“Please.” Larkyra rolled her eyes. “Neither of you is clever enough to catch Kaipo.”
“Want to bet?” asked her sisters in unison.
Larkyra was saved from a response as they neared the edge of the forest, where they were greeted by an endless black abyss, the land dropping out from under them. Running over the void was a long-arched bridge, its redbrick hues fading away the farther it stretched, suspended by nothing, toward a foggy gray archway on the other side—the entrance to the Fade, where the dead resided. It was called the Leaching Bridge, and the world’s colors seeped away as you walked across, approaching the home of the dead. Hovering above the bridge was a small island that appeared as if a giant had ripped out a plot of grass to float in midair. Dirt and roots hung down from the bottom, and atop it rested a modest thatched-roofed cottage with smoke puffing invitingly from its chimney.
This was where Achak lived, for they also guarded the path the living could take to visit the dead.
But at a price.
Everything always had a price.
A year of one’s life was the token to pass to spend a full sand fall in the Fade. Larkyra found herself again wondering how many years her father had traded, the grays in his hair having grown thicker.
That incessant guilt swam in Larkyra’s gut again. If it weren’t for her, Dolion wouldn’t find himself needing to sacrifice so much for a simple glimpse of his wife.
“Are you coming?” asked Niya from where she had stopped halfway across the bridge.
“Yes,” said Larkyra, leaving the forest’s edge, her blue skirts rustling as she left the comforting greens of midmorning to walk the bridge.
Arabessa approached the roots that swung gently from Achak’s grassy knoll above. She gave one a hardy pull, sending a mound of beetles loose from the packed mud. They scurried down the branch to gather into one large, blinking eye. It swung this way and that, the black, glossy pupil catching the three girls’ reflections before bursting apart, sending the insects running back up and disappearing into the dirt.
There was barely a pause before a woven ladder dropped over the edge of the island, landing on the bridge with a thunk.
Arabessa grabbed hold of it, hopped to the first rung, and began to climb. Niya and Larkyra quickly followed.
After they’d stepped securely on the grass above, Larkyra dusted off her skirts before helping straighten Niya’s collar. Once presentable, Larkyra faced the humble dwelling of one of the most powerful creatures they knew.
Though it appeared like an adorable home of a grandmother, anyone with sense knew such innocence always masked a kaleidoscope of nefarious intentions. Sugar attracted sweet things better than blood, after all.
Reaching the cottage’s front door, where hanging ivy climbed along the top and yellow and white lilies were painted along the slatted wood, Larkyra gave a hearty knock.
A pause before—
The ivy whipped out, wrapping around her and her sisters, cinching them together. The vines pulled and pulled and pulled until Larkyra’s already-constrictive corset felt loose in comparison.
“Must this always be necessary?” grunted Larkyra.
Arabessa used a free foot to knock at the door once more.
“No one’s home.” A deep, muffled voice came from the other side.
“Then why did your beetles let us up?” wheezed out Niya.
“And why did we hear a reply just now?” added Arabessa, her elbow wedging harder into Larkyra’s side.
Silence.
“We’ll share our freshly baked sugarbread,” Larkyra managed to singsong through the restraints.
The door opened with a whoosh just as the ivy loosened and slithered back above the door, innocent and pretty once more. Larkyra inhaled deeply, as did her sisters, before straightening to take in an extremely tall, dark-skinned, bearded man. He was dressed like a prince at leisure, his bare feet peeking out from beneath his long green silk robe.
“Where is it?” Narrowed violet eyes raked over the sisters.
“In here.” Larkyra pushed past Achak.
“Yes, there’ll be loaves of it in here,” said Niya as she and Arabessa squeezed through.
While the exterior of Achak’s home was a modest one story, inside was a generous three. Rugs from a variety of lands covered every inch of the front foyer, spilled into the rest of the rooms and upstairs, and even climbed a few walls. Elaborate paintings were affixed to every surface available, ceiling and tabletops included. The air held a floral aroma, incense and oils mixed, as colorful ottomans and lounge chairs were placed haphazardly across the space. Books in a plethora of languages lay open, tucked away, or stacked near the various seating areas, as if the person who inhabited this dwelling had a tendency to plop down at random just as quickly as they found something else of interest to tear them away. One body fighting with two minds.
“I never said you could enter.” Achak was quick on their heels as Larkyra turned into the kitchen, stepping over more plush carpeting that only stopped when it reached a large hearth. Blue and purple flames licked the bottom of a boiling pot, the smells inviting.
“You opened the door, did you not?” asked Larkyra as she searched the large pantry.
Niya and Arabessa settled around a worn wooden table in the center of the kitchen.
“Only to take your sugarbread,” declared Achak before muttering a curse. “You have no sugarbread.”
“We will shortly.” Larkyra pulled out the ingredients and hurried to one of the few clear spots at the counter.
“Get out.” Achak pointed toward the front door. “I do not invite liars into our home.”
“We did not technically lie,” said Niya before she bit into an apple she’d swiped from the bowl on display. “We said freshly baked, and what is fresher than not yet made?”
“Just out of the oven,” countered Achak.
Niya seemed to think about this as she chewed, leaning in her chair. “True, but just out of the oven in your home is much tastier than out of the oven in Jabari, travel-worn through Yamanu, across the Leaching Bridge, carried up a ladder in a sack to no doubt be crushed by your obnoxious vines, then brought through your door, don’t you think?”
“If you actually cared what I thought, none of you would be sitting here right now.”
“Achak,” tsked Niya. “Who’s the liar now?”
If the imposing man standing in the doorframe had had feathers, Larkyra imagined they would be ruffled.
“Where is your sister?” asked Arabessa.
“Ran to hide as soon as you lot knocked.” Achak crossed his arms, his rich silk robe moving like liquid in the room’s warm glow.
“Rubbish,” said Arabessa. “Your sister adores us.”
“Another thing we thankfully do not have in common.” He watched them warily as Larkyra and her sisters made themselves at home in his kitchen.
Larkyra smiled as she mixed the ingredients in a bowl.
“Come now,” mumbled Niya through a mouthful of fruit. “What about us always has your trousers in a bunch?”
“Because Trouble is the friend of each of your shadows,” replied Achak, stalking to the stew he had clearly been making before their interruption.
Larkyra swallowed a laugh as she kneaded the newly formed dough on the counter’s wooden surface. This was the dance they always played—the brother grumbling as they teased him endlessly until his sister showed. The twins had been a constant in the girls’ lives for as long as Larkyra could remember, and though they went by many names, all but one had been sucked away by the No More: Achak.
They had explained this to the Bassette girls early on when they had wondered why Achak did not have a surname.
“We don’t need one,” replied the brother.
“But surely you come from a family,” said Arabessa. “Without a last name, how else would you know your kin?”
“Labels are meaningless, let alone those that play second tier to a first. To be a relation, you
merely need to relate to another,” explained Achak. “Besides, if we did have family, any evidence of them has been taken by the No More.”
“The no what?” asked Niya.
“The No More,” repeated Achak with an impatient huff. “Pay attention, child. When enough of something is lost in a society’s collective memory, the energy holding it in existence falls away, like water through a sieve, simply causing it to become No More. It’s pulled into a hole that swallows any realm, place, or thing that has been forgotten.”
“Like what?” asked Larkyra, sitting up with wide eyes.
“Because it no longer exists, I haven’t a clue, dear. Don’t you see? It’s No More.”
Larkyra shared an awed expression with her sisters.
“While there is an abundance of magical and mysterious things in Aadilor,” continued Achak, “nothing is as inexplicable and upside down as the No More or the things it takes.”
Larkyra and her sisters listened in rapture as Achak went on to explain this included the home their mother and Achak had originally slipped out of.
“I might be the only creature left on this side of the Fade capable of bringing the forgotten land back,” said Achak.
“Really?” asked Arabessa. “And how would you do that?”
They shrugged. “Merely start telling its stories, I suppose. But we never will,” warned Achak. “So there is no point in asking.”
“But why will you never share?” whined Larkyra.
“Because some things,” said Achak, “are better left forgotten.”
Larkyra stood from where she had placed the bread in Achak’s oven, thinking over the memory and how Achak’s warning still didn’t keep her and her sisters from pleading for tales of their mother, the beautiful sorceress Johanna.
Because this appeared to be Achak’s one weakness, memories of their dearest friend, they often complied. Over the years Larkyra had hungrily listened and collected small bits about the woman she loved but had barely met.
How Johanna’s smile had caused flowers to sprout along the path she walked. The way her dark hair had shone violet after a rainstorm. The particular wind-chimed laugh only their father could coax from her. Johanna’s obsession with collecting discarded string, continuously tying it together to eventually weave a tapestry during each of her pregnancies: the three rugs that now hung in their father’s bedchamber. This was what had the Bassette girls chancing their visits, coming back to this tiny island on the edge of existence. What was more, despite incessantly teasing the brother, Larkyra and her sisters loved Achak dearly. And the creature, despite never having said so, most certainly loved them.
“If you cast a shadow, my dearest Achak”—Arabessa arched a brow at the brother as he stirred his stew—“trouble would be merely one of the unruly things attached to it.”
“Which is why we’ve never bothered obtaining such a useless accessory.” Achak ladled out some of the chunky gray slop into a ceramic bowl.
Larkyra held in a wince. It might have smelled delicious, but it looked ghastly.
“So when will your sister be back?” asked Niya.
“No idea.”
“How is that possible?” Niya placed the core of her apple on the table. “She’s you.”
Achak nearly dropped his spoon into the large iron pot. “She certainly is not me.” He straightened to his full height as he cut Niya a scathing glance. “We are each our own, thank you very much. Now, if you’re going to continue to be so rude”—he pointed in the direction of the door again—“please take yourselves elsewhere. I hear the parsnips are blooming this time of year. Why don’t you stomp on those if you feel like being nasty?”
“Achak—” began Arabessa.
But before she could say much more, Achak’s back spasmed, and as he gave a fading curse, his green robe whipped about as if caught in a windstorm before settling into a luscious red dress. His body slimmed and curved slightly as similar violet eyes peered out of a completely changed face, no longer bearded but smooth and angular. The mouth stretched wider and fuller as a warm smile lit up the new creature’s features, her shaved head catching the light.
“You must excuse my brother’s rudeness,” said Achak, her voice like two violins playing in harmony. “He lost in our chess match last night and is still suffering a bruised ego.”
“You owe me a silver,” said Niya to Larkyra. “He lasted less than a quarter sand fall, and you said he would stay for a whole.”
“Sticks,” muttered Larkyra, rifling through her skirt’s pockets for the coin. “I have no idea how, but I’m sure you cheated.”
“If you don’t know how, then it’s irrelevant,” said Niya, grinning as she plucked the silver from Larkyra’s fingers.
“Please don’t tell me you bet on how long the brother would be able to stand us?” sighed Arabessa. “Really, girls, what did I say about making bets?”
“Sorry.” Niya looked down, chastened. “Next time we’ll be sure to include you.”
“That’s all I’ve ever asked.” Arabessa smoothed her skirts.
“You Bassettes have always been my favorite,” declared Achak with a smile before she turned to her brother’s stew. Her grin turned to a grimace. With a snap of her fingers, the sticky sludge vanished from the hearth before a proper spread of wine and cheese and delicious little chocolates appeared on the table before them.
“Finally.” Niya leaned forward, gathering a variety of food onto a small plate. “I’ve been craving something sweet since we left Yamanu.”
“But Niya . . .” Larkyra watched her sister pop three mini chocolates into her mouth. “I’m making sugarbread.”
“Yes, for our dessert.”
“You’re ridiculous,” said Larkyra, taking a seat.
“I’m a Bassette.” Niya shrugged, as if that explained everything.
Achak laughed as she settled herself in a chair next to Niya.
“Did you enjoy last night, Achak?” asked Arabessa, who looked like a giraffe beside Niya. Or maybe she made Niya look like a toad? Either way, Larkyra kept these particular musings to herself.
“I always enjoy your shows,” replied Achak.
“Who performed best?” asked Niya.
“When you play as the Mousai, there is only one performance to judge.”
“Sure.” Niya leaned back. “But which of the three made it the strongest one?”
“How do you think we did?” Larkyra rephrased.
“Half of those without the gifts fainted,” explained Achak. “And a handful of those with ran into walls.”
Larkyra wasn’t the only one in the room to smile in delight.
“And the strings on my violin weren’t even fresh.” Arabessa plucked a piece of cheese by stabbing it with a knife.
“Probably best they weren’t,” said Larkyra.
“Yes.” Niya nodded. “Especially since the last time they were, we had more than tears staining the floor.”
Arabessa grimaced. “You had to remind us of that, didn’t you?”
“In Niya’s defense”—Larkyra poured her oldest sister some tea before filling the others’ cups—“it’s been hard to forget.”
“Those smells often are,” agreed Achak, nodding her thanks to Larkyra before taking a sip.
Arabessa shrugged. “How was I to know how the giftless would react?”
“It’s in the past now.” Achak leaned into her chair. “Only there to learn from, not dwell.”
“But some things from the past are meant to be retold, right?” asked Niya, a hopeful expression in her blue eyes.
“And now we’ve come to the real point of your visit.”
“It’s not the only reason we come,” explained Larkyra.
“No, but it’s a big one.” Niya popped another chocolate into her mouth.
Larkyra cut Niya a be quiet glance.
“I’m under no delusions about the desires of the Bassette daughters,” said Achak. “I’ll tell you something short, for your visit wi
ll not be long.”
Larkyra frowned but didn’t ask for further clarification. If anyone could feel the future in the passing of time, it was Achak.
“Johanna . . .” Achak said the name softly, fondly, as she glanced out the kitchen’s dark, circular window, no doubt seeing down and through the gray, fogged doorway to where their mother could be reached. “Her favorite color was yellow. Did your father ever tell you that?”
The girls shook their heads, Larkyra leaning forward.
“Yellow,” repeated Achak. “A color that looked positively ghastly on her. My brother and I reminded her of this endlessly, of course. How it washed out her complexion. When she wore it, it actually appeared to sap the energy from her, if you can believe it. As if the very air rejected the idea of her wearing the hue. But this didn’t stop Johanna from loving it.” Achak smiled. “She even decorated most of her room in yellow. She used to say, ‘Why must I only like a thing that looks good on me? Can I not love it for being beautiful on the rest of the world?’” Achak played with the edge of her teacup, running a thin finger along the rim. “That was your mother. Appreciating something for existing—not for herself but for others.”
Larkyra’s throat tightened, her magic spinning at the sensation of her sudden sorrow, her chest a ball of yearning as the story Achak shared flowed over and through her. With each morsel of information, her mother would come more into focus, and Larkyra desperately wanted to see the full picture, all of this woman.
That familiar ache again, deep within Larkyra—the tar of guilt permanently stuck around her heart, making her steal glances at her sisters. Did part of them hate her for taking away the woman they had been able to hug, smell, and hear before Larkyra had come into this world? And then the question that haunted her the most, kept Larkyra wound tightly for control over her gifts: Was my life really worth stealing away a woman such as this?
Though close, Larkyra and her sisters rarely spoke of their mother’s death. And while Larkyra knew her sisters understood the hardship that came with learning her magic, she couldn’t stop the voice in her head that wondered if they silently resented her for all the pain she’d caused them.
Song of the Forever Rains Page 10