Chapter 18 Dimas
EIGHTEEN
DIMAS
The palace of Novobyrg felt the same as it had when his Fateweaver was not there.
Dimas had expected it to feel different, somehow. Had expected himself to feel different. Stronger, perhaps, or at least more capable. But as he stood in the large throne room, all Dimas felt was the same aching sense of failure he always had.
Lenora was here. She had agreed to take her place as his Fateweaver.
Had even seemed to be thawing to him as they’d journeyed across the empire he now ruled.
Yet there had been moments when Dimas had felt the faint brush of Lenora’s emotions, of her anger and her fear, which made him wonder if she would ever truly accept her role at his side.
Dimas eyed the stained glass windows along the walls, each one featuring a depiction of a past emperor and his Fateweaver.
Soon his father and Lady Sefwyn would be immortalized here, the memory of them captured in glass for centuries to come.
It was a custom as old as the first emperor himself, meant to ensure those who built Wyrecia were never forgotten.
There was only one emperor missing.
Odryk Ehmar.
Emperor of the Furybringer.
Dimas shivered. How many years had he feared a similar end for himself? How many times had he sat in this very room, the watchful eyes of his ancestors a stark reminder of all he had to lose.
Dark spots appeared at the edges of his vision.
He clenched his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath.
He needn’t fear that outcome any longer; he had found his Fateweaver, had brought her back to the palace, and once he discovered the motives of the Haesta and put an end to them, there would be nothing stopping his and Lenora’s bond from becoming the divine thing it was always meant to have been.
But first, he had to lay his father and Lady Sefwyn to rest.
Three sets of footsteps clicked against the stone ground, signaling the arrival of the most trusted members of Emperor Vesric Ehmar’s inner court.
The prince tore his gaze away from the too-bright colors of the windows, the anxiety in his chest spiking at the sight of his uncle.
This close, the similarities between Roston Ehmar and the late emperor were impossible to ignore: he had the same strong nose, the same blue eyes and dark hair.
But where his father’s face had been smooth, Roston’s was weathered, and there was a small scar on his bottom lip that betrayed his military background.
Where Vesric’s hardness had been hidden beneath a lifetime of luxury, Roston’s was on display for everyone to see.
“Uncle,” Dimas greeted, bowing his head in respect.
Roston returned the gesture. “Your Majesty. It is good to see you back in one piece. I’m … so sorry about your father.”
Dimas’s throat tightened. He’d barely been back a few hours, and already the effort it took to talk about his father’s death had him wanting to crawl into his bed and never come out.
Every time he thought about it, a strange, numb-like sensation flooded through his body, and his mind went completely and utterly blank.
He didn’t know how to feel about his father’s passing, and so it seemed he’d decided to feel nothing at all.
“Thank you. And thank you for keeping it from the public whilst I was gone.”
They’d decided on a cover story before Dimas had left for the Wilds.
As far as the people of Wyrecia were concerned, their emperor and his Fateweaver were undertaking holy isolation, whilst Dimas was dealing with the heretic problem in the west. With both the emperor and his heir indisposed, the regent was responsible for any decisions relating to the throne.
Standing beside Roston, the High Priest of the Zvaerna Order cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to keep the news of Lady Sefwyn’s and your father’s deaths from the public for much longer. Milos informed me you were successful in your mission to retrieve Lady Sefwyn’s successor?”
Dimas winced at the note of uncertainty in Brother Dunstan’s voice.
The Zvaerna priest was one of the few members of his father’s court who had never believed the rumors people whispered about him, who had taught him all there was to know about the history of his ancestors and the empire he would one day rule with pride in his eyes and encouraging words on his lips.
It stung to think he hadn’t believed in him when it mattered most.
“I was,” he said, with a little more force than necessary.
“Bless Naebya.” Brother Dunstan closed a hand around the pendant of Naebya’s symbol hanging around his neck. “Have you determined her affinity yet?”
“No.” Heat flooded Dimas’s cheeks, but he held his head high as he explained, “Lenora isn’t exactly … accepting of her position. I did not want to overwhelm her before we even arrived at the palace.”
Brother Dunstan was not his father, yet Dimas’s entire body still tensed in anticipation of raised voices and biting words. But the High Priest simply nodded and said, “Very well. We shall determine it as soon as we are able. In the meantime, we must prepare for the Rite of Ascension.”
The mention of the rite had the edges of Dimas’s vision darkening.
Whilst he was automatically considered emperor now that his father had passed, the rite—a religious strengthening of the bond between the emperor and his Fateweaver—also had the power to strip Dimas of his title.
If the Zvaerna Order did not deem his connection with Lenora strong enough, then they could declare him unworthy of his right to rule before the entire court.
“Brother Dunstan, Lenora’s control is … weak,” Dimas said. “Lady Sefwyn spent her entire childhood in one of our temples and had five years of training once she was revealed as my father’s Fateweaver. What if …” He swallowed, his fear causing the words to lodge in his throat.
“I will work tirelessly to ensure she is prepared to Ascend, Your Majesty. Do not worry.”
The priest’s smile was comforting, but it did little to ease Dimas’s nerves. The memory of Aldryn’s bloodless face flashed in his mind.
“There’s … something else you should know,” Dimas said, choosing his words carefully. “We were attacked during our search for Lenora.”
Roston cursed, muttering something under his breath about heretics. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Aldryn—our driver—was the only one hurt. He … didn’t make it. We found him dead in his seat. His throat had been slit, and …” He swallowed the rising bile in his throat. “And there was a symbol carved into his forehead.”
The Haesta’s bloody symbol pressed against the back of his eyelids.
It was the reason he’d called Brother Dunstan and his uncle here now, instead of waiting until morning.
The attack had plagued him every night during their journey, replaying in his mind in an endless, bloody loop.
If the Haesta were back, if they had something to do with the growing rebellion in the empire, Roston and Brother Dunstan would know.
As for the problem with his and Lenora’s bond …
until Dimas knew the extent of the Haesta’s interference, and whether whatever they’d done to the bond could be reversed, it was safer that the High Priest and regent did not know.
“What sort of symbol?” Brother Dunstan asked, the earlier relief on his face replaced with a frown that deepened the lines at the corners of his eyes.
Dimas sucked in a deep breath. “The Haesta’s.”
Heavy silence descended upon the room. Dunstan and Roston understood the weight of his words better than anyone. “Are you sure?” Roston finally asked.
“Yes. I mean, I’m sure it was their symbol, but whether cultists are the ones who carved it …” He trailed off. It had to be them. Otherwise, the shadows in his mind really were just a result of his own madness. “Did my father say anything to either of you?”
They both hesitated long enough to confirm what Dimas had feared.
His father had known about the return of the Haesta, and he had kept it from Dimas.
The familiar darkness crept back into the corners of Dimas’s vision, and this time he didn’t have time to fight it.
It turned his world black. Twisted the faces of Dunstan and Roston into featureless silhouettes.
The biggest threat their empire had ever faced was rising again, and his father had thought Dimas too weak to know about it.
“Your father was … aware of a few rumored sightings.” Roston’s voice sounded too far away.
Dimas tried to focus on the words. To focus on anything but the unending abyss waiting for him in his own mind. He had to keep it together. He’d found his Fateweaver. Had brought her home. He could handle a heretical cult.
Letting out a shaking breath, Dimas said, “Tell me everything you know.”
Brother Dunstan bowed his head. “The empire’s spies informed Emperor Vesric of some rumors going around the far western towns.
Whispers of men and women in crimson robes, their foreheads inked with the Haesta’s symbol.
Some of the townsfolk claimed to have seen them conducting rituals in the mountains.
One woman even declared her livestock had been slaughtered in a sacrificial manner. ”
A chill traveled down Dimas’s spine. “And my father didn’t think to tell me this before I left for the Wilds?”
Roston placed a hand on Dimas’s shoulder, squeezing firmly. Dimas wasn’t sure if the gesture was meant to be reassuring or vaguely threatening.
“He sent some of his best soldiers to investigate the sightings, Your Majesty. He didn’t want to worry you until he knew the rumors were true. He … he was concerned the news would distract you from finding your Fateweaver.”
Dimas clenched his hands into fists, the leather of his gloves straining with the effort. If his father hadn’t thought him too incapable, he might have been prepared for the Haesta’s attack in the Wilds.
He might have been able to prevent Aldryn’s death.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dimas said, “My Fateweaver is here now, so I want you to tell me everything you find out. Milos must remain at the palace to recover from his injuries, but I will have him send a few of his best hunters to further investigate these claims.”
He would also need to send someone to Aldryn’s family home, to deliver the news of his death and give them his sword.
“Very well.” Brother Dunstan folded his hands into his robes, his gaze darkening. “What do you wish to do about your father and Lady Sefwyn’s funeral?”
A fresh wave of panic had Dimas sucking in another deep breath.
He wanted to order Brother Dunstan to keep it a secret for just a while longer.
To tell the court his father and their Fateweaver were still negotiating trade agreements in the north.
But his father was dead, and he didn’t have the luxury of pretending any longer.
“Begin preparations to hold the official funeral ceremony at the end of the week; we shall hold my coronation, and the Rite of Ascension, at months’ end, when the moon is full,” said Dimas.
It would give him enough time to notify the inner court and to pen the letters he’d need to send to the noble families across Wyrecia, informing them of the current emperor’s and Fateweaver’s deaths and inviting them to his coronation.
It was an event he’d dreamed about ever since he was a little boy. A fantasy that never quite seemed like it would become real. But now he was here, and the thought of standing before his empire with Lenora at his side had black spots dancing across his vision.
The High Priest’s voice cut through the storm of his thoughts. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Brother Dunstan. Regent. You are dismissed.”
The High Priest dipped his chin, his robes billowing behind him in a midnight wave as he strode from the room. Roston followed after him a heartbeat later, leaving Dimas alone with the immortalized faces of his ancestors once more.