Chapter 29 Lena
TWENTY-NINE
LENA
The next few days passed by without incident.
Lena spent most of her time training with Brother Dunstan and Iska, challenging the boundaries of her control a little more each day.
It was getting easier to ignore her fear, to push aside the idea that the power inside of her was evil.
To convince herself that, without the bond, it might even be used for something good.
And whilst the Rite of Ascension was quickly approaching, knowing she had Casimir on her side eased some of the hopelessness that clawed at her whenever she thought about the symbols she still couldn’t translate.
She hadn’t seen the smuggler since that night in the courtyard; he’d left her with a promise to find out what he could from his father’s books, but it would take him some time to get them sent from his hideout in Deyecia and into the imperial city.
In fact, other than Brother Dunstan, Iska, and Maia, who sometimes joined her in the evenings for dinner, she hadn’t seen anyone.
Not even Dimas, who was apparently too busy preparing for his upcoming coronation and the Rite of Ascension to check up on her.
The thought made Lena’s stomach clench, the breakfast of porridge, bread rolls and rich cheeses she’d eaten earlier that morning threatening to come back up again.
There was just a week and a half to go before the rite took place.
Before her chance at severing the bond between her and Dimas was gone forever.
It was getting increasingly harder to play the part of willing Fateweaver.
Showing her face at the late emperor and Fateweaver’s mourning ball had been one thing.
There, all she’d had to do was deliver a speech she hadn’t written and sit quietly at Dimas’s side.
But the rite would involve something called the Trial of Fate, a test where she would have to use her divine power to alter the course of the fates of pilgrims in exchange for their devotion.
Which was how she found herself sitting before a young boy, her skin covered in a thin layer of sweat as the child’s threads glistened in the air before her.
“So I just … focus on his threads?” she asked, trying to ignore the slight racing of her heart.
Iska, who had been tasked with Lena’s training when Brother Dunstan’s duties prevented him from attending, nodded.
“Yes, and on your intention. Mirek’s cough began last week, and it has neither improved nor worsened.
The illness may clear up on its own, but we want to ensure that it will.
Focus on that. Have the goal clear in your mind and drown out everything else. Your power will guide you.”
She was grateful, at least, that Iska was asking her to use her power to help someone rather than punish them. But it still made Lena’s lungs constrict. Made her wonder how long it would be before someone asked otherwise.
The boy before her was maybe a winter or two younger than Maia, his dark skin tinged with gray. Even his threads seemed … dimmer, somehow, as if something was siphoning away their light.
She wanted to help him, even as her mother’s voice rang in her ears, telling her that the Fateweaver’s power was wrong for exactly this reason. No mortal should have power over life and death. It messed with the balance of things.
But Lena didn’t have the luxury of considering if this was right or wrong.
Not when she needed to keep Dimas from suspecting she was secretly trying to sever their bond.
Besides, if she learned how to do this, then perhaps one day, once the bond was severed, she could use it to help the people the Wyrecian Empire had forsaken for so long.
Lena pushed down on her fear, focusing instead on the part of her that ached when she looked too closely at the sickly pallor of the boy’s skin. Slowly, Lena allowed the magic she’d kept coiled inside of herself free.
The panic came, but it was weaker than before.
Easier to push to the back of her mind if she concentrated on her breathing.
On the steady hum of magic in her blood.
The boy’s threads began to shimmer; one in particular was brighter than the rest, and with a gentleness she didn’t realize it was capable of, Lena’s power crept toward it, brushing against it as if it were something precious.
It wasn’t the rush she was used to, but a gentle, pleasant thawing, like frosted grass beneath the morning sun.
The thread responded to the touch of magic, showing her a glimpse of the future it offered.
Of the boy a few years from now, happy and healed, his skin flushed with a healthy glow.
Lena wasn’t aware of anything but that vision, her magic wrapping around the thread and those around it. And then the threads began to shift, weaving and unweaving to create something new.
She didn’t know how long it took until her magic finally crept back inside of her, like a wolf returning to its cage.
And when it did, it didn’t return alone.
A new set of images flashed behind her eyelids, men and women in crimson cloaks, an ancient Wyrecian symbol carved into stone.
It was too blurred to make out, and Lena tried to force her magic toward it, to get a better look, but the Fateweaver’s chamber came back to her in a dizzying rush that had her sucking in a sharp breath.
“Here.” Iska handed her a cup of the same tea she’d given her after her first vision.
This time Lena didn’t hesitate before taking a sip, her muscles relaxing as the liquid burned her throat and cleared some of the fog in her head.
The acolyte turned toward Mirek. “How do you feel?”
The boy smiled, his breathing less labored; it was a subtle change, but enough. Lena’s power had worked. “Better,” he said, voice filled with awe as he bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Worship.”
“You’re … welcome,” Lena said, hoping he didn’t hear the slight tremor in her voice.
She focused on her breathing as Iska called in one of the guards and asked them to escort Mirek out. On trying to calm the storm of power inside of her as fragments of the vision kept replaying over and over in her mind, a scene that was both familiar and unfamiliar all at once.
As soon as they were alone, Iska asked, “You had another vision, didn’t you?”
There was no point in trying to hide it.
“I think so,” she said, watching Iska’s expression for any sign that what she’d experienced wasn’t normal. “It was still too disjointed to make out, though.”
The acolyte’s expression betrayed nothing. She simply nodded, as if this was expected. “The more you harness your power, the clearer the visions will become,” said Iska. “Can you remember anything?”
The instinct to keep what she’d seen hidden flared up, but she forced the urge down. If Lena’s visions were showing her Wyrecian symbols, it was yet more proof that the answer to unlocking the Zvaerna chamber lay not in books, but in memories.
Lena leaned closer to the fire, her muscles relaxing as its warmth chased away the chill in her bones. “I saw a group of people in crimson robes, and some kind of temple. They were … chanting, I think. But I couldn’t make out the words.”
She left out the part about the symbol. If she was going to secure the severing ritual, then she needed to get a handle on her powers as soon as possible. But how? With little more than a week left until the Rite of Ascension?
Iska’s mouth was a thin line in her face.
The expression made Lena’s heart race. “You know what my vision means, don’t you?” she asked.
“Perhaps …” The acolyte trailed off, her threads glittering as she weighed her decision. “What do you know of the Haesta?”
Lena thought back to her mother’s stories. There was no use pretending she hadn’t heard the forbidden tales, not when Iska knew she’d likely told them herself.
“They were a cult loyal to the Furybringer, but they were hunted down by the Empire’s Fist decades ago.” Lena paused. “Weren’t they?”
Iska chewed on her bottom lip, the gesture making her look oddly vulnerable.
“We thought they were, but there have been … rumors of their return lately. Emperor Vesric sent a team to try to find them, but nothing ever came of it. We’d all put it down to heretics using their name to invoke fear in the people, but then the incident at Emperor Vesric’s funeral happened … ”
“What incident?” It came out sharper than she’d intended.
“There … was a heretic in the crowd who claimed to be a member of the Haesta. His Majesty met with her following the event. I’m not sure what happened, but afterward, he seemed … shaken.”
That night Dimas had come to Lena’s room and told her of his plans to reveal her to the court.
She’d known something must have rattled him enough to risk a public appearance earlier than they’d planned, but she’d never imagined this.
Like the korupted, the Haesta were a myth, a story she whispered around campfires to warn of how power could corrupt anyone.
The Wilds were rife with rumors of rebellion, but not once had she heard whisper of Haesta sightings on her travels.
“What do they want?” Lena breathed.
In her mother’s stories, the Haesta had been dedicated to preserving the Furybringer’s power. To honoring her legacy by corrupting every Fateweaver who came after her.
Iska must have sensed her worry, because she clasped a hand to her chest, her chin raised in silent determination.
“Do not worry, Your Worship. The vision is a gift from Naebya, and we must believe it is Naebya’s way of leading us to them.
Of showing you the location of your enemies, so you can stop them from whatever they’re planning.
I’m sure of it. Trust in Her, show Her your devotion, and She will guide you. ”
Reverence shone in Iska’s eyes, her belief so fierce Lena had to look away. Had Lena ever believed in something that strongly before? It must have made things so much simpler.
But life in Wyrecia was never simple, and Lena wasn’t about to rely on a goddess she didn’t worship to save her.
“You’re right.” Lena forced a shaky smile, a question forming in her mind. If her visions held answers to the past …
Lena took her lower lip between her teeth, as Iska had done, hoping the gesture made her look nervous and unsure. “I should be prepared, though, right? To protect Wyrecia from its enemies. Is there anything I can do to make the visions clearer?”
It was too quiet in her chambers. Any second now, Iska would hear Lena’s heart thundering in her chest. Would hear it—and know she was being manipulated.
But Iska simply said, “Some of the old Zvaerna texts mention rituals once used to strengthen the Fateweaver’s abilities,” said Iska, her threads shimmering, “but the Order hasn’t used them in centuries—they were considered too risky, and most Fateweavers were strong enough after their training to not need them.
If there are records of such methods, they’ll be locked away in the High Priest’s personal collection.
I’ll mention it to Brother Dunstan. See if he thinks it’s worth considering. ”
Lena didn’t have to fake the grateful smile that pulled at her lips. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Now, try to get some rest. We’ll pick up your training this evening.”
A part of Lena wanted to push Iska further. To twist and bend Iska’s threads until she took Lena to the see the High Priest immediately. But doing so would make her everything she was fighting so hard not to become.
So Lena tamped down the urge and let Iska leave. And when Lena was alone again, she settled into her breathing exercises, desperately willing her visions to return until the sky grew dark.