The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(115)

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—”