Page 77 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Rhyland is close behind, a brief snort indicating he is incredibly satisfied with the outcome of the conversation.

“Your Grace,” he says stunned, a grin on his face. “I think you just made a grown woman cry.”

“Grown women do not behave like that,” Myla remarks. “I made a child cry.”

“Despicable,” Rhyland teases, catching up with her fast pace. “Myla,” he pleads breathlessly. “For a pregnant woman, you walk really fast. Where are we going?”

“I am going to visit, Queen Imogene,” Myla corrects, stopping to face him. “I need you to report back to Bryar, and be sure the troops are to his standards. Tell him, I would like scouts sent to Falkmere and to figure out how he would like to accomplish that.”

“I should report to him now? While he is training?”

“Yes,” Myla answers. “We have no time to waste. He will be done shortly. You can wait there for him to be done.”

Rhyland leaves and Myla motions to the guards behind her to follow her outside. It is unusually sunny, the leaves overhead looking like red, yellow, and orange stained-glass windows to the heavens. She follows the trail which initially leads to the city, jutting off to the left, then down a narrower trail, which brings her to Ivan and Imogene’s throne.

Imogene sits, a young fledgling on her lap. The child gazes up at her, laughing with a bunched-up nose at something the queen says. When Imogene sees Myla, she gently slides the child from her lap, sending him off to play.

Myla bows before approaching. “Was that your son?”

Imogene nods, a soft smile stealing over her normally stoic features. “He has returned from a fledgling expedition and looks forward to showing his father and I all he learned.”

Myla watches as the child disappears into the woods. “Do all fledglings go on this expedition?”

Imogene shakes her head. “Only those who will sit on the throne.” Her attention passes briefly over Myla who stands, arms folded before her in waiting. “You have come with something specific on your mind. What is it?”

Myla takes a step closer, and postures confidently, knowing her request may not be kindly received. After a moment of deliberation, she chooses her words wisely. “I have read much on Ashborn customs in my time here. Marriages of an Ashborn must be approved and conducted by their queen.”

Imogene’s lips purse. “That is correct.”

Myla tips her chin slightly in acknowledgment. “Bryar and I will marry,” she states, leaving no room for negotiation. “I would like to honor his heritage by joining together in an Ashborn marriage, and I know that can only happen with your blessing.”

Imogene’s eyebrows arch and she appears unimpressed. “In the history of Ashborn marriages, never have we conducted one between a half-blood and a human. I was willing to marry him to a full-blooded Ashborn—a reintegration of sorts. I do not believe his marriage to you would be well received by those who have honored our unified power source for centuries.”

Myla bites down on the reprimand that nips at her tongue, staying cool instead. “In all respect,” she challenges, “Bryar is the most powerful Ashborn, half-blood or not, within this kingdom. It is why you and Ivan accepted him so willingly. I know it. You know it. We both know that something in his parentage makes him powerful, and I can only assume it is his mother. Her magic must have been similar to . . . say . . . yours.” She pauses; her fierce eyes boring into the stone-cold features of the queen before her. “What you do not know yet, is that I am someone you want as an ally.”

“Why?” Imogene laughs, standing now to level with Myla. “How would the Ashborn benefit from an alliance with you?”

Myla watches the queen pace slow circles around her, looking for chips in her armor, any sign of weakness. Myla intends to give her none.

“Because,” she responds, “I am the only being left in the realm who channels the Voice of the Gods.”

Imogene’s eyes widen slightly before she checks her expression, returning to a stiff blanket of neutrality. “Why have you not used it on the Blood Stealer then?” she challenges, trying to sniff out a lie. “Would the Voice of the Gods not stop a Blood Stealer?” Naturally, she would not know. The Voice of the Gods has not been heard in centuries.

Myla shakes her head. “It stuns him; it does not break his blood oaths.”

“So, what you are saying,” Imogene coos, her words heavily drenched in mockery, “is that you need us.”

Myla tips her chin upward, eyeing the belligerent queen from the corner of her eye. “I do, and I am not ashamed to say it.”

Imogene laughs, a light tinkling in the breeze. “It seems we bring far more to the table than you do.”

A familiar rage sparks in her chest and her fingertips tingle, the sudden urge to entangle Imogene in a twist of blinding light, insatiable. “Let me ask you,” Myla nearly spits between her teeth, “why do you think an army of forty thousand men just marched for weeks to camp on your doorstep in hopes that I would be here with answers?”

“Because they are fools, all of them.” Imogene does not miss a beat, the words nearly dripping from her tongue. “And clearly lead by a man blind with love. Like his parents before him.”

Myla spins to face Imogene, her hand swift in its grip on her chin, forcing them to stand, queen glaring at queen.

“What do you know of Bryar’s parents?”