The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(109)

Oswal had no intention of coming out. The church was one of the few safe places in the city. At least that was what Villar had told him, and he ought to know. That mir was dabbling in powers best left untapped, but if doing so got the job done, who was he to argue with results? Still, magic could be unpredictable, and Tynewell didn’t want to leave his survival in the hands of those who might not be able to control the evil they were planning to unleash.

While the Novronian Empire had once employed wizards, magic had also been the source of its destruction. As such, after the fall of the great capital city, magic had been eradicated from the world by edict of the church. Only the truly evil practiced the forbidden art. Its use was grounds for both excommunication and execution. That Villar planned to employ the dark art was further evidence of his vile character. Oswal shivered at the thought of his association with the mir, and yet what else could he do? To obtain what he wanted, some rules needed to be bent and some lines needed to be crossed. Oswal felt that so long as he closed his eyes beforehand, he could step over those lines and still absolve himself of guilt by way of ignorance. Besides, no one could tell him that the sinking of the Eternal Empire was virtuous. Sin was often the bridge to salvation.

Time kept ticking, and still nothing happened. No revolt, no attack from magical creatures. Oswal pondered what excuse he would give when at last he was forced to emerge. Perhaps he could put them off, saying he still hadn’t decided. No, that wouldn’t work. The kingdom had already gone five months without a king. A contest. He would have to go with that, but what sort? One that was impossible to achieve might be good. It would buy him time to—

From outside the window and through the many panes of glass, came the sounds of shouts. At first, they were merely cries of surprise. Then they turned to exclamations of fear.

In the plaza below, faces looked up and fingers pointed at the great marble statue of Novron that graced the center of the square. Some seventeen feet tall, the sculpture was a marvel of artistry, a source of inspiration, and a point of reverence, but never before had it elicited cries of fear. Oswal couldn’t understand the source of the panic until he realized that Novron, who for generations had looked across the plaza to the cathedral, was now looking down at his feet.

A moment later the statue shifted, twisting its torso and drawing forth its sword.

A miracle!

Oswal stared in stunned wonder. The god Novron has come to life!

Many of the nobles believed similarly as they remained in the square, moving away but not fleeing. A few even went so far as to approach the giant figure. Floret Killian, for instance, who was dressed in his long velvet gown of solid blue with a matching cape, was the first to advance. The attire was so inappropriate for the weather, but so apropos for a man to be crowned in. Perhaps Floret saw this animated statue of Novron as a machination of the church—maybe he thought it was the test their bishop had arranged to find Alburn’s next king: Fleeing from it might prove a lack of faith. Surely the bishop knew Novron would attend in person, and he would be the one to anoint the next ruler. Why else would the bishop insist that all nobles in the kingdom be present? Why else would he wait so long to declare the identity of the new ruler? Yes, of course, Maribor had told the bishop that his son would make an appearance at the Spring Festival and he wanted to ensure that everyone would be on hand to view this miracle.

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.