Page 33 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Rage simmers in the depths of her belly, but Myla takes a deep breath, steadying her voice before speaking. “You made an escape plan because you did not think mine would work?”

Bryar walks on, his shoulders square but his head shaking dismissively. “Be angry, Myla. But do not forget I have spent the last five years learning when to act as your friend and when to act as your guard. As your friend, I wanted to believe that plan would work. As a guard who swore your safety to your husband, I had to have an alternative plan.”

“Friend,” Myla scoffs beneath her breath, trudging reluctantly behind him. “Your fingers really spelled friend the other night.”

He turns sharply on his heel, his change in trajectory catching her off guard, his eyes blazing.

“Stop.”

One word, a command which leaves no room for bickering and a word which in any other case would see a guard hanged for insubordination. He has no need to elaborate; his tone and face says it all, and Myla instantly feels like a child.

“Start walking, Myla. The monastery is the last place anyone will look for a pagan queen.”

“I am sorry . . .” she says, shamefully following his path once more.

“Yeah, me too,” Bryar answers stoically. “You are not the only one here who has lost people, Myla. I just had to pick between saving my queen and saving two hundred young men I have been training from pages and squires for the last ten years.”

His words are like spears of ice to her gut. Of course. It had not occurred to her that the men who made up the mass body of guards to her, were names to him. She has had enough trouble distinguishing the hundreds of courtiers who want intimate friendships with her to have sorted out who was who in the barracks. To Bryar, men like family died next to and for him yesterday.

“You know,” Myla says, wiping a fresh onslaught of tears with the back of her hand. “Elsa had this reoccurring dream that she was naked in the mountains being—and I quote her words, not mine— ‘ravished by an army of Valkyries and a dozen of the old Gods’.”

An unexpected laugh slips from Bryar, and he glances briefly over his shoulder to flash a weak smile. Myla rolls her eyes, trying to muster a smile in return. “I hope it was not a dream, but a prophesy of her afterlife.” Together, they both laugh. An attempt to summit the feeling of loss and grief that has chased them into the morning light, and will no doubt continue to be their shadow for a long time to come.

The monastery is tucked in the base of the mountains. It is hidden from the world by a tangle of trees and overgrowth, accessible only by a narrow and tumultuous path along the base of the mountain. Myla can only assume he knows of this secluded hideaway through his guild of assassins. From above, during their descent, she watched as humbly clad men moved back and forth. Some herding goats and chickens, while others harvest from a small garden. Many seemed to sit and deliberate in prayer. Now, as they approach and the finer details come into view, the aura of the monastery exudes peace. Etchings of their god are carved into the stone above the arch entry way, mesmerizing chants heard from within.

What catches Myla most off guard is the friendly and familiar greetings Bryar receives from every other monk they pass before entering.

“You are well known here,” she remarks, taking stock of the dark interior of what appears to be their place of worship.

“It is a safe place to stop between the palace and the Riverlands. Callum’s uncle is the Abbot here and was able to assure our safety and asylum.”

An old and wrinkled man with kind, gray eyes approaches, leaning heavily on a worn cane. “Captain,” his voice quivers with age. “I am always pleased to see you. Who is your companion?” He nods toward Myla, who looks nothing like a queen now, disheveled as she is.

“This is Mistress Myla Alerys.” He introduces her as a noblewoman and not the queen, a calculated decision should they want to sleep here tonight.

“Welcome,” the man smiles. He does not bow, does not refer to her as any more than an average woman. It is refreshing. “I am Martin, the Abbot of this humble monastery. I hope you will be comfortable here.”

“A pleasure,” Myla curtsies and follows as Bryar leads her to a bench before an altar, where statues and offerings lay. It is a strange arrangement, however, from what she is used to seeing. There is a bowl of bread bits, a string of brown beads, their sacred book of scripture she recognizes, but the grotesque depiction of a sacrificed god seems vulgar, even compared to her Gods’ love of war and bloodshed. It strikes something solemn in her. A faith where gods die for their people, rather than the people for their gods, is a curious notion. Her faith honors death in battle. Bryar takes note of her observation and smiles.

“Their god came to wash the filth of man from this earth and replace it with a little holiness in us all.” He gestures with a tip of his chin back toward the sacrificed man. “Fascinating, is it not?”

Myla nods and sits down, her attention drawn back toward Martin, who offers them a tumbler of wine.

“Mistress Myla,” he addresses her. “I am not sure if the captain has informed you, but the use of magic is prohibited here. We ask that you do not violate our space with the energy. We, each of us, have the same gifts you find anywhere else in Myrnith, but we believe in managing our day-to-day tasks simply.”

Again, Myla nods, finding she is weary and willing to agree to about anything that promises a quiet room and a bed to fall into.

As though seeing into her thoughts, Martin smiles softly and extends a hand. “You look exhausted, my dear girl. Allow me to have a room made up for you. I am afraid you will find them simple. But they are clean and private.”

An hour later, Myla lies in a steaming bath she drew for herself. There is one small window overlooking the climbing mountain, a view she gazes upon wearily through half-opened eyes. Her bath water is tinted with blood and dirt; a warrior’s bath, as she once heard Callum describe it. The crimson swirls with the ripples of water against her hands, gently coaxing the current back and forth. Mindless and weightless, she exists, knowing there is more to come, but unbothered by it just yet.

Cocooned here in an oasis, unfamiliar but somehow comforting, Myla imagines this is how the child within her has felt these past two years. For the first time since unharnessing the child, giving it leave to grow, Myla looks down at her exposed belly, examining it for change. There is none to be found, no proof the baby is even still there. But the waves of energy within are palatable. It is a feeling she has not yet felt, something that would have felt gradual and unnoticeable had this taken a natural course.

To think, this child might have been walking and talking at this point. Myla shudders and lifts herself into a sitting position, correcting her thought process. She would likely be dead. Vesperian would not have allowed Caius’s Restorer’s bloodline to carry on. Even now, Myla fears that may very well be the child’s fate.

No. Her fingers press into her belly, hoping the child can sense her. “I would not let that happen to you.”

Myla exits the bath, feeling drowsy from the heat, and after drying and donning a simple shift provided by the monks while her garments are washed, she stretches herself across the bed. It is not yet supper time, but Myla does not care. Promises of food or drink could not lure her from the sanctuary of a deep, peaceful sleep. One which she falls into, welcomed by visions of her mother playing on the floor of her palace chambers with a small child: her child. From behind, all she sees is a small bobbing head of brown curls; a piece of her already manifesting itself in the child.