When Rains Fall (The Lost Fields Book 1)

by Cassidy Taylor

  Her chest heaving, she pressed the tip of the carving knife into her palm and drew it sideways, opening a small gash that welled red with blood. She pressed her hand to the door and felt the power flow from her veins and join with the spellwork, Danyll's magic, Tierri's magic. The stone shifted and ground open. She was turning sideways to slip through when strong arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her backward. They dragged her down one flight of stairs to a landing between floors where there was no door and shoved her against a wall. The back of her head knocked against the smooth stone, her teeth snapping together, pain shooting up into her nose.

  “You can't do this,” Tierri hissed. “You will die.”

  “So what?” She fought against his grip. She was strong, but he was stronger, even without his magic. “So will she.”

  “That's not—” A creak overhead stopped him. Someone was at the open door on the next level. He pressed himself against her and she was embarrassingly aware of how close he was. How he smelled like saltwater and firewood. How his scruffy beard scratched her temple, his breath hot on her ear. She felt the churn of his magic in her stomach as he prepared himself, but then the stone door slammed closed as whoever it was disappeared back into Edlyn's corridor, perhaps deciding that the open door had been just another mistake. When would they stop believing in these coincidences?

  “Let me go,” Rayne said, but he was already scooping her up and pulling her down the stairs. He stomped toward the same door he had taken her through all those nights ago. She recognized it even in her indignant position. “Put me down!”

  He didn't listen. She kicked and yelled and did everything she could to draw attention to herself, but the servants didn't so much as look at her, although they all looked relieved when he reached the door and shoved her outside. He pulled her down the stone steps. The tide was high and when they reached the bottom, the water, which was already close, seemed to reach up and drag her in.

  She sputtered and thrashed, trying to regain her feet and failing. The yellow dress was heavy with water and weighed her down, clinging to her like a drowning man. Her head went completely under and the silence was blissful, but then a wave was tossing her back up. She took a deep breath before the next one crashed over her, pushing her, she realized, back to shore.

  “If you go in now, you’ll give yourself away!” Tierri yelled as she flailed in the water, finally putting her feet beneath her and swiping at her eyes and her face, blowing saltwater out of her nose. “He doesn’t know yet. If you go in there, you’ll die!”

  “I don't care!” she yelled back. Here, in the wild waters, she could be as loud as she wanted. She could rage against these waves and they would hardly notice her.

  “I care!”

  She was nearly back to shore now. The waves were gentler, pulsing around her knees. The dress clung to her and she blushed, wishing for the pants she had worn in Shade. Wishing she were anywhere but here with this man who left her tongue-tied and breathless. “Why?” she asked.

  They both stood at the edge of the surf now, shoulders heaving, breath coming in quick, aching gasps. “Because he would use my magic against you and I wouldn't be able to stand it, but I wouldn't be able to do anything about it. And in the end, it would change nothing. We would just lose two princesses and be left with what? Your father and Danyll? Or maybe a rebel leader who knows nothing about what it takes to repair a broken country?”

  “What would you have me do then?” Rayne pushed past him and collapsed on the narrow strip of sand, her elbows on her knees in the least-ladylike position she could summon while she waited for Tierri to answer.

  He dropped down beside her. “My grandfather was King Malstrom's brother and the captain of his guard. I've been hunted by the Crowhearts all my life. We fled Orabel just before the Malstrom Massacre; I was just a babe-in-arms. I grew up in hiding, but we were a family. I had a family, do you understand? And then your father…”

  A wave washed over their legs. Her yellow skirt rippled and moved as if it were a living creature, brushing against Tierri's legs. Seemingly without thinking, he gathered a bit of the fabric in his fingers and stared at it, but she didn't think he was seeing her or the dress.

  “Then your father found us. I was ten. He publicly executed my grandfather and my parents. My sister and I watched with our hands bound behind our backs.” His mouth was set in a grim line. She knew that look. He wasn't holding back tears. He had hardened himself to this story so that it didn't ruin him, just as she had done to so many. She reached down and took his hand, prying his fingers from her dress and wrapping them in hers. He looked up at her, surprised, but then squeezed her hand back in silent gratitude.

  “My sister was sent away to the brothels in Dusk or the Far Lands, I don't know, and he kept me like a trophy. I was the last Malstrom wielder. He held me out to the people of Hail as an example of his power, to show how low my family had fallen. He gave me to the Ashsky prince on my fifteenth birthday as a show of trust. I was part of Edlyn’s dowry, like livestock. I've been bound to him ever since. My life and my magic are not my own, will never be my own, unless someone ends this.”

  “Who?” Rayne asked. “Who would have the power to do that?”

  “I have no reason to trust a Crowheart. I should want you dead for what your family did to mine. But I think you are the best hope for this country.”

  She pulled her hand away from his without thinking. “Me? But I can't— I'm not—” It was never meant to be her. But there was a voice inside of her that had been nagging her since her encounter with Seloue. I will fight for you, it said. I will win.

  “I don't know what your plan is, but I know you want things to change as much as I do. A Knight doesn't belong on the throne, or an Ashsky. It can be yours, but you have to wake up and realize what a gift it is to have control over your own power. Don’t let someone else tell you how to use it.”

  She had never thought she had power. She was nothing but a spare heir, third in line, there to do what people told her, to serve, not be served. And now, here was a boy with a rightful claim to the throne, telling her to take it for herself. Telling her she had the power to do it without anyone's help. The idea that had sparked to life inside of her the night before suddenly ignited, burning hot inside of her.

  “I went along with the poisoning because they would never be able to trace it back to you. But this?” He waved a hand at the castle behind them. “Walking in there and stabbing her with a carving knife? There would be no coming back from that if you even made it past Danyll.”

  She shook her head. “But how? I don't even know where to begin.”

  “Small steps,” he said, standing and offering her a hand. She took it and he pulled her easily to her feet. “Remember what it's like to be in control. Stop acting like a rebel and start acting like a queen.”

  He was right. She had never seen herself beyond what purpose she served for Wido. Yes, she owed him her life, but did she owe him her crown? He had said it himself—she had been a tool for him to use, and a tool for him to throw away. But wasn't she more than that? Tierri was looking down at her, standing too close, holding her steady. The waves were retreating, the tide falling, sweeping away with it her rage and indignation and leaving instead a steady resolve and an idea that she had never before dared to entertain.

  She could fight, and she could win.

  And she could free them all.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Rayne took a carriage to the jewelry shop this time, the crowd parting for the speckled gelding that pulled her along. If she was going to play the part, then she was going to look it. The dress certainly helped. She had changed from the sodden, yellow monstrosity into a black dress with iron embellishments on the bodice and the sleeves. After fussing at her over the state of her hair, her maid had dutifully styled the curls into braids that held tight and formed what looked for all the world like a band of iron around her head. Like a crown.

  Tierri rode in the carriage with he
r, his sword across his knees and her dagger tucked into his belt. When they had been on the beach, he had looked like any other young man—vulnerable and intense, wide-eyed and uncertain. But now, in dry leather armor, his hair tucked back into its bun, he was the general again, the man who had taken her from Bricboro.

  “Where are we going?” he had asked her before following her into the carriage.

  She had smiled what felt like her first real smile since coming to this place. “To take my first small step.” His face was impassive as he helped her up to take her seat, but he gave her hand a small squeeze before letting go. When she looked back at him, he looked away, barking orders at the men who would accompany them into town.

  He was good at playing his part, even better than she was. But he had been at this for years, hiding in plain sight. She imagined what it would be like to give him his freedom someday. To have the real him by her side.

  The carriage rumbled to a stop and the door opened. Tierri bounded out ahead of her, his hooded eyes searching for any threat. The place was in a tizzy; she could tell even from her spot inside the carriage. News of the assassination attempt—her assassination attempt—must have already reached the market. Shoppers and merchants gossiped excitedly and watched her guards warily, while her guards eyed them back with the same looks of mistrust.

  When the step-stool was in place, Tierri held his hand out for her and she descended into the street. The whispers began almost immediately but she ignored them, wrapping her white fur shawl tighter around her shoulders and stepping across the sidewalk, the general following close behind.

  A bell hanging above the door jingled as she and Tierri entered the shop. An elderly, balding man stood behind the counter across from them. He was obviously Duskan, his skin a warm brown and his nose a little too large. His hair had once been black but was now speckled with white, and his hands rested on his ample gut as he leaned forward and gleamed. He thought she was here for him, for his jewelry. He looked at her and saw his pockets full, his reputation bolstered.

  Well, he had no idea what trouble had just landed on his doorstep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Rayne

  “My lady,” the jeweler said, rocking onto his toes and looking all too pleased with himself. “What can I interest you in this evening?”

  Rayne stalked forward, her slippers gliding across the smooth polished floor. She imagined Seloue on her hands and knees, scrubbing up muddy footprints, and her resolve stiffened. Turning back to Tierri, who was not more than a few inches behind her, she held out her hand. He dropped the strap of a heavy bag into it, and she upended its contents onto the counter in front of the man.

  “I am not your lady,” she said over the sound of metal and jewels hitting the wooden counter. “I am your princess, and you have something I want.” She had cleaned out her rooms—every silver candlestick, every golden knob and button, every piece of jewelry left behind in her armoire. All of it and she worried it still wouldn't be enough.

  “Anything, my—Your Highness.” The jeweler scrambled to stop pieces from tumbling off the counter, hardly paying her any attention. The tart smell of mead hovered around him like a cloud. Behind her, Tierri’s tension was palpable as he waited for her to make her move, even though he didn't know what it would be.

  “Your slave, Sir,” Rayne said. “I want to buy your slave girl.”

  The man stopped then, and a candlestick rolled to the floor, its clatter echoing in the sudden silence. Even Tierri gave a sharp, involuntary intake of breath.

  “My slave?” the man asked. He must have seen something in her eyes—desperation, perhaps—because a smile spread across his face and he crossed his hands over his pile of treasure. “She is very valuable to me.”

  Rayne opened her mouth to make the man another offer—more, anything, he could have anything—when Tierri stepped to the side and spoke up. “As valuable as your store?” he asked. “Your beautiful glass window display? Things that could be so easily taken from you by tax enforcers or destroyed by vandals. She must be a very fine specimen, indeed.” A gust of wind breezed through the store even though the door was closed. It tickled the back of Rayne's neck and then danced away before lifting one of the displays from the window and dropping it to the floor.

  The jeweler gasped, throwing himself to his knees to retrieve the fallen piece. It was a silver cuff meant to sit around the neck, with delicately wound filigree shaped into spirals. Rayne knew what perhaps neither of the men in the room knew—that it had been crafted from a slaver's band. Something ugly turned into something beautiful. The nobility of Hail wore slaver's bands around their necks, on their arms, in their ears, without even knowing it.

  Movement at the back of the shop caught her attention as a tapestry was pushed aside. Seloue appeared there, her skinny arms ending in huge leather gloves, large metal tongs clinched in her hands, the ends glowing red with heat. Her eyes were wide as she took in the scene before her—a princess and a general and her master on his knees.

  “That's a beautiful piece,” Rayne said. “I would hate for something to happen to it.” At the same time Seloue’s tongs cooled, fire flared to life in Tierri’s hand, licking at his fingers, and he reached for the cuff.

  The jeweler jerked it away, stumbling backward. “Curse you, Son of Enos,” he said with a snarl on his lips. Then, straightening, he turned to Rayne. “You can have the girl. I hope she brings you as much trouble as you have brought me.”

  Rayne laughed but did not dignify his outburst with a response. Instead, she turned to her lurking friend. “You heard the man. Let's go.”

  Seloue looked at the jeweler and he nodded, then crossed to a cabinet where he rifled through a pile of parchments before withdrawing one yellowed with age and handing it to Rayne. She looked down at it. It was Seloue’s writ of ownership. “She's bought you.” He waved a hand at the counter where the contents of her bag still lingered. “Go on, get out of here.”

  The tongs clattered to the floor. Seloue took the gloves off and threw them down with the tongs, and then stepped over the mess to the other side of the counter.

  “What have you done?” she asked Rayne.

  Rayne looped her arm through Seloue's and tugged her toward the door, stopping when she realized the girl wore only a white shift dress and slippers. Sweat glistened on her chest and soaked her hair. Though the snow had stopped, it was still winter. The girl would freeze. Rayne shed her own fur shawl and wrapped it around Seloue's shoulders, but when she began to unlace her boots, Tierri stopped her with a hand on her back.

  “She can have mine,” he said.

  And so when they emerged outside, they were all half-dressed. Rayne asked the coachman to take them to the smithy, which turned out to be a few blocks from the jeweler and off the main road. Rayne and Tierri studied the writ of ownership in the carriage while Seloue looked out the window, looking at Orabel as if she had never seen it before, and a tear snaked down her cheek.

  “Are you well, Mistress Redbrace?” Tierri asked, reading her name off of the writ.

  Seloue turned to him, clutching the fur around her shoulders. “No one has ever called me that before,” she said. “I wonder if I'm the last.”

  Rayne's eyes wandered to Tierri, who looked away, down at his stocking feet.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The smith took the writ of ownership and studied it closely, running his finger over the embossed seal from Flagend.

  “You want me to what?” he asked.

  “Cut it off.” Rayne had repeated this at least twice already and was growing weary. She considered having Tierri restrain him while she found the clippers and got this over with. Here, the smell of fish was enhanced by the heat that seeped out from the shops’ fires. It was enough to make anyone gag.

  “And replace it?”

  “No.” She held a hand over her nose and mouth while she waited for him to acquiesce.

  The big man shook his head as if the words didn't make sense. T
ierri and Seloue stood just behind her, Tierri eyeing the sword that sat cooling by the forge and the hammer in the smith's meaty hands. Seloue looked terrified, her eyes wide as she cowered against Tierri. Of course the last time she had been here, she had been banded, her skin seared with hot metal that was never supposed to be removed.

  “If the slave master comes to me about this—”

  “You can send him to me,” Rayne said. She had no experience with the slave master in Orabel but she wasn't afraid. She had bought the right to do with the girl what she would, and this was her decision.

  “Bring her forward, then,” the smith said.

  Tierri nudged Seloue, but the girl didn't move. She was frozen in place. Rayne stepped back to her and gripped her hands, pulling her forward. The smith turned and pulled the heavy clippers from a cabinet.

  “Does it hurt?” Seloue asked while Rayne undid the shawl and exposed her banded arm.

  “Nothing like getting it on,” the man answered gruffly. “You there,” he said to Tierri, “hold her arm.”

  Rayne held Seloue's other hand while Tierri secured her left arm. The clippers worked at the metal, and every time they caught skin, Seloue gasped but didn't cry out. When it was finally done, Rayne took the cut band from the smith before he could throw it away and gave it to Seloue. “To get you started,” she said.

  There was blood on her arm, and an indentation where the silver band had sat for so many years, the skin there paler and calloused. Rayne wiped the blood with a cloth, but Seloue didn't seem to notice as she turned the band over in her hands. “The old bastard won't know what to do without me,” she finally said, laughter choking out of her.