Chapter 40 Dimas #2
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. If what Roston said was true, then the Haesta were an even greater threat than they’d first thought. If they managed to resurrect the Furybringer, there would be no stopping them. They would destroy everything his family had built.
Unless Dimas didn’t give them the chance.
His hand reached almost instinctively into the fold of his cloak to pull out the bangle Brother Dunstan had given to him.
The shadows at the edge of his vision darkened as he wrapped his fingers around it, ink-black shapes writhing like monsters in the trees.
Doubt, fear, anger, each emotion so deeply rooted in the very fabric of his being he didn’t know who he was without them.
They were an enemy he didn’t know how to fight, and so he focused on the monsters outside of his head instead.
His uncle was looking at the bangle with an odd expression.
“Incredible,” he whispered. And then, almost as if remembering himself, added, “If you would entrust it of me, I would like to be its guardian. If Lenora fails tonight, or if she betrays you, there is a chance her corruption might influence your mind. If that happens, you will need someone to secure the relic around the Fateweaver’s wrist in your place. ”
The bangle felt suddenly cold in his hands as shadows danced across his vision.
His uncle’s reasonings made sense; Dimas would only need the relic back if the Rite of Ascension failed.
It was then, and only then, that Dimas would take the potion to subdue Lenora.
But doing so would subdue him, too, meaning he’d need someone to put the relic on his Fateweaver.
He’d planned on giving the relic to Brother Dunstan, but his uncle was just as logical a choice.
Dimas opened his mouth to tell him about their other plan before thinking better of it.
Roston would be furious at him for putting his life in danger.
Perhaps it was best he didn’t know about the potion until there was no other choice but to use it.
“Keep it safe.” He dropped the relic into Roston’s outstretched hand.
His uncle’s fingers closed around it. “I will,” he said, tucking it into the folds of his cloak.
“If everything goes to plan, Lenora and I will retire to Brother Dunstan’s study once the Rite of Ascension is complete,” Dimas said.
“There, we shall conduct the ritual to enhance Lenora’s visions.
Have Milos and General Alraen on standby for when we wake; if the ritual is successful, I want them to go after the Haesta immediately. ”
“What about the girl?” Roston asked. “She cannot be allowed near them. It’s too much of a risk.”
Dimas’s fingers twitched with the urge to reach for the bangle he’d just given away. “I’ll deal with Lenora. You just need to make sure our soldiers make it into the Haesta’s stronghold before they have the chance to act again.”
His uncle paused, his shoulders stiff as he asked, “And what are their orders for when the infiltration is complete?”
Not too long ago, Dimas would have told him to offer the cultists a choice.
Surrender or be taken prisoner to face Naebya’s judgment.
But the Haesta hadn’t given Aldryn a chance to surrender before they’d slit his throat, nor had the cultist in the temple shown mercy to the pilgrims before he’d ordered the wrecen to pull them apart.
Dimas would not give them a chance, either.
“Kill them all.”
Lenora looked as beautiful as she did terrifying.
A mixture of fear and guilt churned Dimas’s stomach as she descended the stone steps of the palace’s main foyer.
Like him, she’d been dressed for an audience—a fitted, midnight blue coat adorned with silver whorls at its collar and cuffs, its lower half billowing out to give a skirt-like effect.
The coat had been tied loosely together at the waist with two delicate, silk ribbons, leaving just enough room for the simple black dress she was wearing beneath to show through.
The outfit itself was impressive enough, but Vivika hadn’t stopped there.
Lenora’s eyes had been lined with charcoal, her cheekbones dusted with a subtle silver glow that made the scar on her cheek look even more pronounced.
Her hair had been left loose, long ash-brown waves tumbling over her left shoulder, and in the soft glow of torchlight, her eyes looked more silver than gray.
Fear settled in Dimas’s stomach at the sight of her; she looked like the Fateweavers of old.
Not the ones from the history books, but the ones from his mother’s paintings.
A creature made from magic, sent to judge them all.
“Your Worship.” Brother Dunstan bowed as Lenora finally reached them.
Lenora returned the priest’s greeting, dipping her chin in acknowledgment before her attention drifted back to Dimas.
“Ready?” she asked, and Dimas couldn’t help but feel like it was a challenge despite the neutrality of her voice.
He tried to get a sense of what she was feeling through their bond, only to be met with the familiar, steel shield she always protected herself with. Dammit. Things would have been much easier if he’d been able to read her like he was supposed to.
With no other choice, Dimas simply said, “After you.”
The walk to the church was silent. Most of the palace staff was busy preparing the throne room for tomorrow night’s celebratory ball, or cooking up a feast in the kitchens to feed court members and nobles alike.
The foreign dignitaries were still in the guest manor, waiting to be escorted to the church just before the ceremony was due to begin, whilst the high members of the Zvaerna Order themselves would be gathering in the main hall, ready to greet Dimas and Lenora when they arrived.
Only Brother Dunstan was allowed to leave the church before the ceremony.
As High Priest, it was his duty to escort the soon-to-be emperor and his Fateweaver to the prayer chambers, where they would seek Naebya’s fortune—and her acceptance.
If she deemed them unworthy, the ceremony would fail, and all of Dimas’s plans to take down the Haesta would be ruined.
There were two of Milos’s hunters waiting for them outside the church, their armor making them look like shadows against the grand wooden doors. They bowed their heads, each pulling one half of the door open as they stepped aside.
Stepping into the church was like going back in time.
Gone were the intricate designs of the palace, silver and navy decor replaced with cold gray stone and thick, circular pillars, each one fronted with a stone statue of a past Fateweaver.
Their unseeing eyes followed Dimas as he made his way toward the front of the hall, a silent reminder of all the success that had come before him.
Aside from the torchlight, the only other light in the hall was the gray early-evening sunlight pouring through the three stained glass windows set at the far end of the hall.
Directly beneath them, built into a deep alcove in the wall, was the church’s oldest and largest statue.
Dimas drew close enough to see the details of his goddess’s face—the sharp angle of her chin and cheekbones, the spill of waist-length hair adorned with various braids—and offered up a silent prayer.
Please, please do not forsake me today of all days.
Standing silently in the shadows, their robed forms creating a semicircle around the church altar, a half dozen Zvaerna priests bowed their heads.
“Your Eminence,” the one in the middle said, gaze fixed on Brother Dunstan, “everything is in order for the ceremony.”
“Thank you,” Brother Dunstan said before turning to face Ioseph. “Please escort His Majesty and Lady Lenora to the prayer chambers. I will remain here and make the final preparations for the ceremony.”
“Of course, Your Eminence.” Ioseph bowed his head and then, with one final reassuring glance in Dimas’s direction, led them away from the main hall to the prayer chambers in the western wing.
Dimas and Lenora followed behind him, the clack, clack, clack of their heels matching the steady thumping of Dimas’s heart. One corridor and a set of stairs later, and they arrived outside of the door to Naebya’s prayer chamber.
“Ready?” Ioseph asked, voice barely above a whisper.
As was custom, the heir to the throne would say his prayers first. Something twisted in Dimas’s chest as his fingers reached for the door’s iron handle.
This was his last chance to make his case to Naebya.
To prove to Her that he was worthy of his title, and he would be damned if he was going to let some ancient cult take that chance from him again.
Wrapping the thought around him like a shield, Dimas stepped into the cool darkness of Naebya’s prayer chamber.
And did not let himself look back.