When Rains Fall (The Lost Fields Book 1)

by Cassidy Taylor

  Servants stirred in the hall behind her, lighting the hearth fire and preparing for the day. Thorvald glanced between Sibba and the screen dividing him from the hall. He didn't look like an old man anymore. In the course of their conversation, he had transformed, and he looked like a chief again, with his hair pulled back and his weapons strapped to his body. He was large and formidable, every bit the Fielding.

  “Okay,” he said, spreading his arms out as if in welcome. “Get the sadj’s blessing, and you can go. Bring Jary back, and the world will be yours for the taking.”

  As if it were his to give.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Though she gave little thought to where she was going, Sibba's feet carried her forward through town and to its very edge. It was snowing again, and she ducked her head, hiding beneath the hood of her cloak. Aeris rode on her shoulder, her head tucked in low against the breeze.

  The sadj's house was unremarkable, just another small hut in a row of the same. She ducked inside without knocking—he would be expecting her anyway. Even with his blind eyes, he always seemed to know who was at the door.

  Inside was cold and dark; the man, if he could be called a man, had never cared much for the comforts of a Fielding life. Sibba shrugged the hood of her cloak off and walked further into the dark room. Aeris squeezed her shoulder nervously.

  “Ah,” came the voice like a whetstone against an iron. “You have come at last.” He turned his face to her, but instead of eyes, there were empty black holes. His teeth had rotted out of his mouth and his skin seemed too loose, as if it were slowly emptying.

  Darcey did not believe in the sadj. In Casuin, there were no seers, just as there was no predetermined fate. However, Thorvald relied heavily on the man, coming to him before making any important decision. How many times had she watched him cross this threshold in his battle armor? Sibba did not know how she felt, and she wondered if he could tell.

  Now, Sibba settled down on a small pile of furs. He sat across from her, his mangled feet tucked beneath him. No hearth burned and the cold seeped beneath her already wet clothes and into her bones. Aeris had taken to the rafters and lurked just overhead.

  “You were expecting me?” she asked.

  He smiled a toothy grin, and though his eyes had been gouged out, supposedly by the gods as punishment for his blindness in his human life, she felt him look at her. His face was in shadow beneath the hood and she was glad not to have to look too deeply into the puckered sockets.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, answering her with a question.

  “My father sent me to get your blessing.”

  The sadj did not speak. The house was so quiet that she could hear the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls. Snow fell in gentle tap against the thatched roof. To her right, a puddle formed from a slow drip overhead. “You do not need my blessing,” he answered finally. “What I can tell you is this,” he continued in his raspy, unused voice. “Before you leave the Fields, there is a question that you must ask, and an answer that you need, but it is not something I can give you.”

  Sibba felt the return of the now familiar rage. She had come here because her father told her to and would be leaving with more questions than answers. She was so tired of the not knowing. She wanted to hear that this one thing would go her way, that was all. No wonder Darcey thought this man was a fraud. “Will you give me nothing, then?” she asked.

  He lifted a hand, and at the invitation, Aeris floated down from the rafters and alighted on his bare arm. The sadj did not flinch as most would when her talons wrapped around his wrist. His free hand stroked her silky feathers. Sibba envied him briefly, knowing that she would never be able to exist in the dark with such certainty. She was blinded by her own sight, limited by what her eyes could show her.

  “There is one thing,” he said. He tapped his lips, tipped his hood back, and rubbed a hand over his bald head. Tattoos coiled around his ears, runes representing wisdom and longevity, but also some she'd never seen before, unfamiliar letters and designs from a lost language that blurred in her vision as Evenon’s tattoos had. Finally, he spoke again. “Soon the rains will fall and the tides will rise, and it will be up to you to decide on which shore you stand.”

  Sibba waited, but he said nothing else, simply extended his free hand to her, palm up. She took it and gazed down at the tattoo inked there, the eye looking back at her, then brought her lips to the papery skin and kissed it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Rayne

  Orabel was like no city Rayne had seen before. A labyrinth of bright colors glowed in the sinking light of the sun. The Clement River wound through the marshes and beneath a massive arched bridge, seeming to reach its fingers directly into the city. And above it all, the Malstrom palace rose like something out of a dream, its silver spires twisting into the twilight, poking holes in the darkness. It was larger even than the estate in Iblia and was surrounded by curtain walls with towers at every corner. As the ship drew nearer, fires began to glow from the turrets as some servant made his nightly walk around the parapets. Beyond the city, one of the curtain walls butted up against the ocean that stretched gray and bleak for miles out into the distance.

  The sailors rushed around Rayne, bringing down the sails for their approach. They had grown used to her presence; the general had not locked her door again, instead giving her the freedom to roam the ship by turning a blind eye. The only place she wasn’t allowed to visit was the hold belowdecks where they kept the hostages. Imeyna and the other Shadderns were under constant watch. Once, a guard had seen Rayne down there and turned her away, making it very clear that if she were to be found there again, he would recommend that the general return her to her room.

  “This is no place for a princess,” he had said to her back as she retreated.

  Unable to help her friends, she had instead spent the last two days on deck, watching the world fly by—towns and farms and wild woods, people pausing in their daily chores to turn and watch the ship pass. No one smiled or waved, probably because of the flags they flew. They simply stared back stonily, silver or iron bands glinting on some of their arms.

  The general was always there, too. He seemed to double as the captain, influencing the wind and the water to bend to his will, carrying her quickly and inexorably to her fate. What waited for her inside those walls? A cruel king, a powerful prince, a resentful sister? Were they suspicious of her as the general was? Would she be able to win them over with her sad, invented story? It would have to be the greatest act of her life.

  He was barking orders, but in a moment of silence, caught her eyes and held her pinned in place. It wasn't magic—she hadn’t felt it touch her since that first night—but a different kind of power. He also hadn't spoken to her since then, but Rayne preferred it that way. He had a way of saying just the wrong thing, of seeing past her mask to the very heart of her secrets. And she had too many secrets to allow that to happen. He was in his usual spot on the quarterdeck where he could oversee his men, and she was just below him, pressed against the rail to drink in the sight of the city.

  “Welcome home, princess,” he said in that tone she had come to understand, even through their limited conversations, meant he was taunting her.

  Well, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. “This has never been my home,” she admitted, “but it is a beautiful city. I look forward to getting to know the people of Orabel.”

  His face didn't change in any way that Rayne could pinpoint, but his eyes softened into something resembling pity. “I'm not sure that they feel the same way.”

  Who was he to pity her? His life belonged to someone else; his magic wasn't even his own, so weak that most of the time she couldn’t even tell it was there. Irritation welled inside of her, no intelligible response coming to mind. Thankfully, before she had time to retort, the watchman on the bridge hailed them, giving the ship the go-ahead to pass beneath and enter into the city.

  The general made easy work of dockin
g, the ship gliding gracefully into its slip. Sailors jumped to the floating dock with practiced feet and quickly tied the boat down and lowered the walkway. Rayne went first, her footsteps clunking loudly against the wood, with the general close behind her. They were greeted by several servants from the palace, many of them banded with iron or silver. Rayne was glad to have her feet back on solid ground but hated the way that these people looked at her, like they had just seen a ghost. It had been easier on board with the soldiers and sailors who had grown so used to her presence as not to even see her. She tried smiling at them but felt like it was more of a grimace, and so she wiped her face clean of any emotion.

  “This way, my lady, general,” said one of the stewards, bobbing his head much like a chicken, and turning to lead them away. Rayne looked at the general, who swept a hand out in front of him, one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk.

  After you.

  She swept past him as gratefully as she could in her dirty, green gown, but was stopped by a voice.

  “Sir,” a man’s voice said, “the hostages—”

  It was a soldier from the ship. The general was already walking away from him and had a hand on Rayne’s upper arm. “Take them to the dungeons,” the general said, barely glancing back at the man.

  “No sir, it's just that, one of them's miss—”

  “Dungeon,” the general repeated, cutting the man off hastily. “Don't make me say it again.” He squeezed her arm and urged her forward beside him on the narrow dock. She had to take two steps to every one of his but she was too distracted to protest or pull away.

  One of them is missing. That's what the soldier had been about to say. That's what the general didn't want anyone else to hear. What did he know? Was he ashamed of losing Wido, or had he been the one helping him all along? Rayne knew better than to ask questions, at least not right now. Instead, she let herself be ushered along beside the general through the merchant district and toward the castle gates. They passed a stall with plants hanging from the tent's poles, and another where a man was barely visible through his collection of random goods. Women hawked cloth dyed in outrageous colors and men sat sullenly beside their jars of oils and wax. But most prevalent of all was the fish—stall after stall of fish parts and bait and fishing nets. The smell hung in the air like a blanket over the city, acrid and pungent, touching everything.

  She must have made a face because the general looked over at her. “You'll get used to it,” he said, the usual mean amusement in his voice.

  The banded servants that were in the streets lowered their heads and scurried out of the way of Rayne's retinue, while the merchants made no such efforts, stopping to stare and slow to move. Rayne did her best to ignore them, keeping her eyes straight ahead. The general was there, begrudgingly protecting her, and there was a wall of palace servants around her acting as a barrier. This wasn't her triumphant homecoming; it was more like a death march.

  The closer they got to the palace, the nicer the district became. Instead of tents and booths, shops were in two- and three-story buildings. Etched-glass windows displayed their wares—fine dishes and clothing, a chemist, an apothecary. One shop caught her eye with its red door and dainty jewelry on display—rings of hammered silver, necklaces with delicate loops of gold wire. It was different than anything she'd seen, and so was the girl who stood in the open door. She was no older than Rayne with the same light brown skin as her, but with a wild bundle of golden curls bouncing on her head. She leaned carelessly against the doorframe, scantily clad in a red shift dress that bared the silver band on her muscular arm. She was banded, but there was a challenge in her eyes as she followed Rayne's trek through the street. The girl seemed to have already taken Rayne's measure and found her unworthy. Rayne couldn't disagree.

  Finally, they reached the palace courtyard, where the smell of fish faded at least minutely, and the sun, which had not quite disappeared behind the eastern wall yet, reflected off the marble steps. It was there that her uncle had died, there that the Malstrom sisters had given their blood for their young queen's freedom. Were the steps still stained red or was that Rayne's imagination?

  As she approached, the wooden doors at the top of the steps opened and a man emerged, his eyes wide and searching as they took in her group. He wore a black cloak and the iron crown of Dusk on his brow. She couldn't help herself, pushing her way through the barrier of servants and emerging at their front, stopping when she was only a few steps away. His eyes met hers, and it was like looking in a mirror.

  “Father,” she said, the word foreign on her lips. “It's me.”

  The king's uncertainty lasted only a moment, and soon she was wrapped in the warm, welcoming embrace of his arms.

  “You're here,” he said into her hair, his voice a rumble deep inside of his chest as he pushed her back, his hands on her shoulders, her cheeks, her hair, as if trying to decide if she were real. She drank in his face—the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes were deeper, his black hair speckled with gray, but it was him. The man who had ruined her life. She was surprised to find she still loved him in spite of everything, even in spite of the fact that she was here to ruin his life in turn.

  “I'm here,” she whispered in confirmation, hardly able to believe it herself.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  In the hour that followed, Rayne was washed and combed into some semblance of the lady she was supposed to be, dressed in a modest, cream-colored nightgown, and then locked in what they called her room. It was really a series of connected rooms—a sitting room stuffed with comfortable chairs and a small dining table, a bedroom with a bed larger than her whole room in Bricboro, and a bathroom with its own water spigot. No more communal bathing in a freezing lake for her. Why did that thought make her sad? Warm water would make anyone happy, but there it was—that twinge of longing pricking behind her eyes. She was supposed to be in Bricboro with Imeyna, planning their next move while Tamsin bustled patiently around them, cleaning or cooking, brushing her hand across the back of Imeyna’s neck or cheek every time she passed. Not here, on her own, wearing a ridiculous nightgown she could barely move in with not a clue what to do next.

  There was a part of her that wanted to go find Imeyna, to creep into the dungeons and throw herself against the cell’s bars and beg Imeyna to tell her what to do. She could kill the jailer, free Imeyna, and let her lead the way as she had always done.

  Or she could just get it over with. Find her sister, plunge a knife into her heart, and accept her fate. It wasn’t just about what the Knights wanted, either. It was about what she needed—to avenge Madlin’s death, to atone for standing by and watching as Madlin was beaten to death, as Imeyna was led away from her in chains. To stop her father before he could destroy anything else. Her life was a small price to pay if it meant starting the rebellion that would end her family’s reign of terror. On the desk, Merek’s map book and Imeyna’s knife looked terribly out of place in this gilded room. The map book was dusty and old, not like the carefully bound tomes that lined the shelves. And the knife seemed to beckon to her as it gleamed in the light of the hearth fire.

  The decision made, she tucked the knife away into one of her pockets. Picking the lock was easy with a couple of the massive hairpins that her lady's maid—a blond Hailian girl with a polished silver armband—had left on the dresser. They slipped easily into the locking mechanism and with just a few pokes and turns, the bolt slid smoothly out of her way.

  The hallway beyond her rooms was dark and quiet. She was relieved not to find a guard there. Perhaps they weren’t suspicious of her after all. Or perhaps this was a test and she had failed the moment she opened the door. She froze, but no one came to reprimand or arrest her. It was late, and most of the palace residents and workers would be sleeping, and those that weren’t—her father most likely among them—were otherwise occupied.

  Her sister had been conspicuously absent from her greeting party, but it had been a matter of a couple of persistent questions during her bat
h to get her maid to tell her where Edlyn's rooms were—just a floor above her own on the ocean wall. It wasn't a secret, she told Rayne, but the wing was off-limits.

  Not to me, Rayne thought as she slunk through the dark hall to the stairs. She could only hope that Danyll had left the same or similar enchantments in place. In her limited experience with elemental wielders, she didn't know what he was capable of or how he might have reinforced his spells.

  From the windows in the stairwell, the gentle roar of crashing waves reached her. It was a strange sound, enough to drive her mad if she focused on it, much like the incessant smell of fish. Orabel was an assault on all her senses. All things she would get used to, she supposed, if the general were correct. Or more likely, something she wouldn't have to live with for very long.

  The door on the next level was locked, but this wasn't something a couple of hairpins could fix. There was no handle, no obvious locking mechanism, no spellwork; it was just a smooth slab of stone set into the wall, visible only by the small groove running along its edges. Rayne stared at it, waiting for something to happen, when she noticed the faded smear of red in the spot where a handle should be. Crowheart blood. It's what the Knight spies had told Imeyna, and apparently Danyll had taken it literally this time, perhaps given this door extra reinforcement after the breach in Iblia. Taking the knife from inside the folds of her skirt, she opened a small cut on her palm and pressed it to the stone.

  1 . . . 2 . . . The door seemed to grab her arm just as it had done in the tunnels of Iblia, the familiar jolt causing her body to go completely rigid before releasing her. This time it gave beneath her hand and opened inward without a sound. She tried to imagine her father doing this enough to have stained the pale stone. Did he visit her often? Did he love her as more than just an heir to his stolen kingdom? Would Edlyn's death hurt him as Madlin's had hurt Rayne? She didn't know the answer to any of these questions and pushed them aside as easily as she did the door as she slipped into the hallway beyond.