Chapter 40 Dimas
FORTY
DIMAS
Dimas looked like his father.
Or at least, he looked like the man his father used to be, back before the weight of the crown and decades of politics had taken their toll.
His black hair had been slicked back to show off the sharp angles of his face, his usual princely attire replaced by a formfitting navy tunic, its collar and cuffs adorned with whorls of silver thread.
On top, an ornate, fur-lined cloak that covered the length of his body, its train pooling behind him like ink in water.
It was the same cloak every emperor before him had worn during their Rite of Ascension; thick velvet the color of the night sky, plain except for the silver trim down its front and the clasp at his neck, a silver brooch that had been crafted into the shape of Naebya’s symbol and blessed by some High Priest centuries ago.
He looked … handsome wasn’t the right word.
Severe, maybe. It was the first time he’d looked in a mirror and saw not a prince, but an emperor.
He’d never felt like more of a fraud.
All morning, attendants had been fussing around him, slathering his body in holy oils, sprinkling herbs into his bathwater, slicking back his hair until they were certain it wouldn’t move.
Dimas had remained silent through it all, his thoughts a storm of anxiety.
Every so often, his gaze would drift toward the top drawers of his dressing cabinet, where the bangle he’d taken from the Zvaerna Order archives was stuffed beneath a plain tunic.
The presence of it was a constant reminder of everything he had to lose. His rite should have been the most important event of his life, a holy affair every Ehmar before him had been honored to attend. But for Dimas, it was nothing but a means to an end.
He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t hear Ioseph approach until he was a few paces away, reflection appearing beside his own in the mirror.
The guard placed a small velvet pouch down on the cabinet before Dimas.
“The potion,” he explained. Brother Dunstan had agreed to spend the night brewing it, and had promised to hand the potion over to Ioseph to deliver after morning prayers.
Dimas slipped it into the pocket inside his vest without a word.
“You’re worried,” Ioseph said.
When they’d returned to the palace, Dimas had been so exhausted that he’d gone straight to his chambers with a brief but curt good night to the guard.
This was the first moment they’d had alone since Dimas had asked Brother Dunstan to brew the potion that, if taken incorrectly, could kill both Lenora and him.
Back beneath the church, Dimas had told Ioseph that Naebya would protect him. But if that was true, then why was he still so afraid?
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” he said, clenching his hand into a fist to stop himself from running it through his hair.
“The ceremony?” Ioseph asked.
“All of it. The ceremony, Lenora … me. How am I supposed to rule this empire if I can’t even control my Fateweaver?”
It was a question that had been plaguing him for weeks now, ever since he’d realized Lena might always be everything he’d feared she’d be: unstable, afraid.
Angry.
Her time at the palace had helped. Or at least, he thought it had. Up until he’d seen the look in her eyes as that cultist had nearly goaded her into using her power to do the unspeakable.
“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Ioseph said, and when Dimas didn’t reply, his guard’s fingers cupped his chin, tilting his head toward him so that he had no choice but to meet his steady gaze.
Dimas swallowed the lump in his throat. “How do you know?”
“Because I know you. You think your compassion is your weakness, but it isn’t. You care about your people, Dimas, and that is what makes you more worthy of ruling this empire than anyone I know.”
Ioseph brushed a finger against Dimas’s cheek, gently wiping a tear.
And for the first time in his life, he found himself wishing, just for a second, that things wouldn’t work out tonight.
Because if they did, and he and Lenora were deemed worthy of their roles, then Dimas would be expected to marry a lord or lady of high society, and these moments with Ioseph would be lost.
It was the most selfish thing he’d ever thought, but right then, with Ioseph staring at him as if he was something precious, something worthy, Dimas knew he didn’t have the strength to pull away.
Whatever happened tonight would determine who he was going to be for the rest of his life.
Emperor or heretic. Success or failure. This was the last time he’d ever have the chance to freely choose the man he wanted.
And he was not going to waste it.
He closed the space between him and Ioseph slowly, lips hovering close to his friend in a silent question, giving him the chance to pull away if he decided he didn’t want this. Didn’t want him.
But then Ioseph was kissing him, his hands sliding up from his cheek to curl into his hair. Dimas had kissed other boys before, servants and visiting nobles’ sons, but it had never felt as familiar, as right, as kissing Ioseph.
The guard pushed him up against the nearby chest of drawers, his tongue slipping through Dimas’s lips to tangle with his own.
There was nothing gentle about it; it was the kiss of a man who knew this night might be the only one they had left, and Dimas was more than happy to match Ioseph’s hunger.
If this was all they had, he was going to make it count.
Not breaking their kiss, Dimas untucked Ioseph’s tunic from his breeches. Ran his hands along the hard planes of his stomach.
Dimas’s toes curled when Ioseph let out a soft groan. The guard broke away from Dimas’s lips just long enough to tug off Dimas’s shirt. To stare, wide-eyed, at the pale expanse of his bare chest.
“Beautiful,” he breathed.
And then he was kissing him again, feeding the fire inside of him with every kiss, every touch, and as Ioseph began trailing kisses down his chest, all Dimas knew was that if this was how it felt to be set aflame, then Dimas Ehmar was happy to let himself burn.
Roston was waiting for him when he left his bedroom.
Dimas has done his best to smooth out his crumpled ceremonial outfit and readjust his hair, but heat still crept up his cheeks as his uncle gave him a quick once-over.
Ioseph had left him half a bell ago, his guard duties ahead of tonight’s ceremony calling him away far sooner than either of them had liked, and despite how much Dimas missed his steadying presence at his side, he was rather glad Ioseph wasn’t leaving his rooms with him.
He didn’t think he’d be able to focus on anything else if he was.
He cleared his throat and bowed his head in greeting. “Regent.”
His uncle returned the gesture. “Your Majesty. You seem … content.”
A blush he hoped his uncle couldn’t see crept along Dimas’s neck. “Ah yes, well, it’s hard not to be. I’m finally going to solidify my bond with my Fateweaver, and after tonight, the Haesta will hopefully no longer be a problem.”
Roston’s shoulders tightened at the mention of the cult. “Hopefully …”
“What is it?”
Dimas knew his uncle well enough by now to know the hesitation in his voice wasn’t a good sign. During his time with Ioseph, the shadows at the edges of his mind had receded, burned away by the intensity of his feelings. Now they crept back in, curling around his thoughts like mist before a storm.
“I wasn’t going to tell you this until after the ceremony, but …
we found something in the home of the heretic’s ally.
A coded letter, written in the old language.
The contents suggested that the Haesta may have had a hand in blocking your connection with Lenora.
That they found a way to … interpret the vision you were meant to receive on your fifteenth namesday. ”
The vision that would have shown him who his Fateweaver was. The vision he’d always feared he’d been too unworthy to receive.
I was right, he thought, the shadows in his mind darkening. He’d suspected they’d been interfering somehow with the bond he and Lenora shared.
“How?”
Roston shook his head. “That I do not know. It must be connected to whatever dark magics they tapped into in order to control the Corrupted.”
“If that’s the case, then it would seem my Fateweaver’s old tales hold some truth.” Dimas said the words before he could think better of it.
If he’d spoken them before his father, he’d have received a slap to the face and a day of holy isolation.
But his uncle simply pursed his lips and replied, “In this instance, it would seem so. But, Dimas, there is something else you must know. Something worse.” He paused, a shadow crossing over his expression, and reached into the fold of his cloak to pull out a folded piece of parchment.
“This is the letter we found. There is an inscription on the back, written in old Wyrecian.”
Dimas took the letter. Turned it over. Just as his uncle had said, the back of the parchment was inked with a number of symbols.
His old Wyrecian was rusty—the language had died out in the age of the first Fateweaver, with the only remaining sigils in use being the ones for the Fateweaver and for Naebya and Her Order—but, blessedly, the translation had already been done.
Fateweaver.
Furybringer.
Resurrection.
Dimas’s fingers tightened around the parchment, his lungs constricting. “So it’s true. They really mean to … to resurrect the Furybringer.”
“Yes. And however they mean to do it, your Fateweaver is the key to doing so.”
“Why didn’t you bring this to me sooner?” Milos had searched the heretic’s hideout almost an entire day ago.
“It took some time to decode the letter, and I didn’t want to worry you until I knew for certain.” He gripped Dimas’s shoulder. “None of this is your fault, Dimas. The Haesta are behind it all, and you must stop them, no matter what it takes. Did Brother Dunstan have the relic?”