Page 17 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“You suggest I climb into bed with the Blood Stealer and poison him,” Myla objects, absently chewing her nails as the stress amounts. “Poison will not kill him.”

Elsa shrugs, a smile twitching at her lips despite the glowering of everyone else in the room and the scoffed protests of the council. “We all have our crosses to bear, Your Grace. At least yours always seems to come with outrageously handsome men. Poison might not but a slit throat will.”

Bryar clears his throat. “Permission to speak, Your Grace?” Myla finds him interjecting at this exact moment jolting. She already knows that he will contest anything that requires her sharing another man’s bed. This is a fucking cross to bear.

“Granted,” Myla remarks, matching the formal tone.

“The Monk’s monastery is half a day’s ride from here. It would be a good place to take refuge. The Blood Stealer can not marry you if you are not here when he returns.”

“And when he does arrive to find me gone,” Myla argues, “imagine what he will do to those who remain.” All, including Bryar, nod in agreement, though the latter seems more invested than a Captain of the Guard ought to be. Fortunately, Myla is the only one paying him attention, so the sentiment goes unnoticed.

“We have enough forces,” Maverick interjects, ignoring the glare Myla passes his way. Though he stood down, it is not lost on her that her father was ready to kill her. “I believe it is time to face this beast and bring an end to him once and for all.” His words are calm and calculated.

With piercing eyes, Myla stares fiery holes into his forehead. “Without Restorer’s magic? Careful, Father, if I did not know any better, I would think you wanted him to kill me. That would be a large steppingstone for you.” She turns away to face Elsa. “I do not like your idea, Elsa.” Myla speaks with a firm conviction which does not in any way accurately reflect how she feels inwardly. Her hands tremble as she laces her fingers together resolutely. “But I fear there may be logic to it.” She dares not meet Bryar’s gaze as she speaks, lest her resolve should falter.

“Excellent,” Lord Heron adds sarcastically. “But what of the army he will no doubt bring with him? Are we expected to welcome them into our halls?” He turns to Bryar, whose chin is upturned stoically, and his expression is unreadable. “What say you?”

Long trained in the art of watching Myla walk into bedrooms with other men, Bryar seems to have found his composure, or perhaps his ability to disassociate is shining through. Regardless, with all eyes on him, none are the wiser to the deeper emotional objection he currently experiences.

“His troops are no better than the undead. They are a nuisance, but in their dazed state, no logic accompanies their motives. The kitchen maid could kill them with a fork. I will move my small, local force of the Raven’s Veil into the palace with the assignment of discreetly picking off his soldiers when possible.”

Myla cringes disconcertingly, troubled to think of innocent people being killed. Regardless, it seems this will all end in tremendous bloodshed. “Please, make those preparations at once,” she instructs, knowing it is best that the following conversation happens without his presence.

With a bow, he is gone, and a silence fills the room, all in attendance waiting for her to speak again. For a moment, Myla loses herself in the atmosphere. Her eyes flitting from plant to plant, light particles reflecting off stone, the way the lanterns bring out the greens and reds in the room, a red she fears will resemble her flayed body, should this plan go amiss. “For this ruse to be convincing, I must become unrecognizable to you,” she says, low at first, then gaining confidence. “I wish for my actions to be so convincing that you are all alarmed. I need to know that no matter how questionable my devotion to him becomes, I have you all at my back.”

Solemn nods bob across each head in the room, an understanding of what must be done, bringing forth a deep sense of grief and sacrifice. Even on the face of Maverick, Myla finds a grim solemnness. She continues, not wishing the moment to last any longer than necessary. “Lord Elias.” Myla looks to a younger gentleman. “I task you with hiring gravediggers to acquire a dozen or so fresh corpses.”

Elsa gasps. “Myla—I . . . Your Grace. Why?”

“I can not imagine that if I were to seriously look at my courtiers, and tell them I was happily aligning myself with the Blood Stealer, that there would be no bloodshed. It must appear as though there was a quarrel over the matter, and my court is in submission after I demonstrated what would happen to any more who defied me. The throne room is already a mess. We shall hang the corpses from the pillars of the throne room, and when he returns, he will ask about it.”

Myla’s stomach violently churns, a tug within her, a reminder from the Blood Stealer no doubt, a twinge that says “I am thinking of you. Are you thinking of me?” Angrily, she grips the sides of the long couch to her right, waiting for the wave to pass, before speaking again. “See to it, Lord Elias,” she commands gently, watching as the man reluctantly removes himself.

“Elsa, find Fern and Alaric. Meet me in my chambers in half an hour.” She turns to her father with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You, leave.”

With the last of her companions out of the room, unable to object nor be privy to her instructions, and Maverick none the wiser to something he would no doubt take advantage of, Myla takes a final deep breath and looks to the rest of her council. “Should my plan fail, and you sense the Blood Stealer is truly controlling me, I know I can count on the remainder of you to stop me.” Her words thicken the air of the room. Lady Rivenna, Lord Elias’s wife, speaks to clarify, though the suggestion is lost on none of them.

“Stop you . . . Your Grace?”

“Kill me,” Myla speaks clearly with a confident tilt of her jaw, so there is no confusion. “I will not be his puppet; my powers being used against my own people. Should he claim my impulses completely and you find I am a threat, kill me.”

Fern and Elsa are given strict instructions on remaining unreadable, should they find themselves in the presence of the Blood Stealer while tending Myla’s needs. With a convincing environment being of the essence, Myla is certain her fickle courtiers would perform fine. It is those closest to her she is afraid might give away their ploy. With Alaric currently brewing her an extra supply of energy revitalizing tonic, there is one person left to speak with, and Myla fears this will be the hardest conversation.

A knock sounds at her door. With Fern and Elsa intentionally dismissed, Myla answers the door herself. Bryar stands, hands relaxed on the hilt of the axe at his side. “You sent for me, Your Grace?”

Breaking her rule of no-contact, she takes his hand and ushers him in, closing the door firmly behind them. “Take off your armor and sit,” she instructs. “You are off duty tonight.”

“Of all nights, Your Grace,” he answers, “I can not rest this one.”

“Please, Captain,” she begs, the furrow in her brow softening. “I do not wish to face this when there lives a rift between you and I.” Hesitantly, and aware she is crossing many of the boundaries put in place for herself, Myla reaches to unclasp his cloak. Bryar stiffens at her proximity, his eyes looking resolutely past her, his breath catching. Careful not to touch him directly, she frees the cloak and sets in on the chaise before her hearth. “We must speak. Please sit with me a while.”

Bryar accepts a glass of mulled wine and sits, his face unreadable but the energy buzzing around him alive with turmoil. “I have done as you ask. Assassins will be at their posts throughout the palace within the hour.”

Myla smiles gratefully and sits next to him, aware the space between them is but a few inches, closer than she has allowed in years. “What I will ask of you is too much. I have not been blind to your lo—your loyalty, these past years, and I am no fool to think they have been easy on you,” she speaks gently, careful to keep her hands occupied in her lap to avoid unnecessary contact that she is certain would break her resolve. Deep green eyes like the forest at midday, gaze back at her, unreadable. “I must convince him that I am truly amenable to his alliance. There must be no question of it. If he doubts for a second, we will all fail, and I believe the consequences will be devastating.”

“And what of leaving, Myla?” he snaps, his anger finally boiling over. Her name on his lips is electrifying, sending a shock through them both, yet he does not recoil from his argument. “We had a plan.”

“Yes,” Myla pleads, not at all surprised by the bitterness vibrating from his being. “Surely, you see I can not leave now.”