Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Emmeline
There was a colossal arena on the border of the Fifth and Sixth Districts in Valyn, the curved facade jutting into the wide street between the inner and outer rings of capital districts.
One end was partially in ruins, the top few tiers of stone seats collapsed.
A cypher-lined walkway dotted with monuments stretched out from the dilapidated entrance, the interior baring large chunks of stone as if it had been preserved since the day it fell.
But despite the collapsed end, from her position in the Chancellor’s private box along the third tier of seats, the feat of architecture took Emmeline’s breath away.
Arches rimmed what was left of the top, each with a statue of Valyrie denoting a key point in the Angel’s history.
Elaborate carvings sculpted the exterior, telling stories of ancient battles and myths.
The grandeur of the entire arena was worthy of legend, and Emmeline’s skin tingled as if expansive history and magic lay beneath the very earth.
Emmeline thought back to last night. Prior to being attacked, she’d theorized each district was modeled to honor a different Fate.
Given the position of this arena between the Fifth and Sixth, she’d confidently wager those were dedicated to Arenothos and Anhala, the two Fates who notoriously meddled in warfare.
The sun was high in the sky, warm rays splaying over the dirt floor in the center of the arena. Roaring fans piled into rows of seats, blue and purple streamers waving in the hands of children and making the entire crowd look like a rippling sea.
“This place is incredible,” Emmeline admitted as the advisors Rocarri hoped to appoint to his council filed into their box.
The hopeful-Chancellor hadn’t made an appearance yet, but his guests were dressed in a variety of ceremonial leathers, robes, and gowns, all as resplendent and expensive as the dresses she and Alana wore.
Many of them nodded in her direction, and Emmeline mentally recited the names and titles she’d learned so far, taking note of who could potentially have information on the temple trades or Roremar’s whereabouts.
She tuned out the eyes that lingered on her a bit too long. The whispers that crawled across her skin as she passed.
“It isn’t used often,” Alana explained. “It’s become more of a figurehead than a true fighting arena.”
“Legends say it’s modeled after the Angel’s original design,” Cyren said, appearing behind them.
“Original design?” Emmeline asked.
“The entire tournament is based on one Valyrie held thousands of years ago to select her personal guard, but the location of her original arena has been lost to time. This one was rebuilt based on historical accounts.”
Was Emmeline mistaken, or was there a note of concern in Cyren’s tone?
Before she could question it, the General added, “I retrieved your guards.”
Alana groaned, but Cyren waved over two muscular men dressed in the ivory and silver regalia of Valyn City Guard.
One had to be in his third century, neatly trimmed grey scruff lining his disgruntled expression. The second was decades younger, eyes lighting when they met Alana’s.
“Graves,” Cyren introduced, gesturing to the older man who bobbed his head in a firm nod. “And Eston. This is Emmeline. And I believe you know Alana already.”
“Sure do,” Eston said, stare still on Alana, but she rolled her eyes when he flashed her a charming grin. Graves grumbled beneath his breath and elbowed his partner. Shaking his head, Eston added to Emmeline, “We’re honored to be chosen as your guards.”
“I can see that,” Emmeline answered. Agitation buzzed beneath her skin at being assigned protection, but she gripped the chain looped beneath her sleeve, Roremar’s ring hidden around her wrist since the neckline of her gown drooped too low to conceal it. “Thank you.”
“We’d best all find our seats,” Cyren said, sending the guards to stand in the corridor outside the box as Balmour Rocarri, the soon-to-be Chancellor of the Starsearchers, entered.
His presence sent a ripple through the group, every head turning as he walked up the aisle and greeted his guests.
He didn’t have the polished, attention-demanding appearance of Aldryn Falliare, the Master of the Lyra Temple Academy and Roremar’s uncle, whom Emmeline hadn’t heard from since her arrival in Valyn.
Rocarri’s black hair was cropped close to his head, brown eyes warming when they landed on her.
Barrel-chested, muscular, and maybe six feet tall, with his white and silver robes, he gave the impression of one of the soft creatures Emmeline met out in the jungle.
The ones that never hurt her if she didn’t cross them.
Rocarri stopped before Emmeline and Alana, shaking each of their hands. “Ladies.”
“Chancellor,” they greeted in unison.
“Are you two ready for the excitement?” His eye glinted as it landed on Emmeline. Discomfort had her squirming and her throat drying out, though she wasn’t sure why.
Thankfully, Alana answered, “Yes, I believe we are, sir.”
“Wonderful.” He glanced around the arena, waving a hand decorated in various constellation tattoos. “Seats are filling quickly. Why don’t you two stand in the front row near me, and we’ll begin shortly?”
Emmeline exchanged a questioning glance with Alana. “Why, sir?”
“The view will be best from up there,” Rocarri said as he turned.
Hesitantly, they followed, finding a vacant spot a few feet behind him.
Silver pennants waved at the perimeter of the box and the peaks of the arena’s arches, the material shining like the trim of Rocarri’s robes when he stepped to the podium at the front of the platform.
“How did the Chancellor find out about the races anyway?” Emmeline whispered, taking the sparkling wine Cyren passed her and Alana. The stem was cold in her grip, grounding.
“Through some texts that were recently uncovered.” Alana dropped her voice as she went on. “He and his council have kept a lot of the details quiet, but I overheard them saying the previous Chancellor had hoarded veritable vaults of information.”
Emmeline scoffed. “Powerful men always breed secrets.”
As if on cue, Rocarri’s voice rang out, amplified through a horn atop the podium, “Welcome, all!”
A wave of cheers rolled through the crowd, the Chancellor holding up his hand to quell them.
“I am delighted to inaugurate the first—and hopefully not the last—Tournament of the Angel Valyrie.”
Another raucous bout of cheers. Emmeline scanned the crowd, her stomach turning. Fists pounded in the air and feet stomped hungrily. Even here, in their private box, a feral delight buzzed on every whisper, trickling over her skin like pesky flies. Gleaming eyes continually flicked toward her.
Why was the energy so ravenous, ready to devour?
She had the familiar sense of looking at her surroundings through fogged glass, a bubble created by her magic—one that had set her apart her entire life except, until recently, she’d been the only one aware of it.
Emmeline’s nerves pricked, that very magic forming a defensive wall in her chest as she turned back to the front of the arena.
Rocarri went on as the crowd died down, speaking loftily of the upcoming event and all it would celebrate—legacies, magic, and advancements. Sweat broke out across Emmeline’s neck, her finger tapping her glass in a nervous rhythm.
“Before we begin with the schedule of events, I ask you all to welcome, with the fervor of the Angel, the first twelve of our competitors!”
A line of drums beat ceremoniously from the top row of seats, horns and stringed instruments swelling in a rhythm that reminded Emmeline of the air before a rainstorm.
Before a bubble burst and everything changed for good.
Her sweaty palm slid against her glass as magic shouted in her veins.
Rocarri waved a hand dramatically, and across the arena, between two pillars on the ground level, the gates split open. Chariots raced through, each pulled by an immaculate white horse, silky grey manes braided intricately with tiny silver hoops and stars that reflected the sun.
And atop each cart, stood a warrior.
Based on the way they carried themselves, Percivale Maldano hadn’t been exaggerating when he told her the competitors selected for the tournament were the strongest, cleverest, most capable Valyn—perhaps that the entire territory—had to offer.
Emmeline studied each man as the twelve chariots sped circles around the arena, cheers mounting from every patron in the crowd.
Their armor was polished pristinely, the eleven-starred sigil stamped into their chest plates.
Capes billowed from their shoulders in glorious silvers and whites, rippling behind them on the wind as they greeted their adoring crowd.
Some waved swords valiantly overhead; a few maintained their serious expressions. All of them were playing a part. Winning over the crowd through charming smiles or brute strength or enticing anonymity.
Leading the herd, a familiar pair of hazel eyes winked up at Emmeline, and suddenly, Perry’s knowledge of the tournament made a lot more sense.
Emmeline leaned low to whisper to Alana. “He was at dinner last night.”
“Who?”
“The one in the front. Percivale Maldano.”
“I’ve heard of that family. They’re influential in Rocarri’s circle.
Investors in research on land bordering the mountain range, I believe.
” Alana’s fascinated gaze flicked across the group, finding Perry as he tossed a triple dagger overhead and caught it smoothly, unimpeded by the speed of the cart beneath him.
“You two were speaking for a while last night.”
There was a question in Alana’s eyes, if Perry had been the true reason Emmeline fled the dinner.
She shook her head. “He was telling me about the tournament. I thought he was sharing rumors, not anything he knew because he’s a participant.”
Emmeline repeated every detail she could recall as the chariots continued their laps.
“Do you recognize any others?” Alana asked.
Emmeline shook her head. Out of the rest of the men, she may have seen a few of them in passing, but there were so many people in the Chancellor’s manor, let alone the entire city, it was difficult to remember each.
The chariots formed a crescent facing their platform, eyes on the Chancellor as he introduced the competitors.
“I’m surprised there’s only twelve,” Alana commented as Rocarri made it to the last in the group. “I thought there’d be more based on how big the tournament has been made out to be.”
“Me, too,” Emmeline answered, nerves rioting in her gut. She squeezed Roremar’s ring beneath her sleeve.
Rocarri called out, “We sought far and wide for each of our contestants. They come from across our territory—some as far as the settlements along the desert border or the foothills of the Mystique Mountains.”
No one from the Constellation Isles, I’m certain, Emmeline added to herself. She vaguely wondered where Rocarri himself was from, and if he’d appointed a competitor from his home city.
“Over the course of the coming weeks, we’ll hold a trio of challenges.
They’ll be games of daring, wit, and courage!
” A cheer went up for each value Rocarri declared, the crowd’s enthusiasm growing wilder.
“Between the trials, we will have numerous celebratory events—everything from parties to performances. You, the public, will be able to mingle with the competitors and place bets on your favorites. All money will be used for restoration projects that have been neglected in our capital over recent years.”
“That’s a good purpose,” Alana said as the crowd thundered.
“Right,” Emmeline muttered, but a thought nagged at the back of her mind. The facade the Chancellor was painting didn’t feel complete.
They had the competitors, the secretive tasks they’d need to conquer, the enhancement of the city’s infrastructure for purpose, but they were lacking…
A prize.
Perry had mentioned land and wealth, but if the other contestants were from families like his, they didn’t need that. Why were they entering?
“At the conclusion of the tournament, we will host a grand closing parade in honor of our winner, who, I’m sure, will be a warrior of the highest valor and merit.
” Wind whipped the hem of Rocarri’s cloak around his ankles, the chill biting at Emmeline’s skin.
“Then, we can enter the new year together, as a clan with a bright direction for our future, and a symbol of hope among us!”
The crowd’s cheers paused briefly—only the beat of a wing—but the confused murmurs asked the same thing Emmeline wondered.
The fervor in the private box swelled. The hungry gleams cast her way transformed into sharpened teeth, scratching against her skin.
Magic pounded in her veins, voices screaming through her mind.
The thread in Emmeline’s chest tugged, a hook behind her navel, pulling her breath in tight, begging to whisk her from here.
Rocarri looked over his shoulder, gesturing Emmeline forward.
“What?” Alana whispered.
But Emmeline couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t speak because that missing piece was clicking into place, and horror washed through her.
“Many of you have heard the magnificent rumors of what occurred on an island northwest of Gallantia recently. So far, it has been only that—rumor. But I have before you today, the woman at the heart of that tale. And let me tell you, the stories you have heard do not do justice to the strength of her power. For she is blessed by not one”—he held up a tattooed finger dramatically, and the crowd stirred—“not two”—a second finger, and they roared—“but all eleven of the living Fates!”
Emmeline begged, screamed for any of those Fates to tell her she had the wrong conclusion.
That the Chancellor wasn’t about to say what she thought he was.
“As a way to bolster the Starsearcher clan, the victor of our tournament will be bonded to Emmeline DeLeoste.”