Page 3 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Elsa nods in agreement and continues to listen as the man beside her offers solutions. “I will go to Titonfall and inquire about our progress there. It is time I check in anyway, see if we are any closer to infiltrating the Seam. At the very least, we will have more information on how his strength is growing. It is better to know than to wonder.”

“In the meantime,” Elsa adds gently, side eyeing both men as though to rally their support, “is it time to consider letting the child come?” Myla bristles, leaping to her feet. Her friends exchange weary glances, and it is clear Elsa regrets raising the topic.

“How do you expect me to allow my child to be born into this?” Myla gestures around them, to the palace and beyond; to the hundreds of miles Caius’s mere breath protected, and death doomed. “I can not protect anyone, let alone a child. I will not risk our final living Restorer to relieve my own suffering.”

The captain nods in agreement, cautiously shifting from his role as her personal guard to that of an old friend, speaking finally, “while bringing forth the child may seem logical, I fear we can not overlook his, or her, lineage. As Caius’s heir, this child is already in grave danger . . . should anyone find out.”

Myla had discovered the pregnancy a week before Caius died. It was a week of joy and dreaming, a week where he was entirely pleased with her—she had finally done what was the duty of every queen. The days felt more effortless, a feeling which was quickly snuffed. The wreckage left behind in the wake of his murder was tumultuous, and Myla decided then, she would not allow her child to be born into uncertainty, nor would she announce the pregnancy at all.

For the last two years, she has been expelling much of her magic keeping her pregnancy dormant. A task she does not plan to reverse until she has made the realm safe, and as a result, her child safe. The sacrifices of motherhood, so one would say.

“But,” Callum hesitates, “how will you have the energy to sever ties with the Blood Stealer if all your energy is going to this?” He gestures to her belly, still slender and keeping her secret well hidden. “You can not do both.”

“So, it seems,” Myla huffs. “I can not sever ties with him anyway. How can I allow my child to be born when I, myself, am a threat to it? At any given moment, the Blood Stealer could instruct me to annihilate my kingdom from within, and I would be but a pawn at the mercy of his whims! What would you have me do? I am at a standstill.”

A chilling silence falls upon the group. The usual conclusion to a conversation they have had many times over the last two years. A sense of hopelessness once more brings noise to the quiet, induced by dead ends and unanswered questions.

“My recommendation, Your Grace,” Captain Bryar speaks again, “we continue to say nothing of this. Not to a single soul.” He gestures to their friends, satisfied only by their understanding nods of compliance. “Should this information fall into the wrong hands, it could mark the end of Caius’s lineage. It would certainly be death for you.” He looks directly at Myla, looking for confirmation that she is listening. The straightening of her shoulders and the slow breath she takes, followed by a nod, is answer enough. They will continue to keep her secrets and seek answers to questions they can not ask.

It is before dawn when Myla’s eyes flutter open. Earlier than she usually rises, a warmth deep within calls her from her slumber. Something contrary to the fatigue and anxiety which usually keeps her abed past sunrise. At first, she is pleased by the unusual surge of energy, then with a groan, falls back into her pillows. A lazy hand lifts and with ease, she summons a trickle of light from her palms. Shit.

She presses a palm to her stomach and visualizes her magic pooling deep within her womb, creating a shield where the child will be suspended, yet again. The magic untethered overnight as it has done so many times before. In the safety and relaxation of sleep, her weary body instinctually reclaims its flow of magic, releasing the grip on her womb, and she is forced to exert that much more energy to place a hold on the growth. Today will be exhausting; she can feel it in her bones already.

Myla stands, untangling her legs from the thin material of her white nightgown, and makes her way to the balcony jutting out from her bedchamber. The palace and the town beyond are peaceful at this hour. Precious few are awake, and those who are move with purpose. No reason to dally at this hour. The palace guards patrol diligently below, several in view in the gardens alone. A few younger soldiers, it would seem, pass playful shots of magic back and forth. One guard launches a gust of air toward the other, deflected as the recipient of the assault crosses his arms, forming a translucent shield about his body. The sight is a relief; Myla knows her home is well protected, though she must speak to Bryar about the unnecessary expenditure of magic.

The moon glistens off hundreds of rooftops while torch and lantern light casts swaying shadows. White peonies are illuminated, and strands of light dance on the ripples of the water in the canals. It is beautiful. The ivy sneaking up the sides of the terracotta palace walls, hiding the wear from weather and cracks of settling, reminds Myla that this building has stood hundreds of years, and shall stand hundreds more. The palace is not simply old, it is ancient.

Which is an irony to many of the locals who live within New Falkmere. The true Ancient Palace is located in Old Falkmere where the ruins of the first palace sink slowly into the earth and foliage.

The New Falkmere palace sits perched upon a jetty of cliffside, waterfalls tumbling and etching paths in the rocks downward. If one is not looking directly at the palace in daytime, it may be easy to miss, for it is overgrown with creeping ivy, moss, and wisteria. Faded stone peeks out here and there, but the most noticeable part of the palace is the drum tower at the forefront, its crenellations—an unusual pattern against the natural backdrop of the forest—surround it. Many windows and balconies offer a view out, and when the night is black, lights spill forth, creating a magical glow.

The entrance is protected by a gatehouse, which gives way to a magnificent arched door with intricate cuttings of a raven perched on a sword adorning its rim. On either side, stretching along the wall, lining a pleasant pathway, is a row of blind arcades. The ornate decorative arches are kept clear of foliage, so the ravens’ torches within them may burn free from obstruction. From the gatehouse, framed by two small watch towers, is a curved stone bridge, closing the sizable crevice of earth which separates the palace from the rest of the city. The tumultuous thundering of the falls below casts a mist, almost constantly shrouding the palace.

Her hands move to her belly, a place they are familiar with resting now. “If I have any say in the matter, this will all be yours, and you shall rule it well.” With a gentle pat, Myla moves to her dressing room and dons a robe before ringing for her lady-in-waiting. The slip of a girl hurries in within minutes.

“Good morning, Fern,” Myla says. “I would like my tea, please. And send for Captain Monroe.”

Upon delivering the tea, and Bryar, Fern is dismissed, visibly mortified to be leaving her queen alone with a man. Myla smiles to herself, trying not to embarrass the girl further with a departing statement such as “You know I have been alone with men before; this one is no exception.” Myla holds her tongue instead, and offers Bryar a cup of tea.

“Your Grace,” he remarks with a reserved smile once the door shuts behind Fern. “How can I be of assistance? Is something amiss?” His dark eyes are still heavy with sleep, and Myla feels a tinge of guilt for waking him on his night off. His usual post is outside her door, but twice a week, he sleeps through the night, undisturbed.

“No,” Myla lies, hiding her fatigue well. “It is only a small matter.” Before Bryar can reply, she continues, “I was hoping we could discuss the soldiers. I just saw a few down below in the gardens. Playing. With magic. That is energy we can not afford to expel so needlessly.”

His broad chest rises as he inhales deeply. His jaw is set firmly. “I will address it, Your Grace.” It is likely one of fifty things he might address in a day, as her captain.

Satisfied, Myla nods before speaking again. “I believe it is time we send the Raven’s Veil into the Seam again, or . . . perhaps the Ashborn should be summoned.”

With a less formal tone this time, Bryar is quick to answer. “Caius would never forgive me if I got you tangled up in any of that. Bringing the Raven’s Veil into the situation will take our standstill and turn it into battlefields within days, Myla. I do not see how they can truly help right now.” Myla. He knows better. “Your Grace,” he corrects. “As for the Ashborn, they have not been known to mingle in the matters of Falkmere for centuries.”

“Caius would know that I am a lost cause already if something does not change quickly,” Myla replies, trying to keep her voice steady and unconcerned, a tone which does not quite fit the words accompanying it. “And the Ashborn are going to find the matters of Falkmere on their doorstep if they do not pick a side soon.”

His gaze locks with hers and she thinks he almost reaches for her hand, then hesitates. “You are not a lost cause,” he replies simply. “The Ashborn may be, but you are not.”

Myla smiles, hiding the doubt behind a sip of her tea. “Were Caius still here, he could have broken my Blood Bond. Without him, there is no way. We must kill the Blood Stealer or . . .” She does not finish. They both know it ends in her unwillingly betraying her family, her friends, and her kingdom. The traitorous mistress to the Blood Stealer, and mother to his wicked offspring.

“The child is Caius’s,” Bryar objects. “If you allowed it to be born, it would carry the gift, as every Restorer has before . . . you remember what Sir Roderick told us. The child you carry is likely immortal, if the prophesy is true.”

“Yes, but to wield it, to know to wield it, this child would need to be much older. I do not care what Sir Roderick told us; I believe that was all just a story. Not an actual prophesy. In any case, this child’s chances of surviving to young adulthood in the current political climate are slim to none. In every case but this one, I will choose my kingdom. I will not, however, sacrifice my child, or risk its life in hopes that it is immortal.”