“That is enough.” The duke’s voice rang through the room.
Darius’s hand shook as it paused, mere inches from his mouth. A bead of sweat ran down his brow, and that was when she saw it, the glimmer of lucidity in his helpless gaze. The part of Darius that could feel every inch of this suffering.
The fire inside her burned higher.
What is this nightmare I’ve walked into? Larkyra’s grip tightened. How long had Darius been living it?
She had witnessed many dark things growing up in the Thief Kingdom. Men murdered, skin torn from flesh, lives shattered, but never cruelty to someone so undeserving. The Thief King had his own punishment for those who preyed on the innocent, and no one who witnessed the screams of the sinners would dare try their luck at such a game.
“Oh, you poor boy,” said the duke as he slouched, tired, in his chair, his magic receding from the walls, the floors, the fire. With its departure it was as if the very air gasped in relief, the servants along the walls slumping, free of the duke’s will. Larkyra, her heart in her throat, watched Darius blink back to consciousness with the rest of them.
He dropped the spoon with a clatter, as if it were on fire. His breaths rasped shallowly as he ran a hand over his swollen features, realizing what he must have done, his skin growing redder with each desperate pull of air.
“You really are allergic.” The duke raised a shocked brow. “You should never have eaten so much. Why don’t you leave us and get yourself cleaned up? Hmm?”
Darius’s chair scraped across the floor as he pushed himself up. He swayed slightly before placing a steadying hand on the table, and Larkyra half rose, wanting to help.
Darius’s swollen gaze swung to meet hers, a silent plea to return to her seat.
Don’t, his eyes said. Forget I exist.
The same impossible demand she gave to the magic that swam in her gut.
Larkyra swallowed hard, forcing down down down the gifts expanding in her throat as she managed to return to her seat. When she finally felt she could speak without damage, she turned to the duke and asked, “What happened to him? He looks dreadful.”
She made sure to play the fool he wanted them all to remain.
“He really does, doesn’t he? But do not worry yourself.” Hayzar waved a hand. “He’ll be fine.”
Larkyra glanced in Darius’s direction, but his chair was now empty, the dining room door beyond slowly closing. Relief washed through her at his escape, though it was quickly replaced with dread.
She was now alone with a lunatic.
And not the kind of lunatic found in the Thief Kingdom. Those were pleasant. Those she could distract with something sweet, something shiny, or make a puppet with her powers. Here she was supposed to be without. And without her magic, well, it was like living as half a person. It was her Lierenfast all over again, but worse, for she couldn’t even show off her talents with her blades.
At least, not yet.
Her gaze moved to the closed door once more, to Darius’s vacated seat. Would he be all right? Did he have medicine to calm the allergy?
Everything in her screamed that she should dash from the room to find out.
“No need for my stepson’s carelessness to ruin the rest of our dinner.” The duke snapped his fingers, prompting the servants to clear their plates and bring out the second course.
By the lost gods, she thought, staring down at the slice of meat that was placed before her. How could I possibly eat now?
“So, my dearest.” The duke cut into his dinner, visibly tired, but still a man wholly charmed and charming. Well, besides the black oil still spilling from his every pore. “Tell me more about what you did while I was gone.”
Larkyra blinked.
She wanted to yell, You just tortured your stepson, in front of a room full of people.
With soup.
But of course she didn’t say any of this. She was a Bassette, after all. Adaptable, a survivor, and cleverer than the smug bastard who sat before her. There were too many answers left to unearth, bank vaults to be discovered, lands to free. A long game, she reminded herself again and again and again. This was a long game that would have a satisfying end.
So while a young lord lay shaking in pain somewhere in the castle, gasping for each breath, Larkyra remained with the duke, chatting and smiling and ensuring she ate every last bite.
While imagining every one of Hayzar’s being his last.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Forget I exist.
Darius’s pain-stricken gaze swam before Larkyra, only strengthening her strides through the midnight rainstorm that raged in an angry whip of wind and lightning across the walkway of the west wing of the castle. She remained bone dry, however, as she sang herself into a protective bubble of soundless invisibility. Her song spoke of summers in fields; the hum of her voice was like the sun, high and warm. She pushed her magic out, a warm caress along her skin, just as the gale hitting up against it tried to push in, water running down the surface of the shield of air surrounding her. After the scene at dinner, her father would surely understand that the time for her powers to remain completely tied down was up. The fast was over.
She wasn’t sure which door would be his, but she let her senses guide her forward as she entered the wing. She passed a sparsely decorated receiving room, a small personal library, and a nursery covered in white sheets. There would be other nights for snooping. Now was meant for something more important.
Walking on, Larkyra finally made her way to a set of double doors that sat closed at the end of the hall. A warm orange glow seeped out the bottom. He’s in here, she thought. Though Darius was without gifts, Larkyra was starting to recognize his personal energy; it called to her, heated her skin, as though he indeed held magic.
As she pressed a hand to the hard wood, the door creaked ajar. Larkyra’s song died on her lips as her heart continued to race. Tentatively she walked in.
His clove scent was stronger in his rooms, and it distracted her for a moment.
“Darius?” she called gently.
It might have been improper for her to be in his chambers, but propriety no longer mattered to Larkyra. She wanted to make sure he was okay and, lost gods willing, alive!
Her gaze ran over the massive room and its chairs and tables. The balcony doors were thrown open, letting in the heavy wind, which fought with a blazing fireplace along a far wall. Then her eyes stopped at a bed in the center and the form that lay there.
Her breath stuttered as she ran to Darius’s side, her heartbeat hitting up against her magic in relief, seeing he was asleep, breathing.
Quickly she drew up a new song, a lullaby that swept his mind deeper into slumber. It wasn’t until then that she dared to relax, and with a commanding note and flick of her wrist, Larkyra sent the balcony door whooshing closed, the bolt locking. The space seemed to sag in relief, the bedroom now soft and warm.
Still, the sight before her was far from pleasant, and an angry tightness squeezed along her throat as she took in the lord’s grotesque splotches and swollen skin. They were not as bad as at dinner, but Darius was tangled up in his sheets, as though he still fought his monster even in sleep. Larkyra drew closer. She had not had an exact plan when she had originally made her way here, but now, seeing Darius, finding him unconscious, she knew what she had to do.
Larkyra inhaled deeply before pushing out a song that was one her father used to sing to her and her sisters, one he said was their mother’s favorite. It had always brought Larkyra comfort in the night, and as she sat on the edge of Darius’s bed, she laid the notes like a warm poultice over the lord.
Look to the stars, my child,
That dance on high,
For that is where I’ll be waiting
My distance is an illusion, my love,
My light forever us embracing
Let the night caress over your eyes, my dear,
Shutting out your worries and woes
Without the dark, my
spark,
I could not illuminate
My love that overflows
Feel the gentle touch of my voice
In the midnight winds all around you
It is how we shall whisper our secrets, my flower,
Each sand fall of separation we push through
So look to the stars again, my love,
And see how happy they dance in the sky
Take comfort knowing
Each sparkle
Is me humming this lullaby
The magic poured from her mouth, twisting her song into a spell as it tingled along her tongue, against her lips, and as the energy in her blood rushed forward, Larkyra sent soft honey-yellow tendrils of her voice to swim into Darius’s ears and over his eyes.
She danced her fingers through her powers, directing her magic to lightly brush Darius’s forehead, over his cheek, down his neck, to each and every red marking that spoke of his torment. She broke her voice into two, a high note and a low, harmony woven, stitching, watching all the places her song touched return to smooth, clear skin. Larkyra’s mind buzzed with her lyrics, euphoric with the healing energy pouring from her, her heartbeat a racehorse between her ears as she tried to keep her intentions steady, keep her focus off the warm, strong man beside her and on the task at hand. Injuries, fresh ones, Larkyra could fix. Healing was one of the first true spells Achak had ever taught her.
It called for more strength and control than when she performed, but she could do it. She would for him.
When Larkyra reached the last exposed rash, her eyes traveled down, to the rest of his hives, stretching underneath his shirt. Her song fell quiet. Dare she move lower?
Darius moaned lightly, his face turning, searching as if already missing her voice, and her own skin danced with gooseflesh at the sound.
She stared at the buttons on Darius’s shirt for a long while, at the lithe muscles of his chest apparent through its worn material. I’ll have to remove this if I’m to finish the job properly, she thought. There are surely more hives underneath. A moment later, Larkyra found herself popping open every last fastening.
His shirt fell open, and Larkyra’s hand flew to cover her mouth. For there, marking the lord’s beautiful pale skin and corded muscles, were dozens of scarred-over slashes. Some were small nicks, others large, ugly gashes or crosshatches. She could tell they had been made by a variety of instruments. Her gaze ran along four parallel lines—a fork’s tip.
Her mind returned to Hayzar at dinner, the way he caressed the knife beside his plate.
Larkyra’s stomach twisted.
Would he dare?
If she hadn’t seen the events with the soup, she’d be doubtful, but—
Another image swam before her—Darius rowing their boat, the scar creeping along his forearm—and without hesitation, she pulled one of his arms, then the other, completely free of his shirt.
His body rolled back, still unconscious, as she held in a gasp.
Here it was even worse. She was hard-pressed to find any part of his arms or biceps not covered in markings. And then there, on the top of his right forearm, the one she had seen in the boat, appearing the deepest and the oldest. Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her vision. Her breath fogged, and she realized the lighting in the room had dulled, cooled. Her magic had twisted into a sad, bleak cloud, just like the raging storm outside.
Nothing was happy in this place.
A blaze of anger rose in Larkyra’s gut. That dangerous sensation, her magic whispering of sweet revenge, reminding her she had the power to bend her spells of light into something dark.
Huuuuurt, it whispered. Hurt like they hurt. Take like they take.
A twisted part of her imagined giving in, becoming the creature she knew she could be—explosive. How satisfying it would be to put Hayzar—the man who evidently enjoyed inflicting pain—on the carving block. The Thief King would certainly understand, wouldn’t he? For if this abuse happened there, retribution would be swift. And Larkyra, no doubt, would be the one gifted the chance to execute it.
Darius shifted on the bed again, and Larkyra dashed away her dark dream, snuffing out the sickly-sweet feeling of revenge. Steady, she thought, steady heart, steady head. As she repeated the words, a new memory of her past swam forward: the first time she’d ever healed.
“The same energy you use to break and shatter can also mend, my child,” explained Achak as Larkyra and her sisters sat in one of their smaller, hidden libraries in their Jabari home. It was filled with old tomes and scrolls, the space smelling of incense, magic, and secrets, and was used as a classroom when Achak came to teach. “You can heal what you wound.”
“Truly?” Larkyra sat up, hope welling in her chest.
She was only a girl of nine but already so tired of the damage she left in her wake.
“We can show you now,” the brother said, his dress swirling as he moved. “Will one of you act as my assistant today?” he asked Arabessa and Niya.
Her sisters stiffened.
“No,” said Larkyra quickly. “Never mind.”
Nothing good came when they were asked to help Larkyra with her magic.
“I will.” Arabessa stood, going to Achak’s side.
“Ara—”
“Lark, it must be done eventually.” Her eldest sister cut her off, blue eyes both hard and soft, full of stubborn love. “We cannot have you believing you are a beast forever. Even snakes shed their skin.”
“And remain snakes,” pointed out Larkyra.
“Yes, but they grow,” said Arabessa. “And so must you.”
Larkyra remained quiet as Achak arranged Arabessa to sit in a chair facing her. Picking up a blade from a row lining a wall, they instructed Arabessa to reveal her thigh.
The air in the room seemed to tighten as Arabessa did as she was told, her shoulders stiffening.
“This will hurt,” said Achak. “But it will be quick.”
With a whoosh, they sliced through the pale skin right above her knee.
Arabessa gripped the arms of her chair, biting back what surely would have been a scream. Her eyes began to water.
“Why must we do it like this?” Larkyra jumped from her seat, the anguish in her voice tearing through the air, lengthening Arabessa’s cut, pushing it deeper into her skin. Crimson blood pooled down her eldest sister’s leg.
“Argh!” Arabessa doubled over.
“Steady yourself,” Achak reminded Larkyra. “Steady.”
Larkyra’s breaths were coming out in gasps, and the room was spinning. Niya appeared at her side, laying a gentle touch to her shoulder. She spoke no words, but her presence said everything.
Her sisters were always there for her.
The room grew still again.
“Do you feel your anger and frustration?” asked Achak. “You must change it to peace, to calm.”
But how? Larkyra wanted to scream, though she dared not utter a sound.
“Look at who is wounded in front of you,” continued Achak. “It is Arabessa. Your sister. She sits here bleeding because she loves you, because she believes in you. Feel her love and open your own. Find your love for her. For your family. Find light, Larkyra. Let it fill your stomach, your arms and legs. Let it burn away your anger and doubt. That’s it. Breathe easier.”
Larkyra met her eldest sister’s eyes, finding determination and assurance in their blue depths. I believe in you.
Her rapid heartbeat seemed to slow at the connection, her chest expanding, no longer strung tight but fluttering free as she opened her thoughts to Niya beside her, a calming force. And all the while, Arabessa sacrificed her flesh so she could chase away her demon. Hope, Larkyra’s magic whispered. Love.
“Find your will to fix her,” instructed Achak. “Remove her hurt with your magic. It is possible. Your anger tears open, but your love stitches. Pull your sister together again. Sing your love to her.”
The notes started softly at first, just a hum, but they were warm and soft and
lovely as they flowed from Larkyra’s throat. They held no words, only a feeling—admiration, appreciation, affection, determination.
Larkyra concentrated on the gushing wound on Arabessa’s thigh as she sang, the yellow threads of her magic dancing and curling through the air to caress the cut. Her sister exhaled a breath of relief as the skin came back together. For an instant, the seam shone bright white, like the pure will and excitement that had filled Larkyra’s heart.
Everything in the room hung quiet as her song ended. Arabessa ran a finger down the red scar in the middle of her thigh—all that remained of the cut.
“We can work on removing scars later,” said Achak, but none of the girls heard them, for Arabessa and Niya had already wrapped Larkyra in an embrace, each of them crying, but this time they were tears of joy. This marked the beginning. As Arabessa had said, Larkyra was growing.
Larkyra blinked and found herself back in Darius’s chamber, his sleeping form and scarred skin spread before her.
How young did it start? she wondered darkly. And why? Had no one tried to intervene? Had Darius? Could he? How was he able to hold compassion for his people? For anyone—especially a street rat of a girl in Jabari—when he’d suffered so?
Even as all these questions raced inside Larkyra, she knew the answers didn’t matter. For what she would do next might arouse suspicion, but in this moment she hardly cared.
She would mend him as she had learned to.
It might not be her place, but her guilt for being useless at dinner was too great. Her doing nothing as he almost died felt unforgivable. This was how she would make it up to him. Protect, her magic purred in her veins.
Yes, agreed Larkyra. I must.
Breathing in deeply, Larkyra reached for the love that would always make light in the gloom—the love for her family—and called up her calm song once more.
The notes flew from her mouth, this time laced with a promise. I will stop your nightmares, she vowed. For I will be the final storm to rock this keep.
As Larkyra wove her magic to fill the room again, to light it in new, warmer hues, she kept her gaze on the sleeping lord, fully taking in the evidence of his torment, of being forced to do unspeakable things to himself.
Song of the Forever Rains Page 20
