Page 70 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Myla’s chest seems to cave in on itself, the weight of his news heavy enough to bring her back to the seat beneath her. Her heart thuds in her chest. It is as loud as war drums and ready to explode in a shock wave from decades of anger and abuse at the hands of the man who just wanted to give her power, to then take it away. Astonished and sickened, Myla finally blurts, “He survived?”

Bryar reaches across the table, grasping for her hand, a gesture she recoils from, her entire body stiffening in disbelief. “And now half of my army belongs to my father? Lord Maverick Alerys, now sits on my throne?”

“King Maverick Alerys . . .” Bryar grumbles, distaste for the name causing his face to twist into a scowl.

“And Vesperian took what, a thousand of them?”

“And Rhyland is nine hours away, with another forty thousand, give or take,” Bryar concludes.

A wave of hot stress washes over her, nausea threatening to put on display the less queenly side of her. Slow deep breaths still the turmoil in her stomach, and Myla rests her head in her hands, finally speaking. “I do not know what I expected. I left my throne unprotected. Of course, power-hungry lords would lay claim to it. That does not shock me. But my own father?” Myla briefly considers that he may be simply maintaining control, which she will reclaim when she returns. That, however, is not the Maverick Alerys way. No, he has stolen her throne. Perhaps this is the conclusion to his grand scheme. Perhaps she was merely his social ladder after all.

Bryar shakes his head. “I did not predict this. I was certain the Blood Stealer would occupy the palace for a long time, Myla. I certainly did not expect anyone to contest your rule.”

“What of Callum?” Myla asks, moving on from the topic of her stolen throne. “Have you had word from him?”

Bryar shakes his head. “I have not. I plan to send Rhyland after him if we do not hear in a fortnight.”

“And we have no idea whatsoever who Vesperian’s captives are?” Her first thought is of Fern and the other young women who served in the palace. They would be easy targets for his appetites.

“Rhyland did not say,” Bryar answers, studying her face. “Listen, we need to build you a new Council and make a plan. Fighting the Blood Stealer in his own kingdom complicates matters significantly.”

“Yes,” Myla agrees, lacing her fingers before her. “Please, find out who battled for my throne. I do not want to extend Council invitations to them. We can decide from there who would benefit our cause.” She presses fingers to her temple, willing her brain to still. “Where will the army make camp?”

“King Ivan has agreed to let them make camp in the clearing.”

“I must thank him,” Myla sighs. “Surely, he is wary of such a large army encamped outside his kingdom?”

Bryar tilts his head slightly, responding cautiously. “He trusts me . . .”

The next hour is spent discussing plans. Bryar reinforces that Myla’s best approach is to stay put within the safety of the ward until Callum returns with more information on the Blood Stealer. For all the battle savvy plans Bryar seems to effortlessly propose, a gnawing sense of dread lurks in the back of her mind. How is she to fight battles on two different fronts? For someone not under the influence of the Blood Stealer, nor pregnant, this would be a feat documented by bards. In her current condition, one battle feels impossible, two feels like a death sentence.

Bryar seems to read her mind, and reaches across the table once more, nearly touching her hand comfortingly before retracting. “We will deal with the Blood Stealer first. Falkmere can come second—a mortal king is easier to defeat than the Blood Stealer, and your father is an idiot. Let him rebuild the palace for you,” he adds with a cocky half smile. “You can reclaim it in time for renovations to be complete.”

Myla smirks, brushing stray curls behind her ears. “We focus on the Blood Stealer first,” she repeats in agreement. “Everything else can wait.”

Myla is tempted to spend the remainder of the day pacing the long halls of Valyndor Palace, but as her feet begin to ache and she passes lunch on an empty stomach, she decides her pacing may as well take her somewhere. A visit to Lenore seems fitting. So, she dons a blue cloak, and begins toward her friend’s house, carrying a basket full of fresh sweet rolls from the kitchen to give to Lenore’s fledglings. At Bryar’s command, her poor, deeply insulted guards follow close behind.

She has yet to venture into the common part of Valyndor. Its unique layout is fascinating to her. Spiral staircases of wood are constructed around the base of enormous tree trunks, leading upward into exquisitely crafted homes tucked into the canopies of the trees, leaving natural openings beneath the homes for gardening and playing fledglings. Laughter fills this district, lighthearted family life taking priority over anything else. Fathers swing their fledglings overhead and mothers clap with glee as their little ones take flight for the first time. It is exactly what she would expect to see in a peaceful community, but the sight sends a tinge of longing through her, knowing she will not experience this sort of simplicity with her own child.

A barefoot fledgling crouches curiously, his wings drooping in a puddle of mud as he examines worms beneath a fallen log. His mother calls to him, encouraging him to keep clean. It seems they have somewhere to be. Myla smiles and turns her attention to a group of adult Ashborn a few feet ahead of her, hanging washing from a line.

“Excuse me,” she addresses a young man who watches her with hesitant curiosity. “Can you point me in the direction of Lenore’s home? Do you know?”

The Ashborn man gives her brief instructions and soon she finds herself knocking on the door of a noisy home. It takes a few raps before anyone hears her over the commotion of shouting and a crying infant. The door cracks open and nothing but a bright amber eye peeping out is visible. “Who are you?” A small voice demands. “Mama!” they yell, before she can answer. “There is a weird lady with no wings here!”

Lenore laughs, shouting at her fledgling to let Myla in. “Forgive them,” she says with a vibrant smile. “My house is full of feral creatures.” Feral creatures, is whispered as a playful taunt at an auburn boy who darts past her, rustling the hem of her skirt before clambering up a small staircase, and disappearing into a room overhead.

“You look well,” Myla says, placing her basket on a simple wooden table, taking note of the hand-crafted furniture and simply woven linens. Everything in Lenore’s home seems to be made by herself, or perhaps her husband. The tree trunk at the center of the large room partially obscures Myla’s view to the other side, but she thinks she can see a few more children quietly playing on the floor. “How are you?”

Lenore pats the space beside her on a cushioned bench. The infant in her arms is fast asleep. “I am happy today, but all last night when she cried, I thought I might cry too. We arrived home late, and she was happy as could be, so quiet and content. And then into the evening, she decided she had something to complain about, and she wailed about it until an hour ago.”

A genuine smile stretches across Myla’s face, for the first in a while, and she reaches to run a delicate finger over the infant’s upturned nose. “She is just confused,” she encourages. “But I do not need to tell you that. You have done this many times before.”

“Yes,” Lenore agrees, her tired eyes gleaming. “I can not say it gets easier with practice. I suppose, you just learn to survive until the hard days pass.”

Her words feel relevant. Surviving is all Myla has done for six years, and she wills the hard days to pass again.

“Can I get you anything?” she offers, retrieving Lenore’s empty teacup. “I will freshen your drink for you. Do your fledglings need anything?”