The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter Page 22

  Hadrian had no idea what he was seeing or was about to see. In many ways, the confluence of people reminded him of a church service, but he couldn’t understand why a religious meeting would be held at night in such a fearful place. Something seasonal like a Wintertide or Summersrule observance, he guessed, as a cold wind shook the branches of a tree, clacking a branch against the broken roof. This was winter’s last night, and the season thrashed with a spiteful anger.

  Royce clapped Hadrian on the arm, and with a slight tilt of his head, he indicated a small figure near the fire. With the dwarf’s hood pulled back, Hadrian recognized Griswold, who stood on a wooden crate alongside a taller figure. That person wore his hood up, his face hidden.

  “Seventeen days,” the hooded one next to Griswold said loudly. He turned halfway around and then repeated it. “Seventeen days ago your leaders embarked on an ambitious plan on your behalf. The disappearance of the Duchess of Rochelle was our doing. We took her to apply pressure on the duke, to get him to grant rights for those who have none. Our demands were reasonable, easily granted, and completely ignored. For seventeen days we sought a peaceful solution, but tomorrow is the Spring Feast, and we can’t wait any longer.”

  Even the low murmuring stopped. The interior of the ruined building grew silent.

  “We all wanted a peaceful solution, but injustice cannot be defeated by good intentions. Prejudice cannot be reasoned with. It cannot be beaten back without a cost. We must rise. Blood! That’s what it takes. Blood must be spilled. The noble houses wear blue, but they should fear red. The crimson of their own lives. We need to show them we will no longer silently withstand their degradations. Seeing the color splattered on the walls, on the cobblestones, and on their pretty blue jackets will get their attention.”

  “Oh, it will certainly do that!” a mir said. Dressed in a deep-blue kirtle, the woman had equally dark skin, her hair nappy as any East Calian. She walked up to stand next to Griswold and the hooded speaker. A full head shorter than the one she interrupted, she was small and slight, but she stood tall, chin-high, eyes bright. “It will also terrify them. And not just the aristocracy of Rochelle, or even the three great houses of Alburn. I’ve already spoken to Villar about the folly of his proposal. If you listen to him, if you take up arms, you’ll be declaring war and gain the very fervent attention of both the nobility and the church. And I’m talking about not just here, but all across Avryn. Not one of those kings, dukes, earls, or marquises will abide such a filthy house. They’ll scrub the streets clean and use gallons of our blood for the washing. For every drop of theirs we draw, they’ll demand a barrel of ours.”

  “Mercator Sikara, everyone,” the tall one said, holding his hands out and introducing her to the crowd, but his tone wasn’t inviting or welcoming. Hadrian suspected everyone already knew who she was. Villar shook his head. “What would your grandfather think of you? Of your fears? Of your willingness to abase yourself. Would he approve of you offering your people the illusion of safety through complacency? I don’t deny that sacrifices will be made, but anything worth having comes at a price. We have had our heritage stolen from us. All of us.” He pointed at Griswold. “Once proud Belgriclungreians have been shuttered into ghettos, locked in on festival nights, and forced to lock themselves in during their own celebration days to avoid being victims of violence. Calians, once the noble merchant-citizens of the imperial province of Calynia, whose city of Urlineus was the last to surrender its imperial banner, are now forced to beg for the right to buy and sell on the streets of a city that considers itself the last echo of the imperium. A city that should welcome them the most! And the mir . . .” He paused, shaking his head.

  He took a breath as if it was far too much to go on, but somehow he managed to continue. “Mir . . . that was once a term of respect, a title of an honorable heritage. Those of us who can trace our lineage back to the imperial province of Merredydd know that we were once proud and admired members of the Novronian Empire. Mir Sikar sat on the Imperial Council beside Mir Plymerath, both of whom personally knew, and fought beside, the living Novron. But now . . . now . . .” He faltered and gestured up at the walls around them. “Now we barely exist, denied even the right to dwell in a house, the freedom to conduct a business of any kind, and the dignity to provide for ourselves and our loved ones.”

  “That voice is familiar,” Royce whispered.

  “The one in the hood?”

  Royce nodded.

  “Living in the past is no way to create a future,” Mercator said.

  “It’s from the past that we find our future,” Villar declared.

  “I wish he’d lift his head high enough so I could see his face,” Royce said, peering up.

  Hadrian was acutely aware that all the people in attendance, other than the two of them, were dark-skinned Calians, short dwarves, and easily identified mir. Anyone getting a good look under either of their hoods would know they didn’t belong. Given that they had stumbled into something akin to a pre-revolution rally, Hadrian preferred not to be noticed. Spies were always given the same reward, whether it was handed out by kings or insurgents, and three swords wouldn’t be enough to fight off hundreds of furious people.

  “You’re asking us to commit suicide.” Mercator threw up her hands, her voice growing shrill in frustration.

  “I’m asking for us to stand up for ourselves, to be brave,” Villar countered. “We outnumber our oppressors. We can defeat them. We can take control and make our own rules.”

  “Our numbers are greater only in Rochelle,” Mercator argued. “Outside this city are thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people who would like nothing better than to see every one of us dead, and they’ll respond to this attack. Well-equipped and well-trained armies will have no qualms about putting down our little insurrection. And do you think it will stop there? No! The aristocracy of every kingdom will purge their homes of the unwanted. Today we are seen as merely a nuisance, but after tomorrow we’ll be a threat. If you do this, you doom not just ourselves, but every mir, Belgriclungreian, and Calian across the face of Elan. You’ll launch a universal war that we have no hope of surviving, much less winning.”

  Villar’s voice showed disgust and an end of patience. “You have all heard Mercator’s words before. And as I said, I tried things her way, and at great personal risk. I was the one who kidnapped the duchess. And what did the duke do? Nothing. He has ignored our demands. So many of you have suffered, so many have asked why we don’t stand up for ourselves, why we don’t fight. Tomorrow we will. On the first day of spring, the nobles from every corner of Alburn will be at the feast. It’s our best chance, a perfect opportunity. They’re not expecting a revolution, and they won’t be protected by thick breastplates, nor will they be carrying swords. But we will! The dwarves have secretly prepared nearly a hundred weapons, ready to be handed out. The Calian soothsayers have confirmed that tomorrow is a turning point for this city, and it will be if the mir, the Belgriclungreians, and the Calians all join forces and attack the Feast of Nobles tomorrow at midday. Listen to me now, and we won’t ever have to listen to the nobles again. I ask for your support, by a show of—”

  Villar finally lifted his head high enough that the light splashed his features, and both Hadrian and Royce got a good look at the person beneath the hood. A triangular face, black hair, angled brows—a mir, and an angry one. There was a cold hate in the pull of his lips and an intensity in his dark eyes as he scanned the crowd, seeking to speak directly to everyone gathered. Royce had also tilted his head to get a better look, and in that same moment the two recognized each other.

  Lowering his head, Royce whispered, “It’s him. The guy I chased last night.”

  Villar shouted, “Grab that man!” and pointed at Royce.

  “Time to go,” Royce said. They struggled to retreat but ran into a mass of bodies.

  Villar continued to shout. “Get him! Both of them! They’re spies for the duke!”

  The phrase spies for t
he duke did the trick, and instantly Hadrian felt uncountable hands.

  Royce reached under his cloak.

  “No, Royce, don’t!” Hadrian yelled.

  His partner hesitated and in that moment was equally besieged by a dozen men who swarmed until they had him in a firm grip. Royce glared.

  The crowd was filled with innocent people, the elderly, women, and children. Any hope they had to get free would require killing—lots of killing, and even then they might not get away. That sweet old couple Hadrian had seen on the way to the rally stood four rows back, still arm in arm, looking upon them with fear. Beside them, a beautiful blond girl, a mir, stared at him wide-eyed in shock. The rest of the crowd was confused and frightened. These people weren’t soldiers. They were a host of Griswolds. People who came home from a long day with nothing more than a miserable excuse for a chicken. And even so, their meager offering garnered a kiss from a grateful wife. None of this would matter to Royce.

  “There’s too many,” Hadrian said.

  “What are you talking about, Villar?” Mercator asked, “Who are these men?”

  “They have been searching for the duchess. Asking questions and hanging out with the captain of the duke’s guard. Just last night I came upon them spying on Griswold and Erasmus. I chased the little one. And the large one murdered Erasmus Nym.”

  “Nym’s dead?” someone asked, but was ignored.

  Hadrian tried to pull free, but it was hopeless with so many pressing in from all sides. Someone put an arm around his neck, tilting Hadrian backward and off balance. He felt them take his swords.

  Hadrian and Royce had been turned to face the front of the room. Mercator, whose arms were two-toned as if she were wearing black gloves to her elbows, stepped forward. “Is what Villar says true?” Hadrian was encouraged by the sincerity of the question. She, at least, hadn’t made up her mind.

  He looked to Royce, who refused to answer. Hadrian offered as charming a smile as the chokehold allowed and focused on her. “Yes and no.”

  Mercator wasn’t amused.

  “No, I didn’t kill anyone. Yes, we have been looking for the duchess. No, we aren’t spies of the duke; we’ve never even met the man. Yes, I know the captain of the guard, we served together years ago.”

  “I was there,” Griswold said, “I saw you chase Nym last night, and now my friend is dead.”

  “Well, yes, I did chase him, but we got separated, and when I found him again, he was dead. But I swear I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “He’s lying, of course,” Villar said. “I’d lie, too, if I were in his place. He’s only trying to save his own skin.”

  “And why are you looking for the duchess?” Mercator asked.

  “My friend and I were hired by her father, Gabriel Winter, who’s worried about the disappearance of his only daughter; he feared for her life.”

  “See! He admits it,” Villar said. “They know we kidnapped her. They know what happens tomorrow. Let them live and we die. We need to kill them; throw their bodies in the Roche; let it take their stink to the sea.”

  “No!” a voice in the crowd yelled, the girl with blond hair and blue eyes. “Leave him alone.” She pushed through the crowd to face Hadrian. “I know this man, and I won’t let anyone hurt him.”

  Royce looked at Hadrian and Hadrian looked back, his face mirroring the confusion.

  “Seton?” Mercator asked, pushing forward toward the girl. “What are you talking about?”

  “This is the rasa!” The blonde pointed at Hadrian and stared at Mercator with big eyes.

  Mercator continued to appear puzzled. “The rasa?” Her eyes widened. She studied Hadrian closely. “Are you sure? How can you be . . . how could he be . . .”

  “I’m positive,” Seton said. “I could never forget his face, his three swords, those eyes.”

  Hadrian, on the other hand, had clearly forgotten hers. She was vaguely familiar but only because he thought she looked a bit like Arbor, the shoemaker’s daughter from Hintindar whom he’d been in love with at the age of fifteen. But this girl was a mir, and Arbor must still be living in Hintindar, married and with children by now. Hadrian had no idea why this young woman was defending him, or why she called him a rasa. Given his position, he wasn’t about to deny anything she said.

  Villar pivoted. “What’s this all about?”

  “This is Hadrian Blackwater,” Seton said. “Seven years ago, he saved my life.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Rasa

  She didn’t say any more. The beautiful blonde mir—who literally and figuratively stood between Hadrian and Royce and death, looked uncomfortable as she faced Mercator with pleading eyes. Villar shifted impatiently. He likely wanted them dead, their bodies jammed down a sewer shaft, and while Hadrian obviously preferred to avoid that future, he was also curious to understand why this girl was so adamant about saving his life.

  “Seton,” Mercator said gently. “You have to tell the story.” The blue-stained mir looked out across the crowd. “I know this isn’t the—I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to explain.”

  Seton nodded but still struggled to find her voice, and when it came, her words started faint and so low that Hadrian strained to hear. “I was living in the village of Aleswerth a few miles north. That’s where I was born. Lord Aleswerth had defied King Reinhold. I don’t even know about what or why, but one day the king’s soldiers arrived.”

  “Louder!” someone in the back shouted.

  “We can’t hear you,” someone else said.

  Seton’s embarrassment showed, but when she resumed her story, her voice was louder, and as she spoke it grew even more so. “Everyone was called into the castle. We were told that anyone left outside the walls would be slaughtered. I didn’t think they would let me in, but I guess with my hair covering my ears they didn’t notice I was a mir, and I slipped in with everyone else.” She paused and swallowed hard.

  “The battle went on all day and on past sunset. I hid behind the woodpile. Then in the middle of the night, the gate burst open. They set fires everywhere, and men in chainmail carrying swords ran through the courtyard, killing everyone. They didn’t . . .” She stopped, her eyes searching the dark for the words. “They didn’t look human. They looked like monsters, cruel and horrible. One was worse than all the rest. He was tall, powerful, and covered in blood. Among my people there are legends of vicious creatures called rasas: terrible fiends, part elven, part beast, wholly possessed of evil. That’s what he looked like to me.”

  She paused, regained her composure, and then continued. “He charged in swinging this incredibly long sword. Lord Aleswerth’s men attacked him from all sides, strong men, good men. I was certain they would kill this savage invader. Instead, they all died, their blood adding to his gore. He cut them down, cleaving off arms and legs, beheading, and in one case, he cut a poor man nearly in half, slicing him from the shoulder to hip.” As she spoke, her eyes focused on Hadrian, squinting as if she peered into a painful light. “He killed the horses, too, the ones the lord’s knights rode when they came at him. This man—this rasa—took down mounted knights with no more difficulty than a butcher slaughters a lamb. Before long, they were stacked around him, bodies in a pond of blood.”

  The crowd was quiet as she spoke. Only the faint crackle of the campfire broke the stillness, the sound and the flickering light adding to the imagery she conjured.

  “When all the soldiers were dead, the invaders came for the women. I was discovered. They liked my hair and how young I appeared. In the dark, they thought I was human.”

  She paused, her face tense, her sight dropping to her own feet. She took another breath. “I could smell the beer on their breath. The battle was over, the celebration begun. Everyone was drinking. I held onto the hope that I might survive, that if they continued to think I was human, they would let me live. I feared they would . . . would . . . but they didn’t want me for themselves. Instead, I was dragged to the rasa. The
blood-soaked man was in the middle of the courtyard beside a barrel of beer, his giant sword still in one hand, a cup in the other. He was drunk.

  “The soldiers threw me and three other girls down at his feet. ‘To Hadrian Blackwater, the hero of the battle, go the spoils,’ they yelled. ‘Pick your favorite, Blackwater.’ He picked me.”

  Seton paused there and began to cry. “I was terrified. After seeing what he’d done to the knights of Lord Aleswerth, I was certain this man was capable of unspeakable horrors. I knelt in the dirt, made muddy by the blood of so many, and I waited. All around me was fire, smoke, and screaming. My stomach was so bound in knots that I vomited. I didn’t care if he killed me. I just wanted it to be over. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”

  It took her a moment to find her voice again, and when it returned she looked directly at Hadrian, as if she were speaking only to him, like they were alone. “Then he did something so unexpected, so unfathomable, that I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly. He said, ‘I’m sorry.’ The rasa’s voice wasn’t what I expected. It was soft—soft and gentle, and sad. I thought he was speaking to me. I thought he was telling me that he regretted what he was about to do, but he never moved. He just kept saying it, repeating those two words. I realized he wasn’t talking to me at all. He was looking at the pile of bodies. Staring at it, he drank and repeated his apology. Finally, he did look my way. He acted as if he’d just noticed I was there. I was sobbing, and he stared. I thought my life was about to end. When he reached out and grabbed me, I screamed.”

  “And then?” another from the crowd asked, a woman who glared at Hadrian with hate. “What did he do?”

  “He . . .” Seton lifted a hand in Hadrian’s direction, reaching out. “He held me. He held me tight, but gently. I was still terrified, expecting the worst at any minute; he, too, was crying. Then he let go. A couple of other soldiers came up. They saw he wasn’t doing anything with me, and they tried to pull me away. Said they didn’t want the blond bitch to go to waste. He told them no. They weren’t happy with that, but he said if anyone touched me—anyone—that he would kill them and their horse.”