The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(44)

Saldur stopped talking; Tynewell wasn’t listening. He was looking at the painting of Venlin with a distant focus in his eyes.

“Are you going to eat any of this?” Saldur asked, waving a hand over the feast. “I feel like a glutton.”

“Huh? Oh, I’m not hungry.”

“Really? If I had food like this back in Medford, I’d be four hundred pounds by now.” His host still wasn’t paying attention. “Is there something wrong?”

“Hmm?” Tynewell looked up as if from a dream. “Oh, no. Nothing . . .”

“You aren’t considering Leopold Hargrave, are you? I mean, he’s pliable enough, but the man is a terrible administrator. Putting him in charge would no doubt create a fiscal disaster.”

Tynewell’s attention had finally returned to the conversation, and he nodded in agreement. “Leo is old-fashioned. His family descends from the Imperial Council. Rochelle is home to three of the most prominent families to survive the fall: the Hargraves, Calders, and Killians. Floret Killian even claims to be a direct descendant of Persephone’s brother. These families, along with Lord Darius Seret, built this province that later became a kingdom. Leo believes in the old codes, the virtues once practiced by the Teshlor Knights of the old imperium. We don’t need his kind of trouble.”

“Good point. Well, whoever you pick, best to keep in mind that they actually have to rule a kingdom, you know?”

Tynewell focused on Saldur, and he smiled. “Yes, yes, of course. That’s it exactly. This . . . this is such a big decision. I need to consider my choices carefully.”

“Yes, but also expeditiously. The feast is what, three days from now?”

He continued to nod. “You’re absolutely right. I just . . .”

“What?”

Tynewell bit his lower lip and hung onto it for a moment. “I want the patriarch to approve of my choice.”

Saldur raised his hands. “He’s given you the power, so I don’t see how he can complain with the results.”

Tynewell smiled. “Yes, that’s true. That’s very true. Maybe I will have something to eat after all.” He plucked a slice of bread and proceeded to cover it with meat, then paused as his eyes went back to the painting. “Don’t you think it’s odd?”

“What?”

“That Venlin is standing.”

Saldur turned and looked back at the fresco.

“Look at him. The patriarch is in the presence of Novron himself, but he doesn’t kneel, doesn’t prostrate himself in the slightest. If anything, he’s standing more upright. It’s as if he felt he was an equal to Our Lord. Where does confidence like that come from?”

“I would think ruling what was left of the empire would have something to do with it.”

“I think you might be right.”





Chapter Eleven

Little Gur Em





The chimes of Grom Galimus rang out the midday bells as Royce led Hadrian past the harbor where dozens of sail-stripped masts looked like a forest in winter. They had spent the morning walking around the city. Royce had moved with the speed of intent, which kept Hadrian from asking questions. Royce never cared for them, and Hadrian assumed everything would reveal itself in time. Hours passed, marked neatly by the cathedral bells, as they cut through crowds crossing the bridges to the west side of the city, then circled back. Returning to the plaza, which by then had filled up with its usual crowd, Royce led the way south along the river, taking what appeared to be a nonsensical route that zigzagged streets to the harbor.

“Where are we going?” Hadrian finally asked as they passed between a pair of giant elephant tusks that made a gateway into a neighborhood of narrow streets.

“Hmm?” Royce murmured, glancing back as if he hadn’t heard exactly what Hadrian had said, which was a sure sign something was up.

The blocks past the elephant tusks were so tightly packed that clotheslines stretched between buildings created a complex crisscrossed webbing. Those not covered with drying clothes were decorated with colorful flags or flower-laden garlands. The passage was jammed with people who edged around the obstacles of vendor stands where merchants purposely placed their carts in the way of traffic and shouted at customers in more than one language. From some unseen place, rhythmic drums pounded an addictive beat.

“Are you heading somewhere or just wandering?” Hadrian shouted as he dodged around a dark-skinned woman carrying two caged chickens that fluttered and squawked. “Are you looking for the driver in the crowds?”

“Oh, no.” Royce shook his head. “I know where the driver is, but there’s no sense in going after him until tonight.”

Royce made an elegant spin, dodging around a wagon of firewood, his cloak sweeping behind. Trying to keep up, Hadrian nearly plowed into a mother holding the hands of two children, but halted at the brink. All three looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back, concluding a silent but clear conversation that included understanding, forgiveness, and a bit of humor. Slipping past, and around the wagon, Hadrian struggled to catch Royce as he darted and wove from one hole to the next—holes that all too often fit only Royce.

Is he trying to lose me?

They broke out of the narrows and merged into a broader marketplace, where Hadrian was able to use his long legs to cut the distance. “So . . . what? We’re sightseeing?”