Song of the Forever Rains

by Mellow, E. J.

  With a sure hand, she pulled forth more of her power, more of her soul, from her blood than she had ever given to erase a past none like this man should have suffered. She would need all her energy for this. As she sang her spell, her head felt light, unattached. The notes curled around one another, mimicking the texture of old skin mending itself, flattening. They wove and stitched and split into three tendrils of sounds, which she brushed over every single one of his scars. Each filled with light before fading from his body. Yet some were so severe, so old and deep, that she was only able to reduce them to shallow, discolored lines, marks still marking his suffering.

  When she was done, Larkyra sat back and heaved a deep sigh, head pounding, as her voice slipped silent. Her bones felt weary, an odd sensation for someone as powerful as she. Even her throat was a tinge sore. But that was nothing compared to what the man before her had been through.

  May this bring you a new peace, she thought, brushing away a loose lock of his red hair.

  Larkyra sat there for a long while, her joints aching from her spell, as she watched Darius sleep, before she forced herself to sing one last song, a quiet melody of her home.

  Golden sparks amid the summer grass,

  Beneath the stalks’ sway and gentle touch

  Of winds

  The sun lies beside you,

  Above you, and around you,

  Absolving all your sins

  Rest easy now, my gentle soul:

  The lost gods are all-forgiving

  They’ve left us this forever jewel,

  The remaining pulse of warmth

  worth living

  So search no deeper than your sleep

  To bring you what you seek

  The light will always rest high for you,

  Bringing strength to moments felt weak

  Her voice quieted like the breeze through the wheat fields outside Jabari. Ignoring the protests from her muscles, Larkyra stood.

  She took one last glance at the sleeping lord, his once-disfigured skin now smooth.

  Then, just as she had floated into his wing, a ghost wrapped in a bubble of invisible song, she floated out. The echoing click of Darius’s bedchamber door was the only evidence of the girl who wished to mend a broken past and who was determined to forge a whole new future.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Darius woke as if floating to the surface of a still, warm lake, lightly and with an unfamiliar calm. He could only remember experiencing such a sensation when Lachlan had been colored in sunshine and blue skies, when his parents had both been alive. It was a past that felt like a forgotten dream, a different child’s memory. Darius struggled to keep the sensation alive as his eyes focused on his bedroom windows, on the flash of lightning beyond and the heavy splatters of rain against the glass. Sometimes the storms were so bad that night and day were one, morning just as dark as midnight. The only way to tell the passing of time was the sandglass beside Darius’s bed—just past dawn.

  He rolled over with a moan, wanting to burrow deeper into his sheets, yet for the first time in a long time, Darius didn’t feel tired. He actually felt quite good: rested, his muscles eased of any ache or pain.

  With that realization, he bolted upright.

  Something was wrong. Pain was a constant in his life, and he had the strong feeling that he’d been in a great amount of it last night.

  As he peered around his room, at the dying coals in the fireplace, his attention ran over a small brown bottle tipped over on the rug—medicine. At the sight, his mind flew back to last night’s events: meeting Larkyra at her rooms, her refreshing beauty and quick wit filling his chest with warmth in the same instant it grew heavy to be escorting her to dinner with his stepfather.

  His stepfather . . .

  Here was where his thoughts skipped, his memories going from there to here—a gap.

  A chill ran up Darius’s spine as he begged his mind to piece together what he could not find.

  Dinner. What happened at dinner?

  The more Darius tried to resurrect the evening, the further away his memories swam. The chill inside him twisted into a cold sweat, for ink splotches across his memory occurred only after one thing.

  No, Darius thought. Please, not that. He squeezed his eyes shut, afraid to look at what would undoubtedly be staining his sheets.

  His blood.

  But as the perpetual rain beat against the glass, and still no suffering came, Darius gathered the courage to glance down.

  Nothing.

  There was nothing.

  And it wasn’t merely that no fresh wounds could be found, but none of his old ones were there either.

  Panic shot from Darius’s chest, swirling like a tornado in his mind as he jumped from his bed. What trick is this?

  He strode to his looking glass and ran shaky hands across his once-raked-over skin, peering at his reflection. Though he never could remember exactly how he had gotten them, his chest, stomach, and arms had all been peppered with a decade’s worth of carved marks, but they were now barren, smooth, save for a handful of red lines and welts—injuries too deep to ever truly disappear.

  Darius fell to his knees before his mirror, his body trembling as he traced those remaining lines.

  By the lost gods . . .

  Was he still asleep? Still dreaming of the sun and blue sky? Or could this be real?

  It felt real.

  But what did this mean? What of his memories of waking with cuts and wounds along his skin? The pain . . . the pain always grounded him in reality.

  Desperately Darius searched his right forearm, where he knew the first scar he’d ever suffered lived. He sat back on his heels, a sick relief filling him to find it still there. He felt over the jagged line.

  It’s still here. It’s still here. It was real.

  But what of his other scars?

  He felt queasy studying his new body in the glass.

  This was it. He truly must be going mad.

  A harsh gust of wind blew against Darius’s windows, rattling him back to the present. It howled around the keep, continuing the haunting melody of Castle Island. Another song slipped into his memory, a different tune from a different voice. A voice that had seemed to cling to him from the moment she’d opened her lips in the Thief Kingdom—the songbird of the Mousai.

  Darius frowned.

  How could that be?

  Nothing made sense.

  “My lord?”

  A knock at his door had Darius rushing to stand, gathering his discarded shirt from his bed.

  “My lord?” asked Boland again as he entered Darius’s chambers, his attention going to where Darius quickly fastened his buttons over his chest. “I apologize if I interrupted anything.” His gaze roamed over Darius’s room. “I came for your daily wake-up and to help you dress.”

  “Thank you, Boland,” said Darius, hiding his shaking hands by keeping them busy with tucking in his shirt. “But I think I can manage on my own this morning.”

  If anyone were to notice his missing scars, it would be his valet. Even though he had been elevated to head butler many years ago, Boland had been adamant about remaining Darius’s valet as well, insisting no other servant would be able to do the job properly. Darius believed it had more to do with the secret they both shared but never directly spoke of, not even when the wounds had first begun to appear and scar over.

  “You must be more careful,” Boland had said to a younger Darius, as he’d finished dressing a fresh wound on his stomach before gently helping him into a shirt and coat.

  “How can I be more careful,” Darius had replied bitterly, “if I can’t even remember how I get them? I’m obviously mad and should be locked below in our holding cells.”

  “No,” the older man had said softly. “You are good and healthy and have a bright future. We will just take care of this . . . situation if it ever happens again. You and I, together. Do you understand, my lord?” He’d met Darius’s gaze. “It is my duty to ensure you are
cared for. I will always be here to help.”

  Darius had been slightly mollified then, taking comfort in the older man’s words and gentle concern, given that his stepfather had made it perfectly clear he cared little about the matter. And though Darius could not piece together precisely how, the reality had eventually crept in that Hayzar had a major part to play in his injuries. While his memory was always blank on the specifics, retaining only fleeting, agonizing flashes, he knew with a foggy yet unwavering certainty that, during every episode, his stepfather had been nearby.

  There was never any true consistency in it all. Months would go by without a scratch until, suddenly, he would wake up in some odd corner of the castle or his rooms with fresh cuts on his skin. He had felt himself growing quite crazed, retreating into a ball of fear and uncertainty, until he’d found himself living beyond the pain. He’d forced himself to keep waking, moving through life despite his cuts, new or old, and the ever-present threat of waking up with more. His people’s well-being had become his obsession. He needed to find a way to make Lachlan thrive again. This was where he placed his remaining drive that had nowhere to go, and it kept his thoughts steady and true. His homeland and his people brought him comfort, for when he was amid the wild land and surrounding lakes, he did not black out in pain. He always found sanctuary outside the walls of the castle, yet he knew that to help Lachlan he had to remain within the keep. So the painful fog had become his new normal. And apparently, it had for Boland as well.

  Like any good Lachlan servant, trained in the art of silence and discretion, Boland had remained mute on the subject as the years had stretched on. And Darius had stopped asking questions about it all. Lies, he thought bitterly, my life is constructed on lies. Though Darius had learned many years ago that some lies were necessary, some questions safest left unasked, especially when a dark, twisted part of him felt he deserved his wounds. For what use was a son who could not protect his mother from getting sick? Or a man who could not protect his home?

  “My lord.” Boland brought his attention back to the room. “Are you well?”

  “Pardon?” Darius blinked at the butler as he stood by a now-blazing fire. A tray of coffee and jellied toast, his preferred breakfast, sat on a low table.

  “I asked if you are well.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You hadn’t responded to my earlier question.”

  “Oh? I must still be waking.”

  “Yes.” Boland gave him a sidelong glance as he poured out a cup, the strong, rich aroma of the coffee filling the room. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Boland waited as Darius sipped, the warmth rushing down his throat.

  “What?” asked Darius.

  “My earlier question, my lord.”

  “Yes, yes. Please repeat whatever seems to be of such importance.”

  “Dressing you, my lord. Are you sure you do not need my assistance?”

  “Yes.” Darius refilled his cup. “I am quite sure.”

  “I’ll do that—”

  “By the lost gods, Boland. I am quite capable of enjoying my own breakfast without being spoon-fed.”

  The old man stiffened. “Of course, my lord.”

  Darius sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I seem to not be myself this morning. I think I still need a bit of time to wake.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Thank you for bringing breakfast.”

  “My pleasure, sir. Is there anything else you need, sir, before I take leave?”

  “No. I can handle things from here.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Boland bowed low, eyes landing on a bottle lying on the rug near his feet.

  Darius’s gaze followed. “Do you know why I would need my allergy medicine?”

  The butler’s attention rose to meet Darius’s. “I could not say, my lord.”

  “It’s empty. Did I get sick last night?”

  The butler never asked why Darius couldn’t remember such things himself.

  The smallest frown to Boland’s lips. “I was not present during dinner, sir. The stable master needed his inventory double-checked. But I could ask the staff—”

  Darius waved a hand, slouching into one of the armchairs by the fire. That familiar fatigue settled in once more. “That won’t be necessary. Just have it refilled, please.”

  “Of course.” The man slipped the bottle inside his coat pocket before heading to the door.

  “Oh, and Boland,” Darius called out, halting the old man’s retreat. “Do you know what Lady Larkyra has planned this morning?”

  “Lady Larkyra?” repeated Boland.

  “Yes, the only lady we have in attendance.”

  “I believe Ms. Clara said she and the lady would be taking a walk after breakfast, but she should be in her rooms presently. She seems to enjoy sleeping in.”

  He said “sleeping in” as if it were a putrid disease.

  “Thank you, Boland. That will be all.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The butler made for the door but paused at the threshold. “Sir, if I may give some advice?”

  Darius’s brows crept up in surprise. “Of course.”

  “I would spend more time outdoors over the next weeks, if possible. Preferably on the mainland.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The fresh air is good for one’s health, my lord.”

  “Are you saying I look unhealthy, Boland?”

  “Of course not, sir. I just think there are better things to entertain a young man out there than in here.”

  At that moment, a blinding crack of lightning flashed outside.

  Both men glanced in its direction.

  “And a lot more that could get me killed,” replied Darius dryly.

  “Perhaps . . .” The butler placed a hand over his coat pocket, where the empty medicine bottle peeked out. “Or perhaps not.”

  Darius frowned as his servant exited his rooms, returning him to the state in which he always found himself—alone.

  Despite the butler’s advice to spend the day outside in a raging storm, Darius had to force himself not to run to the north wing. His body remained a wonder of confusion as he quickly dressed, almost laughing at the irony of finding himself hiding his smooth skin just as desperately as he’d hidden all the scars that had once sliced across every inch.

  Nothing could explain the phenomenon of waking almost completely healed—well, at least in flesh. The injury those marks had made upon his mind, the years of confusion and pain they’d brought, were set too deep to be gone after a single peaceful sleep.

  His fear of his mind finally slipping was stronger than ever, but as he had done in the past, Darius pushed the thought away, his resolve to stay steady and sane for his people ever greater.

  Yet Darius’s memory still raced for answers regarding last night, tripping over one important detail.

  Lady Larkyra.

  If he had made it out of dinner without apparent injury, what did that mean for Larkyra?

  The duke’s unpredictability was maddening.

  Hayzar might have been wicked, but was he such a cruel fool that he would inflict his darker side on his intended before they were married? Before her dowry was safely in his hands?

  Panic spurred him toward her rooms.

  When he reached the third floor, Darius’s quick footsteps remained quiet across the rugs that lined the empty hall. He slowed as he reached the end; a soft melody floated out from the last door.

  It was only a hum of notes, but the sound stirred a warm vibration in his chest, one that pulled him across the threshold despite the impropriety of entering unannounced.

  Lady Larkyra’s chamber was one of the larger guest rooms, with high ceilings and lush carpeting. While most of the castle felt cold and dark, these quarters retained a bit of warmth, a coziness that Darius had no doubt came from the current occupant. A giant four-poster bed sat in the middle, perfectly made with a blue flora
l quilt, embroidered with a pattern of white daisies. Darius couldn’t remember ever seeing such a cheery design in the castle, and he wondered if this was a little piece of Larkyra’s home she’d packed for her stay.

  The thought made his heart heavy. He had all but forgotten how alone she must feel here, in a land so different from her own, with no family or friends.

  Alone.

  How similar they both were.

  As his eyes traveled over the writing desk, chairs, couch, and vanity, he was surprised to find the space empty, though the melody continued. That was, until he noticed that the balcony doors were cracked open. He moved toward them, and the song grew louder. He peeked out to see the form of a woman half-reclined on a sofa, a tray of sweets and tea by her side.

  Darius held his breath.

  Larkyra was nothing less than a goddess.

  A safe goddess with no apparent injuries.

  Her blue dress trickled like water, matching the unbound white hair that flowed below her waist, no corset or puffed skirts to hide her lithe figure, her feet tucked beneath her.

  Darius felt stuck in place, not wanting to disturb this peaceful scene, one that could not stop his heart more, for there, balanced on the tip of her extended finger, was a small orange-and-yellow bird. It chirped a pretty melody as if in response to the hum of Larkyra’s voice, and she smiled, parting her lips to sing a note so similar to the creature’s that Darius had to watch the exchange happen twice more before believing it.

  With a flutter, two more yellow birds landed on the balcony’s railing. They shook their feathers free of rain before flying to land on Larkyra’s lap.

  Who is this woman? Darius found himself wondering once again. He had told her he still believed in magic, and looking at her, it was easy to see why. She glowed with life and spirit and good.

  “It is a trick one of my father’s old friends taught me,” murmured Larkyra, softly stroking the bird on her finger, the injury on her left hand visible without her gloves. “Cedar waxwings are the easiest for me to mimic,” she said, as if this explained away such a gift, before turning to meet his gaze.

  Darius jolted from his hiding spot, knocking his hip against the door handle.