Song of the Forever Rains

by Mellow, E. J.

  Removing her soiled gloves, Larkyra shook herself. It was time to stop sniveling and be useful. By the lost gods, she had seen torture in the Thief Kingdom. Had tortured others herself. Why should this be any different?

  Larkyra of course knew why.

  Her eyes roamed over the red mess that was Lord Mekenna’s face. There were five hard lines in total. Two across his forehead, one on his right cheek to match the one Kaipo had put on his left, and then another that ran from his jaw to below his ear.

  Larkyra swallowed, trying to suppress the guilt she felt for causing this.

  Because this was her doing. But how could she have refused the duke’s proposal? Her father had said it might come to this; they might need to take it this far to uncover what they needed. She would never go through with the actual marriage, of course. That her father would never ask of her . . . would he?

  She wished she could have told Darius the truth in that moment. The anger and hurt on his face as he’d taken in her ring had nearly cracked Larkyra open.

  And those silly uniforms.

  She’d merely wanted to feel useful, helpful, especially after Darius’s harsh words to her the other night. She hadn’t thought helping the staff would bring about more anger from the lord.

  Such spending would be better used elsewhere.

  But the mountain of trunks in the hidden vault, coupled with the desperation in his voice . . . something wasn’t adding up.

  Larkyra would figure it out later.

  Presently she needed to heal the wounds she’d caused.

  It was a blessing she and Darius had met no one on their journey to his rooms, as the castle had become increasingly empty since the day she’d arrived. It was an oddity to be grateful for. She had no energy to explain why their young master was in such a state.

  No, all her energy had to be saved for Darius.

  Ensuring the lord’s bedchamber was locked, she shuttered the balcony and doused the candles, though not the blazing fireplace.

  Finding some discarded strips of cotton cloth and a water basin on his vanity, she brought them to his bed. With gentle hands she wiped away the blood oozing from his wounds.

  Darius moaned in pain, and her heart twisted.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “It will be better soon.”

  At her voice, Darius’s eyes fluttered open, and her hand stilled.

  “Larkyra,” he mumbled before his body sank deeper into the mattress and his eyes rolled shut.

  Larkyra took up her task again, now singing a gentle lullaby.

  The sound came from deep within her belly, warming her throat. She wrapped the room in a honey-yellow fog of magic, a bubble of soundproof safety, as she continued to wash the young lord. Her song was one of her sisters’ favorites. It spoke of the meadows in Grand Park that sat on the eastern edge of Jabari. Their father had often taken them there on picnics, ever since they were little girls. She let the notes drift warm and golden, like the flowers Arabessa pinned in her hair while Niya read verses from one of her cherished poetry books. It was a soothing memory, one that would rid the lord of any pain he might feel with each of her cleansing touches. Wringing out the towel, the basin filling with ruby water, she sat back.

  Even covered with slashes, Darius was beautiful. His angled cheekbones were bathed with shadows from the fire. His full lips parted, his breath coming out in a smooth rhythm. Larkyra surveyed the rest of his body, her eyes landing on his charcoal suit. Blood darkened parts of his lapel, and there was a large red stain on the crisp white shirt beneath his vest. She would see what could be done about those once she finished with his face.

  Her chest tightened again as she looked at the slices. How could he have lived through such torment for so many years? It must have taken a deep well of courage to storm in as he had, a strong belief in his convictions to voice his opinion.

  “I’m sorry,” she found herself saying again. “I did not know it would come to this.”

  Her chest felt heavy, tired, as she looked over at the red jewel still on the velvet glove by her side. It was a beautiful ring—despite representing a commitment to Hayzar Bruin—made of delicate gold bands woven together and wrapped around the large ruby. As she had taken it from the duke and slipped it onto her padded finger, she’d sensed its history, a story that perhaps spoke of a happier time.

  I will make it up to you, she promised, looking at Darius. I have to.

  Setting down the rag, Larkyra took a deep breath, ready to call up a new song that would heal flesh and bone, using the magic that sat deepest in her heart.

  But before she could, the door handle to Darius’s chambers rattled.

  A key scraped in the lock; Larkyra snapped her mouth shut and, snatching up her gloves, dashed from the side of the bed to conceal herself in shadow behind the thick drapes by the balcony door.

  Peering through a narrow gap in the cloth, Larkyra watched a thin man with a hooked nose she would recognize anywhere poke his head inside. Boland peered around the young lord’s room, skimming over Larkyra’s hiding spot, to the fire dancing in the hearth.

  “My lord?” he whispered.

  Larkyra’s pulse ran fast against her skin.

  “My lord, are you awake?” He crept forward.

  When his master did not answer, his shoulders relaxed, and he locked the door behind him. Crossing to Darius’s side, he gasped at the sight.

  A surge of protective magic edged a low growl from Larkyra.

  Boland glanced up, as if he heard some sound, but with the constant storm outside, it would be hard to tell what was thunder and what was a person’s rage.

  “Oh, my lord,” the old man said as he looked back to Darius. “What have you done now?”

  Now?

  So the old man was aware of what went on in this stone prison? A fury of flames flickered in Larkyra’s gut, but then Boland covered his nose and mouth with a kerchief before pulling out a twine-wrapped bundle of branches. Lighting the end, he wafted the smoke over the sleeping lord. The rich aroma hit Larkyra hard. Gaffaw bark, a sleep vapor. Larkyra quickly held her breath.

  What is he doing?

  Dousing the gaffaw in the basin by Darius, the butler removed his kerchief and pulled a small leather pouch from his coat pocket. With care, he began to rub a brown substance along the open wounds.

  “These are deep, my lord,” he muttered softly, a heavy sadness in his eyes. “How I wish I could bear these cuts for you. Your mother would not stand for what’s become of her home. No.” Boland continued to prattle, as though to soothe himself as much as Darius. “Oh, how I wish you didn’t look so much like her.”

  Her?

  Flashes of similar copper hair, a fair complexion, and green eyes gazing down from a painting filled Larkyra’s mind.

  By the Obasi Sea, could this really be a cause for Hayzar’s cruelty? That his stepson resembled the late duchess?

  Larkyra’s hands fisted at her sides, her magic a purr of vengeance in her throat.

  Her head continued to swim as she watched the butler, this crotchety man who did nothing but sneer in Larkyra’s presence, trying to help Darius. His ministrations were careful, the gentle touch of a friend accustomed to such a task.

  What relationship do these two men share? And how much does Boland truly know of what goes on under this roof?

  A clanking sound beyond the lord’s bedchambers had both Larkyra and Boland glancing toward the door. The old man hastily repacked his things and, with one last pained glance at his master, exited the room.

  Larkyra shook her head in wonder, still hidden in her corner as Darius gently stirred on the bed.

  Walking to his side, she examined Boland’s handiwork. It was rather clumsy, the brown goo stuck in each of the lord’s gashes, but if this was what had been used for so many years to heal all the others, then so be it.

  It just would not do for tonight.

  Pushing away a multitude of questions, Larkyra began again from where she’d left o
ff. With a soft inhale, she sang.

  Mend broken, mend pain;

  Weave and stitch

  What remains

  The surface waits idle,

  So swim fast, swim true;

  Pull together the slain

  Let the No More

  Forever remove

  The tears from his eyes

  Blacken the memories

  Gripping his heart

  And banish his cries

  Erase, wipe away,

  A gust of wind smoothing

  Rough sand carved

  His future made new

  Light filled

  Where evil is starved

  Pour the dark

  With my bright,

  My love for all living

  Let the Obasi Sea waters

  Drown the past,

  Building a final forgiving

  Larkyra’s magic poured out, a shimmering gold from her lips as the notes flowed around them, trapping them once again in soundlessness. She waited until her spell was strong enough, until her heart’s intent was pure and focused enough, to lightly trace it along every wound.

  Her power vibrated through her body, coursed through her veins, a warm, welcome sensation as the butler’s poultice rose up and broke away and smooth skin slowly fused back together, an erasing of time.

  With the wounds as fresh as they were, the work was quick. But Larkyra knew not all scars could be seen, and this day would leave its mark on all, on her especially.

  With Darius’s cuts healed, Larkyra set about removing his soiled coat and shirt, doing her best to ignore his bare chest as she slid from the bed to dig through his armoire. Pulling free the first top her fingers grazed, she gently re-dressed the unconscious lord.

  Despite her father’s instructions, the moment for patience had passed.

  It was time to take action, and on her own terms. It was time to set things on their true course, on a faster, safer road to saving Lachlan.

  Throwing a soft blanket over Darius and tucking it under his sides, Larkyra studied his face, a new, smooth mask, before heading to the armchair by the fire to wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Darius gasped, jolting upright, as though splashed with ice water.

  His dreams had been a wave of pain that had softened to feather-warm touches before dipping back into a cold kiss of shadows.

  His drapes were drawn shut, but a sliver of light crept through, a hint of morning, a new day, while a pattering of rain and rumble of Lachlan’s forever storm played beyond his walls. The rest of his rooms were bathed in a softer orange. The fire in the hearth burned bright, and he pulled at his collar, realizing he was wearing a shirt he hadn’t worn since he was a younger man. The material felt tight and itchy against his skin.

  Frowning, he began to unbutton it before a faint cough stopped him.

  He turned and found a woman comfortably folded into one of his armchairs.

  Darius pulled his shirt closed, springing from his bed. “Larkyra? What are you doing here?”

  “How do you feel, my lord?”

  “Feel?” he spluttered. “Rather imposed upon at the moment.”

  “But not in pain?”

  Pain.

  The word unleashed a horde of confused memories. He looked down at his hand, where he had once grasped a shining silver object.

  He took another step back, spinning around, and looked down at his chest, his arms. Nothing.

  No new scars. Then why did he feel as though there should be?

  “It was your face.”

  “Excuse me?” He turned to Larkyra, still sitting in his chair.

  “He made you cut your face.”

  She said it as though it were as regular a statement as a morning greeting.

  “Are you mad?” he barked, touching his cheeks and forehead. Smooth. “Why are you in my rooms? You must leave.” He strode to his door. “This is wholly inappropriate.”

  Especially considering that she was now engaged to his stepfather. That he remembered, and it still hit fresh and low in his stomach. Another nightmare come true. How would he survive it?

  “What have you done to the door?” Darius jiggled the handle to no avail. He was locked in.

  “Do you truly remember nothing?” Larkyra stood, walking toward him.

  He took steps back. “What do you mean? I remember everything. Your celebratory news. Congratulations again, my lady.” He gave a mocking bow. “And your frivolity in re-dressing our entire household.”

  Her gaze flashed with hurt. “I ask of the other thing that happened, my lord.”

  That vast chasm of blacked-out memories gripped his mind again.

  I am not mad. I am not mad. I am not mad, repeated Darius in his silent panic, finding the familiar welt on his right arm. Still there.

  “What other thing?” he asked, hoping Larkyra didn’t hear the waver in his voice.

  “How remarkable.” She watched him closely. “Do you not remember any pain either?”

  There was that word again.

  “I—” Whatever he was going to say got stuck in his throat.

  Pain.

  He held in a shiver.

  There was always pain. Especially now, in her presence. In his rooms. So close to his bed, his soft sheets.

  By the lost gods, pull yourself together.

  “There is much to discuss, my lord. I suggest we have a seat.” She gestured to the fire.

  At some point as she waited for him to wake, she must have gotten refreshments, for there was a tray laid out on the low table.

  Who else knew she was in here? Or had she used her clever ways to remain unseen?

  As she settled herself once more into an armchair, Darius noticed that on second glance, Larkyra was not as poised and put together as usual. Strands of her hair had come out of the complicated braid atop her head, and her gown was the same half-made one that she’d worn yesterday, wrinkles around the skirts. And he couldn’t be sure, but . . . were those specks of blood along her neck?

  “You may come and sit,” she said again, pouring out two cups of tea. “No one will disturb us.”

  “This is all very odd.” Darius slowly approached the chair across from her, growing light headed. Not to mention his bones seemed weary, his body weighed down with a soul-deep exhaustion that kept the fight in him at bay.

  He was tired of fighting.

  “I understand your confusion.” She handed him a cup. “I am rather confused myself, but that is why we must talk.”

  “Of things not regularly suitable for polite conversation, I imagine.”

  An edge of a grin on her fatigued face. “Precisely those.”

  “Will this explain what happened the other night, in the house of my ancestors?”

  “Among other things.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Truthfully?”

  “My lord.” She sat back. “What I am about to tell you will most likely get me kicked out of my family. Perhaps even executed. Well, if anyone could catch me, that is. So yes, what we are about to discuss will be the truth—no more tricks and no more masks.”

  Darius studied Larkyra, from her shining blue eyes to her steady fingers holding her cup. “Very well,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  “The difficult part is probably where to begin.”

  “Perhaps with the most recent events?”

  “Yes, those.” She took a deep breath, gazing into the fire. “My engagement with your father—stepfather—is a farce.”

  It was as if he’d been splashed with cold water. “Excuse me?”

  “It is merely for show.”

  He snorted. “Isn’t every marriage?”

  “What I mean is, I do not intend to go through with the wedding.”

  The flames beside them seemed to pause midflicker as a drop of relief fell into his well of confusion. I do not intend to go through with the wedding.

  Darius’s heart gave a stuttering start, a strange surge of emotion filling him, b
ut of what exactly he could not say. “What do you intend on doing, then?”

  “That . . . is rather complicated.”

  “As only something involving you could be.”

  “I also know of your scars.”

  A ringing filled his ears. “My scars?”

  “Yes, the ones that marked your chest and arms.”

  Darius’s hand involuntarily went to his uncomfortably tight shirt. “I have no idea what you mean. I have no scars there.”

  “You do, but not as many.”

  His breath hitched, his skin growing colder, and he had to put down his cup to keep it from spilling.

  “It is nothing to worry you,” she continued. “For—”

  “Nothing to worry me?” He nearly choked on his own tongue. “I beg to differ, my lady.”

  “Larkyra,” she huffed. “Please, return to calling me Larkyra. If I must remain muttering ‘my lord’ and ‘sir’ to you, then so be it, but it feels foolish to stand on formalities now.”

  “Now? Meaning after you’ve just admitted to seeing me bare chested?”

  A deep blush graced her cheeks. “Among other things,” she replied.

  Darius raised a shocked brow.

  “Not those other things,” she corrected quickly.

  “I would hope not.”

  “Anyway . . .” She fluttered a hand along her skirts. “I have seen them because I came to check on you after you fell ill at dinner.”

  “Ill—”

  The medicine bottle on his floor. It had been empty.

  In a foggy flash, a memory of his stepfather’s angry face swam before him, the soup smelling so strongly of curash, feeling compelled to eat it even though he knew it would lead to such pain . . . why had he done it?

  Hayzar, screamed a voice inside his head. Always Hayzar.

  “To find you asleep.”

  The sound of Larkyra’s words brought him back.

  “I saw the scars then, and well, I helped take them away. To heal you. As much as I could, anyway.”

  The room hung in silence; the rumbling storm beyond the windows was the only reply to such a statement.

  “I can see you don’t believe me,” she said after a moment. “Which I was prepared for, so I will show you.” Putting down her cup, she pulled out a pin from her half-made dress. The tip winked in the low light as she pressed into her palm and sliced.