Page 43 of A Fate Unwoven
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dimas said, “My Fateweaver is here now, so I want you to tell meeverythingyou find out. Milos must remain at the palace to recover from his injuries, but I will have him send a few of his best hunters to further investigate these claims.”
He would also need to send someone to Aldryn’s family home, to deliver the news of his death and give them his sword.
“Very well.” Brother Dunstan folded his hands into his robes, his gaze darkening. “What do you wish to do about your father and Lady Sefwyn’s funeral?”
A fresh wave of panic had Dimas sucking in another deep breath. He wanted to order Brother Dunstan to keep it a secret for just a while longer. To tell the court his father and their Fateweaver were still negotiating trade agreements in the north. But his father was dead, and he didn’t have the luxury of pretending any longer.
“Begin preparations to hold the official funeral ceremony at the end of the week; we shall hold my coronation, and the Rite of Ascension, atmonths’ end, when the moon is full,” said Dimas. It would give him enough time to notify the inner court and to pen the letters he’d need to send to the noble families across Wyrecia, informing them of the current emperor’s and Fateweaver’s deaths and inviting them to his coronation.
It was an event he’d dreamed about ever since he was a little boy. A fantasy that never quite seemed like it would become real. But now he was here, and the thought of standing before his empire with Lenora at his side had black spots dancing across his vision.
The High Priest’s voice cut through the storm of his thoughts. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Brother Dunstan. Regent. You are dismissed.”
The High Priest dipped his chin, his robes billowing behind him in a midnight wave as he strode from the room. Roston followed after him a heartbeat later, leaving Dimas alone with the immortalized faces of his ancestors once more.
NINETEEN
LENA
Bathing in the imperial palace was nothing like bathing in the Wilds.
Gone was the lukewarm river water in a cramped wooden tub provided by innkeepers for an extra fee. Instead, Lena now sat in a copper tub filled with hot water scented with chamomile leaves and dried yarrow petals. It made every ache in Lena’s body melt away, and despite the stranger scrubbing at her skin until it was raw, she couldn’t help but relax into it. Nor could she help the hunger gnawing at her stomach when, a half bell later, she was wrapped in a silk robe and led to a tray of freshly baked breads and a variety of cheeses, vegetables, and lentils waiting for her in the reception room. She kept eating until the nausea in her stomach subsided. Until the dizziness she’d been feeling since leaving Forvyrg finally began to ebb away.
It was only when the attendant had helped her into the largest bed she’d ever seen and left with an awed “Good night, Your Worship” that the guilt set in.
How could she let herself sleep when her people were still lying on hard cots with only their body heat to keep them warm? When every second she wasted here, enjoying the Ehmars’ luxuries, there were people starving to death in the cold?
Lena flung herself from the bed and strode into what the attendant had called herreceptionroom. The space was huge, far bigger than her sleeping chamber, and apparently meant for entertaining important visitors. A long, navy seat was situated before an unlit hearth. Curtains made of the same fabric hung around a large window, which gave Lena a clear view of the imperial city and all the way to the mountains beyond. A potential escape route, but clearly not hiding an entrance to the palace’s underground tunnels.
The paintings hanging on the walls, however …
There were three of them, each depicting the first Fateweaver in various moments throughoutZværnahistory. In the first, aZværnapriest stood over a young Venysa, fingertips pressed lightly against her forehead, the air around them woven with fine, silver threads. In the second, a slightly older-looking Venysa stood surrounded by a half dozen kneelingZværnapriests, and in the third, she sat triumphant in her throne, her emperor at her side.
Lena found nothing but stone and dust behind them all.
She spent the next hour searching everywhere she could think of, from the edges of the large dresser to the floor underneath the woven rug in the entrance chamber. It was only as she was halfway through her search that she realized just howemptythe place was, as if every trace of the Fateweaver before her had been erased. There were no gowns in the dresser, and the linens on the bed were fresh and unslept in. Even the bookcases were empty.
It had barely been a week since Venysa had told Lena of Lady Sefwyn’s death. Which meant that either Lady Sefwyn had had little personal belongings to begin with, or that the palace had erased all traces of her in the time it took for Dimas to bring Lena here.
Neither option made Lena feel better about her situation. The absence of the former Lady Sefwyn’s presence was yet another stark reminder that the Fateweaver was a tool first, and a person second.
Lena clenched her jaw, biting down on the inside of her cheek in an attempt to stave off the sudden rush of panic that manifested at the thought of this being her fate. Venysa hadsaidthere was an entrance to the tunnels in the Fateweaver’s chambers, but … what if she’d been lying?
It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed her mind. Lena had tried to make contact with Venysa every night during the journey back to Novobyrg, but just as she’d been warned, the first Fateweaver had gone silent.
Focus, Lenora,her mother’s voice whispered in her mind, transporting her back to a frost-covered forest a few miles north of Forvyrg. To the feel of the hard dirt beneath her feet and the scent of moss in her nose.Trust your instincts. What do they tell you?
Lena scanned the room, searching for anything out of the ordinary. In the forest, tracking her environment had come as naturally to her as breathing. A broken branch. A footprint in the snow. They were all things she knew to look out for. But here, in the extravagance of the Fateweaver’s chambers, she had no idea where to start.
The steady hum of her magic, however, did.
It was like another sense, drawing her gaze toward the fireplace, triggering the ghost of a memory that didn’t belong to her. The fireplace itself was nothing special; stone surrounding a square alcove in the wall, an iron grate stretched across the space. A pile of charred logs sat inside, the faint smell of ash and charcoal still clinging to the air around them.
And above it, engraved into one of the stones, was an old Wyrecian symbol.
It was so faded Lena would have missed it if it wasn’t for her magic. The edges of the symbol had almost disappeared entirely, leaving itincomplete and impossible to decipher. But the sight of it was enough to make Lena curious.
