Page 80 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Silence fills the space between them, Imogene visibly mulling over Myla’s proposal. At last, she stands, her plumage casting severe shadows across her face. “As one queen to another, I choose to believe your intentions are pure. However, our alliance will be made official with a betrothal. Your first child with the captain, will wed Ashborn royalty.”

Myla tenses, her convictions challenged, as she imagines telling her future child who they will marry. Giving up her child’s right to choose. Myla weighs the consequences. If she does not form an alliance here today, she and Bryar will not be granted an Ashborn marriage, and they will not face the Blood Stealer with as much force as they could if she does agree to Imogene’s terms. Given the circumstances, it is likely Myla, Bryar, and the child inside her would not make it far anyway. Not to mention the forty thousand men encamped outside Valyndor as they speak, ready to sacrifice their lives to her cause. A sacrifice she can not take lightly. A good queen—at least the kind of queen she wants to be—would do everything in her power to ensure her people are given the best chance at life possible.

With a resolving breath, Myla nods, reaching out to shake Imogene’s hand. “I accept your terms.”

An alliance contract is drawn up by nightfall. Myla insists on a few dozen of her soldiers being welcomed into Valyndor to witness the beginning of the Falkmere and Ashborn union, so they might return to the encampment and tell the others what has happened: a tale of hope. A place for Bryar’s signature is also included, per Myla’s request, as it includes his future child.

As they make their way to the great hall where they will sign the contract, Myla wills her breath to steady.

“Are we making a mistake?” she asks, looking to Bryar for a word of confidence. “Signing our future child up for the same fate I endured?”

Bryar’s jaw tenses as he glances sidelong at her. “Perhaps,” he admits. “I do not see how we have an alternative. Defeating the Blood Stealer with the Ashborn will be challenging enough. Without them, I do not foresee it happening at all.”

Myla stops before the entry to the great hall and looks down at her shimmering skirts, smoothing the wrinkles of the deep green material over her belly. “Very well.”

Bryar clears his throat, peering past her into the hall. “I must admit, this is not exactly my area of expertise,” he says in a low whisper. “I am used to standing behind you, watching your back.”

“Now you will stand beside me,” she replies curtly, linking her arm with his. “Where you have always belonged.”

The room is fuller than Myla has seen it in the ten weeks they have been here. Ashborn courtiers and guards, Falkmere soldiers, fledglings and adults alike, stand lining the path leading to the table where Ivan and Imogene sit, blue sapphire crowns a breathtaking contrast to their fiery hair and plumage. With Bryar in step beside her, seen now as her equal, not her guard—much to the surprise of the men he has trained for battle—they approach.

The two couples exchange bows of formality, before Ivan addresses the crowd of onlookers, eager to understand the meaning of the meeting called to order.

“It is with great honor that House Ashborn joins in allegiance with House Alerys,” Ivan announces, his voice booming with conviction. “To mark the beginning of our unity, my Queen, Imogene, shall bestow the blessing of an Ashborn marriage bond upon Queen Myla Alerys and Sir Bryar Monroe of Falkmere.”

There is a ripple of murmurs which overtake the room, looks of both shock and delusion in equal measure pass over the faces of the onlookers. At this, Myla straightens and faces the room, locking her eyes with one Falkmere soldier after another, holding their attention firm.

“You wonder what has occurred that allows the marriage of a queen’s guard to the queen herself.” Some chuckles quiver awkwardly through the room, silenced by a severe look. “I have occurred,” she insists, her words growing in strength with passion. “I will no longer perpetuate a system which says this is as good as it gets.” She gestures to her soldiers.

“For many of you, achieving the rank of knight has been a struggle—an honor your fathers before would never have dreamed of. So, to see Sir Bryar stand beside me tonight as my equal, may very well feel an insult to your efforts. I ask that you take it as it is intended, a symbol of hope for your own future and that of your children.

“And I ask that when we march in to battle in the coming days, you will look at your fellow comrades, the Ashborn, and you will see no longer a separate army and a separate people, but you will see your own kind, and the kind belonging to your queen’s husband. I ask you to defend them as you would your fellow brothers-in-arms.

“In those most desperate moments, unity is the only way we will defeat the Blood Stealer and live to see a morning in the Seam where the sun does not rise a blood red.” Myla’s words are met with a roar of approval, not only from her soldiers, but Ashborn as well. Turning back, she watches as both Ivan and Imogene sign the contract, before turning it to face she and Bryar.

“Before you sign,” Imogene says, moving from around the table. “There is another matter we must see to.” She motions to someone in the back of the room and with a screech of resistance, the roof overhead recedes, pulled by a lever until the night sky shines above, welcoming a cool breeze into the otherwise stifling room.

“I believe it is best that you sign this contract not as the queen’s guard, but as her husband,” Imogene says to Bryar, holding out a closed hand before unfurling her fingers to reveal two amulets of twisted gold in the shape of a fiery bird rising, each bird bearing only one wing. Within the intricate folds of the wings, carnelian and polished rubies glint.

“It is the Ashborn belief that a husband without his wife can not fly, and a wife without her husband can not either. Marriage customs include the exchange of a token infused with one’s own magic.” She places one amulet in Bryar’s hand and the other in Myla’s. “You must give of yourself today, and every day until death, starting with the sacrifice of some of your power into that amulet.”

Myla pictures the years she has sacrificed her power to her child, how effortless it comes, to share your strength with someone you love. Closing her eyes, she wraps her fingers around the cold metal of the one-winged bird, envisioning the transfer of magic. A cold chill sweep through her veins and a tinge of nausea threatens her composure as a piece of herself separates, infusing with the amulet. The metal grows warm with life.

When she opens her eyes, she watches as Bryar does the same, his hands aglow with a flame she is certain will melt the amulet before he can give it to her. Alas, his hand opens, and the amulet is intact, glistening all the same.

“These amulets will glow only for your intended. Should they fall into the wrong hands, they will be nothing but decorative.”

Imogene places a hand on each of their shoulders, her voice sweet like birdsong. “It is believed that the Ashborn never truly die. Some say, it is our ability to burn and revive; others, myself included, believe it is our loyalty to our people. When you step into an Ashborn marriage bond, it is not to be taken lightly, for the power you will wield as one is unique only to you, and it can not be replicated. You are each other’s life source. The death of one Ashborn mate is the death of the other. You can not fly without each other. Are you prepared to weave your days, your life, your magic, and your fate together, entrusting your wellbeing to the other?”

Imogene looks first to Bryar. “If this is a bond you are willing to give your life for, give your mate the amulet and your magic with it.”

Bryar looks at Myla, not as though he is observing, but seeing. Taking a step closer, the amulet dangles on a fine gold chain as he reaches around her neck, fastening it. “I have been willing to give my life for you since the day I met you,” he whispers in her ear before he moves back, examining the amulet resting on her collarbone.

Imogene now looks to Myla, her eyes flicking to the amulet cupped between Myla’s palms. “What of you, Queen of Falkmere? Shall you give your magic, and potentially your life for your Captain of the Guard?”

“Oh,” Myla says with a coy smile, “he is so much more, and I would die a hundred deaths for him.” Myla secures the clasp of the amulet around Bryar’s neck, metal clanking on metal as it meets with his breastplate. Her hand lingers, pressed flat against his chest, their eyes locked as Imogene speaks, completely oblivious to the hushed crowd watching, one face in particular beaming with pride as she hushes her newborn.

“In honor of your marriage, I bestow on you the gift of the Ashborn Flame—a marriage bond which welds your fates and magic together for eternity. May you meet the gates of death side-by-side, and may you feast together with the Gods in the afterlife.”