Chapter 39 Lena
THIRTY-NINE
LENA
She’d opened the door in a trance, the blood from where she’d dug her nails too hard into her palm replacing the blood from her vision. It had only been a small amount, but it was enough for the magic keeping the door closed to recognize who—what—she was.
Lena peered into the darkness, still dizzy from the vision and the rush of the acolyte’s emotions.
She couldn’t keep from glancing down at her stomach to reassure herself that she hadn’t been stabbed, but instead, it had been an acolyte long lost to history.
An acolyte the Zvaerna Order had murdered for working with Venysa to break the Fateweaver’s bond.
If the memory was real, then it was clear evidence that the history they preached was a lie, and it confirmed what her visions of Venysa had been telling her all along: Venysa was not a willful devotee to the goddess Naebya.
She searched for Venysa’s presence inside her mind, still absent since that night in the trader’s outpost. What aren’t you telling me?
She hadn’t expected a reply, but the silence that followed still made her stomach sink. Mystified as Lena found herself by the first Fateweaver’s history, it would have to wait. For now, she had a bond to break.
“Let’s go.” Lena picked up the discarded lantern from the floor, stepping into the chamber before her doubt could take hold.
The space itself was small, barely the size of Finaen and Maia’s hut back in Forvyrg.
A wooden workbench was pushed up against the far side, the surface cluttered with glass bottles thick with dust and various pieces of parchment, each covered in scrawling black ink.
There was a wooden bowl there, too, an instrument Lena recognized as a tool that the bōden had once used to mix their potions.
A half dozen tomes were stacked up against the other wall, their leather bindings cracked and worn with overuse.
And in the corner, blank except for the same symbol that marked her wrist, was a stone chest.
“That’s it.”
Lena didn’t know how she knew. Maybe it was the aftereffects of using her magic, or the remnants of the priest’s memories in her mind.
Whatever it was, she didn’t care. Her feet were already moving toward the chest. Unlike the door, it wasn’t magically locked.
Only a single chain had been wrapped around it, held together by a rusty, iron lock.
Behind her, Casimir let out a breath. He’d already picked up one of the tomes, his eyes wide as he eagerly flipped through it. “This place is incredible. Just one of these tomes includes more notes on the Zvaerna’s magic than my father found in a lifetime.”
“You can have them,” she said, studying the lock, “but first we need to finish what we came here to do. Give me your dagger.”
She knew he’d brought one. Knew that he carried his weapons around like she once had, back when she’d been free to do so.
Casimir crouched down beside her, dagger grasped in his hand.
He handed it over wordlessly, silently watching as she slid the blade behind the lock and, using the chest itself as a weight, pulled with as much force as she could gather.
The rusted lock snapped and gave way, the chain around the chest falling slack.
Casimir let out a small, impressed huff. “And here I thought I’d discovered all of your hidden talents?” He smirked.
She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips as she slid off the remnants of the chain. “There’s plenty you still have left to learn, Raven.”
Before he could reply, Lena pulled the chains away from the chest and lifted its lid, the creak of old hinges echoing off the stone walls.
Lena held back a sneeze as a stale must and tingle of magic filled the chamber.
Her power thrummed beneath her skin as she reached into the chest and sorted through the items. An empty, chipped chalice.
A bundle of dried herbs. And rolled and sealed with the Zvaerna’s symbol was a single, stained piece of parchment.
Lena’s heart thundered in her ears as she lifted it from the chest and drew Casimir’s dagger through the wax symbol, uncurling the scroll with shaking hands.
Like the symbols on the doors, the contents were written in old Wyrecian, but Lena knew from the way her magic responded to them what she held in her hands.
The ritual to break the bond between an emperor and a Fateweaver.
The key to her freedom.
Performing the ritual was going to be harder than Lena had hoped.
The magic itself wasn’t the problem. The tomes they’d found in the acolyte’s chamber held pages and pages on the Fateweaver’s magic, from abilities she hadn’t even known she had to methods that were devised to help Venysa harness her power.
The problem was that the severing ritual had to be performed on the same ground it was created, with both Fateweaver and emperor present.
“We only have one shot at this,” she said, looking over the ritual for what must have been the tenth time since they’d returned to her rooms. “According to Iska’s lessons, the original bond was created in the old church, right below where the current church was built. ”
Casimir, sprawled out on the chair closest to the window, nodded, and Lena found it harder than normal to tear her gaze away from the sight.
“Consecrated grounds. You should be able to do the ritual directly above that underground location, which would be right around … here.” He pointed to a spot on the sketch of the church he’d drawn, the charcoal staining his fingers leaving a small smudge right in the middle of the main hall.
The exact same place the Rite of Ascension was due to take place in less than eighteen bells.
Lena sighed, a headache forming behind her eyes. “How exactly am I supposed to perform a forbidden, ancient ritual to break my bond to their emperor right in front of them?”
“Seeing their expressions when they realized what was happening would be awfully amusing, but I think it’s best you do this without an audience. I’m sure I can craft some sleeping potions quickly enough.”
“Craft?” Lena asked, the memory of him knocking out the city guard’s in Deyecia coming back to her. “The potion you used in Deyecia, you made that?”
The smuggler smirked. “It seems you still have a lot to learn about me too, heretic.”
Ignoring the traitorous flip in her stomach, Lena said, “So, that’s the priests and acolytes out of the way; what about the ingredients for the potion to enhance my sight?”
The ritual required her to psychically sever the bond between her and Dimas, a gambit that required her to see a person’s threads with absolute clarity.
Thankfully, the acolyte’s tomes included mention of a potion to help a Fateweaver enhance her second sight, which, ironically, would have been extremely helpful when she was trying to open the Sisters-damned chamber in the first place.
Fate really did have a cruel sense of humor.
“I have a contact in the city who can help with that,” Casimir said. “Once I’ve got the ingredients, I can make the potion myself.”
“Then I guess all that’s left is figuring out how to get myself and Dimas into the main hall of the church before the ceremony,” Lena said.
“Any ideas?” Casimir asked.
Lena let out a sigh. “No.”
It would be difficult. The moment the sun rose, both she and Dimas would be surrounded by servants and acolytes alike, forced to cleanse themselves and seek guidance from those who came before them until the sun set again.
The only time they’d have alone was during their final prayer, meant to be taken in isolation before Naebya’s altar, but there was no way Dimas would willingly leave the prayer chamber during the most important worshipping session of his life.
Unless …
“Casimir,” she began, her stomach already twisting as the plan took shape, “how would you feel about stabbing me?”
Not much caught the smuggler off guard, but her question made his head whip up, his dark eyes narrowing as he searched her expression for some sign of a joke. When he realized she was serious, he said, “I know you can be a little prickly sometimes, but I’m not sure that warrants getting stabbed.”
Lena glared. “I don’t mean stabbing stabbing.
Just … a shallow gash. Enough to make Dimas sense that I’m in danger.
The old stories say that if an emperor is wounded, so too is the Fateweaver bound to him.
Our binding isn’t complete, so I don’t know how well it will work, but if Dimas thinks I’m wounded … ”
“Then he’ll come running,” Casimir finished.
She nodded. “I’d do it myself, but I need him to believe there’s a real threat if he sees me through the bond.”
“What about his guard?”
Lena chewed on the inside of her cheek. She could use one of Casimir’s sleeping potions, but there was a risk the gas would put her to sleep if she didn’t cover her nose and mouth quickly enough.
And despite all her training, she still didn’t want to use the Fateweaver’s magic until it was absolutely necessary.
Especially not when it might trigger her bond with Dimas.
No, if she was going to get Ioseph out of the way, she was going to have to play dirty.
“I’ll knock him unconscious whilst Dimas is in Naebya’s prayer chamber, and once he’s out, I’ll meet you back at the main hall.
You’ll have to make it look like you’re trying to take me hostage, and during the struggle, you’ll slash me with your blade—Dimas will feel the injury through the bond and come straight for us.
And as soon as he’s close enough, I’ll begin.
” She’d need to be touching Dimas for the ritual to work.
According to the acolyte’s notes, a physical connection would help her see the threads between them more clearly.
Casimir was watching her in a way that made her feel strangely vulnerable. “And when it’s over?” he asked, voice soft. “What then?”
Not so long ago, her answer would have been simple.
With the bond severed and their lifelines free of each other, she could kill the heir to Wyrecia’s throne and use the magic she’d retain to give her people a real fighting chance.
But now that Lena was faced with the possibility, she found it wasn’t a simple answer at all.
Dimas wasn’t the villain she’d first thought him to be.
Maia and Finaen had never been in any real danger from him; he’d given them a chance to start over, to make something of their lives when he simply could have killed them—or kept them prisoner to keep Lena in line.
And he was … kinder than she’d expected.
Smart, too. The type of ruler who could really make a difference if he had the courage to try.
But he wasn’t courageous, nor forgiving.
For all his redeeming qualities, Dimas was still willing to use her power to punish those who did not worship Naebya.
To protect those he and the Zvaerna deemed worthy, whilst the rest of the empire was left to rot.
He may not have been a villain, but he was no hero, either.
Then again, neither was she.
She sighed, exhaustion suddenly weighing heavy on her bones.
“There’s no need to decide right now,” said Casimir, eyes gentle in the soft light, “but when you do decide, the choice will be yours.”
It was funny how the smuggler always seemed to know just what to say.
How this mysterious, wild-haired boy she’d known for barely a fraction of her life had turned into such an important part of it.
Before now, they’d been allies. Maybe even friends.
And despite every instinct telling her to run, Lena couldn’t help but wonder what they might have become if they’d been given more time.
His lips parted like they had done down in the tunnels, tongue darting out to moisten them in a way that made her stomach flip. “Lena—” He paused, dark eyes dropping, dropping … not to her lips, but to her nose. “You … you’re bleeding.”
“What?” Lena brought her hand to her nose, her fingers making contact with a fresh trickle of blood. She wiped it away, crimson smearing the back of her hand.
“Here, let me—”
“It’s fine. It’s just the effects of the magic.” She’d pushed too far, ignored her limits. Summoning the vision and opening the door must have taken more out of her than she’d realized.
“You should get some rest,” he said, glancing toward the window.
Beyond the city, the sky was starting to turn from dark blue to a dusky, early-morning gray. It would only be a few bells before Iska and a handful of servants came for her, and their plan wouldn’t even get off the ground if they found her exhausted and magically drained.
So despite the urge to go over the plan one more time, to spend just a few extra minutes in Casimir’s company, Lena said, “Yeah.”
They stood there awkwardly for a few seconds before Casimir cleared his throat. “I’ll see you at the church,” he said.
And then he was gone, leaving Lena with only the ghost of the first Fateweaver’s memories to keep her company through the night.