Page 26 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

They’d gone into the sanctuary they’d seen Falliare in after the Temple Master left. Turned out the place was meant for sailors to offer last prayers before embarking on a voyage. A single door led into an accompanying shop, and Desmond had wasted no time charming the woman behind the counter to find out exactly what Falliare had purchased.

Myrella had bet him he couldn’t, and that was how she’d ended up buying their drinks tonight.

“It doesn’t look like much,” he admitted, putting his finger on the rough end and spinning it. “It’s a chunk of rock.”

“Now it is, yes, and be careful!” Myrella corrected, snatching it. She held it to the candle in the center of the table. “But look at these edges.”

Desmond leaned closer as he twisted the leather band around his wrist, their foreheads almost touching. Myrella brushed her finger across the jagged side, and he understood. “It looks like it’s been broken, not purposefully shaped.”

“I’ve seen ruins that resembled something similar. Old artifacts back on the isles that had been broken but preserved. I wonder if the Temple Master has another piece of it,” Myrella suggested.

“Two halves of a whole?”

“It could be one of a dozen or more. When I was in school to become an instructor, I took a class on preservation techniques. Maybe the Temple Master is studying them. Bringing a lesson back to the isles.” Myrella blew out a breath and sank against her chair. The object clattered to the table, the sheen glimmering in the flickering firelight. “I don’t know. Sleuthing isn’t my specialty.”

Desmond chuckled, waving down the barkeep for another drink. “Me neither.”

“We need…”

“Yeah.” He paid for his own ale this time and took a healthy swig. “We do need them. But we’ve got a long way to go before we figure out how to make that happen.”

He was certain Roremar would want to know Aldryn Falliare was in the same city as Emmeline. If only Desmond knew where in the fucking Fates his best friend was.

Or where Emmeline was for that matter. For all her letters asking about Roremar, she was evasive about her own location in this damn city. Desmond wasn’t entirely sure why, unless she didn’t want to be found. But he’d promised Roremar he’d look out for her as his friend was escorted from the Trade House, and that promise rang in his every waking and sleeping moment since.

It wasn’t enough—not enough to help Roremar avoid his unfair fate—but chasing her to the capital was a step.

At least the volume of the folksong was dying down enough for him to think.

A man a few tables over slammed his drink on the table, insisting to his friend, “No, I’m telling you, she’s the girl.”

“And I’m telling you, I don’t know what in Aevollon’s ass you’re talking about! You just keep repeating she’s the girl.” The friend—clearly more sober—laughed.

“The girl! The one the whole city is talking about!”

Desmond’s attention snapped to Myrella. There was one woman they knew of that could have the entire Starsearcher capital gossiping. Myrella’s eyes were wide, breath held and lips pinching as if she was holding back from yelling at the men. Desmond gave her a warning look, pressing his finger to his mouth.

The sober friend went on, “Obviously it’s the girl. That’s why the Chancellor⁠—”

“The Chancellor is offering her up!”

He was what? Desmond spun, but Myrella was already darting around the table, one hand on either of the men’s seats as she leaned over them.

“Excuse me,” she said sweetly.

Scooping up the chunk of rock, Desmond murmured, “Fucking Fates,” and chased after her, broken glass crunching beneath his boots.

Myrella blinked those innocent doe eyes at them. “What are you talking about?”

“The girl in the rumors—the one with all the Fate ties. Who made that whole seeing chamber blow to bits on that island when she moved the stars around.” The drunk warrior waved his hands as if that was supposed to encompass Emmeline’s power. All it did was slosh ale over the rim of his glass, narrowly missing Myrella’s dress.

“Give me that,” Desmond said, grabbing the man’s drink.

“Hey!”

“Tell me,” Desmond cut him off, “more about this woman and the Chancellor, then I’ll give this back.”

“You deserve that,” the more sober of the two told his friend. He directed his attention at Desmond. “There’s this woman everyone is talking about. She’s apparently tied to all eleven living Fates—calling her Fateblessed, like those who have two ties are Angelblessed.” Desmond rolled his shoulders at that word, but the man added, “The whole city is talking about it. Can’t believe you haven’t heard.”