The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(83)

“What does ancient dwarven magic have to do with you, Erasmus Nym, and Villar?”

Griswold reached up and ran fingers under his beard, his lower lip jutting out. He paused there, and Hadrian thought he might not say anything. “We doubted our forces would be enough to prevail against the duke and the city guard. We needed more. We needed what Andvari offered King Mideon.”

“I’m guessing that’s knowledge you can’t pick up just anywhere,” Hadrian said.

Griswold nodded and addressed Seton. “Do you know about the Night of Terror?”

“That was centuries ago,” Seton said.

Griswold scowled at her. “And I suppose you were there?”

“Before my time. Even before Mercator’s, I think.”

“One cold night, mobs came into Little Town—that’s what they called our ghetto back then—and set our houses on fire. Everyone was dragged into the street for a beating. Almost a hundred of my people died on the same night that the rest of the world calls Wintertide. Strange way to celebrate the rebirth of the sun, don’t you think? In the aftermath, the elders found a way to protect us. At that time, the city was under construction, Grom Galimus only half built. My people did the stonework. Cheap, skilled labor is what we were. The archbishop commissioned many sculptures, and we were happy to oblige. Right under his nose and with his blessing, we created weapons that we could call on in time of need.”

Griswold smiled. “Surely you’ve seen all the fanciful downspouts and carvings, malevolent faces that spit rainwater out to the streets?”

Hadrian nodded.

“Those were our creations. Every one of them sculpted by my people. We made them fierce and grotesque as a means of embodying what they are—monsters. The archbishop thought they were fanciful—funny, he called them. What he didn’t know was that each one was sculpted ritualistically, and the shards were saved so that we could use them when necessary. If the day came when we were threatened again, we could breathe life into these decorations and send them to fight for us.” Griswold’s glare hardened. “The nobles have their soldiers, and we have ours. Ours sit upon their perches high above the city, awaiting the day when all debts will be paid in full.”

“You can be really creepy, you know that?” Hadrian asked.





“What exactly is a golem?” Royce asked. “Is it alive? Can it be killed?”

“I’m not an expert on dwarven magic,” Mercator said, “but I know golems are sculptures brought to life. Creatures that are supposed to retain the characteristics of the material they were made from.”

“This one is made from stone.” Royce stared at the bronze doors with their detailed reliefs, nine framed images that told the life story of a grand city. “How do you harm stone?”

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The gallery echoed with the sound of drumming on the doors by what could have been a huge hammer. They both watched as the elegant images were distorted by dents, the metal puckering where it was struck.

Mercator and Royce backed up.

“Can’t burn it. Doesn’t have any blood, so slitting its throat is useless. Pretty much nothing sharp will be helpful . . .” Royce was thinking out loud as he scanned the chamber for a weapon. “What is this place?”

“The Imperial Gallery,” Mercator said, bumping into a bust of a balding man. The sculpture toppled, fell, and shattered on the marble floor. She stared aghast at the ruined artwork. “The noble houses brought a lot of this stuff with them after the fall of Percepliquis. They keep the best pieces in their homes, and the rest is displayed here.”

“I don’t suppose there’s an ancient weapon around that kills stone gargoyles?”

Mercator flashed him a scowl that he guessed had more to do with the beating on the door than his poor attempt at humor.

Hadrian would have appreciated it.

Royce found a pair of hammers set on a display pedestal, one large, one small, both old and crude. He felt the weight of the heavy one, thinking it might be useful. “Why is it after us?”

Mercator stared at the door. “It’s being controlled by Villar.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s one of the few people who know how. Erasmus Nym is dead, and Griswold is busy guarding your friend. It has to be Villar.”

“So what does he want with us?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes darted back and forth in thought, then they widened. “Wait, you said no list of demands was found in the carriage?”

“No one but you appears to know anything about a list.”

Mercator placed a cupped hand over her mouth in disbelief. “The list wasn’t overlooked or blown away; he never left it. Everything makes sense now. Villar didn’t kidnap the duchess to seek concessions. He never wanted a peaceful solution. He was only placating me, pretending. And now—”

The bronze door ruptured. A stone fist punched through. Claws reached in and began ripping the hole wider. The metal screeched as it tore.

Mercator stuffed Genny’s note into Royce’s hand. “Take this to the duke.”

“What are you going to do?”

She looked back at the doors and Royce couldn’t tell if she was scared or angry. Both maybe.

“Stop him, I hope. He’s driving that thing, running it like a puppet. He can see and hear through it, so I can talk to him, reason with him.”