Page 18 of A Matter of Destiny

“Let the record show,” one of the scribes behind me intones in a high, nasal voice, “that one Rayne of the Royal Barracks was on this day inducted into service in His Majesty’s Royal Army, with all the obligations and honors such a position entails.”

There’s another light smattering of applause, and a gong tolls. I let my eyes fall to the sword and uniform in my arms. It’s not the same sword that pierced Eadberh’s leg in the foothills of the Knife’s Edge Mountains, of course, but suddenly that night floods my memories. All the crisp, official uniforms surrounding us. Smoke and fire. Blood and the Royal Seal of His Majesty’s Army.

The back of my mouth tastes bitter as I step away from the throne, holding the sword that had once been all I’d ever wanted out of my life. The only dream I’d ever allowed myself to have. Rayne of His Majesty’s Royal Army. It seems such a small dream, now. Like reaching into a purse and pulling out a handful of ashes.

The Royal Scribe rings a bell, and I take another step backward. Dismissed. My promotion has been noted in the records, my sword assigned, and now His Highness is to move on to the next matter of business. I glance at King Donovan one final time, but his eyes are already on the doors set into the far wall. Already on what’s next.

So I fall into place beside Torold, my hands crossed over my new sword, and watch as the scribes allow the evening string of petitioners into the throne room. My heart thuds dully against my chest. It could have been the Silver City, my mind insists on singing every time the scribes ring their little bell. I could have been with Doshir.

When the scribes smack the gong a final time, officially ending both the session and the day, Ensyvir glides over to me, his black cape flaring behind him like a sentient, malevolent shadow. His eyes shine like polished stone as he runs them over the new uniform and sword in my arms.

“Come, child,” Ensyvir says.

Beside me, Torold mutters something under his breath that sounds a bit like pet and a bit like cunt. I ignore him.

“Tell me, Rayne of His Majesty’s Royal Army,” Ensyvir begins, as he sweeps out of the room. “How would you defeat an enemy who is much more powerful than yourself?”

My breath catches, and my feet stumble. The sword jumps in its scabbard. Ensyvir turns to glare at me, and I spit out the first thing that comes to my mind.

“W-weapons don’t think. Sir,” I stammer.

Ensyvir sighs like he’s the real victim here.

“Permission to think,” he drawls as he pushes open the door to the staircase leading to his tower.

His feet thud on the stone steps as we climb the darkened stairs. My mind churns through my options. What in the nine hells is he expecting me to say? We finally reach the top of the tower but, instead of pushing open the door, he hesitates on the landing, crosses his arms over his chest, and scowls at me.

“Well?” Ensyvir asks. “How would you defeat an enemy? An entire ?”

“Why?” I ask, panting. My arms burn from holding the sword to my chest. “Do you need my advice on defeating a ?”

Ensyvir’s laugh echoes off the walls and raises the hair on the back of my neck. “Oh, my dear child,” he says. “As if anyone would need your advice.”

Anger burns hot against the back of my throat; my grip tightens around the folded uniform and the sword clenched tight to my chest.

“Just consider me curious,” Ensyvir continues. “Imagine this has something you want. Something you deserve, even. How would you go about defeating them?”

I frown. “How many troops do I have?”

“None,” Ensyvir replies. His eyes narrow, and there’s a gleam to them I don’t particularly care for. No matter how I answer this question, I’m sure it will be wrong.

“Then, you can’t,” I reply. “With no troops at your disposal, you have no hope of defeating a powerful enemy.”

Ensyvir laughs again, only this time he’s also shaking his head as though he’s disappointed by my lack of imagination.

“Oh, child,” he says. “It’s the simplest answer in the world. How do you defeat a larger, more powerful enemy?”

He pushes open the door to his tower. The windows are dark, and the only light in the entire room comes from a single lamp on his massive desk. A single lamp that must have been lit by the strange, tall man standing beside his desk with a scarlet cloth wrapped around his head. Varitan, my mind chimes. Ensyvir called that man Varitan.

“All you have to do,” Ensyvir declares, “is find another enemy.”

I blink at the utter nonsense coming out of Ensyvir’s mouth. Ensyvir and Varitan exchange a look, and then they both turn back to me. Something flutters in my chest, like a bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage.

“I don’t understand,” I announce, my gaze flickering back and forth between the two men.

Ensyvir’s lips pull back into a smile that screamsof course you don’t understand.

“All you need to defeat a powerful enemy,” Ensyvir says, raising one hand in the air, “is another enemy.”

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