Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Roremar
“Are you thinking the same thing I am?” Emmeline whispered to him as they trudged up the hills of Alvan, the dense greenery coated in pale-pink flowers.
The city unspooled around this grove down toward the water, but here, in every direction they turned, the earth looked like it had been painted in a rainstorm of unnatural, rosy petals.
“Which is?” Roremar murmured, eyes tearing apart the trees for one hint of a normal bloom. Even the typically white buds on the cypher trees were tinted pink.
Emmeline placed a hand on his arm, snagging his attention. Roremar stopped walking, the others’ voices drifting as they strolled ahead. Emmeline whispered, “That we shouldn’t be looking for answers from somewhere that resembles a cult?”
“The Storytellers aren’t a cult,” he answered confidently. “They just have a different type of magic than most warriors.”
Born into warrior families and bloodlines, Storytellers had a Goddess-given magic that whispered history and legend for them to relay to the rest of the Gallantian Warriors.
It was rare, though more prevalent in Starsearchers than other clans given that the magic had been birthed long ago by the Goddess of Fate and Celestial Movements who also contributed to Valyrie’s and the Fates’ powers.
“Yes, I know that.” Emmeline bit her lip. “But with this particular case—and this unique branch of Storytellers—doesn’t it feel a bit…risky?”
One corner of Roremar’s mouth quirked up, and he waved a hand across his body. “Reckless, remember?”
“I’m serious, Roremar,” Emmeline said, her hand fisting in the thin cotton sleeve of his tunic.
His eyes flashed to her white-knuckled grip, then to her own, the hazels deep with worry. Every line of her body wound tight with it.
You will be her ruin.
“You’re really concerned about this?” he asked.
“Are you not?”
This woman who chased predators in the night—who held a dagger to his throat and met him step for step at every challenge—was afraid. Though he wasn’t sure exactly why she feared the Storytellers so much, it ripped at something within him to hear that vulnerability in her voice.
Gently, he unwound her fingers from his tunic and held them between his own, squeezing a bit of life into them. His own heart pounded as she squeezed back.
“I’m not scared, Emmeline,” he asserted.
“I’m worried about what’s happening back on Lyra, but I’m not afraid of going to speak to the Storytellers now.
” No matter how much he didn’t trust the Fates, that much was true.
They might hold answers to everything twisting him up.
He was more desperate for that than he was afraid.
“But these aren’t just any Storytellers,” she whispered. “They are the Narratres Fatorum.” Her words in the ancient, dead language rolled along his bones. “Storytellers of the Fates.”
Was that what worried her? That this group was associated with the stars?
Desmond had explained the unique branch of power hidden on Alvan, welded into the earth by Arenothos himself if legend was to be believed. It was a sector of the Storytellers that thrived on the scholarship and artistry winding throughout the isle.
The Narratres Fatorum were not just Storytellers. They told historical tales about the Fates themselves. No Starsearcher was able to read the Fates or any higher power.
“And if we think the murders are somehow tied to the Fates, then this is exactly where we need to be,” Roremar told her.
He couldn’t quite place her fear. She was confident in so many ways—so damn assured of herself that it drove him crazy—yet this had rattled her. Was it because of the break in at the Academy? Was it Liana?
Emmeline worried her bottom lip again, and Roremar watched, his skin tightening as he waited. Finally, putting him out of his misery, she sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course, I am,” he joked, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. You will be her ruin. He shouldn’t say it—shouldn’t be leaning closer with those words in his mind—but he swallowed and said, “I’m going to protect you, Emmeline. I promised that before, and I meant it.”
She inhaled sharply, the rise and fall of her chest injecting a whole new kind of misery into his veins. Fates, he had to get it together.
“Not everything can be protected,” Emmeline whispered, eyes distant, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it.
“I swear to you, Huntress, on the graves of the Fates and the damn Narratres Fatorum themselves, I won’t let anything harm you.”
It was a grand promise, perhaps one he shouldn’t dare claim in the face of all they were up against. But as he held her gaze, a dozen flashing hazel hues against his flat grey stare, a knot pulled tight in his chest.
And despite his ruinous thoughts, not one part of his vow was a lie. It felt like it had been sealed in the stars eons ago and was only waiting for his recognition.
Emmeline swallowed, and he couldn’t help wondering if she felt the magnitude of that promise as well.
“Thank you.” Her hand slid from his, and as if the celestial beings hadn’t just shifted around his entire countenance, Roremar followed her up the path.
They caught up to the others before a circular tower that reminded Roremar of a lighthouse, a ring of cypher trees surrounding its pale facade.
Their willowing branches swayed in the late afternoon breeze, the fading sun glinting off their ever-green leaves and small white buds. Finally, some normal flowers.
“The marble is almost like the Temple back home and the Accords,” Myrella commented.
“And the Trade House,” Nico added hopefully, though Myrella didn’t respond.
Desmond, picking leaves off a fallen branch, explained, “It’s modeled after the revered buildings across the isles. People call it the Lair.”
Vines wrapped around the building, obscuring the scenes carved into the stone beneath. On one side, blush hues bloomed, the other withered and brittle.
And before them, as if welcoming them all in, a tall, feminine statue stood in the center of the fountain. Her body was both slim yet curvy and dressed in an elaborate, form-fitting gown. Coins littered the water around her feet, the images along the base of the fountain eroded to time.
“Is it supposed to be Valyrie?” Nico asked.
Roremar shook his head. “No wings.” He checked the back to make sure they hadn’t been broken off, but the stone was smooth.
“Is there someone we need to get permission from to enter?” Emmeline asked Desmond, her voice reclaiming its usual confidence.
“No, the Storytellers only open the doors when they feel there’s something to share,” Desmond said.
Emmeline gave him a flat look that Roremar mirrored. “How the fuck is this helpful then?” he asked.
As if the Fates were laughing at him—which at this point, he assumed they were—a door carved into the vine-wrapped structure slid open.
“That’s unsettling,” Nico muttered. A step behind him, Myrella nodded in agreement.
“Unsettling or Fate-written,” Desmond said, an awed, eager smile creeping across his face. He strode forward, all the magic Roremar knew comprised his friend seeming hungry for answers, more alive on his home isle than ever.
But when Desmond approached the door, it slid a few inches shut.
“What in the Fates?” Des blurted, jumping back. Pivoting to face the group, he ran a hand through his hair. “Not me, I suppose.”
Emmeline stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not invited.” He tried to hide the bitterness from his tone, but Roremar saw it in his narrowed stare. He snapped, “Your turn.”
Chin up, Emmeline strode forward. Roremar held his breath, waiting for the door to react again, but the Lair accepted her with open arms, a slight hum filling the air.
That alone had him traipsing after her, eyes locked on the chestnut waves falling to her lower back and the dimples at the base of her spine.
The moment Roremar was across the threshold, the door slid closed again. He and Emmeline both jumped.
“Only two, I suppose,” she commented, voice ringing in the empty space.
“As Nico said, that’s unsettling.”
From within, the circular chamber had an illusion effect. It appeared to stretch so high, Roremar was certain it reached past the tops of the hills rolling over Alvan. He could barely make out the images painted along the stained-glass dome.
Sunlight filtered through the panels, bathing the room in a rainbow of cold hues. Even the deep crimsons and oranges were devoid of warmth.
“It’s divided into twelve,” Emmeline said, and Roremar’s gaze flicked down to where she studied the floor, lines slicing the circular space into neat sectors.
“For each Fate,” he realized. “Their symbols are carved in them.” Each silvered insignia was laid in the cracked marble floors, looking for all the Fates like they’d been there for many millennia.
They wandered the space, studying each. Arenothos and Zorrahn, Hyllara and Serchus, Anhala and Pheasantos—he lingered at that one, studying the flaming hammer and throne sigil he’d memorized as a boy.
As he walked circles, assessing every detail, incense thickened in the air. A heavy mixture of scents, like it hadn’t yet decided which of the twelve it was calling to.
“I don’t like it in here,” Emmeline breathed from across the room.
Roremar’s head snapped up, chest tightening at the low tone of her voice. “What’s wrong?”
She rubbed her hands up her arms, facing away from him, looking down at the dying poppies of Metrina’s sigil. “It’s too cold. And…wrong.” Her voice had gone misty.
Roremar strode across the chamber, delicately gripping her chin and turning her gaze toward him. Her hazel eyes were dim, fogged over.
“Emmeline?”
“My magic doesn’t like it in here,” she whispered. “It feels like glass.”
He didn’t know what in the stars she meant by that, but his chest riled regardless. Aggression purred through him, dark and shadowed, begging to crush whatever threatened her. “How? Tell me about it.”