Page 140 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

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.”