Chapter 43 #2
With the insertion of the last star, the bottom of the box clicked open and a large vial rolled across the table toward him. Roremar lifted his gaze to the Chancellor’s platform as it tipped over the edge and landed in his palm.
But he didn’t look at Emmeline, nor did he look at his sister or his uncle.
No, the Reckless met the eyes of Balmour Rocarri himself—the man forcing him and Emmeline into these ruthless games—and through the sweat-soaked tendrils of hair falling into his face, over the stinging in his side, Roremar smirked.
Without breaking eye contact, he held up the vial, ensuring Rocarri saw Roremar had succeeded. That he’d found the final piece of the antidote for a poison that wasn’t affecting him at all.
That despite everything Svalla, the Fates, and this Fatesdamned Chancellor threw at him, Roremar continued to stand—continued to fight for Emmeline.
Guilty, but Fatesdamned determined.
He poured a splash of the liquid into the tin cup holding the bitter herbs. As soon as the ingredients met, smoke pillowed into the air, the solid ingredients melting together into a wine-red liquid.
Roremar didn’t wait. He lifted the cup to his lips and threw it back, swallowing every bitter drop and relishing in the cheers of the crowd.
Then, as if to flaunt his success to the Chancellor, he righted the rest of the eleven tin cups, placing a different fallen ingredient within each. He distributed the solution from the puzzle among them, a cloud of scented steam rising around him.
And to prove that he was greater than this game, greater than the Chancellor and whatever plans he spun, one by one Roremar drained an antidote for each Fate—until there was nothing left.
Many would call him foolish for taunting the Starsearcher ruler—witless or dauntless or senseless—but Roremar was the Reckless after all.
And for once, after all he’d been put through, he wanted to act like it. Wanted to show them all that when Emmeline’s heart was on the line, he was more powerful than every fucking Fate in the skies.
Roremar dropped the final cup to the floor and held Rocarri’s eye, a challenge sparking between them.
Your move, Roremar mouthed.
In the heartbeat that followed, Roremar realized that taunt was his mistake. One step too far; he’d always gone one step too far when he was younger, and in his haste he did so again.
Because Rocarri smiled.
He flashed a hand signal overhead, and the City Guard descended on Roremar.
They wrenched his arms behind his back, and with how fatigued he was, how the wound barked on his side, Roremar didn’t have the strength to push them off. A guard tugged his hair, tipping his head back so he was forced to look at Rocarri.
Roremar growled at the image of the Chancellor atop his pristine tower, not a speck of dirt on his robes. Rocarri thought he’d won, but if he was up there, and his people were down here suffering for his entertainment, could he ever truly win?
The Chancellor opened his mouth, and Roremar expected to be dismissed or reprimanded, but he said, “Roremar Silventa, you are hereby under arrest.”
Roremar froze.
“For the murders that occurred on the Isle of Lyra.”
“What?” Roremar yelled. Why was this happening now? The murders had been weeks ago and not under Rocarri’s jurisdiction.
“This test today has proven you are not connected to the Fate of Chaos and Revelry at all.” Roremar’s stomach turned.
“If you were aligned to Dryvius as you claim, the first chalice would have incapacitated you until you drank the correct antidote. And all the other eleven you so brazenly consumed would have targeted any Fate tie they weren’t meant to heal, doing irreparable, visible damage. ”
And he’d finished them all. Every drop without a single repercussion. Marked himself as some impossibility, a threat.
A man without a Fate tie.
He’d worried something was wrong with his magic. He hadn’t felt Dryvius since Nico’s death, and even the seeing chamber on Lyra couldn’t find it.
His shoulders sank as it hit him. That was why the poison today hadn’t affected him.
Because his tie wasn’t fucking working.
It wasn’t gone—not entirely. He doubted Dryvius would ever leave him alone, and he’d been able to somewhat read the other night. But it had been altered somehow.
Rocarri didn’t care about that, though. Wouldn’t hear Roremar’s explanation. Roremar had pushed him too far, and the Chancellor was looking for any excuse to lock him up.
“Take him to the cells for holding,” Rocarri declared, waving a hand at the guards.
Terror wrung his chest as he was dragged back.
“Emmeline,” he choked out, but he couldn’t find her.
The arena had turned into a riot, the spectators with maroon banners roaring in anger.
Dust stirred up around the men fighting for their lives, those still standing hurrying to assemble their antidotes after what Rocarri revealed, figuring out which would save them.
He could feel her, though—Emmeline’s fear and rage compounded in his own chest, shooting down the thread that tied them together.
City Guards forced him back toward the tunnel, but despite the bleeding wound to his side, Roremar struggled. He knew the moment he stepped through that gate—the moment he allowed them to take him into those shadows—he’d never return.
Frantically, Roremar looked around for anything to help him, for—
The earth shuddered, and dust pillowed in the air in the center of the arena. Warriors scattered, rubbing their eyes, some of the men still crying for help. Roremar choked on the dirt as an awed wave washed through the crowd, Starsearchers across the arena dropping to their knees.
“No fucking way,” one of the guards muttered as the dust cleared.
And a winged form took shape.
Not just any winged form. Great white feathered wings with lilac ether tumbling off them. Silver hair flowed to her waist, a beaded dress clinging to her figure. In the hazy winter sunshine, the gleaming embellishments almost looked like armor.
She lifted her head, galaxy-swirling navy eyes landing on Roremar. His knees buckled from the power rippling off her, from the steel-sharp glint in her almighty stare.
“Valyrie,” Roremar breathed.
Her lips tipped into a smile as her attention shifted to the platform above the arena, and he knew in his spirit she wasn’t looking at Balmour Rocarri.
She was looking at Emmeline.
“I hear my Races have been revived. I fear my invitation must have been lost.”