Page 100 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“Rory,” Des warned.

“I don’t want to see it. I don’t even want to talk about it,” Roremar insisted.

He stood and faced the window overlooking the training arena. A few contestants were entertaining some women, sparring and drinking. Khasson sat on the wall watching, lazily sipping from a silver chalice. The entire city had paused normal life to celebrate these weeks, but it felt like fortunes were hanging in the balance.

Roremar had promised Lola he wouldn’t give up, but that didn’t mean he thought it was safe to read the case files. Speaking to them was one thing, but he didn’t want to know the ins and outs of the death, the evidence and suspects. Not if Dryvius could reach into his mind at any moment.

Tonight, there was a festival in the Seventh District where musicians would take the stage to compete, but when Roremar heard there would be an abundance of incense tents, he’d requested not to go. After the new murder, he’d vowed not to try to read again. He didn’t even want to be near incense that could tug slightly at Dryvius.

The Fate was silent, and as much as that confused him, it needed to stay that way.

Desmond grumbled beneath his breath, “Myrella suggested you shouldn’t be looped in. We told her she was wrong.”

“She’s right,” Roremar demanded, whipping around to look at his friend. “I mean it, Desmond. I don’t want to see any theories.”

“Come on, Rore.”

“What?”

Desmond shook his head. “You know you aren’t guilty.”

“But he still has access to me. Anything I know, Dryvius can use.” His voice strained, the words tugging up all his grief and fear.

“You said yourself you haven’t heard a damn thing from him,” Desmond argued.

“Just because he isn’t talking to me doesn’t mean he can’t hear from me.” Roremar fell back into his seat, sweeping a thumb across the top of the papers, lingering on the curled corners. He could practically feel Emmeline through the parchment, rolling them up in her mindless habit while she worked. He shook his head, holding the stack out. “I can’t read these.”

“Keep them. In case. We have originals of it all. These are abbreviated notes.”

Roremar pursed his lips. “Fine.”

They returned to their game, but it was only a few moves before Desmond said, “Can we talk about your uncle now?”

“What about him?” Roremar asked without looking up.

“There was another ritual last night.”

Roremar blew out a rough breath. “And?”

“Still not sure what it means, but whoever was with him said this one also didn’t work.”

“The people didn’t survive?”

“Dead before I got there. Whoever Falliare met mentioned they fixed some coordinates so the victims didn’t go mad this time, but not much more.”

Roremar wasn’t sure if he should be relieved the ritual didn’t work or fearful of how they’d escalate the next attempt if they didn’t figure out what his uncle was doing.

“Coordinates pointing toward what, though?” Roremar mused, moving another piece across the board.

“He still hasn’t been to see you?”

“No. If it wasn’t for you all, I’d have no idea he was here.” Perhaps that was Uncle Aldryn’s goal. Normally, he wanted people to know where he was. It was a show of power to keep his motives and methods a secret but allow everyone to see the threat.

This felt different.

“We think we figured something out.” Desmond’s voice was graver than a moment ago. Roremar lifted his gaze, looking up through the dark waves dropping over his brow. Des checked around them before continuing, “That first day we saw him in the port, he was buying something. Myrella and I went into the sanctuary when he left, and I charmed the woman enough that she told me⁠—”

“Naturally,” Roremar deadpanned.