Page 34 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

The monastery is quiet as nightfall descends. Most have retired, and those that remain are sequestered in quiet groups for prayer. Bryar sits by the hearth reading a letter when Myla joins him, drawing his attention away from whatever message he holds. He glances briefly at her cotton shift cinched at the waist with a length of leather and then smiles at her. “You look rested. I checked on you earlier, but you were as good as dead.”

Myla sits on a stool next to him, teetering slightly on the uneven legs before finding her balance. “I do not even recall falling asleep.”

Bryar nods toward the parchment in his hands. She notes now that it is a map. “We need to go to the Seer, Myla.”

While the treacherous journey to where the Seer has lived for an unnatural length of time sounds unpleasant, Myla knows he is right. They need answers, and she will have them. “Let us go in two days, then. You will be no good up there with a fresh wound.”

Bryar simply nods in agreement, his eyes drifting to the crackling fire before them. Absently, he chews his lower lip, mind busy with thoughts. “Have you noticed my abilities seem a bit . . . out of control lately?”

Myla furrows her brow, leaning closer in, her elbows on her knees. “I think it is always been more potent than the average fire wielder.” Images of his axe wilting in his hand, or the explosive flames the night before, calls into question her answer, but she does not amend her statement lest he should worry.

He shakes his head, glancing sidelong at her. “Yes, but lately it feels like it is constantly simmering beneath the surface, ready to implode at the slightest disturbance.”

“And it has not always felt like that?” A stupid question really. Myla has seen him angry a handful of times through their childhood and never once did his anger start a fire at his feet.

“No.”

Myla briefly places a hand over his, careful to not shock the monks with their indecency. “There is no shortage of stress right now. I am sure that is all it is.”

He nods, seeming to accept the explanation. They both know it is bullshit.

As the candles burn low, monks trickle out of the main hall until only a handful remain, silence mostly filling the empty air. Myla and Bryar’s low whispers are all that disturbs the quiet. Though they both know there is no point in planning any retaliation against the Blood Stealer, Bryar humors Myla as she aimlessly mulls over one potential solution followed by another. Knowing she is tucked safely away in this monastery while that dark scourge stains the ground of her kingdom is sickening. Those who did survive are no doubt his playthings. Myla can only imagine he spent the day claiming oath after oath, cutting a devastating line of victims through the town and beyond.

“What of this antidote he speaks of?” Myla states after some hopeless silence. “Surely, his is not the only healer who could craft it.”

“No,” Bryar agrees, “but obtaining his blood is likely the challenge.”

“Perhaps we could send some of the Raven’s Veil to the Seam to search for more?”

Bryar watches the flames diligently, as though taking his eye off them might cause them to explode and flatten the entire monastery. After some thought, he responds.

“Once we return from the Seer, I will figure out how to get word to a few of our best, and they will go in search of an antidote. I doubt he only had one made.”

Myla lets out a small sigh. “There,” she whispers, looking down at her stomach. “Some hope at last.”

Bryar smiles slightly and reaches past the space between them to take her hand. “You will solve nothing with worrying,” he says, his face heavy with exhaustion. “We have our next steps laid out. Let us follow those, and leave the rest up to the Gods. They will not forsake us.”

After another hour of deliberating and considering other courses of action, Myla retires to her room.

AT FIRST, MYLA thinks it might be the monks praying outside her door when the sound of a boot scuff brings her head from the flat pillow. At the turning of the handle, she sits upright, drawing the heavy linens over her chest. Quietly, the door creaks open, and Myla is grateful for the fox dagger on the bedside table; otherwise, it may be difficult to abide by the monk’s request of no magic within the monastery walls. Alas, with a breath, she relaxes at the sight of Bryar entering, bearing a humble teacup on a chipped saucer.

“It seems all of their cups are chipped,” he whispers with a tired smile, handing her a steaming cup of chamomile. Myla gratefully accepts.

“You have brought me my evening tea,” she acknowledges warmly.

“Well, without Fern. . . someone has to see to it you get a good night’s rest.”

Bryar leans against her hearth momentarily before taking note of the dying flames, which he resuscitates with a few logs and some patient stoking. “No magic, they said,” he mutters. “So, we do it the normal way.”

“You know, most people have to start fires and tend them the normal way,” she teases, savoring a long sip of her warm tea. “We do not all have the gift of fire and constant warmth.”

Bryar smiles briefly at her before checking that the shutters of her window are secure. “This should keep your room warm most of the night. The shutters are locked, and I will stand guard by your door tonight.” Myla nearly sighs in exasperation at this man’s level of commitment.

“You will do no such thing,” Myla argues, standing to place her half-empty cup on the mantle. “You said it yourself: a monastery is the last place anyone will look for pagans like us. You have had a long day, and we make for the Seer in two days. Rest.” Myla pats the bed. “Sit with me for a while, at least.”

Bryar takes a deep breath and absently grinds his jaw, weighing the risks of abandoning his post before looking back at her. “Only for a bit,” he responds, sitting with a sigh.

Hesitantly at first, she moves alongside him and begins working at the fastenings of his armor, helping him shed layer after layer of weight. Exhausted to the core, he sits, allowing her to help. When at last his armor, tunic, and boots are discarded, she moves to the cut on his arm, unwrapping it. In silence, she tends the wound, washing it with clean water from her basin and rewrapping it.