The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(108)
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.