The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(67)
Hadrian looked down at his scarf, disappointed. He had expected the old woman to appreciate his adoption of the local style. Why he cared remained something of a mystery, but perhaps his desire to please her stemmed from the loss of his mother. Hadrian couldn’t remember much about her. She had died when he was still young, but he imagined Evelyn was what mothers were like, or supposed to be: stern, correcting, fault-finding, and great cooks. Her disapproval, as ridiculous as it was, bothered him more than all of Royce’s scoffing. Her mention of the monster, however, opened a door too tantalizing to let close without a peek. Hadrian gave up trying to win approval for his choice in fashion and asked, “You don’t believe in the Morgan?”
Evelyn’s brows rose as she delicately tore a pastry in half. “Yesterday you didn’t know basic history, but today you’re steeped in local arcane folklore, are you?”
“We’re trying to educate ourselves,” Royce offered.
Evelyn wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth, then sniffed. “Well, you won’t do it by listening to gossip and ghost stories, gentlemen. The Morgan is nothing more than a silly old legend. Honestly, I would think two grown men would know better. But of course you aren’t the only ones. Tomorrow, you’ll see. If you go to the Feast of Nobles, the whole lot will be attired in a bewildering spectrum of sapphire, cobalt, ultramarine, navy, turquoise, cyan, cerulean, and azure, all in an attempt to ward off a monster straight out of a children’s tale.” She focused on the scarf. “I think a man who carries three swords ought not fear a ghost.”
“What exactly is this ghost story?” Royce asked.
“You won’t like it. There’s more of that icky history stuff you’re not fond of.”
“Make it short, and I’ll try and stay awake.”
She tilted her head down and peered up at him. “You washed this morning, so I’ll let that go.” Evelyn paused to refill her teacup, set the ceramic pot down with a petite tink, and then picked up her cup with both hands. She sat back, watching the steam rise. “Yesterday, if you recall, I mentioned a fellow by the name of Glenmorgan. He was the brute who, back in the year 2450, conquered all the other petty little mongrel lords and called himself the new emperor, a title the church later changed to steward. He’s also the one who set up his capital in Ervanon and forced the Church of Nyphron to do the same. Well, he had a civilized son, but the boy didn’t live very long. His grandson, Glenmorgan the Third, was different. While still young, the child demonstrated he was just as barbaric as his grandfather, and he ran off to fight the goblins in Galeannon. To his credit, he won that battle, which was thereafter known as the Battle of Vilan Hills. At least it was until recently when another battle was fought, and now that original engagement goes by the less significant title of the First Battle of Vilan Hills.”
“I was in the second,” Hadrian mentioned.
Evelyn lifted her chin and peered at him over her cup. “Under whose banner?”
“Lord Belstrad.”
“You fought under the banner of Chadwick, Warric’s first regiment in the coalition force commanded by Lanis Ethelred? That was the conflict that turned back the Ba Ran Ghazel’s second serious invasion of Avryn. The one where Sir Breckton, Belstrad’s eldest son, had the rightful glory stolen from him by Rufus of Lanksteer. The northman’s ill-advised and downright ludicrous charge into a ravine won him the title of Hero of the Battle despite costing the lives of nearly all his men. Would have killed him, too, if the Ba Ran Ghazel hadn’t been just as dumbfounded by the stupidity as everyone else.”
Hadrian blinked, his mouth hanging in surprise.
“Close your mouth, dear. This is Rochelle, and more than mere goods flow through these ports. Here, we are fond of our history. My late husband was a particular maven of all things antiquated, and his passion became mine.” She took a sip of tea. “As I was saying, Glenny Three won the First Battle of Vilan Hills. The celebration took him across the bay to Blythin Castle, the onetime stronghold of the exiled empire and Nyphron Church—at least until they built Grom Galimus. Glenny spent the next few days drinking and basking in the praise of his nobles. When it came time to leave, they had a surprise waiting for him. The old families didn’t like the idea of a strong emperor who wasn’t sanctioned by the church. They were afraid the true Heir of Novron would be forgotten.”
“They killed him?”
She shook her head. “Heavens, no. Just as they are now, the nobility of that time were notorious cowards. They shied from murder. Instead, they locked Glenny Three in the bowels of Blythin Castle. Rumor says the granite cliff the castle sits on is riddled with ancient tunnels where the Seret have carved out a vast number of oubliettes. They sealed him in, walled him up, and walked away. As you can imagine, betraying your emperor after he’d just saved the empire from disaster generated a fair degree of guilt. So here in Rochelle, the city nestled in the shadow of Blythin Castle, there arose a ghost story to accommodate that shame. The tale tells that Glenny was upset with his fate, and being a bundle of ambition that even death couldn’t squelch, he turned into a monster and found a way out of those tunnels. Now he creeps down here to Rochelle in search of the nobles who betrayed him. They’re all long dead, but Glenny doesn’t know that, you understand, and when it sees someone that looks like one of them, the Morgan has his revenge. And it’s bloody; it’s always very bloody.”