Page 67 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Myla resists the urge to smile, lest he see her in the life beyond and convince the Gods to smite her. “I suppose so. That does not undo the damage the marriage brought initially.” Her mind drifts to the hurts Bryar hinted at, the way he grieved, alone with no one to confide in.

As if reading her mind, Lenore speaks, her voice all sincerity now. “You know, Myla, the Ashborn do not marry for convenience. Our kind has a history of lasting unities, with happiness for both parties, because those parties choose it. Not their kings, queens, or fathers.”

Myla inhales deeply, her chest rising like a defensive wall against the probing. “It is not that simple for me, Lenore.”

“On the basis of love, it should always be simple. Choose it, and everything else can fall into place as it does.”

Their eyes lock, Lenore’s brows arched with a knowing that should come only with age and wisdom, yet she wears it, etched in her sharp features.

Myla speaks, not averting her gaze. “What do you see when you look within yourself?”

Lenore’s smile broadens, stretching infectiously from ear to ear. She appears as though she is about to respond with some answer of depth when she clutches her belly, a fierce gasp seizing her. “I see a fledgling that wants to get the fuck out!” Lenore stands, doubling over the table with a primal moan. Myla is temporarily frozen in shock, watching the woman before her grit her teeth together.

“Shit! Oh, Gods-dammit!” Myla mutters to herself, momentarily considering using the cloth linens to sop up the puddle pooling at Lenore’s feet. She thinks better of it and offers Lenore an arm, the both of them making their way toward the door, where Myla’s guards move to support Lenore. “Do you live near?” Myla asks.

Lenore shakes her head, letting out a humming noise Myla can only assume means she is focused. “No,” the Ashborn woman answers finally, her body relaxing. “You must take me to the healer. She is only a few minutes away. Head back toward the palace.”

A walk that should only take three or so minutes takes them ten with Lenore having to stop and pant her way through contractions. At last, they reach a small doorway tucked within the arch of a stone exterior. A sign hangs over the door, crudely written words read “apothecary” and Myla knows they have arrived when one good wail from Lenore sends a middle-aged woman barreling out the front. Her feathers droop slightly, perhaps with age. Wrinkles frame her eyes and a few at the corners of her mouth.

“Lenore!” she chides, motioning for Myla’s guards to help her get Lenore inside. “How long has this been going on?”

Lenore attempts to answer but a grueling moan stops her, her stomach visibly tensing beneath another powerful contraction, so Myla answers. “About fifteen minutes.” They guide Lenore inside, and Myla dismisses the guards to wait for her under the archway outside.

The healer rolls her shoulders backward and dips her hands in a steaming bucket, readying herself to deliver the child. “Lenore,” she implores the woman to listen. “How are you most comfortable?”

Without responding, Lenore lowers herself to the carpet before the hearth, leaning on all fours, her back arched as waves of agony transform her from a woman to a wild animal coordinated with nature.

“That will do,” the Healer states, gathering an armful of clean linens. “Please,” she looks to Myla, “wash your hands and help me. The fledgling is not far off.”

Myla shivers. It is such an intimate moment, and she feels as though she does not belong. Nevertheless, with the incessant moaning of Lenore and the way the healer moves the Ashborn’s skirt above her waist, Myla knows there is not a second to waste on deliberating. Myla washes her hands and lays linens near the fire to warm for the babe before moving to Lenore’s shoulders. Instinctually, she places a hand over the woman’s and whispers encouragingly, “I guess little one has decided now is a good time.”

Lenore grins in spite of the pain and nods, sending a droplet of sweat down her brow, which Myla is quick to wipe away with a damp rag. “The Gods smile on me this day, Myla. My fledgling is to be welcomed by the Queen Who Bleeds Stars, what good fortune—” her words are jarringly interrupted by a sharp wail.

“Lenore,” the Healer’s voice takes on a soothing tone, cooing her instructions while motioning for Myla to join her, “it is time to push.”

Only thirty minutes before, Myla was having a conversation with this woman over a cup of tea. Now she is sitting on the receiving end of her fledgling’s delivery, watching a midwife deeply massage the base of Lenore’s spine to relieve pressure.

The next ten minutes are surreal, both emotional and enlightening. Myla watches the child enter the world, going directly from her mother’s belly to her breast. Tears of pain and joy alike run down Lenore’s cheeks as she lays back on a stack of pillows before the comforting fire. Watching the new mother effortlessly console her wailing newborn, Myla finds comfort in what is to come.

The sun has long since set when Myla leaves the apothecary. The Healer, Gertrude, spent the last several hours attending to Lenore and her new fledgling, until Lenore’s husband was brought down off the cliffside from guard duty to take her and his new daughter home.

The evening air carries a sense of hope, drifting in with the chilly breeze which tumbles red and orange leaves along the glistening cobblestone path. The rain continues to fall from the sky in sheets of icy cold, and Myla cringes, considering the ten-minute walk she has back to the palace. She starts down the path, admiring the way the lights of the manors and shops overhead brings a majestic glow on the ancient trees, illuminating their leaves for all to admire in spite of the darkness.

She is strolling slowly, allowing the rain to drench her to the bone, when a familiar voice calls to her from behind.

“Myla! You are going to catch a chill.” Bryar catches up to her, yanking a cloak off his shoulders to drape over hers while flashing the guards behind her a look that could kill. “What has you out at this hour?”

Her heart catches in her throat. Not expecting to see him and trying so hard these past weeks to avoid him, it feels as though they are back in her palace, painstakingly dodging one another to spare themselves this exact sort of moment.

Myla takes a trembling breath inward, before answering coolly. “I was at the healers.”

“Are you well?” He quickly looks her over for signs of illness or injury before turning to face the guards. His words seethe like venom, and he stands toe to toe with them. “I am going to have both of your heads for not looking after her properly! It is freezing out here, and I see neither of you have done a damn thing to keep Her Grace warm or dry.” He gestures to her rounded stomach. “Can you not see she is with child?”

“Sir—” A guard moves to speak but Bryar tips his head threateningly, as if their next words will determine if they are thrashed or note.

“Take pride in your job, sir,” Bryar warns. “I do not know what kind of oath you swore in Valyndor, but any guards assigned to the Queen of Falkmere are duty bound to ensure she is well at all times.”

“Leave them be,” Myla interjects with a sigh.