Chapter 28 #2
Emmeline dared a glance at him, studying the way the moonlight slid over the slight bump in the bridge of his nose, illuminating those lips that drove her crazy when they smirked at her and the sturdy shape of his jaw.
His hooded eyes that hid so many secrets.
And she found herself wanting to peel them apart.
To peel him apart and learn what lived within.
Roremar’s gaze slid to hers, and there were a million questions she couldn’t translate in that stare. The grey shifted to a molten silver, begging to be forged into a blade. To be wielded.
By me, she thought, and heat gathered in her core at the want staring back at her.
Roremar’s throat bobbed as he held her gaze, and she tracked that motion. It tugged at her chest. His gaze dropped to her lips, and her own parted on a craving breath.
But before she could say anything, he asked, “Where’s your mother now?”
“She died many years ago.” Though the confession left her more vulnerable than stripping bare before him, the words rolled off her lips.
“I’m sorry.”
He blinked, silver eyes cooling. Heavy with sincerity and softness. His words from their first day in the Accords came back to her. My father always said so.
He knew her pain to some extent. Not the same horrors, but his own. What were they? She wanted desperately to know his ghosts.
“I am, too, Roremar.” An ache crawled through her chest at the words, slow and all-consuming. Their eyes were still locked in a deadly trance. “I miss her.”
His voice snaking around her, he whispered, “Tell the stars about her, Emmeline. And for each pain, tell them something good, too.”
That gentle tone continued to unwind something within her, pry apart her guard one coil at a time. She hadn’t expected the reckless warrior to contain such compassion. As if he was used to offering this sort of consolation.
So she did.
They sat on that balcony surrounded by nothing but silence and starlight, and Emmeline whispered memories of her mother to the sky.
And the entire time she spoke, Roremar listened.
“It’s cheaper, quicker, and safer than renting our own boat,” Roremar explained when Myrella met them, Nico, and Desmond at the docks early the next morning, prepared for the short trek to Alvan.
Emmeline had barely slept by the time she and Roremar made it back to Fated Ink for the night. They’d remained at the Academy, talking to the stars until well past curfew, but she couldn’t stay there. She was happy she took that moment to reclaim the space, though.
With Nico on the couch in Desmond’s basement, Roremar had slept on the chaise upstairs, but even with the steady hum of his breathing, she’d been restless.
“How is it quicker?” Emmeline challenged. “Larger ships travel slower. That’s a known fact, Reckless.” And this one was large. It looked equipped to house dozens of warriors plus all their belongings, trade goods, and Fates knew what else.
Roremar groaned, but she thought his lips twitched up at her combative tone. “Because we don’t have to deal with securing a place to dock overnight, loading and unloading, or any of that nonsense.”
She supposed that was true, even if the thought of this many Starsearchers witnessing their jaunt across the stretch of sea to Alvan made her uncomfortable.
The briny air wrapped tight to her skin and teased her hair as she boarded alongside Myrella—who pointedly avoided looking anywhere in Nico’s vicinity—and she longed to don the leathers she’d stuffed into her satchel at the last moment.
The navy cotton skirt that hung low on her hips and the top that knotted between her breasts were better for pretending this journey was casual, but there was a protection the leathers offered.
A sense of sinking into the shadows—of becoming them—where as now, on the deck littered with Starsearchers in sailing leathers of various makes and colors, she and Myrella stood out.
Her friend was in a yellow slip dress with a thin layer of shimmering material over the skirt, and the silver thread embroidered along Emmeline’s own kept trying to catch the light. So much for being inconspicuous.
Attempting discretion, Emmeline spent the entire short journey standing at the bow, watching their destination grow larger in the distance. And as the wooden hull parted the crisp azure Faelish Waters beneath them, a tangle of wild nerves gathered in her stomach.
Alvan would hold answers.
It had to.
She’d begged the stars for it last night.
Desmond approached the railing beside them, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes locked on the isle. Emmeline’s skin prickled at his proximity, hackles raised, but she kept her stare on the distance. On the shore, two large stone forms rose toward the sky.
“It’s Arenothos and Aevollon,” Desmond explained.
“As patrons of the isle?”
He nodded. “When we get closer you’ll be able to see the one with the helm is Arenothos, the one with the bow Aevollon. There’s plenty of art and statues of them through the entire isle. In the main city, but also random sanctuaries and bon fires throughout the jungle.”
Alvan was known to pay homage to the Fate of Wrath and Redemption and the Fate of Artistry and Trickery, their namesakes forming the foundation for many of the practices that thrived along its shores, such as weapon making, metal working, sculpting, painting, and all studies relating to the two, as well as military structures.
“It’s beautiful,” Myrella commented, a note of melancholy in her voice. Whether it be longing for her own home or to do with Nico, Emmeline wasn’t sure. Though she had promised Roremar she’d try to read about that issue later.
Myrella was correct, though. From the sea, the rolling land along the isle of Alvan overflowed with rich, verdant jungle surrounding the homes and shops built into the hills, like on Lyra, but here groves of what looked like blood oranges lined a stretch to the west, and bright red, white, and yellow flowers speckled the treetops and brush.
To the east, set far back from the ocean, a parade of waterfalls bubbled and the trees surrounding them were coated in bright-pink flora.
“It is beautiful,” Desmond echoed dully.
Emmeline looked him over; there was an unusual sullenness to his tone. “How do you know so much about it?”
Desmond’s brow furrowed. “Because I’m originally from here.” He flexed his hand, scarred and inked knuckles spelling out ALVAN.
Emmeline’s heart stuttered, her throat constricting. Having only noticed the tattoo that first day in the Accords, she’d forgotten about it. “You’re from here.”
Desmond—her primary suspect—was originally from the same place as the victims. Fate didn’t deal out coincidences like that.
“Roremar didn’t mention it?” Desmond asked.
“Didn’t mention what?” the Reckless’s voice asked behind them, and they all whirled. He watched Emmeline and Desmond with an expression bordering on suspicion, but her mind was buzzing too quickly to process.
In their stunted silence, Myrella answered, “That Desmond is from Alvan.”
If possible, Roremar’s eyed narrowed further, his lips pursing as his gaze flicked between Emmeline and his best friend. “I didn’t think it mattered,” he finally commented, leveling Desmond with a lingering stare.
The tattoo artist only snorted a laugh and shrugged. “Doesn’t really. I left this place behind a while ago.”
Roremar shook his head. “We have to row to shore from here.”
“Why?” Emmeline asked, ignoring his stiff demeanor.
“The captain is docking at the western port, but we want to enter through the central gates in Forge’s Cove.
” They wanted to end up on one of the beaches that framed the main city—falling into the crowds as covertly and seamlessly as possible.
“It’ll save time. They have a couple row boats we can use. ”
Roremar nodded to the side. Peering around him, Emmeline saw Nico in the distance, talking with one of the crew members as they prepared for them to disembark. Desmond went off to help, and huffing, Myrella followed.
Emmeline took a step after them, her shoulder brushing Roremar’s bicep, but he stopped her with a hand on her wrist. His grip was light enough that she could pull away, but she didn’t.
“Yes?” she asked.
His steel gaze returned to its usual intensity. “Everything okay, Huntress?”
The name had something below her stomach curling, reigniting the heat she’d felt on the balcony last night. She swallowed down that traitorous sensation she wouldn’t name. “What do you mean?”
“With Des,” Roremar said. “You seemed…”
He paused, and Emmeline lifted her brows. He was so Fatesdamned observant, her guard lifted.
“How did I seem, Roremar?”
At his name, he groaned, but he released her wrist. “Nothing, Emmeline. Go on.”
Her chest rioted as he let her go, and Emmeline wasn’t sure what to make of the interaction. She crossed the deck to where the others were now waiting, watching them curiously.
“Desmond and I will take that one,” Myrella chirped a bit too sunnily when Emmeline stopped at her side. She pointed at the smaller of the two boats—though neither truly looked large enough for three warriors.
Nico narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Because we have to split up, and that boat is smaller. We can take the packs, too, to account for the imbalance.”
“Can’t we each take our own packs?” Nico grumbled, but it differed from Roremar’s questioning that snuck beneath Emmeline’s skin. Nico’s contained an undertone of regret that made her heart twinge.
“Weight distribution” was all Myrella said as she stepped up to the railing and began the descent.
Desmond let out a low, amused whistle. “Don’t worry, little Silventa,” he whispered to Nico, “the ones who make you work for it are always the best reward.”