. His bushy beard pressed hard against her cheek.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” he said, and when he pulled back to stare at her face, as if to assure himself it was really her, she saw tears of relief.

  “I thought the same of you.” She gestured at the plaza. “But you weren’t here. You were . . . looking for me?”

  “I was.” Leo stared into her eyes, his lips trembling. “I thought you were dead. For more than two horrible weeks, I lived with that pain. Then I got your letter. I gathered my men and have spent the entire night and all of this day digging through every hovel, shop, and barn looking for you.” He started to laugh then covered his mouth and shook his head. “I was coming back because I heard about the attack and . . . and . . . and here you are. I don’t know how, but you are. Genny, my love, where have you been?”

  Genny lingered on those two words: my love. “Leo, tell me, do you love me?”

  The duke’s brows shot up. “What a question! Didn’t I just get done telling you—”

  “I need to know. Do you really love me?” she insisted, grabbing him by the arms and holding him fast.

  “How can you ask such a thing?”

  “Because everyone says you married me for my money or the crown.”

  “That’s not true.” His voice was stern, his eyes growing dark and stormy.

  “Then why? Why do we sleep in separate rooms? Why on our wedding night didn’t you come to me . . . that night or any other. Why have you been so distant?”

  The storm faded and Leo looked down. The expression on his face shifted to pain and embarrassment.