Page 9 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)
MYLA EXITS HER room an hour later, bathed, dressed, and drunk. Elsa supplied another decanter full of a well-aged wine and together, the three girls drowned their worries in the red of their glasses.
Now, she appears, ready to navigate the day and all its complexities.
Bryar still stands at her door and everything inside her wishes to turn and speak with him, but fear for his life stops her. Their only interaction is the slight brush of fingertips as she passes through her door before moving ahead of him to fall in stride with Elsa.
“I need you to deliver a message to Alaric for me.” Myla slips her friend a small scroll, which is quickly concealed in her bodice. She then turns to Fern. “My green chemise, the one I wore on my wedding night with Caius. Have it washed and pressed and lay it out for me tonight.”
“Your Grace?” Fern asks, astonished, her expression mirrored on Elsa’s face and Myla can all but feel the jealousy boiling off Bryar. She stops in her tracks, turning so all three of her companions can see the severity of her features. There is no room for mistakes, now more than ever.
“I must have your trust in this,” she demands, briefly aware of dazed crimson soldiers approaching from the other side of the corridor. “Tonight, I will have Vesperian in my chamber—I will be safe,” she interjects before Bryar can protest. “And you,” Myla looks at him with a determination that could silence most any objection, “you will be by my door, ready to enter it should I cry out; do you understand me?”
His nostrils flare and a glint of something born of anger and pain settles into the souls of his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The bitterness in his response goes unnoticed by none.
There is no misinterpreting the chill forming between Myla and Bryar, causing Elsa to turn, facing away. Fern follows suit and Myla lowers her voice, allowing the Blood Stealer’s men to pass before speaking.
“Bryar,” she whispers, her hand brushing against his briefly. “Do not burn your life down for me. Not tonight.”
A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, followed by an exasperated sigh. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Yes.” She nods. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
Myla’s aunt had been married to a cruel man. As a young girl living in her parents’ countryside estate, years before coming to court, she watched how her aunt would cower when her uncle entered the room. Myla’s mother had seen it too and offered her a position in their home, with a convincing excuse to give her husband which might compel him to allow her to leave. By all accounts, it should have been simple, or so it was in the eyes of a young girl. Myla always wondered why her aunt did not accept help or seek out situations that would make her life easier.
Now, Myla finds it impossible to hold a private council meeting. With Vesperian fixated on her every move, it occurs to her that complacency is not always chosen. Just as her situation in the last two years was mistaken for weakness, as the day progresses with her unable to speak to her trusted advisors, she assumes they wonder at her actions now. Complacent queen, they must be thinking. No. Not complacent, simply stalked. Watched, like the prey she is.
Vesperian paces through the throne room, giving instructions to all who pass on wedding happenings, as well as drawing up contract revisions. Myla stands, peering out the window overlooking the courtyard. Soldiers below converse, and messengers pass correspondence back and forth.
Nothing seems out of place, if she ignores the beast at her back. He currently leans against a pillar, flipping through one of her books with his panting wolves at his feet. It is unnerving.
Luncheon has been served, most of which went untouched by Myla. Servants have removed the bodies from the throne room and a coat of wax polish is applied to the tile flooring. Every ray of light reflects on the floor and dust particles are meticulously removed. As it happens, the wedding celebration for the marriage of a widowed queen and a blood consuming demon is no small affair. The guest list is shocking.
Myla is nearly stunned as she watches furniture hauled in and out, moved, rearranged, or disposed of entirely. A sculpture to honor their marriage is already commissioned, the artist paid well to have it delivered the morning of the wedding. Every time Myla attempts to remove herself, Vesperian finds a reason for her to stay, from tasting cakes to coordinating wedding attire; he has accounted for every second of her day. If Myla is to succeed in her plan, it will be entirely because Alaric receives her message and takes action himself.
Myla is presented with a missive as the sun is setting and candles begin to flicker through the palace, glinting off the dark gothic mirrors intended to give the illusion of secret nooks, something Caius’s father had installed when he was a boy.
Thirty-seven pages of their marriage contract, written out by one of Vesperian’s glossy-eyed secretaries. Myla is relieved as Vesperian sets it in her hand, an idea mounting. “I will meet you for supper. I must look this over and get my council’s signatures.”
With a passable reason to leave his side, Vesperian seems unfazed, allowing her to slip away while he continues to sort out with his own personal captain how best to ‘accept’ blood oaths from Myla’s soldiers in the most expedited manner.
Yes, Vesperian. Shall you chain them all by the neck and hold them in place while you sink your teeth into them? Or perhaps have the smithy design the realm’s longest blade and slice a hundred hands at a time, collect their blood into one bowl, and drink of them that way? Myla mocks as she walks away, ignoring the surge of desire in her which longs to stay beside him and feel his breath running up her thighs.
Calm yourself, you traitorous whore. She almost laughs to herself, turning out of the room with a sigh of relief.
The hall leading to the conservatory is dark, the stewards having yet to light this corridor. “Someone is slacking,” she mutters, wondering what is taking him so long to keep up with duties. Her question does not go unanswered long for a muffled squeal ahead catches her attention, pricking her ears to listen closer.
Apprehensive at first, she steps around the corner to see Callum giving orders to have a body quickly disposed of. A man wearing the armor of the Raven’s Veil discreetly flings the limp body over his shoulder and makes off with surprising stealth. “Thank you, Callum.” She amends her earlier statement. He must have instructed this corridor be unlit to serve as a trap.
As Callum nods in answer before taking his leave, Myla finds herself grateful for a moment to lean against the wall, undetected, and orient herself. Bryar stands several paces behind her, not moving, nor speaking. He has assumed his duty of just her bodyguard beautifully, and she finds it both irritating and admirable. Reaching into a pocket concealed in the voluptuous folds of her gown, she runs her hand over a selenite bundle, allowing the herbs and stones to gently pass under her fingertips. The protective and calming qualities, immediately impactful. After a moment of breath-work, visualizing her blood coursing evenly through her veins and her body still with decisiveness, she turns to the captain, motioning quietly for him to approach.
“Under no circumstances do our soldiers remove their armor. If one must bathe or change, others will watch his back. I believe Vesperian will go to nefarious lengths to steal as many souls as he can. He tells me he plans to do it ceremoniously after our wedding, but I do not believe him.”
Bryar nods, understanding his command. “It will be done.”
“Good,” Myla replies. “What of the assassins? How many have they claimed?”
“Twenty-two dead, Your Grace. My men move undetected so far.”
She feels relieved. At least something is going according to plan. “You amaze me,” she says thankfully, grasping his hand briefly before moving the conversation along to more important matters. “Alaric is drugging his army. He has spent all day concocting a serum which will stunt any magical abilities. He believes it is not powerful enough to subdue Vesperian, but I think it may dull his abilities. I need you to get a dose from Alaric and give it to Fern and tell her to pour it into the cup on the left in my chambers.”
“Drugging him?” Bryar whispers, his tone inflating with concern. “This is your plan. To drug him? ”
“Yes . . . and no,” Myla confesses. “I will drug him, making sure he is in a relaxed state through whatever means necessary. Then I will strike when he is confident I am on his side. Whatever the outcome of tonight, I refuse to make it to that black wedding of his.”
Bryar’s eyebrows perk slightly, and Myla almost detects a smile. “Well, at least we agree where that is concerned.”
Myla returns the smile, a tinge of pain behind it. “You shall come to no harm on my account. It is an order.”
“Myla,” he says confidently. “Take away my personal feelings. I am sworn to come to harm for you if that is where my oath takes me. I can not do what you ask; it goes against my oath to you. It goes against my oath to Caius.”
Myla shudders, wishing her words could sway him, but in cases such as these, he has never been the swaying type. She shall have to settle for something else. “Then ... promise me you will not die angry at me. If it all comes to that, you and I failing. I can not meet my end without your love.”
His cheeks dimple with a sincere smile, a beacon of hope in her dark day. “As long as I do not meet my end without yours,” he replies softly. He raises a gloved hand now, pressing the back of his fingers to her cheek where he caresses her.
“Never,” she breathes, leaning into the touch.
As much as Myla wishes their few moments of peace in the dark corridor could continue, footsteps approach, no doubt her council. Her next words are fervent and rushed.
“Whatever you hear inside my room tonight, it is not what you think. I heard when you said you are tired of me choosing duty over you, and I will not betray us tonight.”
She hears his breath hitch, but his only response is a stoic nod and three powerful words: “I trust you.”
With the doors of the conservatory locked and Bryar standing guard outside, Myla and her council are able to speak freely, though voices stay hushed as the eerie feeling of being listened to lingers. The papers of the marriage contract lay untouched at the center of the table, Myla is open about the fact she has no intention of this situation outlasting a wedding between herself and Vesperian.
“Your Grace,” Lady Rivenna speaks. “You intend on confronting him yourself this evening? Do you believe that to be wise?” Her words are not spoken as a challenge; true fear seems to drive the question to the forefront of the conversation. There is no longer the air of defiance she felt from her council a few days prior. They may not like her these last few days, but their respect for her grows.
“I believe it is when he will least expect it,” Myla reasons. “But, no, I can not say with all certainty that it feels wise at all. Is any of this wise?” she responds, carefully rolling a quill between her fingers, knowing Vesperian will expect signatures to the contract when she returns to him this evening.
“I can not say your behavior at all, seems wise.” Maverick speaks, the only voice of contempt toward his daughter to be found in the room. “I imagine the late King, your husband, would be appalled.”
Eyes drift anxiously from him to Myla, no doubt waiting for her wrath to succeed the previous comment. Myla runs her tongue over her teeth, silencing the words which beg to be hurled her father’s way. Instead, she looks to the other faces in the room. “Would anyone like to offer helpful advice or should we waste our precious time listening to my father’s useless insults?”
Myla presses the quill into Maverick’s hand. “Insults do not kill father. If they did, you would have killed me long ago. Do you know what does kill? The Fae God who expects every signature to be on this contract. Including yours. He definitely kills.” Myla raises her eyebrows, watching as Maverick reluctantly leans over the contract, adding his signature to the list.
Lord Heron exchanges uneasy glances with his fellow members before speaking, seemingly on behalf of them all. “We have a plan, Your Grace. If you will hear us out?”