Page 27 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“You don’t say?” Desmond’s brows flicked up as he and Myrella exchanged a curious glance.

“No one really knew who she was until tonight. Rumor said she was in the capital, a guest of Chancellor Rocarri.”

A guest of the Chancellor? Desmond had been told Emmeline was coming to Valyn for a job.

He glanced around the tavern, the music and stomping feet getting louder again. Fates, he had to get out of here. “I’m guessing something happened tonight.”

“The opening ceremonies for the Races!” the drunk man blurted, punctuating the end of his sentence with a loud belch.

“Wow. And what are the Races?” Myrella asked in the voice Desmond imagined she used with her students.

“There’s this tournament. Oh, it’s going to be loads of fun! Anyone can enter—many men are right now! No one knows what the challenges will be, but the first one is tomorrow, and they’re supposed to be brutal.” He sighed mournfully, a wistful look in his drunken stare. “That’s the price the Angel demands.”

Giving him a long, lost look, Desmond turned to the friend. “How does the girl fit in?”

“The Chancellor announced tonight⁠—”

The drunk one bellowed, “Whole city’s buzzing about it!”

“That’s lovely,” Myrella said, tugging the man’s ale from Desmond’s hand and shoving it back at him to shut him up.

Laughing, the other one explained, “Whoever wins will be bonded to the Fateblessed woman.”

Horror sank Desmond’s stomach all the way to the fucking floor. Myrella’s jaw popped open, and when their stares clashed, he knew they were thinking the same thing. They’d found Emmeline. And she’d left out some imperative details of her situation.

Fates be damned, they had to stop this stupid tournament.

Or his best friend’s girl was going to be bonded to some prick of a warrior, and eventually, when they got Roremar out of his imprisonment, he’d lose his Fatesdamned mind.

Chapter Ten

Roremar

“The ocean is something to be feared, but a gift to be admired, too,” Deacon Silventa told his eleven-year-old son, as the two of them sat at the stern of his favorite boat, the Reignara Astella.

Roremar’s bare feet dangled over the edge, nowhere close to reaching the water, but with the gentle rocking of the boat and the occasional bird diving beneath the surface, drops splashed over his skin. It felt like home.

“How can something be feared and loved?” he asked his father.

“Nothing in this world is black and white, Son. Think of our Fates—they’re all a spectrum. Secrets and Greed as I have. Fertility and Betrayal as your mother.”

Roremar’s eyes dipped to the white caps cracking the water’s glassy surface, hate tangling in his small body. “Chaos and Revelry.”

He rarely uttered those three words. Never around anyone but his father.

“That’s why I wanted to bring you out here today.” Deacon dug through his bag. “It’s been about a year since your Fate tie emerged.”

Roremar was cold at his father’s words, and he tucked his knees to his chest. His Fate tie—his curse. How was it possible he was the only one tied to Dryvius? The Fate was supposed to be dead—for thousands and thousands of years.

“Have you heard anything else from him?” Deacon asked.

Roremar shrugged. “Sometimes. Not too much.”

“That’s good.” His father nodded as he pulled whatever he was looking for from his pack and closed his fist around it. “It’s bothering you, though, isn’t it?”

The stern lines framing his mouth made Roremar think his father was worried. It was the same look he gave him and his brother and sister when they climbed too high in the trees or dove off the topmost cliffs.

Seeing his father concerned about his Fate tie planted a knot of fear in Roremar’s chest, urging on his anger. If his father was worried, it wasn’t good. Deacon Silventa was the smartest man Roremar knew.