The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(2)
Third, and this is last, but certainly not least: My eternal gratitude goes out to you, the readers, without whom my dream of being an author could never have been fully realized. Yes, I would still pen my tales (I won’t be quitting again), but your generous support keeps me and Robin away from the dreaded “day jobs,” and that means we have more time to create stories for you—a synergistic arrangement if ever there was one. So in conclusion, I want to say, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I take your trust seriously and will always strive to put out the very best book that I’m capable of creating. I hope you find it worthy of your time.
Now turn the page, tap the screen, or adjust the volume. A new adventure awaits, and I’m glad you’ll be along for the ride.
— Michael J. Sullivan October 2017
World Map
Maps are problematic on many ereaders that don’t have adequate resolution to display them, and for this reason you can access a high-resolution map online.
Close-up Map
Contents
Praise for Sullivan’s Work
About the Book
Works by Michael J. Sullivan
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
World Map
Chapter 1: Vested Interest
Chapter 2: The Return of Virgil Puck
Chapter 3: The Whiskey Baron
Chapter 4: Rochelle
Chapter 5: Mercator
Chapter 6: Over Lamb and Small Beer
Chapter 7: Breakfast
Chapter 8: A Tale of Two Soldiers
Chapter 9: The Gold Eater
Chapter 10: Venlin Is Standing
Chapter 11: Little Gur Em
Chapter 12: Unicorns and Polka Dots
Chapter 13: Grom Galimus
Chapter 14: The Driver
Chapter 15: Bird Hunting
Chapter 16: Looking Away
Chapter 17: The Gathering
Chapter 18: The Rasa
Chapter 19: Living Proof
Chapter 20: Jiggery-Pokery
Chapter 21: The Duke
Chapter 22: The Morning After
Chapter 23: A Prayer to Novron
Chapter 24: Haunted
Chapter 25: Keys and Coins
Chapter 26: Haggling
Chapter 27: The Spring Feast
Chapter 28: Hide-and-Seek
Chapter 29: Winter’s Daughter
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Kickstarter Backers
About the Author
Chapter One
Vested Interest
Devon De Luda wondered, and not for the first time, if Genevieve Hargrave, the Duchess of Rochelle, was insane.
“Stop! Stop!” she shouted while hammering her fist against the roof of the carriage.
She shot a sharp look his way and commanded, “Make him stop!” Then she pushed her head out of the window and yelled up at the driver, “Rein in those beasts, for Maribor’s sake. Now!”
The coachman must have assumed an emergency, halting the carriage so abruptly that Devon flew against the opposite bench. The moment the wheels stopped, even a bit before, the duchess launched herself out the door and raced away, skirts hiked, heels clacking.
Abandoned and dumbfounded, Devon nursed his banged knee. As ducal cofferer of Rochelle, Devon usually performed duties revolving around coins and notes. He didn’t welcome his newfound responsibility of looking after such an impulsive whirlwind; he preferred an ordered, predictable existence. But nothing had been normal in the city since the new duchess’s arrival.
Maybe she is, at least a touch, mad. It would explain so many things.
Devon considered simply waiting in the carriage, but if anything happened to her, he would be blamed. With a sigh of resignation, he climbed out of the carriage and followed the duchess.
Darkness had settled in early, the spring days still short; like prosperity, the season of rebirth had been slow to arrive in Alburn. The rain had stopped, but an evening mist crept in from the sea, ensuring that everything remained damp. Cobblestones glistened in the light of streetlamps, and the world beyond the carriage smelled of wood, smoke, and fish. A smattering of puddles created an obstacle course for Devon’s new shoes, and as he picked his path through them, he tugged the collar of his coat more tightly around his neck. Inside the carriage, it hadn’t been warm, but the evening’s air was bitterly cold. They were on Vintage Avenue, both sides bordered by reputable three-story mercantile shops. On the curbs, dozens of carts lined the street, where migrants sold a circus of wares. Colorful scarves, embroidered saddles, and fresh-roasted pig were sold side by side. As always, a seedy crowd had gathered in the chaotic hive of commerce—few could afford to do much more than look at the scarves and smell the pig.
The duchess trotted down the line of merchants. She bustled through the crowd, most of whom stopped short and stared in wonderment at this heavyset lady in satin and pearls chugging down the thoroughfare, her heeled shoes clip-clopping as loudly as a horse.
“Milady!” De Luda chased after her. “Where are you going?”
The duchess didn’t pause or slow until she reached a rickety cart holding up a rack of clothes. There she halted, panting, and stared up at the display.
“It’s perfect.” The duchess clapped. “That vest, the one with the satin front and floret pattern. You see it? It’s not my taste at all, you understand, but Leo will love it. The print is so bold and vibrant. And it’s blue! It’ll be exactly what he needs for the Spring Feast. He’ll definitely be noticed in that. No one could wear that vest without standing out.”