Page 60 of A Fate Unwoven
The rest of the funeral had, thankfully, passed by uneventfully, although Dimas hadn’t missed the tense glances the nobles kept shooting his way as Brother Dunstan had carried out the proceedings. The shadow of doubt the cultist had left over the church had made it impossible for Dimas to focus on saying goodbye to his father and Lady Sefwyn, and when it was over, he had wasted no time in heading straight for the dungeons.
The guards standing watch had hesitated slightly when he’d arrived, but one haughty glare later and Dimas found himself striding down a set of damp stone stairs that led to a handful of cells.
Ioseph walked silently at his side, the torch in his hands casting shadows along the old stone walls. They hadn’t spoken about what had happened at the funeral. Dimas had simply told him he was going to the dungeons, and Ioseph had followed, no questions asked. They were close enough now that Dimas could smell the faint leather and soap scent of him. Could feel the brush of his arm against his own withevery step they took. Dimas fought the urge to lean in to that touch. To let Ioseph’s warmth chase away the constant chill in his bones. Like the events of that morning, they hadn’t yet spoken about what had happened between them out in the Wilds. About the line he’d almost crossed. It seemed Ioseph was content to ignore it for the time being, a fact that Dimas was silently grateful for. They had more important things to worry about.
Ioseph slowed his pace and asked, “So what’s the plan?”
“I want answers,” Dimas replied. He knew the sorts of tactics the Fist used to get heretics to speak, and the thought of them made his stomach churn.
Hopefully he wouldn’t need to resort to calling on his cousin Milos; he still wasn’t ready to reveal what was happening with his and Lenora’s bond yet. No, he needed to get to the bottom of this himself, and he needed to do it now. “That woman seemed eager to talk at my father’s funeral, so it should be easy enough to coax what I need from her.”
That was his hope, anyway. Perhaps it was naive. Perhaps it made him every inch the weak heir his father’s court claimed him to be. But he had to try.
The prisoner’s cell was at the farthest end of the dungeons, its heavy, wooden door almost invisible in the dark.
Ioseph unhooked the keys from his belt. “Ready?”
Dimas could hear the unspoken meaning behind that word.
You don’t have to do this.
“Open it.”
Ioseph obeyed, turning the key in the lock with an echoingclick.Dimas stepped inside before Ioseph could insist on going first.
For a heartbeat, he thought the cell was empty. Shadows pooled along the floor like mist, obscuring his vision. A small, circular window had been cut into the far wall, too high to reach and obstructed by thick, iron bars. But it let in enough light for Dimas to just make out the silhouette huddled in the corner, as still as the stone itself.
Ioseph came in behind him, and the light of the torch chased away enough of the shadows for Dimas to see the chains around the prisoner’s thin ankles. It seemed the guards had deemed her enough of a threat to restrain her, even inside a locked cell.
She didn’t look up as Dimas approached. Her eyes were open, but they were fixed on something Dimas could not see. His mother had gotten that look sometimes. As if her body was in the room with him, but her mind was somewhere else entirely. The sight sent a chill down his spine.
“Who are you?” Dimas began.
The woman didn’t speak, but her eyes drifted toward him, assessing him like a hawk might a mouse. Was this how Aldryn’s attacker had looked at him before they’d slit his throat? Like he was nothing more than prey for her and her cult to use their dark magics on?
“You came here for a reason, right?” Dimas asked, trying to keep control of the shadows now dancing before his eyes. “Well, I’m listening.”
She tilted her head. “If you were truly listening, prince, you’d know your fate is already sealed. TheHæstawill be victorious.”
Dimas clenched his fists.
So it was true, then. TheHæstawere back. Here was the proof before him, on the woman’s lips.
“Whatever yourculthas in store, my Fateweaver and I will stop you.”
He was rising to the bait and he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. Every word the prisoner said fed the demons in his mind, confirming their whispers to be true. The ones that said Næbya had forsaken him, and that under his rule, Wyrecia would finally fall.
The prisoner grinned, teeth flashing in the dark. “Your Fateweaver,” she said, “is already lost.”
“What are you doing to her?” Dimas asked. “What have you been doing tous?” His voice cracked on the last word.
The prisoner stared at him for a moment. And then, without warning, she threw her head back, a sharp laugh emitting from hermouth. “Poor, fragile emperor. It is no wonder the bond you and your Fateweaver share is so weak.” A knowing smirk pulled at the prisoner’s lips, one that had Dimas drawing his sword.
“I know your cult has been interfering with the bond!” he yelled. “Youwilltell me what you know!”
The heretic remained silent, watching him with that hawk-like focus. And then, in a low, ice-cold voice that made the hair on Dimas’s neck raise, she began to speak.
“You believe us to be gone because your ancestors have forced us to live in shadow,” she said, “but we are still here. And when the Furybringer rises again, it will be you who understands what it is to live in the dark.”
