Page 13 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

He releases her, running his hands across his face in exasperation. “You might not care, but . . . there are those who do, and will not hear you talking like this. I hear you.” His voice is softer now, though still edged with desperate reasoning. “Consider, you carry the heir. The last being to possess Restorer’s blood. If you die, it dies and hope for a life without the Blood Stealer dies as well. And while it may seem selfish to bring personal feelings into the equation, I do not want to watch you die unnecessarily.” The final plea is spoken cautiously, his hands gripping the hilt of his axe as though he needs something, anything to occupy them, lest he should burn the garden down, in rage and fear.

Myla takes slow, deep breaths, trying to untangle fear from reason to make sense of what should be done. Being pigeonholed into a corner with very few solutions, none of which are good, does not give a queen the appearance of control. Which of course, stands to reason, for she has none at this moment. “Captain, I do not believe I am seen as a queen to be feared. I am followed and respected because I was Caius’s wife. These people do not fear me.”

“I do not see that as a bad thing.”

“It is not,” Myla agrees. “Until I run off into hiding and am a coward on top of it. How will they follow me then?”

Bryar shakes his head fervently. “Being seen as a coward and actually being one are vastly different things. Do you care how they see you more than you care to survive?”

“A queen must care how she is perceived.”

“So, we tell them you are seeking answers from the Gods, and you will return shortly. Assign a regent in your stead. And then we take you somewhere no one will look for you, and I will go to the Seer and get answers for you.”

Myla gasps, resisting the urge to reach out and take his hand. “You can not. I could not allow you to make that journey on my behalf. Many have not returned; I could not bear that.” Regret fills her middle the moment her final statement is made. In an effort to rectify the sentiment, she speaks again. “I see enough men die on account of my rule. I will not see any of those deaths be for hopes or whims.”

“We do not have a choice,” Bryar huffs. “Without some clarity from the Gods, I am afraid of the mess we might make here, following our own judgment.”

Myla knows he is right. Without answers, they are left to gamble and hope they make the right choice. The Gods know already how—or even if—she will defeat the Blood Stealer. “I shall go with you, then. I shall seek these answers for myself. That is not your responsibility.”

He takes a deep breath and nods. It is clear he is relieved, having been successful in his purpose. “Go ready your things, Your Grace. Pack light, and we will leave in an hour.”

Together, they appear from the cover of the willow tree and navigate the garden hedge maze back to the palace where life is more abuzz than when Myla left it an hour ago.

A figure draped in a heavy cloak runs toward Myla, throwing back the hood. Callum is revealed, breathless and flushed with exertion. “Where the hell have you been?” He looks from Bryar to Myla, then rolls his eyes in agitation. “You have maybe fifteen minutes before the Blood Stealer arrives. I nearly killed my horse trying to get here before he did.”

Myla freezes, dread rushing through her. Could this be it? Could this be the moment her fate is decided? “How large is his army? Was the earlier report, correct? I thought he was not set to arrive until tomorrow?”

Callum shakes his head. “Less than two hundred. I do not think he has come to fight. It looks like a peaceful envoy. But he travels much faster than he did according to yesterday’s reports, so make haste.”

Myla glances at Bryar, her furrowed brow asking the silent question: Could that be? Of course it could be. The answer is simple—he has not come to kill her; his intentions are far less merciful.

“What makes you say it appears to be peaceful?” Bryar clarifies.

It is at this moment Lord Sorrin and Lord Heron join them, both fully armored and clearly ready to stop the threat.

“Because,” Callum answers, side eyeing the new arrivals, “he is leaving much of his army outside the city limits. He did not even progress half of them through our barricade. They are simply . . . making camp. Last I saw, he was approaching with only eight guards.”

“Royally fucked,” Myla growls, turning away to make for her chamber. “Send for Fern and tell her to make haste. We have no time to spare. When the Blood Stealer requests an audience,” Myla turns to face Bryar, her expression stone and unreadable, “you are to let him in.”

POUNDING AT THE door, much like inside her chest, causes a trembling in Myla’s core. Her limbs feel feeble against the stress of anticipation. Timidly, Fern opens the door to the face of Maverick. The tall and fearsome man pushes past her young lady-in-waiting and stops nearly toe to toe with Myla.

“You have let the dark one himself through our defenses and into our home?” he bellows, gripping her wrist as though she is an insolent child. “Have you learned nothing about the duties of a wise queen? Have you listened to anything I have tried to teach you in the last six years?”

Myla’s nostrils flare in rage and her body tingles with a need to eviscerate her father on the spot. “How dare you barge in here, trample over my maid, and speak to me in this manner?” She turns her back, facing her mirror as though he is invisible, adjusting her appearance one last time.

“I have no choice but to chase you all over this palace, cleaning up your messes!”

“What messes, Father? Name one thing I am at true fault for beyond not kowtowing to your minuscule fixations?” Myla’s voice is raised now, sounding the alarm to the captain posted at her door.

Red faced and enraged, Maverick’s hand raises, ready to strike his daughter for her insolence. Bryar steps through the door in time to halt his swing, his hand clamping tight around the angry man’s wrist. Eyes boring into the blacks of her father’s, Myla brushes past him, certain to force him out of her way with a sharp nudge of the shoulder before eyeing her captain. “Have him removed,” she hisses, and without further instruction, Bryar drags Maverick away from Myla.

Concern on his face, Bryar looks over his shoulder to where she stands, seeking permission to speak.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Your presence is requested in the throne room, Your Grace,” he says, his head bowed. Eight more guards now stand behind him, ready to escort her right into the mouth of the enemy.

Caius had custom armor made for Myla as a wedding gift. She had never needed use of it, so it sat on display in their private armory. Today, she dons it, along with her crown, sharp and spindling points reaching several inches above her head. A chill cascades down her body. The bodice of the war-plate is cold, virgin metal with no battle experience to warm it. Delicate etchings of wild things—such as foxes and ermine—and foliage twist across the breasts and belly of the armor. A feminine touch.