The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(112)
“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—
“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.