With nothing else to do, Hadrian had fallen asleep. He woke to the first light of dawn spilling down the wooden steps from the shack above. The three of them were still huddled in the stone cellar. Griswold sat where he’d always been, hunched up with knees high, his long beard pooling on his lap, demonstrating the patience and unruffled composure of a rock. He still had the dagger, out and ready. Seton had curled up beside Hadrian using him as a pillow, her hair creating a pool of blond across his lap. He guessed she’d done it for warmth, or perhaps as a precaution against treachery while she slept.
No one can steal me away without waking my protector.
For Hadrian, who was cold, cramped, and couldn’t feel his hands, the beautiful mir was a wonderful comfort. In the newborn light that gave everything a spotless purity, she was something more than beautiful, more than a woman. In the same way, the first snowfall of the year was more than snow; both were transcendent.
She’s so light, like having a cat sleep on me. Hadrian had always felt that cats were picky, untrusting things. Being fragile, they had to be. Whenever a cat sat on him, Hadrian felt special, as if the animal approved, and their acceptance was some sort of gift. Makes a body feel worthy of something to have a cat trust you that much.
Hadrian didn’t feel worthy. I did one good thing. How quickly does a pure drop of rain disappear in a muddy lake? How many did I kill that night? I don’t even remember. In her story, he was a monster who came to slaughter and maim. Hadrian had few illusions about those days, and his memories only got worse the farther he traveled east where civilization was little more than an inconvenient philosophy. Still, he’d never really seen himself as evil.
But I was. Maybe I still am.
He looked down. Her eyes were closed, her body rising and falling gently, silently. Maybe she was a hundred years old and had witnessed and even participated in atrocities of her own. Maybe she had closets full of horrible regrets. Who didn’t? But in that forgiving light, she was as innocent as a newly budded flower, and she was his savior.
Cats don’t sleep on monsters, do they?
Noises turned Griswold’s head and woke Seton. They all listened: voices coming from outside. The sound soaked through the walls of the overhead shack and dripped down through the gaps in the floorboards, conversations impossible to clearly hear. Identities were equally vague. Men and women were all Hadrian could reliably discern. Not many, two or three perhaps, but they were coming closer.
The dwarf climbed to his feet. “Either your friend’s back or time’s up. If he’s betrayed us . . .” He pointed the dagger at Hadrian, an old, dull blade. Is it the same one he uses to carve figurines? After seeing him with his family, after looking at the beauty he created out of wood, Hadrian found it hard to believe Griswold could kill. But Hadrian had been wrong before.
Maybe in a society of stoneworkers, wood carving is an indication of insanity. Griswold might be the sort of crazed killer that no one suspects. Hadrian had met a few of those. Young soldiers, usually the quiet ones that he worried might not be up to the task, revealed a different side on the battlefield. Normally constrained by social pressure, they felt a sense of freedom in combat that they never encountered in daily life. Killing, the ultimate taboo, became a necessary relief to the building pressure to conform. After the fight, they went back to their shadow life, but the taste of blood worked like an infection. They were the ones who volunteered for missions but fell into trouble after the war. Killers hiding in plain sight; pots boiling with sealed lids. Griswold might be like that.
Hadrian felt Seton stiffen as if she’d had the same thought, and then the mir got to her feet as well, her eyes on the dagger.
“That was the deal he made,” Griswold told her.
The noise grew louder. Then footfalls hit the floor of the shack, thumping on the ceiling above.
“Hadrian?” Royce yelled.
Griswold shuffled away from the stairs and toward Hadrian.
“No!” Seton moved with surprising speed, thrusting herself between them and raising her hands, putting up the defense Hadrian couldn’t.
Griswold’s expression was grim, not gleeful. And Hadrian was pleased to see it. At least he doesn’t want to kill me—or maybe it’s just her he regrets killing.
“Stop!” The order came from the stairs where Selie Nym descended. “Griswold Dinge, you put that dagger away! Right now, you hear?”
“Why? What’s happened? Where are Mercator and Villar?”
“Mercator Sikara is dead,” the Calian woman said.
This did nothing to improve the dwarf’s attitude, and his expression went from grim to angry.
“Was it the small one who did it?”
Royce joined her at the bottom of the stairs and Griswold took a tighter grip on the dagger. Hadrian got to his feet.
The dwarf let out a heated growl. “What happened to Mercator. I don’t see—”
“That’s right, Griswold, you don’t see anything!” The widow was furious. “Mercator Sikara was murdered. And it’s all your fault!”
“My fault? Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been here, with them, all night.”
“Mercator was torn apart by a golem!”
She could have hit the dwarf with a bucket of water and gotten the same response. He stopped not only his movement toward Hadrian but even his breathing. A fortunate turn for Griswold, as by then Royce was past the widow, and Alverstone was out and ready to say hello.
“Drop the dagger or lose the hand,” Royce ordered in the sort of voice that allowed no hesitation or argument.
Griswold let his blade fall and backed away, but his eyes were still trained on Erasmus’s widow, still aghast.
“Damn it,” Royce cursed, kicking the blade away and frowning at the dwarf. “They never pick the choice I want.”
The dwarf had backed up all the way to the wall, retreating from more than Royce. “I don’t understand. How could a golem kill Mercator?”
“You tell me, you little bearded excuse for a mole rat!” The widow was filled with fury. “Erasmus had always been against using those things, those evil, disgusting creatures, and now . . . now . . .” She took a deep breath to compose herself. “Who have you taught that evil sorcery? Do you see what price has been paid? Mercator is dead and so is my Erasmus!”
“He killed your husband!” Griswold pointed at Hadrian.
“He didn’t.” Seton looked at Selie in desperation.
The widow patted Seton’s cheek. “Honey, do you think I would believe anything coming out of his mouth? Erasmus’s face was damn near chewed away. What happened to my . . . to my . . . that wasn’t done by any man.”
“I—” Seton began.
The widow was done with her but not with Griswold. “You’re the only one who knows . . . the only one who . . .” The widow put her hands to her hips, her eyes narrowing to the sort of slits archers used when targeting small prey. “Hundreds of people saw a golem in the plaza last night! That stony monster climbed down the side of the cathedral, smashed into the gallery, and tore that poor woman apart. First my Erasmus, now Mercator. All because—”
“It wasn’t me. I was here with them.” He gestured toward Hadrian and Seton.
“But you showed others. You’re the only one who knows how. Who else did you teach that vile black magic to? Who else can raise a golem?”
Griswold bowed his head. “Just three of us, only three. I had to, you see, as a kind of safeguard. A way to ensure no single person, no one sect had more power than the others, and so each race would have equal power. I was one, your husband another . . .”
She glared. “Who was the last?”
“Villar,” Royce said cutting Hadrian’s bonds free.
The dwarf’s eyes indicated agreement.
“Mercator figured it out,” Royce said. “He never left any note with demands. He used Leopold’s lack of action to fuel dissent and his bloody little war. He was trying to stop us from getting to the duke. Mercator tried to talk him out of it, but it didn’t go so well.”
“Did you get into the Estate? Were you able to see the Duke?” Hadrian asked.
Royce nodded. “And he has Wyberg and a group of guild leaders in the meeting hall right now. They’re discussing the duke’s intentions and what changes will be coming. Looks like Mercator accomplished that much at least. There won’t be any revolution.” He looked at Hadrian. “I told Roland we’d take care of getting the duchess back to the Estate.”
Hadrian’s fingers suffered the dreaded pins and needles as blood flowed back to them. To his surprise, Seton, whose face was streaked with tears, took his hands and rubbed them.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
With his hands returning to normal, Hadrian clapped and rubbed them together. “Let me get my swords, and we’ll get going. So, where is she?” he asked Royce.
“Don’t know.” He looked to Griswold.
The dwarf began shaking his head, though Hadrian doubted the dwarf was aware of it. He had a lost, horrified look, as if he’d just woken up with blood on his hands. “I don’t know. No one does.”
“What do you mean no one?” Hadrian asked.
“The duchess was the mir’s responsibility, and only Villar and Mercator know where they took her. But the duchess isn’t the real problem.”
“Then what is?” Hadrian asked.
“If Villar doesn’t want reforms and is only after bloodshed and violence, then . . .”
“Then nothing. He has no mob to follow his—”
“He doesn’t need anyone’s help. You don’t understand,” Griswold interrupted, his face white. “He knows how to create a golem. You have no idea how much damage they can do.”
“Think I have a pretty good idea,” Royce said. “Had one chasing me most of the night.”
“Trust me it can be much worse.”
“But why?” Hadrian asked. “Why would Villar be so bent on violence?”
Royce shrugged. “Frustration, revenge, hate. He blames others for his lot in life. His father never appreciated him. The weather has been cloudy. Take your pick. People have an inexhaustible supply of excuses to wreak havoc.”
“In this case, however, Villar has a once in a lifetime opportunity,” Griswold said. “He can raise an unstoppable monster and later today, all the nobles of Alburn, the very people Villar blames for his misfortunes, are going to be gathered in one place. It’d take no time for him to tear through that crowd.”
Hadrian shook his head. “Villar’s last golem had to have made an impression. It’ll keep everyone away. People are probably fleeing the city as we speak.”
“We’re talking about nobles vying for the crown,” Royce said. “No one is going anywhere.”
Selie Nym nodded. “It’s Villar that we have to find.” She turned to the dwarf. “Maybe you don’t know exactly where he is, but you know something—some way to narrow the search.”
Griswold nodded. “To raise a golem, you have to be on consecrated ground.”
“What does that mean?” Royce asked.
“It has to have been blessed, sacred. Otherwise, you’re committing suicide.”
“How so?”
“Raising a golem requires trapping a demon and forcing it inside a statue. They don’t like that, and the first person they’ll kill is their creator. Golems can’t step on consecrated ground, so that’s the only safe place to raise one. If they can’t reach the summoner, they’re forced to act as his puppet.”
“Does that have something to do with the boxes you were handing out? Do they have to spread it around or something?” Hadrian asked.
“No, the boxes are filled with the residue, the waste bits and chips, that were chiseled off the statues when they were created. Using them, the summoner can animate the statue related to its corresponding bits. The plan had been for Erasmus, myself, and Villar to raise golems to aid in the uprising. I was going to use the church near the graveyard. The place where you saw me give Erasmus his box of gravel.”
“So, where else can this be done?” Hadrian asked. “Will any graveyard work? Any church?”
“That’s the thing. There aren’t many places in Rochelle that meet the requirements. It’s not like anyone can throw salt around and say some magic words. The site must be on a focal point.” Griswold looked at them and sighed again. “It’s hard to explain if you aren’t a dwarf. Even hard for some of us to understand. So many of the old ways have been lost since we were scattered to the winds by the empire.” He cupped his hands. “It’s like this. There are places—natural places—in the world that are centers of power. You’ve heard of Avempartha, right? That’s an example. Drumindor is another. Power rises to the surface in places like that, and people have built structures on them to harness that strength, sometimes without even knowing why.”
“Grom Galimus?” Royce said.
Griswold nodded. “That’s where Erasmus”—he looked at the widow and cringed—“was going to raise his golem. Villar was going to be somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“How long can a summoner control his golem?” Royce asked.
“It comes down to a force of wills. The summoner needs to conduct the actions of the golem. You see through its eyes and direct its movements. But it hates being used, so the whole time you have to concentrate and be mindful about the amount of time the connection is in place. Keeping control for too long is dangerous.”
“How so?”
“Hang on too long, and you lose your soul and become permanently trapped inside the golem. It becomes immortal and nearly indestructible.”
“Yeah, okay,” Royce said. “That’s worse. How long does that take?”
“Generally, we try to not hold the connection for more than a few hours, but a golem can do a lot of damage in that amount of time. Best way to stop the summoner is to force him to sever the connection.”
“And how do you do that?” Royce asked.
“Distract, threaten, or kill him.”
“So the connection is broken if the summoner dies?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” A smile grew on Royce’s lips.
“I think I would prefer stopping him before he makes another one,” Hadrian said, moving to the steps.
“What are you going to do?” Griswold asked.
Hadrian shrugged. “We have a tendency to make this stuff up as we go.”
----------------------------------------
A mir had been waiting at the top of the stairs and handed Hadrian his weapons without saying a word. After Hadrian strapped them on, he jogged to catch up to Royce.
“What’s the plan?” he asked as they walked down a roadway. He knew it was called Center Street only because the name was neatly stenciled on a wooden road sign that the birds loved more than the residents did, as evidenced by the white streaks on the placard and pole. The street, as far as Hadrian could tell, tracked due west toward the plaza. He knew this not due to any growing understanding of the city, but because he could see the spires of Grom Galimus straight ahead. The tallest building by far in the city, the cathedral could always be seen rising above the other roofs.
“Not sure. I’m thinking.”
The two were as alone as they could be that morning in a cramped city that was coming alive with the rising sun. Griswold, Seton, and Selie Nym had remained to aid Roland with quelling the rebellion.
“Happy first day of spring,” Hadrian offered along with a yawn as they walked by a shop where the owner flipped over a sign, presumably for the first time that year. It had read DRIED HERBS but now announced FRESH FLOWERS.
Royce gave him a sidelong glance. “Don’t do that again.”
“You have something against spring? When did that happen?”
“Don’t offer yourself as a hostage.”
“Oh, that.” Hadrian yawned again. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, and it was starting to drag on him.
“Don’t Oh that me,” Royce reprimanded, sounding eerily like Evelyn Hemsworth. “This is not a laughing matter. You put me in a box.”
“I put you in a box? See, I saw it as me putting myself in one.”
“You did both. In our line of business, associations are liabilities. Loyalties are points of weakness. They get you killed. If they had captured you, locked you up, that would have been fine. But you—”
“How would that have been fine?”
“I would have just killed them.” Royce said this in such a matter-of-fact tone that Hadrian failed to question the boast.
If it had been anyone else, Hadrian would have passed it off as bombastic bluster, but Royce wasn’t bragging, wasn’t exaggerating to make a point. He was serious, and to him this was a practical matter. A basic trade rule, like not shoveling manure into the wind.
“But when you volunteer to act as collateral,” Royce went on, “that puts me in a tight spot. The stakes go up, and I can’t walk away if things take a nasty turn—like this one did.”
“Is this your way of saying you care about me?”
Royce continued his Evelyn Hemsworth impersonation by displaying an I-can’t-believe-you-really-exist expression. “This is my way of saying you’re an idiot, and the next time you do something that stupid, I’ll let them kill you.”
Hadrian smiled. “You really like me, don’t you?”
“Shut up.”
“I feel bad now,” Hadrian said. “I didn’t get you anything for Spring Day.”
Royce walked faster, shaking his head as he moved forward.
The sun was barely up, but already the day displayed all the indications that it would be glorious. The sky was blue, the sunshine bright, the temperature warmer than it had been in days. Birds built nests under the eaves of shops as owners threw wide winter shutters, letting the birdsong in. How rare that the first day of spring lived up to expectations. That sentiment was on every face as people crept out of dark homes to celebrate the holiday of rebirth. Mothers dressed their children in fine clothes, delivering stern ultimatums and handing out rules against doing anything beyond standing still. Young women burst out of doorways, resembling budding flowers as they twirled their dresses of bright yellows, pinks, and greens, full of excitement that they might attract the attention of a handsome bee or two.
The usual vendors were not present in the plaza. Even they had taken the day off. In their place, musical bands were in the process of setting up while men who moved awkwardly in waistcoats, capes, and shiny-buckled shoes set up banquet tables or roped off squares for dancing. One area suffered from an odd break in the boundary where several shattered paving stones created a nasty crater. Hadrian noted that even though the steps of the gallery had been cleaned, there was still a rusty tinge on some of them, and one of the beautiful doors had been battered and torn. The tragedy of the previous night had been mostly erased by the morning light and the new season, but just like winter, the hardships couldn’t be entirely forgotten. The people in the plaza moved around the crater and avoided the steps to the gallery. Still, they were unwavering in their efforts to celebrate the spring. Surviving was often a matter of moving forward. Moving forward was a matter of putting yesterday in the past, and all of it began with putting one foot ahead of the other, remembering how to smile, how to dance, and especially, remembering that laughing wasn’t disrespectful; it was essential.
Hadrian’s attention was pulled away by the grand procession underway as ten men carried a massive garland-festooned post across the bridge. The Springpole, streaming ribbons of various colors, was headed to the plaza, where it would be erected for the opening dance. Hadrian’s home village of Hintindar put up a Springpole every year as well, though not nearly so big. He imagined every town did. Rochelle planned on celebrating on a scale Hadrian couldn’t imagine. Feeling the energy and anticipation, he wanted to join in, help put up the pole, roll out the barrels, and find a partner for the Rabbit Run and the Blossom Ball. But they still had work to do.
As if realizing only then that he was walking, Royce stopped. He took in a long breath and let out a sigh of frustration.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got nothing. Villar is the only one left who knows where the duchess is.” Royce looked around at all the congested buildings. “He could be anywhere!”
“No,” Hadrian said. “He has to be somewhere special, someplace sacred.”
“Sure, okay, but what is considered special or holy in Rochelle? Do you know? Because I don’t. This is the problem with taking jobs outside our neighborhood. Even Griswold, who I’m guessing has lived here his whole life, only knew about two places. And if Erasmus was using the cathedral and the dwarf the old church, then where was Villar going? Griswold would have mentioned other sites if he knew any.”
“Villar knows of at least one more, obviously,” Hadrian said. “He’s a mir, and mir live for a long time, right? So it might be something ancient. Something everyone else has forgotten about.”
“How does that help?”
“Maybe we just need to find someone who knows a lot about the ancient history of Rochelle.” Hadrian smiled. “Can you think of anyone like that, Royce?”
Royce’s eyes widened. “Oh, you are kidding me.”