Page 11 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

MYLA’S MOTHER USED to tell her heartbreak was the worst emotion a human body could endure, that it left its mark in deeper ways than scars ever could. Having felt heartbreak on multiple counts, Myla disagrees now. She now knows, guilt is a far worse feeling. Guilt, and heartbreak paired, however, is a bitter coupling.

A sob catches in her throat. They have been traveling for an hour, the rocky terrain and towering mass of trees engulfing them into the nothingness of the land. Every bit of her wants to turn back and meet the morning, dead alongside her people, her best friends, and even her father.

Unfortunately, Bryar is well-versed in the stupidity that propels grieving people, and he trudges behind her, watchful of her every move. Turning back is impossible with him as her escort. In any other situation, being his prisoner would seem exhilarating. Tonight, it feels like a betrayal.

Myla thinks back to a few hours ago. Imagine, you thought you could win this. Visions of her father, being so fucking useless, plague her. Though, he is most likely dead now, the terrifying realization that she does not care weighs heavily. His face when he heard Vesperian refer to Bryar as her lover. It was not the topic a father watching his daughter face her death should have focused on. I have always been his steppingstone. Of course, my death would not affect him. I already cleared his path into the throne room. I made him a queen’s father.

“We need to stop and find shelter soon.” Bryar breaks the silence and her dark train of thought, increasing his stride to move alongside her. His hand finds hers, helping Myla up a steep incline. “Let us make for the cliffside.”

Myla follows in silence, ignoring the ache in her feet as well as the cramping in her stomach. “You mean Druid’s Cave.” A place all-too familiar. She shivers, sidestepping a fallen tree blanketed in richly colored moss.

The sun has hidden its face behind the mountains, and fireflies have set the forest aglow. It is peaceful, considering the circumstances for their journey, but not even the magic of the forest can move Myla’s mind from the cold that must be settling over her palace as she moves further away. Her throne room, where subjects pledged fealty to her a week ago, now their crypt. Bitter tears sting her red eyelids as visions of Elsa lying dead on the cold tile sabotage her mind. She remains trapped in this tortured thought until Bryar stops her.

They stand, partially shrouded in a thick mist at the base of the mountains, an ancient location the druids visit for their Wheel of the Year sabbats. Myla used to visit here with her mother often, before her father was made a member of the Council. Witchcraft was not frowned upon, but a king’s Council member certainly could not have a wife and daughter who were known to mingle with the old pagans. Their visits to Druid’s Cave became less frequent, and always under the cover of darkness, after his promotion to society.

Standing here now, the earth feels solid and familiar. Sacred ground for sacred purposes, and she, an unworthy visitor.

“The cave you brought me to.” Bryar points ahead at the gaping mouth of the pitch-black cave. “It seemed more welcoming the last time we were here.”

Myla brushes past him, briefly taking note of the tatters his cloak is in before trudging past. “I suppose that is what hiding like cowards does. The last time we were here was for a celebration, not because we abandoned our friends and family to death.”

Bryar seizes her hand, stopping her with a small lurch. “You are not a coward.” His eyes catch in the moonlight, reflecting earnestly. “You are brave. He would have killed you if you had stayed.”

Myla faces him squarely, her chin tilted in defiance. “Tell me, Bryar. What good is a queen who will not die alongside her people? What good are my people’s oaths to die for me, if I will not die for them ?”

Bryar frowns and releases her hand, clearly angered. “What good is a dead queen? What good is a dead queen to the child inside her womb who is our only hope of truly cleansing the realm of the Blood Stealer?” It is his turn to walk now, leaving her behind in the darkness of the old trees. “Your people died with honor. Do not rob them of that honor by loathing your survival.”

They enter the cave, and Bryar kneels to coax a flame into the circle of stones, which has warmed many travelers and worshipers before. At first, the spitting of embers fizzling at his palms does not strike Myla as odd. Within seconds, however, his hand glows like an iron from a smithy’s furnace and the blaze erupting is massive, causing Myla to step out of the cave entirely.

“What the hell—” she coughs, choking on the smoke wafting out of the cave.

Bryar exits, shaking his palm and cringing, the heat clearly more than he is used to. “I did not mean to do that.”

“I can see that!” Myla exclaims, reaching to examine his hand. “Are you okay?” Her eyes travel to the wound in his arm, tied with a strip torn from his cloak.

“Yes,” he mutters, walking back into the cave. “Wait there. I will get the fire started and bring you back in when it is ready.”

Soon enough, Bryar has it warm and illuminated inside the cave. The lick of the fire heats Myla’s face and causes her shadow to dance on the smooth rock alcove behind her. Across the fire and lying on his side facing away from her is Bryar. He is silent and unmoving, though the grip on his sword tells Myla he is still awake. She has never felt anger toward a person she loves the way she does now.

Myla replays over in her head how he pulled her from the palace, listening to her shriek objections and beg him to put her down. Her pleading fell on deaf ears, as he took her further and further away from the very place she was most needed. Even now, she looks on him and feels the deep cut of betrayal, knowing any attempts to return would be intercepted. Her loyalty is to her people and his is to her.

They are silent, Bryar pretending to sleep, and Myla sitting, leaning against the wall of the cave, her mind drifting in and out of anger and memories.

Like the day she was taken to the Institute of Mystic Arts by her father. Or the evaluation of her natural abilities, which propelled her right into the arms of Caius. Her parents beamed with pride as the Grand Mage had told them a Conveyer of the Voice of the Gods had not been documented in a century. Her gift was a sacred honor; it was the kind that changed her course entirely. Before that day, she was not the kind of match the king was looking for. A king with ethereal magic needed a queen of equal power. And suddenly, there she was.

“Bryar,” Myla whispers, watching as he slowly rolls to face her. “I wish I had listened to you and never gone to the Grand Mage.”

A slight smile threatens to erase the glum look on his face. “I had more exciting plans for you that day.” They both smile, and Bryar sits up, jabbing the toe of his boot against a displaced log, probing it back into the fire. “This was the right path for you,” he says. “You were meant for this. The Gods will not fail you.”

“I am not afraid of them failing me, Bryar.”

“Then what?” he asks.

“I am afraid of me failing them.” She places a hand on her belly. “I am afraid of failing her.”

His brow furrows. “Her? How do you know?”

Myla smiles, offers a slight shrug, and responds, “It is just a hunch. And I do not want to fail her, like I failed Elsa today. And every other person I left behind.” Myla’s voice cracks, a fresh wave of sobs slipping through her stoic cracks. Bryar moves to sit next to her, his strong arms pulling her into him.

“Myla, failing is allowing yourself to become small and breakable. Failing would be to stop trying. Elsa would never want you to give up. So, honor her by getting up in the morning and doing whatever you have to do to see the sun set again and again and again until Vesperian lies dead at your feet.”

A gentle hand strokes the crown of her head, brushing dark wisps of stray hair out of her face. No response is necessary. He is right, though his truth is a painful one. Persevering is painful, and this night, Myla wonders how she will wake and walk further from her people.

“Did you see how my father looked today?” Myla asks, allowing her head to slump against Bryar’s shoulder. “I have questioned his loyalty for a long time now, but watching him in the throne room today has shed new light upon it.”

“He certainly was not trying to help you,” Bryar answers, taking a deep breath of frustration. “I have questioned his motives for a long time.”

“A long time?” Myla probes.

“Since he stepped into the privy Council.”

There it is. The truth, stripped to its bare form, a naked beast Myla has averted her gaze from for many years. “My mother passing so soon after I married Caius was crippling, you know. I recall feeling as though for all of my tears, my father did not weep enough.”

She feels Bryar nod. “Well, Maverick has proven many times, his only care in life is to die with a title.”

“One would think ‘husband,’ ‘father,’ or even ‘lord’ would be enough,” Myla scoffs, “but it seems he needs more, even if it costs him both his wife and his daughter.”

They awaken to the sound of chirping birds outside the cave. The sun beginning to illuminate the silhouettes of the forest, its golden breath whispering just barely inside their hideout. “We will arrive at the monastery before midday,” Bryar says as they appear. “If they survived, Callum and Rhyland will know where to meet us.”

Myla cuts him off, surprised. “How would they know that?”

“When the Council told me of their idea to send word to the Ashborn for help, I thought we might need a backup plan.” He glances sidelong at her, something dangerously close to annoyance written on his face. “They have not been known to help humans since the fall of Old Falkmere. I did not expect them to help this time. So I told them, if anything went amiss, where I would take you.”

Rage simmers in the depths of her belly, but Myla takes a deep breath, steadying her voice before speaking. “You made an escape plan because you did not think mine would work?”

Bryar walks on, his shoulders square but his head shaking dismissively. “Be angry, Myla. But do not forget I have spent the last five years learning when to act as your friend and when to act as your guard. As your friend, I wanted to believe that plan would work. As a guard who swore your safety to your husband, I had to have an alternative plan.”

“Friend,” Myla scoffs beneath her breath, trudging reluctantly behind him. “Your fingers really spelled friend the other night.”

He turns sharply on his heel, his change in trajectory catching her off guard, his eyes blazing.

“Stop.”

One word, a command which leaves no room for bickering and a word which in any other case would see a guard hanged for insubordination. He has no need to elaborate; his tone and face says it all, and Myla instantly feels like a child.

“Start walking, Myla. The monastery is the last place anyone will look for a pagan queen.”

“I am sorry . . .” she says, shamefully following his path once more.

“Yeah, me too,” Bryar answers stoically. “You are not the only one here who has lost people, Myla. I just had to pick between saving my queen and saving two hundred young men I have been training from pages and squires for the last ten years.”

His words are like spears of ice to her gut. Of course. It had not occurred to her that the men who made up the mass body of guards to her, were names to him. She has had enough trouble distinguishing the hundreds of courtiers who want intimate friendships with her to have sorted out who was who in the barracks. To Bryar, men like family died next to and for him yesterday.

“You know,” Myla says, wiping a fresh onslaught of tears with the back of her hand. “Elsa had this reoccurring dream that she was naked in the mountains being—and I quote her words, not mine— ‘ravished by an army of Valkyries and a dozen of the old Gods’.”

An unexpected laugh slips from Bryar, and he glances briefly over his shoulder to flash a weak smile. Myla rolls her eyes, trying to muster a smile in return. “I hope it was not a dream, but a prophesy of her afterlife.” Together, they both laugh. An attempt to summit the feeling of loss and grief that has chased them into the morning light, and will no doubt continue to be their shadow for a long time to come.

The monastery is tucked in the base of the mountains. It is hidden from the world by a tangle of trees and overgrowth, accessible only by a narrow and tumultuous path along the base of the mountain. Myla can only assume he knows of this secluded hideaway through his guild of assassins. From above, during their descent, she watched as humbly clad men moved back and forth. Some herding goats and chickens, while others harvest from a small garden. Many seemed to sit and deliberate in prayer. Now, as they approach and the finer details come into view, the aura of the monastery exudes peace. Etchings of their god are carved into the stone above the arch entry way, mesmerizing chants heard from within.

What catches Myla most off guard is the friendly and familiar greetings Bryar receives from every other monk they pass before entering.

“You are well known here,” she remarks, taking stock of the dark interior of what appears to be their place of worship.

“It is a safe place to stop between the palace and the Riverlands. Callum’s uncle is the Abbot here and was able to assure our safety and asylum.”

An old and wrinkled man with kind, gray eyes approaches, leaning heavily on a worn cane. “Captain,” his voice quivers with age. “I am always pleased to see you. Who is your companion?” He nods toward Myla, who looks nothing like a queen now, disheveled as she is.

“This is Mistress Myla Alerys.” He introduces her as a noblewoman and not the queen, a calculated decision should they want to sleep here tonight.

“Welcome,” the man smiles. He does not bow, does not refer to her as any more than an average woman. It is refreshing. “I am Martin, the Abbot of this humble monastery. I hope you will be comfortable here.”

“A pleasure,” Myla curtsies and follows as Bryar leads her to a bench before an altar, where statues and offerings lay. It is a strange arrangement, however, from what she is used to seeing. There is a bowl of bread bits, a string of brown beads, their sacred book of scripture she recognizes, but the grotesque depiction of a sacrificed god seems vulgar, even compared to her Gods’ love of war and bloodshed. It strikes something solemn in her. A faith where gods die for their people, rather than the people for their gods, is a curious notion. Her faith honors death in battle. Bryar takes note of her observation and smiles.

“Their god came to wash the filth of man from this earth and replace it with a little holiness in us all.” He gestures with a tip of his chin back toward the sacrificed man. “Fascinating, is it not?”

Myla nods and sits down, her attention drawn back toward Martin, who offers them a tumbler of wine.

“Mistress Myla,” he addresses her. “I am not sure if the captain has informed you, but the use of magic is prohibited here. We ask that you do not violate our space with the energy. We, each of us, have the same gifts you find anywhere else in Myrnith, but we believe in managing our day-to-day tasks simply.”

Again, Myla nods, finding she is weary and willing to agree to about anything that promises a quiet room and a bed to fall into.

As though seeing into her thoughts, Martin smiles softly and extends a hand. “You look exhausted, my dear girl. Allow me to have a room made up for you. I am afraid you will find them simple. But they are clean and private.”

An hour later, Myla lies in a steaming bath she drew for herself. There is one small window overlooking the climbing mountain, a view she gazes upon wearily through half-opened eyes. Her bath water is tinted with blood and dirt; a warrior’s bath, as she once heard Callum describe it. The crimson swirls with the ripples of water against her hands, gently coaxing the current back and forth. Mindless and weightless, she exists, knowing there is more to come, but unbothered by it just yet.

Cocooned here in an oasis, unfamiliar but somehow comforting, Myla imagines this is how the child within her has felt these past two years. For the first time since unharnessing the child, giving it leave to grow, Myla looks down at her exposed belly, examining it for change. There is none to be found, no proof the baby is even still there. But the waves of energy within are palatable. It is a feeling she has not yet felt, something that would have felt gradual and unnoticeable had this taken a natural course.

To think, this child might have been walking and talking at this point. Myla shudders and lifts herself into a sitting position, correcting her thought process. She would likely be dead. Vesperian would not have allowed Caius’s Restorer’s bloodline to carry on. Even now, Myla fears that may very well be the child’s fate.

No . Her fingers press into her belly, hoping the child can sense her. “I would not let that happen to you.”

Myla exits the bath, feeling drowsy from the heat, and after drying and donning a simple shift provided by the monks while her garments are washed, she stretches herself across the bed. It is not yet supper time, but Myla does not care. Promises of food or drink could not lure her from the sanctuary of a deep, peaceful sleep. One which she falls into, welcomed by visions of her mother playing on the floor of her palace chambers with a small child: her child. From behind, all she sees is a small bobbing head of brown curls; a piece of her already manifesting itself in the child.

The monastery is quiet as nightfall descends. Most have retired, and those that remain are sequestered in quiet groups for prayer. Bryar sits by the hearth reading a letter when Myla joins him, drawing his attention away from whatever message he holds. He glances briefly at her cotton shift cinched at the waist with a length of leather and then smiles at her. “You look rested. I checked on you earlier, but you were as good as dead.”

Myla sits on a stool next to him, teetering slightly on the uneven legs before finding her balance. “I do not even recall falling asleep.”

Bryar nods toward the parchment in his hands. She notes now that it is a map. “We need to go to the Seer, Myla.”

While the treacherous journey to where the Seer has lived for an unnatural length of time sounds unpleasant, Myla knows he is right. They need answers, and she will have them. “Let us go in two days, then. You will be no good up there with a fresh wound.”

Bryar simply nods in agreement, his eyes drifting to the crackling fire before them. Absently, he chews his lower lip, mind busy with thoughts. “Have you noticed my abilities seem a bit . . . out of control lately?”

Myla furrows her brow, leaning closer in, her elbows on her knees. “I think it is always been more potent than the average fire wielder.” Images of his axe wilting in his hand, or the explosive flames the night before, calls into question her answer, but she does not amend her statement lest he should worry.

He shakes his head, glancing sidelong at her. “Yes, but lately it feels like it is constantly simmering beneath the surface, ready to implode at the slightest disturbance.”

“And it has not always felt like that?” A stupid question really. Myla has seen him angry a handful of times through their childhood and never once did his anger start a fire at his feet.

“No.”

Myla briefly places a hand over his, careful to not shock the monks with their indecency. “There is no shortage of stress right now. I am sure that is all it is.”

He nods, seeming to accept the explanation. They both know it is bullshit.

As the candles burn low, monks trickle out of the main hall until only a handful remain, silence mostly filling the empty air. Myla and Bryar’s low whispers are all that disturbs the quiet. Though they both know there is no point in planning any retaliation against the Blood Stealer, Bryar humors Myla as she aimlessly mulls over one potential solution followed by another. Knowing she is tucked safely away in this monastery while that dark scourge stains the ground of her kingdom is sickening. Those who did survive are no doubt his playthings. Myla can only imagine he spent the day claiming oath after oath, cutting a devastating line of victims through the town and beyond.

“What of this antidote he speaks of?” Myla states after some hopeless silence. “Surely, his is not the only healer who could craft it.”

“No,” Bryar agrees, “but obtaining his blood is likely the challenge.”

“Perhaps we could send some of the Raven’s Veil to the Seam to search for more?”

Bryar watches the flames diligently, as though taking his eye off them might cause them to explode and flatten the entire monastery. After some thought, he responds.

“Once we return from the Seer, I will figure out how to get word to a few of our best, and they will go in search of an antidote. I doubt he only had one made.”

Myla lets out a small sigh. “There,” she whispers, looking down at her stomach. “Some hope at last.”

Bryar smiles slightly and reaches past the space between them to take her hand. “You will solve nothing with worrying,” he says, his face heavy with exhaustion. “We have our next steps laid out. Let us follow those, and leave the rest up to the Gods. They will not forsake us.”

After another hour of deliberating and considering other courses of action, Myla retires to her room.