Chapter 31 Lena
THIRTY-ONE
LENA
“Let me get this straight,” Casimir said, propping up his legs on the small table before her fireplace.
“You’d like to change the terms of our deal.
First, you asked me to smuggle my father’s heretical research, which you subsequently claim is of no use to you, after all, into the heart of Wyrecia’s palace.
Now you insist I locate and steal some old books from the High Priest’s hidden archives because you think they might contain a ritual that will allow you to amplify visions you believe hold the key to breaking your bond to the emperor? ”
Lena looked up from one of the thick leather tomes Casimir had brought her.
“Yes, that sounds about right. And I still want my dagger back.”
Iska had indicated she’d check if Brother Dunstan would agree to share the texts in his private collection—but it was too big of an if—and they’d likely only show Lena the texts they’d think she should see.
Surely, if there was anything at all in them that might help Lena break her bond to the emperor, they’d keep them as far away from Lena as possible.
She’d briefly considered asking Maia to see if she could get her hands on them but had quickly dismissed the thought; Maia was just a novitiate, and despite Brother Dunstan’s outwardly warm demeanor, who knows what the consequences would be if she was caught?
No, Maia had suffered enough at the wrath of Wyrecia.
But if the smuggler was as good as he claimed to be, then he’d be able to get in and out without anyone noticing.
Casimir stared at her for a moment, eyes softening, before he let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine, but what will you be doing whilst I’m spying on one of the most important people in the empire?” asked Casimir.
With a glare, Lena said, “Training. Learning to use my power so that when the time comes, I’m strong enough to pull off the ritual. Unless you’d like to perform it?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“I didn’t think so.”
She wasn’t even sure she could perform the ritual. The bond had been created by the Zvaerna Order, and—as they were loyal to Naebya—their magic came from the goddess herself.
Just like the Fateweaver’s did.
It was a different kind of magic, yes, but surely they were linked enough that Lena could use the Fateweaver’s power to undo whatever spell the Zvaerna had created?
And if she couldn’t, well … then she’d just have to find someone who could.
A sharp stab radiated through her forehead. She gritted her teeth, eyes clenching shut against the sudden rush of ice-cold power in her veins. Threads flashed behind her eyelids, bright enough to hurt. She sucked in a deep breath. Tried to concentrate on the way it felt as she held it in her lungs.
“What can I do?” Casimir asked, his voice surprisingly close.
She shook her head, holding her breath until her lungs burned. Until the power threatening to overwhelm her subsided and the threads disappeared.
When she finally felt in control enough to open her eyes again, she found Casimir standing barely a foot away from her, his expression pinched, and the concern in his gaze was almost enough to shatter the last of her resolve. “Are you okay?”
She ran a shaking hand through her hair, swallowing the sob threatening to rise in her throat.
She’d thought leaning in to her magic would put an end to these pains.
Had thought playing along, in the role of the perfect Fateweaver, would eventually earn her the freedom she so desperately sought.
But even after weeks of practicing control, the Fateweaver’s power was still as unpredictable to her as a winter storm.
“Hey.” Casimir’s voice cut through her thoughts. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”
She stared at him, her chest constricting. And then, because she didn’t know what else to do, she nodded, her voice cracking slightly when she spoke. “Yeah.”
There was an awkward moment where they simply looked at each other.
In the glow of the firelight, the freckles across the smuggler’s nose appeared even more like stars.
They reminded Lena of staring up at the night sky in the Wilds on a clear night.
Of his voice in the quiet aftermath of Silah’s death as they lay side by side.
Casimir cleared his throat, his gaze flickering down to the book she’d been reading.
It must have fallen to the floor during her episode, and a sketch that she’d made of the symbol she’d seen in her vision floated to the floor beside the table.
Casimir bent down to pick it up, his brow furrowing. “Where did you get this?”
Grateful for a distraction from their awkward moment, Lena shrugged. “I drew it. I … saw it one of my visions. The one with the Haesta.”
She’d briefly told him about it when he’d arrived in her room earlier that night. Then, he hadn’t seemed overly concerned, reassuring her that if the Haesta really had returned, they’d deal with it once they were safely in Verlond.
But now there was a tightness to his shoulders she hadn’t seen before. A sharpness to his threads that made her stomach drop. “Do you know what it means?” he asked.
Lena shook her head.
His fingers tightened ever so slightly on the edge of the parchment. “It’s the symbol of the Furybringer.”
Lena’s magic stirred at the warning in his voice. Her throat felt strangely tight as she said, “Well, that makes sense, considering the Haesta were her followers.”
It also explained why she’d recognized the symbol, although she still couldn’t recall from where. She’d absorbed all her mother’s stories by listening to them, and she’d never come across the symbol in the limited old Wyrecian she’d learned.
“Yes, but there’s something … off about it.
These lines here …” He moved to her side, close enough for their shoulders to brush, and pointed to the shape in the middle, a diamond with a cross at its center.
“They’re old Wyrecian for Furybringer, but these”—he traced the shape beneath the diamond, two crossed lines, the tops long enough to encase the bottom half of the diamond—“these are part of another symbol. It isn’t complete, but …
I think it’s the start of the symbol for restoration. Or … resurrection?”
A tingling warning crept down Lena’s spine. “Resurrection? As in, they want to bring the Furybringer back to life?”
Casimir glanced at her. They were close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek, warm and laced with the faint scent of honey. “If that was true, it would require an awful lot of magic, and they’d need a conduit …” He trailed off.
“Me,” she finished for him, her ears ringing.
It was even worse than she’d feared when she’d spoken to Dimas; the Haesta didn’t want to turn her into a new Furybringer. They wanted to use her to bring back the old one. Lena couldn’t—wouldn’t let that happen.
She’d spent most of the night poring through the books Casimir had brought her and had only managed to find two mentions of old Wyrecian within their pages.
One of them, the familiar symbol for fate, Lena had already known.
The second symbol she’d found was thankfully accompanied by a translation scrawled into the book’s margin by Casimir’s father: balance.
Neither brought her any closer to understanding the symbols that kept her locked out of the acolyte’s chambers.
Lena ran a hand through her hair and let out a heavy sigh.
So far, all her leads had ended in failure, and with only six days until the Rite of Ascension, she could simply trust that Casimir would find and steal the tome with the correct ritual from Brother Dunstan’s hidden collection, and then hope that said ritual would work, or—
Or she could try something else.
It was an idea born of desperation. One every part of the old Lena, the one who was taught that the Fateweaver’s abilities were wrong, recoiled against. But she was running out of time.
“If using my magic triggered my vision of the Haesta, then repeating the process might do the same thing,” Lena said, watching Casimir’s expression for any sign she was going too far. “But to even try it, I’m going to need someone to use my power on.”
Casimir didn’t even take a breath before answering, “I’ll do it.”
Lena faltered. She’d been ready for him to refuse her. To tell her it was a reckless plan. But there was no doubt in Casimir’s eyes. Only a fierce determination that set her blood on fire. Still, she asked, “Why?”
“Because …” His voice broke, pitching toward grief. “They don’t get to win.”
They were the same words he’d shared with Lena after Silah’s death. Lena clenched her hands into fists at her side, her own voice faltering as she echoed the promise back to him.
“They don’t get to win.”