Page 22 of A Matter of Destiny

“Strange news,” Elyon replies. Naturally, he makes me wait a few minutes before continuing. “The armies of Valgros appear to have left the Isles and allied with Cassonia,” he finally says, once we’ve rounded another corner.

It’s exactly what Rayne told me. I try to make an appropriately surprised sort of huff.

“Why?” I ask. “What’s the benefit in that?”

“That’s where it gets strange,” Elyon murmurs in Draconic.

We’ve reached the end of the street. I glance at Elyon as moonlight washes his delicate features in silver. We’re standing before a handful of abandoned fishing vessels slowly sinking into the harbor, and we’re quite far from the pubs and brothels that might still hold a few curious eyes. Still, I cross the open street warily and wait until we’re in the shadows of the derelicts before speaking.

“Tell me,” I whisper, meeting Elyon’s gaze for the first time.

Elyon has served as the Southern Elven Ambassador to the Iron Mountains for as long as I can remember. As such, he’s displayed all the emotional range of a particularly smooth slab of marble. I can’t ever remember a time when he looked like he had the slightest interest in the news he was delivering. He’s never even looked interested in the affairs he actively manages. So the slight wrinkle that’s just appeared between his eyes makes me feel like the world has gone cold.

“The armies are massing on the slopes of the Iron Mountains,” Elyon whispers.

A shiver trembles up the back of my neck. The line between Elyon’s eyes deepens.

“But Cassonia is an official ally of the dragons,” I say. “Why would they—”

Elyon shakes his head as if he’s cutting me off.

“I have no idea,” he replies, with a sniff. “Dragons tend not to concern themselves with the affairs of humans. I’ve heard the Council is not particularly interested in the movements of human armies, and the Throne of Claws is silent on the matter.”

The Throne of Claws. An unpleasant memory claws its way to the surface, tugging ghosts of pain. Dragonsbane coated daggers. Rensivar gloating through the hot screen of my tears, snarling that my mother’s time would come to an end. Her time on the throne.

But that couldn’t be right. She was the Champion of the Throne, not the throne itself. That must have been what Rensivar meant. I pull in a deep breath, thick with the scent of rotting lumber and discarded fish intestines.

“Cassonia claims it’s only training in the mountains, and that the armies of Valgros were a wedding gift,” Elyon continues. “That answer seems to mollify the Council.”

Elyon frowns, the most overt display of emotion I’ve ever seen on the man. If he were a dwarf, this would be the equivalent of grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking the piss out of me.

“But why does this worry you?” I ask. “Elves don’t typically concern themselves with the movements of human armies either.”

Elyon lifts his eyes toward the city, as if he’s worried that we’re being watched, then drops his gaze back to me.

“There’s been trouble in the Silver City,” he whispers. “I doubt it’s related, but it’s my role to be concerned. It would be suicide for the armies of Cassonia and Valgros to attack the Iron Mountains. Even combined, their forces would be nothing more than an annoyance to the dragons. But—”

His voice fades; something low and cold tightens in my gut. It’s been a long time since I’ve been afraid of something that might come to pass. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like.

“They’re humans,” I say, as if that answers everything.

Elyon nods. They’re humans, which means they’re inherently unpredictable. They don’t follow the rules like the rest of us. What’s worse, I now know that Valgros isn’t led by a human, although I don’t dare share that information with Elyon yet. Rensivar the Wicked is pulling on the strings that control the Valgros Army, and perhaps the Cassonia army as well.

And perhaps Rayne. Joining the Valgros Army was her dream, after all. For all I know, Rensivar told King Donovan that the best way to reward Rayne’s loyalty was to put her in the very front of the suicide squad he’s positioning to attack the Iron Mountains.

I curse under my breath, then run my hands up my arms to disguise my shiver. Mothers above, I need to get a message to Valgros. I need to get a message to Rayne.

Although what exactly that message would say is still up for debate. Come here, perhaps? Abandon your lifelong aspirations and come back to Cairncliff to be with the man you rejected? I try to shove that thought down as far as it can go and clear my throat, forcing my focus back into the moment.

“The Historian,” I ask, as if the thought had just occurred to me and hasn’t been keeping me up ever since I dragged my mother back to Cairncliff. “Has he returned to the Iron Mountains yet?”

Elyon shakes his head.

“Not to my knowledge,” he replies, and he’s once again the prim diplomat I’ve known for most of my life, the elven representative who worries about nothing. But his eyes narrow slightly as he stares at me.

“Is that why you contacted me?” he asks.

I scoff, like the very idea is ridiculous, although that’s exactly why I contacted him. I need to know if it’s safe for my mother to return. And I need her to return. Soon, before Ailen’s remedies stop working.

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