Song of the Forever Rains by E.J. Mellow

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Blood was everywhere.

Larkyra fought the tears streaming down her face as she carefully laid Darius onto his bed. He remained asleep, or half-conscious, or influenced by whatever mad spell was still upon his mind to keep him pliable after such torture.

Leaning away, she wiped the sweat from her forehead, most likely smearing the red that had dripped from the young lord’s wounds, speckling its way across her half-sewn gown as she’d struggled to support his delirious strides through the halls.

She had come very close to losing control as she’d watched Hayzar command his stepson to slice open his own face.

Telling him to do it again and again and again.

The horror remained vibrant in her mind, the crimson streams that had flowed into the young lord’s blank eyes, soaking into the collar of his white shirt.

She had stood paralyzed with fear. Fear of what would happen if she did nothing. Fear of what would erupt if she did. Larkyra, as always, had suffered in a silent storm, trapped within her own mind, barely needing to pretend to remain under the duke’s fogged trance. She had hardly breathed, for it had been sure to come out fire.

There had been more than one monster standing in that drawing room.

She was always trapped with her magic, by her magic.

But she had to succeed in her mission. She could not let her family down.

If she had tried to stop Hayzar while caught up in her white-hot fury, she could have very likely killed the duke or, worse yet, Darius. And any other soul that had stepped in her way.

Larkyra had wanted to scream then, loud and uncontrolled, give in to her powers, which had gathered, ready to roar. Like a reflex, she’d retreated so far into herself, blacking out the room and muting the moans of pain emanating from Darius, that she’d wondered if she might have died.

The only blessing was that the duke’s supply of siphoned magic had faded, and he could only inflict so much of it onto his stepson before he’d needed to stop and take leave to rest.

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 off. 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.