Page 130 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“Twelve cups,” Roremar muttered. His side flared with pain, but he ignored it. Turning back to Rian, he said, “All of us have twelve tin cups—it’s one of the only shared things. We have to figure out which one holds the key ingredient for our specific antidote, then craft it.”

Behind Rian, Khasson gripped his own chalice with white knuckles. His dark hair curtained his face as he leaned over the table. Roremar couldn’t tell exactly how he was faring, but he caught Khasson’s eye, nodding to him.

Panting, Khasson returned it, having heard Roremar’s tip about the Fate ties. He didn’t seem as affected as some of the others. He even forced a twisted smirk, the smug bastard.

Rian grunted, heaving himself into a standing position. “Fates, if I die for this, I’m going to haunt my father’s manor.”

“That’s the spirit,” Roremar said, clapping him on the back. “Got it from here?”

“I think,” Rian panted, clearly struggling to remain upright. “What’s the box for?”

Roremar eyed the polished wood. “I don’t know⁠—”

“No!” A scream echoed, deep and guttural.

Every eye in the arena went to the owner, a contestant in the heart of the group. He cowered beneath his table, hands pressed to his bleeding ears and an array of palm leaves scattered around him. He clawed at his cheeks, his hair, as if whatever was plaguing his mind could be ripped out.

Roremar raced over to him, sliding in the dirt. He sniffed the chalice. “Honeysuckle?” he guessed, remembering a perfume his mother wore with the same, almost-peachy scent.

He wracked his memory of each Fate, wishing for once that he hadn’t scorned them all so deeply. But he thought honeysuckle was most associated with Metrina, the Fate of Prophecy and Demise, who went mad after she suffered a great loss thousands of years ago and now sent twisted prophecies to her warriors.

Roremar looked at the man cowering at his feet, then at the chalice in his hand. This trial—it ran so much deeper than entertainment for the capital. It was carnage against the base of their magic, the very fabric that held them together.

These poisons weren’t only assigned to them based on their Fates, they were targeting the alignments themselves. This one was turning the warrior mad.

Rian’s—Anhala, the Fate of Foolish Hearts and Wisdom—would likely twist to make him less considerate and rash.

And Roremar—his Fate was chaos personified. He was a murderer who had already manipulated him once, without the aid of poison. What would he do once this kicked in?

Roremar’s eyes met Rian’s again, renewed determination in his stare despite his heaving breaths.

“Think carefully,” Roremar told him.

An unnervingly solemn look entered Rian’s eyes as he nodded.

Roremar felt fine so far, but he hurried back to his workstation.

“Oh, fucking Fates,” he grumbled. The contents had been swiped off the tabletop and scattered across the dirt.

Svalla, barely holding himself up and with vomit trailing down his tunic, flashed Roremar a greedy smile. He’d ransacked Roremar’s supplies.

“Good luck now, Reckless.” Svalla sputtered, blood in his teeth. “Clock is ticking.”

Roremar scooped the wooden box and book off the ground, the wound in his side throbbing with a fresh sting. Hissing, he lifted his tunic to check it. The linen bandages were crimson-stained again.

He’d torn his stitches.

He couldn’t deal with that now. Leaving the rest of the supplies on the floor for later, Roremar focused.

“It’s a puzzle,” he said to himself.

He flipped open the age worn book first. Only he and Perry had received that specific item, and as Roremar tore through the pages, it was clear why. This was a recipe ledger. Everything was handwritten, nothing confirmed as successful or what the proper dosages were, but it was a guide of poisons and antidotes.

It would help if he knew what poison he’d actually ingested, but he’d have to guess. All around him, men were struggling to stand, to breathe. Shrieks of horror rang through the crowd.

“Vanilla is warm and sweet,” Roremar muttered. “So, something smoky or fresh to counter it maybe.”

He scanned the twelve cups scattered at his feet and the items that had fallen out of them. One was overturned beside a eucalyptus sprig, and he reached for that first, but before his fingers locked around it, his stare snagged on another herb.