Song of the Forever Rains

by Mellow, E. J.

  “None of us have forgotten,” said Zimri softly. “I am merely looking out for the rest of those fingers and, more importantly, the person attached. So please, do your assignment, but promise me you won’t purposefully look for trouble?”

  “How can I promise such a thing? If anyone is meant to befriend monsters, is it not one of the Mousai?”

  “Exactly my point, one of. Wait until I return with your sis—”

  “This is my assignment.” Larkyra cut him off. “Not even a day in, and Niya and Arabessa are being called to the rescue? Do you not think I am capable?”

  “Lark,” sighed Zimri. “That is not what I am saying. Merely that whatever the lost gods have done with this place, we must proceed with caution.”

  She laughed at that, her gifts stirring hot with her annoyance. Larkyra clamped her mouth shut before any magic could escape. By the lost gods, she hated how in control she had to always be! Breathing slowly, Larkyra tried again, now in an even tone. “Zim, do you understand who you are talking to? I’m a Bassette. Caution is a characteristic that did not make it into my family’s mold.”

  “This isn’t a time to be coy,” he accused.

  “There is always a time to be coy,” she countered.

  “With that logic, you must no longer fear my early departure.”

  “I was about to ask what was taking you so long to get on your horse.”

  Zimri shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair. “I knew one of you would be the end of me.”

  “Yes, well.” Larkyra tugged back on her glove. “I’m only sorry to not be the sister you probably prefer to send you to the Fade.”

  “Niya would never have been able to go through with it.”

  “You know I do not speak of Niya.”

  “Yes.” Zimri hooked his foot into the stirrup of his saddle, swinging himself atop his horse. “I know.”

  Larkyra grabbed hold of the stallion’s leather bit, keeping Bavol steady. “I’ll be careful, Zim,” she said. “As careful as I am able.”

  “Which for a Bassette means hardly safe.”

  “Dancing around trouble?”

  “Playing with death.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But if I can play, then it means I am still alive.”

  “Then let us stop our compromise there.” Zimri gathered the reins more securely in his gloved hands. “Stay alive.”

  “I will.” Larkyra nodded. “When you return, I promise to be alive.”

  “Thank you.” Zimri’s eyes met hers once more.

  They stayed locked there for another beat, silently saying their own goodbye, before he clicked his tongue and set his horse to trot forward.

  Larkyra watched from beneath the awning, the rain muddying the ground and coating the trim of her dress as Zimri grew grayer and smaller. She kept her gaze pinned to him as he left the fog-shrouded castle, crossing the long, narrow bridge that would connect him to the far cliffs and take him in search of the man who, no doubt, was the curse of this land and who, regrettably, had the very real intention of becoming her husband.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The only thing in the following days that helped ease the ache of Zimri’s departure was the letter Larkyra received from her sisters. Sitting on the windowsill of the grand library—a converted watchtower, where a winding metal staircase rose from the middle and connected to various balconies of books—Larkyra read over the words that fought each other for prominence on the page.

  My Our dearest sister, I will warn you now this letter may be complicated, for Niya is standing over my shoulder, inked quill in hand, ready to—Let us not waste paper on cordial beginnings. Have you found anything yet? What is Lachlan like? Is there anything to entertain on such a waterlogged territory?—I am sorry for that nonsense, Lark. I will write quick to—We all know I have the best penmanship so should be—By the lost gods, be thankful you are safely away from this redheaded thorn. I have spelled my harp to grab hold of her, ensuring us some peace. All is quiet in Jabari, save for Niya’s usual antics. Father has set ears in every corner of the kingdom regarding our black leak. I hope your days have been fruitful. We anxiously await any news on your or Zimri’s end, mainly so we can soon be together again. Have you visited the surrounding towns? Perhaps there are those outside the castle who might know better of the things within. My darling girl, have you fallen asleep yet? Do not worry. I have safely distracted Arabessa from writing any more. She is too busy dancing out of the tangle her skirts have tied her in. I will close this letter quickly by saying this—you might be there for work, but please do find some fun along the way. Laughter will shun any dark you may turn up in your search. I We love you dearly.

  N + A +N

  Larkyra couldn’t help but smile, rereading the letter. Her finger grazed over the indentations made by each quick swipe of her sisters’ quills. Have you found anything yet? No, nothing to write home about. With Clara’s constant guard-like company, Larkyra had explored the north wing, which mainly consisted of the sleeping quarters for guests—now reduced to one—and a large ballroom that was unsurprisingly kept closed and shrouded in white sheets. She’d been led on a tour through the music room and multiple sitting rooms—none that looked used—guided through halls lined with ancestral history of carved busts and more painted portraits, and piloted on a walk around the perimeter of the castle. All places in the open, meant to be displayed. The exact opposite of the tour Larkyra needed.

  Perhaps there are those outside the castle who might know better of the things within.

  Arabessa’s words danced across Larkyra’s mind as she stared out the library window at the rocky landscape that dropped into the surrounding lake.

  “Clara!” Larkyra pressed one hand against the glass. “It has stopped raining.”

  Clara looked up from where she sat across from her, mending a silk stocking. “So it has, my lady.”

  “Well then.” Larkyra jumped from the sill. “Why are we still sitting here? Let us go for another walk.”

  The air was crisp and misty, causing small droplets of water to cling to Larkyra’s deep-maroon cloak. Plucking at a low-hanging leaf, she made her way with Clara along a thick, overgrown path that led to the southern cliffs of the island.

  While the castle jutted proudly from the island’s rocky peak, it was partially surrounded by a patch of dense forest. The beaten dirt path they traveled cut through the trees and was winding and rough and hardly suitable for one who didn’t enjoy hiking.

  Luckily, Larkyra loved it. Her lady’s maid, however . . .

  “Must we go this way, my lady?” breathed Clara heavily behind her. “And if so, must we do it so fast?”

  Larkyra faced the girl, watching her gray-cloaked form teeter down a particularly muddy turn. “A little exercise and fresh air are good for the spirits, Clara. I bet you have already delayed your visit to the Fade.”

  “Only if I survive this current journey, you mean, my lady,” grumbled Clara. But her muttering was cut off when an echoing screech from high above had her slipping. Larkyra grabbed Clara’s elbow to steady her. “By the Obasi Sea.” Clara peered up at the canopy of trees, where a patch of gray sky poked through. “What was that?”

  Larkyra kept walking. “It sounded like a hawk.”

  “A hawk?” Clara quickened her pace to reach Larkyra. “That sounded larger than a hawk.”

  “Perhaps it’s a large hawk,” said Larkyra before all thought was dashed from her mind as they exited the forest and took in the view. A horizon of lakes and islands stretched before her, the blue gray of the waters reflecting the endless clouds above. She’d never seen anything so serene, so covered in nature, and she had seen many wonders in Aadilor.

  A few more paces forward, and she hit the lip of the southern peninsula, where the edge dropped dramatically to the waters below. A few boulders peppered the cliffside, beckoning a brave soul to climb her way down to the slip of beach. Beyond the water, to the right, was the sprawling gray town on
the mainland, which stretched up from lapping waves before it was cut off by another looming mountain covered in trees and wild brush, soaring up and up to the clouds. Larkyra made out a large stone fortification carved straight from the mountainside, the facade partially overgrown with ivy and moss. Eroding statues stood above the structure’s jutting balcony, but at this distance Larkyra could not make them out. The entire edifice looked like an old watchtower, lording over the boats coming and going from the port.

  Larkyra closed her eyes for a moment, digesting the scene.

  The fresh air filled her lungs as the wind whipped her cloak around her legs. At the rare sense of freedom, Larkyra’s magic sighed along with her. The only thing that could make this moment more perfect was a bit of sun.

  “It can be beautiful,” said Clara, gazing toward the town in the distance, her features soft, wistful.

  “Tell me”—Larkyra watched the silver hawk that wove in and out of view through the cloudy sky—“how long is Lachlan’s rainy season?”

  Her lady’s maid let out a small snort. “Oh, I do apologize, my lady.” Clara covered her mouth. “It’s just that if this was a season, it would be a terribly long one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It has been raining for over a decade now.”

  Larkyra blinked. “You mean to tell me there has been a storm every day for ten years?”

  “We may have a handful of days where we experience a reprieve, and even fewer sunny skies, but rain is a constant.”

  “How has everything not been washed away? Flooded?”

  “You know”—Clara’s brows creased together—“no one has ever asked me that. I suppose the lakes help. No one truly knows their depths. And there are some that believe Lachlan was the lost gods’ watering hole. Waterfall Skies is what travelers have called it.”

  “Waterfall Skies,” repeated Larkyra. “That makes it sound . . . less violent than it can be.”

  Clara surprised them both with another laugh. “Oh, I do apologize again, my lady! You seem to have caught me in a rare mood.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s just that you have not been with us very long and already think it violent. I fear what you’ll say when the real waves crash in.”

  “Oh dear.” Larkyra glanced over the waters again. “So do I.”

  A wind picked up suddenly, and Larkyra wrapped her cloak more securely around her, letting out a shiver.

  “Are you cold, my lady?”

  “I am rather.”

  “Shall we turn back?”

  “Actually, would you be a dear and bring me another shawl?”

  “Return to the castle?” Clara’s forehead crinkled. “And leave you here by yourself? I don’t think that wise, my lady. It will take some time for me to make my way to your rooms, and it’s getting late.”

  “It is barely past lunch,” said Larkyra. “Surely we still have a few more sand falls of light left.”

  Clara glanced behind them to the forest, to the castle’s stone towers that jutted above the canopy.

  “I shan’t walk from this spot,” said Larkyra. “I promise. And I really would appreciate a moment.” She played with the clasp on her cloak. “You see, the reality of not being with my family is starting to hit, and I’d like a moment to gather myself, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” said Clara, empathy in her eyes. “It must be hard to travel such a distance from them. Are you close with your family?”

  “My sisters are my best friends.”

  Clara’s frown deepened. “Then I will leave you be, but as you promised, you will not walk from this spot?”

  Larkyra placed a gloved hand to her heart. “Not a step.”

  Seemingly satisfied, Clara nodded. “I will return as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  Watching Clara backtrack the way they’d come and disappear into the woods, Larkyra allowed a few more grains to fall, ensuring she was well out of viewing distance, before pushing back her hood and searching the overcast sky.

  Though it appeared empty, she knew what hid in the clouds. Opening her mouth, she let out a shockingly accurate imitation of a hawk’s screech, her magic warm in her throat as it soared high with her voice.

  A beat of only wind and waves.

  And then—

  Like a needle plunging through silk, a spark of silver pushed out of the mist with an echoing reply.

  Kaipo flew toward her. His wingspan stretched four horses in length, his size growing, not only because of the open land but also to accommodate her request.

  Lifting her arms on either side to form a T, Larkyra held steady as Kaipo hovered above her, his beating wings stirring wisps of her hair from its braids. Ever so gently, Kaipo’s talons wrapped around her biceps. In the next breath, Larkyra was no longer standing on the cliff’s edge but dangling in midair as she was lifted through the clouds, beyond the castle, which shrank with each flap of her friend’s wings. From this new vantage point, Larkyra could see a few other villages peppered along the surrounding lakes, but none were as large as Imell, the main town that curled around Lachlan Lake. Castle Island loomed from the center like a watchdog, Clara somewhere inside.

  While Larkyra might have sworn to not walk from the cliff’s edge, she’d never said anything about flying. With a smile on her lips, Larkyra enjoyed the cool wind against her face as she let out another screech, one that was returned by Kaipo as he banked right, soaring toward her requested destination.

  Kaipo dropped Larkyra on a stretch of exposed path on the mainland, one that wound its way down to Imell, and she patted his thick plumes in thanks before he pumped his massive wings, stirring the treetops, and shot up, disappearing once again into the sky.

  With her hood pulled up, the deep maroon standing out against the wet greens and browns, Larkyra set off down the muddy road toward town. It had begun to lightly rain, and she wiped at the dew collecting on her cheeks, hoping it would remain just that—light.

  Picking her way around the occasional exposed root or fallen pile of rocks, she studied her surroundings. Everything was overgrown. Ivy ran wild up sloping stone along with giant elephant-ear leaves, which acted as a canopy to a variety of other plants and flowers, purple pickerelweeds being one. They lined the road she walked, guiding her forward and bringing a nice spot of color to the two-toned land.

  Besides the crunching and slopping of her boots against the ground and the gentle pattering of rain, it was a quiet journey and a rather lonely one.

  Where are all the people?

  Surely someone was traveling from the castle to town or vice versa.

  Just as she was beginning to believe she was the only one left alive this side of the lake, a low rumble of voices flowed toward her. Quickening her pace, Larkyra turned a bend to find two men hovering over a merchant’s carriage on the side of the road. A rather large, gray-bearded bloke with a pasty complexion was holding the top of the iron wheel steady, his clothes damp and brushed with time, while the younger man, who had deep-copper-colored hair, was kneeling in the mud, back muscles straining as he worked a wrench to tighten a bolt.

  “There.” The man on the ground sat back on his heels, throwing his tool into a wooden box beside him. “That should keep it together until you get to Imell. You must see Mr. Bergan as soon as you do, though. The lost gods know I’m no chaisemaker.”

  “Aye.” The older gentleman nodded, shaking hands with the younger as he stood. “I am forever grateful. I would have been forced to abandon her to fetch my son if you hadn’t come along, my back not being what it was.”

  “No need for your thanks, Henry. I’m happy to help.”

  “Aye, we know, sir, but we all still be thankful when you give it.”

  Larkyra stepped on a fallen twig, and the snap echoed in the cool air; the men glanced her way.

  Her breath held. Sticks, she thought as Henry’s bushy brows rose into his hairline, taking her in, while the tall f
orm beside him narrowed his eyes.

  “Are you lost, ma’am?” asked Henry.

  “Lost her mind, perhaps,” said Lord Mekenna, wiping his dirt-splattered hands on his even-dirtier trousers.

  The movement drew Larkyra to study the rest of him. The impeccable outfit he usually wore was clearly gone, as he stood in a simple off-white cotton shirt and brown breeches. The material of his top was so worn that it was practically transparent, while his leather boots were slopped with mud. He looked positively feral.

  Oh my.

  Despite the cool air, Larkyra grew rather warm and, surprisingly, a bit flustered.

  “What are you doing outside the castle, Lady Larkyra?” asked Lord Mekenna, watching her from beside the carriage.

  She raised a brow at his tone, her fluster turning annoyed. “I did not realize I was meant to be chained within its walls,” she countered, walking forward before turning to Henry. “I do apologize for the misplaced manners of our common acquaintance. But as he appears incapable of a proper introduction”—she extended her hand—“I am Larkyra Bassette, a guest at the Lachlan estate.”

  Henry looked from her gloved hand, the green velvet clean and smooth compared to the state of both men’s, to Lord Mekenna.

  “You can shake it,” she encouraged. “I only bite if I’m not served dessert.”

  “Henry Alton, my lady.” He took her delicate fingers into his sausage ones.

  “Please, call me by my given name, Larkyra. Standing on such formality wastes breath that could be used for better conversational topics; don’t you agree, Henry?”

  “I . . .” The old man looked to Lord Mekenna again, who was rubbing his lips together, watching her skeptically.

  “Precisely.” She charged on. “Now, I see you were having a problem with your wheel?”

  “Uh, yes, my lady—”

  “Larkyra.”

  The man’s throat bobbed a swallow. “Larkyra.”

  “Very good.” She smiled. “It was kind of Lord Mekenna—” She glanced his way. “Or can I now call you Darius since we are throwing away such stuffy convention?”