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  The security of Jacaré’s people depended on a piece of glass he could shatter with his bare hands, and now the shoddy tool wasn’t even working.

  He’d faced the Mage Council when the glass had been frozen for two weeks, and his worries had been ignored.

  It’s probably just a hiccup in the magic, they’d said, rolling their eyes at his concern. Some members of the Council made it clear that the Elite Guard—the police force that kept the less-magically gifted in order—was obsolete and treated the High Captain with little respect.

  It’s not a perfect science, you know, they chided, as if he was unfamiliar with magic and magical objects.

  Jacaré did know; he’d been responsible for the Keepers’ protection for nearly three centuries. In that time, images had frozen for a week or so, but never longer.

  This was no hiccup. Something had happened; the situation had changed. And there was more than the dysfunctional glass that gave Jacaré the constant feeling of unease.

  “When will they see me?” he asked the uniformed attendant standing guard outside the ornate oak door. The carvings were supposed to remind everyone who passed through that the Mage Council was guided by the goddess, Mother Lua.

  Jacaré didn’t have much faith in that.

  “I told you, sir,” the servant said patiently. “These meetings take time. Many issues need to be discussed and—”

  Jacaré didn’t wait to hear the rest, pushing past the attendant and throwing both doors open wide.

  The Council sat behind a crescent-shaped table on a raised dais. One member argued his opinion at the center of the floor, where the large windows cast pools of light.

  The man’s words cut off abruptly at Jacaré’s intrusion. “What are you doing here?” He turned to the flustered servant who hurried along at Jacaré’s heels. “Silva, how did he get in?”

  “I’m sorry, so sorry, Mage Cristoval,” the servant said, rubbing his hands along the front of his green tunic. “He pushed me out of the way, sir.”

  Jacaré ignored the exchange and walked straight to the head of the Mage Council. He’d known Amelia for a long time and recognized the look on her weathered face. She wasn’t happy to see him—though really, she never was.

  “This is preposterous,” Cristoval continued, taking in Jacaré’s military uniform and the thin leather band he wore around his forehead that marked his station. “We’re in the middle of an important debate. He can’t be here. Our words are only for those sworn to the Council.”

  “Peace, Cristoval.” Amelia stood, holding the wide sleeves of her robe away from the desk. “High Captain Jacaré must have a good reason to interrupt us. A very good reason.”

  Jacaré slid the glass across the scroll Amelia had been writing on. It smeared the fresh ink and clinked against a jar of sand before coming to a stop.

  “Explain this,” he commanded.

  Amelia raised one white eyebrow at his insubordinate tone before picking up the glass. “How long has it been frozen?”

  “Two months. I need to know exactly what it means.”

  She lowered herself slowly into her chair, the lines on her face showing every one of her five hundred years. Her arthritic hands traced the image, a bright blue glow emanating from her fingertips.

  “The guardian is dead,” she said in a near whisper, yet her words sent a ripple of murmurs through the Council room.

  “You’re sure?” Jacaré asked, his heart fluttering like a startled quail. “He could have taken off the divining pendant and put it in a box or—”

  “No.” Her mahogany eyes were solemn. “The man who received the pendant from the king died before passing it along to the rightful heir.”

  For centuries the pendant had been worn by the royal family of Santarem, the nation south of Donovan’s Wall. It relayed images to the glass, offering the Keepers the wearer’s view of the court and country. Before the last king had been murdered, he passed the pendant on to someone not of his direct line. It continued to function, but the magical link between the glass and pendant had grown weaker, the pictures coming less frequently.

  Jacaré had wanted to climb through the mountains and cross the wall then, but his request had been denied. Because he’d always been a good soldier, he had obeyed.

  “What will happen at the wall?” Cristoval asked, moving to stand at Jacaré’s elbow. “Should we prepare Olinda to be invaded?”

  “Of course not. Just because the guardian is dead doesn’t mean the heir followed him into the grave.” She covered the shining surface with her palm, hiding the image from sight. “The chave is still safe, as is the magic that keeps the wall protected.”

  Jacaré heard the nuance in her words. For now.

  Arguments ensued. The youngest members of the Council fought with their elders; some suggested preemptive strikes. Others contended for preparing the city for war.

  “Enough.” Amelia brought her hands together and a clap of thunder reverberated around the room. All conversation ceased. “There hasn’t been a single threat from Santarem since we crossed the mountains, and there is no reason to assume an attack will come now or anytime soon. We will discuss this as we discuss all other things: calmly and with consideration to all points of view.”

  “If there was ever a time for action, it’s now,” Jacaré said, ignoring her glare. “I’ll take twenty men across the border, identify any threats, and seek out the pendant and the heir.”

  “You will do nothing without permission from this Council.”

  “My duty is to assure the safety of the wall, which is inexorably tied to the safety of the heir. You’re not asking me to ignore my duty, are you?”

  Amelia leaned across the desk, closing the distance between their faces. Her essência—the raw energy she possessed and used to manipulate the elements—crackled around her like heat lightning. “I decide what your duty is. You will wait until this Council tells you what steps to take, or you will face the same fate as your predecessor.”

  He knew better than to engage Amelia; such a battle would be short and ugly for Jacaré. She was the head of the Mage Council because she was the most powerful magic wielder among the Keepers, capable of calling on any of the elements to do her will with devastating results.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Without being dismissed, Jacaré turned and left the Council room.

  For weeks he’d been preparing to cross the wall, preferably with permission, but now it was time to defy them all.

  Chapter 3

  Johanna

  Three Months Later

  Johanna hopped over the creek, her boots slipping in the mud. She corrected her balance without a thought and dropped to a crouch.

  And there it is, she thought proudly, a smile dimpling her pale cheeks.

  One drop of blood, bright as a ruby against a glistening film of dew, was all the evidence she needed. Her aim had been true, the stag clearly wounded when it bolted through the mango orchard and into the forest of untamed walnut trees beyond.

  The rabbits weighing down her game bag would help feed her brothers for the next few days. But the deer—a buck no less!—could be smoked and salted to keep all their stomachs satisfied through the slender fall and wicked winter creeping closer.

  Johanna ignored the shivery sensation along her spine, too pleased with her success to recognize that no birds sang, no rabbits hopped, no bugs burrowed. All the smart animals had found a place to hide.

  Her mind wrapped itself in an imagined conversation. I know you wanted me to stay out of the woods by myself, she’d say as she passed a steaming bowl of venison soup to her older brother. But, Thomas, I’d rather go hungry than eat mango again. It doesn’t matter how I cook it—boiled, baked, stewed—it still tastes like mango.

  She immediately felt guilty, knowing her words would hurt his feelings. He’d worked so hard since their father’s death a
nd their subsequent expulsion from Performers’ Camp. The accounting apprenticeship didn’t suit Thomas in any way, but his miserly pay bought enough flour and salt to keep them from starving. He certainly didn’t need his sister reminding him of his ink-stained fingers and threadbare clothes.

  But her brother’s warnings chafed like a pair of ill-fitting shoes. She cast them aside and sought out a new adventure: the tightropes, the trapeze, the fireswords (although her hair was still recovering from that endeavor), and even the lion cage.

  If Thomas knew her at all, he’d know that cautioning her away from the forest was practically the same as marching her to its borders. Especially when there was food to be found and plenty of mouths to feed.

  She followed the blood trail. The drops got larger and closer together, finally collecting in pools where the deer had stopped to rest.

  Not much farther.

  Something crashed in the bushes to her left, and she veered toward the sound. Her fingers tingled with anticipation as she slipped her hunting knife from its sheath. Johanna hated putting deer down, watching their liquid eyes turn opaque. It filled her with an awful sense of finality, but still, she couldn’t let the animal suffer or her family go hungry.

  The dense underbrush crackled, fallen leaves crunching as she eased toward her prey. The buck lay on its side, each breath leaving the animal’s throat with a harsh gurgle.

  Her shot had been too high, catching the buck in the neck. The arrow’s shaft protruded from above the deer’s breastbone, the fletching torn away during its mad dash through the densely packed forest.

  Johanna refused to look at the deer’s eyes, knowing she’d see its fear and be overwhelmed by guilt.

  Thomas, Michael, Joshua, and even Mama need this, she convinced herself, and raised her knife.

  Over her pounding heart and the animal’s pained gasps, she heard another noise—a shuffle, a crack, the quiet tread of another predator. Johanna whirled, ready to slash and stab, to turn her tool of mercy into a weapon of destruction.

  Too slow.

  A heavy shoulder slammed into her ribs, knocking her to the ground. She grunted as a knee dropped onto her chest, forcing the air from her lungs and the knife from her hand.

  Years of acrobatics prepared her for that moment. Ignoring the fear and breathlessness, Johanna kicked out with her right leg and looped it around the assailant’s neck, forcing his hood askew.

  The stranglehold would have knocked him out eventually, but strong fingers found the sensitive tissue alongside her calf. They dug in mercilessly, scoring her flesh and tearing skin.

  Gritting her teeth against the agony, she relaxed her grip on the attacker, and he released her leg. She drew her knee to her chest and hammered the man in the jaw with her heel.

  He cried out, and she scrambled to her feet. One step and she was flat on her stomach with the man’s weight across her hips. Johanna threw her elbow, hoping to catch his nose, but received an explosive punch to the kidney.

  Stars swirled across her vision, and she blinked to clear them, but another blow blasted across her ribs.

  “Rafi?” a voice called from a few feet away. “Raf—holy mercy!”

  From the corner of her eye Johanna saw boots.

  “Help,” she mouthed, unable to find the breath to project her voice. “Help.”

  Then . . . darkness.

  Chapter 4

  Rafi

  Lord Rafael Santiago DeSilva pressed a hand to his bleeding mouth. He’d bitten his tongue when the poacher kicked him in the face.

  His younger brother, Dominic, handed him a linen square to wipe away the blood. “I’ve never seen a boy fight with legs and limbs flying like that.” Dom dug a leather cord out of one of his many pockets and began wrapping it around the boy’s wrist. “A tiny thing too. Look at these knobby bones. It’s pitiful enough to move me to charity.”

  Rafi grunted. “The only charity he’ll get from me is a short rope and a long drop.”

  The summer had been cruel to the villagers and farm folk, with an unprecedented drought razing their crops, but the amount of poaching would leave the DeSilvas’ land barren of all edible wildlife if left unchecked. Rafael would let his people hunt the animals to oblivion if he wasn’t worried about the long-lasting effects. There was no guarantee that next year’s harvest would be more abundant than this year’s.

  “Trial first. I’ll take the evidence; you take the thief?” Rafi nodded toward the now-still deer.

  “Giving me the heavy end of the deal, as usual,” Dom joked as he hauled the poacher upright and slung him over his shoulder. He adjusted the load and froze.

  “Our horses aren’t that far. Surely you can carry that sack of bones a half mile.” Rafi’s forehead wrinkled in confusion as he watched Dom gently—much more gently than a poacher deserved—return the boy to the ground. “If you’d prefer the deer, then have at it. I thought to save you some bloodstained clothes, but if you insist.”

  Rafi stepped toward the poacher’s prone form, but his brother stopped him, placing a hand at the center of Rafi’s chest.

  “Don’t.” Dom’s face had gone pale, his lips compressed in a tight line.

  “Why?” Rafi asked, concern beginning to churn in his belly. “That blow to the ribs couldn’t possibly have killed him.”

  “Her.”

  “What?”

  Dom edged closer, as if nearing a poisonous snake. Trembling fingers turned the thief’s face to a shaft of sunlight that filtered through the branches overhead. Rafi looked past the short cap of hair and dirt-smeared cheeks. Dark eyelashes fluttered against porcelain fair skin. Pink lips parted slightly in sleep. Loose laces exposed a long slender neck, the hard slant of a collarbone and a soft mound of . . .

  “May the Keepers steal my soul,” Rafi cursed. “It’s a girl.”

  Chapter 5

  Jacaré

  Jacaré went straight from the Council chambers to the Elite Guard’s barracks. Oil, sweat, and freshly molten metal flavored the air, all the comfortable scents of his home away from home.

  The dark stone barracks were tucked behind Olinda’s capitol building, where the Mage Council met, and were used by the soldiers who devoted their lives to peace and safety.

  A stone balustrade separated the practice field from the stables, blacksmith shops, and armory. Jacaré rested his elbows on the edge, watching the fight that had most of the Guard forgetting their duties. One blindfolded fighter moved with smooth precision, whipping her metal-tipped staff to block the blows of three attackers.

  A swordsman swung his weapon low, hacking at the back of her knees. It should have hit her and ended the practice, but she sensed the blow before it landed and dove forward, swinging her staff to catch the man in the throat.

  Jacaré cringed when he heard the crunch, knowing it would leave an awful bruise later. The other two fighters redoubled their efforts, trying and failing to take the girl down. When she struck one in the sternum, the other shook his head and backed away.

  Pira raised her blindfold, helped her opponents to their feet, and checked on the bruises she’d inflicted. Onlookers whispered about her uncanny ability to sense the location of any weapon.

  Every Keeper had an affinity to at least one element, Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit. Those with one strong talent—like Pira’s gift for Earth—were called Saudade and made up the bulk of the Keepers’ society.

  A rare few—called Mages—were blessed with the ability to manipulate all five elements with their essência. The Mages on the Council were the strongest of their people, capable of turning a breath of air into a wind tunnel and a spark into a blaze.

  Jacaré should have been impressed both with Pira’s skill and her sportsmanship, but as usual, watching her fight made him want to teach her a lesson.

  He hopped over the railing and picked up two wooden practice swords
from the bin of beginner weapons. Soldiers jumped out of his way as he crossed the field, pressing their fists over their hearts in salute to their commanding officer.

  “Fight me,” he said, tossing her the slab of wood.

  She caught it out of the air and weighed the sword in her palm. “Aren’t I a little old for practice swords, Jacaré?”

  She never used his official title, no matter how many times he’d corrected her. The men she’d just defeated shifted nervously and took a few steps away to give the pair enough room to spar.

  “You’re never too old to do as you’re told. Now raise your weapon.”

  Pira wiped the sweat off her shaved head with her blindfold, an unhappy frown tugging down her full lips.

  “Throw that thing away.” He waved to the strip of material. “If I’m going to beat you, I want you to see it coming.”

  A few gasps escaped the soldiers near enough to hear—but no one dared to say a word.

  “Fine.” She dropped the blindfold to the ground and sank into a fighter’s stance. “Go to.”

  The fight ended in exactly ten seconds.

  Pira lay flat on her back with the point of Jacaré’s sword pressed against the hollow of her throat.

  A slow applause started with the soldiers nearest and spread to everyone watching from around the practice field.

  “You can’t always use your affinity to save you, Pira.” He threw the sword to the side, and offered her a hand up. “You never know when your gift will fail or when your opponent will come after you with something besides a metal weapon. You have to be ready to fight anyone, in any condition.”

  She bowed her head and looked at Jacaré through her lashes. The onlookers probably thought it was a sign of submission, but Jacaré knew better. He’d faced that blue-eyed glare a million times in the two decades he’d acted as her guardian.

  “Thank you for the reminder, brother. I won’t forget.”

  He hesitated for a moment, debating. He knew he could trust Pira, but if he involved her in his plans it could ruin her career for the rest of her life. And at only twenty years old, she had a very long life ahead of her.