Song of the Forever Rains

by Mellow, E. J.

  Looking up, he caught Lady Larkyra in the doorframe, appearing a bit flushed, but besides that, not a strand of white hair was out of place. As her blue eyes met his, she threw something that winked gold behind her shoulder; it let out a thunk as it hit the back wall of the interior compartment. She whipped her ungloved hands behind her, but not before he noticed an oddity with her left. He couldn’t be sure, but it was as if one of her fingers was shorter than the rest.

  “Lord Mekenna,” she breathed. “Thank goodness you came to my rescue!”

  “Rescue?” He surveyed the carnage before him in disturbed wonder. “I would argue my aid is not needed.”

  “Oh, it certainly was a moment ago.” She nodded rather too enthusiastically. “But these men seem to be amateurs in their arts, for they all ran at me at once, you see, colliding into one another, and just”—her gaze traveled to the bodies—“died.”

  Darius’s eyes went wide at that, studying her more closely, noticing the bit of blood that was splattered on her cheek. She might even have had some on her gown, but the navy color hid it well. “Are you sure they didn’t die from their throats getting cut?” he asked.

  “Their throats are cut?” Lady Larkyra shrank back. “How ghastly.”

  Darius frowned further and was about to ask what exactly she was playing at when D’Enieu rounded the carriage, wiping his sword with a strip of cloth he must have torn from the bandits.

  “Ah, I see you’ve taken care of things,” he said, and Darius had no idea if the statement was meant for him or Lady Larkyra.

  Who were these people?

  “Shall we be off then?” D’Enieu glanced at the driver, who was still perched atop the pile of trunks. “You can come down now, Mr. Colter. All is safe.”

  “Poor Mr. Colter,” said Lady Larkyra, gathering her skirts before situating herself back in the carriage. “He has a fear of unfashionable individuals.”

  “Unfashionable?” Darius blinked over to her. “Perhaps it was the threat of being killed that scared him?”

  “Dying is inevitable.” She turned from Darius, quickly tugging her leather gloves back on. “Mr. Colter knows better than to fear that. It is what one sees during those final grain falls that is the true monster. I at least would like the last thing I look upon to be beautiful.”

  Darius was speechless for a moment, regarding the creature before him, this riddle of a woman. Lady Larkyra appeared to be many things, but Darius was beginning to learn predictable was not one of them. And for a man who enjoyed calm, he did not enjoy this realization. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  “Whatever for?” asked Lady Larkyra. “Are you planning my murder, Lord Mekenna?”

  Darius shook his head, once again baffled yet surprised to find himself grinning at her candor. “Not quite yet, my lady.”

  Lady Larkyra smiled in kind. “I’m sure that will change as we spend more time together.”

  Darius was kept from a reply as Lady Larkyra rapped her knuckles on the carriage roof. “Onward, Mr. Colter,” she said. “We only have half the day left, and wouldn’t it be grand to find at least one more puddle of trouble to play in?”

  The old man looked green at her words but stirred the two horses into motion nonetheless.

  As the carriage rolled forward, Darius turned to D’Enieu, who was climbing atop his brown-and-white-spotted stallion. “Tell me, D’Enieu,” he said. “How has her father not died of a stroke, raising such a girl?”

  The man adjusted his sword on his hip as he settled onto the saddle. “Who do you think taught her to be as such?”

  Clicking his horse into a trot, D’Enieu left Darius standing in the narrowed path as Achala walked back to him.

  “What new madness have I stumbled into?” asked Dolion to Achala, stroking her mane.

  Darius’s life didn’t need any more problems, though he realized, with a sobering effect, that his smile still hadn’t faded from his lips.

  Madness, indeed, he thought.

  Recollecting himself, Darius lifted up onto the saddle. He took one last glance at the prone bodies strewed about, at the silver hawk, whose violet eyes found his as it pushed off the ground and into the open sky, its massive wings sending dust curling around the corpse it had savaged.

  Though the recent events proved to be among the most confusing he’d yet to experience, Darius had a feeling, as he followed the swaying carriage, they would not be his last.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lachlan was not a place to write home about. Granted, it was dusk when they arrived, and Larkyra was barely able to see seven paces outside her carriage window to truly judge its beauty. But as they rolled through the mud-soaked roads, what little Larkyra could make out through the onslaught of rain was thick, unforgiving foliage that wove between, climbed, and hugged clusters of sad stone cottages. A few candlelit windows glowed in the murky air, but not a soul was in sight as they passed through a town that sprawled down a rocky-hilled expanse. A massive lake stretched out at its base, boats of various sizes at the dock, rocking like abandoned children in the storm-lapping waves.

  The rain here was a persistent beast, having started as soon as they’d reached Lachlan’s border. It carried an anger Larkyra could feel in her very marrow, and she huddled into her shawl as she watched their path turn and twist up, up, up, along the side of a moss-covered cliff that eventually gave way to a long, narrow bridge.

  Her thoughts tumbled back to the last narrow pass they had gone through, where they had been attacked by highwaymen. Though Larkyra had been busy with her own fight, she still had caught glimpses of Lord Mekenna from beyond her compartment.

  He had been sure with his blade, quick and precise. Larkyra wondered if he indeed would have been fine going up against those thugs in Jabari’s lower quarters if she had not intervened.

  He certainly has his surprises, mused Larkyra, rather enjoying the idea of her and the young lord sharing similar masked traits.

  “We enter Castle Island, my lady,” Mr. Colter yelled down, tapping the side of the swaying carriage.

  Larkyra squinted through her window, through the veil of gray mist and rain, to take in a looming stone castle, built atop a wild hill on a rocky island.

  It was a long drop to the waters lapping beneath the bridge, and Larkyra’s nerves buzzed as she settled more securely against her plush seating. As the carriage wheels bounced along the stone-paved bridge, she looked beyond the thick drape of the storm to make out similar humpback isles peppered throughout the neighboring lakes.

  It looked like the lost gods had made thumbprints across this land and filled the pools with their tears before leaving.

  Larkyra had seen many daunting, dark, and dispirited pockets of Aadilor in her short nineteen years, yet when they reached the end of the bridge and a tall iron gate creaked open in greeting, she couldn’t help but question the wisdom in coming here. Even dungeons held promises of escape, but as the gate shut with a heavy clang behind them, Castle Island began to feel like a forever prison.

  No wonder Lord Mekenna rarely smiled. In fact, she was rather impressed he even knew the facial movement after growing up in such a morose environment.

  Perhaps the inside of the castle will be different, she thought.

  Larkyra took in two truths as they entered the main hall of the Lachlan estate. First, despite being dry, it might have been more depressing than the outside. The entire columned entryway was carved granite, with a gray-and-white-tiled floor, and reached at least ten floors in height. The ceiling was vaulted with more stone. And even with the blazing torches and large circular stained glass window set high at the top of the stairs at the other end of the hall, all pockets of illumination were limited in their reach. It was as if some invisible wall were constricting them, leaving more dark than light. But it wasn’t the darkness that bothered Larkyra. No, shadows she could thrive in. It was the lack of any real decoration, personality, or sculpted artistry. It was all just straight and heavy and . . . there
. Archways were made to connect rooms, the ceiling to hold out the elements. Everything here seemed to exist for functionality alone. Which, given the duke’s opulent wardrobe, was rather contradictory.

  The second thing, Larkyra decided, was that she had packed completely wrong. And if there was one thing that annoyed her more than any other, it was being ill prepared for her environment. Blame it on her inclination to perform, but her trunks, if they’d survived the storm, only held pastel gowns, and this land demanded deep colors, dark colors, cry-by-windows-in-aching-solitude colors. Other than the navy she currently wore, the rest simply would not do. She’d have to make an appointment with a local seamstress as soon as possible.

  Turning, Larkyra regarded Zimri and Lord Mekenna as they shrugged out of their drenched traveling cloaks. Though they had ridden through a storm, the wind at times pushing the rain horizontal, both men still looked handsome. Her eyes held longer on Lord Mekenna’s tall form as his soaked white shirt clung greedily to his skin, revealing the lean muscles beneath. A slash of red marked where his shirt had been cut, a wound beneath from their earlier run-in with bandits, and Larkyra’s magic fluttered in worry. Was he hurt anywhere else? Had he suffered any other pains? Larkyra blinked, realizing how strange it was, this visceral reaction to Lord Mekenna’s wound. She barely knew the man, after all, and upon second glance, he hardly looked to be in any pain. She took in a calming breath, and the tightness of her magic spinning up her throat subsided.

  A young footman stepped forward to collect the discarded cloaks, drawing Larkyra’s attention away to the line of other servants who had gathered to greet them upon their arrival. She was surprised not to sense even one among the two dozen awaiting staff who vibrated with powers. Not even a weak buzz of magic. It was all so . . . still.

  Larkyra frowned. The lost gods really must have abandoned this place.

  Each wore black on black on black—perpetual mourning—making them all look like neatly dressed corpses.

  See, thought Larkyra, here is the perfect example of playing to one’s environment.

  Studying the way a young maid held her gaze in perfect blankness, Larkyra made a mental note to practice the expression later, alone in her rooms. Maybe the lady’s maid they were to provide her would be just as delightfully drab. Then she could really have her shot at perfecting the emotionless Lachlan mannerisms.

  “Well,” she said, her voice carrying in the stone mausoleum. “How refreshingly cheery your home is, Lord Mekenna.”

  He glanced about, as if seeing the space for the first time. “Yes,” he said, his red hair made brown and standing feral from the rain. “It once was.”

  Larkyra searched for a glimmer of the past he spoke of, but she could only see the same dismal, dusty space.

  “Now that I’ve gotten you here relatively safe,” said Lord Mekenna, gesturing for one of the young footmen to start placing her trunks in the main hall, “I hope you’ll excuse me. It’s been a long two days, and I’m sure you’re each in want of a similar warm bath and early bed. Mr. Boland here will help you to your rooms.”

  A lanky man with silver-brushed hair and pinched lips, which complemented the displeasure in his dark gaze, stepped forward with a bow. “It will be my pleasure, my lord.” A raspy voice filtered from the butler. “I’m also to inform you that the duke regrets he is currently . . . indisposed and cannot receive you himself. He wishes, however, for you and our guests to meet him tomorrow for morning tea.”

  “Morning tea?” Lord Mekenna’s brows drew together.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Lord Mekenna stood there for a moment, as if the request had been spoken in an unknown language; Larkyra stole a glance at Zimri.

  Yes, said Zimri silently, meeting her gaze. I see what you see.

  “Very well.” Lord Mekenna straightened. “Then until the morrow.” He bowed to Larkyra before nodding to Zimri. “I hope you have a pleasant first night’s sleep. And if you think you hear screaming, ignore it. It is just the nature of the wind as it travels around the keep.” With that, he turned and disappeared through one of the long dark passageways.

  “Screaming wind?” said Larkyra to the awaiting staff. “How delightful.”

  “Please, if you’ll follow Ms. Clara, my lady.” Mr. Boland ignored her comment, gesturing to the small, emotionless maid Larkyra had first studied. “She will show you to your rooms. Mr. D’Enieu, I will accompany you to yours.”

  Larkyra took note of the various doors and halls as they walked forward, all future paths to explore for what she hunted.

  “Are our rooms close to one another?” asked Larkyra before she split from her companion.

  Mr. Boland stopped at the stairs and drew one silver brow up as his eyes volleyed between her and Zimri. “Is there a reason they should be?”

  “Why, yes,” she said. “It makes things much easier when sneaking into each other’s bedchambers.”

  The butler’s white complexion turned an enjoyable purple.

  “I apologize for Lady Larkyra,” said Zimri, giving her a reproachful frown. “It’s best to know now that she’s fond of shocking statements. In truth, she wants to know because this will be her first night alone without one of her sisters present, and since I am practically a brother to her, I know it would ease both our worries to know we are close.”

  Mr. Boland cleared his throat while keeping his gaze pompously high and mighty. “They will both be in the north wing, but our gentlemen’s guest rooms are kept one floor above our ladies’.” He turned his beady eyes on Larkyra.

  Larkyra opened her mouth to respond, but Zimri cut her off, placing a hand on her back. “Thank you,” he said. “Then let us walk together until we are separated.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Well, aren’t you a snobbish prit, thought Larkyra, watching as Mr. Boland turned to lead Zimri away.

  A carved silver rose pinned to the butler’s black coat drew Larkyra’s gaze, its glimmer snagging and reflecting the dim light, as if to say hello.

  Well, hello, hello, hello to you too, she silently cooed, a razor-tipped grin forming. There was only so much poise and control and convention Larkyra could take before she needed a bit of relief, and this pretty jeweled rose was just the slice of mischief to give her that. If nothing else came of this trip, Larkyra at least knew one thing—she and Mr. Boland were about to have some fun.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The candelabras’ flames danced unnatural shapes across the hall as Larkyra stole silently down its length. Save for the muffled screams of wind that, to Larkyra’s delight, indeed whipped along the castle, the rest of the house lay in a quiet slumber. A perfect moment for her to explore without any prying.

  Descending the stairs of the north wing, Larkyra crept along a dark corridor lined with familial oil paintings, souls of the past no doubt wondering what a young girl in her nightgown was doing walking about at this hour.

  Looking for treasure, of course.

  Larkyra’s gaze ran over cracks in the walls and to corners behind large potted plants, sculptures, and uneven molding, ready for the smallest hint of a button or trick clasp. A part of the castle that would lead to hidden secrets, riches squirreled away. With an estate as large as Lachlan, it would no doubt take many trips to find the family vault hidden within, which was exactly why Larkyra had begrudgingly pushed herself out of bed her first night here.

  Twisting her way along the colossal entranceway’s perimeter, Larkyra slipped into the south wing, ears prickling for any sound of another. All remained funeral silent as her bare feet stepped over cold stone. Larkyra’s magic curled impatiently in her belly. Let us help you, it tempted. Let us wrap you invisible with a lovely song. But she ignored its calling, determined to follow her father’s request and resist using her gifts, or at the very least to not break from it her first day on assignment.

  Though she and Zimri had been met with a line of servants when arriving, the house was oddly still now, without even a lone guard to
watch over the night. All the better for me, thought Larkyra.

  Stopping at the base of a staircase leading to the upper floors, she craned her head back to gaze at the gloomy gargoyles that protruded from each banister’s level. A small skylight in the domed ceiling let in a pinprick of gray from the cloud-covered moon. The sharp pattering of the storm a consistent beat along the glass.

  Larkyra held in a shiver.

  The air flowing through this wing felt wrong, metallic and sweet in scent, unnatural, which only meant—

  A laugh echoing from above had Larkyra slinking into the corner beside the stairs, enveloping herself in shadow. Her magic jumped to her throat as her pulse quickened, but her practiced control stifled it quickly.

  A form three floors up hit the railing unsteadily, and a glass fell from the figure’s hand to shatter loudly against the tiled floor below.

  More laughing.

  Though usually a joyous sound, this was a high pitch of derangement, a giddy giggle Larkyra had heard frequently in the Thief Kingdom, coming from those at the bottom of many, many cups—of both liquor and desperation.

  Peeking around the edge of the stairs, Larkyra looked up and took in the sight of Hayzar Bruin, or at least a man she assumed was the duke. This gentleman’s hair was a black mess over his forehead; his fine white shirt was crumpled and untucked from his dark trousers. His face was gaunt even at this distance, and he leaned over the railing as if he might produce more liquids to join the mess far below.

  Larkyra watched him tip a glass decanter to his lips, brown liquid sloshing down his cheeks, before he threw it over the ledge.

  Larkyra shrank back at the loud smash, glass shards and brandy sliding across the floor. She held in her quick breaths, her gifts buzzing, as she waited for what would come next, but there was only more unhinged laughter.

  “I’ve made a mess again, my love,” said the duke gleefully. “What do you say to that?”

  Hayzar was talking to the air beside him, as if a person stood there instead of shadows.