Chapter 25 Dimas
TWENTY-FIVE
DIMAS
For the first time in his life, Dimas found that he hated silence.
With his stiff collar scratching his neck, the heir stood in the entrance hall of the imperial palace, surrounded by dozens of uniformed guards. None of them spoke. This was not a time for talking.
Nausea rolled in Dimas’s stomach. This funeral—this rite—was a show. A performance orchestrated to show the city that whilst their former emperor and Fateweaver were dead, everything was under control.
Silver, candlelit chandeliers illuminated the large space, their flickering light casting shadows in the large white-and-pale-blue archways.
Dimas shifted uncomfortably, ignoring the look of disapproval General Alraen shot his way.
Once they opened those doors, all eyes would be on him.
He would have to play the perfect grieving heir the people expected to see.
So he would be damned if he wasn’t going to take this short moment of privacy to let his mask slip.
Dimas glanced at the empty space beside him.
He’d considered asking Lenora to attend, but her control over her power was still too unstable to risk parading her in front of the court.
No, he would get through the funeral, say his goodbyes, and then he would tell the people of Novobyrg that their new Fateweaver was with them at last.
“Are you ready, Your Majesty?” his uncle asked, voice echoing through the stone hall.
Dimas clenched his jaw. How could someone ever be ready for this moment?
His relationship with his father had been …
difficult, and Dimas still wasn’t sure how he felt about his death.
He wanted the chance to figure it out in peace, without the eyes of an empire upon him and the weight of his ancestor’s legacy weighing him down.
But that wasn’t an option. Not for the soon-to-be Emperor of Wyrecia.
So, despite the shadows at the edges of his vision, Dimas gave a sharp nod, and as one, the soldiers around him began to move.
They lifted the two objects Dimas hadn’t been able to look at since arriving in the hall: an identical pair of open stone coffins, each engraved with intricate whorls.
Lady Sefwyn was clad in white robes, her golden-red hair unbound save for the bone-comb tucked behind one ear.
She looked beautiful, even in death. As divine as she had in life.
Dimas hesitated before looking toward the second coffin.
His father’s hair had been slicked back into its usual style, his regalia a mirror of Dimas’s own: navy tunic embroidered with silver thread and buttoned with circles of the same color, black breeches overlaid with boots made of the finest leather, and a thick, navy blue cloak lined with fur and fastened with a brooch in the shape of Naebya’s symbol.
Three diamond-shaped stars within a circle, forming the shape of an arrowhead and all interlinked by silver threads.
Three stars for the three elements of the goddess’s power: past, present, and future.
Dimas knew he should take the time to memorize his father’s face. But the memory of his mother lying in an almost exact replica of his father’s coffin had him glancing up at the domed ceiling above him.
Once the coffins were securely braced on the shoulders of the guards, the doors to the imperial palace opened.
Dimas sucked in a breath at the sight. He took in the hundreds of people who had crowded into the streets surrounding the palace. Each of them wore some variation of the royal colors, their figures cutting a somber sight against the frosted backdrop of the city.
He’d never seen Novobyrg so quiet. Even the children were silent, their tiny mouths tightly shut, their hands clasped around wooden icons of their matron goddess.
The city itself was ablaze with candlelight, tiny flames lining the path the guards had cleared for the walk through the city.
Only the inner court and invited members of nobility were allowed inside the church for the funeral, but this procession allowed the citizens of Novobyrg to say their goodbyes.
Dimas managed to keep his gaze fixed straight ahead for most of the walk, the familiar presence of Ioseph at his side keeping him calm.
Eager citizens lined the path the guards had cleared, their whispered prayers and tears making Dimas’s stomach twist. Their words should have brought him comfort, but they only made one thing more apparent.
Not everyone was praying.
As the procession moved farther away from the palace, tears turned to cold indifference.
Dimas tried to ignore the darkness he saw lurking behind some of the onlooker’s faces, reminding himself that whilst the people beyond the safety of the imperial city might dare to rebel, those fortunate to live within its walls never would.
Yet as a heavy fog descended over the streets and clouds gathered overhead, he found he wasn’t so sure.
He kept his head high, his gaze fixed forward, for the rest of the walk. It didn’t take long for the procession to reach its destination, but as the familiar iron gates of Naebya’s Church came into view, Dimas felt like hours had passed.
Brother Dunstan was waiting for them outside. He offered Dimas a small, sympathetic smile as he approached, his ceremonial robes swaying in the wind.
And then he was leading the procession through the grounds, past stone statues of former Fateweavers.
His father had brought him here once as a child, explaining the names and history behind each statue; whilst each Fateweaver had the ability to conjure visions of the past, present, and future, each vessel tended to have an affinity for one of the three.
Like Lady Sefwyn, Lady Kendre, the Fateweaver of his great grandfather, Emperor Kalren, had been particularly skilled at seeing into the present itself, whilst Lady Danica, the successor to Lady Venysa, had been able to conjure visions of the future almost as easily as breathing.
Vesric had spoken of them all with a reverent sort of awe, yet it had only been when they’d reached the largest—and oldest—statue that the emperor had dropped to his knees.
Dimas had listened in silence whilst his father spoke of the first Fateweaver.
Of how she was the strongest of them all.
A young girl chosen by the ancient Zvaerna themselves to receive Naebya’s blessing and protect Wyrecia from those who wished it harm.
Many Wyrecians still worshipped Venysa as a minor deity, believing her spirit lived on and would grant them favor for their devotion.
“She and the first Ehmar emperor made Wyrecia what it is,” his father had said, touching a hand to his chest as a sign of respect.
Dimas had tried to summon the same awe as his father, but all he’d felt was a cold, endless nothing.
Dimas had barely returned to the gardens since then, and now, as the procession passed the final statue, he couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down his spine.
The church was filled with members of the court and representatives from the empire’s most noble families.
Dimas had greeted them all over the last few days, welcoming them to the palace and showing them to the guest chambers in the west wing.
They all stood as Brother Dunstan stepped through the doors, his boots thudding against the dark stone floor.
But it wasn’t the priest they watched as the procession headed toward the farthest end of the hall, where a small set of stone steps led up to a raised platform.
No, the attendees of the royal funeral were looking at him.
Watching Dimas’s every move. Searching his armor for cracks.
He could practically hear their unspoken words, the whispers about the unfit prince without a Fateweaver at his side.
Dimas clenched his jaw. Patience, his mother had always said. A ruler must always have patience.
He’d endured their whispers for over a decade. Surely he could manage them for a few more days.
The soldiers placed the two coffins down at the center of the platform. Dimas took his place at Brother Dunstan’s side, the weight of everyone’s gaze on him making his mouth dry.
“Thank you all for coming,” the priest said, his voice echoing throughout the hall.
“Today marks the passing of Emperor Vesric Ehmar and his Fateweaver, Lady Sefwyn.
This is a great loss to our empire, and it warms my heart to see so many of you here to pay your respects.
Naebya sees your devotion, and it will be rewarded.
“Before we begin the ceremony, you will each be given a chance to present your offerings.”
A scoff cut through the crowd, louder than a clap of thunder during a summer storm, and the familiar ink of shadows began to bleed into Dimas’s vision. Cold sweat trickled down the back of Dimas’s neck as he searched for the source of the noise.
Brother Dunstan spotted her at the same time Dimas did.
A woman dressed in a nondescript cotton dress, her features obscured by shadow.
Dimas didn’t recognize her as one of the representatives he’d welcomed to Novobyrg over the last few days, and there was nothing on her person to indicate she belonged to a noble family.
Yet she stood from the crowd as if she belonged, her narrow chin raised in defiance.
Brother Dunstan’s eyes narrowed. “Declare yourself.”
The woman tilted her head. “You worry about my name, when you should be worrying about your fate.” She cast her gaze around the room, her lip curling with distaste. “Your goddess has forsaken you, and yet you flock to offer gifts in her name. You are all fools.”
Everything happened quickly after that. One second, the woman was standing among the crowd, her shoulders squared and her eyes defiant. And the next, she was being dragged toward them by two of the general’s soldiers.
But it was his uncle who stepped forward, his chin raised in a haughty manor that was eerily similar to his father. “Your words are heresy, and the price for heresy,” he said, staring down his nose at her, “is death. What say you in your defense?”
The woman did not waver. Dimas couldn’t help but admire her resolve—even if it was pointless. She’d signed her fate the moment she’d opened her mouth.
“Do what you wish. Killing me will not save you from judgment.”
His uncle’s mouth tightened. For a brief second, Dimas wondered if he’d actually do it, if he’d kill this woman in cold blood with a church full of people as his witness.
Dimas couldn’t let that happen. If the Haesta were behind the shadows plaguing him, then this was his chance to find out.
“Arrest her,” Dimas said, hating the tremor in his voice. When the guards hesitated, he added, “I wish to question her before her fate is sealed.”
Dimas expected to see fear in the woman’s expression. Everyone in Wyrecia knew the dungeons were a holding ground, a prison meant to detain you until the Fateweaver decided your fate. Most feared the waiting more than the sentence itself.
Yet this woman looked at him and smiled.
“You have no Fateweaver at your side.” She spat at his feet. “Without one, you hold no sway over us. We do not fear you.”
Dimas blinked against the shadows clouding the edges of his vision. “Take her.”
He didn’t look up into the crowd as the guards dragged the woman away. He could already feel their eyes on him. Could already hear the fear and doubt in the heavy silence that followed.
You have no Fateweaver at your side.
The woman’s words echoed throughout the church, lingering even as Brother Dunstan continued the service.
Dimas clenched his hands into fists, his heart thundering rapidly in his chest. He’d been foolish to think keeping Lenora hidden wouldn’t have consequences.
To hope that the people who had pledged their loyalty to the Ehmar line so many years ago would follow an emperor without a Fateweaver for much longer.
He couldn’t wait for Lenora to be ready. Not with the threat of rebellion already at his door. Dimas cast one final glance at the crowd, his mind made up. He would find out what this heretic knew about his shadows, about their link to whatever was happening to his and his Fateweaver’s bond.
And then, when things had been set right, when there was nothing trying to come between him and his Fateweaver, Dimas would reveal her to the world.