Page 94 of A Fate Unwoven
I was right,he thought, the shadows in his mind darkening. He’d suspected they’d been interferingsomehowwith the bond he and Lenora shared.
“How?”
Roston shook his head. “That I do not know. It must be connected to whatever dark magics they tapped into in order to control the Corrupted.”
“If that’s the case, then it would seem my Fateweaver’s old tales hold some truth.” Dimas said the words before he could think better of it.
If he’d spoken them before his father, he’d have received a slap to the face and a day of holy isolation. But his uncle simply pursed his lips and replied, “In this instance, it would seem so. But, Dimas, there is something else you must know. Something worse.” He paused, a shadow crossing over his expression, and reached into the fold of his cloak to pull out a folded piece of parchment. “This is the letter we found. There is an inscription on the back, written in old Wyrecian.”
Dimas took the letter. Turned it over. Just as his uncle had said, the back of the parchment was inked with a number of symbols. His old Wyrecian was rusty—the language had died out in the age of the first Fateweaver, with the only remaining sigils in use being the ones for the Fateweaver and for Næbya and Her Order—but, blessedly, the translation had already been done.
Fateweaver.
Furybringer.
Resurrection.
Dimas’s fingers tightened around the parchment, his lungs constricting. “So it’s true. They really mean to … to resurrect the Furybringer.”
“Yes. And however they mean to do it, your Fateweaver is the key to doing so.”
“Why didn’t you bring this to me sooner?” Milos had searched the heretic’s hideout almost an entiredayago.
“It took some time to decode the letter, and I didn’t want to worry you until I knew for certain.” He gripped Dimas’s shoulder. “None of this is your fault, Dimas. TheHæstaare behind it all, and youmuststop them, no matter what it takes. Did Brother Dunstan have the relic?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. If what Roston said was true, then theHæstawere an even greater threat than they’d first thought. If they managed to resurrect the Furybringer, there would be no stopping them. They would destroy everything his family had built.
Unless Dimas didn’t give them the chance.
His hand reached almost instinctively into the fold of his cloak to pull out the bangle Brother Dunstan had given to him. The shadows at the edge of his vision darkened as he wrapped his fingers around it, ink-black shapes writhing like monsters in the trees. Doubt, fear,anger,each emotion so deeply rooted in the very fabric of his being he didn’t know who he was without them. They were an enemy he didn’t know how to fight, and so he focused on the monsters outside of his head instead.
His uncle was looking at the bangle with an odd expression. “Incredible,” he whispered. And then, almost as if remembering himself, added, “If you would entrust it of me, I would like to be its guardian. If Lenora fails tonight, or if she betrays you, there is a chance her corruption might influence your mind. If that happens, you will need someone to secure the relic around the Fateweaver’s wrist in your place.”
The bangle felt suddenly cold in his hands as shadows danced across his vision. His uncle’s reasonings madesense; Dimas would only need the relic back if the Rite of Ascension failed. It was then, and only then, that Dimas would take the potion to subdue Lenora. But doing so would subdue him, too, meaning he’d need someone to put the relic on his Fateweaver. He’d planned on giving the relic to Brother Dunstan, but his uncle was just as logical a choice.
Dimas opened his mouth to tell him about their other plan before thinking better of it. Roston would be furious at him for putting his life in danger. Perhaps it was best he didn’t know about the potion until there was no other choice but to use it. “Keep it safe.” He dropped the relic into Roston’s outstretched hand.
His uncle’s fingers closed around it. “I will,” he said, tucking it into the folds of his cloak.
“If everything goes to plan, Lenora and I will retire to Brother Dunstan’s study once the Rite of Ascension is complete,” Dimas said. “There, we shall conduct the ritual to enhance Lenora’s visions. Have Milos and General Alræn on standby for when we wake; if the ritual is successful, I want them to go after theHæstaimmediately.”
“What about the girl?” Roston asked. “She cannot be allowed near them. It’s too much of a risk.”
Dimas’s fingers twitched with the urge to reach for the bangle he’d just given away. “I’ll deal with Lenora. You just need to make sure our soldiers make it into theHæsta’s stronghold before they have the chance to act again.”
His uncle paused, his shoulders stiff as he asked, “And what are their orders for when the infiltration is complete?”
Not too long ago, Dimas would have told him to offer the cultists a choice. Surrender or be taken prisoner to face Næbya’s judgment. But theHæstahadn’t given Aldryn a chance to surrender before they’d slit his throat, nor had the cultist in the temple shown mercy to the pilgrims before he’d ordered thewrecento pull them apart.
Dimas would not give them a chance, either.
“Kill them all.”
Lenora looked as beautiful as she did terrifying.
A mixture of fear and guilt churned Dimas’s stomach as she descended the stone steps of the palace’s main foyer. Like him, she’d been dressed for an audience—a fitted, midnight blue coat adorned with silver whorls at its collar and cuffs, its lower half billowing out to give a skirt-like effect. The coat had been tied loosely together at the waist with two delicate, silk ribbons, leaving just enough room for the simple black dress she was wearing beneath to show through. The outfit itself was impressive enough, but Vivika hadn’t stopped there. Lenora’s eyes had been lined with charcoal, her cheekbones dusted with a subtle silver glow that made the scar on her cheek look even more pronounced. Her hair had been left loose, long ash-brown waves tumbling over her left shoulder, and in the soft glow of torchlight, her eyes looked more silver than gray. Fear settled in Dimas’s stomach at the sight of her; she looked like the Fateweavers of old. Not the ones from the history books, but the ones from his mother’s paintings. A creature made from magic, sent to judge them all.
“Your Worship.” Brother Dunstan bowed as Lenora finally reached them.
