Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Emmeline
“Miss!” Graves called as he followed Emmeline up the Council House steps.
She skidded to a stop, rounding on him.
“Don’t tell me not to go in there,” she said, half plea and half command as she teetered a few steps above him.
“Never.” He placed a hand to his chest. “But let me go first.”
Gratitude nearly buckled her knees as her finicky guard stepped around her and lunged up the stairs, ordering the on-duty soldiers to let her through.
“Where are they?” Emmeline demanded, her heels echoing on the entry way’s antique tile as guards bowed to her.
No one answered, and Graves gave them all a glare Emmeline knew would have stronger men trembling.
“In the lower meeting chamber,” one finally blurted.
Graves and Emmeline took the stairs two at a time, her feet barely meeting the marble as she whipped around corners lined with precious, centuries-old art and shoved the door open.
Her heart pounded erratically as she froze atop the first step into the sunken chamber, the Angel’s navy-blue eyes locking her into place.
This is who created this tournament, one half of Emmeline’s mind raged.
This is the Angel who founded our clan, the one we bow to, the other half tempered.
Emmeline swallowed both of those truths. They warred inside her as she held Valyrie’s gaze. But she only gave herself one moment to pause.
Then, beneath the judgmental stares of council members, governors, and the Chancellor alike, she descended into the heart of the chamber. To the very same floor the Angel, the Prime Starsearcher Warrior, stood upon.
Everyone else stood reverently around the circular room, bodies filed neatly into tiered rows as they gathered to hear what Valyrie would say, but that didn’t stop the murmurs. Each lashed at her skin, clinging to her, but she forced herself not to look at anyone but the Angel.
And despite the part of her that rebelled against what Valyrie had begun with her tournament, as she stopped beneath the domed heart of the meeting chamber, Emmeline couldn’t deny how intrinsically the Angel fit here.
Every inch of her was grand and commanding, as glamorous as the riches adorning the halls and as ancient, too.
It was as if a wave wafted off her that kept these scheming warriors on their toes.
But there was also an otherness to her that trickled down Emmeline’s spine, teasing the magic she’d stuffed down, tugging at something wrapped around her heart that she had to leave untouched.
As the Angel studied her, Emmeline buried it deeper.
“Prime Warrior,” Rocarri finally said, breaking Emmeline from her trance as he stepped forward, bowing his head slightly to Valyrie.
Rage bubbled through her Fate ties as Emmeline’s stare landed on Rocarri. She swore Arenothos’s giddy laugh ricocheted down their alignment. Valyrie blinked rapidly.
Rocarri said, “This is Emmeline DeLeoste. The esteemed warrior tied to eleven of your Fates.”
Emmeline bristled. As if that was all she was. All she would ever be to these people. A vessel of magic to be paraded about and used at their disposal.
“Prime Warrior,” she said dutifully with a small bow. She bit back her derision as she added, “It is an honor to be in your presence.”
“Eleven Fates you say?” Valyrie asked, head tilting. Her waist-length silver hair rippled like a waterfall of starlight, and all of it—her ease, her falsely soft demeanor, her mere presence—pulled at Emmeline’s fury, like threads about to snap.
Gentle rain picked up over Valyn, splattering the tall windows lining the curved walls above the top tier of seats. Shadows of raindrops sprinkled the marble floor.
“Eleven, yes,” Rocarri responded.
Valyrie said nothing, eyes locked on Emmeline. The soon-to-be Chancellor’s lips pressed flat when she ignored him.
Over the Angel’s shoulder, Emmeline found Cyren in the second row, seated in front of Falliare. The General nodded in encouragement, their relaxed posture more at ease than the rest of the council.
Feeding off that confidence, Emmeline swallowed and said, “Yes. I have eleven Fate ties. All but Dryvius.”
“I hear the Fate of Chaos and Revelry has been true to his name,” Valyrie said.
Emmeline couldn’t tell from her flat tone how the Angel felt about that. Her chest split down the center at the mention, hope and terror on either side of the line. “That is what I wish to discuss.”
Rocarri glowered at her, reverent composure slipping. “We will speak about that—”
“Roremar Silventa did not kill those women,” Emmeline interrupted, propriety be damned. They wanted to revere her in this city? They could damn well listen to her truths. “He is not guilty of any of these murders. Not the ones on Lyra, and not the one that occurred in Valyn days ago.”
Around the room, council members scoffed and muttered to one another, all of them growing bolder despite Valyrie’s presence. Like the Angel would respect them for insulting Roremar and her by extension.
“How dare she talk to the Chancellor like that?”
“She’s fallen for the Reckless’s tricks.”
“He is as unstable as the Fate, and perhaps she is, too.”
Though each claim dug a knife into an open wound, Emmeline tried to ignore them.
“It was proven today that Roremar does not have a tie to Dryvius as he claimed.” Rocarri maintained a frustratingly calm exterior, but the strain in his voice was clear. Emmeline latched onto it, wanting to drive him to snap.
“How are you certain of that?” she pushed. “How can you truly know he does not have the tie he’s claimed?”
“Today’s task targeted Fate ties.” Rocarri’s attention shifted to Valyrie. “Like your ancient Races initially did, Prime Warrior, today was meant to test cunning when under duress.”
Lies, all of it. Valyrie’s second trial was about so much more than cunning.
“Elaborate,” Valyrie said in that flat tone.
Rocarri nodded with what Emmeline swore was a wave of nerves, and one of his advisors stepped forward. Laurentille, the Master of Scholarship, History, and Sciences, Emmeline recalled.
He cleared his throat, bowing to Valyrie.
Silver threaded hair fell around hollowed cheeks as he stood and straightened his blue velvet robes.
“According to the research I have gathered, when the first tournament was conducted, Fate ties were in their infantry, aligned to the very magic you commanded instead of the Fates themselves.”
The Angel gave nothing away about the true purpose. Neither did Rocarri, if he knew.
Laurentille went on, “However, in present day, Fate ties have strengthened to a brutal force many Starsearchers rely on. Therefore, we devised this task to challenge our competitors without their Fate ties.”
“Without?” Valyrie asked, but Emmeline was sure she knew what they meant. She simply wanted to string out the taunts of mortal men.
Though Emmeline was still burning with fury, she couldn’t deny she enjoyed watching Rocarri and the councilmen squirm as Valyrie questioned them. Enjoyed watching someone parade the Chancellor around for once, giving him hoops to jump through.
The Master of Scholarship blanched, square beard quivering. “Man must not be fallible because of his magic, or what is the purpose of gifting it to us in the first place?”
Valyrie nodded, and his shoulders visibly dropped.
Rocarri continued, more confident after that affirmation.
“Today’s task was designed specifically for each competitor, in the pursuit of proving them infallible of mind beyond their magic.
They were all given a poison that targeted their Fate tie.
It incapacitated them until they concocted their own unique antidote using the puzzle provided.
” His attention shifted to Emmeline, and she fisted her hands at her side.
Graves shifted behind her, his defense surprisingly soothing.
“Roremar Silventa did not succumb to the poison of Dryvius. The only way that is possible is if he does not have a tie to the Fate of Chaos and Revelry after all. Therefore, he lied, and he himself is guilty.”
“That’s assumption, not fact,” Emmeline gritted out.
Perhaps she should have spoken softer before the Angel, but Emmeline hadn’t lived in this city where Valyrie’s influence was etched in the cobblestones.
The most formative years of her life had been spent hiding away with nothing but her Fate ties for company, and lately, she was even growing frustrated with them.
It was hard to maintain reverence for holy beings when they did not seem to protect you in return.
“It is evidence,” Rocarri asserted.
At the smug smile following those words, Emmeline erupted.
“You know nothing about the evidence of these cases! I was there. I was the one who saw every body, every crime scene. I saw Roremar torn up about each. I saw him confused and questioning when he realized he had been manipulated and forced to kill.”
She had been the one who felt his grief as if it were her own, who followed him into the Trade House, and who revealed his Fate tie when he would have rather his guilt take him.
Not again. Not again.
Maybe I deserve to die.
Rocarri shook his head, pity in the press of his lips. “It’s not my fault, dear Emmeline, that he has been lying to all of us. Even you.”
The councilman and governors murmured, bolder with every moment Valyrie didn’t intervene. Their shame wrapped around her like a shawl.
She shoved it off.
“He has not,” Emmeline swore. “If anything, Roremar is a victim of the Fate as much as those who have died.” She spun to the council members lining the room, searching for just one ounce of belief beyond Cyren. Just one person to stand with her.
Even Falliare didn’t speak up.