Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Emmeline
“Alana, where are we going?” Emmeline hissed as she was pulled through the winding network of alleys in the outer ring of Valyn’s Districts.
She’d tried to tell Alana that they couldn’t sneak out, that Rocarri was watching and whatever it was wasn’t worth the risk, but Alana had only leveled her with a very serious stare and insisted, “Trust me, Emmeline.”
And though it meant shoving aside her baser instinct, Emmeline tried.
She’d demanded they go to a tavern or crowded incense den first, in case they were being watched, and continued to check over her shoulder every step they took through the Eleventh District.
As far as she could tell, they weren’t followed.
Alana glanced back, big blue eyes catching the mystlight beneath her dark hood. “A little further.”
Before Emmeline could respond, Alana slipped beneath an ivy-wrapped tunnel carved into the stone buildings and onto a wide, dirt roadway beyond.
The land at this end of the capital opened up, stables and larger homes filling the hilly streets and an abundance of weeping cypher trees lining the paths.
In the distance, vineyards rolled over the land. Lit by the moon and stars, warriors danced between them, escaping the festivities in the inner districts.
Alana stopped before an iron fence at the edge of an overgrown property, crumbling beige stone pillars on either side. Ivy and tall grasses curled around the bars as if pulling them into the earth.
“Here,” Alana said, pushing the gate open. Rusted hinges creaked shut after them, and Emmeline followed her up the tree-lined path.
“I’m beginning to feel like there’s going to be another murder, but this time I’ll be the victim,” Emmeline whispered. Between the cypher branches, she could make out a stately home, all lights off.
Alana’s laugh flittered along the breeze, branches rustling. “Please, Emmeline, if I wanted to harm you, I could have done it days ago.”
“Come again?” Emmeline stopped.
Alana tutted, grabbing her arm and dragging her along. “Please, you were so distracted when you first arrived, it would have been easy. But I can’t tell you all my methods now or we’re going to be late.”
“I’ll certainly be asking later,” Emmeline huffed as she blindly hurried after Alana. Her skin prickled at how foolish she was to follow someone she barely knew onto a desolate property. “Late for what?”
They reached a bend in the path, a small, two-story wooden farmhouse standing at the end. The property’s main home was a ghost in the distance. Abandoned.
“You’ll see,” Alana said.
She led Emmeline inside, not pausing to show her around. Mystlights blinked to life as they climbed the stairs, sconces lined with cobwebs. Moth-bitten sheets were thrown over furniture and paintings on the first floor.
“Whose home is this?” Emmeline asked as Alana led her into one of the two bedrooms at the top of the stairs.
This one at least wasn’t as deserted as the rest of the place.
The wood burning stove in the corner was lit, and candles decorated the wooden shelves beside the door, flames casting alluring shadows across a double bed and settee.
A small glass tray with a decanter and two tumblers waited atop the dresser.
“Someone I know from one of the galleries I worked at owned this place. He passed recently—old age—and left the land to his family, but they won’t be in Valyn for a few months,” Alana said. “Wait here.”
She was gone before Emmeline could ask why, the door clipping closed behind her.
It wasn’t locked—Emmeline tested it—but when she poked her head into the hall, no one was there.
Rather than follow Alana through a decrepit house, Emmeline clung to the sliver of trust she was trying to offer her new friend.
Giving in to the exhaustion taking over her body from the emotions of the day and Rocarri’s threats, she retreated back into the room, removed her cloak, and draped it across the bed.
After many long minutes of stewing and twisting her opal ring, Emmeline crept to the window, careful to notice which floorboards looked warped or might squeak beneath her steps.
She peered around the edge of the curtain.
Two shadows inched along the perimeter of the farmhouse, one small and lithe, the other much larger.
Her heart lodged in her throat as she pulled the dagger from her boot.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs.
Emmeline spun around as the door flew open. “Alana, there’s—”
But it wasn’t Alana who stood in the doorway.
Shock rushed through her, followed by the silent splintering of her heart.
“Roremar,” she breathed, her dagger clattering to the floor.
Grey eyes landed on hers, flaring silver. “Emmeline.”
In the space of a blink, his arms were around her. Warm sandalwood and a hint of sea air flooded her senses—the scent of him, of a comfort she’d rarely known—and Emmeline truly breathed for what felt like the first time in her life.
Roremar cupped the back of her head, holding her tightly to him as his lips pressed to her hair. All eleven of her Fate ties sighed in bliss at his touch, his kiss burning into her spirit and sending a soothing ripple down her bones.
“Thank the Fates,” Roremar whispered.
His relief unwound his frame as her hands pressed against his back, every tense muscle relaxing beneath her trembling fingers. He was here. She didn’t know how, but he was here, and he was hers, and she was safe within his arms. They both were.
She hadn’t realized the extent of her fear in this city until his presence siphoned it away.
Roremar asked, “Are you okay? I’ve been thinking about you every day, and when I saw you today I—” His words cut off, as if he didn’t know how to encompass everything he’d felt.
“I’m okay,” she whispered into his chest, though it didn’t even scratch the surface.
It was an odd comfort to have someone care so deeply about her well-being, to have his voice shredded with a tangle of panic and relief to be able to touch her. It nudged against that old bruise, the need to belong that Rocarri had agitated earlier.
And…Fates.
Stay in line. Or you may forfeit Roremar the Reckless’s life.
She stiffened, hands sliding to his chest to put distance between them as Rocarri’s tainted words ripped at her spirit.
Roremar couldn’t be here. They couldn’t be here. Not alone—no, they shouldn’t even be interacting if Rocarri’s threats held true. She didn’t think she and Alana had been followed, but the Chancellor had known when she snuck out of the manor before, and Emmeline wasn’t sure how far his eyes reached.
Fates, what would happen if Rocarri knew they were together so soon after he’d warned her to stay away?
“Roremar,” she choked out, the thought of letting him go when she’d barely gotten him back sawing through her. She didn’t even know where he’d been, how he was coping with Nico’s death.
“What’s wrong?” Roremar cupped her face in his rough palms.
The Chancellor’s words echoed in her memory. I’d keep this conversation between us. You wouldn’t want to be the reason he faces anymore hardship, would you?
Emmeline couldn’t do that to him. Roremar already had so much on his shoulders, more than he likely knew. Emmeline cared too deeply about him to add another burden.
He swept his thumbs across her cheekbones, waiting for her response, and she knew with each gentle touch—knew as his omniscient stare assessed her—she had to shut down her emotions before Rocarri’s threats came bleeding out.
All the longing and desire, every part of her that screamed for him, she had to tuck it all away into that lonely hollow in her chest if she wanted to get him through this tournament unscathed.
No matter how deeply it broke her.
She forced a smile. “Nothing.”
“Don’t start lying now, Huntress,” Roremar challenged.
He was seeing too much. He always saw too much. Emmeline was glass in his hands, a thin sheet so delicate and transparent.
She had to do better. She had to lie better. At least until she could fix all of this for him.
But right now, she needed to focus on the pain and grief in his eyes. Then on getting them out of this room before someone found out where they were, because he certainly must have guards looking for him.
Emmeline shook her head, forcing her jaw to keep from wobbling. “Nothing’s wrong, Reckless.” Her heart fractured. “It’s been a long day. How are you? How are you here?”
“I was brought here on a cargo ship, but I thought you could fill me in on the rest.” He spoke so gently, you’d never know he was the warrior who tore through men to reach her only hours ago.
Hearing him confirm he’d been kept so in the dark about his own fate fueled the desperate fire within her.
She had to save him, even if it meant giving up every last part of herself.
She had to save him, even if it meant staying away.
Emmeline blew out a breath, taking Roremar’s hand from her cheek and walking to the settee. “Even I don’t know all the details. The soon-to-be Chancellor—Balmour Rocarri—is recreating an event Valyrie hosted thousands of years ago. A tournament. There are to be three trials.”
“A tournament,” Roremar repeated, sitting beside her.
“They call it Valyrie’s Races. It’s the first since the Angel herself, and the Chancellor is using it to build morale and unify the clan.
Even if it’s resulting in the deaths of dozens of warriors.
” She tacked on the last part as an afterthought, distaste bitter on her tongue.
“They haven’t revealed what the other two challenges are, but… you saw how the first went.”
Roremar’s eyes flicked between hers, and she could practically see understanding crash over him in bloodstained waves.
He scoffed, leaning against the cushions and dragging a hand through his dark hair, the ink on his forearm flexing with the motion.
“Those fucking cowards couldn’t execute me themselves? ”
“District Governors are afraid to kill someone with such a rare Fate tie. If you die, they want it to be the will of the Fates.”