The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(50)
“But to rip out the hearts of children?” Hadrian asked. This made him think of Royce roasting unicorns, only this was the real-world form of that idea. Could there be a purer example of evil? Why would anyone do such a thing? And how? How does a person kill and crack open a rib cage without anyone seeing or hearing it?
“Probably selling them on the black market,” Roland said with enough callousness to make Hadrian wonder what had happened to the young man he once knew. “Some of these Calians use them to make youth potions or healing balms. Spreading a little powdered baby heart on your face will keep you looking young, or so people have been told. Rich merchants’ wives are their market. We try to stop it, but there’s not much we can do. Usually, they use calf or lamb hearts, but someone is obviously making an extra effort. If people think they’re getting the real thing, the price goes up. When news of a death spreads, the demand is higher.”
Dealing with frequent loss of children’s hearts and the indifference of bystanders has driven the unicorns out of Roland’s world, as well, Hadrian realized. Such beliefs made sense and were difficult to debate. After all, horrors had a way of grabbing the limelight and diminishing everything else. How can anyone believe that people are basically good when faced with such blatant evidence to the contrary? What Hadrian couldn’t make Roland, Drake the guard, or least of all Royce understand was that a life barren of unicorns was existence without purpose. Hadrian had visited that dark land once. He’d lived as a glutton of selfishness, reclining on the luxury of visible truths. He’d drowned himself in wine and blood, but the more he consumed, the emptier he felt. What was the point if, as Drake so eloquently put it: living is anguish and then you die? Hearing those words convinced Hadrian of the importance of unicorns. Even if there weren’t any, it was absolutely necessary to believe they existed. What’s more, he needed to try to find them. It wasn’t much. Chasing fantasies was a thin thread to justify a life, and yet how many wonders had been wrought by people who did exactly that—those who believed in crazy dreams.
“Sorry for the mistake,” Roland said. “I’d buy you both a drink, but I have the night shift the rest of this week, and the duke frowns on drunk officers.”
“Ah, yes, the life of an honest soldier,” Hadrian mused, feigning envy.
“How about you two? Still looking for the duchess? Heard you stopped by the carriage shop. Find anything?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Let me know if you do. I’m pretty sure she’s dead, but if she isn’t . . .”
“What?”
Roland hesitated, and his face changed. The tough fa?ade, the soldier’s stare, dimmed, and for a moment, Hadrian once more saw the lad he had once known. “Everyone calls her the Whiskey Wench. No one showed her a lick of respect. I didn’t, either. Guards are supposed to bow when she goes by. None of us did. We all said how she wasn’t a real noble. That she was fake because she wasn’t born one, and wasn’t even from Alburn. I guess the feeling came from a kind of envy, as if she was getting away with something and didn’t deserve respect. Then, well, she gave me a new pair of boots. My old ones had holes in them. My feet used to get soaked, and I nearly got frostbitten more than once. I hardly ever saw the woman. It’s not like I was her bodyguard, but she must have noticed. Why she bothered, I don’t know. Told myself she didn’t like seeing a guard captain in a shoddy uniform, except . . . city guards are required to wear black boots, thin leather that looks nice, but doesn’t do anything when you’re out patrolling in the cold.” He lifted his foot to show Hadrian his pair of brown, fur-lined footwear. “Nicest boots I’ve ever owned. Real warm. Hardly noticed the snows the rest of the winter.” He put his foot down. “If she’s alive, I want to know. And if she’s not and you discover who did it, I want to know that, too.”
Hadrian nodded and, checking his weapons, pushed the short sword down on his hip and lifted the bastard sword higher and back a tad. “Well, thanks for helping us out.” Hadrian took two steps toward the door, but stopped when he realized Royce wasn’t following.
Across the roadway stood a busy countinghouse. Like many of the important buildings, it was constructed of stone that had grown dingy.
Seeing it, Royce turned back and caught Roland’s attention. “Can you answer a question for me?” He pointed at one of the sculpted decorative faces on the building across the street. “Why are these things everywhere? They crouch under steps, frame windows, perch on ledges, and hold up everything from bridges to balconies. Even some of the cobblestones have tiny grotesque faces carved into them. Why is that?”
Roland dipped his head to see beyond the doorframe. “You mean the gargoyles?”
Royce nodded. “I’ve seen them before. They’re used to channel rainwater off big churches, like the cathedral in Medford. But here, they’re all over. Most don’t even serve any real function, only a few are being used to divert runoff.”
Roland pushed up his lower lip. “Just decorations, I suppose.”
“There’s no story behind them?”
Roland rolled his shoulders. “Sure. There’s multiple stories, but they’re all nonsense.”
“Humor me.”
“The most popular one has a priest who slays a dragon with the help of a condemned man. They burn the beast afterward, but the head isn’t affected. You know, on account of it being able to breathe fire and all. So, the local bishop decides to mount the thing on his cathedral to scare off evil spirits. Seemed like a good idea, so stonemasons were asked to add them from that time on.”