Page 47 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

MORNING WELCOMES THEM with a deep autumn glow. The sun casts a shimmer off the back of the mountain, illuminating yellows, and oranges through the trees. Callum and Rhyland are preparing horses, kindly donated by the monks, as Myla and Bryar leave their room.

“I am afraid there are many here who will miss you when you leave,” Martin says, nodding specifically toward Ethstan who sits, slightly slumped, in his space at the breakfast table. Myla manages a half smile of acknowledgment before moving to sit beside her silent friend.

“When I pass back through, what are the chances you will be speaking again?” Of course, there is no response but a slight smile and an old hand atop hers. “I am going somewhere I have never been before. I am afraid,” she confesses, her voice low enough so only he can hear. “But, I will go see it anyway, so I might return here and tell you all about it—perhaps I shall take you with me, if you ever decide you would like to see new parts of the realm.”

Ethstan nods approvingly, his old eyes glistening with hope, and gestures toward the door as if to say, ‘get on with it.’ Standing, she presses a kiss to the monk’s cheek and steps outside.

“How far will we ride today?” Rhyland inquires, firmly fastening the straps of his saddle and sliding his sword inside its sheath.

“You will ride all the way back to Falkmere.” Bryar transitions into captain mode, giving instructions which send Rhyland to assess the situation in Falkmere, and Callum to move a company of the Raven’s Veil into Titonfall. “Once you have moved them into Titonfall, I need you to take a smaller company and scout out the Seam, gather information on this antidote, and return back to us with any answers.”

“Why Titonfall?” Callum asks, cinching the straps of his saddlebag with a grunt.

“If there is to be a fight, I want to attack him from both sides.”

“And when I have gathered information regarding Falkmere?” Rhyland asks, clearly at unease. Myla does not blame him; she would much rather make for wild and unknown places than return back to the destruction and political upheaval that will no doubt greet him in Falkmere.

“If there is anything you can do to help, do so. I trust your judgment. But if the Blood Stealer lives, and is still presiding over the palace, join Callum and send word my way.”

“Which is . . .?”

Bryar clears his throat before he answers, “Valyndor,” quickly as though he hopes to avoid any further discussion. Unfortunately, his comrades are cunning, and a grin claims Rhyland’s face.

“That is brilliant. They will know how to help you.”

Both men move to shake hands with Bryar and they exchange brief goodbyes before mounting their horses.

Rhyland sets off east, while Callum rides ahead of them, his path moving southwest toward the black mountains and the darkness they hold there. Meanwhile, Myla, astride a chestnut brown mare, follows Bryar west.

Myla has never been west. She has heard stories of the wildness, which seems to multiply the closer to the Seam one gets, but seeing it for herself has never been in the forefront of her mind. Especially over the past two years, her logical brain, when disassociating from her impulses, is very keen on staying away from the Seam. Now, they will ride past it. Granted, Bryar plans to add an extra day to their journey in order to give it a wide berth. Nevertheless, on opposite ends of the realm, she feels the pull. Closer proximity to Vesperian’s stronghold will no doubt feel different.

For hours, their progress is slow as they maneuver the horses through dense forest. Myla does not mind; it affords her time to truly take in the beauty of the woodland terrain. Small creeks jutting off the river to the sea meander through the woodlands. Ebonbark trees, with trunks so wide in circumference five men could not circle them, rise from the earth like the towers of Falkmere palace. Their bark is darker than the trees nearer to Falkmere. If one has deep cuts, the sap of an Ebonbark tree is known to heal at a quicker rate than other natural remedies. Lichen drapes from their branches, resembling wild curtains, gently billowing in the breeze. Ahead, Bryar cuts a thicket of hanging Thornveil ivy aside to pass between two larger trees. The barbs of the ivy are sharp and known to ensnare prey, and certainly cut through flesh with ease. Blanketing the forest floor are Nymrien plants, a type of fern known to be used by the old Gods as a divination tool. Lavinia used to tell Myla that runes would appear on the fronds of the ferns when used in certain spells.

Appearing in an opening which offers an impressive view, Myla catches her breath, astonished by the treacherous landscape before her. The forest thins and gives way to a wasteland of ruins. Though trees and plant life still flourish, the growth is new and sprouts sporadically wherever the rubble of the flattened city allows. What used to be a stone roof is now cracked down the middle and mostly sunken into the earth. A row of pillars lays toppled, one over the other, being slowly consumed by the leafy claws of nature. Walls, bridges, arches, and towers alike, all in crumbled ruins, scattered across the earth as far as she can see. As though the ground beneath stretched open hungry jaws in an attempt to swallow the city whole.

“Is this safe for the horses?” Myla asks, taking in the sharp claws of rocks cleaving from the earth. One wrong step and she would be sitting on two halves of one horse.

Bryar draws his horse in with a hushed ‘whoa,’ assessing the situation before dismounting. “We will walk them through here,” he answers, looking at the road before them grimly.

Myla dismounts and begins leading her mare by the reins, maneuvering across the jagged maze of black and gray, a few paces behind Bryar. “How far does this stretch, do you know?” she asks, trying to see an end in sight, to no avail. Even looking down from an incline, the bleak wasteland carries on out of sight.

“I do not,” he answers simply.

They cover ground at a miserably slow rate, and Myla begins to curse her skirts, treading over the hems often. The deeper they submerge themselves within the ruins, the grimmer the landscape becomes. Bones protrude from between stone structures, the story of countless people caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A crumbling wall here, an archway there, a skeleton at her feet. They pass an abandoned shelter, appearing to have been built more recently, most likely by a traveler like themselves. Myla takes in a deep breath and sidesteps a crevasse in the stone beneath her feet. “This is horrible,” she mutters, dragging her free hand absently across the rivets of a cockeyed pillar.

Bryar nods in agreement. “We are on the outskirts of Old Falkmere. If we turned northeast and traveled that way for a few days, we would find the old palace.”

“I did not realize how expansive the territories of Old Falkmere were. The city alone is the size of New Falkmere’s territory,” Myla remarks, thinking maps do not do the size of Myrnith, in general, any justice.

“We act like New Falkmere will go down in history as the greatest territory to have been reigned over. Most people do not realize we have already lost that battle by a long shot.” He smiles halfheartedly at her. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

Myla shrugs. “I missed the part of queen-training where I was supposed to care about such things.”

Bryar chuckles slightly, glancing over his shoulder to watch that she and her horse maneuver around a difficult pile of rubble without harm. “I am sure your heir will make up for whatever ambitions of conquering you lack.”

“I suppose she will not have much of a choice, will she?” Myla thinks what a shame it is to be born a queen. Her life is laid out before her already, and she does not even know what a queen is.