Fatetress

By Julia Skinner

Maize ran her fingers along the fresh scars trailing her arm as she stared at the king’s latest request. The white suit lay draped across her red-wood weaving desk. Make this suit so that its wearer is immortal, the king’s messenger had told her. Then, perhaps, will you be forgiven.

Strands of afternoon light shimmered through the single, ruby window in her cabin, dappling the floorboards as if splattered in blood.

They might as well have been.

She reached for the silky clothing. King Eronn had asked her for jewels that gave him great strength, for good luck charms, and the like. But he had never asked such a thing as this. Maize tightened her fist around the spotless fabric.

This time the king asked for her to die.

Then, perhaps, will you be forgiven.

Numbly, Maize picked up the knife she always kept on her desk. In order to twist fate to your whim, you had to draw blood from yourself. Smaller spells required only a small amount of fresh blood. But immortality… that wasn’t just twisting fate, it was stealing something from it, and in return, it would require something to be given. Something more than mere blood.

“You deserve this,” she hissed to her shaking hands. “For all you failed to do.”

She forced herself to remember the scarlet, deep and harsh, covering the marble floor of the palace. She forced herself to remember the little boy she was supposed to protect, his robe drenched in blood. Three years. Three years since rebels murdered the king’s son.

All because she hadn’t been fast enough.

The air in her lungs burned, choking her from the inside. Why didn’t you do more? she thought, angrily. She should have done more. She should have saved him.

A knock jerked her from her memories, and she looked up at the cabin’s door. Who—?

Maize slipped the knife beneath the suit and tugged down the sleeves of her sweater to hide the scars. To hide her failures. Hesitantly, she stepped toward the door and pulled it open. An older woman stood there, red hair just beginning to grey. Tenna. One of the new palace maids.

“Aye, Fatetress.” Tenna smiled. “How are you doing, dear?”

The woman had been insistent on asking her that every time their paths crossed. But Maize didn’t deserve for anyone to ask after her wellbeing. She frowned. “May I help—”

The palace alarm suddenly pealed across the courtyard and Maize froze. It took a few heartbeats for the meaning behind the blaring to register.

The king! She pivoted away from Tenna and stumbled back into her cottage. That siren meant the palace—and therefore the king—was being attacked. She swept the suit and knife in her arms, and turned, slamming into old Tenna, who had apparently followed her in.

“Oof.” Tenna staggered back.

Maize bolted around the older woman and ran across the courtyard that separated her cottage from the palace. The king must stay safe. That was all that mattered.

But what about you? a scared part of her whispered.

“I don’t deserve any protection,” she muttered, dashing to one of the palace’s side doors. Jogging through the hallways, she almost felt as if she were back in that bloody night, running for help that would come too late.

Shouts and clashing metal echoed through the broad hallways. She skid to a halt. Ahead was the throne room. That’s probably where the king is. She just needed to make the spell before the attackers arrived. Trembling, Maize shook the suit out. No knife. Where—? Footsteps shuffled behind her. Maize whirled around.

It was Tenna, holding Maize’s weaver knife.

“You do not need to do this,” Tenna said softly.

“Just… just give me that!” Maize clenched the king’s suit in her fist. She could see the prince’s eyes, so trusting. So confident she would keep him safe… I can’t fail again.

“I know perfectly well what happened with the first rebel attack when the prince died,” the older woman said, voice calm. As if she wasn’t aware that the king could be dying right now. All because of me, Maize thought. Failure. Failure. Failure.

“And you did fail, child,” Tenna continued. “You failed terribly.”

The rage inside Maize suddenly stilled. Silent. Frozen. She sank to the cold floor. Your fault, the distant shouts seemed to scream. You must pay. “I have to save him,” she whispered, pressing the suit to her chest. All she saw were the little prince’s lifeless eyes all over again. I failed. He died because I couldn’t… I wasn’t fast enough.

“Oh child,” Tenna said. “Don’t you know? You failed, yes, but one death is enough.” She knelt, gently setting the knife in Maize’s hand. Then she pulled back her own sleeves, revealing wrinkled arms carved with old scars. “Every failure,” the woman said. “Every failure is here. And do you know what I’ve found? I have found that no amount of blood, or pain, or blame can ever change the past.”

Maize stared. She’d never thought… Tenna was a Fatetress?

“People fail,” Tenna said, standing. “But you need not punish yourself for it like this, child.”

A hiccupy sob rose in Maize’s throat. “I have to… to make it right.”

“Perhaps, but there are better ways than this.”

Maize clenched the knife, staring at the white suit in her other hand.

“Leave the fabric, child,” Tenna whispered. “Come help me save the king.”

“But…” You’re such a failure. The words mocked her, scarlet dancing through her vision. But maybe, maybe there was another way to be forgiven. Maize tore her gaze from her weaving tools. “There’s… a different way to save the king?”

“Aye.”

Maize forced herself to place the suit and knife on the ground. “How?” she asked, stumbling upright.

Tenna smiled. “I’m going to teach you how to actually weave fate.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julia Skinner is a seventeen year old writer, blogger, and ice cream enthusiast. When she’s not working on one of her (many) Sci-Fi Fantasy novels, she can be found playing video games, happy-ranting about one of Brandon Sanderson’s books, or wondering just how many germs are on the door handle. Julia strives to bring glory to her Savior, Jesus Christ, and if any good comes from her journey, it’s because of Him.

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