The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  “Johanna!” He turned, trying to catch sight of her, but left himself open for a ringing blow to his ear. Over the cacophony of grunts and shouts, he heard the high-pitched whistles used by the garrison soldiers.

  His forearm connected with a throat, his heel with an instep. The initial attackers were down but had been replaced by other patrons, who were fighting him and one another. He couldn’t see Johanna anywhere.

  Glass crunched, a bench overturned. Leaping onto a table, Rafi slid in the remnants of someone’s meal.

  “Jo—” Something swept out his feet and he fell hard, pain raging across his ribs.

  A punch crossed his jaw and stars burst in his vision. The whistles seemed to fade in and out, replaced by a vibrating buzz.

  Don’t stay down. Down is dead.

  He rolled off the table, taking an attacker with him. A bone crunched and the man screamed.

  “Rafi!” Johanna’s voice cut through the ringing in his head.

  He fought harder, moved faster. Striking again and again, he tried to shift in the direction of her shout. There was no finesse in his action. It was blunt and brutal, survival over strategy. The pain in his jaw and head and side were fleabites compared with the fear brought on by Johanna’s scream.

  A weight bore him to the ground, pressing his face against the sawdust-covered floor. More piled onto his legs, though he bucked and flailed. One of his arms was yanked behind his back.

  “Rafi, stop!”

  The words didn’t register until his other arm was pinned. Hands pushed his head down, making it impossible to move. His breath whistled through his nose, and the nutshells that littered the floor dug into his cheeks.

  “Please!” A body thumped down beside him. Knees covered in a pattern of five-legged sheep appeared next to his face.

  He could hear Johanna talking quickly, pleading.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. A hand, small and familiar, touched his neck. It was cool, forcing some of the violence out of his head. The scene around him slowly shifted into focus.

  A group of matching boots—garrison-issue, no doubt—surrounded them.

  “He thought I was being attacked.”

  “Look around! Look at this destruction, Johanna.”

  Rafi’s wrists were bound together, none too gently, despite her protest.

  “I’m sorry, Bartlett. He’ll pay for the damage.”

  A laugh rang out, hearty and deep, but it lacked humor. “Oh, and I suppose he’s a duke in disguise?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated. “Can we talk about this in your cellar?”

  A hand gripped Rafi’s curls and twisted his head away from the floor. He looked into a man’s fat, florid face.

  “Monkey balls,” the stranger cursed, then let Rafi’s head drop. “Johanna, you have a lot of explaining to do.”

  Chapter 12

  * * *

  Johanna

  The cellar of the Bean and Barley hadn’t changed in all the years that Johanna had visited. Casks of Bartlett’s home-brewed ale lined one entire wall, while the other boasted an enormous wine collection. Bottles gleamed faintly in the flickering torchlight, tossing squares of maroon and green on the slate floor.

  Bartlett sat behind his desk. A weathered door, worn smooth under years of ale glasses and liquor decanters, made for the desktop. His massive hands gripped a tiny porcelain teapot. It was an odd contrast, sausage-thick fingers deftly pouring tea from the fragile object.

  He was nothing if not a man of contrast. Bartlett looked like a blacksmith, sold every sort of alcohol, but preferred to sip the Wisp Islands’ finest brew. A wormlike scar, puckered and pink, stretched from where his left ear should have been and down into his shirt, yet he loved good music. And he was as quick with a kind word as he was with a weapon.

  Usually.

  Today his face was set in hard lines, a frown tugging down his mouth, as he studied Johanna and Rafi.

  “I know you learned from your father how to twist a story onto its head. Arlo was the most potent liar I’ve ever met, but as his friend and as yours, I expect the truth.” Bartlett set the teapot down with an aggressive clink. “You brought trouble to my doorstep. I want to know why and how much more I should expect.”

  He had sent away the men from the garrison with a few whispered words, and Johanna was grateful he hadn’t revealed their identities. The soldiers respected either Bartlett or the Bean and Barley’s ale, and they didn’t spare Rafi or Johanna an extra glance.

  She’d never had reason to pay attention to military discipline, but she knew that a brawl in any Santiago township should be reported to the authorities. In this case, she was thankful the laws were a little more relaxed in Camaçari.

  “We . . . I . . .” She shot a nervous glance at Rafi, but he lounged in the chair beside hers, one arm thrown over the ladder back, not quite around her. He met Bartlett’s eyes, the purpling bruise that stretched from his cheekbone to his chin adding something malevolent to his handsome features.

  “Don’t look at him. I want the explanation from you.” Bartlett returned Rafi’s stare. “I know a DeSilva when I see one. They like to sugar hard truths so you think you’re getting cake when they’re really serving you stones. And by the Light . . . with the two of you here together . . .” His words faded off as he shook his head.

  The story she’d planned to knit dissolved into a heap of unconnected threads.

  Bartlett was someone she could trust. Her father always had. There had been some scrape before Johanna was born, and Bartlett had lost his ear coming to Arlo’s rescue. The details of that particular escapade were a little thin—and her father had always been specific unless he had something to hide—but the Von Arlos had stopped at Bartlett’s inn every year and stayed for a few weeks. Longer than anywhere except Performers’ Camp.

  He was closer than any of her extended family and deserved better than a glittery falsehood about young lovers and a grand misadventure. Johanna took a deep breath and told the truth. “My family is dead.”

  His gray brows jumped and the rosiness faded from his face. “Your mother? Thomas—”

  “All but Michael,” she clarified. Rafi’s hand closed around her shoulder for a moment, his fingers warming her through the weave of her dress. It was a small action, but typical of Rafi.

  “Oh, Johanna. I’m so sorry.” Bartlett’s eyes gleamed, and he blinked away the sheen of tears. “An accident? The wagons?”

  The words were pebbles in her mouth, grinding against her gums with sharp edges. She wanted to spit the story out, to let each nugget plink to the floor, roll away, and disappear forever.

  “They were murdered, Master Bartlett,” Rafi said, filling the void in conversation. His voice was unusually low. “They were murdered and Johanna was kidnapped.”

  “So the truth is out, then.” Bartlett brought his fist down on the table, rattling the tea set. “How many people know your identity?”

  Johanna jumped, her hand fanning over her breastbone. “You knew?”

  “We all have secrets,” Bartlett said, eyeing Rafi darkly. “Arlo had more than most men, but I was privy to a good number.”

  “My mother thinks Arlo was once a spy for King Wilhelm,” Rafi said, his voice gravelly. “That may be—”

  “Something Lady DeSilva should have kept to herself.” Every time Bartlett’s gaze landed on Rafi, the scar on the side of his face grew more livid in color. Johanna wasn’t sure what had turned Bartlett against the DeSilvas, but she didn’t like what this anger did to her normally placid friend.

  “Bartlett, please listen—”

  He continued talking right over Johanna’s plea. “I’ve heard the rumors about you, boy. I should have guessed, with both Arlo and Camilio dead before their time. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Duke Fernando in a while, have you, young DeSilva? Or did you find a way to get rid of him as well?”

  “What?” Rafi asked on a gasp. “I had nothing to do with my father’s—”


  “So you say.” He pointed at Rafi, condemnation in the action. “Simple poisons, dismissible proof. I should have let the garrison drag you to jail on suspicion of murder.”

  “What are you talking about?” Johanna stood, knocking over her chair. “Rafi would never—”

  “Which one are you working for? Belem? Inimigo?” Bartlett swept the tea set aside, porcelain shattering, hot liquid splashing. “Don’t you see it? Someone is killing all those who stood with Wilhelm. Anyone who could rally others to support his heir.”

  “My father died of natural causes,” Rafi said, rising slowly to stand beside Jo. “I would never have done anything to hurt him.”

  The door to the cellar flew open. Two of the inn’s bouncers hurried through, taking stock of the situation with a glance.

  “Take him to the garrison,” Bartlett commanded, coming around his desk.

  “Please, Master Bartlett, this is unnecessary,” Rafi said as the first man through the door grasped his arm. “Johanna and I will find someplace else to stay.”

  “You will. That’s for certain. Johanna is staying with me.”

  She stepped between Rafi and the second bouncer. “There’s been a misunderstanding. You can’t take him. Do you know who he—”

  “Johanna.” Rafi’s voice cut over her words, and he gave a minimal shake of his head, then took an unsteady step to the side.

  She thought perhaps it was a ploy, a show of weakness that would lure the bouncers closer. Rafi had given better than he’d gotten in the barroom brawl. He could certainly break free of these two. . . .

  Red blotches marred the side of his ugly shirt, and the floor next to his chair featured wine-colored drops that weren’t from anything in Bartlett’s collection.

  “You’re hurt. Why didn’t you say anything?” Her fingers brushed Rafi’s ribs, and he flinched away from her touch. Even over the thick material, she could feel heat radiating from his skin. The color on his cheeks, the heat of his lips, the gravel in his voice . . . how had she not realized? The wounds he’d gotten in the swamp were infected. “Bartlett, this is ridiculous. He’s sick.”

  “Let Ceara handle it. Nobles can take care of their own.”

  “No.” She eyed the dagger hanging from Rafi’s belt. She lunged toward him and was clotheslined by Bartlett’s cask-size forearm. “Let me go, Bartlett. Let him go.” She kicked backward, aiming for his shins, but he deftly avoided the blow.

  “Stay safe,” Rafi mumbled as he was half dragged, half carried away. “I’ll be back for you soon.”

  “He fought to protect me, Bartlett.” She struggled harder, whipping her head from side to side. “That has to mean something to you.”

  “There are only two things a man fights for: power and love,” Bartlett said, his voice gentle in her ear. “I’ve never met a noble who followed his heart.”

  Chapter 13

  * * *

  Dom

  Lightning flashed outside the library window, drawing Dom’s attention away from his pile of books. Usually it didn’t take much to distract him—a sound in the courtyard, a pebble from his pocket, a stray whisker on his tutor’s chin—but he’d honestly tried to stay focused and he’d succeeded for . . .

  He looked out the window, realizing that night had long ago fallen and the moonlight was blotted out by roiling storm clouds.

  Hours. Standing, he stretched his arms above his head. I’ve been working for hours. Frustration forced out a sigh. I still don’t know anything.

  What do you expect? You can’t make up for years of laziness with a few days of intense studying.

  Dom had always gotten by with natural ability and a good memory, but he’d never excelled at his studies like Rafi had. Second sons didn’t need to be well rounded and well versed in history, military tactics, crop rotation, politics, or science. Second sons represented the family at parties and danced with pretty girls. Second sons were never expected to do anything meaningful.

  Until now.

  His mother was handling most of the preparations: food storage, weapons and armor purchasing, and contacting and conferencing with the underlords. She’d tasked Dom with looking through his father’s journals for the physical plans they’d used to defend the estate during the Ten Years’ War. The fighting had never come as far south as the manor, but his father had fortified their residence, their outlying garrisons, and portions of their border that he felt were particularly susceptible to attack.

  It was an assignment that actually mattered, and Dom was failing miserably. He slammed the cover of a book shut, scattering the torn pieces of Maribelle’s letter and the sheets with his scribbled attempts at decoding it. Another failure.

  One of the hounds that had been sleeping near his feet raised its head and regarded Dom with sad brown eyes.

  “Don’t look at me like that. Go back to sleep, you ugly mutt.”

  Instead of turning away offended, the animal sought Dom’s attention. It padded across the room and pressed close to Dom’s leg, its tail thumping the floor in anticipation.

  He stroked the hound’s silky red-gold ears and scratched beneath its chin. “If only everyone were so easy to please—”

  “Hello?” a voice called from the library’s doorway. “Is someone in here?” Brynn peeked around a bookshelf, looking a little nervous. “Oh, Lord Dom. I heard a crash and worried.”

  She pinched closed the collar of her light-green dressing robe.

  “I’m trying to figure a few things out.” Dom knelt and gathered his papers, though his eyes kept drifting to her face. Brynn’s red hair was tied back in a loose braid, a few curls escaping in a way that suggested she’d just woken up.

  Her cheeks flushed, and Dom realized that he was kneeling at her feet among the papers. And staring.

  Brynn had always been pretty, with fair coloring, green eyes, and a nicely rounded figure, but seeing her in the sputtering candlelight long after they both should have been in bed made her even more appealing. There was something clean about her appearance, something that made it more honest than Maribelle’s obvious beauty.

  “Is . . . um . . .” Dom cleared his throat. “Is Michael in his own room, or has he escaped again?”

  “I just came from there. I read him to sleep.” The color in her face deepened. “And must have nodded off myself.”

  Dom squared the edges of his notes and stood. “He is exhausting.”

  “I’ll say.” Her smile was sweet, and Dom could see that she had grown attached to their little charge. “I best be off. Mother Lua knows he’ll run me into the ground tomorrow.”

  She turned to leave, but Dom stopped her. “May I ask you something?” It was an oddly formal way for him to phrase a question. Their relationship had always been more like equals or age-mates than noble and servant. She’d helped him sneak treats from the kitchen, and mended holes in pants so he didn’t have to explain how he’d ruined another pair. Lately something had shifted between them, and Dom didn’t feel like he could go to her with his flights of folly anymore.

  “Of course,” she said softly.

  He took a step closer, close enough that he could have reached out and touched her, but he didn’t. “I need you to do me a favor. Something I trust only you to do.”

  “Anything,” she said, her tone dropping to match his.

  Alone, on a stormy night, in a dimly lit room—Dom had a difficult time remembering what he meant to ask her. The situation seemed perfectly suited to so many other, more enjoyable things.

  The moment stretched before he forced out the words, “I hate knowing there is a spy in our house and doing nothing about it.”

  She gasped, her eyes growing round. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “I’m certain Maribelle is here for one of Inimigo’s wicked schemes. Reporting our every action back to her father.”

  Brynn blinked a few times, her eyelashes fluttering against her creamy skin. “Well, of course she is.”

  “You have access to her room,” he
continued. “You can search through her things and read her notes. You’re just a maid. She’ll never suspect you.”

  “Just a maid,” she said, and took a quick breath. “Yes, of course.”

  Dom offered her a bright grin. “You can report what you find when you bring Michael to his fencing lessons.”

  “That won’t work.” She returned his smile, but it lacked all its typical warmth. “Lady Maribelle is extremely wary of all the servants. She doesn’t let anyone into her room for any reason. The two ladies she brought with her do all the work, cleaning the space, taking care of her wardrobe.”

  “Oh.”

  “You might be able to get into her room, though.” She took a step away, her voice returning to normal volume. “She’d never guess you were there for information.”

  “I suppose I could do that.” Dom knew her words were true, but the way she said them made him feel guilty—like he was doing something wrong.

  Brynn retreated to the doorway. “Getting into ladies’ rooms is the one thing you truly excel at.”

  It took a moment for her message to sink in, to strike the tender spot that he had already been nursing.

  He called after her, but she was already gone.

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  Pira

  Rain pelted Pira, dripping down her face and running under the collar. The rivulets of water made the raw skin underneath sting and burn.

  Her horse tossed its head, as impatient and uncomfortable as its rider. They’d come to a crossroads, the small forest trail opening onto a broader, well-traveled road. “Is there a reason we’re sitting in the rain?”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a ball of air was forced between her teeth, her jaw cracking as it stretched around the invisible gag.