“And they would delight in your humble response.” Dolion’s gaze held to hers. “I’m sure that is a lesson in manners they wished Niya had taken to.”
“We all wish that,” said Larkyra, absently.
Her father laughed, rich and deep. “Yes, quite. But there is one other matter we must discuss.” Dolion sat up. “You used your magic before your Lierenfast was over.”
Larkyra’s attention refocused. “Yes,” she admitted, “but it was to help someone.”
“Were there not others you could have helped with your powers during your weeks spent in the lowers?”
“Perhaps, but—”
“And isn’t the point of your fasting to understand the injustice of those who do not have the lost gods’ gifts? That if you were to fight or to save, it would only be with the tools of your mind or your fists?”
“Yes, Father,” said Larkyra tightly. Being magically perfect was more than beginning to wear on her, but as always, she had to remain calm. “But I was on my way home, you see—my Lierenfast was basically over. And you know I kept my magic in for weeks prior, kept it buried and tamed even when my finger got chopped off. With a dull blade, I might add.” She lifted the object of discussion. “I think my actions did no harm but good. Especially considering the man I helped is a guest for my party tonight, even though I have never heard of such a one as Darius Mekenna of Lachlan.”
To this Dolion remained quiet.
Suspicion crawled over Larkyra. “Father, who is Darius Mekenna of Lachlan?”
“As you just said, a guest.”
“Yes, but why do I have a feeling he’s meant to be more than that?”
“He’s not really my concern, more his stepfather,” admitted Dolion. “Hayzar Bruin, the Duke of Lachlan.”
“Darius is a lord?” Larkyra blinked. That explains his fine clothes, she thought. What it didn’t explain, however, was why a lord had been in the lower quarters—and more so, why he had been so civil toward her, dirty and bleeding as she was, given his high rank. “Are they old acquaintances of the family?” asked Larkyra. “I’ve never heard of this Lachlan.”
“The Lachlan territory is in the southeast of Aadilor, near the rivers that lead into the Obasi Sea. Lord Mekenna wrote to the Council on behalf of his stepfather about a possible trade treaty regarding minerals they are able to mine. The Council has arranged to meet with him and the duke this week, and it happened to fall during your Eumar Journé.”
“So my birthday is to also be a business meeting.”
“Nothing is ever one thing,” Dolion reminded her.
“Indeed,” she agreed. “So what else is this meant to be with the lord and his stepfather?”
Dolion studied her a moment, and Larkyra could tell he was wondering how much to share so soon. “The Thief King has suspicions that the duke may be indulging in illegal drugging. The siphoned-magic variety—phorria.”
“So?” said Larkyra with a frown. “People indulge in that all the time in the Thief Kingdom.”
“Yes, but the Thief King has no records of the duke ever entering the Thief Kingdom,” explained Dolion. “Which begs the question: Who in the kingdom is bringing drugs to him? Dealings such as these are forbidden outside the city.”
“Why?” countered Larkyra. “If it’s allowed to be practiced within, why does it matter if it’s out here as well?”
Dolion let out a sigh, and Larkyra swallowed the sting of seeing that he was disappointed in her.
“There’s a purpose to the Thief Kingdom, my dear,” said Dolion, threading his fingers together across his stomach. “And that’s to contain the chaos as much as possible. If you want to trade stolen goods, fine, but bring them to the Shadow Market. If you want to pump poison into your veins, be our guest, but do it within the walls of a den, where it can be monitored, controlled. Once these things leak outside, that is when true havoc reigns. And more often than not, wars begin. Though he is ruthless, the Thief King is not a fan of war.”
“No,” agreed Larkyra. “That I know he is not. So given this, will the duke be our next mission?”
Dolion waved an unconcerned hand. “All is currently rumor. We will know more when we have more. For now, let us talk of better things. Like your present. Would you like it?” he asked as he stood and walked to a large wooden armoire in the corner. With a lift of a gold latch, her father swung open the doors, revealing a massive ash-gray hawk, easily half Larkyra’s height, perched within a silver cage.
“Kaipo!” Larkyra ran to the creature. The sound of her voice stirred him awake, and he let out an echoing screech. “Have you kept him in here this whole time?” She quickly opened the cage and snapped off his blinders. His violet eyes spun until she laid a gentle hand on his back and cooed to him softly. “It’s me, old friend.”
Kaipo nudged her with his beak, his wings shuddering.
“He was given daily flights in the training dome,” explained her father. “I didn’t trust him out of the house. He would have gone straight to you.”
“As he should.” Larkyra stepped back, allowing the magnificent beast to hop out of his gilded prison to the floor. He stretched his massive silvery wings, sending a small windstorm through the room, rustling papers and stoking the fire in a high burst.
Kaipo adjusted to his new space, to the low ceilings and windowless walls, shrinking in size until he was no bigger than an average red-tailed hawk.
With a click of her tongue, Larkyra called him to perch on her forearm. “No more cages for you, my love,” she whispered. I am the only one who must suffer one, Larkyra finished to herself.
Kaipo was a rare breed, even within the splendor of Aadilor. A mutati hawk, Kaipo had the ability to change size to fit environments and purposes. Larkyra had never known where her father had found him, but as soon as he’d brought him home, Larkyra had felt her magic sing for the creature. And in kind, Kaipo had latched on to her as though he could hear her heart’s silent song. Given her gifts, Larkyra had a strange connection to songbirds, being able to mimic them perfectly. But her love for this hawk ran much deeper, and now Larkyra truly felt at home, reunited once more with Kaipo.
“Are you happy, my songbird?” asked Dolion.
Larkyra smiled as Kaipo nudged her finger to continue to stroke him. “Yes, very.”
“Good. And tonight, are you ready for it?”
Larkyra met her father’s blue gaze. “Which part?”
“All parts.”
“I’m more prepared for the second party than the first,” she admitted.
“You girls always are,” chuckled Dolion as he sat back in his chair, resting his hands atop his stomach. He looked like a grizzly ready to nap.
“Father, I am concerned regarding one detail, however.”
“Mmm, and what is that?”
“Lord Mekenna,” admitted Larkyra, her pulse quickening as her mind filled with images of the tall man. His kind smile. “I was in quite a messy state, but do you think he may recognize me tonight?”
Dolion’s gaze twinkled mischief in the firelight. “I guess we shall have to wait and see.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Lord Darius Mekenna was incredibly bored. But not for any lack of entertainment or splendor. This was the fifth Eumar Journé his stepfather had forced them to attend in the past two months, and the frivolity of young ladies had worn thin. It didn’t take a senseer for Darius to understand Hayzar’s intentions. After spending years as a widower, his stepfather was on the hunt for a new bride. And by the look of the grand estate they’d entered—with its multitude of halls filled with Aadilor’s far-reaching splendor and a ballroom housing highly influential guests—Hayzar wasn’t just looking for any new bride but a filthy-rich one.
The young lady being celebrated tonight certainly appeared to fit the bill.
While no king or queen ruled Jabari, a circle of six elite houses governed the city, and the Bassettes were among them.
If Darius believed such a marriage as this would
help his people, he would be the first to champion his stepfather’s matrimonial bliss, but he knew better than most that none of Hazyar’s future bride’s dowry would find its way to Darius’s lands and tenants. No, the duke had a gift for making precious things disappear.
As he curled his gloved hand tighter around his drink, Darius’s chest burned hot as he thought of his people on the brink of starvation, their taxes too high, their produce and wares too low to make ends meet. All for the frivolities of another. Darius glanced across the wide ballroom to his stepfather, keeping a curl of distaste from marring his lips.
Where Darius preferred to blend in, Hayzar Bruin lived to blindingly stand out. Clad in a long-tailed periwinkle coat with black trim and a matching vest over a white starched shirt, his stepfather appeared every inch a well-to-do duke. Even his purple-soled shoes matched.
Appreciating details, he’d often say to Darius, is what separates the few who matter from the many who do not. Such lessons had been rare when Hayzar had first become Darius’s stepfather, but as the years had passed and his mother’s health had declined day by day, they’d become a ritual that she’d begged him to take seriously. In her final days, the only comfort his mother had seemed able to cling to was her belief that she’d leave him with some semblance of a responsible adult.
Darius held in a derisive snort.
Neither of them could have imagined how wicked and depraved that man would turn out to be.
Darius pushed down a new wave of fury mixed with heartache, thinking of his mother.
Why had the duchess bequeathed the estate to Hayzar instead of keeping to the natural bloodline of succession? Why hadn’t she left it to him? Darius often lay awake, staring into the darkness, as the churn of discomfort overtook him, wondering if he had disappointed his mother in some way during her final days. Had he not shown her the responsible man he was capable of becoming?
Surely she did not want our family’s lands to end up as they have, thought Darius.
This belief was what drove Darius to continue attending these affairs, to search for a solution to bring his lands back, restore them to the glory they’d once been when both his parents had been alive. For those were truly the only times Darius could ever recall being happy.
Letting out a deep breath, Darius sipped his wine, tasting nothing of its sweetness. His mind was preoccupied, thinking of the two meetings he had while in town. One Hayzar knew of but would most likely not attend, leaving Darius to secure the dreaded trade agreement with the Jabari Council. The other meeting Hayzar knew nothing about, but it was stars and seas more important than the first.
Darius had worked hard—and nearly gotten robbed in the process—to find a guide who would lead him to the place only spoken of in whispers, to the very man who ruled over the hidden world of magic and sin. That was, if the creature he’d traded with actually showed up tonight to lead him there. By the lost gods, thought Darius, I hope he shows. Otherwise, he’d be putting up with all this—Darius gave the slobbering partygoers a sweeping glance—for naught.
“Darius, you old goat.” A stout young man approached to slap him on the back.
Darius’s body seized at the abrupt contact, his skin leaping with his heart. He did not like to be touched unannounced.
“What a pleasure it is seeing you here,” said his old schoolmate, who was dressed in clothes one size too small.
Frez Chautblach had attended Aadilor’s South Academy with Darius, and while a nice enough fellow, he had the unfortunate gift of making the most interesting stories boring and the most boring stories damn near insufferable to listen to.
“Frez,” greeted Darius after settling his nerves. He had hoped sticking to the back of the room would give him some peace, but Darius was used to disappointments.
“What has you traveling all the way to Jabari?” asked Frez, taking a sip of what was surely one of many glasses of wine, given how the bottom of his blond mustache was now dyed a dull rouge.
“I have business with the Council.”
“Business, you say.” Frez sloshed his drink. “Not trying to fish in different waters? Snare something with pretty gills?”
Darius raised his brows at the crude description of a woman. “No. Merely business.”
“I do love to fish.” Frez talked over him. “But actually fish, I mean. Not the sexual undertone I was hinting at earlier.” He gave Darius a glassy-eyed smile. “You did catch that, right? That I wasn’t actually talking of fishing with a lure and line before? But of catching a woman?”
By the Obasi Sea, thought Darius as he drained the rest of his spirits and handed the empty glass to a passing servant. “Yes, I understood.”
“Good, good. I’ve been working on those. Mother says I need to practice the art of conversation whenever I can.”
Please, lost gods, prayed Darius silently, do not let me be the subject of the next painful lesson.
“I’ve been writing down phrases I think are clever,” Frez went on. “Oh! You could help me, actually.” Frez fumbled with his inner coat pocket while unsuccessfully trying to hold his cup steady. A bit of red splashed onto his chest. “I can read you some, and you can tell me if—”
A gong rang through the ballroom, silencing the guests, and Darius nearly wept in relief.
Both he and Frez turned toward the sound as the people around them pushed forward in a wave. Darius held his breath as he was jostled by strangers, a slight panic setting in.
He now found himself closer to the front than he would have liked, but any thought of retreat fell away as he took in the impressive family that stood before them. At the top of marble stairs was a giant boulder of a man with a mane of russet hair that fed into his thick beard. He was dressed in deep crimson with leather and gold details lining the edge of his long coat, an ornate sword hitched to his hip. A voluptuous redhead wearing a peachy-white gown stood to his right, while a tall, striking dark brunette in deep purple was on his left. Darius wouldn’t have guessed they were related if it weren’t for the similar clever blue eyes that gazed across the audience.
A black man wearing an immaculate bloodred, long-tailed tux stepped forward and, with a voice clear and rich, announced, “I’m honored to present to you Dolion Bassette, Count of Raveet, of the second house of Jabari, and his daughters, Lady Arabessa Bassette and Lady Niya Bassette.”
The room filled with clapping and cheers until the count smiled and stilled them with a raised hand. “I am honored to have you all as our esteemed guests tonight to celebrate the Eumar Journé of my youngest. As her father, I have been both anticipating and dreading this day since her birth. For any child to come of age, to become truly independent in the world, is a scary moment in time, but I am proud of the woman she has become, and I know I will be proud of the woman she will keep aspiring to be. And though my dearest love, Johanna”—a sad smile pinched the corners of his lips—“is not with us to celebrate, I know she would be just as proud. So it is with the greatest love and honor that I present to you my daughter, Lady Larkyra Bassette.”
The count stepped to the side, and a tall ivory-haired girl in blue floated forward. The bodies pressing into Darius were forgotten, and his heart slowed as though a morning mist after a Lachlan rain had soared into the room. Refreshing, that was what Larkyra Bassette was. With a radiant smile, she rested her gloved hand in her father’s, and he secured it in the crook of his arm.
The applause subsided, and the ball resumed its murmurs and music as the Bassettes descended the stairs and made their rounds to various guests. Frez’s inane prattling continued beside Darius, but his attention remained on the family as they slowly drew near, until he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand tall, indicating only one thing—someone was watching him. He was watching him.
Darius caught his stepfather’s dark-brown gaze from across the room just as a shadow fell across him.
No, thought Darius, not while he’s looking. Please, let this not be—
“Lord Chautbl
ach and Lord Mekenna.” The count’s deep, rumbling voice filled the space. “I’m so glad you both could join us for tonight’s celebration, and of course the duke. Is he here?” Dolion Bassette, a good head taller than Darius, searched the room.
“He is, Your Grace. Somewhere amid the merriment.” After bending low at the waist, Darius glanced back up to find the entire family standing before him. The elder two sisters stayed a step behind their father, looking a trifle bored, while Larkyra remained hitched to his arm. She gave him a hesitant, curious grin, and seeing her up close . . . there was something almost . . . but no, why would she seem familiar to him?
“Thank you for extending an invitation for tonight,” said Darius to the count. “We are honored to have been included, and may I extend a happy Eumar Journé, my lady.” His eyes fell to Lady Larkyra’s again.
She opened her mouth to respond, but Frez cut in.
“My mother was most ecstatic to receive the invitation,” said Frez. “She sends her regrets for not being able to attend herself, but as you know, Your Grace, her constitution is often fragile in the late evenings.”
“And what of her early mornings?” asked Lady Niya Bassette, picking at her sheer gloves.
“I beg your pardon?” Frez looked a bit frazzled at being addressed by the redheaded beauty.
“I asked of her early mornings.” She turned her gaze on him. “If she’s fragile in the late evenings, how is she when she wakes?”
“I fear she’s shattered to pieces,” chimed in Lady Arabessa.
“Unless she’s like a desert flower,” replied Lady Niya. “Closes up under the stars, alive under the sun.”
“That’s a regular flower,” corrected Lady Arabessa. “Regular flowers sleep at night.”
“I’m fairly certain it’s also desert ones.”
“Then why specify the difference in the first place? Just say she’s like a flower.”
“Because I think a desert flower is a more complimentary description for a woman than a regular old flower,” explained Lady Niya. “Any fellow can write a verse of poetry comparing a woman to a flower. But to specify the kind, well, that moves one’s heart. Do you not agree, Lord Chautblach?”
Song of the Forever Rains Page 5