Page 92 of A Fate Unwoven
“What about his guard?”
Lena chewed on the inside of her cheek. She could use one of Casimir’s sleeping potions, but there was a risk the gas would puthertosleep if she didn’t cover her nose and mouth quickly enough. And despite all her training, she still didn’t want to use the Fateweaver’s magic until it was absolutely necessary. Especially not when it might trigger her bond with Dimas. No, if she was going to get Ioseph out of the way, she was going to have to play dirty.
“I’ll knock him unconscious whilst Dimas is in Næbya’s prayer chamber, and once he’s out, I’ll meet you back at the main hall. You’ll have to make it look like you’re trying to take me hostage, and during the struggle, you’ll slash me with your blade—Dimas will feel the injury through the bond and come straight for us. And as soon as he’s close enough, I’ll begin.” She’d need to be touching Dimas for the ritual to work. According to the acolyte’s notes, a physical connection would help her see the threads between them more clearly.
Casimir was watching her in a way that made her feel strangely vulnerable. “And when it’s over?” he asked, voice soft. “What then?”
Not so long ago, her answer would have been simple. With the bond severed and their lifelines free of each other, she could kill the heir to Wyrecia’s throne and use the magic she’d retain to give her people a real fighting chance. But now that Lena was faced with the possibility, she found it wasn’t a simple answer at all. Dimas wasn’t the villain she’d first thought him to be. Maia and Finæn had never been in any real danger from him; he’d given them a chance to start over, to make something of their lives when he simply could have killed them—or kept them prisoner to keep Lena in line. And he was … kinder than she’d expected. Smart, too. The type of ruler who could really make a difference if he had the courage to try.
But he wasn’t courageous, nor forgiving. For all his redeeming qualities, Dimas was still willing to use her power to punish those who did not worship Næbya. To protect those he and theZværnadeemed worthy, whilst the rest of the empire was left to rot. He may not have been a villain, but he was no hero, either.
Then again, neither was she.
She sighed, exhaustion suddenly weighing heavy on her bones.
“There’s no need to decide right now,” said Casimir, eyes gentle in the soft light, “but when you do decide, the choice will be yours.”
It was funny how the smuggler always seemed to know just what to say. How this mysterious, wild-haired boy she’d known for barely a fraction of her life had turned into such an important part of it. Before now, they’d been allies. Maybe even friends. And despite every instinct telling her to run, Lena couldn’t help but wonder what they might have become if they’d been given more time.
His lips parted like they had done down in the tunnels, tongue darting out to moisten them in a way that made her stomach flip. “Lena—” He paused, dark eyes dropping, dropping … not to her lips, but to her nose. “You … you’re bleeding.”
“What?” Lena brought her hand to her nose, her fingers making contact with a fresh trickle of blood. She wiped it away, crimson smearing the back of her hand.
“Here, let me—”
“It’s fine. It’s just the effects of the magic.” She’d pushed too far, ignored her limits. Summoning the vision and opening the door must have taken more out of her than she’d realized.
“You should get some rest,” he said, glancing toward the window.
Beyond the city, the sky was starting to turn from dark blue to a dusky, early-morning gray. It would only be a few bells before Iska and a handful of servants came for her, and their plan wouldn’t even get off the ground if they found her exhausted and magically drained.
So despite the urge to go over the plan one more time, to spend just a few extra minutes in Casimir’s company, Lena said, “Yeah.”
They stood there awkwardly for a few seconds before Casimir cleared his throat. “I’ll see you at the church,” he said.
And then he was gone, leaving Lena with only the ghost of the first Fateweaver’s memories to keep her company through the night.
FORTY
DIMAS
Dimas looked like his father.
Or at least, he looked like the man his father used to be, back before the weight of the crown and decades of politics had taken their toll. His black hair had been slicked back to show off the sharp angles of his face, his usual princely attire replaced by a formfitting navy tunic, its collar and cuffs adorned with whorls of silver thread. On top, an ornate, fur-lined cloak that covered the length of his body, its train pooling behind him like ink in water. It was the same cloak every emperor before him had worn during their Rite of Ascension; thick velvet the color of the night sky, plain except for the silver trim down its front and the clasp at his neck, a silver brooch that had been crafted into the shape of Næbya’s symbol and blessed by some High Priest centuries ago. He looked … handsome wasn’t the right word.Severe,maybe. It was the first time he’d looked in a mirror and saw not a prince, but an emperor.
He’d never felt like more of a fraud.
All morning, attendants had been fussing around him, slathering his body in holy oils, sprinkling herbs into his bathwater, slicking backhis hair until they were certain it wouldn’t move. Dimas had remained silent through it all, his thoughts a storm of anxiety. Every so often, his gaze would drift toward the top drawers of his dressing cabinet, where the bangle he’d taken from theZværnaOrder archives was stuffed beneath a plain tunic.
The presence of it was a constant reminder of everything he had to lose. His rite should have been the most important event of his life, a holy affair every Ehmar before him had been honored to attend. But for Dimas, it was nothing but a means to an end.
He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t hear Ioseph approach until he was a few paces away, reflection appearing beside his own in the mirror.
The guard placed a small velvet pouch down on the cabinet before Dimas. “The potion,” he explained. Brother Dunstan had agreed to spend the night brewing it, and had promised to hand the potion over to Ioseph to deliver after morning prayers. Dimas slipped it into the pocket inside his vest without a word.
“You’re worried,” Ioseph said.
When they’d returned to the palace, Dimas had been so exhausted that he’d gone straight to his chambers with a brief but curt good night to the guard. This was the first moment they’d had alone since Dimas had asked Brother Dunstan to brew the potion that, if taken incorrectly, could kill both Lenoraandhim.
