Page 11 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Well, he will not hear a ‘thank you’ from me.

“I need to meet with the brewmage. Perhaps he can brew something to help reinforce the weaker wielders.”

“The magic you seek can not be manufactured,” the scrollwarden warns. “You can not fabricate a gift from the Gods.”

“Perhaps not, but none will thank me for not trying, not even the Gods,” Myla responds absently while flipping through piles of records. The history is vague. Though stories of the malicious and beastly magical bloodline are sparse, those she can find prove unhelpful. Every record leading to the same dead end: one must wield Restorer’s magic to unharness victims of the blood oath and defeat the stealer himself.

“Keep searching,” Myla instructs with a grateful nod. “I must look elsewhere.” She climbs the steep stairs leading out of the Archives Sanctum to the back of the throne room, where servants are polishing the floor and dusting bookshelves. Tall wooden ladders leaning against the pillars support people higher up, tending to the harder-to-reach books.

“Rhyland,” she calls to the young man who leans against one of the pillars, flirting with a guard.

He bows briefly, then straightens as she approaches. “Your Grace.” With a bashful whisper, he looks sidelong at her. “That did not go well. I really wish my morals did not keep me from wiping his memory.”

Myla grins, shaking her head in a pretend state of judgment. “You need to stop searching for love among the guards.”

Rhyland flashes her a condescending smile. “Says the woman hopelessly in love with a guard herself.”

“I am not . . . in any case,” she quietly replies with a smile. “I remember a time when you claimed to love him as well.”

Rhyland grovels. “Remind me to wipe that memory too . . .”

“You have been saying that for ten years,” Myla answers with a laugh. “I think you enjoy giving me your secrets.” Myla looks to the cleaners overhead and with a more serious and formal tone, she addresses him. “See to it these people have harnesses. We do not need a repeat of last time.”

Last year, when one young idiot was cleaning the top of the bookshelves, a flighty housekeeper did not notice as she backed into his ladder, knocking him fifty feet to the granite floor beneath. She spent the day mopping his blood and fragments of his skull up, Myla had insisted on safety harnesses being worn from then on out.

Rhyland, abashed at the oversight, bows once more and demands the workers bring themselves down at once. He then glances over his shoulder at her and whispers, “Also, who says anything about looking for love, Your Grace? Perhaps I would settle for a friend these days.”

The words rest uneasy where they land with Myla. There used to be an effortless bond between herself and her friends. Now there is a barrier which seems to have pushed the wedge of duty between all of them, to an extent.

Now, more than ever, she wishes they could all find their way back to that effortless place. Problems were easier to solve back then.

Shaking off the nostalgia, Myla passes quickly through the throne room and makes her way across the palace, past the barracks, and into the Alchemy Chamber where the brewmage leans manically over a thick, leather-bound book. His pale hair is pointing in complete disorder, and three vials are suspended in the air to his right, bobbing up and down with the motion of liquid bubbling within.

The brewmage is a young man, younger than many of the lords and ladies of the realm have dared to employ. But Myla, having questioned the loyalty of Caius’s original brewmage, made it her goal to employ a trustworthy one.

It had taken many weeks of tracing lineage and reading applications before Myla had selected Alaric. Though he was young, he had graduated the Institute of Mystic Arts with brilliant scores on all fronts and came highly recommended by his tutors. Myla had met with a large string of brewmages who all seemed qualified, but Alaric was the one she connected with. He is the only one outside of her friend circle she has dared share her secret with. Mostly on account of necessity.

Myla, taking in her surroundings, is at once enveloped by the earthy aroma of herbs and the faint sweetness of blooming flowers. Sunlight filters through a large, circular window, illuminating the room with a warm glow and casting intricate shadows against stone walls, adorned with climbing ivy and hanging moss. Statues of the Gods line the walls, telling stories from eons before their existence. Brightly colored tinctures also line the walls, each labeled with handwritten notes in flowing script, detailing their uses and effects.

Around the chamber, shelves made from ancient wood are filled with glass jars of vibrant colors, each having dried herbs, roots, and flowers—chamomile, lavender, and sage among them. A large wooden table sits at the center, its surface cluttered with pestle and mortar, dried leaves, an assortment of crystals that sparkle like dew in the morning light, and a large, leather-bound grimoire. It has been left open, its pages filled with sketches of plants and notes on their magical properties, inviting Myla to explore the secrets of green witchcraft that lie within.

In one corner, a small herb garden thrives, pots overflowing with greenery and delicate blooms, leaves glistening from a recent watering. A gentle breeze wafts through an open window, carrying the scent of wildflowers from outside making the delicate wind chimes—crafted from bone and glass—tinkle softly in harmony. Across the room, a bubbling cauldron sits atop a fire pit, steam rising in wispy spirals, infused with the rich scent of simmering potions.

Everywhere she looks, the symbiosis of nature and magic is palpable, creating a serene yet vibrant atmosphere that speaks of ancient wisdom and the art of herbal alchemy. All of it is new since she banished the earlier brewmage. Alaric has brought the alchemy chamber to life.

Myla notices black runes lay scattered, divination having occurred recently.

“What do the Gods tell us?” she asks, levitating a finger above the energetic runes, not daring to touch them.

“Your Grace!” he quips, hastily bowing before handing her one of the bobbing vials. “I have replenished your tonic!” He glances to the runes, his red cheeks flushing, “And they say we are royally fucked.”

Nodding to the vials, Myla rolls the one he handed her between her fingers. “I am grateful.” She smiles and tucks the tonic into her bodice. “Royally fucked is no news to me. Perhaps next year they will say something different.” She pauses, flipping a rune over now, hoping to erase their messages. “I am afraid I must disrupt whatever it is you work on.”

“Your will is my command,” Alaric replies, waiting for her to elaborate on her needs. He fidgets, eyes darting to and fro with distraction. Myla has always noticed he lacks the ability to be still, always moving, always driven with purpose and a need to accomplish every task before the day’s end.

“Do you suppose there is a way to replicate or manufacture, you might say . . . the Restorer’s magic?”

His shoulders sag slightly, and he reaches out to retrieve the other two vials, slow and careful in his answer. “If it were as simple as making specific kinds of magic, I believe we would have conquered this already. Sadly, the best I can do for you, Your Grace, I have already done.”