Page 58 of A Fate Unwoven
So Lena slid down to the floor, brought her knees to her chest, and let the storm take her.
TWENTY-FIVE
DIMAS
For the first time in his life, Dimas found that he hated silence.
With his stiff collar scratching his neck, the heir stood in the entrance hall of the imperial palace, surrounded by dozens of uniformed guards. None of them spoke. This was not a time for talking.
Nausea rolled in Dimas’s stomach. This funeral—this rite—was a show. A performance orchestrated to show the city that whilst their former emperor and Fateweaver were dead, everything was under control.
Silver, candlelit chandeliers illuminated the large space, their flickering light casting shadows in the large white-and-pale-blue archways. Dimas shifted uncomfortably, ignoring the look of disapproval General Alræn shot his way. Once they opened those doors, all eyes would be on him. He would have to play the perfect grieving heir the people expected to see. So he would be damned if he wasn’t going to take this short moment of privacy to let his mask slip.
Dimas glanced at the empty space beside him. He’d considered asking Lenora to attend, but her control over her power was still toounstable to risk parading her in front of the court. No, he would get through the funeral, say his goodbyes, and then he would tell the people of Novobyrg that their new Fateweaver was with them at last.
“Are you ready, Your Majesty?” his uncle asked, voice echoing through the stone hall.
Dimas clenched his jaw. How could someone ever be ready for this moment? His relationship with his father had been … difficult, and Dimas still wasn’t sure how he felt about his death. He wanted the chance to figure it out in peace, without the eyes of an empire upon him and the weight of his ancestor’s legacy weighing him down.
But that wasn’t an option. Not for the soon-to-be Emperor of Wyrecia.
So, despite the shadows at the edges of his vision, Dimas gave a sharp nod, and as one, the soldiers around him began to move.
They lifted the two objects Dimas hadn’t been able to look at since arriving in the hall: an identical pair of open stone coffins, each engraved with intricate whorls. Lady Sefwyn was clad in white robes, her golden-red hair unbound save for the bone-comb tucked behind one ear. She looked beautiful, even in death. As divine as she had in life.
Dimas hesitated before looking toward the second coffin. His father’s hair had been slicked back into its usual style, his regalia a mirror of Dimas’s own: navy tunic embroidered with silver thread and buttoned with circles of the same color, black breeches overlaid with boots made of the finest leather, and a thick, navy blue cloak lined with fur and fastened with a brooch in the shape of Næbya’s symbol. Three diamond-shaped stars within a circle, forming the shape of an arrowhead and all interlinked by silver threads.
Three stars for the three elements of the goddess’s power: past, present, and future.
Dimas knew he should take the time to memorize his father’s face. But the memory of his mother lying in an almost exact replica of his father’s coffin had him glancing up at the domed ceiling above him.
Once the coffins were securely braced on the shoulders of the guards, the doors to the imperial palace opened.
Dimas sucked in a breath at the sight. He took in the hundreds of people who had crowded into the streets surrounding the palace. Each of them wore some variation of the royal colors, their figures cutting a somber sight against the frosted backdrop of the city.
He’d never seen Novobyrg so quiet. Even the children were silent, their tiny mouths tightly shut, their hands clasped around wooden icons of their matron goddess.
The city itself was ablaze with candlelight, tiny flames lining the path the guards had cleared for the walk through the city. Only the inner court and invited members of nobility were allowed inside the church for the funeral, but this procession allowed the citizens of Novobyrg to say their goodbyes.
Dimas managed to keep his gaze fixed straight ahead for most of the walk, the familiar presence of Ioseph at his side keeping him calm. Eager citizens lined the path the guards had cleared, their whispered prayers and tears making Dimas’s stomach twist. Their words should have brought him comfort, but they only made one thing more apparent.
Not everyone was praying.
As the procession moved farther away from the palace, tears turned to cold indifference. Dimas tried to ignore the darkness he saw lurking behind some of the onlooker’s faces, reminding himself that whilst the people beyond the safety of the imperial city might dare to rebel, those fortunate to live within its walls never would.
Yet as a heavy fog descended over the streets and clouds gathered overhead, he found he wasn’t so sure.
He kept his head high, his gaze fixed forward, for the rest of the walk. It didn’t take long for the procession to reach its destination, but as the familiar iron gates of Næbya’s Church came into view, Dimas felt like hours had passed.
Brother Dunstan was waiting for them outside. He offered Dimas a small, sympathetic smile as he approached, his ceremonial robes swaying in the wind.
And then he was leading the procession through the grounds, past stone statues of former Fateweavers. His father had brought him here once as a child, explaining the names and history behind each statue; whilst each Fateweaver had the ability to conjure visions of the past, present, and future, each vessel tended to have an affinity for one of the three. Like Lady Sefwyn, Lady Kendre, the Fateweaver of his great grandfather, Emperor Kalren, had been particularly skilled at seeing into the present itself, whilst Lady Danica, the successor to Lady Venysa, had been able to conjure visions of the future almost as easily as breathing. Vesric had spoken of them all with a reverent sort of awe, yet it had only been when they’d reached the largest—and oldest—statue that the emperor had dropped to his knees.
Dimas had listened in silence whilst his father spoke of the first Fateweaver. Of how she was the strongest of them all. A young girl chosen by the ancientZværnathemselves to receive Næbya’s blessing and protect Wyrecia from those who wished it harm. Many Wyrecians still worshipped Venysa as a minor deity, believing her spirit lived on and would grant them favor for their devotion.
“She and the first Ehmar emperor made Wyrecia what it is,” his father had said, touching a hand to his chest as a sign of respect.
Dimas had tried to summon the same awe as his father, but all he’d felt was a cold, endless nothing.
