Chapter 3 #2
They’d known each other for over half their lives, since their teenage days at Lyra Temple Academy when Desmond moved over from one of the neighboring Constellation Isles.
They’d fought together when troops were called to the mainland—one of the only times the Starsearcher leaders deigned to acknowledge the Isles—and throughout it all, from tragic losses to nights like this, they’d taken care of each other.
Desmond was one of the few people Roremar let his guard down around. He was so at ease in his apartment, he almost didn’t register the footsteps pounding down the stairs outside.
At the last moment, Roremar shot to his feet, reaching for his sword propped against the back of the couch.
The door slammed open, and a face baring his same thick brows and defined jawline swam into view, eyes wide and amused. “Paranoid?”
Roremar groaned, dropping back to the couch with a racing heart. “Fucking Fates, what now?”
“What a warm welcome,” his brother mocked, cheeks still flushed from the ale he’d been drinking at the Mezzanine hours ago. Coughing, he added, “Were you trying to summon all twelve Fates to this realm, Des? How much fucking incense did you light?”
Desmond laughed as he handed Roremar the second drink he didn’t ask for. “Enough to try to make even your brother relax. Can I get you anything, Nico?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
At his somber tone, Roremar’s head snapped up. “Is everything all right?”
Spirits, he’d barely been gone for an hour. Nico had assured him things were under control, that he could take this quick break. All three of their younger siblings had been sleeping, and the chores were taken care of.
Nico stopped behind the sofa and braced his hands on Roremar’s shoulders, forcing him to stay in his seat.
“Everything’s fine. But this showed up for you.
” He pulled a wrinkled slip of parchment from his pocket and dropped it on Roremar’s lap.
As his tunic shifted, Roremar didn’t miss the empty loops on his belt.
His younger brother had once again left the house without a single dagger.
It made his skin itch just to consider going somewhere without any form of defense.
Nico went on, “It arrived at the house on accident after you left. The Mystique ink probably miscalculated since you were there recently. And before you ask, Mother was sent home early from her shift because her headaches were acting up, so she’s home with the kids.”
Roremar’s pulse spiked. “She all right?”
“She’s fine. Brewed some tea and went to bed.”
“Those headaches are getting more frequent,” he commented, mentally adding searching for more remedies to his to do list as he lifted the note. “And you’d think for all the power the Mystique Warriors have, their ink would be more accurate.”
Nico snickered as he claimed a seat on the opposite end of the sofa.
Mystique ink was created with minerals mined from the same mountains that housed all magic, designed to be scrawled on a page, tossed over a mystlight, and find the recipient the writer intended. It wasn’t always precise if you were in motion, though, as Roremar had been tonight.
As he read the summons, his vision blurred.
Reading over his shoulder, Desmond whistled low. “You might want that second drink.”
Roremar’s chest tightened. “The Lyra Temple Academy Master wants to see me tomorrow.” His fist closed around the paper.
“I can’t go tomorrow. He knows I can’t.” He had to take his little sisters to their art class in the morning, then sort out the payment for their schooling this term.
Assuming her headaches cleared up, their mother would be at work all day.
“I can take care of them,” Desmond assured him instantly.
“You’re sure?”
“It’s an art class, Rore.” He lazily flashed them one hand, knuckles and fingers etched with black ink the warrior himself had designed. As he had the many tattoos sprinkled around Roremar’s body and the large piece on his back. “I think I can handle it.”
Nico cut in, “Or I can—”
“No,” Roremar said. “You have work in the morning at the Merchant’s Benches. You can’t miss that apprenticeship.”
Nico groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “I can’t believe you’re making me do that.”
“We were lucky to secure it,” Roremar reminded him.
Nico threw a hand over his eyes, the other flinging wide with all the drama of the Fates. “But it’s soul-crushing! To count numbers all day? Stuck in the dismal Trade House? And on an island that’s steadily losing money by the year?”
“Yeah it’s boring, but if Lyra turns around, you’ll be secure for life.” A comfort Roremar couldn’t guarantee him otherwise, but it was the best chance right now. “You’re going,” he asserted, leaving no room for argument.
Nico swiped Roremar’s abandoned ale from the table and downed half of it in one go, continuing to grumble.
Roremar ignored his brother, turning to Desmond. “You don’t have to teach the class. Just take them. They need things to do while we figure out a long-term schedule.”
Desmond scoffed. “We’ll decide who’s teaching once I see how competent an instructor they’ve been stuck with.”
“I’ll leave that argument to you.” Roremar huffed a laugh, his chest unknotting. “Maybe take Leo with you. Take him to the library or something while you wait for the girls.”
Siblings all accounted for, Roremar scanned the letter again—the very brief letter.
No more than a three-word summons, addressed to him and signed by Aldryn Falliare, the Master of the Lyra Temple Academy and one of the only people who could lodge such a quick, substantial knot in the gut of Roremar the Reckless.
“Fates, what could he want?”