Chapter 66
Chapter Sixty-Six
Emmeline
“What?” Emmeline gasped, but the room had already erupted into shouts.
At the Head of the Trade House’s command, guards rushed in, four sets of hands restraining Roremar as he thrashed. Desmond grabbed one of them, throwing his elbow into the man’s face.
Emmeline dodged the stumbling soldier as his nose gushed blood. His hands slipped from Roremar’s shoulder, but he skidded in front of him to block Desmond and drew his sword.
Desmond’s face split into a grin. “Finally, an excuse to show up you useless fuckers.”
Dodging as the man swung, Desmond pulled Roremar’s sword from his back and met his strike. Metal clanged through the melee as voices mounted, calls for more guards and yells to let Roremar go.
Emmeline pulled two triple-blades from her thighs and tossed her satchel aside. The leather thudded to the ground, glass vials inside shattering. An array of potent scents flooded the room, calling to all the Fates.
She stuffed her magic down as best she could, practiced at suppression after all these years, but every other Starsearcher present stumbled as the incense of their ties slammed into them.
All but Roremar, whose stare remained clear and on her. The three guards dragging him from the room loosened their grips as their minds were whisked into readings.
Emmeline took two strides toward him, but a second wave of soldiers washed into the room. The oils and incense filtered through the open door and windows, dispersing enough that they weren’t affected.
Two large, armored men blocked Emmeline’s path.
“Roremar!” she shouted, sending a blade whirling through the air above their heads.
He stretched up, using the sturdy chain to intercept the weapon’s flight and dropping it into his hands as he was surrounded.
The officials regained control over their magic, Falliare jumping into an argument with Maeson Trellis, asserting he didn’t have the authority to do this.
Enya and the Head of the Lyra Accords had pulled weapons of their own and barreled into the fight, but Emmeline didn’t know if they were fighting for her or against her. She couldn’t pause to find out.
Magic thrummed through her veins, dangerously close to bursting with the combined effects of the incense in the air and the heightened pressure from the past few days.
Desmond called out, “Emmeline!”
She whirled as he was slammed into a shelf, books and baubles tumbling down as he ducked. Glass shattered and sliced his cheek, but Desmond dodged a sharp blow to his side and flipped a guard into the shelves. The man’s head snapped back, and he sank to the floor.
Wiping away the blood, Desmond nodded toward the door, and Emmeline spun. “Fates,” she swore.
Guards were dragging Roremar into the hall. Desmond had two soldiers of his own he was still trying to rip through, the constellation of gemstones in Roremar’s sword reflecting the mystlights overhead.
Heartbeat pounding in her ears, Emmeline bolted for the door. She leaped over the debris and skidded across the marble.
They’d dragged Roremar halfway down the hall. Art hung askew on the walls, statues and the small decorative tables between doorways toppled and broken from the fight, windows shattered.
As she ran, Emmeline ripped small single-bladed knives from her person and one by one launched them at the guards standing between her and Roremar. Each met its mark, one a killing blow to the back of the neck. The others wounded them enough to make them stumble.
Roremar struck out repeatedly with the weapon she’d thrown him, refusing to let go of it. One of the guards corralling him threw a punch that landed square against his cheek.
As he pulled his fist back for a second, Roremar let him get closer. Then, he drove his dagger into the man’s wrist. Emmeline cried out in desperate victory.
A guard intercepted her, swiping down with his sword. She dodged again and again, attention flicking between him and Roremar.
He was still at a clear disadvantage, but Emmeline saw the determination in every flex of his muscles. The calculation as he spotted a silver light fixture jutting out from the wall overhead.
Roremar jumped just in time to miss a blow to his ankle and looped the chain between his wrists around the wall mount.
The mystlight orb shattered, glass shards raining down on him and magic bursting in the air.
He kicked the sword of one guard away and nailed a second in the jaw.
The man’s head cracked to the side, and unsure whether he was dead or alive, Emmeline took the chance.
She rammed a knife into the gut of the guard before her.
Then, she took running strides, using the body of the guard Roremar had knocked out as leverage to push off the ground and tackle one of his companions.
Roremar yelled for her as they went rolling across the velvet carpet, glass crunching beneath them. Her braid tangled in the mess, sharp slices stinging her cheeks. The man tried to crush her to the floor, but Emmeline grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back.
She couldn’t reach her weapons, but she twisted his neck. His spine bent at an odd angle, and she used the leverage to force him up.
His large hand found her sternum, and he shoved her down so hard, she was surprised the wood beneath the rug didn’t splinter. Air rushed from her lungs.
She threw up an arm to block his next blow to her cheek as she tried to suck down a breath, eyes watering. Something in her chest felt like it had splintered. She missed his second hit, and her teeth clattered together as pain erupted in her cheekbone.
“Fucking Fates,” she coughed.
The guard atop her reached for her throat, but Emmeline shoved one leg between them, driving her boot into his gut.
“Deranged whore,” he wheezed out. “Why are you trying to help him? We all know he’s cursed.”
She didn’t bother to explain to this man how wrong he was, saving her energy to fight. All she said was, “Because he’s mine.”
Emmeline tried to wedge her other knee between them to throw him off, but his arm looped around her waist, flipping her so he pinned her to the ground on her stomach, unable to kick or punch. The pinch in her chest splintered further, lungs seizing.
Winding one hand around her braid, he pulled her to her knees and pressed her against his chest. His other arm pinned hers to her sides, legs bracketing her knees.
“Well, what’s yours is about to get everything he deserves.”
Emmeline blinked away the water still streaming from her eyes, shaking her head to steady her view.
“Roremar!” she tried to yell, but her voice was lost in her chest.
As the guards forced him down the hall, taking slices from his blades, Emmeline realized where they were heading. That door that had remained shut every time she’d been in the Trade House, a heavy iron chain and lock securing it.
A seeing chamber.
She’d heard what Maeson had demanded in Falliare’s office, but she hadn’t registered how close it was.
Stars, they’d had that in the Trade House this entire time? She knew there were still some on the isles, but not this readily available. What in the Fates’ names did they use it for?
Those things were horrific—many were used on the continent by the temple traders. Her magic was revolting from the mere presence as Brean Witz hid behind the force of the Lyra Isle Guard, not a speck of blood on her, and lifted a key ring from her belt.
A number of ornate keys hung from it. Emmeline’s stomach soured to consider what else they may be for. She slipped one into the lock and shoved the door open. White marble shone across every surface within, details barely visible as Emmeline struggled.
The guard at her back released his hold on her hair and pressed his arm to her neck, squeezing the life from her.
“NO!” Emmeline wheezed, pulling what air she could into her lungs.
But it was too late.
Just as Roremar’s eyes met hers, fury erupting to see the man choking her, guards shoved him into the glimmering room, and the door slammed shut.