The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) Page 13

  The woman gave a confused half smile and said, “You can call me Críquete, if you wish.”

  “I only wish to eat my lunch in peace.” Anger at her situation made Pira’s tongue sharper than she intended. “Please.”

  The smile disappeared off Críquete’s face, and something sad and empathetic replaced it. “He’s out there, you know. Worrying about you.”

  “Who?”

  “The warrior,” Críquete said simply, as if that clarified anything. “Make sure you tell him how much you care when you see him. It’ll be the last chance you get.”

  Pira’s heart contracted, feeling as if she’d caught the butt end of a staff to her chest. “I don’t really want to know.”

  “I know you don’t.” She patted Pira’s hand, though the action was undeserved. “But you need to be prepared. As we leave for the wall in a few days, it will be much sooner than you’d like.”

  “What . . .” Pira let the word hang, uncertain if she wanted any more convoluted revelations.

  “Finish the collars.” Críquete turned toward the door. “Don’t try to trick Vibora. She’ll notice the flaw you’ve built into that one the moment she touches it. She is a natural Earth affinity, you know.”

  Pira frowned at the collar she’d set on the worktable. The latch closed but would slip open with a slight tug. She’d hoped to give one person a chance at freedom.

  “Fix it before she comes,” Críquete advised. “And be ready for the opportunity when it arrives.”

  Chapter 33

  * * *

  Rafi

  The list of people Rafi hated seemed to grow every day.

  At first it was short, with a roughly scrawled “Inimigo” filling a mental page. The man was responsible for so much death and heartache across Santarem that sometimes it seemed impossible for Rafi to hate anyone else with such vehemence.

  Ceara’s name, a new tally, splattered the page with blood. The hate Rafi felt for his underlord was fresh and fierce, and would be managed only when Rafi could authorize a warrant for capture, then Trial and Punishment. Though in this case a beating wouldn’t be enough. Rafi wanted Ceara’s head mounted on one of the pointed pickets over Camaçari’s main gate.

  As they marched through the jungle, Jacaré had earned a mark too. It wasn’t because of the way the Keeper carried himself, all arrogance and aggression, or even the way he’d thwarted Rafi’s attack, but that he had the power to heal Johanna’s hand and he’d refused. He’d given some thin explanation about energy and power and wasting it.

  Healing Johanna would be a waste. Thinking the words added a new layer of ink to Jacaré’s name on the list. If Rafi had actually been writing it, the nib of his pen would have bitten through the paper.

  Jacaré’s orders chafed, but Rafi swallowed the sharp words on his tongue. They needed the man—and his knowledge, supplies, and weapons. Still, Rafi would have chosen to face a regiment of Inimigo’s troops rather than travel anywhere with the Keeper.

  “We’ll stop here for a few hours,” Jacaré said, waving to a flatish spot near a small cluster of jaboticabas. “Rest. Eat. I’d like to push through till full dark. We could reach Performers’ Camp by tomorrow evening.”

  The trees’ globular fruit would supplement their meager rations of bananas and water. Johanna plucked one of the purple-black balls that grew on the tree’s trunk instead of on its branches, and took a bite. A line of juice dripped down her chin. Rafi felt a grin tug at his lips, till he realized the knuckles of her injured hand were nearly as dark and glossy as the fruit.

  Anger flared anew. “You can’t do anything to help her?”

  Jacaré turned slowly. “No. Especially not if it hinders me from saving her life later.”

  “You’re a Keeper. Can’t you do both?”

  Rafi knew a Keeper’s power was limited, but surely Jacaré could do something.

  “It’s fine, Rafi,” Johanna interjected. “It’s not bothering me that much anymore.”

  He could see the lie plainly on her face, and in the protective way she held her hand over her heart. It made him sick to know that she was suffering, again, and he could do nothing to fix it.

  “When Leão catches up to us, he can heal it.” Her voice was light, optimistic, but she was also oblivious.

  She hadn’t noticed all the times Jacaré had looked behind them, checking their back trail. It wasn’t merely for protection; he was hoping to see his companion lope up behind them, but as the day stretched on and Leão didn’t appear, Jacaré’s face grew grimmer.

  Leão wasn’t coming.

  Rafi didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he knew what it was like to expect something and be disappointed. He even knew what it was like to look constantly for someone and never have him appear. One passing hint of sympathy and then Rafi’s anger resurfaced.

  “There’s a stream nearby,” Jacaré said, holding out their communal water bag. “Fill this. If it’s cold, Johanna can hold it against her hand. It will help a little.”

  “Fine.” Rafi snatched the bag and strode toward the sound of the stream, tracing Jacaré’s name permanently on the list.

  Chapter 34

  * * *

  Jacaré

  King Wilhelm’s necklace had been magically connected with a glass that allowed Jacaré to monitor Johanna’s actions all her life. He’d seen her as a bright-eyed baby taking her first steps, and as an adventurous child facing new challenges. At first she’d been another element of his command, another task to be completed, but now that he knew her as a person—not simply an image—he’d grown to like her. She was tough and cagey, but still young and pliable.

  Which made what he was about to do feel underhanded and despicable, and was something that would surely make her unhappy.

  Johanna sat against a tree trunk, knees tucked to her chest, completing the picture of youthful vulnerability.

  He squatted at her side, trying to appear idle as he peeled away the fruit’s skin. “DeSilva is going to have to make a choice soon.”

  “A choice?”

  “Of course,” Jacaré said, as if he expected the thought to be obvious to Johanna. “You’ll need to stay near the wall so the barrier remains stable. And he’ll have to choose whether he’ll stay with you or return to his people in Santiago.”

  She reeled, the words as stunning as a blow to the head. “But what about my brother? He’s in Santiago.”

  “Rafi will arrange for someone to deliver Michael to you.”

  “I thought you could do something to reestablish the barrier. I didn’t think . . .”

  Guilt tingled at the back of Jacaré’s throat before sliding down to his stomach. “Magic has limits, Johanna. You should have realized that by now.” He waved to her wounded hand. “Distance puts a strain on it. If we restore the barrier but you continue to stretch the magic’s boundaries, then we’ll be back in the same predicament again and you’ll put all the people you care about in danger.”

  “You’re saying I’ll have to stay by the wall forever.”

  “You could return to Roraima, though it isn’t a very pleasant place to live. And without my crew . . .” Thoughts of Tex, Pira, and Leão dried his throat, and he had to swallow to continue. “Without my crew and an army of supporters, there’s no way for you take the throne.”

  “I don’t want it anyway,” she said quickly.

  “That’s good. Once the Nata are taken care of and you renounce any interest in ruling, you’ll be safer. With a dedicated guard, someday you might even be able to live at Performers’ Camp. It’s close enough to the wall.”

  “Someday. When people stop looking for me, you mean.” Her tone was sour.

  “And that makes your relationship with Rafi difficult. He has a duty to Santiago, and being betrothed to you will put his people in danger. The other dukes will always wonder if either of you has aspirations toward the crown.”

  It was like watching a dragonfly die. The paired wings of hope and optimism were pi
nned down under his words.

  “I don’t know Rafi well, but he seems honorable,” Jacaré continued. “Would you ask him to give up his seat as Duke of Santiago to stay with you at the wall, or wage a war for you to take the throne?”

  “No. Of course not,” she whispered, her eyes looking suspiciously glossy.

  Her words were exactly what Jacaré hoped to hear, especially as Rafi’s footfalls were drawing closer.

  “His goals are different from yours. He wants to help you now, while it serves his purpose and while he’s accomplishing something that will protect his state, but that will change soon enough. You need to prepare yourself to let him go, Johanna.” Handing her another jaboticaba, he added, “Don’t make him choose between his duty and yours. It will be a hard decision. Make it as easy for him as possible.”

  Jacaré took her broken hand gently and healed the worst break. He couldn’t do much else to make her feel better.

  Chapter 35

  * * *

  Dom

  Dom had done as his mother asked, finding an excuse to pull Maribelle aside nearly every day, pretending to flirt as she shared slivers of information. She had no new word on Rafi or Ceara, but the spy within Dom’s household had sent out another message.

  In those quick, private discussions he learned that Maribelle’s eye-catching appearance and vapid air were a carefully cultivated act. And while he hated to admit it, even to himself, Maribelle was growing on him. She was smart and complicated, like her coded notes, a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure or walk away from.

  He leaned back in his chair, staring out the library window onto the night-darkened yard beyond, and considered the girl and her games. The room had a fairly good view over two sides of the estate. It also offered him a sense of privacy. The high ceilings and wide windows meant no one could come close enough to listen to a whispered conversation without being noticed. There was nothing between the oversize table and the bookshelf-lined walls except a few padded chairs and a rug.

  The dog asleep near the hearth raised its head, and a moment later the double doors swung open, surprising Dom out of his chair.

  It was Brynn. And she was crying.

  She startled when she saw him and backed toward the hallway. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Raising her arm, she hastily wiped her tears on her sleeve. “I didn’t realize you’d be here. I’ll just—”

  “No, please. Don’t go.” He hurried to her side, unsure of himself, of where to put his hands. It had been only a few days since their kiss, but every interaction since—even when they passed in the hall—had been charged. “What’s wrong? Is he missing again?”

  Her eyes, always a bright and lustrous green, gleamed with unshed tears. She shook her head in confusion.

  “Michael. Is he hiding again?”

  “No. No, Michael’s fine,” she said, her voice a shade above a whisper. “Michael’s fine. I’m fine. It’s silly. I’m . . . tired. That’s all.”

  He did touch her then, fingertips lingering on her shoulder. She didn’t turn away, so he left his hand where it was. “I understand. We’re all worn to the bone. But are you sure that’s all that’s worrying you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Dom waited, knowing that his silence would force her to talk. She wasn’t the kind of person who could stand an awkward pause, and she always tried to fill it with bubbly conversation.

  “It’s just . . .” She straightened, tucking a few wayward strands behind her ears. “Renato, the butcher’s son who makes all the deliveries? You’ve met him before. He asked me to marry him, and it isn’t a bad offer, really. He’ll take over his father’s business someday. Their home is quite lovely. It’s nothing like the estate, of course . . .”

  She kept talking, unaware that Dom had stopped listening as soon as she mentioned the proposal.

  Brynn can’t get married. She’s not . . . is she even seventeen yet? Why don’t I know when her birthday is? How do I not know this? But even if she is, she can’t get married. She belongs in this house. She belongs here . . . with me.

  “You can’t marry him,” Dom said, cutting her off midsentence. “You don’t even know him.”

  “Of course I know him.” Her face had gone a little pink, but Dom wasn’t sure if she was angry or embarrassed or something else entirely. “I’ve known Renato since Gavin and I moved to Santiago when our parents died. And even if I didn’t know him, it wouldn’t be up to you to decide who I get to marry. You might be the lord of this house, but you don’t get to make those decisions for me.”

  Dom opened his mouth, but he couldn’t find the appropriate response. Brynn was actually considering marrying the butcher’s son, who, if Dom remembered correctly, was too pretty for any man to be. Which somehow made this all worse. “Is this what was bothering you the other day?”

  She answered with a noncommittal shrug.

  “Do you love him?” he asked.

  “I . . . does it matter?”

  The color on her cheeks deepened. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no, either. Imagining Brynn with anyone else, caring about anyone else, made something inside Dom’s chest give a twist. The pain was too sharp for something as simple as petty jealousy; it wasn’t the childish possessiveness of a boy whose favorite plaything had been snatched away. He cared deeply for Brynn—it was a surprising realization—and the feelings were more profound than simple friendship.

  “I think it matters,” he said, his voice low. “I think you should be with someone you love.” Someone like me.

  She gave a humorless laugh. “I will never, ever be with the person I love.”

  He stepped forward and nervously, hesitantly, touched her cheek. “Why not?”

  A slow blink and the tears spilled down her face. Dom raised his other hand and wiped the droplets away with his thumbs. “Please don’t,” she said, but didn’t pull away. “You’re making this too hard.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, but wasn’t sure what the apology was for. His eyes dropped to her lips, and he pulled her closer.

  She put a hand on his chest, keeping him at bay. “Sometimes it’s too late for apologies.” Straightening, she turned for the library doors and never looked back.

  Chapter 36

  * * *

  Pira

  The burlap bags were scratchy and smelled like rotten potatoes, but Pira was too exhausted to care. She fell onto the pile on the smithy floor and tucked her arms, heavy with two days of overuse, close to her body. Flexing the fingers of her right hand didn’t alleviate the ache in her knuckles and tendons.

  She’d always been proud of her rough hands and muscular arms, but for the first time in her life Pira wished she’d trained in a softer, less useful art. An entire row of collars, nearly fifty in all, lay spread across the smithy’s workbench. Hinges open, gaping like jaws of some frightful leech, ready to parasite the energy off some poor, unsuspecting creature.

  Turning her back to the glinting, silvery metal didn’t put her creations out of her mind, but she managed to doze off, napping lightly till arguing voices drew her out of sleep’s clutches.

  “You don’t need her and I do,” Vibora said as she walked into the shop. “She’s not that powerful anyway. She’s weak, really, and there will be so many others to draw from when we reach Performers’ Camp.”

  “Don’t presume to tell me what I need.” Sapo pushed past the other Keeper and kicked Pira in the thigh. “Up, girl.”

  “Sapo, please.” Vibora’s voice wobbled. “Won’t the wall be enough? What’s one more Keeper in the face of all that power?”

  “There are no guarantees. What if the heir is successful? What if she solidifies the barrier before we get there?” He kicked Pira, hard this time, and held a hand out to Vibora as if she could literally hand over control.

  Too focused on the interaction, Pira didn’t feel the kick. She knew there was something here, some clue as to how the collars functioned and what their plans were for the future.

>   “Then we’ll still have all the collars that Pira is creating, and we kill Johanna,” Vibora said, sliding needy fingers down Sapo’s arm. “The barrier will snap and—”

  “And all that power evaporates. I’m left no better than I started.”

  “You’re the most powerful Mage alive. You’ve got more power than any ten Mages.” Vibora’s voice was gentle, calming.

  A thick tube of air wrapped around Pira’s torso and forced her to her feet, holding her against the wall. She didn’t struggle, trying not to draw Sapo’s focus and to glean their plan from the argument.

  Sapo couldn’t possibly use all the power from the wall. That was crazy. Wasn’t it?

  If they’d discovered a metal that defied her affinity, could they harvest the stored essência of one hundred Keepers? And if so, who could possibly stand against that force? No one on this side of the wall, and even Olinda would be in danger.

  Sapo gripped Vibora’s upper arm hard enough that she cringed. “Give her to me.”

  “No.” Vibora said the word softly, battling the compulsion in his voice. “In less than a week you’ll have all the power you can ever imagine, and an entire country of people worshipping at your feet. You don’t need this one.”

  He grabbed the front of Vibora’s shirt with his free hand. With a shove he slammed her to the ground, and stepped onto her throat. Vibora gripped his ankle, no collar protecting her from his bruising weight.

  “If you’re wrong,” he said, bending close to Vibora’s face, “then I will take you both.”

  He pressed down on Vibora, forcing a strangled half cry, before walking out of the smithy.

  The air ropes around Pira dissolved and she sagged to the floor next to her master, both women gasping.

  “Why . . .” Pira took a halting breath before continuing her sentence. “Why do you let him do that to you? Why don’t you fight back?”