Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Desmond
“What do you think it is?” Desmond asked, hunching over the table so his frame blocked the item between him and Myrella from view of the rest of the tavern.
The place was rowdy, warriors deep in their cups after some festival in the capital. He and Myrella had made it here after the event was already over, every damn tavern they passed overflowing with drunken warriors.
It had taken him ages to find an open apothecary to purchase pre-rolled herbs to read. He’d burned through all his on the journey here, and his magic grew more agitated with every passing moment in this city, like the bones of the earth were riling it.
Maybe others called having two Fate ties Angelblessed, but tonight it was a damn inconvenience.
By the time they left with enough pouches of herbs, oils, and incense to appease both of his Fate ties and Myrella’s, she’d located a tavern with a singular room left for one night only.
Two beds, but even if they had one, it would have been innocent.
Neither of them thought of the other like that, especially not after how much grief they’d shared over Nico on the voyage here.
They’d dumped their stuff in the thread-bare room and went downstairs for food. Now that their plates were empty and shoved aside, they could focus on more important things.
Desmond picked at the remains of the bread roll Myrella hadn’t finished as she said, “I don’t know—”
A brawny, intoxicated warrior guffawed behind Desmond and stumbled into his back.
Desmond pitched forward, reaching out a hand to keep the object he and Myrella were studying from crashing to the floor.
He couldn’t say the same for his empty ale bottle as it rolled off the table, the shattering glass inaudible over the folksongs being shouted. Badly.
“Sorry, brother,” the man said. He righted himself with a hand to Desmond’s shoulder, a series of ostentatious emerald rings glinting on his thick fingers.
“Don’t worry about it.” Desmond waved him off without turning around.
He felt someone lingering behind him. Myrella’s brow pinched, and Desmond waited for her to give him some sign that the guy was bothering her, but whoever had been there was gone by the time he turned around.
“Back to this,” Myrella said, pulling Desmond’s attention to the object in the center of the small wobbly table.
Object was about the only way they could identify it.
It was made of stone, one side smoothly sculpted and refined into a curved design. The other was jagged and rough to the touch. That side was a deep grey, nearly black, reminding Desmond of a lava rock with its spongey appearance, but the polished side shone.
It wasn’t the color of any stone he’d ever seen, the hues as dark as a moonless night, like those depths Starsearchers knew lurked between the stars.
At certain angles, it radiated a halo of colors as if it was coated in something—ink, paint, or melted and reforged metal, he had no fucking clue.
He wasn’t sure he’d be able to capture the unique aurora in watercolor if he tried.
They’d gone into the sanctuary they’d seen Falliare in after the Temple Master left.
Turned out the place was meant for sailors to offer last prayers before embarking on a voyage.
A single door led into an accompanying shop, and Desmond had wasted no time charming the woman behind the counter to find out exactly what Falliare had purchased.
Myrella had bet him he couldn’t, and that was how she’d ended up buying their drinks tonight.
“It doesn’t look like much,” he admitted, putting his finger on the rough end and spinning it. “It’s a chunk of rock.”
“Now it is, yes, and be careful!” Myrella corrected, snatching it. She held it to the candle in the center of the table. “But look at these edges.”
Desmond leaned closer as he twisted the leather band around his wrist, their foreheads almost touching. Myrella brushed her finger across the jagged side, and he understood. “It looks like it’s been broken, not purposefully shaped.”
“I’ve seen ruins that resembled something similar. Old artifacts back on the isles that had been broken but preserved. I wonder if the Temple Master has another piece of it,” Myrella suggested.
“Two halves of a whole?”
“It could be one of a dozen or more. When I was in school to become an instructor, I took a class on preservation techniques. Maybe the Temple Master is studying them. Bringing a lesson back to the isles.” Myrella blew out a breath and sank against her chair.
The object clattered to the table, the sheen glimmering in the flickering firelight.
“I don’t know. Sleuthing isn’t my specialty. ”
Desmond chuckled, waving down the barkeep for another drink. “Me neither.”
“We need…”
“Yeah.” He paid for his own ale this time and took a healthy swig. “We do need them. But we’ve got a long way to go before we figure out how to make that happen.”
He was certain Roremar would want to know Aldryn Falliare was in the same city as Emmeline. If only Desmond knew where in the fucking Fates his best friend was.
Or where Emmeline was for that matter. For all her letters asking about Roremar, she was evasive about her own location in this damn city.
Desmond wasn’t entirely sure why, unless she didn’t want to be found.
But he’d promised Roremar he’d look out for her as his friend was escorted from the Trade House, and that promise rang in his every waking and sleeping moment since.
It wasn’t enough—not enough to help Roremar avoid his unfair fate—but chasing her to the capital was a step.
At least the volume of the folksong was dying down enough for him to think.
A man a few tables over slammed his drink on the table, insisting to his friend, “No, I’m telling you, she’s the girl.”
“And I’m telling you, I don’t know what in Aevollon’s ass you’re talking about! You just keep repeating she’s the girl.” The friend—clearly more sober—laughed.
“The girl! The one the whole city is talking about!”
Desmond’s attention snapped to Myrella. There was one woman they knew of that could have the entire Starsearcher capital gossiping.
Myrella’s eyes were wide, breath held and lips pinching as if she was holding back from yelling at the men.
Desmond gave her a warning look, pressing his finger to his mouth.
The sober friend went on, “Obviously it’s the girl. That’s why the Chancellor—”
“The Chancellor is offering her up!”
He was what? Desmond spun, but Myrella was already darting around the table, one hand on either of the men’s seats as she leaned over them.
“Excuse me,” she said sweetly.
Scooping up the chunk of rock, Desmond murmured, “Fucking Fates,” and chased after her, broken glass crunching beneath his boots.
Myrella blinked those innocent doe eyes at them. “What are you talking about?”
“The girl in the rumors—the one with all the Fate ties. Who made that whole seeing chamber blow to bits on that island when she moved the stars around.” The drunk warrior waved his hands as if that was supposed to encompass Emmeline’s power.
All it did was slosh ale over the rim of his glass, narrowly missing Myrella’s dress.
“Give me that,” Desmond said, grabbing the man’s drink.
“Hey!”
“Tell me,” Desmond cut him off, “more about this woman and the Chancellor, then I’ll give this back.”
“You deserve that,” the more sober of the two told his friend.
He directed his attention at Desmond. “There’s this woman everyone is talking about.
She’s apparently tied to all eleven living Fates—calling her Fateblessed, like those who have two ties are Angelblessed.
” Desmond rolled his shoulders at that word, but the man added, “The whole city is talking about it. Can’t believe you haven’t heard. ”
“You don’t say?” Desmond’s brows flicked up as he and Myrella exchanged a curious glance.
“No one really knew who she was until tonight. Rumor said she was in the capital, a guest of Chancellor Rocarri.”
A guest of the Chancellor? Desmond had been told Emmeline was coming to Valyn for a job.
He glanced around the tavern, the music and stomping feet getting louder again. Fates, he had to get out of here. “I’m guessing something happened tonight.”
“The opening ceremonies for the Races!” the drunk man blurted, punctuating the end of his sentence with a loud belch.
“Wow. And what are the Races?” Myrella asked in the voice Desmond imagined she used with her students.
“There’s this tournament. Oh, it’s going to be loads of fun!
Anyone can enter—many men are right now!
No one knows what the challenges will be, but the first one is tomorrow, and they’re supposed to be brutal.
” He sighed mournfully, a wistful look in his drunken stare. “That’s the price the Angel demands.”
Giving him a long, lost look, Desmond turned to the friend. “How does the girl fit in?”
“The Chancellor announced tonight—”
The drunk one bellowed, “Whole city’s buzzing about it!”
“That’s lovely,” Myrella said, tugging the man’s ale from Desmond’s hand and shoving it back at him to shut him up.
Laughing, the other one explained, “Whoever wins will be bonded to the Fateblessed woman.”
Horror sank Desmond’s stomach all the way to the fucking floor. Myrella’s jaw popped open, and when their stares clashed, he knew they were thinking the same thing. They’d found Emmeline. And she’d left out some imperative details of her situation.
Fates be damned, they had to stop this stupid tournament.
Or his best friend’s girl was going to be bonded to some prick of a warrior, and eventually, when they got Roremar out of his imprisonment, he’d lose his Fatesdamned mind.