Page 43 of A Matter of Destiny

I do what my lady requests, running the stiff bristles over the horses as Rayne unpacks the bags and starts a fire. By the time I’m done, Rayne has spread oats for the horses and nestled a small black kettle in the flames of her campfire. She’s laid out bedrolls on opposite sides of the fire, I note ruefully. Perhaps she didn’t want to presume, or perhaps she’s just had enough of me. I try not to think about it as I take a seat next to her, sighing as my muscles surrender to gravity. Rayne hands me a small package wrapped in parchment paper.

“I have no idea where this came from,” Rayne tells me, lifting her own parchment-wrapped package, “but it’s good.”

I untie the twine holding the thing together and find a wedge of hard elven cheese, slices of salami as thick as gold coins, a biscuit that should be smashed to crumbs but is instead as light and flaky as a pie crust, and a tiny, sweet apple. We eat in silence as steam rises from the kettle before us. When it sings, Rayne pulls it off the flames and fills two wooden mugs. The scent of sweet herbal tea twists through the smoke.

“There’s also this,” Rayne says, pulling out another, smaller package.

She unties the twine like she’s revealing a present. Inside are a half dozen perfectly round little cookies. A rush of tears pricks my eyelids, stinging as they push for release.

“What is it?” Rayne asks, sniffing at the little package as if perhaps she suspects it’s poisoned.

“Cookies,” I reply. “Lemon cookies.”

My voice cracks on the last syllable, pain fracturing the word, making it sharp as it drifts up into the stars. Rayne says nothing. Memories dance like smoke through the air. My favorite bakery, just down the street from the store my father opened a lifetime ago, when it started to become clear that he and my mother were no longer able to tolerate each other’s presence. My mother, sitting in that store in her prim dress, wrinkling her nose over one of those cookies. Refusing to acknowledge the pleasures of the human form, the joy inherent in the flavor of citrus and sweetness, flavors denied to us while in draconic form.

Rayne holds the package out to me. I blink, wipe away the swell of tears, and then pull a cookie from the parchment. How did Elyon know these were my favorite? Was it just a coincidence, or were these cookies evidence of his meticulous attention to detail?

“They’re good,” Rayne says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I finally bring one to my lips, letting the bite of lemon and the buttery crumb melt across my tongue. Yes, these came from the bakery just down the street from my store. Or, more accurately, the bakery just down the street from the ruined, smoking empty lot that used to be my store.

I swallow, and the crumbs scrape against the inside of my throat. I can’t imagine I’ll ever be welcome in Cairncliff again. I’ve lost my shop, my home, and now I’ve lost this bakery as well. My eyes sting; I blink, then tilt my head to stare at the emptiness above us. It feels like the entire world is shifting beneath my feet, and it’s leaving me behind.

“She never told me she was the queen,” I say. “My mother. She told everyone else, but—”

My own voice almost surprises me. Something soft and warm wraps around my hand. I glance down and see Rayne’s fingers, ridged with the white and scarlet bands of scar tissue she was always so careful to hide in Valgros.

“Maybe,” Rayne begins, in a voice that’s as soft and tentative as the touch of her hand on mine, “she didn’t want you to know.”

I try to laugh, but it comes out as more of a snort. The stars sway behind my tears.

“Maybe she wanted to have one person in her life who didn’t think of her as the queen,” Rayne says. “Who just saw her, and not her position.”

I run the back of my hand across my eyes and try to shrug. It makes a strange sort of sense, Rayne’s explanation, but it also leaves me feeling hollow, like I’ve been gutted and hung up to dry. I turn back to Rayne. She’s set the package of cookies down beside the fire, and she’s holding her empty wooden mug with both hands. Exhaustion has bled the color from her face and left shadows beneath her eyes.

Mothers above, she’s so beautiful that it hurts, a slow, dull ache just below my breastbone. All the chaos that comes alongside the burn of love rushes into that hollow place in my chest as I watch her; the ache, the impossible wishes, the urge to protect this one woman above all else. Yet here I am, leading her on a ridiculous mission to sneak into the Iron Mountains in a half-assed attempt to outwit Rensivar himself. Shit. What kind of love is that?

“Rayne,” I begin.

She turns to meet my gaze, and those wide, cerulean eyes almost break me.

“You don’t need to do this. Really. If you want to go back to Valgros—” I begin, my voice cracking once more.

Rayne shakes her head.

“I don’t,” she says.

It’s almost a whisper, but there’s a sense of finality to those words that makes me think of dropping a stone down a long, dark well. Grief and fear and the knotted tangles of love twist together inside my chest and force out my next words.

“But, your king,” I say.

She meets my eyes. The air between us grows thick, charged with something that might be magic, and I feel almost like I’m about to shift into another form.

“I found him,” Rayne finally says. “The night you escaped. His wedding night. I snuck past his guards, forced my way into his bedchamber.”

My chest pulls tight at the mention of his bedchamber. Rayne continues, her voice like the blade of a knife.

“I told him what I’d found,” she says. “His signet ring in Ensyvir’s tower. The seat of all his power, all his authority, under someone else’s control.”

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