Page 19 of A Fate Unwoven
Milos had returned. Alone. His face was so covered in dirt and blood that he was barely recognizable, and as he closed the distance between them, he fell to his knees in the snow.
Dimas and Ioseph moved at the same time. Ioseph knelt beside the hunter, his steady gaze assessing for wounds. “Milos? Milos, what happened?”
“Who did this?” Dimas asked.
Had Lenora attacked the hunters? No. There were three deep gashes in Milos’s chest, as if something had swiped at him with claws the size of swords. No human could have made such wounds.
Milos gripped Ioseph’s arm. Despite his injuries, his eyes were clear.
“It came out of the shadows.” Milos coughed. “At first we thought it a wolf, but then we saw its face.” A shudder went through the hunter. “It slaughtered Arwel and Ieuan before they could even scream. I tried to fight it off, but it was sofast.I must have blacked out. When I awoke, the creature was gone. It is only by Næbya’s blessing that I managed to make my way here.” He wheezed, teeth stained crimson. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but there was no sign of your Fateweaver.”
Dimas’s blood ran cold. He’d known the second Milos had appeared, alone and bloodied, that his Fateweaver had escaped. Had known, then, what he needed to do.
“Come on, let’s get you patched up.” Ioseph had helped the hunter to his feet, and the two shuffled back toward the outpost without another word.
Finæn stepped outside a moment later, his brow furrowing as he stared at the bloodstained patch of snow where Milos had just been.
“They didn’t find her, did they?”
“No.” Dimas frowned.
“She won’t stop fighting.” Finæn sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You see that now, don’t you?”
“I do.” Dimas curled his fingers into his palms. “Which is why we’re going to give her no other choice.” At Finæn’s confused look, he said, “You told me you’d do whatever it took for a position in the Fateweaver’s personal guard. Does that offer still stand?”
Finæn’s jaw tightened. “It does.”
“Good. Because we’re going to Deyecia, and you’re going to find Lenora,” Dimas said. “And when you do, you’re going to tell her that if she doesn’t take her place as my Fateweaver, your sister’s life will be the cost.”
SEVEN
LENA
It turned out the White Bear was a tavern.
Lena stood outside of the large wooden building with her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders, her nose scrunched against the bittersweet scent of ale and overripe turnips. The place was already filled with townsfolk, and Lena spotted the telltale worn leather of a few travelers’ boots as she wove her way through the crowds. Good. At least her presence here wouldn’t stand out.
She’d spent most of her time searching for the White Bear without considering how, exactly, she was going to get the Raven’s attention. She doubted he did his work out in the open, approaching every newcomer with the promise of escape on his lips and a price list in his hands. No, even someone who’d chosen Deyecia as his base of operations couldn’t bethatreckless. He’d work from the shadows. Watching. Listening. Waiting for an opportunity to fall into his lap.
All Lena had to do was give him one.
She took her time, studying the crowds the same way she would study a pack of wolves. The servers passing out drinks and bowls ofwarm stew would be a good place to start. Or the group of men and women playing a game of Fates beside the hearth. All she needed to do was get one of them talking.
Lena’s eyes landed on the young woman behind the bar. With her spill of dark hair and the confident tilt of her chin, she was the sort of girl Lena would have taken to her bed during lonely nights traveling the Wilds. She’d been standing there since Lena had walked in, smiling and giving orders. Definitely the owner. Or at least someone with enough authority to know if a smuggler was conducting business in her place of work.
Lena sipped at the honeyed wine she’d used one of her last few coins to purchase as she watched the woman for a while longer, trying to calm her racing heart. The incident with the Ehmar heir and the Fist had shaken her more than she’d thought. She hadn’t let herself look back after she’d left the hunters behind, but their distant, pain-filled screams hadn’t taken long to fall silent, and the memory of what that silence had meant had Lena bouncing her leg restlessly beneath the table. Thankfully, the tavern was empty of silver threads, but Lena knew they were there, just at the edge of her consciousness, waiting to obey her commands.
Lena’s fingers tightened around her tankard hard enough to hurt. Enough waiting around. If the smuggler was here, she was going to find him. Tonight.
She pushed to her feet, leaving the half-full tankard behind. No one paid her any attention as she wove through the thinning crowds, angling her body to make sure she didn’t accidentally skewer anyone with the end of her bow. Fates, how did peoplelivelike this? There were more people in this room than Lena saw in two whole winters back in the Wilds. She was already starting to miss the endless expanse of the frozen forest—where she could slip away and disappears from the world. The Wilds were unforgiving, but at least they didn’t pretend otherwise. There, Lena knew what to expect. She knew how tosurvive.But here, amidst the bustling crowds and stone streets, Lena didn’t know anything at all.
That isn’t true,she told herself as she approached the bar, fingernails digging into her palms. She was Lenora Vesthir, daughter of one of the greatest storytellers in the Wilds. If anyone could convince the smuggler of Wyrecia to help them flee the empire, it was her.
Lena slid onto one of the rickety wooden stools beside the bar.
“What can I do you for?” the barwoman asked, already pulling out a tankard from some hidden compartment.
Lena smiled, hoping the gesture looked more genuine than it felt. “I was hoping you could help me with something.”
