The Storyspinner

by Becky Wallace

  Not a perfect body, Johanna thought. She’d seen true perfection when she’d trained with the acrobats, their bodies thickly muscled in every imaginable location, but there was something poetic in Rafi’s lean form.

  The first punch took her by surprise. The Punisher exploded into motion like a Skylighter’s rocket, blasting into Rafi’s lower back. The breath whooshed out of his lungs, but his face showed no emotion. The second came to the right side of his rib cage, the third to the space above his navel.

  Johanna cringed, her body reacting to the blows Rafi so pointedly ignored. Instead of grunting or mumbling or asking for mercy as the fourth, fifth, and sixth punches fell, his eyes stayed locked on hers, eyebrows peaked as if asking, You see this? It’s your fault.

  It wasn’t until the tenth strike, a cracking blow against his ribs that the pain finally registered on his face. His mouth dropped open and he closed his eyes for one long moment.

  What he received—methodical attacks to areas exposed and undefended—was a thousand times worse than what he’d done.

  “Please.” Johanna turned to the duchess and grabbed her hand. “Please make this stop.”

  The older woman’s face was streaked with tears, and she gripped Johanna’s hand tightly but continued watching.

  The eleventh hit landed and Rafi’s knees buckled. The rope swung slightly, supporting his weight, the top of his boots scraping the floor and catching on the drain. Captain Alouette didn’t wait for him to regain his feet, winding up for another strike.

  The muscles in the lordling’s arms corded as he tucked his knees toward his chest, an unconscious effort at protecting himself.

  “No more.” Johanna came to her feet, but the Punisher pulled back his arm and slammed Rafi in the stomach.

  “That’s enough!” she shouted, but was ignored. A hand grabbed her wrist but she wrenched away.

  The Punisher didn’t seem to hear her, either locked into the moment or refusing to take commands from a peasant. He circled Rafi again, looking for a new place to damage.

  Johanna leaped across the room, putting herself between the Punisher and his victim. “I. Said. Stop.” She wrapped her arms around Rafi’s torso, ignoring the sweat and bruises, and forming a human shield.

  Voices were raised; the other men in the room and Lady DeSilva all called her back to her seat.

  “Johanna.” Dom stood, looking between her and his brother. “He won’t thank you for your interruption.”

  “I will not stand by and watch as he’s beaten senseless.” Rafi panted near her ear, each breath whistling with anguish. “Cut him down. Now.”

  “No,” the lordling whispered. “Finish it.”

  Johanna looked into his face, seeing the sweat that beaded his brow and the veins that had broken in his dark eyes. “You’re a fool. And I refuse to be responsible for the injuries of someone so mentally incapacitated.” She nodded to the knife sheathed at the Punisher’s belt. “Cut him down or I will stand here and block every blow you intend for Lord Rafael.”

  Captain Alouette’s arms dropped limply to his sides and he looked between his liege lady and the strange, commanding girl.

  “Alouette.” Lady DeSilva’s voice echoed in the stone room, a note of plea edging the sound.

  Johanna wasn’t sure if it was an appeal to continue or to quit.

  The Punisher made the decision without a second thought. In one smooth move he raised his knife and sliced through the rope.

  Rafi fell heavily into Johanna’s arms, bearing them both to the cold stone floor. She grunted in pain as he crushed her bruised ribs.

  “No,” Rafi said, and raised one arm so the captain could help him back to his feet.

  Captain Alouette shook his blond head, his mustache pulling down in a frown. “You owe her boy, twice over. Serve her and regain your honor.”

  Johanna could feel Rafi’s heart pounding against the skin inside her elbow, and the heat from his fevered body seeped through her dress.

  He made eye contact again, the fire in his gaze renewed. “I’d rather take double the Punishment than ever see you again.”

  Chapter 20

  Leão

  The five-day ride to Belem’s estate was uneventful. Once they’d crossed out of the rugged terrain around Roraima and into the valley of Cruzamento, the landscape—rolling hills, prairie grass, the occasional vineyard or sheep herd—was beautiful in its relative monotony.

  Leão was strangely disappointed. His mind had conjured images of a stark landscape, bereft of greenery and trees, as if it had been warped by the evil of the people of Santarem.

  Jacaré tried to convince him that what they’d witnessed at the Citadel wasn’t the norm, that he shouldn’t base his opinion on a few wayward soldiers, but the girl’s screams haunted his sleep.

  He’d heard of such things happening, but he hadn’t thought he’d ever witness them firsthand.

  It wasn’t that Olinda was completely crime free. He’d broken up fistfights and dragged a drunk or two to jail, but he’d spent the majority of his training patrolling the very quiet borders of the city and hunting predators that harassed their livestock. He remembered hearing about a murder a few years ago when some century-long feud had finally reached a head. The exact details were fuzzy in his mind, but he knew his grandmother had been involved in the trial of the killer. Eventually the murderer had been executed in a private ceremony.

  He racked his mind for other examples of major crimes as he scouted ahead of the rest of his troop, but could only come up with two other situations. One Keeper was exiled for beating his own child and the other . . . was Tex.

  The details of Tex’s crime, whatever they were, had never been public knowledge. Besides Tex’s ability with his mace, which was impressive for his advanced age, he never seemed particularly bloodthirsty or violent.

  He was grouchy, that was for sure, but sleeping on the ground for days had that effect on Pira, too.

  High Captain Jacaré seemed to trust Tex, and that was a pretty good testament.

  Up ahead Leão saw dust, indicating mounted movement, and led his horse off the road. He left the animal cropping the long grass between two hills and crawled to the top so he could watch the road unseen.

  A group of armed horsemen surrounded two ornate carriages and were trailed by a line of open-topped wagons. The guards wore a lightweight armor, polished to a high sheen and gilded with a clenched fist on the center of their chests.

  Armor that’s meant to be seen, not to be used, he realized with surprise. Still, they rode like men used to the saddle and watched the surrounding hills as if they expected something to attack them at any point. Interesting.

  The two carriages were well built, with large wheels and springs to help keep their occupants from jostling around. Sheer material stretched over the windows, allowing a breeze in and a view out. It looked like a comfortable way to travel. The wagons, however, shook their passengers mercilessly.

  Men and women were packed shoulder to shoulder, each wearing some sort of manacle around their necks. They kept their heads down and, unlike the soldiers, didn’t speak.

  As the wagons rolled past his position, he got a glimpse at the pasengers’ blank-eyed faces. They seemed completely devoid of life, yet he could sense an odd energy pulsing around them.

  Though Leão could command all five elements, he was particularly attuned to Spirit. It made him an excellent healer—the reason Jacaré gave for asking him to join their troop—and tracker because he could sense life before he could see it.

  This energy was unlike anything he’d felt before. It left a residue on his skin like he’d fallen into stagnant water. He wanted to scrape away the remnant and hurry off.

  Prisoners, he guessed. He imagined a list of heinous crimes he could attach to the group. Murderers, rapists, thieves. They feel wrong because they’ve done wrong.r />
  “There’s some sort of military group coming from the township,” he explained once he’d rejoined the crew on the lee side of the hill. “They seem to be escorting someone of importance and transporting prisoners.”

  “Probably an underlord or landowner returning from a trip to the city,” Jacaré said to Tex, who agreed.

  Leão hesitated to say anything about the strange energy. Only another Keeper with a strong Spirit affinity would have felt it. Neither Pira nor Tex would have noticed it, and Leão wasn’t sure what Jacaré’s affinity was. It wasn’t polite to pry into other Keepers strengths and weaknesses, so Leão let the feeling slide.

  Maybe it has something to do with the people on this side of the wall. He nodded to himself and fell into position beside Pira. Maybe it’s something I’ll get used to.

  Chapter 21

  Pira

  Pira didn’t think she’d be grateful to see a Santarem city, but the outskirts of the Belem township were a welcome change to the blandness of the prairie. Inns, pubs, and shops had sprung up along the road with the irregularity of wildflowers in the spring, all clumped together around a central well.

  A city also meant real food, something other than dried meat, dried fruit, and hard cheese.

  “We should stop here,” she said as they rode past one particular inn. Its windows were clean, the sign cheerfully painted, and the fragrance wafting through the door made her stomach grumble. “It smells good.”

  There was nothing magical about her senses, but she knew quality food when she smelled it.

  None of the men offered an argument, and they dropped their horses and gear off at the stable before heading into the dining area.

  Wet coastal air clung to every surface and coated every inch of bare skin with a dewy film. The wood sweated, the people sweated, and the glasses of chilled ale and cider puddled on the stone-topped bar. Just looking at the liquids made Pira’s throat tighten with a desire for something besides the leather-flavored water in her canteen.

  The serving girls, who’d been fluttering between tables with trays of bowls and cups, stopped where they stood and stared, their eyes lingering on Jacaré and Leão.

  Pira didn’t want to admit it, but she couldn’t really blame the barmaids. Everything about Leão’s appearance demanded notice.

  She tried to remember that he was just a little boy—someone she’d helped train and who was younger by a couple of years—but the muscles across his chest and shoulders were anything but childish.

  Blood rushed to her cheeks when she thought of the way the firelight had glinted off the hills and valleys of his abdomen the previous night. He’d scrubbed his shirt in the stream and walked around bare chested while he waited for it to dry. Luckily the stupid bit of silk tied around her head hid most of her face.

  The closest barmaid pushed a damp strand of hair off her forehead and slinked over to them, her skirt swishing with exaggerated movements. Pira’s fists tensed at her sides. She couldn’t stand flirty girls, which was just one of the many reasons she had chosen a male-dominated profession.

  “Welcome to the Mug and Mutton,” the barmaid said to Jacaré with an inviting smile, and then directed another over his shoulder to Leão. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Umm . . .” Leão stumbled, looking to Tex for help.

  Had Pira chosen wrong? Had they come to the wrong type of inn? There weren’t many pleasure houses in Olinda, but things were definitely different in Santarem.

  Jacaré seemed equally surprised, turning to Tex for help.

  “We need two rooms for the night, baths for four, and four plates of whatever you’re serving,” the older man said, with a smirk toward their commanding officer.

  “Sure thing. That’ll be ten bits up front, ten for each extra night you stay, and ten before you go.” She wiped her hand on her apron and held it out to Jacaré, even though Tex was the one reaching for his purse. “I’m Miriam and I’ll be happy to serve you tonight. Y’all can sit wherever you can find a spot.”

  Tex handled the cash, using what they’d taken from the soldiers’ bodies in the Citadel until they could convert the coin they’d brought into local currency.

  They chose a small corner table to wait for their stew. Pira sat rigid in the seat closest to the wall, wishing she could rip the damn headscarf free or that her hair would grow back for a few days. It wasn’t out of vanity, of course. Pira didn’t miss her blond locks all that much, but the silk was blasted hot.

  Jacaré stretched his legs into the aisle and massaged a cramp out of his thigh. His eyes scanned the room’s occupants, looking for threats. Tex lounged, angled toward the door, booted foot resting on the bottom of Leão’s chair.

  And Leão hunched with his elbows on the table, chin down, as if sensing the appraisal of every woman in the room. He wasn’t far wrong. Every female between the ages of eight and eighty took a moment to covertly—or obviously—stare at his long, rangy frame and sharp-boned face.

  Pira blocked his good looks from her mind and tried to focus on Leão’s other, negative traits. He was sheltered, inexperienced, and the grandson of the head of the Mage Council. All were good enough reasons to dislike him, but he’d won her begrudging respect with a dozen other abilities and a natural humility.

  Miriam brought bowls of steaming soup and a couple loaves of dark brown bread. “If there’s anything I can help you with . . . ,” she said as she leaned across the table to pass Pira and Tex their food. She dragged her fingers across the back of Leão’s chair. “And I do mean anything, please let me know.”

  Pira choked on her soup and Jacaré slapped her on the back a few times while she coughed.

  “She may mean anything,” Tex said as the barmaid walked away, “but all we need is a little information.”

  “I planned to scout around a bit after our meal.” Jacaré dunked a piece of bread into the meaty broth, scented with garlic and onions. “The trees we’re looking for are tall and tend to grow near a water source. I thought—”

  “Why waste time looking when you can ask?” Tex nodded toward the bar. “Send Leão to ask one of those girls if they know of an araucaria grove nearby.”

  Leão put down his spoon, having finished the entire bowl. “Why me? Why not Jacaré?”

  “They’ve already paired Pira and Jacaré in their minds, what with him sitting next to her,” Tex explained.

  Pira groaned and scooted her chair as far from her brother as possible, earning another laugh from Tex and a frown from Jacaré.

  “Some of them may hesitate to speak with an attached man,” Tex continued. “But any of them would sell their mother for a chance to talk to you, boy.”

  Leão’s eyebrows disappeared into the white-blond fuzz of his hairline. “They sell their mothers on this side of the wall?”

  “It’s an expression,” Pira explained with an eye roll. And he’s so gullible. She wanted to be irritated but found him strangely endearing.

  Leão darted a look at the group of girls, who stood close to each other, gossiping and glancing at their table. “What would I say?”

  “I’d start with hello—”

  “Tell them we’re traders who use the pinecones for medicine—”

  Pira cut both Tex and Jacaré off. “Swagger on up there, smile a bit, and say you’re looking for the grove. They’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “Swagger,” he mumbled, looking at Pira nervously. “Okay. I can do that.” He wiped his mouth with his fingers and stood.

  Leão held his head high and strode across the room with a lazy grace, leaned one hip against the bar, and tipped his head toward the nearest girl.

  “That’s his swagger?” Jacaré asked.

  “No.” Pira laughed. She hid a brilliant grin with her fist. “He’s mimicking yours.”

  Chapter 22

  Rafi

  �
�I don’t understand why you’re taking this personally,” Dom said, as they rode along the edge of the forest. The trees, thick with late summer foliage, blocked their view around the curves in the trail. “She didn’t set out to wound your pride. It was bad timing and worse luck.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re constantly defending her.” Rafi shifted in his saddle, trying to ignore the ache in his ribs. Even after two weeks, the bruises hadn’t faded completely, and rides of any length made him miserable. “You said she was a singer and a Storyspinner. Are you sure she wasn’t a hedgewitch who cast some charm over you?”

  Dom laughed, startling a flock of black-capped tinamou into flight and sending Rafi’s mood crashing even further. “She’s just a girl, Rafi.”

  A girl who wouldn’t accept any of the honor gifts Rafi had sent with his retainers. Not dresses, or silk, or bottles of excellent wine. Rafi had stormed into his mother’s chambers the previous night after Johanna had sent back the latest basket of gifts—spools of lace imported from the Wisp Islands.

  “Your honor isn’t something you can bargain for, my son. Alouette said to serve her, and I agree,” his mother had said. “You can’t possibly determine what service she needs unless you get to know her.”

  Rafi didn’t have time to worry about a lingering debt of honor when he had dozens of other tasks that required a future duke’s attention. In a few weeks he could no longer rely on his mother for the responsibilities he was unable to address. Santiago, its township, the underlords, and merchants would be his sole duty on his eighteenth naming day, and he refused to let anything slip.

  Even riding to meet with the Performer girl served dual purposes. He and Dom took the forest route to the back side of Milner’s Orchard so they could check for any poachers’ traps along the way.

  “I think they’re living in the next clearing.” Dom pointed to a column of smoke rising above the trees.

  Rafi racked his memory for a cabin so deep on the Milners’ property but couldn’t recall anything, and he knew the orchard as well as anyone. The smell of too-ripe fruit mingled with that of the knee-high grass, reminding him of sneaking away from his nurse to play among the reaching branches. He urged Breaker forward, and the horse picked up its pace through the last few rows of mango trees.