THE DRY SEASON
A Lost Fields Short Story
Cassidy Taylor
The Dry Season
A Lost Fields Short Story
Copyright © 2017 by Cassidy Taylor. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Christian Bentulan
Map by Renflowergrapx
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cassidy Taylor
Visit my website at http://cassidytaylor.net
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: Nov 2017
ALSO BY CASSIDY TAYLOR
The Lost Fields
When Rains Fall (The Lost Fields Book 1)
The Life & Death of Cora Svanros
A Lost Fields companion short story available exclusively in the
Mirrors & Thorns anthology
THE DRY SEASON
The air in the sick room was stale and rotten, prematurely stinking of death, as if already deciding the fate of its lone occupant. Jamisen Malstrom hesitated at the door, and then crossed to the window, drawing the heavy curtain aside. Through the glass, another cloudless day mocked her. Every morning she hoped that the rains would come to break the heat and end the dry season, and every morning, she was disappointed.
The room looked south over Hail’s capital city of Orabel. The people were distant figures on the cobblestone streets, their brightly-colored clothes blurry through the shimmering haze of the heat. To her left, the ocean beat against the palace walls, but even the sea breeze offered little respite, instead sending the occasional stench of rotting fish over the suffering city.
Almoners stood in the streets in their billowing white robes, their normally bare and shining bald heads wrapped in linen to protect them from the sun. They called for blood. “Blood for water,” they yelled as the citizens of Hail wilted beneath the relentless sun. But they demanded blood for everything—a sacrifice given willingly would cure all the kingdom’s ills. Enos was the “bloody god” for a reason. He demanded loyalty and sacrifice to spread His influence. There were those who believed Hail had been at peace too long. That Enos was holding back the rain to punish them.
“Blood for blood,” declared the almoner who had tended to her father, King Malstrom. She would never forget the man’s gray eyes or the way the tattoos that snaked out from beneath his sleeves seemed to pulse and squirm, the work of a spellwielder trying to give the almoner some sense of power.
The king had given them permission to sacrifice his finest warhorse, a magnificent black stallion that stood eighteen-hands high at the withers. Jamisen could still hear the beast’s screams, still smell the blood on her hands and feel it, slick beneath her feet. When the king died the next day, she had banished all almoners from the palace, but that didn’t stop them from congregating in the streets beyond the gates.
In the bed behind her, the youngest Malstrom sister groaned but didn't move. Jamisen turned away from the sight of her suffering city. The sunlight falling across Darcey’s frail body only served to show the effects the illness had taken—the sunken cheeks, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the arms now more bone than flesh as she withered away in bed.
“Not today, James,” Darcey said, guessing at her visitor’s identity without opening her eyes. But who else could it be? The middle Malstrom sister—practical and distant Carys—didn’t visit anymore. Instead, she spent her time in the forge with the palace blacksmith, crafting new weapons and other strange clockwork devices. Carys had always resented the fact that women could not wield magic, and so had decided to make some of her own. Their mother, Lady Lyess, was often found at her youngest daughter's bedside but was absent this morning.
“A bad day?” Jamisen asked, sitting on the edge of the queen's bed.
“All days are bad,” Darcey said, “but some are worse than others.”
Yes, Jamisen thought, today would be worse. But she no longer burdened Darcey with matters of state. To her other visitors, Darcey put on a brave face. With them, she pretended that she still had a hand in running her kingdom. But not with Jamisen, who had assumed the responsibilities of a queen without the title. She kept the severity of her sister's illness locked behind sealed lips and closed doors.
She was also a master at keeping her resentment hidden, buried beneath affection for her sisters and responsibility to her kingdom. The belief that it should have been her, that she should have been the Queen of Hail, was her deepest secret, the words that she dared not speak aloud. She was the oldest and the strongest, raised with the discipline and knowledge of a ruler. But her father didn’t pick her. In a country where the king chose his successor based on the needs of the kingdom, her father had decided that his oldest daughter was too hostile for Hail.
On his deathbed, just before the Blood Flu claimed him, he had grasped Darcey's hands in his own.
“Soft hands, soft heart,” the old man had wheezed, and Jamisen had looked down at her own calloused palms and blood-stained fingers. “Only you can keep the kingdom in the light, my Darcey. Lead your people down the path of peace.” When he had placed the queen’s crown on Darcey's head, Jamisen had been crushed but had accepted her father’s decision with the grace of royalty.
Now, driving thoughts of the Blood Flu from her mind, Jamisen stroked a hand across her sister's brow. She brushed aside wet strands of golden hair—a gift from their mother’s people across the sea, another thing that had been bestowed upon Darcey, while Jamisen had their father’s auburn locks and long, sharp nose. Darcey's fever-pink lips curved into a small smile, and she leaned into the touch. Jamisen watched her slip into sleep, Darcey’s warm cheek against her palm, her breath growing steady.
In the corridor, slapping shoes on the stone floor drew Jamisen's attention toward the door. Carys appeared—petite and square-shouldered—working metal links in her fingers.
“They're here,” Carys said. Jamisen withdrew her hand from Darcey, who didn’t stir.
“Wynn?” she asked. They had been expecting the Crowheart prince and his retinue for days. Darcey’s betrothed, come to claim his prize. A queen and a kingdom. What would he do when he found that both were dying?
“And others. A whole murder of Crows.” Carys hovered at the door, the chain links clinking as her fingers worked restlessly, her eyes not once falling on her younger sister. “Mother wants us in the foyer.” Without another word, she turned and rushed away.
Jamisen stood to follow when a clammy hand clasped hers.
“Close the drapes, will you?” Darcey asked.
Had she heard? If she did, she made no comment. Jamisen reached the window in two strides and released the curtain. The room plunged back into darkness, hiding its resident from view as if she had never been there at all.
✽✽✽
Jamisen and Carys stood to either side of their mother on the palace steps. The caravan from the neighboring kingdom of Dusk approached the inner gate. The sheer size of the group made Jamisen nervous. If this were a peaceful visit to bind a betrothal contract, would he need so many soldiers?
Her father had agreed to the marriage out of a desire to keep the peace.
“It is a chance to show Dusk the error of their ways,” the king had said. “To spread our peaceful influence in Enos’s good name.” Jamisen and her father had
never agreed on much, and she wasn’t the only one. Their allies in the northern republic of Shade had pulled back, burrowing deep into the Silver Hills and leaving Hail at Dusk’s mercy.
But peace with Dusk had been one of her father’s greatest goals, and he was willing to take the risks. She and her sisters had grown up with the Crowheart boys, and her father hosted regular state dinners, welcoming leaders from across the continent into Orabel. The War of the Five Families had ended long ago with the division of the land into five separate kingdoms, but the tension between the countries of Casuin had not slackened.
Behind them, her uncle and the Captain of the Guard, Rollo Malstrom, made a noise like a growl low in his throat. His armor clinked as he shifted and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. He had also seen their numbers, then.
A figure on a brown thoroughbred broke out of the column, flanked by a guard in iron Duskan armor and one wielder in full regalia—a red coat and a gold half-mask hiding his eyes. Even without his retinue, Jamisen would have recognized Prince Wynn Crowheart as instinctually as she might recognize her reflection in the mirror. She knew his rigid posture and the messy brown curls escaping from their knot on the back of his head. She had thought to marry him once, and for years had been the recipient of his lavish attention. But then Darcey became the heir, and he had forgotten her, exchanged one Malstrom princess for another as one might change shirts. Behind their mother's back, Carys wrinkled her nose at her older sister and Jamisen looked away.
Wynn dismounted at the base of the steps while his guards remained on their horses, stoic faces searching those of the Malstrom household. The wielder’s eyes landed on hers briefly and her stomach twisted uneasily before he moved on.
“Lady Lyess,” Wynn said in greeting to their mother. This close, Jamisen noticed the sweat stains on his shirt and his parched, cracked lips. His cheeks were hollow, his waist perhaps too slender. A landlocked kingdom that got little rain even during the harvest, Dusk would be feeling the dry season even worse than Hail. It was why they traded in people instead of crops or goods—the lack of natural resources in the piece of land the peace treaty had granted them after the war. The other families had wanted to punish the Crowhearts but had instead only fueled their ambition and resentment. “My father sends his condolences at the passing of King Malstrom.”
Jamisen's mother let the prince kiss the back of her hand. “Thank you for your kind words,” she said. “I’m sorry that he could not be here for this joyous occasion.” The queen’s voice trembled and Wynn’s eyes flashed with something like satisfaction, like a cat who had caught a mouse beneath its paw.
After a brief exchange in which she extended an invitation for the prince and his men to join them for dinner, their mother excused herself. Jamisen and Carys remained outside while the visitors set up their camp, Wynn declining the invitation to take the guest quarters inside the castle.
“I enjoy having the stars to keep me company,” he’d told Lady Lyess, though Jamisen suspected it had more to do with the large size of his traveling party. There hadn't been this much noise in the courtyard since Darcey's last birthday celebration, just before the king's rapid decline. Sixteen, a woman with the heart of a child. The girls were one year apart each, Carys having just turned seventeen, and Jamisen already eighteen.
“It looks like the palace is under siege, and we have opened our gates for them,” Jamisen said quietly.
Carys nodded, her wide, shrewd eyes on the camp. “Do you think he knows?”
Wynn passed in front of them and caught Jamisen's eyes, but did not smile as he had at her mother. His look was serious, taking her measure. She arranged her features to be sure that they betrayed nothing, and the moment faded as he disappeared behind a tent flap.
“Suspects,” Jamisen finally answered, her eyes watching Wynn's shadow against the canvas.
✽✽✽
In spite of herself, Jamisen enjoyed the company at dinner. Too often it was just Lady Lyess and her two oldest daughters at the big table. Their mother swooned at Carys' dry humor and dismissed Jamisen's talk of politics with a wave of her tiny hand, the delicate fingers so much like Darcey's. But she lacked Darcey's lightness and her carefree laugh that rang like the bells children tied to their ankles at the Festival of the First Snow each year.
The entourage from Dusk, on the other hand, filled the dining room to bursting. The dark fashions of the Dusk nobility did not reflect their mood—they were a joyous lot, tired from weeks of travel but grateful to have arrived. On Jamisen's right sat an older Crow with facial hair shaped like wings on his cheeks. To her left was Carys, who wore a dress of cheerful yellow but sat grim-faced and quiet. Prince Wynn, sitting across from them, had consumed at least two tumblers of ale and was enjoying Carys' solemn mood. He kept calling across the table to her, trying to coax a rare smile from her lips.
“Where is the queen tonight?” Wynn asked during a lull in the conversation. He looked around the table as if just noticing Darcey's absence, but Jamisen knew better. “I had hoped to discuss our arrangements.”
“I'm afraid she's not feeling well,” Jamisen answered, drawing Wynn's attention from her mother's stricken face.
For the second time since his arrival, he looked at her. His familiar dark eyes sent a shiver down her spine. “I hope it's not serious,” he said.
“No,” Jamisen replied, doing her best not to look away. After holding her gaze too long to be casual, Wynn smiled as if deciding something and turned away, talking quietly to his wielder that sat at his side. Jamisen sighed. Only Carys seemed to notice, her sister squeezing her knee beneath the table.
Jamisen knew what their father had been thinking. That Darcey would be a new type of leader, a queen to carry on his legacy of peace in Hail. But the match between Darcey and Wynn was poorly made. Darcey wanted nothing more than to make everyone happy. If she recovered, she would be putty in Wynn's manipulative hands. Jamisen would have been Wynn's equal, able to keep Hail out of Crowheart clutches. But she was not the queen, and his betrothal was not to Jamisen. If he found out about Darcey's condition now, he would take Hail by force, fearing the termination of the betrothal contract upon her death. It was why he was here with soldiers instead of Duskan nobles.
She took a bite of steamed vegetables—a luxury during the dry season—and chewed thoughtfully. “Prince Innis did not wish to visit Hail?” she asked. Carys turned her glare on her sister. Innis Crowheart was Wynn's older brother and heir to the Duskan throne. As young boys, Innis and Wynn had spent several months out of every year in Hail under the care of the Malstrom family, a showing of good faith from their neighbors. Innis was now engaged to the princess of the distant island kingdom of Mer. The girls had received the invitation to the wedding ceremony, taking place in three months.
Wynn barked with laughter, the smile returning to his face. “Big brother is too important to travel far now,” he said. “Father keeps threatening to step down. He's scared witless between that and his impending marriage.”
The sip of ale she swallowed burned down Jamisen's throat. “Why? I've heard Princess Emory is lovely and kind.” Mer was too far for casual travel, but word of the youngest princess' beauty had spread, as it often did. But they said nothing about her strength or intelligence. How long would it be before Emory handed the people of Mer over to her husband’s rule? Before slavery reached their small island kingdom?
“Perhaps it is because Innis is ugly and cruel,” Wynn said with a shrug. Carys’ fork struck the mahogany table. Jamisen resisted the urge to put a hand on her sister's arm.
“He is neither of those things,” Carys said.
Carys and Innis had been so alike in their youth—the same dry wit, the same fascination with the inner workings of things—that they had all believed the pair would be matched. They were like two lost pieces of the same puzzle. But the peace between the kingdoms was tenuous at best, a fraying thread made stronger by marriages and babies and carefully crafted alliances. Thin
gs did not always go as one hoped. A princess did not always get the prince she desired.
“I think I know him better than you, sunshine,” he said. “Though perhaps not in the same intimate way.”
Too late, Jamisen saw the knife in Carys' hand. It flew across the table, and in the space of a single heartbeat, the wielder at Wynn’s side raised his hand and flicked his wrist. The knife stopped in mid-air, inches from Wynn’s left eye. Carys glared. Jamisen froze with her hand on her leg, ready to draw her own blade hidden in her boot. The rest of the table gaped in silence, waiting for a cue on how to react.
“Well,” Wynn said, plucking the knife from the air and setting it gingerly down beside his plate. “Let that teach me not to insult a lady's virtue.”
With tense laughter, conversation resumed. Carys fled from the dining room, nearly colliding with the servers carrying trays heaped with lavish desserts. Jamisen turned back to Wynn, only to find his eyes following the middle princess' retreating back. Thus distracted, she missed the soldier that slipped out and followed her sister, his black cloak emblazoned with a white crow in flight visible only briefly before he disappeared behind her through the doorway.
✽✽✽
“It is just as lovely as I remember.”
Jamisen turned her face to the voice. Behind her, on the crest of a wind-blown dune, stood the second prince of Dusk, his face lit by the setting sun. The cuffs of his linen pants were rolled up above his bare feet. His hair was loose, and a rebellious strand blew across his face. Above his collar, she could see the edges of the tattoo that spanned his chest—a crow in flight, the sigil of his family. He was alone, and she had been too, until his arrival.
The end of dinner had been tense in spite of Wynn's attempts at humor, and though her mother had excused herself early, Jamisen had waited until all the Crows had left. She then came outside to her favorite spot on the beach behind the castle, just outside the palace walls on the corner of the world. Here, the smell of the ocean teased her with promises of a rain that never came.
The Dry Season Page 1