Page 75 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“No,” Myla shakes her head reassuringly. “Come in.” She bars the door behind her, then moves to the chest at the foot of her bed, drawing a loose shawl around her body, self-conscious of the ways she has changed since he last saw her so bare.

“My mind has been racing since we spoke earlier,” he admits, standing cautiously on the opposite side of the room from her.

Myla sits on the edge of the bed, watching his countenance shift, teetering on the edge of baring his soul, and saying nothing at all.

With a breath of confidence, he takes a few steps closer. “You said you do not know how this works, between you and me. What I know is, they say men move on quicker than women. That love has an end. Maybe that is true for other men, but for me, I have not moved on at all. I have not taken a single step forward from that place I was left standing six years ago. Maybe it was foolish; sometimes it felt like sitting next to a grave, willing a corpse to open its eyes and speak again. Nonetheless, I have stayed here in this place, loyal to you alone. You say the girl I love does not exist anymore, but when I separate you from your fears, I see she is still there.

“I have wondered if I might regret saying something, because when I look at what I am asking you to choose, it is preposterous. But I know I will regret it for the rest of my life, and I think you will too . . . if I do not ask you to marry me. So . . .” Like a man, falling to his knees in a final plea, begging for his life, he kneels before her, grasping both of her hands in his, his eyes searching hers, ready to receive whatever he finds reflected in them. “Myla, please say you will be my wife, and we can figure everything else out together?”

Of all the questions Myla has ever been asked, this is the only one that has ever made her feel light, as though her heart has detached from her body entirely and is carried away on a dreamy wind. “It is not too late, after everything?” she asks, holding desperately to his hands, her eyes blurring with tears.

“My love,” he confesses with a gust of nervous laughter, “call me a fool, but my deathbed would not be too late for us.”

Myla nods fiercely, not caring that the shawl has fallen away, or that stray hairs now cling to her tear dampened cheeks. She does not care that she is defying the rules of men, nor that she is trampling the consecrated ground of her father’s carefully laid foundation for her.

For once, she picks herself.

“Then, yes,” she answers with certainty, falling forward into his arms. “I will be your wife. And regarding everything else . . . I can safely tell my daughter there are worse fates than not being queen. If there is no clear path back to the throne . . . then I shall consider her a lucky little girl, and we see what else the Gods have planned for her.”

Bryar’s arms coil tightly around her. “We will let her choose her own life, as is her right.”

Daylight finds them in a tangle of bedsheets, groggy from a night of sleeplessness, but content.

“I must admit, I am surprised,” Myla whispers, as though a louder voice may break the euphoric spell they linger in. Her fingers trace the gold of his tattoos, enamored at how they shine.

“What of?” Bryar asks, looking sidelong at her nestled in the crook of his arm.

She flashes a coy smile. “That you found the courage

to conquer me in my . . . mountainous state.”

Bryar wears a lazy half smile as he rolls onto his stomach to face her, drawing a line down the curve of her nose. “I assure you, my love, I have conquered much larger mountains as of late, none so appealing as yours.”

With a gasp, imitating insult, she jabs a finger into his finely conditioned abdomen, “When do you have to leave for training?”

He sits up with a groan, squinting with one eye open toward the curtained window. “Something tells me I am late already.”

Bryar stands and retrieves his clothes from the foot of the bed, much to Myla’s chagrin. She is, however, diligent to enjoy every inch of exposed skin until he is fully clothed, at which point, she falls back onto the pillows. Lazily, she looks up at the tapestries displayed on the ceiling, listening to Bryar give account of when and where he will be, assuring her of his return later in the day, and hinting at promises of more ‘conquering’.

Britches on and tying the laces of his tunic, he turns to her. “What will you do today?” he asks, draping her discarded shift on the foot of the bed.

“I would like to check on Lenore,” she says, beginning to dress. “I will meet with Rhyland as well. I want to go back over the details of what is happening in Falkmere. Then, I will meet with the queen, Imogene.”

Bryar looks over his shoulder at her, blindly fastening the straps of his breastplate. “What for?”

“To arrange a proper Ashborn marriage,” she answers matter-of-factly, looking at him with a confident smile. “I see no point in wasting time. We have wasted enough already.”

Bryar clasps his cloak and walks to her side of the bed, pressing a gentle kiss onto her forehead. “You will find no argument here. Let me know what she says.”

Before the day grows busy, flanked by two of her newly arrived guards, Myla arrives at Lenore’s house bearing a basket of breakfast scones and hard-boiled eggs, a small feast which her fledglings turn to crumbs in no time. They are now outside, where Myla left her guards, taunting the armor-clad men and begging for shoulder rides, much to Myla’s amusement. Watching from the window above, she sees her guards engaged in a fierce pinecone war with the fledglings. She can not help but wonder if the simplicity of this day is a relief, compared to the past few months.

Having saved Lenore a plate, Myla places it near where her friend sits along with a steaming cup of tea. From the bottom of the basket, she reveals a vial of ointment she obtained from Gertrude on her way here. “She says this will help with healing.”

Lenore smiles thankfully. “I have birthed nine fledglings now, and this is the first time I have had someone look in on me. I will be sure to return the favor, when your time comes.”

“It is not a favor,” Myla says softly, smiling at her friend. “It is friendship. Though, I must admit I have been lonely for a long time. It might even be selfish, my being here.”

“Selfish or not,” Lenore emphasizes, “thank you for making these days easier.” The Ashborn woman looks her up and down, a sly smile stealing across her face. “You look different. What has changed?”