Page 14 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

MYLA LAYS AWAKE , watching a moth flutter against the ceiling, lulled by the breath of the man sleeping beside her. Once more, with Bryar to blame this time, her clothes lay in a pile on the floor, recklessly discarded beside his.

Something her father said shortly after Caius’s death keeps her awake. “ You must remarry, Myla. Soon. Falkmere needs a king.” He had presented her with a written list of eligible nobility to which she had responded, “If I marry again, Father, it will be for love.”

The frustrated man had slammed his list fiercely on the council table before her and announced she was at liberty to do so, but it would not be as queen. If it were just a matter of Myla and her personal wishes, abdicating the throne would be of little consequence to her. She never wanted it to begin with. Carrying the king’s heir now, she realizes her position is far less negotiable.

Myla shifts, turning to face Bryar. By daylight, there is something fierce about him. To a stranger, his sharp edges, broad shoulders, and menacing stare might come across as frightening. Here, washed softly by fading firelight without the pretense of a soldier, he appears vulnerable. The thought that falling asleep beside him may be a fleeting reality turns her veins icy, visions of her stoic loneliness flash through her mind. These visions haunt her as she drifts off to sleep and beyond, her dreams taunted with memories of days turning into years where his touch grows foreign.

And when she awakens, Bryar is gone.

“Surely you saw something, ” Myla demands, looking at the dismayed collection of monks who exchange glances and confused shakes of their heads. “So, three loud, clanking soldiers just slipped out here during breakfast and no one noticed?” Myla feels a compilation of fear and rage build in her chest, further statements from Martin, unhelpful.

“Mistress,” he continues carefully, “I would venture to remind you they are assassins, not clanking soldiers. I prayed with the sunrise and saw no one leave. I fear they left well before daylight.”

“One of them is not an assassin and has the stealth of a damn cow!” Myla declares exasperated and aware that assassin or no, Bryar has gone to the Seer without her.

“Fucks me, and then leaves while I sleep. Despicable.” Wide eyes in a sea of brown habits fix upon her, Martin’s expression especially horrified. “I apologize,” Myla adds swiftly, but she is not in the least bit sorry. The crowd of scandalized monks begins to disperse until only a few remain. One of which is her silent friend, whose eyes twinkle in amusement.

Myla looks to Martin. “What is his name?”

“Ethstan,” Martin begrudgingly answers before also removing himself. No doubt to pray for her.

“Ethstan,” she whispers, leaning toward the grinning monk. “I do not think you belong here,” she sighs before accepting a plate of flat-cakes from him. “I told you, talking to him is not ending in just talking—before you point to your ears, Ethstan. I did try listening.”

He grins in a dopey sort of way, making his already large ears protrude further and his thin lips stretch, exposing mostly bare gums. Waiting until the last of his companions has left the main hall, he reaches into the drooping sleeve of his habit and reveals a letter, handing it to her.

“From Bryar?”

He nods and shuffles away, leaving her to rip it open alone.

Do not be angry with me. Everything I ever do is to protect you. I had a bad feeling about you coming with us, and I could not ignore it. I promise to return in a week. Stay with the monks. You are safe there.

-B

Myla grinds her teeth together, a mixture of anger and disappointment brewing. She wanted to ask the Seer so many questions, not just about defeating the Blood Stealer, but about Elsa and her father and this child.

Myla looks down at her stomach, peeved by the sour bile forming in the back of her throat, a disturbance she is starting to experience regularly. “I suppose we shall have to let him have the adventures while you and I stay here . . . how very typical.”

Myla’s voice trails off as she looks around the monastery, seeing it in a new light. Not just as a passing stop on her journey, but a temporary home now. She contemplates defying his request and leaving, but it occurs to her, she has nowhere to go. “Gods damn you,” she mutters angrily, shoving the note inside her bodice. There is nothing to do but find something meaningful to occupy her time with. In the back of her mind, she knows this respite is Bryar’s way of letting her breathe amid upheaval; something she should be thankful for.

The day drifts on slowly, and Myla wonders how these men live such ordinary and simple lives day in and out. For Myla, it has been years since her days have resembled anything close to simple. Before she was Queen of Falkmere, her father ensured her days were filled with lessons by the finest tutors. Myla can see now how her days pouring over maps, studying regions, learning various languages, and understanding the history of the monarchy set her on the path of queen. Even the efforts of her father, ensuring her training in the art of the sword and making regular visits with her to the Institute of Mystic Arts, honing her skill, all contributed. There was no amount of coin he was unwilling to spare on her instructions and refinement.

For years, this resulted in very few days passing when she was not accounted for from sunup to sundown. Were it not for Bryar’s apprenticeship with the blademaster, Myla very well would not have encountered him until she moved to the palace. By the time her magic betrayed her, exposing her to Caius, Myla had far exceeded her contemporaries, and there was no other choice but her. Once she summoned the Voice of the Gods, it was as good as written in stone. All those days of working on herself for the sake of herself, turned into her gifts being used against her. That was the worst day of her life. Even now, so many years later, the thought of it scratches at a wound that has not yet healed.

Myla sighs, looking up from pile of dishes she has been assigned to. There is something comical about standing here as a queen, unbeknownst to those around her, holding a pile of dishes to be scrubbed. So, she scrubs, and when the dinner dishes are clean, dried, and put away, she joins Martin at a pile of linens needing mending. Thank the gods for endless hours of needlepoint.

“You have been helpful today,” Martin remarks, with a curious glance taking note of her precise line of stitches. “I am afraid if your mending all looks like that, this will soon be your task.”

Myla smiles. “I shall be sure to throw in a few botched stitches, in that case.”

Martin lowers his work to his lap and watches her. Myla pretends not to notice, unsure of what exactly he studies. “You are expecting,” he says finally, answering her question.

Myla swallows hard and looks up slowly. “What would make you say such a thing?”

“As you know, magic is not allowed within the borders of this establishment. I have a gift, however, that can not be suppressed. The brethren consider it to be an exception, as it keeps us safe.”

Myla’s furrowed brow draws a confused line across her face. “What gift is that?”

“I see auras and the energy within them, good or evil,” he responds matter-of-factly. “You, my dear, have two auras.”

Myla slowly inhales and asks, “What does my child’s aura tell you?”

Martin’s eyes focus on her stomach. His answer is simple.

“The aura of the unborn are usually all the same. Pure.”

“And . . . mine?”

“Your aura is troubled, my dear. I sense no evil, but I do sense conflict.”

Well, that is for fucking sure. Myla chooses to say nothing rather than confide the whole truth of her circumstances. Lately for her, there has been no middle ground. She bares her soul, or she says nothing. Nothing is the safest option. Unfortunately, her company is a prying type.

“The captain is the father, I presume?”

Myla bites her lip. If she says no, Martin will press for more information. Myla refuses to expose the child’s parentage, lest that knowledge somehow turn Martin against her or endanger the child. Instead, she nods. A small lie is better than an exceptionally large truth, in this case.

“I must assume, then, he has a particularly good reason for leaving you here while he completes whatever business it is he spoke of. I assure you, my dear,” his words are soothing as he reaches to touch her arm, “you are safe here and welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“You mean, as long as I mend the clothes?” Myla answers with a playful smile. They manage to overcome an enormous mound of mending, mostly in silence. An occasional pleasantry is exchanged, but for much of the evening, Myla’s mind wanders from one anxious topic to another, heavily pertaining to her parents.

Myla continues to visualize her father’s crushed corpse lying in the throne room, an image which assaults her without warning nor reason. A prick of the needle to her finger followed by a small drop of blood is enough to catapult her imagination to the darkest of places. The young man with his face severed, bodies hanging above her throne, Elsa nothing more than a pulp of bone and flesh beneath slabs of the Queen’s Blue, her father’s skull split in half like a carelessly cracked egg. In the distance, wolves howl and the image of snapping jaws clamping around Bryar’s throat assaults her mind.

Myla squeezes her eyes together, sucking at the smarting point on her finger and wills the images to leave her be, to no avail. He is tormenting me. Myla realizes these uncontrolled thoughts, the urge to hyper fixate on death, can only come from Vesperian. Myla may not always be the most cheerful of people, but she certainly is not morbid. Even here, miles from the palace, deep within the thickest part of the forest, at the base of a near unscalable mountain, his invisible fingers stretch to claw at her, to pick at her wounds and entangle themselves deeper into her being. Hiding does not dislodge him from her being. It merely isolates the problem in a too-simple setting with very few distractions.

From the direction of the mountain, wolves howl again.

Martin leaves when the hour is late. Despite the weight in her eyes, Myla is disinclined to return to her room and so she stays, hands folded across her lap and eyes drifting out of focus upon the lapping of the orange and blue flames. Nearly six years ago, she sat in a terribly similar state in a high back green armchair, her parents on either side of her, discussing her future as though she was not there.

“ Maverick,” her mother had pleaded. “ Give her a moment to catch her breath!”

“We do not have moments, Lavinia!” Myla recalls the way her father stood over her, clawing in a panic at his disheveled beard. “Everything—everything we have ever done for you has truly come to this?”

“Father, I had no idea this is what you wanted of me!”

“You knew!” he nearly snarled.

“Would knowing have changed anything?” her mother asked gently, holding her hand while flashing a fierce look her father’s way.

It was this question which brought Myla to tears, the realization that king or no king, it did not matter a bit to her. She did not want the king. “It would have changed nothing,” she had confessed beneath her breath, aware both her parents were watching in horror as their dutiful daughter warped into a transgression before their eyes.

Maverick breathed deeply, drawing from every deep well of composure he possibly had before responding. “Your mother and I married for love, child. I am no stranger to its fickle and unyielding power. But this . . . lover of yours is likely not a suitor the king would stand down for, there is nothing to be done. You will marry him.”

“Father! You say the King is a good man. You can make him see!”

“Myla! I can not look at the King and tell him my daughter is to snub her nose at his proposal in favor of a—a what? You will not even tell me who he is!”

Lavinia had encouraged her husband to take his leave, sensing the matter was a delicate one. Myla trembles, even now, recalling the fear she felt when the door closed behind her father, leaving her alone with someone not known for leaving stones unturned.

“Have you lain with this man?” Myla had turned her face to the fire, focusing intently so as not to betray herself. As it so happened, her lack of response was all the response Lavinia needed. It was an admission of guilt. “You must tell me who it is, Myla. I will protect him and you, but I can not help if I do not know who.”

“How will you help?” For a moment, Myla dared to hope her mother was going to offer a plan, something involving a carriage in the dead of night. What a foolish wish it was.

“I will take you both to someone who will make you forget. Heartbreak is the cruelest pain there is to endure. It will crush the human body beneath its weight.”

Myla had stood, knocking an end table over with the motion, hot tears of anger and betrayal leaving trails down her cheeks. “I will have none of your so-called help!”

“Fine.” Lavinia and Myla were made of the same fire, both able to dig their heels in and move not an inch. Lavinia had known better than to press the matter, so she simply added, “ It is customary to examine a woman before marriage to a king. They will want to ensure you are a virgin. I will see to it that is not in the contract. Fortunately for you, Caius needs you.”

Lavinia held Myla’s gaze until Myla finally answered, her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Thank you, Mother.”

There would be many conversations to follow preceding the wedding and Myla’s coronation as queen, during which time Myla would hold her tongue. She had feared that speaking too much would somehow somersault into her revealing Bryar’s identity.

During the day, as wedding arrangements were brought before her for approval and visits to the King arranged, Myla’s expression was placid and her words neither enthusiastic nor combative. Every emotion was carefully woven in check, crafting a blanket of suppressed emotions which would unravel every night as she cried herself to sleep.

She merely existed, drifting where her parents’ current lead, inevitably right into Caius’s bed. She felt like nothing but a carcass by the time she arrived at her wedding, but nothing prepared her for the ways she would break when thirty Council members and courtiers stood around the king’s bed, prying eyes watching as a man twice her age bedded her.

Nor would she forget the way they all cried out in pain when she called upon the Voice of the Gods that night. It was the one and only time she defied the King. In his bed, with courtiers watching. The room had trembled violently, and the stones of his floors cracked. The courtiers left then, and he struck her. She learned that night the difference between love and duty, and how those were very different touches.

Emotions swell and her nose stings with tears. Myla has come to terms with her parents’ agenda. She could rationalize that. The pain she still feels lies deeper than the places his body touched. There is a word for it, one she struggles to name, but the closest she has come is betrayed . And that is something she can not rationalize.

Myla recalls feeling, in that moment, that her marriage began with a betrayal. This powerful man, capable of making whatever changes he wanted to any situation he saw fit, allowed her, a scared young woman, to be a visual feast to the men of his court.

An evening, months after her wedding, over too many glasses of wine, Myla had confided these feelings to Elsa, who had responded profoundly, “Abuse and manipulation hurt no matter how pretty a package they are wrapped in.”

Myla shudders and stands, throwing a handful of linens back into their basket before trudging outside, feeling like her insides need to be purged. Kicking off her boots, Myla wiggles her toes in the garden soil until they make an indent in the ground, rooting herself with nature. She takes a deep breath and urges the vile feeling to pass, as she has done so many times before. One bad moment does not define the entire experience.

She has tried to convince herself so many times that their consummation ceremony was supposed to be uncomfortable, a gruesome fact she can sometimes explain away, until she lands on the realization time and again that it was not just the consummation that was uncomfortable, but nearly every night after. This internal struggle always ends with her simply diverting her thoughts before they spiral into anger at her parents for allowing it all to happen. Anger that her father, a nobleman himself, knew exactly what would occur and allowed it anyway.

The following morning, Myla would wake up and sit across from the King, drinking tea and forcing herself to be pleasant while a dark cloud of shame built inside her. Shame she could not name or explain. Shame she now realizes was self-loathing for not having the courage to say, “I do not like this.” Shame for averting her eyes every time she saw a face in broad daylight that was lit by candles, watching her that night. But most of all, owning a shame that was not hers to own, but theirs.

“I wish for you to be comfortable here,” Caius had said with a kind smile. What Myla wanted to say was: “ You should have thought of that before burning the image of my naked body in your friends’ minds.” Instead, she had sidestepped the uncomfortable truth and smiled. It had taken a long time before she was comfortable after that.

Overhead, an owl hoots, its dismal call caught up in the deep whoosh of wings as the bird of prey swoops down to dig its talons in a mouse. “Yes,” Myla agrees, imagining she speaks to the Goddesses. “I agree. It is time to stop being the mouse and start being the owl. Or better yet, the talons. ”

Two days have passed, and never before has Myla known time to drag on in such a way. Though she has found a rhythm, Myla discovers quickly that purpose and rhythm are vastly different things, quite capable of existing one without the other.

In the last two days, Myla has found a fondness for tending the garden. Solitary creatures as the monks are, forming friendships has proven difficult, although she feels she has made progress with Ethstan who tends the garden with her. His expressive features seem to make up for what he lacks in conversation. Myla has managed to learn he has two living siblings, but his parents are long since passed. He has not shared his age, but Myla figures he can not be less than sixty. He enjoys the rain more than the sun, and he has a favorite bard.

As it so happens, the young man Myla thought sang beautifully seems to rub Ethstan the wrong way. When the older bard sings, however, he wears a pleasant smile. When Myla asked him about it, he answered in the usual way: with a shrug. No amount of questioning seems to get her any closer to understanding why he does not speak, and Martin insists it is not his story to share, though he alludes to Ethstan atoning for something. Over breakfast, she brought Ethstan a quill and sheet of parchment, hoping he would answer with written words. He politely declined.

On the sixth morning, Myla steps outside the monastery to find the breeze carries a chill. Glancing up the mountain as she does every morning, hoping to see Bryar returning, she takes note of the yellow creeping along the edges of the leaves and a sense of contentment settles in her. To pass an autumn in this place, does not seem so terrible. Her green dress ripples in the breeze and her toes tingle, cold against the earth where a thin frost has collected. Today, she and Ethstan will harvest the gourds and store them, but first, offerings.

Since the night her soul raged and the owl came to visit her, Myla has begun her days with offerings in the woods. Today, she brings a small decanter of mulled wine to the base of a tree.

Some late summer flowers wilt in a twisted wreath from a few days’ past. Other offerings include sigils, a pinecone, and various stones. Myla had washed the tree’s exposed roots in moon water as an offering yesterday, and today, she places the wine beside the buns. This one is for Elsa. Mulled wine at the autumn equinox was her favorite, so today, that is what she will have.

Myla sits down, crossing her legs and begins drawing sigils and runes in the dirt, letting her fingers move as they will intuitively until she has enclosed herself in markings she has never seen. When she was a child, her mother taught her all of the runes and their meanings. These seem to be an entirely different language, something conjured from an unknown place inside her.

Myla stands, moving outside of the circle, careful not to disturb the intact swirls. Observing it from a few paces back, Myla’s skin prickles. The earth rumbles violently, and a heat forms beneath her feet. The runes take on a life of their own. The dirt caught in the trenches of the designs begin rolling smooth like a stream until the entire circle is warping into something completely different than drawings in the dirt: a portal has formed.

A deafening crack, followed by a violent plume of smoke rises from the sky behind the mountain, presumably where the Seer lives. Myla gasps, her breath catching in her lungs as a rippling black mirage separates around the figure of a rounded woman. Her skin a dark bronze, with bright, caramel eyes peering out from beneath long eyelashes. Auburn hair, smooth as silk, drapes long down her body, cascading over the rounding of her breasts and past her curved hips. She wears a simple white frock fastened by gold rings at the shoulders and a crown of bones and forest foliage sits atop her regal head. She shimmers in the light, seeming one with nature. The Spirit Mother.

“What—” Myla presses a hand to her chest, and she steps backward, her free hand instinctively cradling her belly. “Where did you come from?”

Her voice is not that of a human. It is a siren, carrying words on the wind, an echo of a memory more than audible sentences. “I go where I am needed. Here, it seems, is where I am needed.”

Myla ventures closer, hesitating at first. “Did I summon you?” Of all the incredible feats she has carried out in her life, Myla is certain that summoning the Spirit Mother would surely be at the top of the list.

“Not exactly,” she replies, taking a step toward Myla, her round face full of a gentle smile. “But here you have been, night after night, in search of someone to give you hope. So, I came.”

“Is Bryar with you?” Myla glances past into the portal, half expecting to see a small herd of armored men clamoring through.

“He must return to you the way he came. I do not come bearing your captain; I come bearing a path to set your feet upon.” As her words drip forth like a slow spring, the earth around them prepares for the Spirit Mother’s guidance, a deep wind stirring up leaves around them and the wildlife scattering and silencing themselves.

“I do not understand,” Myla protests. “I have worshiped you my entire life, and I have never summoned you. You could come to us the whole time . . .”

“I could not,” she corrects, her voice reprimanding. “You called for me, and I sensed the need, so I came.”

“But how did I know to do . . . this . . .” Myla gestures to the still moving etchings upon the earth.

“These are not the answers I have come to give you. You must listen because your portal will not remain open long.” Myla urges herself to be silent despite the questions begging to be answered. Content with her silence, the Spirit Mother speaks again. “When the captain returns, tell him to follow the fire. This will lead you both to answers you will need if you are to succeed.”

“Follow the fire? And he will know what this means?” Myla feels a panic rise in her chest as the round cheeks of the Spirit Mother stretch into a warm smile.

“He will not. At first.” Then she is gone, like a mist swallowed up in a vortex, the Spirit Mother retreats through the portal, leaving behind a cloud of disturbed dust and twigs.

Myla experiences a rush of anger. Her visit has left her with more questions than she had before. What was the purpose of telling her as opposed to Bryar? What could “follow the fire” mean? How did she summon the Spirit Mother without knowing how to do it nor intending to? Where is Bryar and how much longer will he be gone?

Feeling flushed and fatigued, Myla sits down, dropping her head into her hands with an exasperated sigh. Her moment of grounding for the day has instead resulted in feeling like a million drifting loose ends, billowing in the breeze without direction nor another end to fasten to. Her offerings lay scattered from the chaos of the portal forming. Myla retrieves what she can, arranging them once more at the base of the tree, before standing.

“I suppose we will just have to talk tomorrow; I have to go help pious men do pious work,” Myla says, hoping her words drift upwards to wherever Elsa is and find her well. Even in death, Myla is firmly convinced whatever Elsa is doing, it is far more interesting than incubating a child in a woodland monastery.

It is well past nightfall, and Myla’s body aches from a day of labor. Several of the monks commented on the tremble of the earth and the prominent smoke plume which still presides over the back of mountain. Myla says nothing, not wanting to admit she somehow caused it.

The monks made a celebration of their harvest. The bards sang, mulled wine was served with a simple meal, and then a ‘gratitude ceremony,’ as she heard it referenced, was held. They prayed over their harvest, and the rest of the day was spent carrying basketful after basketful of gourds to the cellar. Myla had watched the sun move across the sky, enjoying the minimal glow of warmth, which did not disturb the early autumn chill.

Now, she sits peacefully on a cushioned armchair near the blazing fire. As it has these many nights prior, her mind drifts to an introspective state. Something about the stillness of life in this place allows for deep contemplation. Perhaps that is why they come. She looks sidelong at Ethstan, who also sits staring into the flames. Perhaps that is why he is silent.

So often, Myla has found that pieces of the last six years have gnawed at her. Easily dismissible thoughts as they are, they still lurk in the places of her conscious where justice seems to reign.

“It is disturbing.” She breaks the silence, drawing Ethstan’s attention. “I feel as though I was conditioned my entire life to fall willingly into complacency, to never say ‘no’ lest it interfere with plans larger than my preferences.”

Ethstan’s brow turns upward, and the line of his mouth draws thin, his expression seems to say, “Well, that is a damn shame, is it not?” There would be a heavy emphasis on the damn, she is sure of it. He smiles when she says things the others grimace at.

Myla is still convinced he does not belong here.

“I can think of a lot of people to blame, people who made me this way . . . afraid to tell a man when I do not like his touch. Or afraid to speak up in a room full of men, my father included, making decisions in my name. But the only person I can truly blame is myself. I am a woman now; I have been for a long time. There is no reason for me to fear my words and how they make others feel. Especially when their disrespect glares in my face like a beacon, no effort to even hide it.”

Ethstan nods slowly, his old face weighted with approval and his hands quietly applauding.

“I know I keep saying it, but I wish you could speak; I think you would have lots of answers for me.”

At this, Ethstan shakes his head ‘no’ making Myla wonder further at the atonement Martin speaks of. What could silence possibly atone for? Her former statement seems to have struck a nerve. Ethstan stands slowly and with a weak smile, he leaves.

Myla watches as the old man shuffles toward the kitchens, and a small voice inside her begs for sweet buns. Not usually being one for treats, Myla looks down at her stomach with a soft smile. “Stop, little one. No midnight snacks. It will keep us awake past our bedtime.”

It is not ten minutes later when Ethstan reappears, walking even slower to avoid spilling the cup of tea he carries. Myla expects him to sit down and begin sipping it himself, but he hands it to her instead with a kind smile and a reassuring touch of the shoulder. Prompted by memories of Elsa and Fern bringing her nightly tea, a swell of emotions lays just behind her smile. “Thank you.”

Ethstan does not sit. He leaves her to her tea and her thoughts for good this time. Myla’s eyes drift to the large window to her left, which faces the mountain of the Seer, an eerie outline glows red with embers, which she studies until slipping unknowingly into a deep sleep, lulled by the crackling of the fireplace.