Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Roremar
“Any hints for tomorrow?” Roremar asked Cyren when they walked him back to the barracks the night before the second trial. They’d told everyone he’d been cleared by healers after twenty-four hours.
“If I knew, I’d tell you,” Cyren said.
Roremar huffed a laugh, his entire body exhausted. “Could you really?”
Cyren’s lips pinched, but Roremar had the distinct impression the General was unimpressed with the tournament.
“Get some rest tonight, Roremar. You’re going to need it as the rest of the poison works its way out of you.
” They dug through the inner pocket of their silk robe, handing him two corked vials.
“Drink one of these first thing when you wake up and the second right before the task. They should help build your strength.”
Roremar took them, studying the cloudy liquid within. “Thank you.”
When the door of his bunk closed behind him, Roremar sagged against it. The room was full of snoring and deep, steady breaths, thank the Fates. He didn’t have the energy to make up answers to any questions Perry might ask or verbally spar with Svalla.
He tip-toed toward his bed, mind swirling with names of poisons and their antidotes. He hoped the task tomorrow would involve some kind of logic piece to prove their cunning. He’d always been good at those.
Roremar dropped onto his thin mattress, the frame creaking, and leaned his elbows against his knees, unlacing his boots with shaky fingers.
Exhaustion tugged at his muscles, whatever had been on that blade last night still making every move sluggish and the right side of his body heavier than the rest. The wound, though sewn up expertly, had its own heartbeat thumping away against his ribs, but Cyren had assured him it wasn’t infected.
He rubbed his eyes, the metal of his rings icy thanks to the slow walk from the Chancellor’s manor.
A small part of him was grateful to be back in this overcrowded room.
Emmeline had been driving him mad all day, barely looking at him unless he specifically asked for her attention.
Though they’d spent the entire day locked in her suite, she was actively pulling away.
Did she regret what they’d done in the seeing chamber?
Or had the whole night reminded her how quickly he would ruin her?
The urge for her that constantly lived in his chest strained at the thought.
Sighing, he shoved the extra vials from Cyren beneath his mattress with the incense he’d taken and the notes from Desmond. As he realigned the mattress back on the chipped wooden frame, he froze.
A small roll of paper was wedged into the corner.
He pulled it out, half expecting it to be an old incense roll from a soldier stationed here years ago, musty with age. But it wasn’t weathered or worn at all.
A fresh bead of wax sealed the note. Ice dripped down Roremar’s spine.
Checking that all five of his bunkmates were still breathing evenly in their sleep, Roremar crept toward the window, his wrung-out nerves on alert. The tiles were cold beneath his feet, his breathing ragged as he carefully pulled open the note.
There were only four words. Four words, written in thick red letters, that could mean a myriad of things, none of them fucking good.
HE WILL HAVE HER.
Rubbing his hand over his jaw, Roremar studied the handwriting, the way the final R stretched low and sweeping, like a careless, flourishing hand had scrawled it.
The way the top of the Es were slightly pointed and the red liquid seeped into the fibers of the paper, droplets pointing toward the careless observation.
Or angry.
Someone claiming they would be the one to win Emmeline in this tournament. Maybe whoever had him stabbed last night wasn’t done taunting him.
Exhausted, Roremar crossed back to his bed and folded up the threat, stuffing it with his scant possessions beneath the mattress. He leaned back against the worn pillow, careful not to put pressure on his throbbing wound.
His mind bounced between every possibility, eyes landing on each man in the room and picking through everything he’d observed this past week. Had Svalla written that note, too, not content with shredding his tunics? Was it another threat, telling Roremar to get out of the tournament?
Or worse—was it one of the men who claimed to be an ally? Rian, Perry, or Khasson?
Which of these strangers could Roremar actually trust?
Which one wanted Emmeline the most?
By the time Roremar reported for the trial the next afternoon, his feet were dragging, and the right side of his body was still reacting slowly.
He’d barely slept, his mind racing through types of poison and antidotes, mysterious attackers and bloodied notes. Suffice it to say, he hadn’t gotten the rest Cyren had recommended to hurry along his recovery, and every stretch to get dressed and rush to the arena radiated through his wound.
Like the murder investigation, he could tell all the threads of whatever was going on in this damn city were connected.
It was a feeling in his gut, something practiced for years as he worked reconnaissance in the army.
The details assembled themselves in his brain, all slightly in the wrong direction but with similar colors and patterns.
He had to figure out their shape.
Falliare, Emmeline, Dryvius—
A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and Roremar choked back a grunt as the wound on his side pulsed.
“Okay?” Rian asked, eyes narrowed.
Teeth gritted, Roremar nodded. Sweat broke out across his brow.
Rian assessed him. “You sick yesterday?”
Roremar pressed his lips together tighter, breathing over the ebbing pain. “Something I got from my sister. Sucked all the energy out of me, but the infirmary cleared me of being contagious.”
“Good,” Rian said. “Ready?”
Roremar nodded. He was as ready as he could be.
“Good,” Rian repeated.
As communicative as ever, this ally of his. Though, right now, Roremar couldn’t blame him.
They stood in the tunnel into the arena, the roars and chants of the crowd a hum that grew louder by the minute. All thirty of the contestants had been organized into two lines of fifteen. Roremar and Rian stood at the back. From here, he could clearly see how jittery everyone was.
Even Perry, in the front of the group, kept flexing and clenching his hands. With every nervous shake of his head the silver hoops through his ears glinted in the checkered sunlight filtering through the gate. Dark circles lined his eyes as if he was as exhausted as Roremar.
Khasson, Svalla, and Devinli—the rest of their bunkmates—were scattered throughout the line, the latter speaking quickly and quietly with the only contestant who was nearly as young as him. Khasson leaned against the wall, tapping his foot with either nerves or impatience.
But Roremar eyed Svalla. The hulking warrior checked the laces of his boots, casting him a nasty sneer. Roremar wondered again if he’d been the one to leave the note beneath his mattress, but he shoved aside the threat for later.
It wouldn’t matter if he died today.
A few of the other men spoke in hushed voices, throwing out hypothetical situations of what the trial could be, while some jumped in place or stretched, hollering to try to build their own morale. The majority had come to the conclusion that this race wouldn’t be physical, not after the duel.
And many of them seemed to have the same suspicion that it could take their lives.
As the pain in his side dulled to a steady ache, Roremar forced himself to focus on every drop of information he’d absorbed yesterday. He inclined his head toward Rian. “Any idea what it’ll be?”
Rian only grunted a quick, “No.” In the ensuing silence, Roremar tried to decide if he should tell Rian what he knew, but before he could, the man whispered, “A mental test, though.”
Roremar nodded, that small show of alliance pushing him to add, “I asked for some books when I was in the infirmary yesterday. I found a few ideas.” Rian looked at him with a brow hiked, and Roremar dropped his voice even lower. “Sessions for one, though I think that’s too rudimentary.”
“Agreed,” Rian said, crossing him arms.
“Also, some kind of riddle or sphinx challenge.” The mythological creatures were rare but, like gryphons, they were spotted occasionally, more so recently.
“They’re not typically in Starsearcher Territory, though.
Decoding a convoluted fortune would make more sense.
Perhaps something from Valyrie’s age that’s been passed down. ”
Rian shook his head, voice tighter than usual. “What else?”
“History,” Roremar suggested, dancing closer to his point.
He didn’t want it to seem too easy to figure out.
“Maybe legendary battle strategies or presenting how we would prepare an attack when in need of defense. Something to do with star maps and how constellations have shifted over time to indicate patterns.” He held his breath as he whispered, “That made me think of the Constellation Isles. Of the purpose of each.” That got Rian’s full attention, expression remaining impassive as he pivoted to face Roremar, brown curls swaying around his face.
“Epi would be mythological creatures, Byron star maps. But Zyon…the different uses of things collected there.”
“Oils, plants, and resins,” Rian finished, clearly more familiar with the isles than most Gallantian Warriors.
“All used to make poison.”
Rian’s stoic facade slipped for a moment, eyes widening.
Ahead, the gate groaned as it slid up. The chants of their adoring audience mounted, the two neat lines marching forward into the blinding sunlight that did nothing to warm Roremar.
“If that’s true,” Rian said, barely moving his lips, “Fates help us all.”
“Thinking the same,” Roremar whispered as he took out the final vial Cyren had given him, uncorked it, and threw back the liquid.
Then, they stepped into the arena.