Page 76 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“I listened to you,” Myla replies, hiding her flushed cheeks behind a long sip of tea.

“Which parts?” Lenore probes.

“. . . all of them, it would seem.”

“Myla!” Lenore says aghast. “You have been inside my home for thirty minutes and have failed to tell me that you are no longer as neglected as old Falkmere!”

Myla nearly spews a mouthful of tea, barely managing to swallow the hot liquid before joining Lenore in a brief fit of laughter. “Do not make me regret confiding in you.”

“No,” Lenore forces a pretend expression of solemnness. “It is just . . . first monks, then trees, and now, well . . .” She gestures to Myla’s round stomach. “Pregnancy is a whole other stroke. You have peculiar inclinations, not to mention that man of yours.”

“Desperate times,” Myla defends, reaching for half a breakfast scone abandoned by the youngest fledgling. “I am famished this morning.”

“I imagine you are,” Lenore teases. “So, what will you do now?”

Myla sighs, chewing the rest of the scone before responding. “Try to find a way to convince forty thousand men to follow me once I marry a man only slightly higher in rank than them. Then, if I am successful there, I will beg the Gods to smile upon me, as I do the same assembling a new Council.”

“The army will be easier to coax than a council,” Lenore says, frankly. “Men fighting for something often cling to any semblance of hope, especially if it points to their kind making something of themselves. The Council, however, will be threatened. You must remain strong.”

Myla nods, playing with a fray in the hem of her wrist cuff. “Like you told me yesterday, I have to decide which parts of my story I will choose for myself, and which parts I will give to the Gods.”

“I think you have chosen well,” Lenore encourages. “I was hoping this is what you would do.”

Myla spends an hour and a half with Lenore. When she leaves, the clutter left behind by her fledglings is cleared, the dishes are put up, and the newest addition is bathed. Myla promises to come again in the morning, then returns to the palace to seek out Rhyland. Though it is later in the day than Myla usually takes breakfast, she joins Rhyland for a plate full of cured meat and biscuits, noting again the rapid increase in her appetite.

“How was the condition of the palace?” she asks, watching as Rhyland eats like a half-starved man.

“Well,” he mumbles with a mouthful of biscuit. Swallowing hard, he washes down the food with a long sip of warm ale. “I would say the worst of it is in the throne room, but the Imposter King seems to be making quick work of it. Everything else, though a bit dirty and scuffed up from what looks to be magic play, is alright.”

“And what sort of attitude does my father’s army have toward him?” she asks, gnawing nervously at her bottom lip. “Could they be swayed to join our cause?”

He shakes his head, looking as perplexed as she. “I am afraid I do not know,” Rhyland admits. “I have yet to send scouts in to get a read on the political climate.”

Phaenna walks in, her eyes lingering a little too long on Myla with a look of disgust.

Myla fixes her gaze on the young woman, silently accepting the challenge. The Ashborn sits at a separate table, being the first to break the gaze.

Clearing her throat, Myla looks back to Rhyland, who watches the exchange curiously. “Send scouts,” she insists, not bothering to answer his unasked question. “It will be good to know what we are dealing with. When do we expect Callum’s return?”

“Within a week,” Rhyland answers, eyes still flickering inquisitively to where Phaenna sits. “What was that?” he asks, unable to resist the question any longer.

“That,” Myla responds, “is the woman our lovely hosts practically force-fed Bryar when we arrived.”

Unimpressed, Rhyland’s eyebrows arch. “She does realize she is looking at a queen, right?” Myla looks back at Phaenna, finding her gaze hot and challenging.

“Let it be, Rhyland,” Myla says in a low command. “She is not worth my time.”

“Oh,” Rhyland agrees, “absolutely not. But she is well worth mine.” He stands, walking across the room until he is toe to toe with Phaenna, her sharp eyes piercing holes into his.

Myla stands, absently adjusting the black buttons on the cuffs of her sleeve, before approaching the two, arriving in time to hear the end of Rhyland’s short and sweet threat.

“. . . I have traveled through hell and shit alike to get here, and I am not in a mood to watch my queen snubbed. You would do well to control your face in her presence.

“Come,” Myla says calmly, not bothered to meet Phaenna’s impetuous gaze, “we have better things to do right now.”

Phaenna stands, crossing her arms. “You realize it is an insult to the Ashborn kind for him to entertain a life with you.” It is not a question, it is a statement, one she delivers with conviction.

Myla glances over her shoulder, looking down on the girl with indifference. “If you are so concerned about the purity of the Ashborn bloodline, then you have already contradicted yourself with your interest in him. Get your convictions straight, and then come talk to me. Otherwise, I will not waste my time listening to you make a fool of yourself.” Myla walks away, leaving Phaenna to marinate in her self-inflicted humiliation.