The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(6)
“I’m saying wise people stay indoors at night and dress their children in bright blue to ward off evil. And despite that, citizens of this city are mutilated—a great many as of late. Myths are too often rooted in truth, and we—”
The carriage came to an abrupt halt. They hadn’t yet crossed the bridge leading to the Estate. “Why are we—”
The door on Devon’s side ripped open. Cold air rushed in, damp and clammy. In the dark, he saw a pair of cruel eyes, malevolent and evil. He recoiled, pushing away and fighting to retreat, but there was nowhere to go. He died with the duchess’s screams ringing in his ears.
Chapter Two
The Return of Virgil Puck
Royce knew what was coming.
Hadrian had glanced back at their prisoner more than a dozen times, even though nothing had changed. Virgil Puck continued to walk behind Royce and Hadrian’s horses, still tethered with one end of a rope tied tightly around his wrists and the other end fastened to the horn of Hadrian’s saddle. Nevertheless, the interval between the glimpses shortened, and the length of each look grew at a measurable rate. If Royce had a means of calculating time in small increments, he thought it possible to determine the exact moment when—
“What if he’s telling the truth?” Hadrian asked.
Royce frowned, feeling cheated. He expected it would’ve taken longer. Hadrian hadn’t changed as much as Royce had hoped. “He’s not.”
“But it sounds like he might be.”
“Yes, I am,” Puck said, his voice rising above the shuffle of his own feet—the walk of the reluctant.
“He’s no different from anyone accused of a crime. Everyone proclaims their innocence.” Royce didn’t bother looking back. Everything he needed to know was revealed through the tautness of the rope. From it, he could tell Puck was still tethered; beyond that, Royce didn’t care.
The three made leisurely progress along the rural portion of the King’s Road, just north of the city of Medford. The day was warm, and while most of that year’s snow had finally melted, runoff was still making its way to lakes and rivers. All around, Royce could hear the trickle of water. Each season had its own distinct sounds: the drone of insects in summer, the honk of geese in autumn, the wind in winter. In spring, it was birdsong and running water.
“He’s no criminal, not a murderer or even a thief. I mean, technically, he’s accused of giving rather than taking.”
Royce raised a brow. “Lord Hildebrandt would disagree. Virtue and chastity, these are the things that have been taken from his daughter.”
“Oh please!” Puck erupted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Have either of you seen Lady Hildebrandt? She didn’t receive the name Bliss from her lovers, I can assure you of that. She’s forty-three going on eighty-nine, with the face of a savagely carved jack-o’-lantern and the figure of a two-ball snowman. And don’t get me started on her acidic personality and that grotesque cackle of a laugh. I’m absolutely positive she retains her virtue the same way a bruised and rotting melon avoids being eaten. No one who has actually met Bliss Hildebrandt of Sansbury could possibly imagine crawling into bed with her. I’d personally rather curl up with a diseased monkfish. Maybe if there had been a knife at my throat, I might . . .”
His pause caused Royce to look back.
Virgil Puck’s misshapen nose was off center and sported a bulbous tip like the knob on the end of a walking stick. Beyond that, the man was tall, thin, and endowed with long, curly blond hair, the sort to evoke sighs from women of every rank and class. He wore only a heavy tunic, breeches, and boots. The tunic was covered in vertical white-and-blue stripes, and the boots were yellow as a canary’s breast. Hadrian was right about one thing. Virgil didn’t have the look of a normal run-of-the-mill criminal.
But criminal is such a relative term, and what is normal, anyway?
Puck looked at the ground, shaking his head with a grimace. “No, no, I can truthfully say not even that would be enough. I’m telling you for the third time, you have the wrong man. The true culprit must be either deaf and blind or depraved to the point of utter insanity.”
Hadrian turned around, shifting the tip of the sword strapped to his back and resting a hand on the rump of his mount. “Are you noble?”
“If you mean, do I have highborn blood in my veins, the answer is no. Why do you ask?”
“The way you talk is . . . clever . . . complicated. You use odd words like culprit and depraved.”
“That’s because I’m a poet,” Puck declared with dramatic flair. He tried to follow the remark with a sweeping bow, but there wasn’t enough slack in the rope to execute it successfully. “I make my living going from great house to great house entertaining my hosts with songs and stories. Tales of woo and woe. From the epic love affair of Persephone and Novron to the tragic courtship of Lady Masquerade and Sir Whimsy. I make them laugh; I make them cry; I inspire, educate, and—”
“Seduce?” Royce provided. “Women have a weakness for poets. Did you beguile Bliss Hildebrandt with words?”
Puck expressed his indignation by stopping, and he was jerked forward by Hadrian’s horse. “You aren’t listening. I didn’t seduce her. I wouldn’t do that for all the gold in Avryn. I’d rather fornicate with a rabid ferret. I’m telling you, when we get back to Sansbury, you’ll see her and understand. And I hope she gives you both hugs and wet kisses for your efforts. Then you’ll realize the true depths of your mistake. She’s like an ugly old hound that still thinks it’s a puppy, even while drooling those long elastic strands of goo. And when she opens her mouth to thank you, you’ll see her tongue, an organ that’s far too long for any reasonable living thing.”