Page 22 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

brEAKFAST IS UNCOMFORTABLE , to say the least. In his time here, Bryar seems to have formed many friendships, one of which being Phaenna. When Myla joins him in the morning, she finds the spot across from him is occupied by the beautiful Ashborn girl. They appear to be deep in lively banter that she wishes she could cut short with a swift clobber to the back of Phaenna’s head. When Bryar sees her, standing back and waiting for a suitable time to cut in, he says something to Phaenna and she nods understanding, taking her leave.

You will not be a jealous bitch; do you understand me? She commands herself, pasting a pleasantly indifferent smile on her face as she advances, intending to claim the seat warmed by the intruder’s perfectly round ass. Myla forces herself to exchange nothing less than a warm greeting with the girl as they pass one another.

“Good morning,” her tone is impeccable, and Myla is pleased with her delivery until Phaenna responds.

“Mornings are always good after nights like last evening.” Her brazen statement is followed by a flirtatious glance over her shoulder in Bryar’s direction.

Myla stops dead in her tracks, watching Phaenna leave the now quiet breakfast hall. Her gaze drifts back to Bryar and a swell of betrayal ruins her appetite.

He did not. There is no way. Swallowing her wounded pride, Myla sits, avoiding Bryar’s intent gaze as he analyzes her.

“What is wrong?”

“Straight to the point, huh? Seems to be a common theme this morning.” Her voice trembles and her attempt at sounding comical fails entirely. Nothing but hurt is conveyed, causing a look of concern to wash over the disgustingly handsome man’s face across from her. Of course, Phaenna is quick to lay claim. Any woman who does not is a fucking idiot.

Oh, me. That is me. I am the fucking idiot. The queen of idiots—get me a crown for that one, Father. I can wear it until I die beneath the crushing weight of idiocy.

“What do you mean?” Bryar probes, sliding a cup of tea toward her, steaming hot and prepared in advance for her.

Wooing two women at once. Get him a crown too, Father. We are all idiots here, it would seem.

Myla pushes the tea aside. “What did you do last night after we went inside?”

A crease forms in his brow. Confusion? Concern at being caught? Contemplating how best to answer? Whatever it may be, Myla does not want to hear it. “Never mind. What you do in your bedroom is no longer any of my concern. Can we just get on with this? When will Rhyland return?”

Bryar, stunned, leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” she asks, annoyed. “Is that not why I am here right now? So, you can tell me whatever it is you need to . . . as my captain?”

“It is,” he responds coolly, “but I am not going to answer your questions until you answer mine.”

“You have to,” she retorts. “I am your queen.”

Bryar rolls his eyes and leans on his elbows, his words a taunting whisper. “No.”

“Bryar!” she snaps, her voice an octave higher than she intends. “Please, for the love of the Gods, just tell me what I am going home to, so I can plan my return!”

He sighs, pushing her tea back in front of her. “Drink. You will not like a single thing I have to say.”

The shift in his inflection carries a warning and Myla drops the petulant defenses. “What is it?” She takes a long sip of tea, refusing to admit she is grateful for it.

“Rhyland will be here by nightfall. He brings about forty percent of your armies with him—those who remain loyal to your cause.” His words shatter around her, and questions spill from her lips before she can impart any patience on herself.

“What? Why? Loyal to me? Where will they—”

“In your absence, the Blood Stealer claimed about ten percent of your army before returning to the Seam. It is said he has captives with him, but Rhyland did not disclose who. Once the palace was uninhabited, various lords of the realm descended, and there was a battle for the throne.”

Myla stands, the half-empty teacup before her sloshing to the floor and shattering at her feet. “ What? This can not be.”

He nods; his face grievous. “Myla . . . your father did not die. However, in your absence . . . he has claimed the Raven Throne for himself. There is no palace to return to now. Not without a fight.”

Myla’s chest seems to cave in on itself, the weight of his news heavy enough to bring her back to the seat beneath her. Her heart thuds in her chest. It is as loud as war drums and ready to explode in a shock wave from decades of anger and abuse at the hands of the man who just wanted to give her power, to then take it away. Astonished and sickened, Myla finally blurts, “He survived ?”

Bryar reaches across the table, grasping for her hand, a gesture she recoils from, her entire body stiffening in disbelief. “And now half of my army belongs to my father? Lord Maverick Alerys, now sits on my throne?”

“ King Maverick Alerys . . .” Bryar grumbles, distaste for the name causing his face to twist into a scowl.

“And Vesperian took what, a thousand of them?”

“And Rhyland is nine hours away, with another forty thousand, give or take,” Bryar concludes.

A wave of hot stress washes over her, nausea threatening to put on display the less queenly side of her. Slow deep breaths still the turmoil in her stomach, and Myla rests her head in her hands, finally speaking. “I do not know what I expected. I left my throne unprotected. Of course, power-hungry lords would lay claim to it. That does not shock me. But my own father? ” Myla briefly considers that he may be simply maintaining control, which she will reclaim when she returns. That, however, is not the Maverick Alerys way. No, he has stolen her throne. Perhaps this is the conclusion to his grand scheme. Perhaps she was merely his social ladder after all.

Bryar shakes his head. “I did not predict this. I was certain the Blood Stealer would occupy the palace for a long time, Myla. I certainly did not expect anyone to contest your rule.”

“What of Callum?” Myla asks, moving on from the topic of her stolen throne. “Have you had word from him?”

Bryar shakes his head. “I have not. I plan to send Rhyland after him if we do not hear in a fortnight.”

“And we have no idea whatsoever who Vesperian’s captives are?” Her first thought is of Fern and the other young women who served in the palace. They would be easy targets for his appetites.

“Rhyland did not say,” Bryar answers, studying her face. “Listen, we need to build you a new Council and make a plan. Fighting the Blood Stealer in his own kingdom complicates matters significantly.”

“Yes,” Myla agrees, lacing her fingers before her. “Please, find out who battled for my throne. I do not want to extend Council invitations to them. We can decide from there who would benefit our cause.” She presses fingers to her temple, willing her brain to still. “Where will the army make camp?”

“King Ivan has agreed to let them make camp in the clearing.”

“I must thank him,” Myla sighs. “Surely, he is wary of such a large army encamped outside his kingdom?”

Bryar tilts his head slightly, responding cautiously. “He trusts me . . .”

The next hour is spent discussing plans. Bryar reinforces that Myla’s best approach is to stay put within the safety of the ward until Callum returns with more information on the Blood Stealer. For all the battle savvy plans Bryar seems to effortlessly propose, a gnawing sense of dread lurks in the back of her mind. How is she to fight battles on two different fronts? For someone not under the influence of the Blood Stealer, nor pregnant, this would be a feat documented by bards. In her current condition, one battle feels impossible, two feels like a death sentence.

Bryar seems to read her mind, and reaches across the table once more, nearly touching her hand comfortingly before retracting. “We will deal with the Blood Stealer first. Falkmere can come second—a mortal king is easier to defeat than the Blood Stealer, and your father is an idiot. Let him rebuild the palace for you,” he adds with a cocky half smile. “You can reclaim it in time for renovations to be complete.”

Myla smirks, brushing stray curls behind her ears. “We focus on the Blood Stealer first,” she repeats in agreement. “Everything else can wait.”

Myla is tempted to spend the remainder of the day pacing the long halls of Valyndor Palace, but as her feet begin to ache and she passes lunch on an empty stomach, she decides her pacing may as well take her somewhere. A visit to Lenore seems fitting. So, she dons a blue cloak, and begins toward her friend’s house, carrying a basket full of fresh sweet rolls from the kitchen to give to Lenore’s fledglings. At Bryar’s command, her poor, deeply insulted guards follow close behind.

She has yet to venture into the common part of Valyndor. Its unique layout is fascinating to her. Spiral staircases of wood are constructed around the base of enormous tree trunks, leading upward into exquisitely crafted homes tucked into the canopies of the trees, leaving natural openings beneath the homes for gardening and playing fledglings. Laughter fills this district, lighthearted family life taking priority over anything else. Fathers swing their fledglings overhead and mothers clap with glee as their little ones take flight for the first time. It is exactly what she would expect to see in a peaceful community, but the sight sends a tinge of longing through her, knowing she will not experience this sort of simplicity with her own child.

A barefoot fledgling crouches curiously, his wings drooping in a puddle of mud as he examines worms beneath a fallen log. His mother calls to him, encouraging him to keep clean. It seems they have somewhere to be. Myla smiles and turns her attention to a group of adult Ashborn a few feet ahead of her, hanging washing from a line.

“Excuse me,” she addresses a young man who watches her with hesitant curiosity. “Can you point me in the direction of Lenore’s home? Do you know?”

The Ashborn man gives her brief instructions and soon she finds herself knocking on the door of a noisy home. It takes a few raps before anyone hears her over the commotion of shouting and a crying infant. The door cracks open and nothing but a bright amber eye peeping out is visible. “Who are you?” A small voice demands. “Mama!” they yell, before she can answer. “There is a weird lady with no wings here!”

Lenore laughs, shouting at her fledgling to let Myla in. “Forgive them,” she says with a vibrant smile. “My house is full of feral creatures.” Feral creatures, is whispered as a playful taunt at an auburn boy who darts past her, rustling the hem of her skirt before clambering up a small staircase, and disappearing into a room overhead.

“You look well,” Myla says, placing her basket on a simple wooden table, taking note of the hand-crafted furniture and simply woven linens. Everything in Lenore’s home seems to be made by herself, or perhaps her husband. The tree trunk at the center of the large room partially obscures Myla’s view to the other side, but she thinks she can see a few more children quietly playing on the floor. “How are you?”

Lenore pats the space beside her on a cushioned bench. The infant in her arms is fast asleep. “I am happy today, but all last night when she cried, I thought I might cry too. We arrived home late, and she was happy as could be, so quiet and content. And then into the evening, she decided she had something to complain about, and she wailed about it until an hour ago.”

A genuine smile stretches across Myla’s face, for the first in a while, and she reaches to run a delicate finger over the infant’s upturned nose. “She is just confused,” she encourages. “But I do not need to tell you that. You have done this many times before.”

“Yes,” Lenore agrees, her tired eyes gleaming. “I can not say it gets easier with practice. I suppose, you just learn to survive until the hard days pass.”

Her words feel relevant. Surviving is all Myla has done for six years, and she wills the hard days to pass again.

“Can I get you anything?” she offers, retrieving Lenore’s empty teacup. “I will freshen your drink for you. Do your fledglings need anything?”

Lenore laughs lightly. “I can not have a queen waiting on me in my home.”

“Please,” Myla insists. “Allow me to be here, as a friend.”

Lenore nods, understanding quite well. “I see you have brought food; I am sure they would love you forever if you gave them some.”

Myla spends the next hour ensuring Lenore’s fledglings have eaten and are free of sticky fingers before they run off again to play. Her second to youngest, a red-haired boy, informs her his mother’s tea is running low, so Myla leaves briefly to buy some more, returning with enough to last Lenore a few weeks. After tidying the main room, Myla sits again, sharing in some of the tea.

“You asked me yesterday what I see when I look within myself,” Lenore speaks. “I see decisions. Some good, some bad. But all of them have led me here.” She nods down at the child in her arms. “I do not regret anything that has brought me here. Someday you will like what you see when you look inside yourself, and I hope you do not regret any choices that lead you to that place.”

“Lenore,” Myla responds hopelessly, her voice wearies with too many unanswered questions, “I do not recognize myself anymore. If I had faced these trials six years ago, I know exactly how I would have responded.”

“So, what changed?” Lenore asks inquisitively.

“I think . . . I changed.”

“You are supposed to change, but what has made you uncertain?” she probes, shushing the baby in her arms with a gentle stroke across the forehead.

“Responsibilities,” Myla admits. “I did not have the sort of responsibilities I have now to get in the way of my decision making.”

Lenore shakes her head, sighing heavily. “I can think of very few responsibilities a woman of your station might have thrown upon her that should stand in the way of what you want. You are a queen, Myla. You have the power to say no. You can stand in a room full of men and say no—why do you not?”

“Because they would not accept it.”

“They would not accept it, or they would not like it?”

Myla smirks, letting out a slow breath as the baby inside her shifts uncomfortably. “Both, I suppose.”

“So, what choice is so controversial that you fear their anger of it?”

Myla blurts the response before she considers how it might make her look to admit that love is what afflicts her. “Marrying my captain, rather than some eligible nobleman for the advancement of the kingdom.”

Lenore snorts, bits of tea dribbling from her mouth, back into her cup. “I swear to the Gods,” she says with a girlish grin. “If you pick a room full of ugly, pudgy men’s feelings over that . . . fine specimen of a warrior, you are doing women everywhere a gross disservice.”

Myla allows a moment of laughter before responding practically. “I do not know how to defeat the Blood Stealer, I do not know how to reclaim my kingdom, from my father, at that. I do not know how to raise a child. Lenore, I am a walking disaster of a queen in the eyes of my people. Imagine, I resurface with intentions of marrying my bodyguard?”

Lenore’s eyebrows raise. “I think I need some more context here.”

Over the next few hours, Myla shares her story, explaining to Lenore all the complexities that have led to her being in Valyndor. Sparing no details, Myla is sure to include her and Bryar’s history, finding it a relief to share the burden with someone who seems to care, genuinely care, for her as a person, not as a queen or a pawn.

For a while, Lenore is silent, visibly mulling over the meaty content Myla has shared before speaking. “If you could channel your child’s magic, do you suppose that might help with your Blood Stealer issue?”

It takes Myla a few seconds to register Lenore’s words. When she does, questions flood her mind too quickly to ask in a cohesive manner, so all she manages is, “ What? ”

Lenore nods, touching Myla’s arm reassuringly. “The Ashborn can channel their children’s magic from the womb. It is how we determine if they have an inclination for good or evil, so we might course correct at birth.”

Myla shakes her head, still confused. “How does this help me, Lenore? I am not Ashborn.”

Lenore hesitates. “I believe your struggles stem because you are refusing the gift of the Gods. You believe your loneliness, your suffering, is the only way to stay on the right path. The Gods have more in store for you, should you accept.”

Myla hides the aggravation bubbling within, wondering what Lenore could possibly be getting at. “Lenore,” she probes with a sigh, “I do not think I understand what you are saying. Speak plainly, please.”

A reluctance washes over Lenore before she flashes a brief smile. “I will speak to you as a friend, no reservations, but truly consider what I say before dismissing it.”

Myla nods in agreement, resting a tense hand on her belly. “Alright, I will consider it.”

“You are not Ashborn. On your own, you can not channel your child’s magic. But you love a man who is Ashborn. A man who has already told you he would marry you if he could.”

Myla’s skin crawls with goosebumps, the message Lenore sends clarifying.

“Ashborn marriages are powerful. I saw you reading in the library, so I do not believe I need to expand on it. You already know. But what would happen if you stopped refusing the gift the Gods offer you—the captain? From what you have just told me; it seems he has waited very patiently for you.

“I love my husband, but I can not say he would have done the same—few would. The unconditional loyalty you two share is unheard of. Perhaps, you take a leap of faith and see what the Gods do with it. Worst case scenario, you have lost the throne, but you have a husband you can count on for the rest of your life. Best case scenario . . . you have a husband you can count on, who helps you win back your throne, and you have lots of really hot castle sex after an invigorating day of ruling together.”

Myla bellows in laughter, pressing a palm to her flushed forehead. “Oh . . . Elsa would have loved you.”

Lenore grins. “Based on how you speak of her, I believe I would have loved her too. I believe she also might have told you; it is time to decide which part of your story you will choose for yourself, and which part you will give to the will of the Gods to decide. You are a queen, Myla. Do not walk around here as anything less.”

Myla’s trek back to the palace is a slow one. Lenore’s words echoing in her mind, pushing her to a place where she knows a decision must be made, and quickly. She smiles at she and Lenore’s departing conversation.

“Lenore, what makes castle sex different than regular sex?”

Lenore had shrugged, a coy smile curling her lips. “I suppose the kind that does not require silence . . .” She glanced at the trail of fledglings plowing through her house, a look of desperation washing over her. “The kind where one is not afraid of their fledglings overhearing . . . or monks for that matter.” Her face squished into a delightful laugh. “We are going to have to discuss that later. I do not know how I feel about it.”

Myla departed with lighter steps than she arrived, but now, as she makes her way back toward Valyndor Palace, she is acutely aware of the choices looming before her. Rhyland will be arriving soon, if he has not already, and the choices regarding where men are sent and what attacks are made in the next few days will be greatly determined by what choice she makes in her personal life. Should she choose to stay the course, with eyes only for her child’s throne, her plan of attack will likely be more assertive than should she choose to follow her heart.

Ashborn soldiers congregate before the palace steps, discussions of the approaching army passing, heated, between one soldier and the next. They make way for her to pass, eyeing her in a different light, perhaps wondering if she has played a weak queen and is truly here to infiltrate them from the inside.

“What say you, Queen Who Bleeds Stars?” A market-goer carrying a basket on his hip eyes her wearily now. “Do you truly believe your armies can infiltrate such a mighty stronghold?”

Myla eyes her contester, straightening beneath the scrutiny of those watching. “I would not dream of trying,” she replies as she pushes past them. “You grossly misjudge me.” With nothing more to say, she enters the palace.

Something in the air around her shifts. Regardless of what anyone thinks or says about her; forty thousand men march her way. Forty thousand men prepared to die for their oaths. Forty thousand men who looked upon her father and defied him.

That kind of loyalty can not be fabricated.

Felicity helps Myla dress in a fresh, formidable gown, her hair cascading down her shoulders and her sharp crown retrieved from its resting place in Bryar’s saddle bag. When her soldiers arrive, Myla intends to stand before them looking undefeated. No longer does she intend to be perceived as weak or dismissible. Decisions have been made, and she intends to live by them, rule by them, and enforce them by whatever means necessary.

The silk black dress she wears hugs her body like a sheath, her belly on display and unmistakable: the queen carries her heir. Convincing them on the matter of the child’s father might prove challenging, but looking in the mirror and seeing a growing strength glare back at her, Myla decides she does not care. They can accept her words, or they can question them.

How men perceive her is no longer her problem.

“You look . . . magnificent,” Felicity awes, her round eyes wide in amazement. “Whatever you plan tonight, good luck.” With that, Felicity leaves her to stare at herself.

As soon as the door latches shut, Myla lowers herself slowly onto her knees, pressing her palms flat onto the cold stone flooring beneath her. Her eyes fall closed, and she envisions the Spirit Mother before her in the woods outside the monastery. “Please,” she pleads, her fingertips delving into the stones as if she can dig her way to where the Goddess lives. “Help me choose what is right, not only for myself, but my child. And if you can spare it, grant me the same unwavering strength you lead with.” Across her mind’s eye, the vision of a raven flying fast toward a trio of moons, before exploding into a flock of burning embers and feathers, flashes. Myla takes a deep breath, feeling in her bones that the Goddess smiles on her now.

As she leaves her chambers, Myla can not help take notice of the side-eyed, lingering looks from the guards and Ashborn courtiers. It confirms for her that she appears as strong and beautiful as she hoped she might.

Moving down the hall toward the entrance of the palace, the deep voices of men shift from a jumble of inaudible chatter to coherent sentences, and she sees the familiar face of Rhyland.

“Your Grace!” he says warmly, bowing informally before stepping toward her in an embrace. “You look well.” He glances down at her belly, his eyes wide. “I will admit, after two years of you saying it was there but seeing no proof, I am glad to . . . well, see the proof.”

Myla laughs, placing a grateful hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I am so glad to see you.” Her face sobers slightly. “Tell me, how are our troops?”

He nods slowly, inspecting her countenance. “They are ready to see their queen. The journey has been long and miserable. They need your encouragement. They are unsure of what they even march toward, but I assured them, their queen is worth the risk—” He is about to say more when his eyes dance and, with a courteous nod, he moves past her.

Myla turns in time to see Rhyland and Bryar in a firm embrace, not just fellow soldiers, but lifelong friends. There is relief between them, and Myla whispers a silent ‘thank you’ to the Gods for returning another friend to them in such uncertainty.

When Bryar catches sight of her, his somber demeanor shifts to a swell of pride. As he approaches, his eyes linger a bit too long on her belly and even longer on her crown.

“Your Grace,” he whispers, kneeling before her in a reverent bow. “Your army awaits your commands.”