Chapter 21 Lena
TWENTY-ONE
LENA
The imperial palace was much bigger than Lena had expected.
She’d started off the tour trying to memorize their route, making a note of every door and stairway, of every tapestry where another entrance to a hidden passageway could be hidden.
It was a habit she’d picked up during her time in the Wilds.
Out there, mapping snarling trees and endless shadows had come as naturally to her as it had to her mother.
Every tree had a unique pattern to its bark, and the sun—no matter how faint—was always there to lead her north.
The palace, however, was an endless maze of marble corridors and winding stairwells, and everything—from the stained glass windows to the silver wall sconces—looked exactly the same. It was disorienting.
It was suffocating.
“This is our next stop,” Iska said as they stopped before another ornate door.
They’d been walking for what felt like hours, with Iska pointing out various rooms and their purposes.
There was the throne room, of course, where the emperor and his court held important public events.
The council room, where the inner court met to discuss politics and war, and a large ballroom.
The rest of the wing was made up of the royal quarters.
“Behind these doors is the royal library.”
Up until now, Lena had feigned interest in every room.
But the mention of the library had her genuinely intrigued.
If she failed to hone her abilities and re-conjure the brief vision she’d had in the tunnels last night, she’d need to find another way to get into the Zvaerna acolyte’s chamber.
Lena wasn’t foolish enough to think the royal library would hold any of the forbidden tales, but old Wyrecian was a part of the Zvaerna’s history.
If there was any information in the palace holding clues to the symbols she’d seen on the door to the acolyte’s chamber—or even a translation of them—it would be here, in the library.
She just needed to convince Iska to let her look around.
Lena lingered outside of the great doors separating her and the library, her gaze trailing over the intricate web of threads engraved into the stone. “Does the library have books on the Fateweaver’s … on my … abilities?”
Iska turned to look at her. “Some, but they’re mostly vague accounts in history books.
Any materials containing information on the Fateweaver’s powers aren’t kept in the library.
They’re in the High Priest’s personal collection, and only Brother Dunstan knows where that collection is stored.
” Iska’s expression hardened slightly, her brows drawing together. “Why?”
“I just … after this morning …” Lena made herself trail off. Made herself look nervously down at the mark on her wrist. Her mother had always told her that the best stories always had some truth to them.
So she told Iska hers.
“I’m afraid I’m going to lose control.”
Iska took a step toward her. “You won’t. Once you start your training with Brother Dunstan, you’ll learn how to control it. I promise.” The acolyte offered her a sympathetic smile. One that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“But what if I don’t? The last Fateweaver to lose control, she …” The shudder that went down Lena’s spine wasn’t false. The stories of the Furybringer were some of the most heretical, and for good reason.
“We do not speak of that,” Iska whispered, eyes wide.
“But—”
“It was a mistake, and it will not happen again.” Iska’s gaze was hard, her shoulders rigid.
Lena wanted to push her further, to ask her what she knew, if there were records of what had happened during the Furybringer’s reign, but the look in the acolyte’s eyes had her biting her tongue.
Iska’s expression softened slightly. “It’s getting late. We should get you back to your chambers.”
Lena forced a small smile, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood. Why was everyone in this place so Sisters-damned evasive? It confirmed everything her mother had ever taught her about the Ehmars and the Order that served them.
Their history was a lie, a story they’d made people believe. And they’d do anything to keep that lie hidden.
It was even more of a reason to break her bond with Dimas: to show the people of Wyrecia that their fate could be their own.
Lena reluctantly left the library behind.
If Iska had noticed her hesitation, she didn’t let it show.
The acolyte simply carried on walking, her chin raised, her steps determined.
But there was a heaviness to Iska that wasn’t there before, as if the mere mention of the Furybringer had shaken something within her.
There were hardly any stories about the only Fateweaver to turn against the empire.
All Lena knew about her was that she’d been a girl of noble blood, like all the Fateweavers before her, and that her affinity had been for the future.
She’d declared war against Wyrecia not long after arriving at the imperial palace.
Some of the stories said she’d been driven mad by her power, whilst others claimed she’d dabbled in dangerous magic that had twisted her abilities into something dark.
But no one seemed to know why.
Some of the older villagers Lena had come across still paled at the sound of her name.
Furybringer.
The people of the Wilds believed the Furybringer was the Fateweaver’s true form.
The Ehmars had done their best to erase her from history, but every child of Wyrecia knew her name.
It was why even those who thought a Fateweaver was a divine figure still looked upon her with fear.
Because they knew, deep down, how quickly a being of justice could become one of vengeance.
Lena swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. She was a Fateweaver, not a Furybringer. She didn’t want vengeance or war.
She just wanted to be free.
By the time the sun had started to set on her first full day in the palace, Lena was ready to tear her own eyes out.
After the tour, she’d had a brief moment of respite to eat in her chambers before Iska had returned once again, her arms filled with piles of tomes. Maia had been behind her, carrying yet more books, and it was only her presence that had tempered Lena’s growing frustration.
“One more time,” Iska demanded.
Lena tried not to glare at the pile of tomes on the table beside the fire.
Iska had insisted they stop only when Lena could recite—by memory—the house names of all the noble families who had pledged themselves to the empire.
She’d only managed to successfully get through all fourteen once, which, according to Iska, wasn’t good enough.
I don’t have time for this.
Iska must have sensed her frustration, because the acolyte sighed, the faint hum of her threads softening. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but this is important. His Majesty’s coronation ceremony and your Rite of Ascension will take place at months’ end. You need to be prepared.”
The news had been waiting for them when they returned to the Fateweaver’s chambers. The prince would announce his father’s and the former Fateweaver’s deaths to the empire at the next full moon, and as Sefwyn’s successor, Lena would be expected to be at his side.
The thought made Lena want to be sick.
“What I need,” Lena said, trying to keep the bite from her voice, “is to learn how to control my power.”
Her head was still pounding from her earlier episode, and the more exhausted she grew, the harder it became to push away the call of Iska’s threads.
To make matters worse, the books she’d read had, just as she’d expected, only depicted one version of Wyrecia’s history and the Fateweaver’s role in it.
There was nothing in their pages that could help her translate the symbols in the tunnels.
“Brother Dunstan will be here soon. Until then, I’ve been tasked with making sure you know the history of this empire.” She tapped her foot against the floor, her lips narrowing into a thin line. “Again.”
Lena gritted her teeth. Across the room, curled up in a chair beside the window, Maia shot her a sympathetic smile.
Lena should have denied her when she’d insisted on staying for Lena’s lesson, but after spending the day feeling like her old life was slipping further and further away, Lena hadn’t had the strength to send Maia away.
Brother Dunstan strode into the room with all the grace of a wolf, his dark eyes glistening in the firelight. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there were flecks of gray in his copper hair, and the lines etched into his forehead seemed deeper than before.
“Brother Dunstan.” Iska bowed her head.
Lena was glad she was technically above him in rank, because the thought of bowing to anyone—let alone a priest of a religion her mother had rebelled against her whole life—made her want to break things.
“Sister Iska.” He smiled, and the gesture was so affectionate that Lena felt a tug in her heart.
It reminded her of the way her mother would look at her when she’d first started storytelling.
The priest turned his head toward Lena, his smile morphing into something far more cautious.
“Lady Lenora. How has your first lesson been?”
“Thorough.” She didn’t bother to hide her frustration. She was exhausted, and she was no closer to achieving her goal than she had been last night.
Brother Dunstan’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Yes, the history of the Ehmars’ rule is … quite lengthy.” He clasped his hands together, his gaze traveling to the mark on Lena’s wrist. “Have you had any more visions since this morning?”
Lena fought the urge to place her hand over her wrist. “No.”
Dunstan and Iska exchanged a silent look. “Good. We will focus on the basics during our first session. When your next vision comes, you should hopefully feel a little more prepared. Please, take a seat. Lady Iska, please escort Maia back to her chambers.”