Page 43 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Myla experiences a rush of anger. Her visit has left her with more questions than she had before. What was the purpose of telling her as opposed to Bryar? What could “follow the fire” mean? How did she summon the Spirit Mother without knowing how to do it nor intending to? Where is Bryar and how much longer will he be gone?

Feeling flushed and fatigued, Myla sits down, dropping her head into her hands with an exasperated sigh. Her moment of grounding for the day has instead resulted in feeling like a million drifting loose ends, billowing in the breeze without direction nor another end to fasten to. Her offerings lay scattered from the chaos of the portal forming. Myla retrieves what she can, arranging them once more at the base of the tree, before standing.

“I suppose we will just have to talk tomorrow; I have to go help pious men do pious work,” Myla says, hoping her words drift upwards to wherever Elsa is and find her well. Even in death, Myla is firmly convinced whatever Elsa is doing, it is far more interesting than incubating a child in a woodland monastery.

It is well past nightfall, and Myla’s body aches from a day of labor. Several of the monks commented on the tremble of the earth and the prominent smoke plume which still presides over the back of mountain. Myla says nothing, not wanting to admit she somehow caused it.

The monks made a celebration of their harvest. The bards sang, mulled wine was served with a simple meal, and then a ‘gratitude ceremony,’ as she heard it referenced, was held. They prayed over their harvest, and the rest of the day was spent carrying basketful after basketful of gourds to the cellar. Myla had watched the sun move across the sky, enjoying the minimal glow of warmth, which did not disturb the early autumn chill.

Now, she sits peacefully on a cushioned armchair near the blazing fire. As it has these many nights prior, her mind drifts to an introspective state. Something about the stillness of life in this place allows for deep contemplation. Perhaps that is why they come. She looks sidelong at Ethstan, who also sits staring into the flames. Perhaps that is why he is silent.

So often, Myla has found that pieces of the last six years have gnawed at her. Easily dismissible thoughts as they are, they still lurk in the places of her conscious where justice seems to reign.

“It is disturbing.” She breaks the silence, drawing Ethstan’s attention. “I feel as though I was conditioned my entire life to fall willingly into complacency, to never say ‘no’ lest it interfere with plans larger than my preferences.”

Ethstan’s brow turns upward, and the line of his mouth draws thin, his expression seems to say, “Well, that is a damn shame, is it not?” There would be a heavy emphasis on the damn, she is sure of it. He smiles when she says things the others grimace at.

Myla is still convinced he does not belong here.

“I can think of a lot of people to blame, people who made me this way . . . afraid to tell a man when I do not like his touch. Or afraid to speak up in a room full of men, my father included, making decisions in my name. But the only person I can truly blame is myself. I am a woman now; I have been for a long time. There is no reason for me to fear my words and how they make others feel. Especially when their disrespect glares in my face like a beacon, no effort to even hide it.”

Ethstan nods slowly, his old face weighted with approval and his hands quietly applauding.

“I know I keep saying it, but I wish you could speak; I think you would have lots of answers for me.”

At this, Ethstan shakes his head ‘no’ making Myla wonder further at the atonement Martin speaks of. What could silence possibly atone for? Her former statement seems to have struck a nerve. Ethstan stands slowly and with a weak smile, he leaves.

Myla watches as the old man shuffles toward the kitchens, and a small voice inside her begs for sweet buns. Not usually being one for treats, Myla looks down at her stomach with a soft smile. “Stop, little one. No midnight snacks. It will keep us awake past our bedtime.”

It is not ten minutes later when Ethstan reappears, walking even slower to avoid spilling the cup of tea he carries. Myla expects him to sit down and begin sipping it himself, but he hands it to her instead with a kind smile and a reassuring touch of the shoulder. Prompted by memories of Elsa and Fern bringing her nightly tea, a swell of emotions lays just behind her smile. “Thank you.”

Ethstan does not sit. He leaves her to her tea and her thoughts for good this time. Myla’s eyes drift to the large window to her left, which faces the mountain of the Seer, an eerie outline glows red with embers, which she studies until slipping unknowingly into a deep sleep, lulled by the crackling of the fireplace.

THE BLACK GLOVED hand descends, one icy finger after another, curling around her throat. Myla’s eyes snap open and horror implodes within, as she sets disoriented eyes on the sharp features of Vesperian. Panic crawls through her body, and her hands grapple at his, which are currently putting a stop to her screams. Myla arches her back, trying to break free, but the devil smiles menacingly down on her, forcing her back deeper into the chair.

“You can not escape me, my Ruthless Queen. Wherever you hide, I will find you.” His hands relinquish their grip and snake down her throat, past her breasts and to the dagger at her waist. A nimble fingertip grazes the sharpest point of the blade. Myla opens her mouth to cry out for help, but she is unable to conjure a sound. Her hands, free to fight back, lay pinned at her side by invisible chains. Her head screams out fight, but her body refuses to comply.

Vesperian, wearing a cruel look of satisfaction, moves his hand from the blade, bringing it to her belly. “You did not tell me you have a little antidote of your own here.” His words spew like venom, the threat within them searching for her vulnerabilities.

Myla’s chest constricts, something fiercely maternal springing to life. All at once, she sees herself from overhead, like a storyteller looking down upon its subjects.

With a twitch of his wrist, Vesperian takes complete control of her body in a way he never has. She is lurched to her feet, control of her limbs completely sabotaged.

“You see,” he whispers, leaning in so his hot breath mists her skin. “I can not allow such a powerful child to live. You know it; it is why your pathetic excuse of a lover has hidden you here, and you have so stupidly stayed.”

Myla quivers, every ounce of energy she has bubbling inside, begging her body to move; yet, it betrays her, surrendering entirely to the whims of the Blood Stealer. Her fingers twitch as an impulse to grip the blade takes hold of her. Sweat pebbles on her brow, straining to resist his will. A sob, instantly silenced by a tightness of her throat slips, her protests quieted at his pleasure.

A smile darkens his face, and he crosses his arms over his chest, watching with satisfaction as she retrieves the blade and turns it to point inward, pricking her abdomen.

Myla’s eyes dart around the room, she is overcome with a silent plea for help, for anyone to see her and help. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies Martin, made small by fear and the inability to wield a weapon.

“His aura,” he whispers, pointing a pudgy finger at Vesperian. “It is black.”

Myla rages with anger as this man, someone who swore she was safe here, watches unmoving. Vesperian laughs, a sinister sound vibrating from deep within the blackness of his soul. “Her aura must be black too, watch how she lets this happen,” he taunts, eyes lingering on her whitened knuckles wrapped around the fox dagger. “You do not want this child, admit it. The spawn of a king who could be killed so easily. What a shameful legacy to carry within your sacred temple.”

Myla tries to shake her head, barely managing to mutter a plea. “N-no. Please!” Then, her hands do the unimaginable. A wrenching scream escapes her lips and as she plunges the dagger inside her belly, agony ripples through her body. Blood sprays, soaking through her white shift. A tiny cry of betrayal slips out from within her womb. The frail voice begging to understand, ‘Why, Mother?’

The vile deed done, Vesperian releases his grip on her. Myla stumbles backward, her shriek of horror and pain filling every humble corner of the monastery. “Wake up, Myla,” Vesperian says. “Stop pretending to be something you are not.”