Page 39 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Silence follows and he scuffs the dirt beneath his boots, deep in thought. Finally, Bryar clears his throat and the furrow in his brow sends a fleeting tinge of dread through her, quickly erased when he finally assembles his thoughts into a cohesive response. “I never knew my mother. My father did not talk about her. But when I was four, he started accepting invitations to the seamstress’s for supper. I thought he was just taking me somewhere for a decent meal, but after a while I noticed he smiled a lot around her.”

A fondness passes over his face as he tells the tale. “He married her when I was five. I was pleased; it meant I never went more than a day with a tear in my clothes, and my belly was always full of a dinner father did not burn.” Together they laugh, and then Bryar concludes his response. “She was my mother, and I loved her until the sickness ate her alive and made her body sink in on itself.” Myla recalls this, watching him as a teenager grieving the death of Alice the seamstress, consumed by an illness where her bones were too heavy for her lungs.

Bryar stands and dusts the back of his pants before turning to face her, his expression earnest. “You do not have to make a child to raise it. You just have to love it . . . and her mother is easy to love, which means she will be too.”

Bryar simply smiles at her, before walking back inside the monastery, her deeply hidden fear dissolving. Caius’s death brought many uncertainties and sadnesses, including the idea that she would have no one to celebrate her child’s moments with.

In an instant, Myla stands, chasing Bryar inside, stopping him as he turns down a stone hall toward his room.

“You can not just say that to me and walk away,” she says, not giving him a chance to respond before she falls into his arms, holding onto him as though her life depends upon it. Wordlessly, his arms cradle her there, both ignoring the glances of the monks who pass mumbling their prayers and chants. A warm hand gently caresses the small of her back, holding her close in return. His embrace is sturdy, unwavering, and she finds herself comforted in his refuge.

Callum returns before the sun sets. His jaw, stone solid in the form of a grimace, and eyes rimmed red. But his voice is level and composed when he speaks, addressing them upon his entry. “When do we leave in the morning? I have questions for this seer.”

“At dawn,” Bryar answers, watching his friend move past, sitting alone at the end of the table. His deep olive skin is ashen; he appears sick with heartbreak.

Rhyland, not long awake, lets slip an exaggerated groan, peering depressively at an empty mug which holds wine. “I am to set out on a treacherous journey in the morning, and I do not even get a decent glass of ale beforehand. Just this—” he tips the mug, watching a few drops spill onto his palm “—weak brew . . .” He takes another glance around the room with a grim expression. “Not to mention every man here is celibate. No ale and no bedmate before I quite possibly die. This is the grimmest crock of shit never to be sung in a bard’s tale.”

Myla rolls her eyes, content with the herbal tea before her. She is, however, less than impressed with the mutton on her plate. Something about it smells rancid. Nobody else seems bothered though, so she takes small nibbles to not offend their hosts.

The men carry on conversations, slightly drowned out beneath the monastic humming, providing ‘contemplative entertainment’ to the monks. While the men disregard the songs for their conversations, Myla is entranced. This monk is younger than the rest. He is likely younger than she, and a dull ache in his eyes suggests he is here because there is nothing left for him out there. His song is in a language she does not understand, but gauging the yearning on the faces of the others who do listen, she can only imagine he sings of peace and hope. Something she feels rather short on.

A glance at her companions, and she can see it written on all their faces. Peace and hope are nowhere to be found. Callum is leaned over his plate, nudging the food in various directions, never once taking a bite. Rhyland looks as though he is about to fall asleep where he sits, and Bryar stares into the flames, lost in thought. Sadness is palpable, driving a cold dagger of grief into the fresh, Elsa-shaped wound in her heart.

Not wishing to call attention to her tears, Myla steps outside to get some fresh air, her stomach deeply unsettled. The door has almost swung shut when light pools out behind her. Callum follows close behind and wordlessly, he pulls her into a trembling hug.

They stand together, more family than friends, and they cry. The lighthearted boy she grew up with, would never have stood here crying. But that boy had never experienced heartbreak, whereas the man here now is crippled by it.

“I will not insult you by asking how you are,” she whispers after a moment.

Callum loosens his hold on her and steps back. “Nor I, you.” His eyes travel upwards, taking stock of the sky above. Anything to avoid Myla’s piercing gaze. “The last of her I saw, she was helping people. She was always helping people. Helping people brought her joy. It was her life. And it was her death.” He smiles down at his travel-worn boots and shoves scarred hands into his pockets. The hands of an expensive, trained killer attached to the body of such a loving human. “I can not decide if I am angrier at Rhyland for taking me from her . . . or at myself for not being by her side when it happened.”

Myla shakes her head as tears choke her. “Callum—”

“Myla. You are the only person who loves her as much as I did. You can not tell me you do not feel the exact same way.”

Myla cups a hand to her mouth, unprepared to face the rush of agony. Traveling and strategizing and sex is an amazing distraction from a broken heart, but it is no balm for confronting it. “I think I will never forgive myself,” she whispers, pressing her hand to her thundering chest in an effort to still the phantoms which seem to stampede inside, aching to be released. “There was too much magic . . . the institute spoke of too much energy in one place.” Myla recalls the lessons she sat in, urging a wielder to be mindful not to saturate the atmosphere. “There were over a hundred souls in the throne room, and every single one was wielding. I should never have allowed it.”

Callum’s eyes fall shut, and with a solemn shake of his head, he speaks. “Exactly how do you think you could have stopped that? Every single person there knew what they were doing and they all—Elsa included—would cave the room in again if it meant you escaped.”

Myla nods, sucking in a breath in an effort not to lose herself completely. “Callum, I am so sorry. I never wanted to be the one people would die for.”

His light eyes, illuminated by a thick row of tears, meet hers, and he speaks in all confidence. “Well, you are. Do not cheapen their sacrifices by loathing the life the Gods have given you.” Callum sighs, touching her shoulder, as if to share whatever fortitude he has to spare, then adds in a most hopeless tone, “I am sorry we lost her. And I am sorry you lost your father.”

Callum returns inside, leaving Myla to collect herself beneath the healing light of the moon. Her mother used to take her ‘moon bathing’ as a child, and even into womanhood, and every month when she bled, her mother would take her to bathe naked and wash in water charged beneath the moon. It was to fill herself with the unfailing wholeness of nature as her body shed what it no longer needed. Her mother told her it was to remind her body that she is never empty.

Caius caught Myla in the gardens once, bathing naked beside the willow tree. She thought he would be alarmed by her practices, her body’s curved edges glistening in the candlelight. Instead, he was curious, asking questions and showing his support. That is how she later told him she was pregnant. There will be no moon bathing for me this month, or for many more it would seem. He was elated and she was relieved he no longer had a reason to summon her to his chambers.

Her mother also taught Myla how the Gods have written every single individual in the stars. She would say that those placements mold them as humans. “Ground yourself,” she used to say. “You can not be manipulated if you are in tune with yourself and the Spirit Mother.”

Before the encroachment of the Blood Stealer, Myla had never found failing in this. Even now, with the tug-of-war Vesperian plays with her, standing here barefoot against the raw pulsing of the earth is healing. It tightens the knots she has always tied with the Gods and the Spirit Mother. Tonight, it makes her feel as though she can reach past the veil, into the spirit realm to touch Elsa, knowing her dear friend can finally smile on the faces of the Goddesses who have guided them since girlhood.

Myla kneels down, lifting her skirts so her knees press into the moist soil of the earth. She lays her palms flat and closes her eyes, visualizing the white light within her nuzzling into the ground, planting her roots and growing from there, tangling with those of the natural world. The internal and external aches buzz with warmth before fading away, leaving behind a calm certainty: what is meant for her, will be hers.

MYLA LAYS AWAKE, watching a moth flutter against the ceiling, lulled by the breath of the man sleeping beside her. Once more, with Bryar to blame this time, her clothes lay in a pile on the floor, recklessly discarded beside his.

Something her father said shortly after Caius’s death keeps her awake. “You must remarry, Myla. Soon. Falkmere needs a king.” He had presented her with a written list of eligible nobility to which she had responded, “If I marry again, Father, it will be for love.”

The frustrated man had slammed his list fiercely on the council table before her and announced she was at liberty to do so, but it would not be as queen. If it were just a matter of Myla and her personal wishes, abdicating the throne would be of little consequence to her. She never wanted it to begin with. Carrying the king’s heir now, she realizes her position is far less negotiable.