Song of the Forever Rains

by Mellow, E. J.

  “He will see the Mousai,” repeated the stone.

  The pirate’s gaze narrowed on the sisters as they walked forward, and though it was covered, Larkyra could feel Niya’s triumphant grin as she quickly turned to Alōs and gave him a mocking wave goodbye.

  Entering the Thief King’s chambers was like walking into the center of a live volcano. The heat smacked against Larkyra oppressively, yet a chill still ran through her as she was dwarfed by the room’s colossal height. No matter how many times Larkyra had visited this chamber, the sensation never subsided.

  More stone guards lined the perimeter, heads turning as they tracked the Mousai’s movement. Rivers of lava snaked across the onyx floor, swirling and curling in intricate designs—marks of ancient, lost magic that fed into the power of the man who sat within. The liquid lines narrowed and framed a thin walkway, forcing Larkyra and her sisters to gather close, while the echoing footfalls of their soft tread reverberated with a cringe-inducing tap, tap, tap as they approached.

  The walls were as jagged and sharp as the rest of the palace, angling toward the back of the room, where the king waited upon a viciously edged high-backed throne. Black smoke shifted around his form, obscuring any view of his appearance. But Larkyra didn’t need to see him to feel the power pouring out, power that made the most courageous of knees grow weak with each terrifying step forward.

  As the Mousai came to a stop at the base of the throne’s dais, Larkyra and her sisters lowered themselves to the ground in identical prostrating bows, gold-masked foreheads kissing the reflective stone floor.

  Silence engulfed the room; not even the churning lava could be heard.

  It stretched endlessly as the gaze of the man who could not be seen pressed further into Larkyra’s back, until her shins ached on the hard ground.

  “Rise.” A heavy voice laden with a dozen more vibrated around them.

  In unison they stood, watching the black smoke that pulsed before them. It was the type of darkness that arrested, kept one peering forward at the hypnotic rhythm of fog in the hopes of a small light.

  But none ever came.

  So they waited.

  And waited.

  And waited for the king to speak again.

  If Larkyra and her sisters hadn’t been trained since they were young girls to stand tall in the most oppressive circumstances, they surely would have slunk back to the ground in tears.

  As Larkyra had seen many do before her.

  The Thief King, as he was now—all dark vapor and clawing power—was utterly horrifying. None knew his true origin or how he’d came to rule this hidden realm of sinners. But in the end, did it really matter? He was here now, had been for the lost gods knew how long, and showed no signs of leaving.

  “Approach,” he finally said.

  With a gentle nudge from Arabessa, Larkyra stepped forward, a buzz of nerves in her belly.

  “My king.” She bowed low again. “We are humbled to obtain an audience with you this evening. I, particularly, am grateful for the honor of tonight’s celebration for my Eumar Journé and, as always, our performance.”

  The Thief King was one of the few who knew what they hid behind their masks, for he knew all who roamed his city.

  “My people have been restless,” said the Thief King, the smoke surrounding him gusting in rhythm to his voice. “Tonight benefits more than the Mousai.”

  “Of course, my king. We are here to serve.”

  The energy pouring from him brushed Larkyra’s shoulder then, a silent approval of her words. A moment later, the mist around him dissipated, revealing the man’s true form.

  Two things always surprised visitors if gifted the chance to view the Thief King without his dark ward. The first was that instead of wrapping himself in similar shadows, he wore blinding white. Ivory, opal, carved bone, and bleached animal pelts were woven into an intricate pattern of clothing. His hands and feet were gloved and booted with shiny albino alligator hide, the scales gleaming as his fingers curled around his throne’s armrests, not a sliver of skin exposed. Exotic snow-white feathers were sewn like armor across his large chest, where a white skull nestled in the center, its teeth black diamonds. A headdress covered his upper face in a weaving of similar materials all the way to two intricately curling horns atop his head.

  Which brought one to the second thing that astonished visitors. The Thief King was undoubtedly the most ornate, extravagant creature anyone from anywhere had ever seen. If the king had hair, it was tucked into the headdress, and the only parts of him left visible were his mouth—painted black—and thick beard, the color of which was indiscernible with the white and silver threads that were woven throughout. Was it blond? Brown? Red? If she was caught looking too closely, a pain in the back of Larkyra’s skull would have her glancing away. And though Larkyra could not see the man’s eyes, she knew without a doubt he could very clearly see her, and it never failed to send a shiver up her spine.

  The overall effect of the white king sitting atop his black throne was like looking at a star, a light surrounded by darkness that whispered, Come closer. Let’s see if I am the solution you seek to your troubles.

  But at a price.

  Always at a price.

  “Leave us,” said the king, and though he didn’t specify for whom the command was meant, all in the throne room knew, for the line of giant stone guards receded back into the walls, vanishing, while the Mousai remained.

  The space buzzed with the soldiers’ departure.

  All that now happens will not have witnesses, the energy seemed to say.

  Arabessa and Niya stepped to Larkyra’s side as the Thief King tilted his head, regarding the trio. “There are many in attendance tonight that do not possess the gifts the lost gods left.” His voice circled around them. “I expect you to honor the agreement we set upon your first performance.”

  “Of course, my king,” said Larkyra in unison with her sisters.

  “You may push toward the edge of madness, to please those with magic, but you are not to spill over.”

  “Yes, my king.”

  “And you are not to direct your song to any one guest but to the hall’s entirety. I will not have another incident similar to what happened to the Gelmon brothers. Such actions are dealt with at my command.”

  Behind her mask, Larkyra pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, this time not feeling any guilt for the wildness of her magic in regard to what the king referred.

  The Gelmons were the very definition of a worthless lot of scum, stealing children from homes to sell into servitude. It had taken little persuasion from Niya for her and Arabessa to go along with the plan to serenade them.

  Was it really Larkyra’s fault the brothers didn’t have the mental strength to survive the attention?

  Even so, they answered once again in unison, “Yes, my king.”

  The Thief King took them in, pushing his magic, which spun like tickling silver thread in the air, to graze along their shoulders, ensuring their sincerity.

  Whatever he found seemed to please him, for his demeanor changed then, became familiar as he relaxed into his stone throne. “Good.” He raised a white-gloved hand. “Now come, my children. Give me a hug before you perform.”

  The Mousai did, gladly and with smiles. For though he might be the terrifying Thief King, the ruler of the most wicked who hid in the cracks of an underground city, he was also known by a different, more important name.

  Father.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Darius was not happy. In fact, he was close to livid, and for a man who kept his emotions smooth as a placid lake, he was not enjoying this change in temperament. Growing up with his stepfather, a man who lived to incite Darius, he’d found that remaining perfectly calm through all manner of horror was the only way he retained any sort of control in his life.

  He needed to get out of here.

  “Will ya be staying for the party?” asked his guide as he led Darius through one of the many dark co
rridors of the castle. Though Darius couldn’t see any guards, he felt the inky walls watching as they moved.

  “No,” replied Darius.

  “But you’ve been invited.”

  “How did you—never mind. Of course you would know.” He glowered at the bent-over man. A few oily strands of hair escaped the folds of his gray-wrapped head, and not for the first time Darius wondered what his guide hid under all that cloth.

  “Nothing ya’d care to remember seeing.” The senseer answered Darius’s thoughts.

  “Stop doing that.”

  “Then stop thinking so loudly.”

  “Shall I ponder in whispers then?”

  “Whispers are just as loud as screams.”

  “I would argue, sir, they are not.”

  “Inside here they are.” The man tapped a long fingernail against his skull.

  Darius let out an annoyed sigh but kept quiet. His patience for riddles had run thin.

  The Thief King had proved useless, remaining a cold, silent cloud of smoke as Darius had pleaded his case. He knew it had been risky, coming here to face the creature whose reputation and lore had been more than validated when Darius had stepped into that throne room. If it weren’t for the years of living with his own demon, standing still while his stepfather cut him down with his poisonous words—he was never clean enough, was never smart enough, ate like a commoner, was an utter bore of a companion—Darius would surely have crumbled in the presence of this one. Instead he’d kept his spine straight as he’d all but begged for help from the man he knew had the power to give it.

  His lands had to be saved, his people freed from the oppressive and neglectful decisions of his stepfather. Lachlan had suffered enough, was on the brink of full and utter collapse. Darius had tried and was still trying to fix things where he could—mending sails, providing what food he could sneak from their kitchen, postponing tax collection as long as possible—but he was only one man, and the Lachlan people, though destitute, still were many. Anytime Darius went to confront his stepfather on the matter, gathering all his courage, he quickly found it reduced to ash in Hayzar’s presence. Darius would suddenly be without words, frozen and shamefully terrified as a consuming blackness overtook him.

  The scars along Darius’s skin began to burn at the cloudy memories, and he shook himself free of them.

  Darius was desperate and had thought his predicament would make him the perfect prey for the king. He was a sliver away from giving up his own soul for aid, for anything that could heal Lachlan, but it didn’t seem to matter. And Darius had thought the solution would be an easy one—surely the Thief King would see that there was just one man, one person to be rid of to end Lachlan’s suffering. But no, the Thief King had merely told Darius he would think on his troubles, and if he decided to help in regard to Lachlan, Darius would eventually know.

  What nonsense answer was that?

  After all Darius had paid and risked, sneaking away from his stepfather to find this place . . .

  Money that could have gone to his people . . .

  And if help did come from the Thief King, how much would it cost? And could he afford it? Would Darius have a chance to know before the bargain was cemented? And what if no aid came at all? What then?

  When he’d asked this, the creature wrapped in smoke had merely demanded Darius’s retreat, repeating that his decision of indecision was made, and told him to enjoy the celebrations soon to take place in the palace.

  Maddening.

  “It’s just through here.” The crooked man pointed down a jagged tunnel to their left, which seemed to be roughly carved from the palace’s midnight rock.

  “What is?” asked Darius, attempting to push down his bubbling fury from tonight’s outcome.

  “Where ya’ve been invited.”

  “I said I wasn’t going.”

  “But ya will.”

  Darius gave a humorless laugh. “Oh, will I? And shall you be the one to drag me there?”

  The senseer shook his head. “Ya will go willingly.”

  “Listen.” Darius rubbed one of his throbbing temples with his gloved hand. “I’m very tired, past starved, sick of wearing this mask, and, as annoyed as I am to admit it, on the brink of a breakdown. All I want is to be shown back to Jabari.”

  “What ya seek ya will find down here. No one leaves a performance of the Mousai dissatisfied.”

  “The Mousai?”

  “They will feed yer hunger and ease yer aches.”

  “Are they the palace’s apothecary?”

  A smoky laugh reverberated out of his guide. “Some might say so.”

  Darius looked down the long tunnel to the faint light at the end, listening to the hum of noise echoing out.

  “Ya might never be here again.” The bent creature took a step toward the sound. “Don’t ya want to see some wonder before traveling home to all that rain?”

  How the man knew Lachlan was under a constant storm cloud or that Darius even hailed from there, he found himself no longer caring. If the man was trying to lure him, he was succeeding.

  “Why do I feel like this is more for your pleasure than for mine?” asked Darius, resigned to follow the man.

  “Because yer clever despite first impressions.”

  “What a glowing compliment. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were beginning to like me.”

  “I like ya enough to advise ya not to eat anything given for free and only drink after they perform.”

  “Excuse me?”

  But any answer disappeared as Darius was shown through a rocky entrance into a massive domed cave filled to the brim with strange, fantastic figures.

  The smell hit him first—layers upon layers of perfume and a rich, earthy odor only produced by a packed throng of people.

  Then the sound—yelling, moaning, and laughter mixed.

  Then the scene—debauchery. Every inch.

  At least a dozen stone balconies rimmed the den’s height, leading up to a circular oculus, where a glimpse of the starry-glowworm night shone through. Creatures half-dressed, fully clothed, short, tall, angled, straight, hissing, barking, and with a number of other sounds and shapes Darius could hardly describe moved in a wave around him and spilled from the many floors towering above. Some stood, clutching plates piled high with meats and steamed vegetables, as they watched others throw punches, wrestling to gain the favor of a pretty creature. Others, already seeming to have won, groped, touched, and kissed their prizes, who moaned in return, more than pleased with the attention.

  While certain body parts Darius wished were covered swayed free, all faces were obscured, keeping anonymity intact. Large goblets were snatched up from trays held by gold-painted beings, and a massive banquet was displayed along the curve of one wall. Nearby, couches and chaise longues were draped with more guests, tangled together or greedily taking in the proceedings. The lighting was dim, though bright enough for stretching shadows to paint the vivid scene.

  Darius couldn’t decide if he should retch at the sights and grunts or find a parchment to hastily write it all down. Here was the legendary Thief Kingdom, the place only spoken of in whispers.

  Yet wide eyed though he was behind his mask, being amid such depravity didn’t feel like he would have expected. For as debased as most of it was, an air of utter acceptance swam through the room, as if all actions here were safe and desired, and all pleasures, pains, and secret lusts would not be judged. The freedom of this realization sent a vibration through Darius that frightened him. How much of his life, his true emotions, did he hold back, chained down and quiet? What would it be like to live free from worry, from the shadow of Hayzar or the guilt that constantly clawed in his gut as he watched his lands being bled dry? What would it be like to give another pain for once? Just once—

  “Careful, my boy.” The senseer’s voice cut through his haze. “I suggest for this visit, ya look but don’t touch, hmm?”

  “I don’t want to be here,” said Darius, though he
found he couldn’t bring himself to retreat.

  “Come.” The man pulled on Darius’s cloak. “Let’s get some food in ya.”

  Reaching the table, his guide gathered up a plate of steamed rice, glistening smoked ribs, and a glob of something that looked horrid but smelled divine. “Here.” He pushed the plate into Darius’s hands.

  “What of the price?”

  “You pay me.” A deep voice turned their attention to a figure leaning against the table. Their brow was covered in crimson cloth, little slits revealing completely black eyes. They were bald and shirtless, with swirls of red paint marking their chalk-white body. The designs trailed across every inch before disappearing under their red silk skirt. When they smiled, only six teeth were revealed. “Hello, old friend.” They glanced down to Darius’s companion. “It’s been too long since you’ve dined with us.”

  “I haven’t been hungry for what ya’ve been serving.”

  The disguised red figure laughed, a high pitch of delight. “I almost forgot your charms. But who have you brought us tonight?” They turned their reflective gaze on Darius. “A piglet looking to squeal?”

  “Never mind him,” said the crouched man. “What do we owe?”

  “The usual.” Black eyes raked the length of Darius. “A kiss.”

  Darius lifted his brows. “For a plate of food?”

  “Aye.” Their toothy grin grew wider.

  “Well, you’re certainly confident in your cooking.”

  The person painted red clapped their hands with a giggle. “Oh, he’ll fit in nicely.”

  With the aroma of the food wafting through Darius’s mask, his stomach growled in hunger. At this point he didn’t care who he needed to kiss to eat. “Let’s do this then, shall we?” Darius stepped forward, but the painted figure steadied him with a hand to his chest.

  “As flattered as I am by your eagerness, my child . . .” Their fingers performed an exploratory graze over Darius’s abdomen. “It is he”—they looked down at the senseer—“whom I wish to kiss.”

  Though the man was a walking mummy from head to foot, Darius could have sworn he felt his guide blush beneath the wrap.