Song of the Forever Rains by E.J. Mellow
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lachlan was not a place to write home about. Granted, it was dusk when they arrived, and Larkyra was barely able to see seven paces outside her carriage window to truly judge its beauty. But as they rolled through the mud-soaked roads, what little Larkyra could make out through the onslaught of rain was thick, unforgiving foliage that wove between, climbed, and hugged clusters of sad stone cottages. A few candlelit windows glowed in the murky air, but not a soul was in sight as they passed through a town that sprawled down a rocky-hilled expanse. A massive lake stretched out at its base, boats of various sizes at the dock, rocking like abandoned children in the storm-lapping waves.
The rain here was a persistent beast, having started as soon as they’d reached Lachlan’s border. It carried an anger Larkyra could feel in her very marrow, and she huddled into her shawl as she watched their path turn and twist up, up, up, along the side of a moss-covered cliff that eventually gave way to a long, narrow bridge.
Her thoughts tumbled back to the last narrow pass they had gone through, where they had been attacked by highwaymen. Though Larkyra had been busy with her own fight, she still had caught glimpses of Lord Mekenna from beyond her compartment.
He had been sure with his blade, quick and precise. Larkyra wondered if he indeed would have been fine going up against those thugs in Jabari’s lower quarters if she had not intervened.
He certainly has his surprises,mused Larkyra, rather enjoying the idea of her and the young lord sharing similar masked traits.
“We enter Castle Island, my lady,” Mr. Colter yelled down, tapping the side of the swaying carriage.
Larkyra squinted through her window, through the veil of gray mist and rain, to take in a looming stone castle, built atop a wild hill on a rocky island.
It was a long drop to the waters lapping beneath the bridge, and Larkyra’s nerves buzzed as she settled more securely against her plush seating. As the carriage wheels bounced along the stone-paved bridge, she looked beyond the thick drape of the storm to make out similar humpback isles peppered throughout the neighboring lakes.
It looked like the lost gods had made thumbprints across this land and filled the pools with their tears before leaving.
Larkyra had seen many daunting, dark, and dispirited pockets of Aadilor in her short nineteen years, yet when they reached the end of the bridge and a tall iron gate creaked open in greeting, she couldn’t help but question the wisdom in coming here. Even dungeons held promises of escape, but as the gate shut with a heavy clang behind them, Castle Island began to feel like a forever prison.
No wonder Lord Mekenna rarely smiled. In fact, she was rather impressed he even knew the facial movement after growing up in such a morose environment.
Perhaps the inside of the castle will be different,she thought.
Larkyra took in two truths as they entered the main hall of the Lachlan estate. First, despite being dry, it might have been more depressing than the outside. The entire columned entryway was carved granite, with a gray-and-white-tiled floor, and reached at least ten floors in height. The ceiling was vaulted with more stone. And even with the blazing torches and large circular stained glass window set high at the top of the stairs at the other end of the hall, all pockets of illumination were limited in their reach. It was as if some invisible wall were constricting them, leaving more dark than light. But it wasn’t the darkness that bothered Larkyra. No, shadows she could thrive in. It was the lack of any real decoration, personality, or sculpted artistry. It was all just straight and heavy and . . . there. Archways were made to connect rooms, the ceiling to hold out the elements. Everything here seemed to exist for functionality alone. Which, given the duke’s opulent wardrobe, was rather contradictory.
The second thing, Larkyra decided, was that she had packed completely wrong. And if there was one thing that annoyed her more than any other, it was being ill prepared for her environment. Blame it on her inclination to perform, but her trunks, if they’d survived the storm, only held pastel gowns, and this land demanded deep colors, dark colors, cry-by-windows-in-aching-solitude colors. Other than the navy she currently wore, the rest simply would not do. She’d have to make an appointment with a local seamstress as soon as possible.
Turning, Larkyra regarded Zimri and Lord Mekenna as they shrugged out of their drenched traveling cloaks. Though they had ridden through a storm, the wind at times pushing the rain horizontal, both men still looked handsome. Her eyes held longer on Lord Mekenna’s tall form as his soaked white shirt clung greedily to his skin, revealing the lean muscles beneath. A slash of red marked where his shirt had been cut, a wound beneath from their earlier run-in with bandits, and Larkyra’s magic fluttered in worry. Was he hurt anywhere else? Had he suffered any other pains? Larkyra blinked, realizing how strange it was, this visceral reaction to Lord Mekenna’s wound. She barely knew the man, after all, and upon second glance, he hardly looked to be in any pain. She took in a calming breath, and the tightness of her magic spinning up her throat subsided.
A young footman stepped forward to collect the discarded cloaks, drawing Larkyra’s attention away to the line of other servants who had gathered to greet them upon their arrival. She was surprised not to sense even one among the two dozen awaiting staff who vibrated with powers. Not even a weak buzz of magic. It was all so . . . still.
Larkyra frowned. The lost gods really must have abandoned this place.
Each wore black on black on black—perpetual mourning—making them all look like neatly dressed corpses.
See,thought Larkyra, here is the perfect example of playing to one’s environment.
Studying the way a young maid held her gaze in perfect blankness, Larkyra made a mental note to practice the expression later, alone in her rooms. Maybe the lady’s maid they were to provide her would be just as delightfully drab. Then she could really have her shot at perfecting the emotionless Lachlan mannerisms.
“Well,” she said, her voice carrying in the stone mausoleum. “How refreshingly cheery your home is, Lord Mekenna.”
He glanced about, as if seeing the space for the first time. “Yes,” he said, his red hair made brown and standing feral from the rain. “It once was.”
Larkyra searched for a glimmer of the past he spoke of, but she could only see the same dismal, dusty space.
“Now that I’ve gotten you here relatively safe,” said Lord Mekenna, gesturing for one of the young footmen to start placing her trunks in the main hall, “I hope you’ll excuse me. It’s been a long two days, and I’m sure you’re each in want of a similar warm bath and early bed. Mr. Boland here will help you to your rooms.”
A lanky man with silver-brushed hair and pinched lips, which complemented the displeasure in his dark gaze, stepped forward with a bow. “It will be my pleasure, my lord.” A raspy voice filtered from the butler. “I’m also to inform you that the duke regrets he is currently . . . indisposed and cannot receive you himself. He wishes, however, for you and our guests to meet him tomorrow for morning tea.”
“Morning tea?” Lord Mekenna’s brows drew together.
“Yes, my lord.”
Lord Mekenna stood there for a moment, as if the request had been spoken in an unknown language; Larkyra stole a glance at Zimri.
Yes,said Zimri silently, meeting her gaze. I see what you see.
“Very well.” Lord Mekenna straightened. “Then until the morrow.” He bowed to Larkyra before nodding to Zimri. “I hope you have a pleasant first night’s sleep. And if you think you hear screaming, ignore it. It is just the nature of the wind as it travels around the keep.” With that, he turned and disappeared through one of the long dark passageways.
“Screaming wind?” said Larkyra to the awaiting staff. “How delightful.”
“Please, if you’ll follow Ms. Clara, my lady.” Mr. Boland ignored her comment, gesturing to the small, emotionless maid Larkyra had first studied. “She will show you to your rooms. Mr. D’Enieu, I will accompany you to yours.”
Larkyra took note of the various doors and halls as they walked forward, all future paths to explore for what she hunted.
“Are our rooms close to one another?” asked Larkyra before she split from her companion.
Mr. Boland stopped at the stairs and drew one silver brow up as his eyes volleyed between her and Zimri. “Is there a reason they should be?”
“Why, yes,” she said. “It makes things much easier when sneaking into each other’s bedchambers.”
The butler’s white complexion turned an enjoyable purple.
“I apologize for Lady Larkyra,” said Zimri, giving her a reproachful frown. “It’s best to know now that she’s fond of shocking statements. In truth, she wants to know because this will be her first night alone without one of her sisters present, and since I am practically a brother to her, I know it would ease both our worries to know we are close.”
Mr. Boland cleared his throat while keeping his gaze pompously high and mighty. “They will both be in the north wing, but our gentlemen’s guest rooms are kept one floor above our ladies’.” He turned his beady eyes on Larkyra.
Larkyra opened her mouth to respond, but Zimri cut her off, placing a hand on her back. “Thank you,” he said. “Then let us walk together until we are separated.”
“Very good, sir.”
Well, aren’t you a snobbish prit,thought Larkyra, watching as Mr. Boland turned to lead Zimri away.
A carved silver rose pinned to the butler’s black coat drew Larkyra’s gaze, its glimmer snagging and reflecting the dim light, as if to say hello.
Well, hello, hello, hello to you too,she silently cooed, a razor-tipped grin forming. There was only so much poise and control and convention Larkyra could take before she needed a bit of relief, and this pretty jeweled rose was just the slice of mischief to give her that. If nothing else came of this trip, Larkyra at least knew one thing—she and Mr. Boland were about to have some fun.