Page 41 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“And . . . mine?”

“Your aura is troubled, my dear. I sense no evil, but I do sense conflict.”

Well, that is for fucking sure. Myla chooses to say nothing rather than confide the whole truth of her circumstances. Lately for her, there has been no middle ground. She bares her soul, or she says nothing. Nothing is the safest option. Unfortunately, her company is a prying type.

“The captain is the father, I presume?”

Myla bites her lip. If she says no, Martin will press for more information. Myla refuses to expose the child’s parentage, lest that knowledge somehow turn Martin against her or endanger the child. Instead, she nods. A small lie is better than an exceptionally large truth, in this case.

“I must assume, then, he has a particularly good reason for leaving you here while he completes whatever business it is he spoke of. I assure you, my dear,” his words are soothing as he reaches to touch her arm, “you are safe here and welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“You mean, as long as I mend the clothes?” Myla answers with a playful smile. They manage to overcome an enormous mound of mending, mostly in silence. An occasional pleasantry is exchanged, but for much of the evening, Myla’s mind wanders from one anxious topic to another, heavily pertaining to her parents.

Myla continues to visualize her father’s crushed corpse lying in the throne room, an image which assaults her without warning nor reason. A prick of the needle to her finger followed by a small drop of blood is enough to catapult her imagination to the darkest of places. The young man with his face severed, bodies hanging above her throne, Elsa nothing more than a pulp of bone and flesh beneath slabs of the Queen’s Blue, her father’s skull split in half like a carelessly cracked egg. In the distance, wolves howl and the image of snapping jaws clamping around Bryar’s throat assaults her mind.

Myla squeezes her eyes together, sucking at the smarting point on her finger and wills the images to leave her be, to no avail. He is tormenting me. Myla realizes these uncontrolled thoughts, the urge to hyper fixate on death, can only come from Vesperian. Myla may not always be the most cheerful of people, but she certainly is not morbid. Even here, miles from the palace, deep within the thickest part of the forest, at the base of a near unscalable mountain, his invisible fingers stretch to claw at her, to pick at her wounds and entangle themselves deeper into her being. Hiding does not dislodge him from her being. It merely isolates the problem in a too-simple setting with very few distractions.

From the direction of the mountain, wolves howl again.

Martin leaves when the hour is late. Despite the weight in her eyes, Myla is disinclined to return to her room and so she stays, hands folded across her lap and eyes drifting out of focus upon the lapping of the orange and blue flames. Nearly six years ago, she sat in a terribly similar state in a high back green armchair, her parents on either side of her, discussing her future as though she was not there.

“Maverick,” her mother had pleaded. “Give her a moment to catch her breath!”

“We do not have moments, Lavinia!” Myla recalls the way her father stood over her, clawing in a panic at his disheveled beard. “Everything—everything we have ever done for you has truly come to this?”

“Father, I had no idea this is what you wanted of me!”

“You knew!” he nearly snarled.

“Would knowing have changed anything?” her mother asked gently, holding her hand while flashing a fierce look her father’s way.

It was this question which brought Myla to tears, the realization that king or no king, it did not matter a bit to her. She did not want the king. “It would have changed nothing,” she had confessed beneath her breath, aware both her parents were watching in horror as their dutiful daughter warped into a transgression before their eyes.

Maverick breathed deeply, drawing from every deep well of composure he possibly had before responding. “Your mother and I married for love, child. I am no stranger to its fickle and unyielding power. But this . . . lover of yours is likely not a suitor the king would stand down for, there is nothing to be done. You will marry him.”

“Father! You say the King is a good man. You can make him see!”

“Myla! I can not look at the King and tell him my daughter is to snub her nose at his proposal in favor of a—a what? You will not even tell me who he is!”

Lavinia had encouraged her husband to take his leave, sensing the matter was a delicate one. Myla trembles, even now, recalling the fear she felt when the door closed behind her father, leaving her alone with someone not known for leaving stones unturned.

“Have you lain with this man?” Myla had turned her face to the fire, focusing intently so as not to betray herself. As it so happened, her lack of response was all the response Lavinia needed. It was an admission of guilt. “You must tell me who it is, Myla. I will protect him and you, but I can not help if I do not know who.”

“How will you help?” For a moment, Myla dared to hope her mother was going to offer a plan, something involving a carriage in the dead of night. What a foolish wish it was.

“I will take you both to someone who will make you forget. Heartbreak is the cruelest pain there is to endure. It will crush the human body beneath its weight.”

Myla had stood, knocking an end table over with the motion, hot tears of anger and betrayal leaving trails down her cheeks. “I will have none of your so-called help!”

“Fine.” Lavinia and Myla were made of the same fire, both able to dig their heels in and move not an inch. Lavinia had known better than to press the matter, so she simply added, “It is customary to examine a woman before marriage to a king. They will want to ensure you are a virgin. I will see to it that is not in the contract. Fortunately for you, Caius needs you.”

Lavinia held Myla’s gaze until Myla finally answered, her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Thank you, Mother.”

There would be many conversations to follow preceding the wedding and Myla’s coronation as queen, during which time Myla would hold her tongue. She had feared that speaking too much would somehow somersault into her revealing Bryar’s identity.

During the day, as wedding arrangements were brought before her for approval and visits to the King arranged, Myla’s expression was placid and her words neither enthusiastic nor combative. Every emotion was carefully woven in check, crafting a blanket of suppressed emotions which would unravel every night as she cried herself to sleep.

She merely existed, drifting where her parents’ current lead, inevitably right into Caius’s bed. She felt like nothing but a carcass by the time she arrived at her wedding, but nothing prepared her for the ways she would break when thirty Council members and courtiers stood around the king’s bed, prying eyes watching as a man twice her age bedded her.