Page 13 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

“IN A MONASTERY ? ” Myla jolts from sleep at the sound of the door closing, Bryar discreetly exiting and leaving her tucked away. A rush of gratitude washes over her at the familiar voice of Callum just outside her door, muffled now. Bryar says something inaudible, but she can hear Elsa’s name followed by a sob. Myla sits upright, a sickening anticipation settling over her. Who else is with him?

She dresses swiftly, pulls her hair in a loose knot at her neck, and exits the room, stepping out in time to see Bryar gripping his friend’s shoulder supportively. For being such a big man, Callum seems so small beneath the quaking of his shoulders. His face twists as grief devours him whole and he falls against his comrades. Together, Bryar and Rhyland comfort their friend as he admits the agonizing reality. Rusty hair brushes his forehead, and he shakes his head in disbelief, eyes gleaming.

“The ceiling came down,” Rhyland says quietly, as Bryar looks to him with questions.

Shaking with a rush of denial, Myla approaches slowly. Rhyland glances at her, his head dropping in a bow. Bryar stops him, whispering something; no doubt telling him of her concealed identity.

“She is not with you?” Myla asks, grasping at Callum’s sleeve. “Elsa is not with you . . . what of my father?”

Grief crumples the man before her like a flimsy piece of paper, and he simply shakes his head. “I tried,” he chokes before turning and leaving the building.

Rhyland is about to follow when Bryar grabs his arm. “Let him go, he needs to be alone.” There is a knowing in the way he says needs . Like he has felt that need before.

The room seems to spin with the shocking finality of what Myla knew in her heart, but had hoped was wrong. The miracle of the men standing before her should be a relief, and it is, but it is outweighed by the crippling thought: how could they leave without her?

As though reading her mind, Rhyland speaks. “I barely got Callum out of there. It was hell unleashed. I have never seen such bloodshed and wreckage in one place. But all he could do was scream her name. He ran right toward the Blood Stealer and almost got his head cut off before I could get ahold of him and drag him away.” He stumbles over his words. “I am so sorry I could not do more. For Elsa or your father. I lost sight of him when the ceiling came down as well. I do not believe anyone could have survived that.”

Myla nods, her vision blurred with unshed tears which she wipes away before they can free fall. She struggles to find words, so she says nothing. The fact is, there is nothing to say, and all in company know it.

Wearing weariness and grief, Rhyland lowers his eyes and draws his long dark hair to a twist at the back of his head, revealing a layer of closely shaven hair beneath, then moves toward a table spread with food and drink.

It is Bryar who finally propels the conversation. “We will visit the Seer.” His words are hushed to avoid prying ears. “I believe she can bring clarity and direction to our path.”

Rhyland groans and glances between she and Bryar, finding seriousness on both their faces. Letting out a sigh and pressing his dusty palms exhaustively into his brow, smudging layers of dust over his brown skin, he concedes, “Let me sleep first?”

Myla smiles weakly and nods. “We leave tomorrow morning. Rest today.”

Rhyland retires to Bryar’s room to sleep, not wanting to inconvenience the monks by making up another room. With Bryar’s assurance that he will not need it, Rhyland collapses in an exhausted heap, sure to sleep the day away.

The hours pass and Callum is nowhere to be found. Bryar seems convinced he is well, but most likely taking the space to grieve after their journey. Their convalescence seems to be wasting time, and Myla wants nothing more than to pack up and make for the Seer at once.

Instead, she finds herself kneeling in the garden, helping a quiet monk remove weeds. He is sworn to silence—or so Martin tells her—so she, too, partakes in the wordless task, finding comfort in the cathartic act of wrenching overgrowth out by the roots.

With each violent rip upward, she envisions one of Vesperian’s limbs separating from his body. Dirt dislodged and flung in various directions replaces the vision of his spraying blood, her imagination sufficiently quenching her need to brutalize the demon, or her father, though she chides herself for resenting the dead.

Let the Gods do their work, her mother would tell her. The Gods can not bring Elsa back, and for that, she curses them.

In the back of her mind, tucked a little deeper than her hatred, are memories of last night. Scenes that replay in her mind without her permission, and she feels shame for allowing herself to be distracted by something she should not be at such a time. If Elsa were here, she would say sex is the cure for all. Elsa had been a woman who celebrated with it, a woman who experienced both defeat and anger with it. If anything, Elsa would have been pleased to know her demise resulted in Myla finally acting.

She smiles at the thought and leans back, settling in the dirt, her face turned upward toward the sky. Her dark lashes falling shut over her blue eyes, and she wills the energy of her friend to join her. I wish you were here. I wish I could tell you everything. I wish you could tell me what you are thinking. I wish I could tell you I am sorry.

Myla opens her eyes to find the monk looking kindly on her, a small smile curving his thin lips. He says nothing but nods slowly and points to the sky. Myla looks upward to see a raven passing overhead. Whatever that means, in his faith, she has no clue. But Myla chooses to interpret it as a message from Elsa. Carry on.

Myla glances back at the monk and nods toward the raven as it soars out of sight.

“Do they mean something to you?”

He tips his chin in an affirmative response then returns to his work. Myla finds his silence fascinating, and somewhat appealing, having the choice to simply not speak, even when spoken to.

“Will your vow of silence last a long time?” Again, he nods, so Myla continues. “My best friend died two days ago, and it is my fault.”

His eyes grow sad, and dirt covered hands reach out to grasp hers. His head shakes ‘no’ this time.

Myla smiles weakly and eyes him sidelong. “No . . . it is. And my father. He died, and I am not sad for that.”

The monk glances over his shoulder to where Bryar sits, pouring over a map, occasionally staring at the mountains. He tips his chin in question.

“Yes,” Myla answers. “My friend died helping him save me.” The monk’s hands tighten around hers, and he gives her a melancholy smile, followed by a final pat before he returns to his work.

“You seem like the sort of person who would have helpful things to say,” Myla says. “It is rather inconvenient you had to take a vow of silence during my visit.”

At this, the monk laughs, giving her a brief nod of agreement before pointing back toward Bryar, suggesting she talk to him.

Her cheeks flush, and she shakes her head. “Since you are sworn to silence, I will confess: talking to him right now does not seem to lead to talking .”

The monk’s eyes narrow but his face does not hold judgment. He wags his finger but continues to smile at her.

“Yes,” Myla agrees. “He is good to talk to though.”

The old monk cuts her off, wagging his finger again, and Myla realizes she does not understand what he is suggesting. Her brow furrows as she studies his face. Once more the monk points to Bryar, encouraging her to see. So, Myla observes. His eyes bounce across the map, moving back and forth searching. Then he looks up, studies the terrain before dropping the map to the ground, a hand pressing wearily into his brow. He looks worn thin and distressed.

Myla glances back at the monk, who she finds is studying her. “He is struggling too. You think I should talk to him?”

Pleased, the monk smiles and then promptly returns to his work, pointing to his own ears.

“I should listen.”

He nods yes, and then gathers a basket of weeds, taking them to discard on the forest floor, leaving Myla sitting in the dirt alone. Given the sadness of this morning, Myla has not had a moment to speak with Bryar. Last night cured nothing. Of course, they both knew it would not. But looking at him now, she sees how truly defeated he appears. Against the backdrop of the ancient and massive mountain he intends on climbing, even he appears small.

Myla stands and brushes the dirt from her linen dress. “It is just a mountain,” she says, teasing. “I do not think glaring at it will make it smaller.”

Startled, he quickly turns to her, flashing a half smile before retrieving the map from the ground. “Damn, I will need to come up with a better plan, then.”

Myla sits beside him, absently smoothing the wrinkles across her legs. “Something troubles you.”

He holds up the map, pointing to a location. “This is us.” She nods and follows as his finger moves to the tip of the mountain on the map. “This is the Seer.”

“Yes?” Myla acknowledges, confused where the problem lies. “I do not understand.”

“It is a long journey, Myla. In your condition—”

“Stop,” Myla whispers. “It is out of the question.”

“We need to be realistic,” he retorts, looking at her head-on. “Myla, you are with child. An important child, I might add.”

“Are they not all important?” Myla challenges him with a faint smile followed by a sigh, hoping he will not press the matter.

“You know what I mean. This child may be our only chance at putting an end to the Blood Stealer,” he insists. His boyish eyes, soft and safe as ever, bore into her and beg her to concede the battle. “It is too great a risk.”

Myla shakes her head fiercely and takes his hand, urging him to see how very determined she is. “I am coming, Bryar. I need to speak to the Seer.”

With a grimace of disapproval, Bryar averts his gaze, clearly not pleased with her. “You are stubborn,” he whispers after a moment with gentle eyes resting on her belly. “You must be careful. That child has the magic to free you, and I want nothing more than to see you free.”

“ She ,” Myla corrects with certainty, ignoring the exhilaration she feels at his concern. “She has the power to save us all. I know. I would not do anything to hurt her.”

“Are you afraid?” Bryar asks cautiously. “To raise her alone, that is?”

Myla’s eyes fall to the ground. Does she dare to admit it? Looking at him, his handsome and harsh features, and the way he looks to see and understand , not to simply look, persuades her to full transparency. “I am not afraid. I know I have everything she needs. I am hoping if we make it out of this, I will not have to do it alone.” She does not dare look at him. After last night, Myla feels it is important to raise the topic.

Silence follows and he scuffs the dirt beneath his boots, deep in thought. Finally, Bryar clears his throat and the furrow in his brow sends a fleeting tinge of dread through her, quickly erased when he finally assembles his thoughts into a cohesive response. “I never knew my mother. My father did not talk about her. But when I was four, he started accepting invitations to the seamstress’s for supper. I thought he was just taking me somewhere for a decent meal, but after a while I noticed he smiled a lot around her.”

A fondness passes over his face as he tells the tale. “He married her when I was five. I was pleased; it meant I never went more than a day with a tear in my clothes, and my belly was always full of a dinner father did not burn.” Together they laugh, and then Bryar concludes his response. “She was my mother, and I loved her until the sickness ate her alive and made her body sink in on itself.” Myla recalls this, watching him as a teenager grieving the death of Alice the seamstress, consumed by an illness where her bones were too heavy for her lungs.

Bryar stands and dusts the back of his pants before turning to face her, his expression earnest. “You do not have to make a child to raise it. You just have to love it . . . and her mother is easy to love, which means she will be too.”

Bryar simply smiles at her, before walking back inside the monastery, her deeply hidden fear dissolving. Caius’s death brought many uncertainties and sadnesses, including the idea that she would have no one to celebrate her child’s moments with.

In an instant, Myla stands, chasing Bryar inside, stopping him as he turns down a stone hall toward his room.

“You can not just say that to me and walk away,” she says, not giving him a chance to respond before she falls into his arms, holding onto him as though her life depends upon it. Wordlessly, his arms cradle her there, both ignoring the glances of the monks who pass mumbling their prayers and chants. A warm hand gently caresses the small of her back, holding her close in return. His embrace is sturdy, unwavering, and she finds herself comforted in his refuge.

Callum returns before the sun sets. His jaw, stone solid in the form of a grimace, and eyes rimmed red. But his voice is level and composed when he speaks, addressing them upon his entry. “When do we leave in the morning? I have questions for this seer.”

“At dawn,” Bryar answers, watching his friend move past, sitting alone at the end of the table. His deep olive skin is ashen; he appears sick with heartbreak.

Rhyland, not long awake, lets slip an exaggerated groan, peering depressively at an empty mug which holds wine. “I am to set out on a treacherous journey in the morning, and I do not even get a decent glass of ale beforehand. Just this—” he tips the mug, watching a few drops spill onto his palm “—weak brew . . .” He takes another glance around the room with a grim expression. “Not to mention every man here is celibate. No ale and no bedmate before I quite possibly die. This is the grimmest crock of shit never to be sung in a bard’s tale.”

Myla rolls her eyes, content with the herbal tea before her. She is, however, less than impressed with the mutton on her plate. Something about it smells rancid. Nobody else seems bothered though, so she takes small nibbles to not offend their hosts.

The men carry on conversations, slightly drowned out beneath the monastic humming, providing ‘contemplative entertainment’ to the monks. While the men disregard the songs for their conversations, Myla is entranced. This monk is younger than the rest. He is likely younger than she, and a dull ache in his eyes suggests he is here because there is nothing left for him out there. His song is in a language she does not understand, but gauging the yearning on the faces of the others who do listen, she can only imagine he sings of peace and hope. Something she feels rather short on.

A glance at her companions, and she can see it written on all their faces. Peace and hope are nowhere to be found. Callum is leaned over his plate, nudging the food in various directions, never once taking a bite. Rhyland looks as though he is about to fall asleep where he sits, and Bryar stares into the flames, lost in thought. Sadness is palpable, driving a cold dagger of grief into the fresh, Elsa-shaped wound in her heart.

Not wishing to call attention to her tears, Myla steps outside to get some fresh air, her stomach deeply unsettled. The door has almost swung shut when light pools out behind her. Callum follows close behind and wordlessly, he pulls her into a trembling hug.

They stand together, more family than friends, and they cry. The lighthearted boy she grew up with, would never have stood here crying. But that boy had never experienced heartbreak, whereas the man here now is crippled by it.

“I will not insult you by asking how you are,” she whispers after a moment.

Callum loosens his hold on her and steps back. “Nor I, you.” His eyes travel upwards, taking stock of the sky above. Anything to avoid Myla’s piercing gaze. “The last of her I saw, she was helping people. She was always helping people. Helping people brought her joy. It was her life. And it was her death.” He smiles down at his travel-worn boots and shoves scarred hands into his pockets. The hands of an expensive, trained killer attached to the body of such a loving human. “I can not decide if I am angrier at Rhyland for taking me from her . . . or at myself for not being by her side when it happened.”

Myla shakes her head as tears choke her. “Callum—”

“Myla. You are the only person who loves her as much as I did. You can not tell me you do not feel the exact same way.”

Myla cups a hand to her mouth, unprepared to face the rush of agony. Traveling and strategizing and sex is an amazing distraction from a broken heart, but it is no balm for confronting it. “I think I will never forgive myself,” she whispers, pressing her hand to her thundering chest in an effort to still the phantoms which seem to stampede inside, aching to be released. “There was too much magic . . . the institute spoke of too much energy in one place.” Myla recalls the lessons she sat in, urging a wielder to be mindful not to saturate the atmosphere. “There were over a hundred souls in the throne room, and every single one was wielding. I should never have allowed it.”

Callum’s eyes fall shut, and with a solemn shake of his head, he speaks. “Exactly how do you think you could have stopped that? Every single person there knew what they were doing and they all—Elsa included—would cave the room in again if it meant you escaped.”

Myla nods, sucking in a breath in an effort not to lose herself completely. “Callum, I am so sorry. I never wanted to be the one people would die for.”

His light eyes, illuminated by a thick row of tears, meet hers, and he speaks in all confidence. “Well, you are. Do not cheapen their sacrifices by loathing the life the Gods have given you.” Callum sighs, touching her shoulder, as if to share whatever fortitude he has to spare, then adds in a most hopeless tone, “I am sorry we lost her. And I am sorry you lost your father.”

Callum returns inside, leaving Myla to collect herself beneath the healing light of the moon. Her mother used to take her ‘moon bathing’ as a child, and even into womanhood, and every month when she bled, her mother would take her to bathe naked and wash in water charged beneath the moon. It was to fill herself with the unfailing wholeness of nature as her body shed what it no longer needed. Her mother told her it was to remind her body that she is never empty.

Caius caught Myla in the gardens once, bathing naked beside the willow tree. She thought he would be alarmed by her practices, her body’s curved edges glistening in the candlelight. Instead, he was curious, asking questions and showing his support. That is how she later told him she was pregnant. There will be no moon bathing for me this month, or for many more it would seem. He was elated and she was relieved he no longer had a reason to summon her to his chambers.

Her mother also taught Myla how the Gods have written every single individual in the stars. She would say that those placements mold them as humans. “Ground yourself,” she used to say. “You can not be manipulated if you are in tune with yourself and the Spirit Mother.”

Before the encroachment of the Blood Stealer, Myla had never found failing in this. Even now, with the tug-of-war Vesperian plays with her, standing here barefoot against the raw pulsing of the earth is healing. It tightens the knots she has always tied with the Gods and the Spirit Mother. Tonight, it makes her feel as though she can reach past the veil, into the spirit realm to touch Elsa, knowing her dear friend can finally smile on the faces of the Goddesses who have guided them since girlhood.

Myla kneels down, lifting her skirts so her knees press into the moist soil of the earth. She lays her palms flat and closes her eyes, visualizing the white light within her nuzzling into the ground, planting her roots and growing from there, tangling with those of the natural world. The internal and external aches buzz with warmth before fading away, leaving behind a calm certainty: what is meant for her, will be hers.