Page 48 of A Fate Unwoven
With one final bow of his head—a gesture that Ioseph, Brother Dunstan, and Iska mimicked in a rather unsettling display of respect—the prince and his retinue left the room, closing the door behind them.
Lena barely had time to savor her sudden isolation before the reception room doors opened again. A middle-aged woman, her arms full of dresses, strode up to Lena with a scrutiny that made Lena feel extremely vulnerable. Lips pursed, the tailor finally gave a sharp, affirming nod. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
It was spoken like a question, but Vivika didn’t wait for a response before she began peeling Lena’s nightgown from her shoulders. The tailor made short work of forcing Lena into a variety of outfits, from ball gowns to riding clothes. They’d all belonged to Lady Sefwyn, a fact that reminded Lena once more that she was just another vessel in a long line of Fateweavers. Thankfully, not all of Lady Sefwyn’s clothing could be modified to fit her; Lena was a few inches taller than the late Fateweaver, her hips wider, and so Vivika was going to have to make her a wardrobe of her own.
For now, they’d have to make do. Vivika spent hours adjusting what garments she could to fit Lena, lowering hems and releasingstitches until Lena had a handful of outfits to choose from. By the time the tailor finished, Lena’s muscles ached in ways they never had before.
“You’ll have enough outfits to keep you going by the end of today,” Vivika said, fussing with the sleeves of Lena’s dress. “I will have my attendants make you some custom pieces with these measurements. But for now, this will have to suffice.”
Vivika moved her in front of the room’s mirror. The dress she’d left Lena in was a masterpiece. Midnight blue with a silver, boned waist that resembled steel and a flowing skirt that allowed Lena to move her legs freely. Her arms were left bare, and a cape a few shades darker than the dress hung over her shoulders, pinned at the neck by a silver brooch made to resemble the Fateweaver’s symbol. Lena’s hair had been left loose, the mini braids she usually wove into it untied.
Lena had never seen herself look so … pretty. It was a far cry from her usual patched-together leather-and-cloth outfits in the Wilds. Even so, her scar remained visible, and it was still her mother’s eyes that looked back at her when she stared in the mirror.
They could dress her up all they liked, but it didn’t change who she was. Not a young girl who had been chosen for a greater purpose, but a heretic, a storyteller.
A survivor.
Lena let the thought wrap around her like a shield. For now, she would play her part.
And when the time came, she would make fates-damned sure the people of Wyrecia knew exactly who had broken the Fateweaver’s chains.
TWENTY-ONE
LENA
The imperial palace was much bigger than Lena had expected.
She’d started off the tour trying to memorize their route, making a note of every door and stairway, of every tapestry where another entrance to a hidden passageway could be hidden. It was a habit she’d picked up during her time in the Wilds. Out there, mapping snarling trees and endless shadows had come as naturally to her as it had to her mother. Every tree had a unique pattern to its bark, and the sun—no matter how faint—was always there to lead her north.
The palace, however, was an endless maze of marble corridors and winding stairwells, and everything—from the stained glass windows to the silver wall sconces—looked exactly the same. It was disorienting.
It wassuffocating.
“This is our next stop,” Iska said as they stopped before another ornate door. They’d been walking for what felt like hours, with Iska pointing out various rooms and their purposes. There was the throne room, of course, where the emperor and his court held important public events. The council room, where the inner court met to discusspolitics and war, and a large ballroom. The rest of the wing was made up of the royal quarters.
“Behind these doors is the royal library.”
Up until now, Lena had feigned interest in every room. But the mention of the library had her genuinely intrigued. If she failed to hone her abilities and re-conjure the brief vision she’d had in the tunnels last night, she’d need to find another way to get into theZværnaacolyte’s chamber. Lena wasn’t foolish enough to think the royal library would hold any of the forbidden tales, but old Wyrecian was a part of theZværna’s history. If there was any information in the palace holding clues to the symbols she’d seen on the door to the acolyte’s chamber—or even a translation of them—it would be here, in the library.
She just needed to convince Iska to let her look around.
Lena lingered outside of the great doors separating her and the library, her gaze trailing over the intricate web of threads engraved into the stone. “Does the library have books on the Fateweaver’s … on my … abilities?”
Iska turned to look at her. “Some, but they’re mostly vague accounts in history books. Any materials containing information on the Fateweaver’s powers aren’t kept in the library. They’re in the High Priest’s personal collection, and only Brother Dunstan knows where that collection is stored.” Iska’s expression hardened slightly, her brows drawing together. “Why?”
“I just … after this morning …” Lena made herself trail off. Made herself look nervously down at the mark on her wrist. Her mother had always told her that the best stories always had some truth to them.
So she told Iska hers.
“I’m afraid I’m going to lose control.”
Iska took a step toward her. “You won’t. Once you start your training with Brother Dunstan, you’ll learn how to control it. I promise.” The acolyte offered her a sympathetic smile. One that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“But what if I don’t? The last Fateweaver to lose control, she …” The shudder that went down Lena’s spine wasn’t false. The stories of the Furybringer were some of the most heretical, and for good reason.
“We do not speak of that,” Iska whispered, eyes wide.
“But—”
