Page 73 of A Fate Unwoven
The stone floor of the prayer chamber cut into his skin as he knelt before the statue of Næbya. The goddess’s stone eyes stared down at him, her hands wrapped around an intricate imitation of the small loom she always carried. The sight of her made Dimas feel like a child again, and his own hands trembled as he took the small spindle of silver thread from the folds of his cloak and laid it at the statue’s feet.
The silence of the chamber weighed heavily on his shoulders. He’d never been very good at praying. His mind was too unfocused, his thoughts too scattered. It was another reason his father’s inner court had considered him unfit to rule; to the heir of Wyrecia, praying should have come as easy as breathing.
“Blessed Næbya, I seek your wisdom. I … have done my duty. My Fateweaver has taken her rightful place at my side, but she’s … struggling. Her power is strong and unpredictable, and despite her training, she’s still unable to fully control it.”
Lenora had come further than he’d expected in the short time she’d been training with Brother Dunstan and Iska, but her control was still nowhere near the level it needed to be. If he’d received his vision of her on his fifteenth namesday as he should have, then they would have had years to prepare her for her duty, rather than just a few frantic weeks.
“Please, if you can hear me, help her on her journey. TheHæstaare back, and I fear they seek to turn her against us. We cannot stop them without your help.”
He bowed his head, his fingers trembling as they curled against the stone floor. Lena’s visions were the only lead they had when it came to theHæsta’s whereabouts now that the fanatic prisoner was dead, and despite Lena’s rigorous training schedule, she’d still only seen flashes of their location: a circular stone cavern lined with flame-lit sconces. It could have been anywhere in Wyrecia.
They needed more to go on, and Næbya was the only one powerful enough to help them.
“Please,” he whispered, “show me where to find theHæsta.”
Seconds passed in silence as Dimas knelt on the floor, his heartbeat slamming against his rib cage. He knew what a vision from Næbya felt like. Could remember clearly the rush of heat through his veins and the lightness in his head. And when neither came, he knew his prayers had gone unanswered.
Shame burned his cheeks. He’d been a fool to think Næbya would listen to him. Despite everything he’d done—finding Lenora, making sure she was trained to fulfill her duty—Dimas still wasn’t worthy in the eyes of his goddess.
Rising to his feet, Dimas looked upon the stone face of Næbya. If even she didn’t believe in him, then how was he supposed to protect Wyrecia? Perhaps the empire would be better off if his uncle took the throne, after all. Roston wasn’t bound to a Fateweaver, but he could be. If the Zværna found Dimas unworthy, they had the power to transferthe bond he shared with Lenora to whomever they deemed a fitting replacement.
Thankfully, Ioseph was waiting for him outside the prayer chamber, a welcome distraction from the spiralling direction Dimas’s thoughts had taken. Candlelight deepened the angles of his face, making him look impossibly handsome as he turned to face Dimas. “Nothing?” he asked. He always had a way of knowing what Dimas was feeling, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
Dimas shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
Ioseph paused, and Dimas could tell from the look on his face that his friend was searching for some words to comfort him. He was just about to speak when a guard suddenly appeared at the end of the hallway. If he noticed the tension between Dimas and Ioseph, his expression betrayed nothing. He simply bowed at the waist and said, “Your Majesty, the regent requests your presence immediately.”
Dimas’s stomach dropped. His uncle never summoned him for something good, and with all of Dimas’s failings lately, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the regent had decided to strip him of his title and have the bond transferred, after all. “Where is he?”
“In the council room, Your Majesty.”
That wasn’t a great sign. “I’ll head there now. Thank you.”
The guard’s eyes widened a little at his words. Emperor Vesric had never been one for casual praise, especially toward those he considered lesser. But it was becoming more and more apparent that Dimas was not the ruler his father had been.
Dimas strode down the hallway and out of the small side door that led into one of the inner courtyards. From here, it was just a short walk through the gardens to get to the servant’s quarters, and then up through the tower and across into the west wing, where the war room was situated.
Ioseph was a silent, comforting presence at his side as he made the journey. Anxious energy buzzed in Dimas’s veins, and he wondered if his Fateweaver could feel it. She was far better at hiding her emotionsthan he, despite the fact that he’d had more time to train. His mother had always said he wore his heart on his sleeve, like her, and that his emotions were his strength.
They didn’t feel much like a strength now. He felt small and weak as he passed by the neatly manicured bushes and stained glass windows, like a child called to be punished for his failings. There was no way Roston could know about what had happened in the prayer chamber, but Dimas’s cheeks still burned with shame.
By the time Dimas had ascended the servant’s staircase and made his way to the war room, his palms were slick with sweat. He hadn’t slept much the night before and knew without looking that there were dark smudges beneath his eyes. The guards at the door let him in without a word, bowing their heads with a muttered “Your Majesty.” Either they hadn’t noticed his disheveled appearance, or they knew better than to stare.
Did they fear him, as they had his father? He doubted it.
Roston Ehmar stood at the far end of the war table, a large, wooden surface covered with a map of Wyrecia. The Queendom of Verlond was an unmapped shape to the southwest, and whilst they weren’t marked on the map, somewhere across the great expanse of sea were lands Wyrecia had yet to explore. Lands that, not long after Wyrecia had become one Empire, pilgrims like Ioseph’s distant ancestors had journeyed from to seek a better fate.
It was a map Dimas had seen often, but today it looked different. There were new additions. Circles drawn around villages where either heretics or theHæstahad been sighted. The last time Dimas had been in here, there had only been two. Now there were at least a half dozen.
And they were getting closer to the imperial city.
Forcing his gaze away from the map, Dimas addressed his uncle. “You wanted to see me?”
Roston didn’t look up from whatever he was reading. “I have some … troubling news. General Alræn’s guards have reason to believe there are citizens practicing heresy in the lower city.”
“What kind of heresy?” Dimas asked, trying to keep his voice level.
“The usual kind: praying to the Lost Sisters, claiming that they did not abandon us, but that they were betrayed by Næbya, who has been keeping them imprisoned in her realm all this time.” Roston paused, finally looking up from the parchment in his hand. His shoulders seemed heavy in a way they never had when he’d had the luxury of being second-born. “Some are even claiming the Furybringer will rise again and destroy Wyrecia aspunishmentfor the church’s lies. And on top of that, news of what happened at Emperor Vesric’s and Lady Sefwyn’s funeral is starting to spread.”
