Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
Roremar
A Fatesdamned cell again.
He’d been dragged to a prison on the outskirts of the city this time. He hadn’t seen which district, but it was far from the arena. And from the barred window in his cell, Roremar could see the high city walls curving around the building, so they hadn’t taken him from Valyn.
Thank the Fates for that.
The rain had picked up shortly after they tossed him in here, and all he could think of as he watched it slip between the bars and sprinkle the grey stone floor was how Emmeline hated storms and how badly he wanted to comfort her now.
Roremar was starting to believe this was how he’d spend the rest of his days, which were certainly drawing shorter now that he was being accused of murder again. The same murders he’d already proved he wasn’t the decision-maker behind, except now, his Fate tie was…gone?
No. He was positive it wasn’t. Dryvius was still there, silent fucker he’d become, but for some reason, the poison hadn’t affected him.
And then he’d gone and thrown it all in the Chancellor’s fucking face.
Slumping to the floor, Roremar tried to distract himself by ripping up his tunic and rewrapping the wound to his side. He needed ointment for it, but he’d never be given that in here.
It throbbed each time he inhaled, the garish lines around it ebbing against his skin.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” he grumbled.
Night fell quickly, and with every minute of pressing darkness, the walls of the stone cell closed tighter. The grief and blame he’d been trying to overcome followed.
All he heard was Rocarri’s accusation, punctured by Nico’s final, gargled breaths.
His father’s last words.
I didn’t do this, he insisted to himself when the memories melted together to drown him. When his lungs wanted to give out. When he thought jabbing his fingers into the wound at his side would hurt less.
We need you, Lola’s voice begged. Don’t make us mourn a second brother if we don’t have to.
“Don’t leave them,” he whispered to himself again and again. “I won’t leave them. I won’t leave Emmeline.”
Those words became his saving grace.
That night, he clung to his sister’s pleas and laid out the pieces of the puzzle in his mind. This time, he wouldn’t let the grief consume him. He sat with it, but he didn’t let it keep him from that promise.
Roremar turned over possibilities in his head of what could be happening. Maybe Dryvius had blocked their alignment, and that was enough to withstand the poison this afternoon?
Maybe the Fate had used him to kill that woman at the temple and planted false memories in his head so Roremar thought he was innocent?
He shivered at the prospect.
Perhaps he was guilty.
Even if he wasn’t guilty explicitly, it was clearly connected to Dryvius, which meant there was some level of blame on his shoulders.
He didn’t put any of it past the Fate of Chaos and Revelry. Not after recent events.
The door into the cells squeaked open, a jarring slice through Roremar’s spiraling questions.
As unhurried steps echoed off the stone, he reclined against the wall, the wound in his side barking too badly to stand.
He swiped his hand over the dirt in the floor where he’d been diagraming his ideas, not wanting to give the guards any reason to think he was more unstable than they already did.
A cackle rang through his memory. Perhaps he went mad years ago. Though if he had, would he still feel so much?
A shiny silver chalice was placed beside his boot, and Roremar’s head jerked up. A hooded figure stood outside the bars.
“Thank you?” Roremar muttered.
The man threw his hood back, dark hair tumbling around his shoulders and a wry smile twisting his lips.
Roremar sighed. “Khasson. What do you want?”
The fellow competitor tucked one hand into his pocket as he studied Roremar, the other dangling a bottle between his fingertips, eyes nearly black in the flickering shadows from the mystlight torches.
“You helped me in the trial today when you gave Rian those hints. I thought you could use some company now.” His toe nudged the chalice inside Roremar’s cell, the base scraping across stone.
“What is it?” Roremar asked.
“Wine.” At Roremar’s answering eye roll, Khasson chuckled. “Cut me the grief. Whiskey was harder to steal. A bottle of this, though? Aplenty.”
Shrugging, Roremar leaned forward to grab the chalice, hissing over the pain in his ribs. At least this would dull that.
“Have they hurt you?” Khasson asked.
“No. Got into it a couple nights ago.” Roremar drained nearly the entire glass. “Do you think you could contact General Cyren for me? They helped me in the infirmary. They’ll know what I need.”
Refilling his chalice, Khasson said, “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
“No.” Roremar tipped his head back against the wall, arms propped on his knees and drink dangling from his fingertips.
“Let me know if that changes.”
Roremar nodded. “Anything new out there?”
“You’ve caused quite the commotion.” Khasson leaned a shoulder against the wall beside the door, wine still hanging from his fingertips.
He tossed the dark bottle up, catching the body and taking a swig directly from the mouth before continuing.
“Outrage and revelry in spades. People were throwing punches in the streets. I don’t know the last time I saw anything like it. ”
Khasson smiled as if he enjoyed that.
“Just what I need more of. Chaos.” Roremar took another healthy sip of wine. “At least I can’t be held directly responsible for whatever idiocy occurs if they’ve got me in here.” It was more hopeful than he felt, but he couldn’t bear to admit he feared there was a way he was guilty.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they find a way. It was a bold statement by Rocarri today.”
“Careful, Khasson,” Roremar joked, the wine already going to his head. “He has ears across the capital, and that sounds like you don’t agree with our fine ruler.”
“I’m making no accusations,” Khasson confirmed. “There are calls for your head. I don’t know if that was the Chancellor’s goal, but it’s what he caused, and the unrest is undeniable. He’s inciting his own chaos without seeing the repercussions.”
“Ironic.” Roremar laughed, but it was as hollow as he felt. “What are you really doing here?”
Khasson shrugged. “Proving who I believe in.”
“Why?”
“Why let him make you into something you’re not?
” Khasson countered. “I saw the look on your face today when you declared your challenge to Rocarri. You’ll do whatever it takes to win her hand.
It feels unfair for the rest of us to compete against that.
” A smile tipped his lips, one that felt more knowing than Roremar could make sense of.
Or maybe it was the wine getting to his head.
“We’re all pawns, Reckless. All of us in this tournament, convinced to enter it for his entertainment, now being slaughtered.
It’d be a shame to allow your gauntlet to be stomped on so easily after you threw it down. Why not continue to play?”
With that, Khasson set the uncorked bottle of wine inside Roremar’s cell and strode for the stairs.
Why not continue to play?
Before he disappeared, Roremar called, “Hey, Khasson!”
The footsteps stopped.
“There are a few things you could do for me.”