Song of the Forever Rains

by Mellow, E. J.

  “The quickest routes never are,” she said. “But we have to—”

  “Something pretty for your pretty-boy prisoner?” A man better described as a skeleton in a top hat popped from a shadowed corner, opening a case kept beneath his gray coat. His smile took up his whole face, his teeth filed into points.

  Darius was about to glance inside when Larkyra shifted in front of him, cutting off his view.

  “I would step away.” Larkyra’s voice came out a dark lyric. “If you have no blood to pay.”

  Whatever the stack of bones heard or saw as he caught sight of Larkyra’s gold mask seemed to drain the color he had left, and with an apologetic bow, he scurried away.

  “What was that?” Darius hurried to follow Larkyra’s quickening steps.

  “A skin stealer,” said Larkyra as they descended a set of stairs leading into an underground alley. Yellow and green lanterns hung from the low ceilings, around which hundreds of glowing moths fluttered to take in their warm light. “If you had looked at the mirror inside his case, it would have enabled him to wear your likeness whenever he pleased.”

  “But I have a mask on.”

  “As do most here.” Larkyra wove through a group of people reaching out to catch moths. “Oftentimes, masks are more identifiable than the skin or scales beneath.” She turned her golden face toward a short masked figure whose gaze followed them. At Larkyra’s attention, the creature squeaked and shrank away.

  “You’re rather terrifying,” admitted Darius.

  “Thank you,” said Larkyra, the smile beneath her mask apparent.

  “Does it ever bother you?”

  “What?”

  “How you get your reputation here.”

  Larkyra looked away from him, snapping out her hand to trap her own glowing moth. The insect fluttered helplessly between her fingers. “I don’t dwell on it enough for it to bother me.”

  “I don’t think I could do what you do,” admitted Darius.

  He caught her hurt gaze beneath her disguise and hurried to explain. “I am not placing judgment on you—”

  “It certainly feels that you are.”

  “No, not at all. It’s just . . . well, you say I am brave, but there is no debating you are much braver than I.”

  She shrugged. “This is merely how the world is. We each do what we do because we must. And some evils only yield when in pain. It’s the intention behind the hurt that matters. You ask if my powers bother me; of course they do. The actions I am capable of . . . have done . . .” Larkyra shook her head. “I cannot think on them long, or it would drive me as crazy as the people my magic affects. What I hold on to is the good I can do, have done, despite the methods to get there.” Larkyra walked from him then, leaving Darius to take in her words.

  When she ran her hand through floral-scented smoke streaming from a crack, Larkyra’s moth instantly stopped moving. As she opened her fingers, the creature’s wings unfolded to reveal a small cylinder on its back. Taking a tiny rolled paper from her reticule, Larkyra slipped it inside the compartment and snapped it shut. Closing her eyes, she muttered something under her breath before throwing her hand up, sending the moth fluttering up and out of a hole in the alley’s stone ceiling, where others of its kind flew through.

  “What just happened?”

  “I sent a message to those who need to meet us.”

  “But how does it know who they are or where they’ll be?”

  Larkyra paused on the stairs leading out of the glowing street. “You know,” she said, “I’m not sure. You merely tell it your intentions and set it free.”

  “Seems like an uncertain way of sending news.”

  “Except messenger moths have never not delivered.”

  Darius played that answer over in his mind as they walked back out to the edge of the city. The dilapidated houses turned to dirt walls, and they eventually slipped through a ragged crevasse in the cavern’s wall. Leading him over a small stream that cut through the rocky ground, Larkyra had them turning, stepping, and dipping into an underground grotto. Water flowed from the middle of the ceiling and poured into a stone pool at their feet. A purple glow emanated from its depths, illuminating the space.

  “Water worms,” explained Larkyra, straightening her skirts as she settled herself on a stone bench. “They are closely related to the ones making up the Thief Kingdom’s sky.”

  Darius pulled his gaze from the light to take in their surroundings. The circular grotto was calm in the violet light, the water falling rhythmically and unceasingly into its center. There was only one entrance and no benches besides the one Larkyra sat on.

  She shifted to one side, making room for him. “You might as well have a seat.” Her gold-masked face tipped up under her hood. “It might be a while.”

  “But we don’t have a while.”

  “We have as much time as it will take.”

  With resignation, Darius rested beside her on the small bench, the black skirts of Larkyra’s dress flowing against his legs. He tried to ignore their proximity, her fresh scent that set his skin to fever. He had wanted to keep his distance more than ever in the past days, and for once it had nothing to do with anger but rather a different sensation . . . one that he had been trying desperately not to entertain, that had him wondering how it would feel to pull her into his arms, despite his better judgment.

  “That pin.” Darius touched the silver rose peeking from beneath her cape. “Boland has one very similar.”

  “Does he?” asked Larkyra, shifting to try to hide the accessory.

  Darius frowned, looking closer. “That is his, isn’t it?”

  “Was,” clarified Larkyra. “It’s now mine.”

  “He gave it to you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Darius waited for her to explain, but as the grains fell with only the sounds of the falling water, her hesitancy apparent—

  “You stole it from him?” His shock was clear in his tone.

  Larkyra cleared her throat. “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “He’s not exactly kind to me,” she accused. “In fact, I think he loathes my very presence in the castle.”

  “So this is reason to steal from one of my most loyal servants?” asked Darius, his disappointment clear.

  He knew her to be a thief, but this . . . this felt petty even for her.

  Larkyra’s gaze met his, guilt swimming. “It’s a reason, certainly.”

  “No, it is not,” said Darius. “You know my people hardly have money for food, let alone pretty adornments such as this. Boland loves that pin.”

  “Yes, well, I hadn’t exactly known the state of affairs in Lachlan at the time,” admitted Larkyra, a tightness in her voice as she unpinned the rose from her clothes. “Here. He can have it back. I’m sorry.”

  Darius studied the piece in his hands. “Have you stolen other items such as this?”

  “In Lachlan? No.”

  “But you have in other places?”

  Her silence was answer enough, and Darius shook his head in wonder. “Why?” he asked again. “You come from a wealthy family; why would you need to steal such trinkets from others?”

  Larkyra played with the loose material on her missing ring finger, where Darius knew the glove was stuffed to make it appear whole.

  She’s nervous, thought Darius in surprise.

  Gently he stilled her hands with his own. Wide blue eyes peered up at him.

  “You can tell me,” he assured. “We have shared many things up until this point; no need to stop now.”

  Larkyra let out a shaky breath, looking away from him. “My gifts have always been hard to control, given they are tied to my voice. When I was a child, I did not understand how they could be two separate entities. If I cried, so did my magic; if I laughed, my powers did as well, but whether I was happy or sad, my gift always caused pain. As I kept watching myself hurting others, my family, my friends, just by opening my mouth, I did not talk for a very long while
,” she admitted. “It has taken—and still does take—a tiring amount of discipline to command my magic properly. I often feel I can never truly be free because of it. And . . . well, it angers me. Always needing to remain calm. How I never can get too upset for fear of what might happen if I speak when I do. I guess stealing these items—”

  “Allows you freedoms that don’t physically hurt others,” finished Darius, his own chest aching at her words, now understanding her completely. For he knew too well what it was like to be trapped by one’s own need for control. To search for the smallest sliver of reprieve.

  “Yes,” said Larkyra, her blue eyes glistening behind her mask.

  Darius squeezed her hand. “But you must know that your control has won out. For the magic you have shown me has been anything but painful, or have you forgotten what you have healed?”

  “But I caused you pain when you woke. I—”

  “Perhaps in the beginning,” he interrupted. “But now . . . now you have reminded me that not all touch is laced with hurt.” As Darius spoke this realization, a wave of shock shivered through him at the same moment a weight lifted from his heart.

  Larkyra’s breaths were coming out quick, matching his beating heart. She was so close, her warmth seeping into his side. Darius wanted to remove her mask, to gaze upon her full lips and run a hand along her soft cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” said Larkyra after a moment.

  “For what?” asked Darius.

  “That you needed such a reminder to begin with.”

  And then she was standing, leaving only cold in her wake, as an echo of soft mutterings funneled through the opening to the grotto.

  Darius turned to find two forms, both in cloaks and gold masks identical to Larkyra’s, stepping inside. Behind them walked a smartly dressed man wearing a silver mask, as well as a fourth person, who needed no introduction or disguise. Achak moved tall behind the trio, her shaved head barely passing under the grotto’s entrance. Achak’s violet eyes landed on him, surely cataloging more than what was on display. Darius pushed away his dizziness from the moment he and Larkyra had recently shared.

  “Songbird!” The shortest woman ran to Larkyra, practically lifting her in a hug. The inkiness of their cloaks swam as one for a moment. “Oh, how much thinner you feel.” She set her down before her expressionless mask turned to Darius. “Have you no food in your castle, my lord?”

  Darius was startled at first to be recognized behind his disguise, until he realized he knew each of them. Except the silver man, whose leather hood, high-necked collar, and gloved hands hid any hint of his identity.

  “Your sister had every opportunity to eat us out of house and home,” assured Darius to Niya. At least, he assumed from her height that she was the middle Bassette.

  “Truly?” Niya turned back to Larkyra. “Then why are you so thin, my darling?”

  “Shall we discuss my weight another time?” came Larkyra’s pointed reply.

  “The only wise decision you seem to have made as of late,” said the other sister, standing beside the man and Achak. A cool demeanor seeped through her cloaked form.

  The grotto trickled in silence as Darius took in the fact that these three were the same creatures he’d seen perform—the terrifying and tempting Mousai.

  “I can see why you might think so.” Larkyra addressed her sister. “But I have brought him here for a good reason.”

  With a wave of Achak’s dark hand, the doorway to their cave was covered over with dirt, no way out or in. “Perhaps we can all be at ease as we listen to Larkyra’s good reason,” said the ancient one as more benches appeared around them.

  “Thank the lost gods.” Niya pulled down her hood, revealing her singeing red hair before her pale skin as she ripped off her mask. “I can only be covered in these damned things for so long.” She twirled off her cloak, displaying an elaborate gown with peach-colored panels running over her curves.

  The rest followed suit, taking a seat while removing their masks and capes. Darius breathed easier, feeling the cool air of the grotto against his bare skin.

  “That gown,” gasped Niya, looking at Larkyra. “Where did you get it?”

  “Oh, this?” Larkyra fluffed her rich black skirts. “It’s merely a little something Mrs. Everett whipped up for me.”

  “It is . . . divine.” Niya seemed pained, saying the words.

  “It should be. Mrs. Everett is rumored to be the best seamstress in Lachlan.”

  “Yes,” began Darius, “but that’s probably because she’s the only seamstress—”

  “The only seamstress”—Larkyra cut him off with a hand to his forearm—“that has such an extensive collection of drapery. I am sure I can arrange a fitting for you, my dear, if you come to Lachlan. Mrs. Everett and I have become quite close, and she would gladly clear her busy schedule to help one of my sisters.”

  “That would be lovely,” said Niya, glancing at Larkyra’s hand, still touching his arm.

  Larkyra instantly removed it, and Darius hated how he swayed slightly toward her.

  By the Obasi Sea. He needed to get his act together.

  Clearing his throat, Darius turned to take in the formerly silver-masked man, who now sat wholly visible. His dark complexion was soft in the glowing pool’s light, while his hazel eyes sparked with the reflection. “D’Enieu,” said Darius. “Somehow I am not surprised to find you here.”

  “Then we are of one mind, because I can say the same about you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” Zimri gave him a dry smile, motioning to the sisters. “Most things have a way of stepping off planned paths when these three are involved.”

  “I take offense to that.” Niya crossed her arms over her chest.

  “As do I.” Arabessa arched a brow.

  “And besides,” began Larkyra, “if things do not go the way first planned, then perhaps the deviated path is the one always meant to be taken.”

  “Even I don’t understand that logic,” said Zimri.

  “It is actually quite sound,” chimed in Achak.

  “See?” Larkyra sat taller.

  Darius’s gaze bounced from speaker to speaker in rapid succession. One must truly remain studious to follow this group, he thought in awe.

  “But it does not explain why we were called here with no warning or why you have a companion,” said Zimri. “I was about to leave with your directions from Kaipo’s note when your messenger moth arrived.”

  “That was meant for my sisters and Achak, not you.”

  “Then I am thankful I was with Arabessa when it arrived.”

  “Indeed.” Larkyra shot her older sister a curious glance.

  Arabessa’s lips pursed in Zimri’s direction.

  “Which leads me to another point,” the man charged on. “Lord Mekenna, I am assuming you now know the connection we in this room have with the Mousai, and the Mousai to this place.”

  Darius hesitated for a moment. “I think I do, yes.”

  “May I see your hand? To make sure.”

  “My hand?” Darius frowned, lifting his gloved palm toward D’Enieu, who sat across from him.

  Swiftly, Zimri removed Darius’s glove, saying, “I do beg your pardon,” before pressing a thin silver cylinder to the tip of one of his fingers. A sharp pain shot through Darius’s skin before a bright light appeared to swim into his bloodstream and vanished with a tingle. “By the lost gods, man.” Darius snapped his arm back. “What was that?” He sucked on the small red dot left on his fingertip.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” explained Zimri as he handed the slender device to Achak, who, with a flourish of her hand, made it vanish. “It has merely ensured that if you try to speak of who the Mousai are or of anything about their connection to the Thief Kingdom, you will find you no longer have a tongue.”

  Darius blinked, hand reflexively coming up to block his mouth. “Excuse me?”

  “It’ll come back,” assured Zimri.

  “Eventua
lly,” added Niya.

  “It’s not that we do not trust you,” Larkyra pointed out. “This is just . . .”

  “Insurance,” finished Zimri. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “It seems I have no other option but to understand.”

  “Speaking of secrets revealed,” cut in Arabessa, her posture ramrod straight. “What sort of damage control are we looking at with the presence of Lord Mekenna?”

  “There is no damage,” said Larkyra defensively. “Only the task originally at hand.”

  “Despite Achak’s backing,” said Zimri, “I do not see how that could be true.”

  “Actually”—Niya put her finger to her lips—“there are probably several ways that could be true.”

  “Child.” Achak placed a hand on Larkyra’s knee. “Tell us your tale quickly before we find ourselves in an endless hypothetical circle.”

  “It is what I’ve been trying to do all along,” she said, giving her sisters a pointed glare before beginning the long tale that had brought Darius and her to this world hidden within Yamanu.

  Only the trickle of the water falling in the center of the grotto could be heard when Larkyra finished her story, and Darius realized he had gripped the side of his wooden bench so hard small splinters were poking into his gloved hands. He’d been unprepared to hear her accounts of all the nights she’d gone exploring, searching for his family’s vault, and her disappointment upon learning the truth of the estate’s barrenness. Nor was it easy to sit by without uttering a word as she finally told of what his stepfather had done during that dinner and then later in the receiving room, the brutal cuts he had been forced to carve into his own face. Darius didn’t know if she elaborated some details to gain her sisters’ sympathy or kept some out because it truly was that gruesome. Either way he felt sick, his stomach a twisting of thorns. His only reprieve came when he realized Larkyra was not going to speak of his other scars. It seemed she understood that those were his own tale to tell.

  “So you see,” said Larkyra beside him, “while we still must find who has been leaking phorria, I think we have a bigger problem that can no longer be ignored. We must help Lachlan, not by stealing from it but by removing Hayzar. And Lord Mekenna knows the duke’s behavior better than most, as well as the staff and paths around Castle Island. Plus . . . I could not keep him in the dark any longer, not after healing him as I had.”