Song of the Forever Rains by E.J. Mellow

CHAPTER TWELVE

The candelabras’ flames danced unnatural shapes across the hall as Larkyra stole silently down its length. Save for the muffled screams of wind that, to Larkyra’s delight, indeed whipped along the castle, the rest of the house lay in a quiet slumber. A perfect moment for her to explore without any prying.

Descending the stairs of the north wing, Larkyra crept along a dark corridor lined with familial oil paintings, souls of the past no doubt wondering what a young girl in her nightgown was doing walking about at this hour.

Looking for treasure, of course.

Larkyra’s gaze ran over cracks in the walls and to corners behind large potted plants, sculptures, and uneven molding, ready for the smallest hint of a button or trick clasp. A part of the castle that would lead to hidden secrets, riches squirreled away. With an estate as large as Lachlan, it would no doubt take many trips to find the family vault hidden within, which was exactly why Larkyra had begrudgingly pushed herself out of bed her first night here.

Twisting her way along the colossal entranceway’s perimeter, Larkyra slipped into the south wing, ears prickling for any sound of another. All remained funeral silent as her bare feet stepped over cold stone. Larkyra’s magic curled impatiently in her belly. Let us help you,it tempted. Let us wrap you invisible with a lovely song. But she ignored its calling, determined to follow her father’s request and resist using her gifts, or at the very least to not break from it her first day on assignment.

Though she and Zimri had been met with a line of servants when arriving, the house was oddly still now, without even a lone guard to watch over the night. All the better for me, thought Larkyra.

Stopping at the base of a staircase leading to the upper floors, she craned her head back to gaze at the gloomy gargoyles that protruded from each banister’s level. A small skylight in the domed ceiling let in a pinprick of gray from the cloud-covered moon. The sharp pattering of the storm a consistent beat along the glass.

Larkyra held in a shiver.

The air flowing through this wing felt wrong, metallic and sweet in scent, unnatural, which only meant—

A laugh echoing from above had Larkyra slinking into the corner beside the stairs, enveloping herself in shadow. Her magic jumped to her throat as her pulse quickened, but her practiced control stifled it quickly.

A form three floors up hit the railing unsteadily, and a glass fell from the figure’s hand to shatter loudly against the tiled floor below.

More laughing.

Though usually a joyous sound, this was a high pitch of derangement, a giddy giggle Larkyra had heard frequently in the Thief Kingdom, coming from those at the bottom of many, many cups—of both liquor and desperation.

Peeking around the edge of the stairs, Larkyra looked up and took in the sight of Hayzar Bruin, or at least a man she assumed was the duke. This gentleman’s hair was a black mess over his forehead; his fine white shirt was crumpled and untucked from his dark trousers. His face was gaunt even at this distance, and he leaned over the railing as if he might produce more liquids to join the mess far below.

Larkyra watched him tip a glass decanter to his lips, brown liquid sloshing down his cheeks, before he threw it over the ledge.

Larkyra shrank back at the loud smash, glass shards and brandy sliding across the floor. She held in her quick breaths, her gifts buzzing, as she waited for what would come next, but there was only more unhinged laughter.

“I’ve made a mess again, my love,” said the duke gleefully. “What do you say to that?”

Hayzar was talking to the air beside him, as if a person stood there instead of shadows.

“You would scold me, no doubt,” he continued. “But I’d have you laughing in no time. Yes, yes, I would. I could always make you laugh.”

Hayzar’s smile faded with his sentence, his expression growing sullen, then cold.

“Boland!” Larkyra flinched as the duke’s rough voice boomed through the space. “Boland!” he bellowed again.

A door opened across from where she crouched, and the butler stepped into the small halo from the skylight above, his polished shoes crunching on the broken glass. He showed no sign of shock at the state of things as he gazed up at his master.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Get me more brandy,” slurred Hayzar, waving a hand. “And clean this up.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I should have you flogged for allowing my castle to get so dirty.”

“My apologies, Your Grace.” The man bowed low and remained as such until the duke’s disgruntled mumblings had faded away with his retreat.

Far above, a door opened and slammed shut.

Mr. Boland glanced around with a small sigh before retreating through the door he’d come from, no doubt to wake a sleeping maid to remove the mess.

As quiet fell again, Larkyra wasted no time picking her way across the tile, bare toes careful of sharp shards and spilled spirits, to scurry out of the south wing and back to the north. Locking her bedchamber’s door, she threw herself into her bed and under her covers, ironically finding comfort in the screaming wind—a welcome sound after the duke’s mad laughter. She might not have found any leads on a family vault, but she’d certainly learned enough for tonight. Larkyra dared to wonder what lesson tomorrow would bring.

Dressed in a light-violet gown with delicate lace sleeves, the skirt flaring attractively at her waist, Larkyra went from pensive to dour. Her assignment had not exactly started as she would have liked, the estate much larger and stranger than she would have assumed. And now this. Larkyra frowned, glancing down to her dress. Her wardrobe was most assuredly too lively for Lachlan, too I like to laugh and smile and have pleasant conversations compared to the heavy stone corridors she followed to the eastern wing of the castle, where she was to meet the duke for tea. That was, of course, if he could even make it out of bed after his performance last night. Though she’d been disturbed to find her host in such a state, it did not shock Larkyra that he had a vice for spirits. Many rich men did.

Larkyra held back a sigh.

She had patience for many trying creatures, but those who sought inebriation were always such a bore.

It might be a blessing that she could occupy part of her time with acquiring more gowns.

“Clara.” Larkyra looked to the petite woman who walked beside her, delighted her lady’s maid was the girl who’d first shown her to her rooms. “Can you arrange for the best seamstress in Lachlan to pay me a call sometime this week?”

Clara blinked large green eyes up to her. “We only have the one, my lady. Mrs. Everett.”

“Do you think she’d have room in her schedule to make me a few dresses?”

“Oh yes,” assured Clara. “A lady such as yourself hardly ever requests new garments. Mrs. Everett would be most pleased.”

“Splendid.” Larkyra’s smile faltered as she noticed a few worn spots on Clara’s black frock. “Would you like to be sized for a new uniform while she’s here as well?”

“A new—oh no, my lady. I could never do such a thing.”

“Whyever not? I don’t mean to offend, but the edges of your dress are starting to fray, and you have loose threads here.” Larkyra touched a seam at the girl’s shoulder.

Clara’s cheeks burned red. “We can only get new uniforms when the master decides to order them.”

“And when was the last time he did?”

Clara wrung her hands, looking about the silent corridor.

“I’m merely curious, my dear. I shan’t use the information to get you into trouble.”

Clara swallowed. “Not since I arrived.”

“Which was when?”

“Two years ago.”

Larkyra halted. “Two years?”

Clara’s eyes went wide, glancing about them.

“Sorry.” Larkyra lowered her voice to a whisper. “But two years?”

The girl nodded.

“Well,” huffed Larkyra. “That will not do. I promise that before my dresses are done, this entire castle will be outfitted with new uniforms.”

“Oh! My lady, please do not—”

“It is done.” Larkyra took Clara’s arm and tucked it into the crook of her own, setting forth once more. “And you have nothing to fear by confiding in me. If there’s one person you can trust to get things you desire and to do it quietly, without a soul knowing what they lent or agreed to, it is I.”

Clara stayed silent at that, which Larkyra took as encouraging, and besides, whether or not her lady’s maid approved would do little to stop a Bassette when she decided upon something.

With a new grin, Larkyra had decided many things in that moment, new uniforms merely one of them.

The drawing room was by far the brightest Larkyra had yet to see in the castle. And by bright, she would later write to her sisters, she meant it had furnishings that only vaguely gave off the impression they belonged in the Fade.

The tufted chairs and couches were decorated with a delicate pattern of blue flowers, while an arched window took up half of one large wall. Bookcases lined another, the worn spines speaking of neglect rather than pages read, and while there was a shocking lack of paintings or other decorations to fill the space, it still felt welcoming, the off-white wallpaper a nice change after the seemingly endless stone corridors.

The morning rain tapped soothingly against the fogged glass, filling the silence along with the crackling flames of a blazing fireplace. Here was where Larkyra found Lord Mekenna, standing by the mantel, staring into the dancing orange-and-red world. He was a sight in his navy coat, waistcoat, and crisp white shirt buttoned all the way to his collar. His red hair was a softer honey color as it caught the fire’s light, and his angled features were in a rare state of relaxation, no doubt because he thought he was alone. What must he be thinking? mused Larkyra. And better yet, how could she get him to help her find what she searched for? Surely Lord Mekenna, the heir to the Lachlan estate, would know where the family vault was located.

“My lord,” said Larkyra, announcing herself.

Lord Mekenna started, a swallow bobbing his throat as his green eyes took her in. “My lady.” He bowed.

“I took your advice,” she said, coming to stand beside him by the fire. “Regarding ignoring the screaming wind,” explained Larkyra, seeing his confusion.

“I hope you were able to sleep well, then?” he asked.

“Quite,” said Larkyra with a smile. “And you?”

“Screams no longer bother me,” said Lord Mekenna, gaze traveling back to the fire.

Larkyra noted with unease how he’d said “screams” rather than “the screams.”

But before she could press the matter, a new voice entered the room.

“My dearest Lady Larkyra,” said the Duke of Lachlan, approaching. “How much lovelier you make my home with your presence.”

Larkyra took in the imposing form of Hayzar Bruin. His black hair was parted and slicked back, the grays at his temples setting off his penetrating gaze. At this nearness, Larkyra noticed his pale skin appeared gaunt, with light bruising around his eyes. While he no longer resembled the cretin from last night, he still was not as fresh as the man she’d met at the ball. Larkyra would have thought him disheveled if not for his perfectly cut gray suit. He wore a rather shocking yellow-and-white-striped shirt beneath a black vest, and Larkyra’s eyes roamed greedily over the gold sandglass, lined with diamonds, that dangled from his left breast pocket.

“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “I am honored to have received an invitation and look forward to exploring more of Lachlan in my days here.”

The duke grinned, and with her Sight, Larkyra noted that his mouth had faded from the inky black it had been at the ball to a more diluted gray, the last dirt-rubbed remnants of siphoned magic.

Ah,thought Larkyra, this explains his sunken eyes and the drinking. The duke was coming down from phorria, no doubt feeling the aches and pains of the drug leaving his system. Achak had explained to Larkyra and her sisters how spirits were the perfect medicine for numbing the senses between getting a fix. They had pointed out the men and women slumped in doorways near the Thief Kingdom’s phorria dens. “It’s a good remedy,” repeated Achak, “but also a mirage, just like the power they seek. They will forever be chasing ghosts.”

Despite Hayzar’s behavior last night, Larkyra thought he was holding up rather well for someone who was beginning to go through withdrawal, but she knew even the strongest wouldn’t be good company by tomorrow.

He would need another fix. And soon.

Larkyra’s magic purred in satisfaction as her mood slightly lifted.

Could we possibly find his supplier this quickly?she wondered with hope.

“Zimri.” Larkyra greeted her companion as he entered. “I see we each survived the night.”

“Was there a threat that you would not?” asked the duke, his gaze momentarily traveling to Lord Mekenna.

“Not at all,” assured Larkyra. “I’m merely jesting that the castle could be haunted, given that we arrived under such a storm.”

“Ah yes,” said the duke. “I’m afraid the timing of your visit falls during our rainy season. I hope it’s not too somber a setting for you.”

“I daresay no amount of rain could dampen my visit, Your Grace.”

Let the charming commence,she thought as they all settled into a sitting area.

Zimri took a chair opposite her and the duke, next to Lord Mekenna, while a servant poured their tea, offering surprisingly delicious biscuits, given that it was hard to imagine any sort of warm space, like a kitchen, living beneath these stone floors.

“Darius told me that your journey went off without a hitch,” said the duke to Larkyra, sipping his drink.

She glanced at Lord Mekenna, who would not meet her eyes. Something about his rigid posture, the tightness with which he held his teacup, left her with the impression that anything unfavorable spoken around the duke would leave only one person shouldering the fault. The realization set her nerves buzzing.

“It was positively yawn inducing,” she declared. “We hardly met another soul on the journey. Not even a stray dog or cat crossed our path. Which only made me more eager to reach Lachlan. I knew your company would prove to be a great reward for suffering such an unadventurous trip.”

She smiled at Hayzar, who puffed out his chest at her praise.

“I promise I am up for the task,” he said.

“I’m sure you will hardly have to try, Your Grace.”

Lord Mekenna shifted in the corner of her eye, drawing her attention back to him, but still he would not look her way. Though he had never come across as a lively sort—except for perhaps when she had met him in the lowers—today, here in this room, with his stepfather, Lord Mekenna seemed like a completely different man. Quiet. Tense. And, dare she say, nervous?

“How old is the estate?” asked Zimri. “The architecture is extremely impressive.”

“I’m told it is well past three centuries in age.” The duke snapped for his cup to be refilled.

A servant scurried over, the teapot shaking slightly in her hands.

“Parts of the castle have been modernized over time, of course,” continued Hayzar. “But it has been in the Mekenna bloodline since the beginning. Which is why I am pleased you accepted my offer to visit.” He turned toward Larkyra. “It seems primed for a new lineage to enter its halls.”

“You mean of the Bruin variety?” Larkyra forced away a frown.

“The very one. Change is natural,” explained Hayzar. “And given that the land title went to me upon my dearest Josephine’s death, I feel it is time I honor her memory with the family we always planned to have here.”

Lord Mekenna had practically turned into marble at the duke’s words, and it took more strength than usual for Larkyra to push a smile onto her face as she said, “Of course.”

No one spoke for a moment as the room’s energy thickened, which the duke seemed to rather enjoy, especially when his gaze fell upon his stepson. “Wouldn’t that be nice, Darius? To have a younger brother to play with?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Lord Mekenna’s jaw muscle flexed. “Or a younger sister.”

The duke waved a hand. “There will only be sons, and many of them, I can assure you.” His dark, bruised eyes landed on Larkyra again.

By the lost gods,she thought, holding in a shiver. Please do not let this assignment last that long.

“I hear the paths around the grounds are extensive.” Zimri, thankfully, changed the subject. “Will we be able to organize a walk before I leave on the morrow?”

“We can certainly arrange it, though I must inform you now.” Hayzar placed his teacup on a tray held by an awaiting servant. “I unfortunately have some business that will take me from the estate this afternoon for a few days.”

Larkyra caught Zimri’s gaze for a moment, an understanding traveling between them.

“But I’m sure Darius would be more than pleased to accompany you both,” continued Hayzar. “Won’t you, my boy?”

“A few days?” pouted Larkyra, interrupting Lord Mekenna before he could answer. “But I’ve just arrived.”

“I’m sorry, my dear. But I promise to make it up to you with a feast upon my return. I’ve already asked our cook to start on the preparations.”

“A feast?” She genuinely perked up at that. “I suppose I could find it in my heart to forgive you, this one time.”

“Where will your travels be taking you?” Zimri allowed the servant to refill his cup.

“Just to another residence on the other side of our borders.”

“Is it about the mining agreement?” asked Zimri. “If so, I’d be happy to accompany you as an ambassador of Jabari.”

Trading with Lachlan for their minerals was something the Jabari Council had agreed to with Lord Mekenna, on behalf of his stepfather. Which was why it was interesting to watch Lord Mekenna grow even more tense at the mention of it. If that was even possible.

“Not quite,” said Hayzar. “It’s more of the personal-business variety. Now, I do apologize for cutting our tea short.” The duke stood, Zimri and Darius following suit. “But if you’ll excuse me, I must meet with our steward before I set off. My lady.” He took Larkyra’s gloved hand. “I look forward to seeing you upon my return. Please do not hesitate to ask our servants for anything you desire. This estate, if I may be so bold, could one day be yours. I want you to feel at ease here.”

“Then you are in luck, Your Grace.” Larkyra gave him a winning grin. “For I am rather fond of the bold.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said with a laugh before turning to Zimri. “Please give the count my regards for lending me his daughter, and safe journey home.”

“I shall.” Zimri bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Darius.” The duke set his sights on his stepson, like a spider playing with its silk web. “Accompany me out, won’t you?”

Hayzar didn’t wait for a response as he strode from the room, leaving Lord Mekenna to finally meet Larkyra’s gaze. His green eyes were bright as they held hers. Something in them flashed a warning, a look that said careful, but before Larkyra could be sure, he turned, breaking the connection, and disappeared through the door.

“But you were supposed to stay until tomorrow.” Larkyra ran her hand down Bavol’s nose, the horse huffing at her palm, taking in her scent.

Zimri strapped his bags to his stallion’s saddle. “Yes, but plans change.”

“Not when they leave me here alone, in this land of constant crying skies, a day early. Can’t I go with you?” She wanted to stomp her foot like a child but willed herself to refrain. “You do realize something is extremely wrong with this place,” continued Larkyra. “And not the fun, let’s explore and risk our lives for the sake of a possible adventure kind. But seriously cursed, wrong.”

“Which is why I must leave, as you well know.” Zimri’s brown traveling cloak swayed against his boots as he turned to her. His hazel eyes flashed gold against his dark complexion and the storm-fogged sky. The rain pattered around where they stood beneath a stone awning of the carriage house. The south end of the castle loomed like a gray beast a short distance away. “I must catch the duke’s trail before it’s washed away.” He gazed out to the storm. “See if this personal-business meeting has anything to do with our leaking phorria.”

A stable hand walked past the open door to the barn, and Zimri took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Listen—something is wrong here. These lands . . . there’s a sickness in the air. Do you smell it?”

“I can feel it.”

“Precisely. It’s unnatural, and I fear your father and I did not realize the extent of what we’d find when we arrived.”

Larkyra thought to mention what she’d seen the previous night, the drunken duke, but refrained. She didn’t want to worry Zimri further. And besides, she could handle herself; evading such behavior was all too common in the Thief Kingdom.

“Do you think Father will call it off?”

“No.” Zimri shook his head. “Now more than ever, we should help this place. While I’m gone, visit the surrounding towns. Talk with the villagers. See what you can dig up. But please, Lark”—he took up her hands in his—“be careful. This is not the Thief Kingdom or the familiar streets of Jabari. If you’re walking down a path that does not feel right . . . this time, turn around.”

An impossible promise,thought Larkyra.

“I’ve withstood many things that feel wrong,” she rebutted. “Or have you forgotten this?” She ripped off her left glove, displaying the nub of her ring finger. The skin had healed over the bone, leaving a jagged red scar from the stitches. Her raw skin tingled in the cold air.

“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.