Page 40 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Myla shifts, turning to face Bryar. By daylight, there is something fierce about him. To a stranger, his sharp edges, broad shoulders, and menacing stare might come across as frightening. Here, washed softly by fading firelight without the pretense of a soldier, he appears vulnerable. The thought that falling asleep beside him may be a fleeting reality turns her veins icy, visions of her stoic loneliness flash through her mind. These visions haunt her as she drifts off to sleep and beyond, her dreams taunted with memories of days turning into years where his touch grows foreign.

And when she awakens, Bryar is gone.

“Surely you saw something,” Myla demands, looking at the dismayed collection of monks who exchange glances and confused shakes of their heads. “So, three loud, clanking soldiers just slipped out here during breakfast and no one noticed?” Myla feels a compilation of fear and rage build in her chest, further statements from Martin, unhelpful.

“Mistress,” he continues carefully, “I would venture to remind you they are assassins, not clanking soldiers. I prayed with the sunrise and saw no one leave. I fear they left well before daylight.”

“One of them is not an assassin and has the stealth of a damn cow!” Myla declares exasperated and aware that assassin or no, Bryar has gone to the Seer without her.

“Fucks me, and then leaves while I sleep. Despicable.” Wide eyes in a sea of brown habits fix upon her, Martin’s expression especially horrified. “I apologize,” Myla adds swiftly, but she is not in the least bit sorry. The crowd of scandalized monks begins to disperse until only a few remain. One of which is her silent friend, whose eyes twinkle in amusement.

Myla looks to Martin. “What is his name?”

“Ethstan,” Martin begrudgingly answers before also removing himself. No doubt to pray for her.

“Ethstan,” she whispers, leaning toward the grinning monk. “I do not think you belong here,” she sighs before accepting a plate of flat-cakes from him. “I told you, talking to him is not ending in just talking—before you point to your ears, Ethstan. I did try listening.”

He grins in a dopey sort of way, making his already large ears protrude further and his thin lips stretch, exposing mostly bare gums. Waiting until the last of his companions has left the main hall, he reaches into the drooping sleeve of his habit and reveals a letter, handing it to her.

“From Bryar?”

He nods and shuffles away, leaving her to rip it open alone.

Do not be angry with me. Everything I ever do is to protect you. I had a bad feeling about you coming with us, and I could not ignore it. I promise to return in a week. Stay with the monks. You are safe there.

-B

Myla grinds her teeth together, a mixture of anger and disappointment brewing. She wanted to ask the Seer so many questions, not just about defeating the Blood Stealer, but about Elsa and her father and this child.

Myla looks down at her stomach, peeved by the sour bile forming in the back of her throat, a disturbance she is starting to experience regularly. “I suppose we shall have to let him have the adventures while you and I stay here . . . how very typical.”

Myla’s voice trails off as she looks around the monastery, seeing it in a new light. Not just as a passing stop on her journey, but a temporary home now. She contemplates defying his request and leaving, but it occurs to her, she has nowhere to go. “Gods damn you,” she mutters angrily, shoving the note inside her bodice. There is nothing to do but find something meaningful to occupy her time with. In the back of her mind, she knows this respite is Bryar’s way of letting her breathe amid upheaval; something she should be thankful for.

The day drifts on slowly, and Myla wonders how these men live such ordinary and simple lives day in and out. For Myla, it has been years since her days have resembled anything close to simple. Before she was Queen of Falkmere, her father ensured her days were filled with lessons by the finest tutors. Myla can see now how her days pouring over maps, studying regions, learning various languages, and understanding the history of the monarchy set her on the path of queen. Even the efforts of her father, ensuring her training in the art of the sword and making regular visits with her to the Institute of Mystic Arts, honing her skill, all contributed. There was no amount of coin he was unwilling to spare on her instructions and refinement.

For years, this resulted in very few days passing when she was not accounted for from sunup to sundown. Were it not for Bryar’s apprenticeship with the blademaster, Myla very well would not have encountered him until she moved to the palace. By the time her magic betrayed her, exposing her to Caius, Myla had far exceeded her contemporaries, and there was no other choice but her. Once she summoned the Voice of the Gods, it was as good as written in stone. All those days of working on herself for the sake of herself, turned into her gifts being used against her. That was the worst day of her life. Even now, so many years later, the thought of it scratches at a wound that has not yet healed.

Myla sighs, looking up from pile of dishes she has been assigned to. There is something comical about standing here as a queen, unbeknownst to those around her, holding a pile of dishes to be scrubbed. So, she scrubs, and when the dinner dishes are clean, dried, and put away, she joins Martin at a pile of linens needing mending. Thank the gods for endless hours of needlepoint.

“You have been helpful today,” Martin remarks, with a curious glance taking note of her precise line of stitches. “I am afraid if your mending all looks like that, this will soon be your task.”

Myla smiles. “I shall be sure to throw in a few botched stitches, in that case.”

Martin lowers his work to his lap and watches her. Myla pretends not to notice, unsure of what exactly he studies. “You are expecting,” he says finally, answering her question.

Myla swallows hard and looks up slowly. “What would make you say such a thing?”

“As you know, magic is not allowed within the borders of this establishment. I have a gift, however, that can not be suppressed. The brethren consider it to be an exception, as it keeps us safe.”

Myla’s furrowed brow draws a confused line across her face. “What gift is that?”

“I see auras and the energy within them, good or evil,” he responds matter-of-factly. “You, my dear, have two auras.”

Myla slowly inhales and asks, “What does my child’s aura tell you?”

Martin’s eyes focus on her stomach. His answer is simple.

“The aura of the unborn are usually all the same. Pure.”