He was learning a lot on this trip.
“We’re here.” His guide stopped at an unremarkable small wooden box lying in the middle of a field.
Darius blinked, incredulous. “Are you sure? It might be that pebble over there.”
“Nah.” The man waved his hand. “That leads to no place ya want to go. Unless ya enjoy screaming.”
Though he couldn’t see it, he imagined the man smiled.
Darius took a step away from the rock.
Bending down, his guide inserted a key into the top of the box, and with a twist it flipped open, shining a light that expanded upward and squared off into the shimmering outline of a portal door. Darius stepped forward and peered through. His eyes widened. He was staring into an immense cave, and within that cave was a city. Giant stalactites stretched down to the cavern’s floor to connect to stalagmites that stretched up. Small white lights of dwellings filled each and every one, like sparkling snow, while separate stone buildings were carved into the surrounding rock walls. Below, an expanse of a dark city twisted around the rising rocks, multicolored smoke puffing from chimneys. Blue and green glowworms hung high throughout the cavern, lending a starry effect to the ceiling of this massive, cloaked world.
“Welcome to the Thief Kingdom.” The guide extended a hand for Darius to step through the portal and onto a ledge that overlooked the city.
When he did, Darius stopped on the rocky lip, taking a moment to appreciate the immense view below, to breathe in the air that was rather fresh for a world that appeared to be underground. Darius had never seen anything like it. Hadn’t imagined such a thing to exist, and certainly not to be as beautiful as this. For a place said to be filled with depravity and sin, it was extremely dreamy. Here lay a city still swimming in magic that collected all varieties Aadilor had to offer—most assuredly the corrupt kind.
“Ya paid for one last request.” The bent man appeared at Darius’s side.
“Yes,” said Darius, his eyes still on the shadowed world below, on the sharply carved onyx palace rising in the center. “Take me to the Thief King.”
CHAPTER SIX
Larkyra squirmed impatiently in the center of her room as Charlotte undressed her down to her plain white shift.
Her mind danced with the proceedings of the night, recalling all the guests she’d waltzed with and new acquaintances she had made. But most of all, her thoughts kept returning to Lord Mekenna and his stepfather, the duke.
It had sent both relief and a twinge of annoyance through Larkyra when she saw no recognition in Lord Mekenna’s gaze as he looked upon her. Relief because this meant she had gotten away with being a street urchin and would not have to explain why she’d been in such a state in the lowers. And annoyance for finding herself so forgettable, appearances aside, by anyone she had met that very same day.
“You were radiant tonight,” said her lady’s maid as she wrapped the blue gown from her Eumar Journé in a soft silk box. Kaipo gave a sleepy squawk from where he rested on his stand beside Larkyra’s bed, his silver wings shimmering under the candlelight.
“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Larkyra, going to her dressing table. She pulled every last pin from her hair and sighed as her scalp was released, her tresses falling in crimped waves to her waist.
“Did any dance partners catch your interest tonight?” asked Charlotte as she began to brush Larkyra’s hair.
“Why do you ask?” Larkyra frowned at the woman behind her in the mirror.
“You had many, is all. Now that you’re of the marrying age, you’re sure to have callers.”
The image of a tall, red-haired lord filled Larkyra’s mind once more. Lord Mekenna’s firm grip as he spun her about the room, the clove scent that clung to him, and the wide, rare smile that lit up his face.
But what does it matter? thought Larkyra. She wasn’t interested in a suitor. She carried too many secrets to ever think seriously of settling down. Too many duties to her family to ever be parted from them for long, not to mention her gifts. Larkyra’s past was not exactly a pretty account of what she was capable of doing to those she loved. It was best not to complicate things by potentially adding another she might hurt if her magic ever grew uncontrolled.
“I have no time for such things.” Larkyra waved a hand as if she could swat away the notion.
“You’ll find yourself with enough time when the right one comes along,” declared Charlotte. “And then you’ll find the grains flow much too quick. What about that gentleman that requested two of your dances? I didn’t get to see him, but there was much chatter about him downstairs.”
“Hayzar Bruin?” Larkyra all but choked out.
“That’s the fellow.”
“Absolutely not.” She stepped away from Charlotte and went to a depiction of a honeybee decorating a floral scene on her wall. Larkyra pressed it, and a panel slid away, revealing a hidden closet.
The Duke of Lachlan indeed cut a striking figure. For he was tall with wide shoulders, tanned white skin, and wisps of gray above his temples that mixed pleasantly with the rest of his jet-black hair. His clothes were also cut and sewn to perfection. Extravagance at its best.
But then he had smiled.
By the Obasi Sea. It was enough to turn Larkyra’s stomach.
What her father had suspected of him was painted all over his mouth, clear as day.
Soot-rimmed pointed teeth and, when he spoke, a sickly coal-coated tongue.
Of course, only those with the Sight would be able to see the poison seeping from the duke. To all others, his mouth would be the pristine pearly white he probably paid a fortune to maintain.
But Larkyra held that gift, and if she had ever seen someone decaying from the inside out, it was surely this man. Phorria reeked from him. She had forgotten how horrid it was to be near, how it caused the worst sort of addiction, for it was a potent drug injected by those who were not born with the lost gods’ gifts. Those who were so desperate for a chance to feel powerful, however superficial and fleeting that power would be, that they pumped their veins full of magic drained from others—people who had either been robbed of it or given it away, desperate for a piece of silver.
Achak had once taken Larkyra and her sisters to one of the dens in the Thief Kingdom. Another of their many lessons. She could still see the shadowy space, illuminated only by matches flaming, here and there, lighting oil canteens to boil the glass orbs filled with stolen magic. Rubber tubes had run from the containers, feeding soured blood into the veins of men and women slouched across tables and chairs. Their glazed eyes had stared at nothing; their mouths had hung open as superficial gifts had oozed into their bodies, filling them with temporary power. The den had been filled with moans of mixed pain and euphoria, the smell sickly sweet.
“See what greed can lead to, children,” Achak had said, guiding them through the nightmare. “You must never rely on your magic to feel strong. It is in your heart and mind where your true power lies.”
These memories had Larkyra now understanding what her father had said regarding the Thief King wanting to contain such nasty business to the kingdom. Many of these patrons would stumble off, depleting their temporary strength quickly with fleeting spells, their intentions turning as putrid and malicious as the drug they consumed, before returning again and again and again, until they were hollowed out, unable to do anything without phorria. Larkyra held in a shiver at the thought.
How had the duke come into contact with the drug if not in the Thief Kingdom? He obviously had been indulging in it for a while, given the state of his mouth and how his body held too sweet a scent, a bouquet of flowers turning over. Larkyra wanted to ask her father what he would do now that there was no denying the duke’s usage.
And what of Lord Mekenna? Was he familiar with his stepfather’s dealings? Sight or no, one couldn’t mistake the menacing energy Hayzar gave off. Larkyra had sensed Lord Mekenna tensing when his stepfather had first approached them after their dance. What sort of relation
ship did he and Hayzar have?
Larkyra’s thoughts continued to spin as she perused a rack lined with various clothes, some opulent, others nondescript, all things a daughter of a nobleman shouldn’t own.
Slipping on black trousers and a tunic, she finished the ensemble by pulling down a midnight traveling cloak. It wasn’t just any cloak, either, but one that stole passing shadows to help camouflage the wearer into her surroundings. Snatching up matching boots, she reentered her room and snapped the panel shut.
“I won’t be going with you girls presently,” said Charlotte. “I want to alter the rest of your gloves before I acquire more in town tomorrow. But I’ll be sure to make it in time for the performance.”
Charlotte had begun to stuff the left ring finger of all Larkyra’s gloves, mimicking the part she no longer had. She’d even rigged a clever little device that allowed it to bend slightly at the knuckle when Larkyra moved her grip, which she had worn at the ball. It was a necessary precaution, not just in the high-society Jabari gatherings, where such an imperfection on a lady would be scorned, but especially where Larkyra was currently headed. Scars and missing appendages were an easy way to reveal an identity—a price not even the Bassettes could afford to pay.
“Then we’ll be sure to hold the performance until you arrive,” said Larkyra just as her sisters entered her chambers.
“Were you going to keep us waiting for another sand fall?” Niya hitched a fist to her hip. “There is such a thing as too fashionably late.”
Niya and Arabessa were dressed in similar black traveling cloaks, their hair pulled up and hidden beneath their hoods. In their black-gloved hands, they held gold masks with delicate, painted-on obsidian brows and mouths.
“Not where we’re concerned,” said Larkyra, accepting her own mask and pair of gloves Charlotte held out for her. “We’re the evening’s entertainment, after all.” Covering her face and hands and pulling up her hood, Larkyra strode out the door, her two sisters in tow.
Entering the Thief Kingdom was easy. At least for those who knew the way, and the Bassette sisters had roamed the dark, caved city since they were first able to walk. Passing into the palace, however, was another feat entirely. Only those invited, sentenced to serve its master, or blessed with heavy purses could enter. Luckily, on this night, Larkyra and her sisters were more than invited—they were esteemed guests.
Plus, they had their own connections, which gave them the upper hand.
As they traveled through an expansive black marble hall lit by a row of jagged onyx chandeliers, Larkyra’s confidence soared, as it always did when she stepped into the palace with her sisters by her side. Her magic slid warm and excited through her veins. For it knew it would soon be let out.
Larkyra’s gaze skimmed over the various court members loitering against the dark walls. Pearls, carved bones, feathers, nails, and tails of wild beasts made up the attendees’ wardrobes. Ornate headdresses and masks covered all visitors’ faces, for remaining anonymous within this city was synonymous with staying alive, secrets and identities more valuable than any number of jewels. This didn’t mean riches were eschewed, however. In the Thief Kingdom, Larkyra knew appearance was everything, especially within the palace, and for a people who mostly gained what they wore from trickery, cutting a throat, or a creative combination of both, each item was both a trophy to be displayed and a warning to heed.
Come closer, it said. Try to see the cost of taking this from me.
Larkyra and her sisters did not stop or turn to meet the eyes that followed, and a smile crept onto her lips. Though they were anonymous beneath their disguises, Larkyra reveled in being known as they were here. And anyone familiar with the Thief Kingdom knew exactly who that was. Only a very, very few within this realm knew of their Jabari lives, and those secrets were bound silent with magic.
While Larkyra and her sisters came from an ancient bloodline, especially on their mother’s side, it was not their old magic that emanated strongly; within this veiled city they were their own creatures to fear. Never seen apart, the three walked, sat, and left a room as one. Any number of elegant masks covered their faces, but they always matched and were viewed as a unit, especially when performing. For here Larkyra was part of the Mousai, a trio of creatures both revered and feared. And while she and her sisters might be strong apart, no one would dare cross the Mousai when they were together. In this kingdom, which welcomed the most wicked and savage, creating a threatening allure was paramount.
And the Mousai had it in spades.
Here, Larkyra had a better sense not only of her own gifts but of her sisters’ as well. She could feel each of their powers’ desires, reactions, subtle shifts. She sensed them now, humming beside her, familiar.
Play with us, their magic seemed to coo to hers.
Soon, thought Larkyra appeasingly. Soon.
Leaving the court, Larkyra walked with her sisters down a narrow, high-ceilinged hall, where knife-sharp slabs of inky rock poked out from the walls, keeping those passing through more than aware of the need to tread carefully. The hallway opened into a circular receiving space that framed a set of looming doors, orange-red light seeping out their sides. Thick, heavy air pushed against Larkyra as she approached, step by step.
Are you sure you wish to be here? the air seemed to ask.
Four guards, giants made of black marble, stood sentry on either side of the door, holding long, sharp staffs. At their feet waited a cluster of those wishing for an audience with the man who sat behind the barrier.
Larkyra and her sisters ignored the line and walked straight to the closed doors before stopping in unison.
A hush fell over the onlookers, and a few slunk away to hide in the darkness that fed into the rotunda.
Larkyra couldn’t help but preen behind her mask.
“He’s in with someone,” said a deep, velvety voice from a shadowed alcove. “And despite your special purpose tonight, you’ll have to wait like the rest of us.”
Larkyra turned with her sisters, feeling Niya instantly tense beside her as a man stepped into the dim light.
“Hello, ladies,” he purred.
Few things in this world truly terrified Larkyra, but the man gazing at them with glowing turquoise eyes was one of them.
Larkyra’s magic fluttered with anticipation of defense, but she kept it collared. For now.
Alōs Ezra, the infamous pirate lord, was a man who appeared to be sculpted from the very rock that made up the Thief Kingdom. His large, muscular form looked impenetrable beneath a long dark coat that kissed the floor by his boots. But it wasn’t his size, his hypnotic eyes, or the obvious magic that swam around him like a comfortable wind that had one taking caution—it was that his face remained uncovered.
Very few here had the stones for that.
But what a face it was.
Sin. He had a face molded from sin, every inch painting pictures of depravity in Larkyra’s mind, of heated bedchambers and hidden corners. His brown skin, tanned a deeper shade from his life at sea, onyx hair reaching below his shoulders, and angular cheekbones tempted all. But his lilting grin, Larkyra knew, also held a promise of pain. And the combination was utterly terrifying.
For a pirate lord said to be the worst sort of beast on the Obasi waters, the spectacle of walking unmasked and baring his devastating beauty clearly worked to his advantage.
Know me, it whispered. Remember who carved out your screams.
“Come to grovel for another favor?” Niya asked the nefarious man.
Larkyra wanted to pinch her. Nothing good came when these two exchanged barbs.
Though each sister was dressed identically from head to toe, Alōs’s glowing gaze ran the length of Niya’s cloak, as if he could see through it to each and every one of her curves and knew what she kept hidden.
“My little fire dancer.” Alōs’s words slithered through the air. “We both know it is you who is more likely to be on bended knee, looking for favors.”
The
room’s temperature soared, heat pressing against Larkyra’s side as Niya stepped forward. With her movement, Larkyra sensed Niya pulling forward her power, but with a calming hand to her shoulder, Arabessa stopped her.
“Captain Ezra.” Their eldest sister’s steady voice cut through the tense moment. “We hear your journeys to the east were most bountiful. Will you be celebrating your success with us tonight or returning to your lands for a bit of reprieve?”
Alōs was said to hail from Esrom, an underwater city that drifted deep within the ocean waters. Only those born there could locate it, keeping its splendor safe. And splendor, Larkyra heard, it had in abundance.
Alōs’s attention slid from Niya as he regarded the Mousai as a whole. “My lands, as you call them, are more than happy with my absence. What’s more, I believe my crew would prefer to enjoy the fruits of their labors here. Much more to entertain.” A curl to the corner of his full lips as his gaze slid to Niya again.
Larkyra could feel the storm of magic her sister struggled to keep in check, and she glimpsed her gloves, which glowed faintly red.
“Indeed,” said Arabessa. “We certainly hope tonight’s show pleases and that your sailors have the strength to survive it.”
Alōs’s grin grew wider. “Those that do not have no use aboard my ship.”
The large, heavy doors in front opened, cutting into their conversation. Firelight spilled out in a thin strip as a tall man dressed in a black traveling coat and brown mask stormed out.
Though he remained silent, there was no mistaking the anger swirling around him. His shoulders were tense, gloved hands fisted at his sides as he stalked past them, the scent of cloves trailing. A small, bent figure, wrapped in rags, stepped from the shadowed wall of waiting strangers to join the visitor’s retreat.
Something familiar tickled along Larkyra’s skin while she watched the man’s form grow smaller as he walked down the hall, but before she could think further on it, a guardian announced in a deep rumble, “He will see the Mousai.”
“I think you’re mistaken, my brother.” Alōs’s strong voice carried through the alcove. “I was to be next.”
Song of the Forever Rains Page 7
