Page 125 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Rian assessed him. “You sick yesterday?”

Roremar pressed his lips together tighter, breathing over the ebbing pain. “Something I got from my sister. Sucked all the energy out of me, but the infirmary cleared me of being contagious.”

“Good,” Rian said. “Ready?”

Roremar nodded. He was as ready as he could be.

“Good,” Rian repeated.

As communicative as ever, this ally of his. Though, right now, Roremar couldn’t blame him.

They stood in the tunnel into the arena, the roars and chants of the crowd a hum that grew louder by the minute. All thirty of the contestants had been organized into two lines of fifteen. Roremar and Rian stood at the back. From here, he could clearly see how jittery everyone was.

Even Perry, in the front of the group, kept flexing and clenching his hands. With every nervous shake of his head the silver hoops through his ears glinted in the checkered sunlight filtering through the gate. Dark circles lined his eyes as if he was as exhausted as Roremar.

Khasson, Svalla, and Devinli—the rest of their bunkmates—were scattered throughout the line, the latter speaking quickly and quietly with the only contestant who was nearly as young as him. Khasson leaned against the wall, tapping his foot with either nerves or impatience.

But Roremar eyed Svalla. The hulking warrior checked the laces of his boots, casting him a nasty sneer. Roremar wondered again if he’d been the one to leave the note beneath his mattress, but he shoved aside the threat for later.

It wouldn’t matter if he died today.

A few of the other men spoke in hushed voices, throwing out hypothetical situations of what the trial could be, while some jumped in place or stretched, hollering to try to build their own morale. The majority had come to the conclusion that this race wouldn’t be physical, not after the duel.

And many of them seemed to have the same suspicion that it could take their lives.

As the pain in his side dulled to a steady ache, Roremar forced himself to focus on every drop of information he’d absorbed yesterday. He inclined his head toward Rian. “Any idea what it’ll be?”

Rian only grunted a quick, “No.” In the ensuing silence, Roremar tried to decide if he should tell Rian what he knew, but before he could, the man whispered, “A mental test, though.”

Roremar nodded, that small show of alliance pushing him to add, “I asked for some books when I was in the infirmary yesterday. I found a few ideas.” Rian looked at him with a brow hiked, and Roremar dropped his voice even lower. “Sessions for one, though I think that’s too rudimentary.”

“Agreed,” Rian said, crossing him arms.

“Also, some kind of riddle or sphinx challenge.” The mythological creatures were rare but, like gryphons, they were spotted occasionally, more so recently. “They’re not typically in Starsearcher Territory, though. Decoding a convoluted fortune would make more sense. Perhaps something from Valyrie’s age that’s been passed down.”

Rian shook his head, voice tighter than usual. “What else?”

“History,” Roremar suggested, dancing closer to his point. He didn’t want it to seem too easy to figure out. “Maybe legendary battle strategies or presenting how we would prepare an attack when in need of defense. Something to do with star maps and how constellations have shifted over time to indicate patterns.” He held his breath as he whispered, “That made me think of the Constellation Isles. Of the purpose of each.” That got Rian’s full attention, expression remaining impassive as he pivoted to face Roremar, brown curls swaying around his face. “Epi would be mythological creatures, Byron star maps. But Zyon…the different uses of things collected there.”

“Oils, plants, and resins,” Rian finished, clearly more familiar with the isles than most Gallantian Warriors.

“All used to make poison.”

Rian’s stoic facade slipped for a moment, eyes widening.

Ahead, the gate groaned as it slid up. The chants of their adoring audience mounted, the two neat lines marching forward into the blinding sunlight that did nothing to warm Roremar.

“If that’s true,” Rian said, barely moving his lips, “Fates help us all.”

“Thinking the same,” Roremar whispered as he took out the final vial Cyren had given him, uncorked it, and threw back the liquid.

Then, they stepped into the arena.

Chapter Forty-One

Roremar

The space had been transformed since last week. Plants cascaded down the walls, wrapping the bannisters and sprouting at the edges of the dirt floor. Verdant vines and buds of brightly colored flowers covered the crumbling stone, a million varieties Roremar tried to categorize as he filed in behind the other men.