Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Roremar
The space had been transformed since last week.
Plants cascaded down the walls, wrapping the bannisters and sprouting at the edges of the dirt floor.
Verdant vines and buds of brightly colored flowers covered the crumbling stone, a million varieties Roremar tried to categorize as he filed in behind the other men.
A few of them waved at the crowds screaming their names as if the competitors were as precious to them as Emmeline had become, but most were taking in their challenge.
Rian caught Roremar’s eye with a tight-lipped nod. Roremar wasn’t sure if he’d given him an advantage or more time to fixate on his potential death sentence by planting the idea of poison being involved.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though. Thirty wooden tables were set up in the heart of the arena, and guards ushered each of them to a specific one.
“Don’t touch,” one said as he left Roremar at his post.
Devinli was directly in front of him, Svalla to the kid’s right. The brutish warrior cast Roremar a vicious glare over his shoulder that he tried to ignore, taking in the supplies spread across the buckled wood surface.
Twelve small tin cups with etchings on their rims. A silver chalice crusted in rubies. A leather-bound book that looked like it had been to war. A jagged-toothed knife. A number of small metal trinkets spilling out of a burlap sack. And at one end, a smooth wooden box sat alone.
Roremar’s attention pricked on it, confidence blooming within him. He was very familiar with puzzle boxes. Very good at them, too.
He catalogued all his supplies as the crowd roared around them, multicolored pennants snapping in the crisp wind. Above a small segment of the crowd to his right, maroon flags whipped back and forth wildly.
Looking around the tables surrounding him, Roremar realized every contestant had been given different items. Most of the men’s head swiveled about, discouraged or confused. Only Rian and a few others seemed to be studying their supplies like an opponent, building a strategy.
Perhaps his ally did stand a chance, then. The thought had an unexpected bead of solace soothing his nerves.
“Welcome!” Rocarri’s voice boomed through the horn atop his platform, and Roremar’s attention swung up to the shaded box.
Beneath the awning, Emmeline and his sister stood side by side, arms linked together. That was Lola’s doing no doubt. She’d always been affectionate. He was happy to see Emmeline letting her in, despite the circumstances.
And despite the fact that she would barely look at him yesterday.
To his frustration, his uncle sat on that platform, as well. Surrounded by District Governors, no one would ever be able to tell his nephew was potentially about to die. Needing to focus, Roremar tried not to be bothered by it.
“Today, we gather for the second trial of Valyrie’s Races,” the Chancellor went on. Every word grated on Roremar’s ears.
This was the man offering Emmeline up like a prized mare. Roremar had half a mind to launch this serrated knife into his eye socket. He may be able to make the throw from here.
“In historic accounts, this trial was a test of cunning, scholarship, and loyalty.
Valyrie challenged her contestants to decipher poisoned cups from those safe through recognition of the toxins inside, identification via riddles, or concoction of antidotes.
Today, we recreate her test in order to deem which among you are the cleverest.
“You’ll see there are a number of items on your table, and they all differ. Based on your performances in the duels and your sponsorships this past week, you have all been allotted different aids. No individual items are greater than another, but those who were ranked higher have received more.”
Roremar scanned the other twenty-nine tables again. Very few had as many items on their table as he did. Rian only had the dozen cups, the chalice, the burlap sack, and the wooden box. It seemed every man had that last one as well as the cups and chalice.
“Percivale Maldano has received the most aid as he had the greatest amount of wagers upon his name.” A roar echoed from the crowd beside Rocarri’s private box, green and gold flags whipping in the air.
“And second, thanks to past performance and sponsorship”—a serpentine smile lifted the Chancellor’s lips, visible even from across the dirt arena—“is Roremar the Reckless.”
The maroon-flagged section cheered, and Roremar spun around.
It was significantly smaller than Perry’s supporters—smaller than most—but something about the hungry way they chanted his name unsettled Roremar. Why were they sponsoring him? He was a murderer.
“A member of my council will fill your chalices now,” Rocarri went on. “They will also be around to place something in each of the tin cups before you.”
A man in fine silk robes approached Roremar’s table with a solid clay pitcher. Roremar squinted at the clear liquid flowing into his chalice. It was odorless and as pristine as fresh spring water.
Before leaving, the councilman dropped something Roremar couldn’t make out into the cup. Smoke rose from the surface, the rubies shimmering in the sunlight distorted beneath it. Roremar leaned toward it cautiously.
Sweet. It smelled like…vanilla?
The smoke curled around him, and panic knotted in Roremar’s chest at the thought of tempting Dryvius. He tried to fortify his mind, to dig his heels in and plant himself in the here and now. He couldn’t let the Fate in—not now of all times.
He looked around at the other contestants, all of whom were studying their own smoking chalices, a few blinking rapidly.
The crowd watched in muted fascination as Rocarri said, “When the bell chimes, you are all to drink the contents of your chalice. That is the nonnegotiable first step. To not do so will mean immediate expulsion from the races.”
In other words, death.
Roremar’s skinned prickled as he scanned the objects before him again, trying to make sense of them over that too-familiar vanilla scent. They had to have been precisely picked. Strategic.
He could do this.
“What you do after that will be up to you,” Rocarri said. He picked up a heavy silver bell, a crack up one side. With a dramatic swing, he struck the metal with a baton, an ear-splitting ding ringing through the arena.
“Fates fucking favor me,” Roremar breathed as he catalogued every item before him.
With two hands and before he could reconsider, having a pretty good idea of where this was headed, he threw back the smoking liquid.
It was sweet as a decadent dessert, fit for the most luxurious of revels.
Vanilla and a hint of cinnamon spice and berries that went down smoothly, images of silk clad dancers and overflowing cups spinning through his mind.
He waited for a reaction. For his insides to twist, his vision to go blurry, because he was certain he’d just ingested poison.
But he counted out sixty seconds, and nothing came.
His mind was clear, his limbs as strong as could be considering his recent injury, but—
Retching echoed from the table to his right. The competitor—the kid barely twenty-two years old who had been speaking with Devinli in the tunnel—emptied the contents of his stomach across the dirt floor.
A screech wrenched the air from the table behind him, and Roremar whipped around, meeting the contestant’s bloodshot eyes, black tears dripping down his cheeks.
Roremar staggered back, bumping into his own table, the cups rattling. Pain flared in his side.
“What in all the realms—” His words were cut off when another man collapsed onto his workstation, splintering the table down the middle.
One by one they fell, many holding themselves up weakly as they searched their supplies for something to save them.
All but Roremar, who didn’t feel a damn thing.