The Storyspinner

by Becky Wallace

  “Was there something else?” she asked, her voice edged with anger.

  Even after she’d been soundly beaten, she still couldn’t manage to call him “sir.” With that kind of an attitude Pira’s future with the Elite Guard would be short lived, whether she helped him or not.

  “Meet me at the house after first watch.”

  Chapter 6

  Pira

  The eighth chime of the watch bell was still ringing as Pira slipped out of the barracks. She didn’t have to sneak away, plenty of people heard the High Captain command her to meet with him that night. But the fewer people who saw her leave her room the better.

  She’d only been a commissioned officer with the Elite Guard for a few months, and there were still plenty of people who assumed she’d been promoted because of her brother rather than her own hard work.

  The spectacle on the practice field hadn’t helped matters.

  She clenched her fists as she walked, feeling the layers of calluses that textured her palms. If they weren’t a sure sign of her hard work, then the ink that stained the space between her thumb and first finger certainly should have been.

  Pira didn’t want to be a typical line soldier or even an officer. She wanted to command, and she spent every spare moment poring over tactical manuals, rewriting the very best concepts and rules in the tiny book she kept in her belt pouch. Nothing else mattered—not sleep, not family, not love. She’d given all those things up to pursue her career. And she was happy with the decision.

  Until her brother found some way to humiliate her in front of her peers.

  She wound through the hilly streets, skirting Olinda’s entertainment district, to get to the two-story cottage tucked into the woods at the edge of town—the home where Jacaré had raised her after their father died.

  They were half siblings—she was the only child of their father’s very, very young second wife—but people couldn’t get over the resemblance. They were both tall and long limbed with olive skin and pale blue eyes, but it was more than coloring and features. Pira spent her early years mimicking Jacaré’s walk and fighting style.

  Apparently she still didn’t have it quite right.

  A group of four men approached on the other side of the street, each of them stumbling drunkenly and laughing too loudly. They weren’t breaking any laws, so she couldn’t haul them off to jail, but she could sense weapons under their cloaks.

  Three daggers, a belt knife, and a short sword to be exact. The steel sent a vibration through the air that pressed against Pira’s skin like unseen fingers.

  She wished one of them would stop, do something stupid, or even catcall her from across the street. She’d ached all day for a chance to break someone’s face—a face she could mentally replace with Jacaré’s—but the men moved on their way peaceably.

  Mother Lua damn their souls to darkness, she thought with frustration.

  Despite the strain in their relationship, Pira knew her brother. And she knew he wouldn’t share his reason for the invitation if he could sense her temper. Jacaré never asked her to come to the house, and the request had piqued her interest. She’d barely been able to focus on her studies or drilling her unit that evening. Her mind tumbled with possibilities, rumors, and conjecture.

  Lights spilled from the cottage windows, dressing the silver-barked aspen with dancing shadows. The leaves, already turning a late-summer golden, were gilded where the lamp’s glow shined on them.

  Pira took a few deep breaths, focusing on all the good memories of the tiny house, before turning onto the gravel path. She walked lightly, but the crunch alerted Jacaré, and he pulled open the front door before she reached for the handle.

  “You’re late.”

  “You said after first watch. You didn’t specify when.”

  His broad shoulders were stiff, his body blocking the entrance so she couldn’t see anything besides flames in the hearth beyond.

  “Are you going to let me in?” She folded her arms tightly across her chest, wondering what in the world had her brother so on edge.

  “If I do, will you swear that everything you see and hear tonight will remain a secret?”

  Some part of her, the childish part that still sought his approval, leaped at the thought of being accepted into his inner circle. She smashed down that desire and forced herself to think critically. “Are you involved in something dangerous?”

  “Probably.”

  That wasn’t a surprise. She shifted her weight and saw a man-size shadow move closer to the fire. Whatever he was involved in, he wasn’t doing it alone.

  “Is it illegal?”

  “Yes or no, Pira.”

  She drummed her fingers on her upper arm, thinking. There was only one question she needed answered, and she could already guess what her brother would say. “Is it for the good of the Keepers?”

  “Would I do anything that wasn’t?”

  Pira paused before answering. Not because she doubted her brother’s devotion to their people, but because she knew her hesitation would irritate him. “I suppose . . .”

  He reached for the doorknob.

  “Of course I’ll swear!” she said before he could shut the door in her face.

  Pira wanted to take the words back the instant she realized who else occupied the cottage’s kitchen.

  Chapter 7

  Johanna

  “I swear on my honor, and Dom’s and your own, Mother. I did not know he was a girl.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” a woman’s voice responded. “You know the law. We don’t hand out justice with our fists.”

  “Look at the way he’s dressed. It’s completely inappropriate. And he was poach—”

  “Referring to the girl as a ‘he’ won’t change the facts, Rafael.” The tone was a velvet-wrapped dagger. Johanna kept her eyes closed, hoping to avoid the woman who could wield it so potently.

  Her location was foreign, the sounds of horses and scent of lilacs on the air proved that certainty. And good glory, the satin coverlet felt delicious against her palms.

  “You beat someone into unconsciousness. You bloodied her leg and likely broke her ribs.”

  “I wouldn’t have hurt her if I’d known—”

  “So you’d annihilate a boy you outweigh by double?”

  “He tried to strangle me.”

  “She defended herself. ”

  The silence was damning, neither of them spoke, but the room filled with tension.

  “Rafi.” The woman’s voice gentled. “What would you have me do? Shall I pretend it never happened?”

  Fabric rustled, and Johanna opened her eyes a narrow slit. A woman and a man stood silhouetted against a large stained glass window. They were both tall and fine featured, but the man—boy, really—had dark hair that curled on the verge of wild.

  “I would never ask you to ignore the law, Your Grace,” he said with unusual formality. “I let my temper get the best of me. I’ll take the punishment you deem worthy.”

  “Your Grace”? Where am I?

  The woman raised her hand to her son’s cheek. “We won’t make it public knowledge. A few witnesses, perhaps the new weaponsmaster and the Captain of the Guard. Just enough people to satisfy questions, if there are any.”

  “And the girl, of course.”

  “It is her right.”

  Another hesitation, a heavy exhale. “Will she still be tried for poaching?”

  Johanna, a consummate actress, could have feigned sleep for days to come, especially in a bed more comfortable than any she’d ever enjoyed. But she also knew the importance of dramatic timing. She’d been coached for years on perfect delivery, and this was her moment to make an entrance into the conversation.

  She tried to push herself upright, but her head spun like a loose wagon wheel. The groan of pain was legitimate.

&
nbsp; “Our fair thief wakes,” the boy mumbled, stepping away from the window and nearer her bed. She saw then what the window’s light had disguised: dark eyes framed with thick lashes and straight brows, a fine nose, and a strong chin. He was perhaps two years her senior, nearing naming age.

  The face wasn’t unfamiliar. It had been a few years since her troupe had performed for Duke and Lady DeSilva’s estate, but she remembered their son as a smiling boy who applauded and cheered and begged for so many songs that her mother’s infallible voice grew weary.

  “I am many things, sir, but poacher is not a title I bear.”

  He coughed, a cold approximation of a laugh and likely the best this stern—but unfortunately handsome—young man could manage. “The stag hanging in the smokehouse begs to differ.”

  Johanna hated the way he loomed over her. She’d already spent too much time at his mercy and struggled to rise.

  “Let me help, dear.” The woman, an older version of the Lady DeSilva Johanna remembered, sat beside her on the bed and placed a supporting hand behind her shoulder.

  Johanna nodded her thanks to the duchess. “I shot the stag in the public forest, not far from Farmer Milner’s mango orchard.”

  “Liar,” Rafi snapped. “You were well beyond the stream when I stumbled upon you.”

  Sow-kissing mud sucker. Johanna’s eyes traced his perfectly tailored hunting gear, high-quality leather jerkin and breeches. “Send one of your retainers to follow the blood trail, my lord. I’m certain you employ someone who could track it to where I made my shot.”

  “You took it on my land.” Fire burned in his dark eyes and blazed red spots on his cheeks.

  “Should I have let it suffer?” Johanna raised a hand, grimacing at the bolt of pain in her side. “Never mind. It’s apparent you enjoy punishing the helpless.”

  “Why you venomous—”

  “Rafi.” The lady called her son to heel. “Go. Send Snout to find the trail and follow it to its origin.”

  The anger Johanna felt at being termed a poacher sputtered. What if the grass had been trampled? What if the blood had washed away? Johanna licked her lips nervously, her tongue finding a tender split.

  “Your Grace.” She turned her gray eyes on the lady, offering a look that managed to be both humble and innocent. “I swear on my honor, on my family’s, on my dear father’s grave, that the deer was in the public forest when I took the shot. Please believe me.”

  Rafael gave another irritated cough-laugh. “How long were you awake and listening to our conversation?”

  “Long enough to make sure I hadn’t been tossed into the bed of a scoundrel.” She touched her forehead where a fresh bruise hummed. It must have been the last shot of their brawl because she didn’t remember receiving it.

  “I’d never touch an ill-bred—”

  “Enough!” The lady’s voice cut through the argument. “I gave you a command, my son, and I expect you to follow it with haste. We wouldn’t want a sudden storm to obliterate her claims.”

  “Yes, Mother.” He gave her a half bow and glared vitriol at Johanna. “I’ll be back in less than two hours with confirmation of one of our stories.”

  Chapter 8

  Rafi

  Rafi didn’t like being proved wrong, but Snout pointed out the blood spatter from the initial hit and even tracked back to the place the girl had stood when she took the ill-fated shot. Both were on the public side of the river.

  “It was a right fine shot, if I may say so,” the tracker said as he scratched his perfectly average nose. His nickname hailed from his ability to sniff out any trail.

  “It wasn’t a kill, Snout.” Rafi looked across the orchard but silently agreed with the tracker. With the low-hanging branches and shadows, it would have been a difficult mark for any man in his guard. “If she’d only waited for it to turn broadside.”

  Then she wouldn’t be hurt, and I wouldn’t feel such a fool.

  “Dom, send riders to town. Have them spread word that we found a girl lost in the woods. Say she was injured and is under our care,” Rafi said as he snapped a fallen twig in half. “I don’t expect anyone to claim the figureless urchin, but I’ve already been wrong once today.”

  Dom snorted. “I’ll mark it in my journal, for I’m certain it will never happen again.”

  Rafi punched his brother in the shoulder hard enough to knock the younger boy back a step.

  “Careful with those fists, brother.” Dom rubbed the spot theatrically. “They tend to get you in trouble. Right, Snout?”

  The tracker held back a smile, but only barely. “Is there anything else, Lord Rafael?”

  “If anyone does claim the girl, please escort them back to the manor.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well . . .” Dom slapped his riding gloves against his palm as he watched Snout return to his mount. “I’d be happy to serve as your Punisher. I could pull my punches a bit, and perhaps save you some pain.”

  Typical Dom, always searching for the easiest way out of any problem. Rafi knew he could agree, that his mother would let him choose the Punisher. But it was a point of pride to select someone to dole out the blows—four times as many as he’d unjustly given—who could actually hurt him. Dom was strong for a sixteen-year-old, but he wasn’t the Punisher Rafi had in mind.

  There was a lesson in this, and Rafi wanted his stupidity to teach his younger brother the cost of mistakes. “If we don’t uphold the law, then no one will.”

  “It’s archaic. Can’t we pay her off?”

  “It’s honorable,” Rafi corrected. “No man should be able to take advantage of the weak. I’m going to ask Captain Alouette to serve as my Punisher.”

  Dom cringed. “I didn’t expect to take your title, but if you’re offering it up . . .”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “I’ll pray for you.”

  I’ll need it.

  Chapter 9

  Jacaré

  “What is he doing here?” Pira pointed to the old man, who rocked his chair back on its hind legs and rested his boots on the hearth. “He’s been exiled. ”

  “Good to see you, too, Pira. Thanks for the warm welcome,” Texugo said as he tossed another piece of kindling onto the blaze.

  The light cast an orange glow onto the old man’s pure white hair, as if it had caught fire. Jacaré almost laughed at the thought. Texugo had always been a hothead.

  Adding Pira to the mix would be like throwing dry grass on a wildfire. Jacaré rubbed a hand over his shorn scalp, already doubting his plans and the inclusion of his sister. While great in a fight, an excellent hunter and scout, and generally trustworthy, she was a difficult person to manage. With both Pira and Tex aboard . . .

  Pira gasped when the other person at the small table pulled back his hood. Whirling, she stepped in front of Jacaré.

  “What is going on? Are these two even allowed in the same room together? If you’re in trouble, then Tex is someone who might be able to help.” She thumbed over her shoulder. “But he is practically on the Mage Council. Don’t you think he’ll run back to his grandmother and report exactly what’s going on here?”

  “Leão can be trusted.”

  “Leão is what . . . twelve years old?”

  The boy cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “I’m almost eighteen. I make my own decisions, even if they’re contrary to the Council’s opinions.”

  “You can make decisions all by yourself without Grandma Amelia holding your hand?” Pira scoffed. “My, what a grown-up boy you are.”

  Jacaré grabbed his sister’s upper arm, squeezing hard enough that she couldn’t ignore it. “It’s still early enough for you to leave, Pira.” He yanked her toward the door. “We can do this without a fourth.”

  “Do what without a fourth?” Pira pulled her arm free.

  “If you’re
in, no more commentary. I’m High Captain and you will follow orders.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Agreed?”

  Pira shot a dark look at the two other men in the kitchen. “Mother Lua knows you’re going to need my help.”

  Such a typical response, always needing to score the last point. Jacaré held his tongue and let her sit down at the table between the two men.

  “The magical barrier that separates our land from Santarem is in danger of falling,” Jacaré said. His sister’s eyes grew wide as the words sank in. “For the magic to remain stable, it has to have an anchor on either side of the wall. On this side, it’s magically tied to Amelia and the Mage Council. On the Santarem side, it is tied to the line of kings. Sixteen years ago the king was murdered and the bond was passed to his closest living relative—an infant daughter who was smuggled out of the Citadel before it fell. We’ve been able to watch her and Santarem through a divining pendant that was given to her caretaker.”

  He set the glass down on the middle of the table. Tex didn’t look at the image; he’d already seen it and understood what it meant probably better even than Jacaré. It had been in Tex’s charge long before it became Jacaré’s, and he had watched it pass from heir to heir during the two-hundred and seventy-five years he’d guarded it.

  Leão leaned forward, trying to get a clear glimpse, but lurched back when Pira pulled it closer to her.

  Jacaré explained his interaction with the Mage Council and their inability to make a decision about what should be done to protect their people.

  “The heir—this princess—is the key to keeping the barrier stable. She’s been away from the wall for too long.” Jacaré pulled out the last chair from the table and sat on it backward. “Think of the magic like a piece of leather that’s been stretched for a long time. Eventually it will develop a weak spot and snap. Our job is to relieve that tension.”