Chapter 22 Lena
TWENTY-TWO
LENA
“Are you ready for this?”
Dimas stood before the entrance hall to the council room, where his father’s most trusted advisors awaited his presence.
Behind this door were the most important members of his father’s court.
People who could refuse to accept Dimas as their emperor.
Who could, at any moment, see through his lies and discover the truth of their future Fateweaver’s heretical past.
No, he wasn’t ready for this at all.
“I’m ready,” he lied, adjusting the collar of his tunic.
It was strange to be back in his royal attire after weeks in simple traveling clothes, and the stiff fabric made him feel oddly trapped.
His hair had been slicked back, the light stubble around his jaw shaven, his skin scrubbed clean of all traces of grime and blood.
It was like slipping back into a costume that didn’t quite fit, and as Dimas strode into the council room, he found it harder than ever to play his part.
Four people sat around a long wooden table, their eyes fixed firmly on the prince.
Dimas knew each of their faces. Had spent years sitting silently in their presence.
They looked up as he walked in, the skin beneath each of their eyes dark with grief.
There was his uncle, Roston, who sat beside the chair at the head of the table, his already pale skin drained of color.
Brother Dunstan was sitting in the opposite chair, regent and priest situated like figureheads at the side of the seat reserved for their emperor.
Normally, Dimas and Lady Sefwyn would have sat in those spaces.
But with the late emperor and Fateweaver dead, adjustments to the seating arrangements had clearly been made.
Dimas distracted himself from the surreal sight of his father’s empty chair by taking in the remaining court members. Beside Brother Dunstan sat the High Treasurer, Lady Wryn, and General Mirena Alraen, leader of the imperial army, sat beside her.
No one spoke as Dimas made his way to the head of the table, to the seat where his father had sat during every court meeting the prince had ever attended.
His chair now. The eyes of everyone in the room settled on Dimas as he came to a stop before it, as they waited to see what he would do.
It seemed like such a small gesture, but sitting in his father’s seat would say far more than his words ever could.
Dimas stayed standing.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” he began.
His voice sounded too small for such a large room.
“As you already know, my father and Lady Sefwyn are no longer with us. The ailment that struck them down was one sent by Naebya Herself, and their deaths were foreseen by Lady Sefwyn. Knowing their end was coming, I traveled to retrieve my Fateweaver so that Naebya’s next vessel could take her rightful place at my side.
“I appreciate you keeping this information to yourselves during my absence,” he continued.
“I know it must have been … difficult, but it was what my father wanted. Now that I have returned, however, it is time we let the empire know of my father’s and Lady Sefwyn’s deaths.
We will hold the royal funeral at week’s end, to give the noble families a chance to send a representative. And then …”
He paused to blink away the sudden spots in his vision. This was it. The moment he’d been dreading all day. The words he’d practiced in front of the mirror until his mouth was dry.
“And then I will let the empire know their future Fateweaver is safe within the walls of the imperial palace.”
Everyone spoke at once, their voices echoing off the stone walls in a way that made Dimas’s head hurt.
But it was General Alraen’s voice that rose above the rest.
“You were successful, then?” the general asked, doubt lacing her every word.
As the general of the imperial army, and his father’s closest confidant beside Roston, she’d never been particularly fond of Dimas. Mirena Alraen was a woman who valued actions over words. And so far, Dimas had done little to prove he was fit to wear Wyrecia’s crown.
“I was. I returned to the palace last night with my Fateweaver at my side.”
He tried to make it sound as if his trip had gone exactly to plan. As if they had been fools to doubt him. Because if his father’s inner court got even a sniff of his fear, they would know something was wrong, and Dimas wasn’t sure he trusted them to keep the truth of Lenora’s past to themselves.
“Where is she, then?” Mirena asked.
“In her chambers. I wanted to … give her time to settle in.”
His uncle gave him a subtle, reassuring nod from across the table.
Maybe it was unwise to keep Lenora’s true past from his father’s most trusted advisors, but whispers surrounding Dimas and his right to the throne were already too common, and with rumors of Haesta sightings, learning that their future Fateweaver was a heretic would only give strength to the fear that Naebya had forsaken the Wyrecian Empire.
It was Wryn who leaned forward in her seat, gold rings glinting against her dark skin in the glow of the candlelight.
Like the rest of them, Wryn had been a member of his father’s Council for as long as Dimas could remember, and her family had been loyal to the Empire ever since arriving from across the sea centuries ago.
“With all due respect, Your High—Your Majesty,” Wryn began, “the people are growing restless. They have been eagerly awaiting Lady Sefwyn’s return from her isolation; to find out that she has died without having seen their new Fateweaver will undoubtedly cause further unrest.”
A fresh wave of darkness clouded Dimas’s eyes. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose. He couldn’t lose them now.
“Lady Lenora will greet the people when she is ready. In the meantime, I believe there is another matter that needs discussing.” Dimas turned to the general.
“I was informed by Brother Dunstan that my father asked you to send soldiers to investigate rumors of Haesta sightings near Kostyre. Is this true?”
Mirena’s expression barely changed, but Dimas didn’t miss the slight tightening of her jaw. This was a mission the general, like his father, hadn’t wanted the prince to know about. “It is.”
“And what have they learned?” Dimas pressed.
“Not much,” the general responded. “So far, all our leads have been dead ends; it’s likely just heretics spreading rumors to incite fear.”
“Perhaps, but as I am sure the regent has already informed you, we were attacked by someone using the Haesta’s symbol on our journey. They killed Aldryn.”
They’d put his body to the pyre before leaving the outpost to head for Deyecia, and the sudden phantom scent of burning flesh and ash made Dimas feel sick.
“Aldryn was a good kid,” Mirena said, her voice cutting through the heavy silence, “and whoever killed him will pay. But we have no proof the Haesta did it. Anyone could adopt their symbol to make it look like they’re to blame.”
True, but considering his Fateweaver was a heretic and Milos’s hunters had been attacked by creatures from legend, Dimas wasn’t so sure. And there was still the lingering issue of his shadows appearing during his moments of connection with Lenora.
The only other person he’d told about his theory beside Ioseph was Iska. His cousin had immediately agreed to search the church’s archives for any mention of something similar happening before, but if Dimas could get his hands on a member of the Haesta to question …
“It is imperative we find the people claiming to be this cult as soon as possible. As such, we will be requesting Milos and a handful of his best hunters aid your soldiers with their investigation.”
General Alraen’s cheeks darkened “Are you insinuating that my soldiers aren’t capable?”
The room was deadly silent. Dimas wanted nothing more than to shrink into the shadows. If this had been his father’s order, no one—not even the general—would have questioned him.
Which was why he had to hold his ground. If he wanted the court’s respect, he had to earn it.
“Not at all, General, but we can cover more ground with more soldiers, and the Fist were trained for missions such as this, were they not?”
At their core, the Fist were divine hunters, trained to seek out heretics. Whilst the general’s soldiers were loyal to the crown, the Fist were loyal to the Church of Naebya itself. Roston himself had been one, back in his fighting days.
The muscles in Mirena’s jaw tensed. “They were, Your Majesty. But your father thought it best to keep them out of this until we knew more; send them in too early, with no proof, and the common folks will be unsettled.”
The edges of Dimas’s vision were almost completely black now. His father was dead, and still it was his voice, his rule, the court held above all else.
“I understand,” Dimas said, “but given the attack on the road, I believe these rumors hold some truth. Even if it isn’t the Haesta we’re facing, it is still a group of rebels committing heresy in their name. We need to quell this quickly.”
“Milos is one of the most dedicated members of the Empire’s Fist I have ever had the pleasure of training,” Roston added, the pride in his voice twisting a still-open wound deep in Dimas’s core.
“He will ensure the mission is undertaken with the utmost discretion. If we are to root out this heresy, my son is our best chance at doing so.”
The tightness in Mirena’s jaw didn’t ease, but she said, “Very well. I will see it done.”
“Then the matter is settled,” said Dimas, the pain beyond his eyes making his stomach churn. “Is there anything else I should know about?”
Mirena and his uncle exchanged a not-so-subtle glance.
Roston cleared his throat. “We received a letter from a Verlondian ambassador. He is on his way to Wyrecia to discuss treaty negotiations.”
Dimas held back a groan. The relationship between Wyrecia and Verlond was … complicated.
Queen Rheda, the first Queen of Verlond, had settled her clan to the south, where the lands were rich with stone and metal.
She built her stronghold around the mountain, and it was rumored her people kept Wyrecia’s forces at bay with old magics.
On her lands, the Fateweaver’s powers were diminished.
Likewise, razeniye, the only natural resource known to suppress magical abilities flourished.
A looming threat to the Fateweaver’s powers.
One that Verlond had guarded fiercely over the years.
Dimas’s father had failed at several treaty attempts with the current monarch, Queen Anja. That Verlond was willing to negotiate now, just as a new Fateweaver was coming into power, was more than a little concerning.
“Surely the ambassador will postpone the visit if we inform him of my father’s and Lady Sefwyn’s passing?” Dimas asked.
“No doubt Queen Anja is already aware something is wrong, what with your father’s and Lady Sefwyn’s continued absence from court.
I imagine this is simply a ruse so she can get one of her spies in to sniff about.
” Roston sighed. “Besides, it is too late to ask her to postpone; the ambassador is already en route and is due to arrive by the end of the week.”
Just in time for the royal funeral. A fresh wave of fear had Dimas clutching the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
If Dimas turned the ambassador away, he risked offending the Verlondian queen and losing any chance of a treaty between the two empires.
No, as ill-timed as it was, Dimas had no choice but to use this opportunity to show Verlond that entering into an alliance with Wyrecia was in their best interest, especially if it meant gaining access to the one mineral that could be used as a fail-safe should his Fateweaver become corrupt. He just hoped he could pull it off.
“Ready a room in the west wing in preparation for his arrival,” Dimas said.
The west wing was where all visiting nobles stayed, and it would be filled once invites to the royal funeral went out.
“If Verlond is willing to talk, then it’s an opportunity we can’t afford to mess up.
Not if the threat of the Haesta turns out to be real. ”
The last time the cult had surfaced, it had taken Wyrecia’s entire army, as well as reinforcements from neighboring lands, to defeat them.
Of course, that had largely been due to the fact that the Furybringer had been leading the Haesta.
Back then, they had channeled the Furybringer’s dark power to strengthen their forces.
Surely without it, and with Lenora on their side, Wyrecia’s own armies stood a chance should they have truly reappeared?
There was too much to think about. Too many ways this could all go wrong. And almost all of them involved his Fateweaver.
It was hard for Dimas to not dwell on what had happened that morning with her vision.
Despite what he’d told her, Lenora was still fighting the bond between them.
His father would have punished her. Would have broken her spirit until she had no fight left.
But Dimas had felt her panic, her fear, when his consciousness had brushed against hers.
She was already too close to losing control; one wrong move could push her over the edge and cause her to become mindlessly bound to her power.
The shadows were creeping into the edges of his mind again, less insistent than they’d been during his connection with Lenora, but still enough to make his head pound.
He’d thought getting his Fateweaver here would be the hard part, that the shadows would no longer plague him, but it seemed they—and the cult he was almost certain was controlling them—weren’t finished with him yet.
“That will be all for today. You are dismissed.”
Dimas needed time to gather his thoughts. To practice his meditations with Iska and find out if she had found anything in her research. More than that, his fingers itched to pick up a paintbrush, to capture the memories of crimson against white snow, of the Haesta’s symbol.
Of a young soldier staring at the sky with unseeing eyes.
He would pour his feelings about the last few weeks into canvas. Preserve them in oils and charcoal. And when he was done, when the shadows darkening his thoughts had finally begun to recede, Dimas could only hope that’s where they would stay.