Page 13 of A Matter of Destiny

I blink as my vision swims. My heart thuds frantically inside the cage of my ribs. Do not look at the closed doors, I tell myself. Do. Not.

“Didn’t you wonder what he saw in a freak like you?” Ensyvir snarls, with a pointed look at the black leather glove hiding my scarred hand. “Didn’t you wonder why a man like that would follow someone like you all the way to Valgros?”

Something hot and warm, almost like relief, spreads through my chest. If this is what Ensyvir thinks, then kings help us, he doesn’t know the truth. He has no idea what happened between me and Doshir, aside from what I told him and the gossip he probably trawled from the Valorous Arms. And, as long as Ensyvir is here slapping me and insulting me, he’s not searching for Doshir and his mother.

“You were weak,” Ensyvir spits. “You let yourself get used. Pathetic woman.”

My spine feels as hard as cold-forged steel. This man knows nothing about what happened, and he knows nothing at all about me. I grit my teeth, force myself to meet Ensyvir’s gaze, and tell him exactly what he wants to hear.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Sir.”

Ensyvir snorts, then looks at me like he’s thinking of slapping me again. I don’t flinch. In my experience, punishment is always worse if you try to avoid it.

“Yes,” Ensyvir finally says, his voice twisting in a way that sends a shiver down the back of my spine. “Yes, I bet you are, child. Now, have you learned a lesson this morning, Rayne?”

I nod. “Yes, Sir,” I reply.

I’ve learned that you know nothing about Doshir. I’ve learned that I can keep you here, away from Cairncliff. And I’ve learned what answer you’re expecting.

“Weapons don’t think,” I say.

Ensyvir’s lips part, showing more of his teeth. So many teeth.

“Yes, Rayne,” he says in a soft, velvet tone that’s somehow even worse than his rage. “You’re too stupid to make decisions, my dear. The weapon doesn’t point itself. The weapon goes where it is aimed.”

Rage burns the inside of my chest like dragonfire, but I force myself to nod. Ensyvir turns on his heels, exposing his vulnerable back. Exposing the spot on the nape of his neck where I could bring this training staff down on his spine. My fingers tighten around the smooth wooden shaft in my hand.

Ensyvir turns back to me like he could sense the nascent thoughts swirling inside my skull. He waves his hand toward the door with a distracted scowl, as though he’s already half-forgotten about me.

“Dismissed,” he says. “Go do whatever it is weapons do. Train, or something.”

I walk out of his quarters with my shoulders back and my spine straight, ready to do whatever it is weapons do.

Chapter8

Doshir

Iglance down at my glass and try to act like I don’t notice Eadberh’s sudden, intense interest in our conversation. Beside me, a fire flickers lazily on the grate. It’s not cold enough for a fire, not now that Cairncliff is sliding blissfully into yet another lazy summer of sunburned tourists drinking frostwine in street cafes, but I like the ambiance. There’s nothing like the cozy glow of a fire on your own hearth. Well, that plus a glass of elven brandy.

Besides, tonight I’m celebrating finally breaking out of the back room of Ailen’s shop, where I’d been trapped in a comfortable bed and tortured with daily antiseptic washes. Eadberh hired a coach to take me home earlier this morning and, while dragons don’t usually deign to ride in coaches, my shoulder is still too damn painful for me to feel particularly enthusiastic about walking halfway across Cairncliff. In gratitude, I’d invited Eadberh to join Ailen, Olin, and me for dinner, and then for dessert, and now, after Ailen and Olin both said their goodnights, for after dinner drinks.

“So,” Eadberh says, frowning into his second glass of brandy. Or maybe his third. “You’re saying anyone can get married in Cairncliff?”

“Well, not anyone,” I reply. “They have to be adults, and consenting of course, and they can’t be drunk or any nonsense like that. Plus, there’s paperwork to complete and a fee for the license.”

Eadberh waves his glass in the air between our red velvet overstuffed armchairs.

“But, you’re saying any adults can marry each other?” he asks.

Mothers above, I can only imagine how odd this must sound to someone from Valgros. I take another sip of the one glass of elven brandy I’m allowing myself, given my injuries, and try not to smile.

“Of course,” I answer. “As long as they’re old enough, and they file the requisite paperwork, any two people— or three, or sometimes more— can make a go at the legal state of matrimony.”

Eadberh snorts a laugh, then turns to me with a sort of sparkle in his eyes.

“You’re saying an elf and a dwarf—” he begins.

His voice fades, and I chuckle.

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