Song of the Forever Rains by E.J. Mellow

CHAPTER TWO

Larkyra’s lungs were being crushed. But she supposed corsets were not designed for comfort while running. Still, after wearing practically a smock for the better part of a month, Larkyra felt rather confined in her finely sewn clothes.

Not that she couldn’t adapt. If there was one thing a Bassette excelled at, it was adapting.

Another scream rang through the south wing, much closer this time, and Larkyra picked up her skirts. Wincing through the throb in her injured finger, she did not look behind her as she ran faster.

Panting, she swung the massive doors to the weapons room closed and slumped against them, ears prickling for the stomping of approaching feet.

“She’ll check here eventually,” said Arabessa from where she stood at the far target range. She let loose two throwing knives, a blur of movement before they stuck in the center bull’s-eye.

Larkyra’s magic swam anxiously in her throat for a moment before she swallowed it down. “Yes,” she said, her blue skirts rustling as she approached her sister. “But by then I’m hoping the walk will cool her off.”

“If anything, having to travel for her revenge will only incite her further.”

“Sticks.” Larkyra darted her gaze to the closed door. “I didn’t think about that.”

“You never do, dear,” said Arabessa, taking the new daggers that Charlotte, their shared lady’s maid, held for her.

Their weapons room was large with high ceilings, and the musk of wood and tang of metal filled Larkyra’s lungs with many memories of working long nights in this space. The ache of muscles and dripping of sweat.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Arabessa, hooking the knives to the belt around the waist of her skirts. “You may escape now before the storm comes.”

“I’ve weathered worse havoc from you girls,” said Charlotte with a crooked grin.

Their lady’s maid was a tiny woman with vein-riddled hands, and though she was fragile in appearance, if provoked, Larkyra knew Charlotte could bring the burliest of men to their knees. A quality their father had no doubt ensured she had before hiring her to look after his three daughters. In fact, all the Bassette staff had a wide range of talents that some might say went beyond the normal duties of their job description. Each had been born with a level of the lost gods’ gifts and was free to wield their magic openly within these walls, which made Larkyra feel like their home was a bit of a sanctuary, a place where no one needed to hide who they were—a rarity in Jabari. For publicizing one’s magic often meant a life of persecution and displacement due to the perceived threat of having too much power. This created a steadfast loyalty between their staff and Larkyra’s family.

Larkyra’s chest warmed as she watched the small woman beside her sister, for Charlotte had taught the girls young that none were as devoted as those whose secrets you held safe.

“That might be true,” said Arabessa. “But seeing as Lark had a month to think up whatever travesty she’s now set in motion, it’s best we sisters deal with it on our own, in our own way.”

Larkyra watched as Arabessa danced a throwing knife through her fingers. “Maybe you should stay, Charlotte,” she began. “It would be best to have a witness.”

The old woman merely clicked her tongue in silent resignation, and with a wave of her hand, she straightened a crooked dagger on the far wall before taking her leave.

“You’ve cleaned up nicely,” said Arabessa as she walked to a display of thin fencing swords. “Skinnier, which is of course to be expected, but I also see you have returned not entirely intact.”

Larkyra’s injured finger throbbed harder, as if just as offended by her sister’s jab as she.

“All cannot be as perfect as you,” countered Larkyra.

“No,” mused Arabessa as she selected two swords from the rack. “But it’s good you can finally admit to it.” Arabessa lobbed one of the foils to Larkyra, who snatched the hilt from the air. “Hold it in your left hand,” she instructed.

Larkyra narrowed her eyes as she switched her grip, the feeling of it a bit awkward. But she gritted her teeth past the pain, curling her partially missing finger to be on display. As if to say, Yes, I can still hold a sword as well as you, with less than you.

“I’m not dressed to spar,” explained Larkyra.

“We are meant to practice in all sorts of apparel,” said Arabessa, gesturing to her deep-purple day dress with a high collar, her inky-black tresses pinned tightly into a neat, coiled bun. “Now, if you’re done making excuses . . .” Arabessa lunged toward Larkyra, her movements purposeful and fluid, as if the air held her music sheet, guiding each of her next strokes. This innate grace was due to her gifts with music, of course—Arabessa’s ability to expertly play any instrument made by man or creature—which left Larkyra a little annoyed whenever they were together. In comparison, she felt like a floundering, graceless chicken.

Larkyra fumbled back a step at her sister’s attack.

Her magic turned over, frustrated, in her gut, pushing Larkyra to tighten her grasp, using her pinkie and pointer finger to compensate for the loss of her steady hold before making a broad sweep forward.

Arabessa blocked her, feinting forward before stepping back.

As Arabessa’s blade clanked against her own, the vibration traveled all the way to Larkyra’s palm, threatening to loosen her hold. Larkyra set her shoulders and pushed back, willing her other fingers to do more of the work. They spun in a circle, Larkyra answering each of her sister’s advances with her own. She would have to learn to readjust a few things now, to accommodate her missing finger.

“You really know how to welcome a girl back,” said Larkyra. “I’ve missed you too.”

Arabessa quirked a grin before swiping a quick X and, with a flick, ripping Larkyra’s sword from her grip. It clattered to the ground beside them.

“You’re not as bad as I thought you’d be,” said Arabessa.

“Thanks?” Larkyra massaged the tender skin of her injured finger through the bandage. The pulsing ache was now an incessant beast.

“You’ll need to practice more, of course,” explained Arabessa.

“Of course,” replied Larkyra dryly.

“Now, come here.” Arabessa opened her arms, pulling Larkyra into a hug. “Welcome home, little bird.”

Though the youngest, Larkyra was as tall as Arabessa, and as she rested her chin on her sister’s shoulder, she inhaled the rose and vanilla that made up Arabessa’s signature scent.

“And happy birthday,” whispered Arabessa.

“Thank you.” Larkyra stepped back with a grin. “And happy day of birth to you as well.”

Arabessa waved an unconcerned hand. “Three and twenty is hardly anything to celebrate. But nineteen.” She beamed. “I cannot believe today is your Eumar Journé! I feel like it was merely yesterday when you were turning twelve. The house has been in a state for some weeks planning tonight’s party.”

Though Larkyra and her sisters shared the same birthday, on each of their Eumar Journés, as decreed by their father, each daughter would receive her own celebration to usher in her coming of age.

“Yes, Cook practically tackled me to the ground as I walked in the door to taste some of what’s on the menu,” said Larkyra. “But I must admit, I’m more excited for the celebrations after the party.”

“Agreed.” Arabessa nodded. “But enough about what hasn’t yet happened. Tell me everything that has, especially how you came to be sporting this beauty.” She raised Larkyra’s injured hand.

Larkyra quickly told Arabessa the tale of the emerald ring and the pawnshop owner’s wife.

“I’m surprised he didn’t take the whole hand,” declared Arabessa.

“That would not have fit the crime.”

“Punishments in the lower quarters hardly ever do.”

“True,” mused Larkyra. “But I’m not about to return to the man so he can correct himself. It already took too much strength not to scream him to shreds while he severed it.”

Arabessa’s gaze softened. “Yes, I’m sure. But remember, to appreciate what we have, be reminded why we do what we do, we must experience the alternative. It is important to practice restraint in our gifts, for most are not as lucky as we.”

Her sisters had each gone through their own Lierenfasts a month before their Eumar Journés. It was a test no other noble family went through or knew the Bassettes practiced, but they had their own reasons for such things. As they often did.

“You sound like Father,” snorted Larkyra.

“Which is the highest of compliments,” said Arabessa. “Speaking of which, have you talked with him?”

A flutter erupted in Larkyra’s belly. “No, he hasn’t called me in yet.”

“He will soon.”

Behind them, the door burst open.

The girl looked like crashing waves at sunset as she poured into the room, unstoppable beauty. And though shorter, what she lacked in height she made up for in the curves and sway of her hips as her creamy peach dress bubbled up like agitated froth with each of her steps. Whether she liked it or not, her moods were always readable through her movements—an effect of her hypnotic gift of dance.

“Dear sister,” greeted Niya, her light tone contradicting her needle-pointed gaze as she stopped before them. “How fortunate this day is to see you returned home. Happiest of Eumar Journés.”

“Thank you, Niya.” Larkyra eyed her sister with both hidden amusement and wary defensiveness. “And happy day of birth to you as well.”

“Yes, quite.” Niya brushed back a loose red curl. “Is that why you maimed your hand? As a gift to me?”

Larkyra strained to keep the levity in her features, the phantom limb of her missing finger twitching in agitation. “Why, yes. Do you like it?” She displayed her nub more prominently.

Niya shrugged. “It’s rather small.”

Larkyra pursed her lips.

Niya raised one manicured brow.

And then a grin curled its way onto each of their faces.

“Come here, you old toad.” Niya tugged Larkyra into a hug. “I’m happy you are home. But I do hope you practiced sleeping with one eye open during your Lierenfast,” she said softly into Larkyra’s ear. “For I will return the loving sentiments you left on my bed. Perhaps I’ll make you symmetrical by taking your other ring finger.”

“I look forward to your attempts.” Larkyra tightened her arms around Niya.

“Let the games begin.”

“I thought they already had.”

“How much longer are the two of you going to hold each other in a creepy, whispering embrace?” asked Arabessa. “For I’ll gladly tell Cook to push back tonight’s dinner a sand fall or two. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to oblige.”

“Feeling left out?” Niya stepped back, regarding their eldest sister.

“Never have a day in my life.”

Niya snorted. “Well, that’s the largest load of—”

“I thought I’d find you all here,” said a deep, familiar rumble that sent memories of their shared childhood flying through Larkyra’s mind.

A dashing black man stood by the open door.

“Zimri!” Larkyra ran to him, throwing herself into his arms.

He stumbled a step, and it took Zimri a moment to wrap her in a similar embrace as he let out a low laugh. “I’m glad none of your spirit has dulled after your time away.”

“If anything”—Larkyra settled into his arms—“my time away has only made me shine brighter.”

“Indeed,” said Zimri warmly.

Zimri D’Enieu was the son of their father’s oldest ally, Halson D’Enieu, and upon his and his wife’s tragic death, which had left Zimri with no living relatives, their father had taken him in and raised him as his own. He’d started as a skinny, quiet lad, but thanks to the curious and often-overbearing nature of the Bassette daughters and their father’s wisdom and fortitude, he had grown into quite a strapping, independent man. It was only natural that Zimri would step into the role of their father’s right-hand man—something he had taken on with great honor and seriousness. Sometimes too much seriousness.

“May I put you down now?” asked Zimri.

“Only if you must,” sighed Larkyra.

Once back on her feet, Larkyra took him in properly. Zimri’s dashing grin and penetrating gaze had brought many women and men to a weak-in-the-knees sigh. And as usual, he was dressed impeccably in a gold-embroidered three-piece gray suit. The threads matched his startling hazel eyes. “Is it just me,” asked Larkyra, “or have you gotten more handsome since I left?”

“It’s just you,” said Arabessa from across the room.

Zimri shot her a glare, but Arabessa had returned to practicing with her throwing knives, filling the space with the rhythmic thunk of each hitting her target.

Larkyra exchanged a knowing glance with Niya before turning back to Zimri. “Have you brought me a present?”

“In a way.” He straightened his suit. “He’s asked to see you.”

Larkyra’s stomach twisted tight. Oh dear, she thought. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

After glancing at each of her sisters—reassuring nods were given—Larkyra turned to Zimri once more. “Okay. Lead the way.”

While Larkyra had grown up in this house, she still had not figured out all its secrets, and a week wouldn’t go by that she didn’t discover at least one new room or passage, only to return the following day to find it had moved to a different floor entirely. Zimri effortlessly led her through endless hallways that stretched up to stained glass ceilings; down flights of stairs rimmed with tapestries from far-flung places, the thread dancing with movement; over a small bridge that connected the south wing to the west; to not one but three doors that allowed entry to her father’s chambers, where she finally, thankfully, breathlessly stopped.

Larkyra rubbed her lips together, her magic pacing in her veins at her uneasiness.

Everything with her father was a test, a lesson, in some way. Though more often than not, no sister knew if she’d ever passed or failed, which, as tests went, Larkyra supposed, wasn’t such a bad outcome. Yet it still made every encounter fraught with that potent mix of anxiety and anticipation. Larkyra only ever wanted to please her father, given that she had much to make up for, due to taking away his wife.

Guilt hit Larkyra low in the belly, as it always did when she thought of her mother.

Zimri stepped back, allowing Larkyra to approach the doors, each different in design. One was made of jagged onyx; another plain, worn wood; and the third pure-white marble, bearing no identifying marks to symbolize what lay beyond.

“Your choice,” instructed Zimri, leaning against the adjacent wall. “He’ll be waiting for you no matter which door you choose.”

“You’re not coming with me?” asked Larkyra.

Zimri shook his head. “It is you he’s asked to see.”

“But I’m sure he’d enjoy a surprise visit.”

“Lark.” Zimri raised an unimpressed brow. “Knock.”

Zimri was one of the few who knew the secret the Bassettes held behind spelled walls and hidden cities, given that he came from the very place they kept so carefully guarded.

“And a happy day of birth to you too,” grumbled Larkyra, returning to the choices before her.

A great many things could happen, depending on whether she knocked on one door over another, or nothing at all.

Which, again, was probably some lesson to meditate on. But currently, on a day like her Eumar Journé, Larkyra had no use for such still reflection, so with sure footing she approached to rap once, twice, and then three times on the onyx doorway.

It gave a rather dramatic creak as it opened, an icy wind funneling out, and right before Larkyra stepped through, she had a moment of self-doubt, fearing that perhaps now, more than any other time in her life, she had chosen poorly.