Page 37 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Bryar strokes strands of her hair down her back, watching her lips move as she speaks. It is clear he tries to work that out in his own mind, wrestling with something deeper. “What an odd arrangement you had with him,” he says finally. “I never would have guessed he was the kind of man you could admit that to.”

“It was not love, that was for sure,” she answers, barely loud enough for him to hear, afraid the Gods might strike her dead for her ungratefulness. “Friendship maybe, honesty, yes. But I never loved him.” Myla rationalizes all of the things she wishes she could say, but is too scared to admit, hoping if she gives them an explanation, they will not hurt so badly.

Bryar is silent before speaking again, his words calculated and carefully chosen. “I was supposed to stand guard beside your chamber the night of the wedding, during the consummation viewing.”

Myla gasps, sitting upright. “You were not!”

“I did not,” he clarifies. “I was drunk in the cellars and ended up being on squire training for a month as punishment.” His eyes travel past her collarbone to her exposed breasts and, before speaking again, he reaches out to draw her closer. “Never mind any of that. I am in pain again and need my cure.”

“IN A MONASTERY?” Myla jolts from sleep at the sound of the door closing, Bryar discreetly exiting and leaving her tucked away. A rush of gratitude washes over her at the familiar voice of Callum just outside her door, muffled now. Bryar says something inaudible, but she can hear Elsa’s name followed by a sob. Myla sits upright, a sickening anticipation settling over her. Who else is with him?

She dresses swiftly, pulls her hair in a loose knot at her neck, and exits the room, stepping out in time to see Bryar gripping his friend’s shoulder supportively. For being such a big man, Callum seems so small beneath the quaking of his shoulders. His face twists as grief devours him whole and he falls against his comrades. Together, Bryar and Rhyland comfort their friend as he admits the agonizing reality. Rusty hair brushes his forehead, and he shakes his head in disbelief, eyes gleaming.

“The ceiling came down,” Rhyland says quietly, as Bryar looks to him with questions.

Shaking with a rush of denial, Myla approaches slowly. Rhyland glances at her, his head dropping in a bow. Bryar stops him, whispering something; no doubt telling him of her concealed identity.

“She is not with you?” Myla asks, grasping at Callum’s sleeve. “Elsa is not with you . . . what of my father?”

Grief crumples the man before her like a flimsy piece of paper, and he simply shakes his head. “I tried,” he chokes before turning and leaving the building.

Rhyland is about to follow when Bryar grabs his arm. “Let him go, he needs to be alone.” There is a knowing in the way he says needs. Like he has felt that need before.

The room seems to spin with the shocking finality of what Myla knew in her heart, but had hoped was wrong. The miracle of the men standing before her should be a relief, and it is, but it is outweighed by the crippling thought: how could they leave without her?

As though reading her mind, Rhyland speaks. “I barely got Callum out of there. It was hell unleashed. I have never seen such bloodshed and wreckage in one place. But all he could do was scream her name. He ran right toward the Blood Stealer and almost got his head cut off before I could get ahold of him and drag him away.” He stumbles over his words. “I am so sorry I could not do more. For Elsa or your father. I lost sight of him when the ceiling came down as well. I do not believe anyone could have survived that.”

Myla nods, her vision blurred with unshed tears which she wipes away before they can free fall. She struggles to find words, so she says nothing. The fact is, there is nothing to say, and all in company know it.

Wearing weariness and grief, Rhyland lowers his eyes and draws his long dark hair to a twist at the back of his head, revealing a layer of closely shaven hair beneath, then moves toward a table spread with food and drink.

It is Bryar who finally propels the conversation. “We will visit the Seer.” His words are hushed to avoid prying ears. “I believe she can bring clarity and direction to our path.”

Rhyland groans and glances between she and Bryar, finding seriousness on both their faces. Letting out a sigh and pressing his dusty palms exhaustively into his brow, smudging layers of dust over his brown skin, he concedes, “Let me sleep first?”

Myla smiles weakly and nods. “We leave tomorrow morning. Rest today.”

Rhyland retires to Bryar’s room to sleep, not wanting to inconvenience the monks by making up another room. With Bryar’s assurance that he will not need it, Rhyland collapses in an exhausted heap, sure to sleep the day away.

The hours pass and Callum is nowhere to be found. Bryar seems convinced he is well, but most likely taking the space to grieve after their journey. Their convalescence seems to be wasting time, and Myla wants nothing more than to pack up and make for the Seer at once.

Instead, she finds herself kneeling in the garden, helping a quiet monk remove weeds. He is sworn to silence—or so Martin tells her—so she, too, partakes in the wordless task, finding comfort in the cathartic act of wrenching overgrowth out by the roots.

With each violent rip upward, she envisions one of Vesperian’s limbs separating from his body. Dirt dislodged and flung in various directions replaces the vision of his spraying blood, her imagination sufficiently quenching her need to brutalize the demon, or her father, though she chides herself for resenting the dead.

Let the Gods do their work, her mother would tell her. The Gods can not bring Elsa back, and for that, she curses them.

In the back of her mind, tucked a little deeper than her hatred, are memories of last night. Scenes that replay in her mind without her permission, and she feels shame for allowing herself to be distracted by something she should not be at such a time. If Elsa were here, she would say sex is the cure for all. Elsa had been a woman who celebrated with it, a woman who experienced both defeat and anger with it. If anything, Elsa would have been pleased to know her demise resulted in Myla finally acting.

She smiles at the thought and leans back, settling in the dirt, her face turned upward toward the sky. Her dark lashes falling shut over her blue eyes, and she wills the energy of her friend to join her. I wish you were here. I wish I could tell you everything. I wish you could tell me what you are thinking. I wish I could tell you I am sorry.

Myla opens her eyes to find the monk looking kindly on her, a small smile curving his thin lips. He says nothing but nods slowly and points to the sky. Myla looks upward to see a raven passing overhead. Whatever that means, in his faith, she has no clue. But Myla chooses to interpret it as a message from Elsa. Carry on.

Myla glances back at the monk and nods toward the raven as it soars out of sight.

“Do they mean something to you?”

He tips his chin in an affirmative response then returns to his work. Myla finds his silence fascinating, and somewhat appealing, having the choice to simply not speak, even when spoken to.