Song of the Forever Rains

by Mellow, E. J.

  “Magic is already toxic to those who are not blessed,” they said. “Which is what makes those without the gifts so susceptible to spells. A filter is needed when consuming the drug, or it can have permanent, life-altering effects.”

  “Like what?” asked Niya.

  “Well, if one even survived forcing such power into their bloodstream so directly, they would need very large amounts thereafter to feel satisfied. And then, of course, it would damage their mind.”

  “Damage?”

  “They’d grow quite mad, my dears,” explained Achak. “Faster than most who indulge.”

  Larkyra looked back at the pointed needles protruding from the glass orbs, stains of dried blood around the tips. By the lost gods, did the duke pump the drug directly into his veins?

  A chill ran up her spine. She needed to leave this bedchamber and wicked wing altogether.

  She had found enough to report back to her father, solid proof the duke did indeed have a supplier outside the Thief Kingdom, and she could even describe the phorria casings. Perhaps that would help to identify the producer or even point to whoever was foolhardy enough to transport the drug.

  As Larkyra turned to leave, something caught her eye—a length of blue ribbon escaping a leather-bound book on Hayzar’s side table. Flipping it open to the marked page, she shone her lamp on what it tied together: a thick lock of red hair.

  Larkyra leaned closer.

  The color was so similar to Darius’s.

  Glancing back at the armoire, Larkyra had a feeling it belonged to the person whose clothes were still stored in there.

  Running a finger over the lock of hair, she noted how well maintained it was, shiny and thick, as if it had been snipped from its owner’s head yesterday.

  Larkyra pulled her hand away, realizing now the person to whom all this belonged: the late duchess.

  She snapped the book shut.

  Never before had Larkyra felt more like an intruder.

  An occupational hazard, to be sure.

  But when it came to lost mothers, Larkyra’s guilt hit even harder.

  She was done snooping. At least for tonight.

  For now, she needed to leave this part of the castle as quickly as possible and without being seen. With nerves buzzing, Larkyra blew out her oil lamp and, after returning everything to its original spot, slipped from Hayzar’s bedchamber.

  The sickly-sweet stench from his rooms clung to her as she hurried back to the first floor, choosing the nearest exit, which led down a different corridor than the one she’d taken before. Larkyra’s senses were so concentrated on what was behind her, ears pricked for any other footsteps, that she forgot to be alert for what was in front. As she quickly turned a corner, she was met with a man standing in the center of the murky hallway. He was holding a candle and peering up at a large painting on the wall before him.

  Larkyra’s nerves fluttered, a song forcing its way up her throat—a spell of protection. But as the figure came into focus, she realized she knew him, knew the copper glint of his hair, and she forced herself calm, swallowing down the spell like bitter spirits. Steady head, steady heart. Steady head, steady heart, she silently repeated as she rushed to decide if she should continue forward or flee.

  In the end, it appeared Darius would decide for her. As she wavered, something she very rarely did, Larkyra realized with unease, he quickly turned toward the shadow of her movement.

  “Who’s there?” his deep voice called.

  “It is your guest,” said Larkyra softly, forcing as much control into her tone as possible, walking closer.

  “Larkyra?” Darius extended his candle, bathing her face in warm light. “What are you doing here?”

  She squinted at the new brightness, her heart racing for an acceptable excuse. “I could not sleep, so I thought I’d go for a walk.”

  “In the south wing?”

  “You seem to take many issues with where I walk.”

  “Only because you’re continuously found walking where you should not.”

  Larkyra frowned. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”

  “It’s a long way from the guest wing.”

  “I’d say it’s about the same distance from your part of the castle,” countered Larkyra, recalling that Darius resided in the west wing. “What excuse do you have for being here?”

  Darius’s features pinched slightly as he lowered his candle, and Larkyra let out a relieved breath. And while she did so, her gaze caught on his bare feet, sticking out from beneath his black sleeping robe and trousers. Something warm and tingly and rather disquieting ran through her at the sight. For she suddenly found Darius even more annoyingly attractive than before. She liked him relaxed, she realized. Only one of them could be wrapped up tight all the time, and it was much safer, mused Larkyra bitterly, if it was her.

  “I could not sleep either,” he admitted.

  “So you decided to look at your art collection?” Larkyra stared up at the painting before them. It was of a striking woman with red hair and an easy smile. She was seated with a small dog in her lap, her dress made of rich green velvet.

  “My mother,” said Darius. “Duchess Josephine Annabell Mekenna.”

  Larkyra’s chest tightened at the swell of affection and pride held in his words—just as her pulse quickened. She recognized the painted green gown and red hair, for both were currently shut away in Hayzar’s chambers upstairs.

  But why? Why, after all these years, would Hayzar keep such things? And so close?

  My love.

  The endearment coming from the duke filled Larkyra’s mind once more.

  Could his reasoning truly be so similar to why her father kept her mother’s belongings?

  Love?

  The thought unsettled Larkyra. From what she had so far gathered of the duke, he did not seem capable of such emotion. Unless it was directed at himself, of course. But she supposed most were not as they seemed.

  “She’s beautiful,” said Larkyra.

  “Yes,” agreed Darius. “She was.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, how did she . . .”

  “She got sick.”

  “And . . . your father?”

  “I was told he died doing what he loved. He was a horse enthusiast,” he explained. “It was a riding accident.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Silence mixed with the muffled pattering of the constant storm outside.

  “I did not know him,” admitted Darius eventually. “My father. I was barely three when he was sent to the Fade. And my mother . . . she passed a long time ago. When I was twelve. But I find myself still seeking her presence at times.”

  Larkyra chanced a glance at the lord, a bit taken aback by his openness. She had feared what had developed between them outside the castle would truly have been forgotten by him, but it stirred a gentle warmth through her that he remained candid. Perhaps Darius now realized both held secrets about the other. And this is how a seed of trust blooms, thought Larkyra.

  “I never met my mother,” Larkyra found herself saying. “She died right after giving birth to me.”

  She could feel Darius’s eyes on her, but she did not meet them.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Larkyra merely shrugged as she studied the woman before them, surprised to find herself wondering if the duchess and her mother would have gotten along. Even knowing so little of Johanna, she believed they would.

  “Look at the pair of us.” She smiled faintly at Darius. “Both motherless and walking about a castle in the middle of the night.”

  Darius laughed softly, the sound full of warmth.

  He should laugh more, Larkyra thought.

  “Yes, how pitiful we are.” He looked back at the painting.

  “Are there others you visit?”

  “Others?”

  “Paintings of the duchess. Just in case I find myself wandering about when I should be sleeping and am in need of some company.”

  Or don’t want to ru
n into anyone again by surprise, she finished silently.

  “There is only one other,” he explained with a frown. “But it is also in the duke’s wing. I believe he keeps it in his chambers.”

  Larkyra blinked. She had not taken the time to properly study the art while in his rooms.

  “All paintings of your mother are in the south wing?”

  A nod. “I only come when he’s gone. The duke . . . likes his privacy.”

  Larkyra furrowed her brow. How horrible for a child not to be able to look upon his mother whenever he wanted. Her own mother’s portraits hung all about their home in Jabari, for any of them to see whenever they wished.

  Had the duke done this on purpose? Moved these paintings here just for his use, just as he’d done with the duchess’s belongings? Or was he simply hoarding more valuables, like he hoarded Lachlan’s wealth?

  And if he did care for Josephine, had she loved him in return?

  “What happened to your hand?” asked Darius, staring down at her half-missing finger.

  Sticks! Larkyra had forgotten she wasn’t wearing gloves. Whipping her hands behind her back, she felt her cheeks grow crimson. “I, uh, it’s nothing.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend—”

  “No. No. You didn’t. It’s just that . . . most would find it unpleasant to look at.”

  Darius watched her closely, no doubt noticing her discomfort. “I am not most.”

  Larkyra bit her lower lip, weighing her options, but eventually she took a deep breath and revealed her finger. He’d already seen it anyway.

  “A silly accident,” she explained. “But I don’t mind it much. I pen with my right and have learned to adapt my grip for other things like embroidery, cutting food . . .” Larkyra trailed off as Darius picked up her hand, studying it.

  “It happened recently.”

  She pulled away, her stomach flipping over along with her magic as their skin touched for the first time, no gloves as barriers, and . . . by the lost gods, how nice it felt.

  Darius blinked. “I beg your pardon,” he said, looking contrite. “I didn’t mean to be so direct. I just hadn’t realized you were missing . . . that is, I hadn’t known . . . not even when we danced—sorry.” He shook his head. “I think not sleeping has finally caught up with me. My thoughts are muddled.”

  “I understand.” She forced a gentle smile. “I always wear gloves in public and have padded the part that’s missing.”

  He nodded, taking in her words.

  “Does it bother you?” asked Larkyra.

  “Why would it?”

  “It’s not often you come across a lady with wounds.”

  Darius’s green eyes were intense in the candlelight. “I am not one to judge others for their scars or misfortunes.”

  His words hit Larkyra like a strange echo, her own beliefs repeated back. Her magic stirred, more than pleased. “You are right,” she said. “You are not like most.”

  Darius held her stare, the warm light flickering across his pale complexion, catching the strands of his red hair and turning it copper. And then he shifted, glancing away as he asked, “Did it hurt?”

  “I’m surprised I didn’t pass out.”

  “You are brave.”

  She snorted a laugh. “Please, I beg you, repeat that sentiment to Niya the next time you see her. We have a bet to settle on the matter.”

  “I’ll see that I remember.”

  “I’ll be sure to remind you if you don’t.”

  They remained standing there, smiling at one another as a quiet comfort enveloped the dim hallway, before a loud gust of wind rattled a nearby window, breaking the spell.

  “I’d better get to bed,” she began, “or I’ll surely be a terror when Clara comes to wake me.”

  “Yes,” agreed Darius. “Let me escort you—”

  “Oh no, I should go alone. If we were found together this time of night, each in our underthings, I fear the staff would have entirely too much fun spinning a torrid story, and no doubt your stepfather would find out and—”

  “Quite right.” Darius cut her off, a quick panic in his eyes. “The duke cannot know I was here.”

  “Nor I,” she added defensively. In society’s eyes, she would be the one ruined, not him. Men always made it out of their messes, while women were left to mop them up.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’d also appreciate you not mentioning anything to your stepfather about . . .” Larkyra raised her left hand. “Like I said, I usually keep gloves on. Not that I’ll keep it from him, of course,” she added quickly, seeing Darius’s narrowed eyes. “I would just like to get to know him better before.”

  “If you truly wish to marry the duke,” said Darius, a sudden coolness in his voice, “I would suggest you wait until after the wedding to share your truth.”

  Larkyra blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Let’s just say my stepfather is not a man wont to collect scarred things. He’s more in the business of scarring them.”

  Larkyra straightened. “I—”

  “Take my candle.” Darius cut off her response, shoving the flickering flame into her hand. “I know these halls well and can find my way back in the dark.”

  “Have I upset you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You seem upset.”

  “I’m tired,” he said, and indeed, he suddenly appeared very tired. “It seems we’ve shared another moment that must be forgotten.”

  “Perhaps not forgotten but kept between friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “Yes. I’d like to be your friend, Darius.”

  Her words sent his gaze up to the woman who hung, frozen in paint and color, beside them.

  “Darius?”

  He looked back at Larkyra, his eyes refocusing. “You may sleep well knowing I won’t share your secrets.”

  “Nor I yours,” she assured.

  He nodded. “Good night, Larkyra.”

  She hesitated before responding in kind. “Good night.”

  After making her way down the hall, her candle flame fluttering, stretching to illuminate her steps, Larkyra stopped at the far corner and glanced back. But she could no longer make out Darius’s form in the inky corridor, couldn’t tell if he had remained beside his mother.

  He had given her his light and remained in the dark.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The moon was a knife-thin slice of white in the night sky as Darius silently maneuvered the small boat under a hanging canopy of branches. The rain had let up again, as it always did with Hayzar’s departures, allowing the buzz of insects to awaken, serenading the lake as its waters lapped back and forth along the bank of the mainland. The brown leather mask Darius wore was hot against his skin, but it was a welcome embrace against the chilled air.

  Two days had passed since Larkyra had come upon him in his stepfather’s wing, and in that time, he’d managed to avoid her completely.

  I’d like to be your friend, Darius.

  Her words floated around him again, along with his memory of her. She had looked like one of the lost gods returned, softly coming into focus as she’d walked down the shadowed hall, traces of her thin nightgown floating under her robe and her white hair shining in the candlelight. Even then, he’d felt her vibration of energy, of sun-soaked life, that contrasted with her dark surroundings. He had thought he might have dreamed her up, until she’d spoken again.

  Darius had hated how quickly his heart had beaten in that moment, seeing her there. How it had turned to an aching twist when she’d said his name, the sound like a soft song from her lips.

  I’d like to be your friend, Darius.

  What had he been thinking, confiding in her about his parents, his mother?

  But then he thought about her finger and how much Larkyra had revealed in turn. They had more in common than he would like to admit. Both motherless, with scars hidden beneath their fine clothes. He had wanted to pull
up his shirtsleeves then, erase her blush of embarrassment by showing that she was not alone in her painful secrets.

  And meanwhile, Larkyra, the spoiled, shallow girl . . . well, that version of her was quickly falling to ash at his feet.

  Which was dangerous.

  It was leading to other feelings he dared not explore.

  The only way he could survive this ridiculous courtship between her and his stepfather was to be around as little as possible. Once they married, if they did, there would be more than enough to take him from the island. Things far more important than his own desires or suffering.

  But by the Obasi Sea, Larkyra as his stepmother? Insanity.

  After gliding soundlessly into Imell’s harbor, Darius knotted his boat to his usual peg, which was bolted into the back of a shop standing just at the lake’s rocky edge. With a low grunt, he lifted the heavy sack onto his shoulder. The parcels inside thudded and clanked as he climbed the ladder attached to the small dock. It was at the end of an alley nestled between two buildings. This late at night Imell was subdued, its streets empty, save for a few stray dogs and a beggar sleeping by empty fishing crates. Digging into his satchel, Darius placed a wrapped slice of bread by the rag-wrapped man before following the darker shadows to his destination.

  He did his best to keep out of the flickering lamps that lit the cobbled streets. The lake was visible from the square, where all merchant booths were locked until the morrow; the few items they’d managed to obtain would remain another day unsold, as travelers with heavy purses were growing rarer by the weeks.

  After cutting through the market, Darius stepped back into the open, passing through the harbor, where the boats along the docks swayed rhythmically, their sails lowered and tied down like children put to bed.

  A few men and women stood watch over the pier, smoking pipes that flashed orange in the night as they huddled together, low voices murmuring over a bin of dying coals. If any saw him, they did not make it known, for he might appear a bandit in the night, with his mask and black hooded cloak pulled up, but his presence here was a familiar one. He made his way toward a small ship at the end of the farthest dock; the warped wooden slats groaned beneath his boots. An older woman sat by the plank leading to the boat. She watched him approach, her form lost in a thick wrapping of threadbare coats. They nodded at one another, no words needed, as he made his way aboard. The ship appeared abandoned, much of it in disrepair, the rigging of the mast frayed, the mainsail down as if in the midst of mending, and Darius gritted his teeth against the frustration that rose in his throat at the sight.