Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Roremar
Exhaustion weighed on Roremar the next day, and while that should make him nervous, knowing the reason he was so fucking tired all the time back on Lyra, this time it wasn’t from Dryvius using him. He hadn’t slept a wink last night, too afraid to let himself.
“Help me understand this,” Desmond said, sitting across from him in the barracks. Lola had gotten him on an approved visitation list, but they were required to remain within the lounge space with a guard at the door.
Apparently, while enough people admitted to seeing Roremar while the victim was found at the temple yesterday, he wasn’t totally cleared.
A part of him agreed with their decision, not convinced of his innocence himself.
He tried to ignore the frustration budding in his chest as he studied the chess board between them.
“This man—Rian—knows your father?” Desmond repeated in a whisper, moving one of his pawns up a space.
“His brother did,” Roremar corrected, assessing his next move with bleary eyes. “He’s a few decades older than Rian, and he died twelve years ago. But they worked together on some mining projects before that.”
“So, he passed on his work to Rian?”
Roremar moved his own piece. “Yes. Rian barely communicated directly with my father, but he was looped into the project. They met once.”
Desmond’s brows rose. “Rian was on the isles?”
“His family is originally from Alvan, supposedly.” Desmond’s eyes widened further, and Roremar nodded. “It’s been hundreds of years since the move, but yes.”
It was rare to find a Starsearcher on the continent who knew much of the isles, let alone had been there themselves or acknowledged roots there. Rian was curious, indeed. At least it gave Roremar something to focus on.
“That’s convenient,” Desmond said skeptically. While Roremar couldn’t blame him, he noted that his friend had been grouchier today. “And let me guess, he met Deacon once and was completely charmed by him.”
For the first time in what felt like days, Roremar laughed. “Seems like it.”
“You father was a charismatic fucker,” Desmond agreed.
“Must be where I get it from.”
Desmond shook his head. “You scowl too much.”
Roremar scoffed, and Desmond gave him a look that said he was proving his point.
“Regardless, Rian said he was intrigued when he heard of a Silventa from Lyra, and when I showed up here and the story spread—well, he knows my father was a good man and is willing to give me a chance because of it. He wants an alliance.”
“You trust him not to double cross you in the arena?” Desmond asked.
Roremar considered, making his next move across the board. “I don’t have a choice.”
Desmond only grunted in response, but Roremar didn’t add that it felt good to think he might have a true ally in this tournament.
Two if he partnered with Perry—which he still wasn’t sure he wanted to—and if Perry and Rian were in, it seemed Khasson would follow, too, based on the loose alliances forming in the barracks.
Alliances didn’t truly matter—not for long at least. The second trial was in three days, and the third would be a week after that. Only one of them could win, but for now, the possibility of allies was unexpectedly comforting.
His biggest concern in here was Ritheus Svalla, who had shredded all Roremar’s government-appointed tunics last night. Svalla wanted him gone. Now.
“Where’s Rian today?” Desmond asked.
And just like that, Roremar’s jaw was ticking again. He slammed another piece down, nearly upsetting the board with the force. “At his meeting with Emmeline.”
“Speaking of her.” Desmond fished around in his bag and pulled out a stack of papers. “She wants you to see if you can make anything of these.”
Roremar took the notes, thumbing through them. After only a few lines he shoved the papers back at Desmond, growling, “No.”
“Rory,” Des warned.
“I don’t want to see it. I don’t even want to talk about it,” Roremar insisted.
He stood and faced the window overlooking the training arena.
A few contestants were entertaining some women, sparring and drinking.
Khasson sat on the wall watching, lazily sipping from a silver chalice.
The entire city had paused normal life to celebrate these weeks, but it felt like fortunes were hanging in the balance.
Roremar had promised Lola he wouldn’t give up, but that didn’t mean he thought it was safe to read the case files. Speaking to them was one thing, but he didn’t want to know the ins and outs of the death, the evidence and suspects. Not if Dryvius could reach into his mind at any moment.
Tonight, there was a festival in the Seventh District where musicians would take the stage to compete, but when Roremar heard there would be an abundance of incense tents, he’d requested not to go.
After the new murder, he’d vowed not to try to read again.
He didn’t even want to be near incense that could tug slightly at Dryvius.
The Fate was silent, and as much as that confused him, it needed to stay that way.
Desmond grumbled beneath his breath, “Myrella suggested you shouldn’t be looped in. We told her she was wrong.”
“She’s right,” Roremar demanded, whipping around to look at his friend. “I mean it, Desmond. I don’t want to see any theories.”
“Come on, Rore.”
“What?”
Desmond shook his head. “You know you aren’t guilty.”
“But he still has access to me. Anything I know, Dryvius can use.” His voice strained, the words tugging up all his grief and fear.
“You said yourself you haven’t heard a damn thing from him,” Desmond argued.
“Just because he isn’t talking to me doesn’t mean he can’t hear from me.
” Roremar fell back into his seat, sweeping a thumb across the top of the papers, lingering on the curled corners.
He could practically feel Emmeline through the parchment, rolling them up in her mindless habit while she worked.
He shook his head, holding the stack out. “I can’t read these.”
“Keep them. In case. We have originals of it all. These are abbreviated notes.”
Roremar pursed his lips. “Fine.”
They returned to their game, but it was only a few moves before Desmond said, “Can we talk about your uncle now?”
“What about him?” Roremar asked without looking up.
“There was another ritual last night.”
Roremar blew out a rough breath. “And?”
“Still not sure what it means, but whoever was with him said this one also didn’t work.”
“The people didn’t survive?”
“Dead before I got there. Whoever Falliare met mentioned they fixed some coordinates so the victims didn’t go mad this time, but not much more.”
Roremar wasn’t sure if he should be relieved the ritual didn’t work or fearful of how they’d escalate the next attempt if they didn’t figure out what his uncle was doing.
“Coordinates pointing toward what, though?” Roremar mused, moving another piece across the board.
“He still hasn’t been to see you?”
“No. If it wasn’t for you all, I’d have no idea he was here.” Perhaps that was Uncle Aldryn’s goal. Normally, he wanted people to know where he was. It was a show of power to keep his motives and methods a secret but allow everyone to see the threat.
This felt different.
“We think we figured something out.” Desmond’s voice was graver than a moment ago.
Roremar lifted his gaze, looking up through the dark waves dropping over his brow.
Des checked around them before continuing, “That first day we saw him in the port, he was buying something. Myrella and I went into the sanctuary when he left, and I charmed the woman enough that she told me—”
“Naturally,” Roremar deadpanned.
“I may not have your skillset, but I have my own.” He smirked. “Anyway, he was buying a sculpture of some sort. A palm-sized carving.”
Roremar straightened. “What of?”
“I don’t know exactly, but we were able to get one of a similar stone. It’s coated in a dark, reflective sheen. Oil or ink or paint—we aren’t sure.”
“Do you have it?”
Desmond shook his head. “Myrella has it. She and Emmeline wanted to look at texts about uncommon mineral components.”
“Like a rare, mined stone?” Roremar asked.
“Potentially.”
Mentally, Roremar pulled up an image of his uncle’s office in the Lyra Temple Academy and his private lodgings. He had a number of artifacts displayed, but none of them appeared prized in any way.
Although, Aldryn Falliare wasn’t the type to have a precious artifact and hide it where no one would ever see it. He’d keep it close, keep it where he could watch it, but also where it could be flaunted.
Much like he did with Emmeline.
Fuck, he wished his uncle would visit him so he could punch him in the throat.
“That’s not the weirdest part, though,” Des said, and Roremar’s attention snapped back to him. Desmond’s stare dropped to Roremar’s hands, then back up. “You missing one of your rings?”
His heart stuttered. “Yeah. The one my father gave me years ago.”
Desmond nodded as if he expected that answer. “Emmeline has it.”
“She—what?”
“She found it in the cells below the Trade House.” Desmond cleared his throat. “It’s sweet, for a lovesick fool. She’s worn it around her neck ever since.”
The vacant space in Roremar’s chest warmed, longing bleeding through him. Fuck, he had to find a way to have her for real.
“Did your father ever say what that ring was made of?” Desmond asked.
“Some sort of steel.” It’s made of a type of metal that’s delicate to work with but nearly indestructible once forged—two things at once. “Why?”
“Because we think whatever is imbued in that metal is the same thing coating the statue.”
Roremar’s mind raced as he moved his next piece, the game falling into place before him. “So, Falliare is here participating in suspicious rituals and seeking out some item that’s imbued with the same oil as something that once belonged to my father—a man who hated him.”
“Feels like there’s a reason there, doesn’t it?” Desmond asked, taking his next turn.
“Certainly does,” Roremar said, studying the board between them.
His mind woke up, pulled itself from the grief-stricken haze he’d succumbed to.
It took these pieces and started laying out the steps of a mystery, a lethal puzzle to be solved or cursed by the Fates.
One he was a lot more comfortable looking into than the murder.
“The only question is, what is Aldryn Falliare up to?” He smiled as he picked up his final piece and placed it down, blocking in Desmond’s king. “Checkmate, Alvi.”
As Desmond cursed, a clatter sounded in the hall.
They both shot to their feet as Myrella flew through the door, panting.
“What’s wrong?” Desmond asked.
She didn’t seem to have any obvious injuries, but her face was pale as she said, “Someone ransacked our room.”