Page 57 of A Matter of Destiny

The Throne of Claws. That has to be it. I’d been expecting, well, a throne, something like the carved ebony chair draped with royal crimson and Valgros blue that King Donovan sat on when he had to perform some royal function. But what use would a dragon have for something with a high back and a narrow seat?

No, a dragon would need something long and squat, something that could support the length of their body. Something they could twist their claws into.

I swallow, then force my lips open.

“Is—” I stammer. “Is that—”

“The Throne of Claws,” Wendolyn purrs. She’s looking at the twisted mass of dark metal the way a woman might stare at her newborn child. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I manage to make a noise in the back of my throat, something that I hope passes for agreement. The Throne of Claws is so dark it seems to pull the light from the sky above it.

It does not, in any way, look like something that could be destroyed. The thought should probably be comforting, but instead, it makes me feel hollow.

“It was made by the dwarves,” Doshir says, from beside me.

“As a sign of their subservience,” Wendolyn adds.

“Well, that’s debatable—” Doshir replies.

Wendolyn snorts, cutting him off. Her tail flicks against the stone at her feet. The Throne of Claws sits like an anchor against the tarn, and its reflection in the smooth surface of the water is as black as the underside of a mountain. If that thing had a voice, it would sound like the rasp of stone against metal.

“What is it even made of?” I ask.

Wendolyn makes a purring sound.

“They call it nightmare steel,” she says. “Flame can’t touch it. Not even dragonfire can make it bend.”

“And it blocks magic,” Doshir adds. “No one standing near it can cast a spell, or shift forms. That’s one of the more practical elements,” he adds, and there’s an edge in his voice that makes me think this conversation is stirring up old memories with Wendolyn that are not especially pleasant.

“They say nightmare steel can even trap an old god,” Wendolyn adds, with a note of pride in her voice.

Doshir sighs. “And that would be one of the less practical elements.”

I wrinkle my nose at the apparently unbreakable thing I’m destined to destroy. And then it comes again, the scent of smoke. I tilt my neck, raising my head as high as I can, and inhale deeply. No, it’s not just smoke. It’s cooking fire and sweat, manure and metal.

That’s the smell of a human army. I remember the encampment Rensivar showed me after we’d flown from Valgros, with its neat little lines of torches and white canvas tents. I don’t see anything like that here. But I do smell it.

“That smell,” I say.

Wendolyn wrinkles her nose. “Yes. The human army. Repulsive, isn’t it?”

“What human army?” Doshir asks.

Wendolyn twists her neck toward the series of cliffs just beyond the pine trees.

“They’re camped below the cliffs,” she sniffs. “The Mothers only know what they’re planning to do from all the way down there.”

I lift my head again, then close my eyes. The scent thins, then deepens, moving along invisible rivers of wind. I twist, trying to follow it, then open my eyes again.

I’m facing the ridge. The rocky slope of the cirque fills my vision, swallowing the vanishing stars in the sky. I take another deep breath. The air smells of cold water and stone, pine pitch and the secret, hidden scent of the tiny flowers scattered across the alpine meadow.

And humans. Sweat and iron, roasting meat and woodsmoke. It’s almost the scent of the Royal Barracks, the smell of coming home.

Well, it’s not home anymore. And it seems to be coming from the top of the ridge, not down the cliffs. I turn back to Wendolyn.

“Show me,” I say.

Wendolyn’s back stiffens. Her tail thuds against the stones at her feet.

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