The poor man turned positively green. “I, uh, that is . . .”
“What say you, Lord Mekenna?” Lady Larkyra cut off the sad bloke’s spluttering to turn her attention to Darius. “When writing a love poem for your sweetheart, do you specify your botany?”
It took Darius a moment to blink out of the soothing tempo of her voice, the familiarity of it, as it lulled his mind blank. “No, my lady,” he eventually said. “I find the use of plants for amorous verses too prosaic.”
“Indeed?” She raised her brows. “And what do you use instead?”
“I have yet to find a sweetheart to outright know.”
Her eyes held his for a beat, a bit of pink rising to her cheeks.
“You can see how my daughters have given me grays over the years,” chuckled the count, gazing at his children with open affection.
The look sent a shameful spark of jealousy through Darius, and he averted his attention just as the music switched to a waltz.
“Ah.” Dolion patted his youngest child’s hand. “It’s time for your first dance, my dearest. Who shall be your partner?”
The question hung in the air for an awkwardly long time. Darius knew it would be the gentlemanly thing to request to be her partner, but his temperament was already a bit on edge, and he did not care to feel any more hands on him, however gentle this lady’s touch might be. He also was not in the mood to smile and speak false pleasantries, especially with his stepfather most likely watching . . . no good would come from Hayzar thinking he was interested, not just in the girl but in anything. Such things had a tendency to get taken, to disappear.
Yet the longer no one spoke—Frez still a melting ball of cowardice beside him—the more Lady Larkyra shrank in embarrassment, her gaze often fluttering to his.
Sticks.
“Does the father not have the first dance?” asked Darius. “In Lachlan that’s how we start.”
“No.” Dolion held his stare. “That is not how we start in Jabari.”
It wasn’t so much an intimidation as a Come on, man. Use your head.
But it was precisely his head that held him in a panic, made him want to push the next guest toward her. Instead, with a clenched jaw, he found himself raising his gloved hand and asking, “Would you do me the great honor of allowing me your first dance?”
To his relief, he barely felt Lady Larkyra’s delicate fingers in his as he led her to the center of the ballroom. Keeping his features impassive, he slid his hand around her small waist, drawing her near, before making pace with the other dancers spinning about the room. His heart settled its rapid beat, as her grip on him was nothing more than a whisper of a bird’s wing, and at this close proximity, he caught the mint and lavender of her soap. Nothing obnoxiously overperfumed, like what most of the aristocratic ladies wore, but merely a clean remnant of her bath. It settled his nerves further, and before he knew it, he was pulling her closer.
Despite his reluctance to find more to compliment in her, she was also an excellent dancer, though Darius supposed he didn’t have enough experience to draw such a conclusion. He still could appreciate her quick feet and light turns, the way she easily let him guide her.
“There are only a few sand grains left.” Her soft voice jarred him from his thoughts. “You needn’t worry much longer.”
“What?”
“The waltz will end soon,” she clarified. “Which means your suffering will too.”
Darius frowned. “I am not suffering.”
“No?” She shot him a mocking glance. “My father had to practically force you to partner with me, which I do apologize for. And just now you looked as though you were more interested in solving a silent riddle than engaging in a conversation. My sisters always told me I was barely tolerable, but now I am starting to believe them.”
Darius quickly searched for his stepfather but only found a sea of strangers watching. “I’m sorry if that’s how it appeared.” He held her more securely as they did a two-step turn. “Trust me when I say you are more than tolerable as a dance partner. I’m merely not the best at social gatherings. At least not this sort.”
“This sort?” asked Lady Larkyra.
“Societal soirees.”
She laughed, the light sound cutting straight through him. “And here I thought it was a birthday party.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Again, I apologize.”
By the lost gods, man, you’re acting like a blubbering chit.
“No.” She smiled widely. “You’re right. This is barely the sort of thing I’d throw myself if I had my way.”
“Then why are we all here? I hardly believe your father is the type of man who would deny you anything if asked.”
“What makes you think he has?” Lady Larkyra’s blue eyes sparked with mischief, and Darius found himself watching her more intently, the way the yellow glow of the room reflected in shimmers across her intricately braided hair.
She really did feel familiar to him, but perhaps it was the way she sparked with such life that Darius found comforting. He was not used to such energy, and it appeared he was rather parched for it.
“We all have roles to play at different times,” she went on. “Like you being the dashing lord and coming to my rescue for my first dance, despite your reservations.”
“I didn’t have—”
“You did.” She stepped between his legs for a spin. “No need to lie, my lord.”
There was a tease in her voice, a hidden joke.
“Are you always this forthright?” asked Darius.
“Like I said, no need to lie.”
Except lies are all I’ve known, he thought.
“So you have never found the need for falsity?” challenged Darius.
“Of course I have.”
He blinked down at her. “Now you’re talking in contradictions.”
“No, I’m talking contextually.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It means I am forthright when I see no need to be otherwise, and I am a liar when the situation warrants it.”
“You are most peculiar.”
“Thank you.” She beamed, and he couldn’t help it—he laughed.
The sound surprised not only him but Lady Larkyra as well. She gazed up at him with an almost triumphant expression as he held her in his arms.
“By your comment earlier,” he said, “can I deduce that you’re celebrating your day of birth again in another way?”
Her smile turned sly. “The night is still young, Lord Mekenna,” she said as the waltz came to a close. “And so am I.”
They each stood there for a moment, frozen, one of his hands still in hers, the other on her waist, their breathing fast from the slight exertion—at least that was what Darius blamed it on—as the party hummed, softly blurring around them.
And then it all snapped into focus as a new voice entered their bubble. A voice laced with silk over sand, a voice that would forever send ice across Darius’s skin.
“After such a graceful performance,” said Hayzar Bruin from beside them, “I would be remiss not to ask for the next dance.” He extended a violet-gloved hand toward Larkyra.
Darius’s grip instinctively tightened around her, making Larkyra glance up at him in question, but before she could get a word out, he forced himself to release her and step back, giving her room to accept the offer, which she did with a smile.
As a black knot of smoke gathered in Darius’s gut, he was forced to watch, like every other time he’d begun to enjoy something in his life, as his stepfather took her away.
CHAPTER FIVE
The night air was hotter and thicker than Darius would have expected, given that there was no sun hanging in the midnight sky, and the dark alley he walked through smelled potently of fish. Adjusting the brown leather mask tighter against his face, Darius attempted to muffle the putrid aroma. Anonymity was required where he was going, but the cover was working well as a stench barrier.
After remaini
ng at the ball for two more sand falls, keeping to the shadowed corners and watching Lady Larkyra Bassette flit about with suitor after suitor, he’d left.
There had been no use in staying longer. Darius would never approach her again and, lost gods willing, never see her again either. Lachlan’s problems didn’t need to add her dowry to the pile. Such fortune would only extend Hayzar’s power over the land. No, Darius sought a different solution than gathering more coin. And he needed to find it fast.
While the mining trade treaty would be a good idea in theory under a different ruler, if it went through with the Jabari Council with Hayzar in place, it would certainly lead his people into a life of servitude. For none of the profits of the mine would ever make it back to compensate for their backbreaking work. His tenants were already in debt to the duke, their homes no longer theirs; this would sink them deeper into despair and possibly take their lives in the process.
Darius’s legs moved faster at the thought, invisible falling sand rushing his actions forward.
Under a moonless night, Darius followed a hunchbacked man whose face was obscured, practically mummified by a gray wrap, through the lower quarters of Jabari, to a place called Black Bridge. His guide had shown up as promised, and Darius’s blood pounded in his ears with each step he took down the narrow streets.
As a young boy, he’d been fascinated by the place called Yamanu, the realm where all things that wanted to stay hidden resided. From a cherished porcelain doll to a whole city. Darius had often wondered if people could live there, in this in-between realm, so they might escape, never to be found. The secrets of how to create each pocket of space within Yamanu were said to have been lost, and even if they were not lost, Darius unfortunately didn’t know how to make such pockets appear. He still half believed none of it existed, a child’s bedtime story, and that he was currently being led to his death. All this mystery merely a theatrical ruse for a bag of silver before his throat was cut.
Darius’s hand tightened on the dagger at his hip, and he eyed the crooked man leading him.
“Ya wouldn’t have the chance to pull it out before ya found yer hand slashed off,” warned the guide, his voice surprisingly clear and strong with his back to Darius. “I don’t need to see ya to know yer feelings, boy,” he went on to explain.
Chills ran the length of Darius’s spine. “You’re a senseer.”
“I’m many things,” said the wrapped head as it swiveled to peer at Darius, no eyes to be seen. “But to ya tonight, I am yer way forward. Best remember that.”
Darius removed his hand from his blade, and the guide nodded before turning into another inky passageway.
“We approach Black Bridge,” he said, quickening his pace and leading Darius down a cramped side alley. “Stay close. We must pass through without being seen, or neither of us will be enjoying our next meal.”
Darius’s senses pricked with awareness. There were no signs that they had entered this new neighborhood, no structural difference, except that the tight black alley became weighted, oppressive, as if a giant boulder had slammed onto Darius’s back, and it took all his strength to keep moving.
“Hurry, boy,” hissed the guide, and Darius had to stretch his imagination to make out the fluttering gray robes in front of him as they turned into a stone alcove. The sound of fingernails raking across the walls beside him filled Darius’s head, and he turned, ready to attack whoever followed, but there was no one. Only more blackness.
Darius’s traveling cloak became too hot, and a trickle of sweat ran down his neck.
What is this place? he thought.
“Quickly.” The bent man’s icy fingers encircled Darius’s wrist and tugged him through a door. With a creak and scrape of a lock, he found himself in even murkier darkness, as if a blindfold had been jammed over his eyes.
Darius’s heart raced in a panic before a match was struck, a yellow glow revealing he was in a small, bricked room, discarded wooden crates piled up against the walls.
His guide stood against the other side, one ash-colored hand feeling each stone while the other held up a small lantern.
“Where are we?” asked Darius.
“A closet,” replied the man, still feeling, searching.
“Yes, I see that, sir, but why?”
The creature made no reply.
“Sir—”
“Do ya have it?” His wrapped head turned to Darius. “Yer price to pass?”
Darius looked about the confined space. “Pass through where?”
The man waved his hand impatiently. “We can go no further without yer silver.”
And there it was, what Darius feared. He was about to be killed in this small room, left to bleed out while this man took his money, and his people’s future would be lost forever.
“Do ya believe in nothing, boy?” his guide practically growled. “Ya must, or ya would not have worked so hard to find me, in the hopes of finding this.” He slapped his spidery hand against the stone. “Now doubt no more, or I really shall leave ya here for the Black Bridge varmints to find.”
“Well,” said Darius, “no need to be rude.” With resignation, he handed over his bag of coin. Doubts or no, the man was right. He had come this far, even if none of it made sense. He could not stop now.
Placing his lantern on the ground, the mummified creature weighed the small purse in his hand before closing his fist around it and muttering something that sounded an awful lot like a cat hacking up a hair ball.
Darius went slack jawed as his guide opened his fingers; the bag of money was now reduced to a single glowing coin, gold rimming its edge.
“By the lost gods . . .” Darius could only stare as the man pressed the piece onto the brick and it disappeared, like it was swallowed whole. He wasn’t sure, but it sounded as if the wall sighed.
The guide turned back to him. “Now, will it be a secret or a bit of blood ya wish to give? I warn, however, Yamanu is a world of things hidden, so yer secret must be a good one for it to accept.”
Darius had many secrets, but none good. Most were painful, foggy moments in time, where his own screams were his only true memories. Though he had a feeling those were the ones this place thirsted for.
“Blood.” Darius pulled up his sleeve, ignoring the scarred slashes that already marked his arms. Darius was used to blood.
If the wrapped man noticed the scars, he said nothing. He simply bent to whisper something to the wall, his own secret, before leaning back and extending a needle-tipped fingernail. Instead of making a slash, he pricked Darius’s palm. Darius didn’t make a sound at the pain, merely watched as the man cupped his hand until enough crimson had pooled in the center.
“Place it there.” He pointed to the section of stone where he had inserted the coin.
Darius did as he was told, and just as he felt the warm wetness of his blood touch the cool stone of the wall, an iron grip tugged on his traveling coat, and in a sickening rush, he fell through.
Landing on his knees, Darius peered up into a misty gray abyss, the smell damp and dusty at once. He quickly stood and looked about for the dark, cramped closet where they’d just been, but there was only more colorless nothing stretching in every direction. If there was a sky or ceiling, he could not see it. “This is Yamanu?”
“Aye,” said his guide, ripping a strip of cloth from his head wrap before holding it out to Darius. “For yer cut.”
Darius looked down at the filthy thing. “Thank you, but I am fine.”
The man merely shrugged and began to walk, tossing the strip away. Darius followed, sucking at the smarting skin on his palm.
They had barely taken twenty paces when he saw it, or rather them. Various knickknacks lay about or floated in midair. An ornate gold sandglass suspended in nothing, a rocking chair swaying without a breeze, a cup spinning without string, a houseplant tipped over, all resting apart from one another. Alone. Whether they were portals to another realm within Aadilor or doors to a grandmother’s private room
, he could not tell, only that they all appeared unremarkable. And if others were traveling within Yamanu, he could not hear or see them. It was a soundless, foggy place.
Really, it was all so . . . depressing. A tightness clenched within Darius’s throat. He seemed forever haunted by the depressing.
Staying tight on the man’s heels, Darius followed his guide through the thick air until the scattering of objects was joined by an occasional dirt road and then a dark, grassy hill before trudging up a set of zigzagging stairs leading to a bridge that stretched endlessly, disappearing into misty oblivion.
None of it made any sense, and tramping across the bridge, Darius had the feeling that if he asked for clarity, he would only be left with a riddle for an answer. He had not grown up around much magic or the many secrets he knew Aadilor held, but what little he had been exposed to, he knew existed without reason or logic. There were whole cities and territories that remained swimming in the lost gods’ gifts, while others, rumored to have once thrived in their blessings, now lay dry, his dear Lachlan among them. Magic was said to be passed down through blood, but it was not unheard of for a gifted soul to be born from ungifted parents and vice versa. The rules of Aadilor seemed to have disappeared along with the gods. Darius only knew that nothing pleased a clever thing more than outsmarting itself. And magic, well, it was the cleverest thing in existence.
“Should we stop for a bit of food?” asked Darius, pulling out some wrapped bread from the small satchel he carried, early pangs of hunger hitting him. He hadn’t eaten much at the ball, and really, how long had they been traveling?
“We are nearly there,” said his guide.
Nearly where? Darius wanted to ask, given that it was all beginning to look the same. How this man, senseer or not, knew where to walk was beyond him. After crossing the bridge—which did in fact have an end—they had gone over a small stream before ascending and descending more stairs and even walking through stairs, which Darius hadn’t realized was ever an option.
Song of the Forever Rains Page 6
