The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(8)

Royce reined his horse to a stop and pivoted in the saddle. “She showed you her diary?”

Puck looked up, concerned. Royce hadn’t intended to be threatening, but it was an attribute difficult to control.

“Well, yes, but it wasn’t her diary. The memoir belonged to a fellow named Falkirk de something, who had excellent penmanship and an archaic writing style. Lady Martel mentioned she stole it, although I doubt that. I mean, who ever heard of a noble thief? She was fairly drunk at the time, so I didn’t take what she said seriously.”

“Did she mention where she met this Falkirk guy?” Royce asked.

“Oh no, she didn’t get it from him. Lady Martel obtained the diary from a monk she’d been having a tryst with. One night while he slept, she came upon the diary and took it because she wanted to learn about his true feelings toward her. Wasn’t until later that she realized it was the writings of this Falkirk fellow. She tried to return it, but the monk had disappeared before she could. She never saw him again.”

“You said the style was archaic. So, you read it?”

Puck nodded. “Tried to. To be honest, it bored me. Why are you so interested?”

When Royce didn’t answer, Hadrian said, “We do odd jobs for people. One was getting that diary from Lady Martel. After we did, she claimed it hadn’t been taken. Things like that needle Royce; he sees conspiracies and nefarious intent wherever he looks.”

Royce focused on Virgil. “What can—”

The sound of horses drew Royce’s attention. Eight men rode toward them, white tabards covering chainmail shirts, swords clapping thighs. They slowed upon approach but showed no signs of aggression. Royce and company had passed, or been passed, by a dozen groups of travelers that morning: farmers, tradesmen, merchants. These were the first with swords, and the tabards looked official. Usually, a patrol like this signaled trouble, but for once Royce and Hadrian weren’t breaking any law. They were acting in service of a respected baron of Melengar. And yet Royce still tensed.

“Pardon our intrusion,” the lead rider said, bringing his mount to a stop. The man’s helm was off, only a single day’s growth of beard on his face, and he was smiling. Royce didn’t know what to make of him. The rider continued, “Might I ask your names and inquire as to why you are dragging this man along the King’s Road?”

Royce hesitated for a dozen reasons, not one of which he could pin down as good or even sensible. He just didn’t like being stopped. He liked answering questions even less.

In that momentary vacuum, his partner jumped in. “My name is Hadrian. How are you?”

“I’m great,” the man replied. “What’s this fella’s name?” He pointed at the prisoner.

“My name is Virgil.”

“Is it?” The rider nodded and climbed down off his mount to face Puck. “Got a last name?”

“Puck. Perhaps you gentlemen can offer me some assistance. These two fellows seem to be under a misconception. They accuse me of taking advantage of Lady Bliss Hildebrandt—which I absolutely did not do. I’ve been wrongfully charged. If you could—”

Without warning, the tabard-clad man pulled out his dagger and stabbed Puck in the chest. Virgil didn’t even have time to cry out before falling to the ground.

Royce and Hadrian drew back, their horses shuffling and nickering. They each pulled weapons. Hadrian produced his bastard sword, and Royce freed his white dagger, Alverstone. The shift in Hadrian’s horse dragged Puck’s bleeding body away from his attacker, leaving a bloody trail. The man who’d stabbed Virgil showed no signs of concern. He merely took out a handkerchief and wiped the mess of blood off himself and his blade.

Virgil gasped, gurgled, and convulsed for only a few seconds. The poet was dead the moment the blade hit his heart, but it took a little time for the message to reach all quarters of his twitching body.

Royce and Hadrian waited, but none of the others so much as touched their weapons. The man who had killed Puck put his dagger away and climbed back up on his horse.

“Why did you do that?” Hadrian demanded, holding his sword at the ready.

“King’s orders,” the killer replied matter-of-factly. He wore an amused smile as he noticed Hadrian’s sword. “Nothing to do with either of you.”

Hadrian shot a look at Royce, and then he looked back at the patrol. “King Amrath ordered the death of Virgil Puck?”

The man looked down at the sad crumpled body on the side of the road still tethered to Hadrian’s saddle. He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” Then he kicked his horse and the entire troop rode away.





Royce and Hadrian arrived back on Wayward Street just before dark.

They would have returned sooner, but Hadrian had insisted on arranging for Puck’s burial. Royce, who had littered and in some cases decorated many a landscape with corpses, had difficulty following the logic. Puck wasn’t their mess to clean up. His body—once it had been disconnected from Hadrian’s horse—was nature’s problem. They had nothing to do with his death, so why waste time, let alone money, to dispose of the remains? But Hadrian and logic weren’t always on a first-name basis, or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Hadrian had his own version of logic. Royce didn’t understand it, and after three years, he’d given up trying.