Page 8 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Elsa clears her throat. “Join the living, darling. There is no point chasing the dead down rabbit holes.” She is right, of course. Elsa, more than anyone, has seen the darkness a woman can lose herself in after such gore and tragedy.

“I saw it, you know.”

“Saw what?” Myla asks for clarification, meeting Elsa’s crystal-clear gaze.

“I saw the look in your eyes, when Bryar swore his oath.”

She takes a sip of her wine, a look of innocence fleeting across her features, as though she has not just pranced into forbidden territory.

Myla squirms beneath the scrutiny of her friend’s gaze. The conversation she has expected for a while, now here, feels daunting and personal. “There is no point in discussing it, Elsa. I am the queen.”

“Yes,” Elsa admits. “An unmarried queen, with no lover. It is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard.” The woman snorts, swallowing another heavy dose of wine. “Hell, if I was queen, husband or not, I would probably be fucking half of Falkmere and asking the king what he planned to do about it.

“Yes, and you would be headless within a fortnight.”

“Not as headless as I would have been, if I had not fucked half of Falkmere . . .”

“Elsa,” Myla gasps, ignoring the flowery innuendo and instead studying the lanterns hanging from the conservatory ceiling, then the stars beyond them. Anything to avoid the direct gaze of her friend. “There are risks to taking lovers, you know.”

“Oh, you mean pregnancy?” Elsa laughs. “Darling, it is a little late to be worried about that.”

“I know,” Myla says firmly, “but the question of legitimacy to Caius.”

“Myla… you have been pregnant for two years, and the only people who know are your immediate friends. It seems to me, that legitimacy will be questioned until the child proves, through their power, who sired them, and you know that. I do not think you are afraid of being questioned. You are afraid of repeating the same hurts. You are afraid of betraying your dead husband.”

Myla stiffens. “It is not that. I know in my heart that to love is no betrayal . . . I am afraid to appear weak, or as though my priorities are not in order.” Which is exactly why this conversation is futile. No amount of friendly coaxing is going to change her mind. Her situation is already precarious without adding a forbidden lover into the equation.

Elsa scoffs. “You ask any man in that hall tonight where on his priority list fucking falls, and it would be priority number two, right beneath loads of power.” She pauses, not daring to meet Myla’s gaze with her coming statement. “Are you afraid of . . . being physically hurt?”

Myla flinches, drawing her attention to the empty bottom of her wine glass. “No, why would I?”

Elsa nods with an annoyed twitch of her eyebrows, “Not ready for that topic? Noted. So, it is having a more responsible priority list than a male monarch. Let us unpack that, shall we?”

Despite Myla’s instinct to argue that it is different for women in power, she merely laughs, grateful Elsa has chosen not to pry. “I think some of them have more power than they do good looks. Fucking might be priority number one.” The girls’ laughter fills the conservatory and lighthearted conversation cleanses the heavy space.

IT IS AN hour later when Elsa retires, giving Bryar, who stands guard outside the conservatory, a sly smile upon exiting. One he does not acknowledge, his eyes fixed dutifully ahead, hands resting, relaxed but ready, on the hilt of his axe.

The door closes behind her, a healthy divider between she and him. I might need a new personal guard. She thinks back to what Sir Roderick said to her. I can only apologize for it. Crickets chirp just outside and fireflies dance in the trees in the furthest corner of the indoor garden. I can only apologize for it. A trickling of the fountain accompanies the song of crickets, but otherwise, there is a deafening silence. A silence begging to be broken with whispered confessions and bated breath, an inclination so contrary to her commitment as queen. I can only apologize for it. Even Sir Roderick sees the folly in their past. There can be no future.

Instead of succumbing to the temptation of the man outside, she lifts her palm before her, redirecting her energy. “This is where my focus should lie,” she mutters to herself, urging her magic forth. Two years of siphoning her magic to her womb has taken its toll on what used to be a limitless supply. Though she tries, she can not manage to form even a pool of light without relinquishing the hold on her womb. Sparks, like extinguishing stars, speckle her palms, then drift slowly down her forearm until dissipating to nothingness. Another futile attempt.

Dropping her wrist limp at her side, Myla reclines back on the sofa. The sound of soldiers walking past outside the conservatory sends a disruptive clank into her tranquil silence, a memory is sparked.

“Well done,” Sir Roderick exclaims, patting Bryar on the shoulder firmly. His kind eyes graze the distance between he and Myla, smiling at her as she leans panting, sword gripped between her sweaty fists. “You are both exceptional students.” The blademaster takes the swords from each of them, returning the weapons to their places on the rack before gesturing for Myla and Bryar to sit.

Myla does as instructed, grateful to take the weight off her weary thighs, but all too aware of the proximity to Bryar this creates. He sits on the bench beside her, leaning his forearms against his knees as he hunches. She finds satisfaction in the way he swallows air as though he has been kicked in the gut. She has exerted him; he is no longer her superior with the blade. For now, they are equals. Pursing her lips to hide the smirk forming across her face, she turns her attention to Sir Roderick.

“Tomorrow we shall double the time. I believe you are both ready to wield heavier weapons for a longer duration. Our goal this next month is to extend your stamina. There is no telling how long you may find yourself in combat, nor who you might encounter.” Sir Roderick turns to his desk, leaning over a textbook. His students sit in silence, waiting for him to continue. When it becomes clear he has concluded his lesson, Bryar turns to look at Myla, his boyish face alight with curiosity.

“Tell me more about the magic of the Gods.”

Myla shifts slightly, the thud of her heart gaining speed as she realizes she is leaning toward him, rather than away from him as propriety would demand. “The headmaster spoke on it in class yesterday.”

“I know,” Bryar says with a grin. “You told me. That is why I want to hear more. I know you did not tell me everything.”

“I did not have time,” she replies with a slight smile.

“So, tell me now.” His eyes dart to where Sir Roderick is, clearly ignoring their interaction. “Please, I want to know.”