Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Emmeline
Emmeline stormed into the Chancellor’s office, panic lacing her voice. “What in the Fates happened today?”
She could still smell the blood on the air, hear the cries of the men as they fell. Was still burning from the Fates in her veins and their screaming fortunes as she watched Roremar fight for his life.
“Emmeline,” Rocarri said from behind his desk, an observatory at his back. A cigar was propped on an ashtray beside him as he reviewed correspondence, a thin column of smoke gently curling up. Apparently he wasn’t out indulging in the debauchery he offered his warriors. “We knock in my household.”
His household. The silent scolding in those words was a slap to the face. The way the advisors and governors had whispered about her today roared in her memory, doubling the blow.
Disobedient, disorderly. Unstable. Out of line.
“Come,” Rocarri said as if hearing those thoughts. “Let’s have a drink.”
Cigar in hand, he rose from his desk and crossed to the fireplace. Two wingback leather chairs sat before it, an open bottle of wine and two dirty glasses on the little round table. Rocarri grabbed two clean ones and poured.
Emmeline crossed her arms, forcing all the wild magic roaring inside of her to settle. She had to be in control to play their game.
As calmly as possible, she strode to one of the chairs, her steps muffled in the thick rug, and took a seat. Rocarri handed her a glass of deep red wine, and she took a small testing sip, rich cherries melting on her tongue.
A fire flickered in the hearth, casting a homey glow against the stone mantle decorated with handmade trinkets.
She siphoned off that warmth to relax. On either side of the mantle, shelves were weighed down with thick files and well-loved history books.
A portrait of Rocarri, the woman he was bonded to, and their two daughters sat above it.
“What happened during the trial?” Emmeline repeated.
Rocarri circled the chair opposite hers, the leather groaning as he sank into it, and he brought his cigar to his lips. He exhaled the smoke so slowly, Emmeline thought her patience may snap.
Finally, the Chancellor said, “You know the nature of the tournament.”
“I was told it was dangerous to enter, but I didn’t expect a massacre. Given that it’s my hand being wagered, don’t you think I deserve a say as to how the winner is determined?”
Rocarri lifted his dark brows, leaning back in his chair. “And what is your say?”
Emmeline assessed him. He likely thought she’d beg, fall to her knees and request mercy.
Her soft heart was no secret after how affected she’d been today.
And she wouldn’t hide it, but instead of letting him lord that nature over her, she used logic.
“The men that entered the tournament after the opening ceremonies are of lower status than your initial twelve recruits, correct?”
“For the most part.”
“They have families in this city. Families who either watched them die today or are now fearful they will. Families you need to support your rule. By challenging the competitors to slaughter one another, you risk isolating the very people you wish to win over.”
After all, Rocarri hadn’t officially been inducted as Chancellor yet. In the past two years, numerous candidates had been appointed interim rulers, but none had been officiated. He was the closest, but there was still room to misstep.
She flicked a gaze up to the family portrait over the mantle. While she had much at stake, Rocarri did, too.
“They know what they volunteered for,” Rocarri assured her with the air of someone who couldn’t lose.
Emmeline doused her frustration with another sip of wine. “I won’t watch them die for me. It’s not worth it.”
“It’s not our fault if they didn’t take the lethality seriously.”
Our fault. As if they were a team.
“Why does it need to be serious, though?” Emmeline turned pleading eyes on him. “Thirty men died today. Innocent men. No more need to. Change the rules. Tell them they can’t fatally harm one another.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
She shifted to face him fully, crossing her legs and draping her hands across the arms of her chair as if she sat atop a throne.
She still wore that Fatesdamned gown, the skirt taking up the large cushion, but she held herself taller and embodied all the power she was trying to wield.
The power people like Balmour Rocarri showcased.
Why was he so insistent upon these races anyway? Why was this his method to earning favor and solution to discord?
Emmeline scanned the crowded shelves. The portrait above the mantle. Where had the Chancellor risen from to get here, and what made the rules so impossible to change?
“What if a contestant withdraws?” she asked, tabling her curiosity about Rocarri and thinking of one competitor in particular. She didn’t want anyone to die for her, but she had a feral, bone-deep need to stop this tournament before Roremar suffered.
“At this stage, withdrawal means death. They signed a contract,” Rocarri said plainly, stretching forward to tap his cigar against a clay ashtray. “There’s no use trying to change it. This is how the original tournament ran, as well.”
Emmeline almost argued, but the disdainful, judgmental comments from the councillors and governors echoed in her mind, and she snapped her mouth shut.
If Rocarri insisted the tournament must proceed due to historical precedent and nothing else, she could work with that.
She had a week until the next trial to find something that solidified her argument that the Angel wouldn’t want this and change his mind.
Perhaps she could even sway council members who didn’t think her unstable.
“I see,” Emmeline said, pushing up from the chair as her plan took shape. “Thank you for the drink. I won’t keep you from your work.”
She hastened for the door, but as she grabbed the knob, Rocarri called, “You may want to be a bit more careful.”
She froze, the quiet taunt lacing his words prickling every nerve along her spine. Slowly turning back around, she arranged her expression into something peaceful. “Careful?”
Rocarri rose from his seat, setting down his cigar and taking long, strolling steps in her direction. His boots thudded lazily on the rug, each spurring on her nervous heartbeats.
“You see, with the exposure of your magic, you’ve become desirable.”
“I’d say that’s more your doing than mine,” Emmeline said, shrugging.
“I have had a hand in painting the image, but you are the subject. And you’re one people now wish to obtain.”
Her restraint snapped. “I’m not an object—”
“It doesn’t matter. People crave power, and you contain so much.
After today—after seeing the massacre that occurred in your honor—any reservations I had about the lengths our competitors will go to win are completely alleviated.
And not one of them was thinking of how their minds would cope with the lives they took. ”
Rocarri looked at her expectantly.
Horror-stricken, the pieces clicked.
These competitors willingly killed one another today.
Emmeline knew from experience that each death, once settled, took a part of the killer.
She was willing to sacrifice those parts of herself to avenge her sister, but did these men realize what they were doing to themselves?
Were they prepared to give up their morals piece by piece, like chips handed to a masterful god?
Not only would she be bonded to one of them, shackled with him for the rest of their long lives, she would be the reason they became that way.
Her resolve from during the massacre returned. Even as a temporary solution to locating her sister, Emmeline couldn’t agree to this. She’d find some other way.
“I won’t do it. If you’re so intent on turning them into monsters, I won’t be the pawn you use to motivate them. You can find some other prize—you can expel me from the city—but I will not be used to destroy them.”
“You’re more than a pawn, Emmeline. This is where you belong.
” That haunting, fanatic gleam returned to his eye, shivering down her spine.
“See, you have this effect on them. It’s truly fascinating if you think about it, the lengths your blessing of the Fates causes others to go to.
And if that is how they are willingly acting now, what will they do outside the tournament?
What will your existence drive them to do? That sort of power belongs here.”
Each accusation—each truth—was a pin prick in her armor, poking holes for her will to leak out.
Her magic was destructive. It had already taken so many lives, everyone close to her had suffered because of it. Her sister, her mother.
Roremar.
Perhaps there was truth to what Rocarri was saying. Perhaps the best place for her was here. Where she was used, yes, but where it kept her from exposing anyone else she cared about. Maybe it would even give her the potential to fix the problems her magic caused.
Perhaps, after all she’d been through, this really was where she belonged.
How long had she sought belonging, spending endless nights asking the stars for a place to call her own, where she was safe and cherished?
She hated that despite the twisted means, there was a part of her Rocarri’s words appealed to.
A childhood desire to fit in that she’d never been able to overcome.
Was there a way she could belong here? Or would Valyn only bleed her dry?
Coveted.
Desired.
Kept.
Belonged.
As much as she craved that last one, fear crawled through her. “I may belong here, but my magic is not a tool to use to your advantage.”
“It will be.” Threats layered those three words, the facade of the alliance he was pretending to build crumbling. “You will participate because I know the entire story of what happened on Lyra. The constellations aligning, the explosion within the seeing chamber.”