Chapter 37 Dimas
THIRTY-SEVEN
DIMAS
“Are you certain about this?”
Ioseph’s voice echoed against the stone walls of the servant’s hallway, the uncertainty in his tone amplified in the narrow space.
The light from the lantern he carried was barely bright enough to illuminate a few steps ahead of them at a time, and Dimas had to resist the urge to look up from where he was walking and study his friend’s expression.
To reassure himself the uncertainty Ioseph was feeling was simply due to the less-than-favorable circumstances they’d found themselves in and not because he’d finally lost faith in Dimas’s capability to lead.
“I’m certain. This will work,” Dimas said, unsure if he was trying to convince Ioseph or himself.
It has to work.
If it didn’t, he was out of options. The Haesta would corrupt his Fateweaver, and everything his ancestors had built would burn to the ground.
“And if it does work, what happens if the rebels find out?” Ioseph asked. “They’ll use it against you to tarnish your reputation. These methods were forbidden for a reason.”
Dimas stopped then, turning to face Ioseph in the dim light, his heart slamming so hard against his rib cage he thought he might be sick.
“What would you have me do? Wait for the Haesta to attack again? Wait for Lenora to lose control? I won’t let any more people die under my rule, ’Seph.”
Aldryn. Milos’s unit. The pilgrims and acolytes at the temple. All those deaths were because Dimas had failed in his duty as the new Emperor of Wyrecia. Because even after everything he’d done, he still hadn’t proven himself worthy in Naebya’s eyes.
That changed tonight.
Ioseph’s expression softened, the dim light from the candle flame sharpening the lines of his handsome face, and Dimas couldn’t stop the flutter his heart gave in response when the soldier placed his hand on his shoulder, fingers curling in a reassuring squeeze.
“And I won’t let you die. Whatever you decide, I’m with you, I just … want you to be sure about this.”
“I am.”
He had to be. This was the only choice he had left. The only thing that had a shot at working.
Ioseph searched his expression for a heartbeat longer before dipping his chin. “Alright, then.”
He carried on walking, leading the way through the winding servant’s hallways, toward the back door of the palace, and across the starlit courtyard leading to the royal church.
Brother Dunstan was waiting for them at the church gates, his face hidden beneath his hood.
In the shadows, it was impossible to make out his expression.
To know what he felt about Dimas’s plan.
Dimas had sent word via Iska after leaving his uncle’s presence, asking the High Priest to meet him just after midnight. And whilst he hadn’t explicitly stated why, it was clear from the priest’s stiff shoulders that his cousin had filled him in.
He drew his hood back as Dimas and Ioseph approached, giving Dimas a glimpse at the deep lines at the corners of his eyes and the thin set of his mouth.
Dread pooled in Dimas’s vision. If Brother Dunstan refused to let Dimas have access to the relic that would suppress Lenora’s powers—and the ritual that would enhance them once the Rite of Ascension was safely completed—then Dimas’s plan to use Lena’s magic to hunt down the Haesta and secure peace for his kingdom would be over before it even began.
“Brother Dunstan, I—”
“Not here. Come, follow me.”
The priest strode purposefully toward the front of the church and quickly skirted around its left side, leading them silently through the frosted grounds with only a lantern to guide their way.
They came across a wooden door half covered in vines, its hinges so rusted it was a wonder they even held together at all. And above the door, engraved in old Wyrecian, were the words “May Fate Be Your Eternal Guide.”
Dimas paused, his gaze running over each sigil. He’d never been around this side of the church before. Had never had reason to. But he didn’t have to ask to know where the door led.
It had to be the entrance to the holy archives.
Brother Dunstan unlocked the door without a word, the metallic click of the key in the lock cutting through the night like thunder. There was a creak as the door swung open, followed by a blast of damp, musty air.
“No one has been down here in quite some time; we’ll need to tread carefully,” Brother Dunstan said.
“Perhaps you should stay up here, Your Majesty,” Ioseph said, eyeing the stairs warily.
Dimas shook his head. “No, this was my decision. I have to do this.”
It was why he’d asked Brother Dunstan to meet him tonight, rather than instructing the priest to bring the relevant tome to his rooms; if he was going to prove himself to Naebya, then he had to do every step of this himself.
Ioseph looked like he wanted to argue, the muscle in his jaw fluttering, and Dimas had to stop himself from leaning toward him. From wondering what it might feel like to press his lips to that very spot …
Heat pooling in his cheeks, Dimas pushed aside the distracting thought and turned instead to Brother Dunstan. “Lead the way.”
The priest gave a small nod, and then he was stepping through the tower door, the light from the lantern illuminating a crumbling stone staircase.
Despite his age, Brother Dunstan descended the steps with ease, each footstep as practiced as a dance.
He’d clearly been here before and had memorized the safest route down.
Dimas was careful to match Brother Dunstan’s every step.
With the way Dimas’s luck had been going lately, Dimas wouldn’t be surprised if his goddess saw it fit for him to fall and break his neck in a fate-damned church.
No one spoke as they made their way deeper beneath the earth.
About halfway down, the stone walls turned darker and more jagged, their formation far less uniform than the usual Wyrecian style Dimas was so used to seeing.
There were sconces in the stone, too, the metal barely visible through the rust and cobwebs.
So much history.
He was unable to stop himself from reaching out to brush a hand against the stone, imagining how this hidden place had once looked bathed in the glow of torchlight and life.
A composition for a painting was already starting to form in his mind, smudged charcoal with flecks of burning orange flame, robed figures with ink-stained fingertips.
He could almost picture himself there, the smell of smoke tickling the back of his throat.
He was so lost in his thoughts he almost slammed into the back of Brother Dunstan, who had come to a stop at the bottom of the steps.
Dimas peered over his shoulder, breath catching as he took in the dome-shaped cavern before him.
Each wall was lined with shelves filled with various items, from worn tomes and rolls of parchment to resin bowls and chalices.
But it was the large stone altar in the center, its stone engraved with Naebya’s symbol, that made Dimas’s breath catch in his throat.
“Is that …?”
“The altar where the first Fateweaver was created?” Brother Dunstan responded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, yes it is.”
In all his worries, Dimas had almost forgotten it was down here.
The place where his future had been manifested.
Where the first Zvaerna priests and the soon-to-be anointed Emperor of Wyrecia had witnessed Naebya and Her Sisters gift the first Fateweaver a fraction of their power.
In the end, Naebya’s siblings had regretted the decision, claiming that the Fateweaver was too powerful, and Naebya had been forced to seal them away to protect both the Fateweaver and the Ehmar dynasty.
Dimas walked toward the altar where, centuries ago, his ancestor had invoked Naebya’s power to ensure Wyrecia survived.
And now it was his time to do the same.
Dimas tore his gaze away from the altar. “Where will we find what we need?” he asked.
Mouth tight, Brother Dunstan brushed past him, stopping before the stone wall behind the altar. With a whispered word Dimas didn’t understand, the edges around one of the stone blocks began to glow.
And then the stone disappeared.
Dimas let out a sharp breath. “What—”
“It is an old Zvaerna illusion,” the High Priest explained, reaching a hand into the newly revealed gap in the wall and pulling out a thin, mahogany box.
“The secret of the activation sigil is passed down from High Priest to High Priest.” He turned to face Dimas once more.
“Before I give this to you, you must promise me that you will only use it in the direst of circumstances.”
“I promise,” Dimas agreed, his attention glued to the box. Brother Dunstan hesitated a moment longer before placing it in Dimas’s hands, his fingers ice-cold. “Thank you, Brother Dunstan. For trusting me. I won’t let you down.”
Brother Dunstan’s lips pulled up into a half smile. With a nod, he stepped back, releasing Dimas’s hand—and the box—as he went.
Hands shaking, Dimas flipped the clasp on the box and opened its lid. Inside lay a simple iron bangle, the metal engraved with a variety of old Wyrecian symbols. The only adornment was the gem at its center, an ebony stone as dark as a winter’s night.
“Razeniye,” Dimas breathed.
“Yes. It is the only piece of the razeniye stone the Order were able to get ahold of before the first Verlondian queen built her stronghold around the mountains where it is sourced,” Brother Dunstan explained.
“It was inlaid into the bangle and spelled with sigils to subdue the Fateweaver—and thus the Furybringer’s—power upon contact.
To … limit her access to the source energy from which Naebya’s magic comes.
And once on, it can only be removed by someone with Ehmar blood.
After it was used to bring down the Furybringer, the bangle—and the spell that created it—were sealed away, and it was widely believed to simply be a myth.
“It is imperative, therefore, that if you use the bangle, you do so discreetly. If the Verlondians discover that the bangle is, in fact, in our possession, they may try to steal it so that the queen’s latest magical advisor can decode the spell that makes it work.”
And if they did, the Verlondians would be able to use their infinite supply of razeniye to make fate-knew-what kind of weapons against the Fateweaver.
“I’ll be discreet.” The weight of the box in his hands suddenly felt too heavy.
“I’ll need to come up with a way to get the bangle on Lenora, preferably one where she won’t fight back …
” She was the least trusting person Dimas had ever met, and fate-knew how much she already knew of the bangle given her storytelling background.
“I may have just the thing you’re looking for.” The priest moved past him once more, crossing the small space to a large bookcase. He hesitated for a moment, brow furrowing as he looked over the books.
“… Is everything alright?” Dimas asked.
“Ah yes, I just could have sworn I placed this book on the other side of the shelf …” Brother Dunstan shook his head and pulled out a thin tome bound in leather. “Ignore me; I am forgetful in my old age. Here, this is what we shall need.”
He opened the tome to a page containing a list of ingredients and a faded sketch of what looked to be a bush ripe with berries.
“The tonic we need was … perfected by an Order member by the name of Brother Cynric during the age of the first Fateweaver. If dosed correctly, it will put the target into a deep sleep. There is … just one small caveat.”
The tone in the priest’s voice made Dimas’s stomach flip. “What is it?”
“This particular brew calls for the juice of black hynbine berries.”
Dimas frowned, searching his memories for the hours spent learning about Wyrecia’s local wildlife. Hynbine. Grows best upon disturbed soil. When ingested in small doses, it can cause a deep, restful slumber. In larges does, hynbine has been known to cause hallucinations, madness, and even death.
“I assume,” Dimas began, his heart pounding, “you know the exact measurements required for this tonic?”
The thin line of Brother Dunstan’s mouth grew even thinner. “It … varies, depending on the users build, but I believe I can calculate the correct dosage if given some time.”
“No. No way.” Ioseph grabbed Dimas’s arm, looking more afraid than Dimas had ever seen him. “You can’t seriously be considering this. You know what could happen. If the dose is too strong, and the Fateweaver dies, you—”
“It’ll be alright, ’Seph,” Dimas interrupted. He knew full well what would happen if Lenora died. “We’ll get the dose correct, and just to be safe, Brother Dunstan can make an antidote. Can’t you?” His gaze darted to the priest.
“I … can try.” Brother Dunstan hesitated. “But there have only been one or two recorded cases of someone successfully curing hynbine poisoning. That being said, if this is yet another trial from Naebya to determine your worth, then I have faith She will not let you and Lenora die.”
Faith. There was that word again. The thing he’d found wavering more and more over the last few weeks. And now, if he wanted to save his people and keep his crown, he’d have to rely on it entirely.
Heart in his throat, he met Ioseph’s worried gaze, hoping he sounded surer than he felt. “Naebya will protect me. I know she will.”
To argue was to question their matron deity, and so Ioseph clenched his jaw and said, in a tight voice, “Of course, Your Majesty.”
Dimas couldn’t blame Ioseph if he was worried his plan wouldn’t work.
It was the biggest risk he’d ever taken, one that could result in him becoming the very things his father’s court had always claimed him to be: the heir of madness, born unworthy to the throne.
Yet if he stood by and did nothing, if he let the Haesta strike again, he could lose his Fateweaver to an enemy that would see Wyrecia—and the rest of the world—burn.
No, he wouldn’t let that happen. He had to trust that Naebya hadn’t forsaken him completely.
Not yet.
But if she did, if this last attempt at saving his empire failed, then they were truly damned.