Song of the Forever Rains by E.J. Mellow
CHAPTER FOUR
Lord Darius Mekenna was incredibly bored. But not for any lack of entertainment or splendor. This was the fifth Eumar Journé his stepfather had forced them to attend in the past two months, and the frivolity of young ladies had worn thin. It didn’t take a senseer for Darius to understand Hayzar’s intentions. After spending years as a widower, his stepfather was on the hunt for a new bride. And by the look of the grand estate they’d entered—with its multitude of halls filled with Aadilor’s far-reaching splendor and a ballroom housing highly influential guests—Hayzar wasn’t just looking for any new bride but a filthy-rich one.
The young lady being celebrated tonight certainly appeared to fit the bill.
While no king or queen ruled Jabari, a circle of six elite houses governed the city, and the Bassettes were among them.
If Darius believed such a marriage as this would help his people, he would be the first to champion his stepfather’s matrimonial bliss, but he knew better than most that none of Hazyar’s future bride’s dowry would find its way to Darius’s lands and tenants. No, the duke had a gift for making precious things disappear.
As he curled his gloved hand tighter around his drink, Darius’s chest burned hot as he thought of his people on the brink of starvation, their taxes too high, their produce and wares too low to make ends meet. All for the frivolities of another. Darius glanced across the wide ballroom to his stepfather, keeping a curl of distaste from marring his lips.
Where Darius preferred to blend in, Hayzar Bruin lived to blindingly stand out. Clad in a long-tailed periwinkle coat with black trim and a matching vest over a white starched shirt, his stepfather appeared every inch a well-to-do duke. Even his purple-soled shoes matched.
Appreciating details,he’d often say to Darius, is what separates the few who matter from the many who do not. Such lessons had been rare when Hayzar had first become Darius’s stepfather, but as the years had passed and his mother’s health had declined day by day, they’d become a ritual that she’d begged him to take seriously. In her final days, the only comfort his mother had seemed able to cling to was her belief that she’d leave him with some semblance of a responsible adult.
Darius held in a derisive snort.
Neither of them could have imagined how wicked and depraved that man would turn out to be.
Darius pushed down a new wave of fury mixed with heartache, thinking of his mother.
Why had the duchess bequeathed the estate to Hayzar instead of keeping to the natural bloodline of succession? Why hadn’t she left it to him? Darius often lay awake, staring into the darkness, as the churn of discomfort overtook him, wondering if he had disappointed his mother in some way during her final days. Had he not shown her the responsible man he was capable of becoming?
Surely she did not want our family’s lands to end up as they have,thought Darius.
This belief was what drove Darius to continue attending these affairs, to search for a solution to bring his lands back, restore them to the glory they’d once been when both his parents had been alive. For those were truly the only times Darius could ever recall being happy.
Letting out a deep breath, Darius sipped his wine, tasting nothing of its sweetness. His mind was preoccupied, thinking of the two meetings he had while in town. One Hayzar knew of but would most likely not attend, leaving Darius to secure the dreaded trade agreement with the Jabari Council. The other meeting Hayzar knew nothing about, but it was stars and seas more important than the first.
Darius had worked hard—and nearly gotten robbed in the process—to find a guide who would lead him to the place only spoken of in whispers, to the very man who ruled over the hidden world of magic and sin. That was, if the creature he’d traded with actually showed up tonight to lead him there. By the lost gods, thought Darius, I hope he shows. Otherwise, he’d be putting up with all this—Darius gave the slobbering partygoers a sweeping glance—for naught.
“Darius, you old goat.” A stout young man approached to slap him on the back.
Darius’s body seized at the abrupt contact, his skin leaping with his heart. He did not like to be touched unannounced.
“What a pleasure it is seeing you here,” said his old schoolmate, who was dressed in clothes one size too small.
Frez Chautblach had attended Aadilor’s South Academy with Darius, and while a nice enough fellow, he had the unfortunate gift of making the most interesting stories boring and the most boring stories damn near insufferable to listen to.
“Frez,” greeted Darius after settling his nerves. He had hoped sticking to the back of the room would give him some peace, but Darius was used to disappointments.
“What has you traveling all the way to Jabari?” asked Frez, taking a sip of what was surely one of many glasses of wine, given how the bottom of his blond mustache was now dyed a dull rouge.
“I have business with the Council.”
“Business, you say.” Frez sloshed his drink. “Not trying to fish in different waters? Snare something with pretty gills?”
Darius raised his brows at the crude description of a woman. “No. Merely business.”
“I do love to fish.” Frez talked over him. “But actually fish, I mean. Not the sexual undertone I was hinting at earlier.” He gave Darius a glassy-eyed smile. “You did catch that, right? That I wasn’t actually talking of fishing with a lure and line before? But of catching a woman?”
By the Obasi Sea,thought Darius as he drained the rest of his spirits and handed the empty glass to a passing servant. “Yes, I understood.”
“Good, good. I’ve been working on those. Mother says I need to practice the art of conversation whenever I can.”
Please, lost gods,prayed Darius silently, do not let me be the subject of the next painful lesson.
“I’ve been writing down phrases I think are clever,” Frez went on. “Oh! You could help me, actually.” Frez fumbled with his inner coat pocket while unsuccessfully trying to hold his cup steady. A bit of red splashed onto his chest. “I can read you some, and you can tell me if—”
A gong rang through the ballroom, silencing the guests, and Darius nearly wept in relief.
Both he and Frez turned toward the sound as the people around them pushed forward in a wave. Darius held his breath as he was jostled by strangers, a slight panic setting in.
He now found himself closer to the front than he would have liked, but any thought of retreat fell away as he took in the impressive family that stood before them. At the top of marble stairs was a giant boulder of a man with a mane of russet hair that fed into his thick beard. He was dressed in deep crimson with leather and gold details lining the edge of his long coat, an ornate sword hitched to his hip. A voluptuous redhead wearing a peachy-white gown stood to his right, while a tall, striking dark brunette in deep purple was on his left. Darius wouldn’t have guessed they were related if it weren’t for the similar clever blue eyes that gazed across the audience.
A black man wearing an immaculate bloodred, long-tailed tux stepped forward and, with a voice clear and rich, announced, “I’m honored to present to you Dolion Bassette, Count of Raveet, of the second house of Jabari, and his daughters, Lady Arabessa Bassette and Lady Niya Bassette.”
The room filled with clapping and cheers until the count smiled and stilled them with a raised hand. “I am honored to have you all as our esteemed guests tonight to celebrate the Eumar Journé of my youngest. As her father, I have been both anticipating and dreading this day since her birth. For any child to come of age, to become truly independent in the world, is a scary moment in time, but I am proud of the woman she has become, and I know I will be proud of the woman she will keep aspiring to be. And though my dearest love, Johanna”—a sad smile pinched the corners of his lips—“is not with us to celebrate, I know she would be just as proud. So it is with the greatest love and honor that I present to you my daughter, Lady Larkyra Bassette.”
The count stepped to the side, and a tall ivory-haired girl in blue floated forward. The bodies pressing into Darius were forgotten, and his heart slowed as though a morning mist after a Lachlan rain had soared into the room. Refreshing, that was what Larkyra Bassette was. With a radiant smile, she rested her gloved hand in her father’s, and he secured it in the crook of his arm.
The applause subsided, and the ball resumed its murmurs and music as the Bassettes descended the stairs and made their rounds to various guests. Frez’s inane prattling continued beside Darius, but his attention remained on the family as they slowly drew near, until he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand tall, indicating only one thing—someone was watching him. He was watching him.
Darius caught his stepfather’s dark-brown gaze from across the room just as a shadow fell across him.
No,thought Darius, not while he’s looking. Please, let this not be—
“Lord Chautblach and Lord Mekenna.” The count’s deep, rumbling voice filled the space. “I’m so glad you both could join us for tonight’s celebration, and of course the duke. Is he here?” Dolion Bassette, a good head taller than Darius, searched the room.
“He is, Your Grace. Somewhere amid the merriment.” After bending low at the waist, Darius glanced back up to find the entire family standing before him. The elder two sisters stayed a step behind their father, looking a trifle bored, while Larkyra remained hitched to his arm. She gave him a hesitant, curious grin, and seeing her up close . . . there was something almost . . . but no, why would she seem familiar to him?
“Thank you for extending an invitation for tonight,” said Darius to the count. “We are honored to have been included, and may I extend a happy Eumar Journé, my lady.” His eyes fell to Lady Larkyra’s again.
She opened her mouth to respond, but Frez cut in.
“My mother was most ecstatic to receive the invitation,” said Frez. “She sends her regrets for not being able to attend herself, but as you know, Your Grace, her constitution is often fragile in the late evenings.”
“And what of her early mornings?” asked Lady Niya Bassette, picking at her sheer gloves.
“I beg your pardon?” Frez looked a bit frazzled at being addressed by the redheaded beauty.
“I asked of her early mornings.” She turned her gaze on him. “If she’s fragile in the late evenings, how is she when she wakes?”
“I fear she’s shattered to pieces,” chimed in Lady Arabessa.
“Unless she’s like a desert flower,” replied Lady Niya. “Closes up under the stars, alive under the sun.”
“That’s a regular flower,” corrected Lady Arabessa. “Regular flowers sleep at night.”
“I’m fairly certain it’s also desert ones.”
“Then why specify the difference in the first place? Just say she’s like a flower.”
“Because I think a desert flower is a more complimentary description for a woman than a regular old flower,” explained Lady Niya. “Any fellow can write a verse of poetry comparing a woman to a flower. But to specify the kind, well, that moves one’s heart. Do you not agree, Lord Chautblach?”
The poor man turned positively green. “I, uh, that is . . .”
“What say you, Lord Mekenna?” Lady Larkyra cut off the sad bloke’s spluttering to turn her attention to Darius. “When writing a love poem for your sweetheart, do you specify your botany?”
It took Darius a moment to blink out of the soothing tempo of her voice, the familiarity of it, as it lulled his mind blank. “No, my lady,” he eventually said. “I find the use of plants for amorous verses too prosaic.”
“Indeed?” She raised her brows. “And what do you use instead?”
“I have yet to find a sweetheart to outright know.”
Her eyes held his for a beat, a bit of pink rising to her cheeks.
“You can see how my daughters have given me grays over the years,” chuckled the count, gazing at his children with open affection.
The look sent a shameful spark of jealousy through Darius, and he averted his attention just as the music switched to a waltz.
“Ah.” Dolion patted his youngest child’s hand. “It’s time for your first dance, my dearest. Who shall be your partner?”
The question hung in the air for an awkwardly long time. Darius knew it would be the gentlemanly thing to request to be her partner, but his temperament was already a bit on edge, and he did not care to feel any more hands on him, however gentle this lady’s touch might be. He also was not in the mood to smile and speak false pleasantries, especially with his stepfather most likely watching . . . no good would come from Hayzar thinking he was interested, not just in the girl but in anything. Such things had a tendency to get taken, to disappear.
Yet the longer no one spoke—Frez still a melting ball of cowardice beside him—the more Lady Larkyra shrank in embarrassment, her gaze often fluttering to his.
Sticks.
“Does the father not have the first dance?” asked Darius. “In Lachlan that’s how we start.”
“No.” Dolion held his stare. “That is not how we start in Jabari.”
It wasn’t so much an intimidation as a Come on, man. Use your head.
But it was precisely his head that held him in a panic, made him want to push the next guest toward her. Instead, with a clenched jaw, he found himself raising his gloved hand and asking, “Would you do me the great honor of allowing me your first dance?”
To his relief, he barely felt Lady Larkyra’s delicate fingers in his as he led her to the center of the ballroom. Keeping his features impassive, he slid his hand around her small waist, drawing her near, before making pace with the other dancers spinning about the room. His heart settled its rapid beat, as her grip on him was nothing more than a whisper of a bird’s wing, and at this close proximity, he caught the mint and lavender of her soap. Nothing obnoxiously overperfumed, like what most of the aristocratic ladies wore, but merely a clean remnant of her bath. It settled his nerves further, and before he knew it, he was pulling her closer.
Despite his reluctance to find more to compliment in her, she was also an excellent dancer, though Darius supposed he didn’t have enough experience to draw such a conclusion. He still could appreciate her quick feet and light turns, the way she easily let him guide her.
“There are only a few sand grains left.” Her soft voice jarred him from his thoughts. “You needn’t worry much longer.”
“What?”
“The waltz will end soon,” she clarified. “Which means your suffering will too.”
Darius frowned. “I am not suffering.”
“No?” She shot him a mocking glance. “My father had to practically force you to partner with me, which I do apologize for. And just now you looked as though you were more interested in solving a silent riddle than engaging in a conversation. My sisters always told me I was barely tolerable, but now I am starting to believe them.”
Darius quickly searched for his stepfather but only found a sea of strangers watching. “I’m sorry if that’s how it appeared.” He held her more securely as they did a two-step turn. “Trust me when I say you are more than tolerable as a dance partner. I’m merely not the best at social gatherings. At least not this sort.”
“This sort?” asked Lady Larkyra.
“Societal soirees.”
She laughed, the light sound cutting straight through him. “And here I thought it was a birthday party.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Again, I apologize.”
By the lost gods, man, you’re acting like a blubbering chit.
“No.” She smiled widely. “You’re right. This is barely the sort of thing I’d throw myself if I had my way.”
“Then why are we all here? I hardly believe your father is the type of man who would deny you anything if asked.”
“What makes you think he has?” Lady Larkyra’s blue eyes sparked with mischief, and Darius found himself watching her more intently, the way the yellow glow of the room reflected in shimmers across her intricately braided hair.
She really did feel familiar to him, but perhaps it was the way she sparked with such life that Darius found comforting. He was not used to such energy, and it appeared he was rather parched for it.
“We all have roles to play at different times,” she went on. “Like you being the dashing lord and coming to my rescue for my first dance, despite your reservations.”
“I didn’t have—”
“You did.” She stepped between his legs for a spin. “No need to lie, my lord.”
There was a tease in her voice, a hidden joke.
“Are you always this forthright?” asked Darius.
“Like I said, no need to lie.”
Except lies are all I’ve known,he thought.
“So you have never found the need for falsity?” challenged Darius.
“Of course I have.”
He blinked down at her. “Now you’re talking in contradictions.”
“No, I’m talking contextually.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It means I am forthright when I see no need to be otherwise, and I am a liar when the situation warrants it.”
“You are most peculiar.”
“Thank you.” She beamed, and he couldn’t help it—he laughed.
The sound surprised not only him but Lady Larkyra as well. She gazed up at him with an almost triumphant expression as he held her in his arms.
“By your comment earlier,” he said, “can I deduce that you’re celebrating your day of birth again in another way?”
Her smile turned sly. “The night is still young, Lord Mekenna,” she said as the waltz came to a close. “And so am I.”
They each stood there for a moment, frozen, one of his hands still in hers, the other on her waist, their breathing fast from the slight exertion—at least that was what Darius blamed it on—as the party hummed, softly blurring around them.
And then it all snapped into focus as a new voice entered their bubble. A voice laced with silk over sand, a voice that would forever send ice across Darius’s skin.
“After such a graceful performance,” said Hayzar Bruin from beside them, “I would be remiss not to ask for the next dance.” He extended a violet-gloved hand toward Larkyra.
Darius’s grip instinctively tightened around her, making Larkyra glance up at him in question, but before she could get a word out, he forced himself to release her and step back, giving her room to accept the offer, which she did with a smile.
As a black knot of smoke gathered in Darius’s gut, he was forced to watch, like every other time he’d begun to enjoy something in his life, as his stepfather took her away.