Page 68 of A Matter of Destiny

My heart thuds against my breastbone, and it’s all I can do to keep my damned tongue from asking if any of those incoming dragons are golden.

Anslo nods, then leans close to the guard. He whispers something I can’t make out while gesturing at the mountainside. The setting sun has turned the stones the color of rust, or blood, and painted the faces of the men lining up along the ridge. The guard gestures up the hill, nodding at the line of soldiers making their silent way up the path, their swords carefully muffled with bits of linen or leather.

They are all from Valgros. I’ve watched their faces, examined the insignias stitched onto their uniforms, and searched desperately for any sign of the armies of Cassonia that were supposed to be joining our forces. But no. Apparently, Valgros stands alone.

I’d tried to pry information from Anslo, but he’d been unusually tight-lipped. Either he’d realized I was prying, or he didn’t know the plan himself. All he’d said was that I’d cross over as soon as it was dark. And he’d said there would be dragons.

With a final, stern nod, the guard departs. I watch him join a line of men winding their way up toward the lip of the ridge through stones stained crimson by the setting sun. They look like they’re wading through blood; I shiver, then turn away.

“Rayne,” Anslo whispers.

I nod, trying to pull myself together. I’ve borrowed boots, a tunic, and leather pants, none of which fit well. No one offered me a weapon, and I didn’t push the issue. No one’s offered to join me when I go over the edge either.

Anslo drops from the shaded stone embankment holding the army’s supplies, and I follow. He’s waiting for me with a strange look on his face, almost like he’s trying to remember something he’s forgotten. Or like he really, really needs to find the latrine.

“We’ll follow the wire,” he whispers. “Once we’re at the top, I’ll show you the path.”

His frown deepens.

“Remember,” he says, “once we’re in the open, not a sound.”

I nod as my gaze drifts over the army climbing silently through the fading light.

“Dragons have ears,” I whisper, repeating the phrase I’ve already been told a dozen times today.

Anslo gives me a sharp little nod, then hisses in a breath. The sound of beating wings fills the air, thudding like a giant heart. My neck cranes back and I watch as a dark figure flies over the edge of the ridge. Wind from its wing beats washes over my face and stirs the dust at my feet. On the ridge, the army freezes, and fierce, desperate admiration pushes against the back of my throat and stings my eyes.

They’re hidden by magic that makes them invisible, but still, it takes courage to stand beneath the beating wings of a dragon. And they are so brave, these men of Valgros. His Majesty King Donovan’s Royal Army, trained to climb a mountain in silence, beneath the claws of a of dragons. They’re a weapon, elegant and strong, pointed at the heart of something they do not understand, fighting a battle that has nothing to do with them.

“Rayne,” Anslo growls, and I realize I stepped off the path.

I was heading for the top of the ridge, for the shadows swelling beneath the blood-red stones. And, in my sudden rush of pride and horror, I was reaching for my own draconic form, as though my fire and fury could end this stupid waste. Trembling, I step back onto the path. My hands are shaking; I suddenly feel cold.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

Anslo shakes his head.

“Let’s move,” he says.

Without waiting for me to answer, he turns toward the mountain. I follow, making sure my feet stay on the path, careful not to dislodge any stones as I climb in silence, accompanied by the breath and creaking armor of the men I’ve fought and trained and bled with for my entire life.

Near the top of the ridge, Anslo slips off to the left. Three more dragons have flown above us, two almost white and one a deep, verdant green. Every time a dragon crests the ridge, the army has come to a full stop. Now it’s clear they’re arranging in an attack formation along the top of the ridge, with the infantry positioned between archers silently loading massive, ground-mounted crossbows. The fading light glints off the serrated metal tips of the crossbow bolts, and for a moment I feel like I’m going to be sick.

Something warm closes over my wrist. I pull my attention away from the crossbows and meet Anslo’s gaze. He’s scowling in a way that always put me on edge, worried I’d have to dance around another one of his moods. Then he narrows his eyes and jabs his finger at the mountainside.

The ridge dips here, forming a jagged mouth that yawns open to the other side, where the dragons are assembling for the Queensmoot. A single silver wire threads through the gap, as thin as spider silk. I nod at Anslo, trying to remember exactly what this part of the mountain looked like. Anslo and I must be almost to the cliffs and to the little pine grove at the edge of the cirque that holds the Tarn of the Maiden. The Valgros army is spread across this entire ridge line, which will give them excellent aim into the natural amphitheater surrounding the placid little tarn. And all the dragons assembling in that amphitheater.

But they’re going up against dragons. The silver wires lining the ridge may keep them invisible, but how hard will it be for the dragons to determine where the crossbow bolts must be coming from? One wash of dragonfire across the top of this ridge could take out an entire company.

Something twists in my chest, and I realize I’m reaching for my draconic form again. I clench my fists, picturing myself shifting into a dragon right here, in front of my first lover. I imagine flapping my wings and wonder if I would even make it over the ridge before one of the crossbow bolts from Valgros pierced my wings. And then the dragons would know where the army is. And the brave men of Valgros would be slaughtered.

Something hard and hot rises in the back of my throat; I try to swallow it. Anslo frowns at me like he’s asking if I have any questions. I stare at him, my eyes stinging in the gathering dusk, remembering that day in the marketplace. How he’d smiled at his wife in a way that I’d never seen him smile before, as if the two of them had a secret they’d kept hidden from the rest of the world.

It had felt like a dagger in my chest at the time, but now it aches in a different way. I can picture Anslo’s death in a half-dozen ways, through dragonfire or dragon talons or simply falling down the mountainside. And where will that leave the woman whose basket he’d carried through the marketplace, the wife who waits for him back in Valgros?

Anslo huffs, his eyes narrowing. He’s running out of patience. I stare at the narrow gap in the ridge where he’s thrust his finger. Clearly, that’s the path over the edge. That’s what’s going to lead me to the General, whoever he is.

Leather scrapes against stone as Anslo shifts backward. He crosses his arms over his chest, frowns, and then huffs. Slowly, he extends his right hand, his open palm flashing in the last of the light.

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