“You were told not to speak,” Vibora said without looking at Pira. “If you can’t learn to obey, I will make you.”
Pira growled in frustration, bringing her fist down on her thigh. It did nothing to make her feel better. She’d already learned a few hard lessons about obedience.
The evening Barrata arrived, she had tried to run when her captors had fallen asleep. She made it beyond the perimeter of their camp, when the collar yanked her off her feet. Pira fell flat on her back, cursing the sky, as stinging, hot prickles raced along her skin.
Barrata stood above her and giggled. “Make her crawl,” he said to Vibora, clapping his hands excitedly. “It’s always best when they know they’re nothing better than pets.”
Without her consent, Pira’s limbs flailed. She groaned, trying to lock her joints and keep her muscles tight. Vibora’s face contorted in concentration, and a dull ache started in the back of Pira’s head. At first it felt like a hand pressed against her skull, but the pain grew in intensity. In response, her muscles began to loosen, then move.
It was an uncoordinated slither, but eventually Pira followed her master back to the blanket they’d given her by the fire.
“Make her beg,” Barrata said.
With a tired sigh Vibora complied. “Ask me for a drink of water.”
“I don’t want a drink,” Pira managed through gritted teeth. The fist of control closed around her brain and squeezed. Tears sprang to her eyes as she tried to assert herself.
Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head.
“Ask me for a drink of water,” Vibora repeated.
“No,” Pira managed with a moan as the pain spread to her spine.
“Sapo’s going to love this one,” Barrata said, chafing his palms together. “She’s full of vinegar and violence.”
“It’ll be easier for everyone, especially you, if you simply obey.” Vibora had dropped onto a log, stretching her feet toward the fire.
Pira shook her head, failing to dislodge the invader inside her mind. I will not do what you want.
“You will do what I tell you.”
The fist clenched. Sparks flashed across Pira’s vision, and she collapsed into the dirt. Something hooked around her vocal cords, and the words were yanked out of her mouth. “I want a drink of water,” Pira heard herself say, followed by a mumbled, “Please.”
After that it had seemed that Vibora’s control came easier. It didn’t matter how hard Pira fought, eventually after a round of torture and a headache that left her functionally blind, she gave in. As her essência drained away, Pira found that her ability to fight grew weaker.
She understood why Barrata’s minions seemed mindless. They hadn’t had as much essência to start with, and as Pira sat in the rain, she wondered how much longer it would be until she, too, lost her will.
“We’re a few hours outside of Cruzamento,” Vibora said, finally turning to look at Pira, a horse length away. “If Sapo had already arrived in the city, a rider would have met us here. As I neither hear nor sense anyone, we can ride on.” She held up one threatening finger. “If you’re going to cause any problems, I’ll leave you here in the forest. In the rain. With a command not to move no matter the situation. I can do that, you know.”
The ball of air in Pira’s mouth dissolved. She took a moment to rub her jaw but didn’t respond to Vibora’s threat.
The Keeper tilted her head to the side, studying Pira. “Jacaré made the same face when he was being stupid and stubborn. It must have aggravated him to have his child use the same tricks—”
“You loved him once,” Pira interrupted. “Did he break your heart? Was that what made you abandon your people and join this . . . this Sapo?”
A blast of power knocked Pira off her horse. She managed to catch herself before any bones snapped, but the fall forced the wind out of her lungs.
Vibora trotted her horse close and leaned over in the saddle. “Do not presume to talk to me about who abandoned whom.” An electric shock jolted through Pira’s body, and she bit her tongue as her muscles went rigid. “You know nothing.”
Panting, aching, but dauntless, Pira pressed on. “You don’t know much either.” She wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth. As part of her training to become an Elite Guard, she had been taught never to engage the enemy in a verbal confrontation. It gave too much away and left openings for secrets to leak out, but she couldn’t stop the words from rolling off her tongue. “Jacaré is my half brother. He never married. He lived alone until he was named as my caregiver when my parents died.”
It felt so good to have something to hold over Vibora, to know something she didn’t. Pira wanted to see her captor splutter, look shocked, or incensed, or surprised, but she was sadly disappointed.
“The forest or Cruzamento? Can you behave, or should I leave you here?”
Not a word about Jacaré, about their relationship, whatever it had been, or the information Pira had shared. Invisible bonds wove around her body, trapping her to the ground, staking her out for any hungry predator. Or rodent.
Pira cleared the images from her head.
Fool. She’s at least three hundred years old. She’s using a metal that the Mage Council doesn’t know about or has kept an incredible secret. She drains me of my essência and beats me with my own power.
You are overmatched, Pira.
For the first time since she’d been captured, Pira felt afraid. “Cruzamento.”
“Ask me nicely.”
Pira bowed her head. “Cruzamento, please.”
• • •
Cruzamento had been occupied before. The remnants of war were evident on the buildings’ faces and poorly concealed by slapdash construction. A doorframe boarded over, a wall that ended abruptly, leaving too large a gap between buildings, a weathered foundation with nothing on it—all signs of a city that had stood against Inimigo during the Ten Years’ War and been punished for it.
The people showed their scars with furtive, hurried movements, dashing past the Glorious Gander as if expecting to be snatched inside. The inn was, as its name suggested, glorious. With a columned portico, a curving driveway, and more greenery than the rest of the city combined, it looked more like a country manor than a place of lodging in a bustling merchant town.
Behind the fountain—which featured an enormous, water-spewing goose—a lacquered carriage was parked. The door had been gilded with a clenched fist, similar to the one on Vibora’s cloak.
“Were you expecting someone?” Pira asked as Vibora handed her reins to a waiting groom.
She didn’t respond but didn’t punish Pira for speaking out of turn, either.
Pira guessed that was a no.
They walked through a marble-floored entryway into a well-appointed sitting room full of polished tables and padded chairs—atypical for any inn Pira had ever visited. Even the clean establishments didn’t have rugs that could be spilled on or dirtied by muddy boots.
A man sat in a chair in the room’s rear corner. His feet rested on a tufted ottoman, and while he looked relaxed, in a silk jacket and lightweight canvas pants, his eyes took in the entire room. He was in a prime position to monitor entrances and exits, close enough to the window to bolt, but out of a bowman’s range.
His black hair was pressed flat under a band of woven gold, a metal version of a cadarço. Pira didn’t remember much from her history lessons of Santarem, but a crown meant royalty, and she knew this man had no claim to the country’s throne.
A second man, dressed in well-cut traveling attire, sat perpendicular to the duke. His face was chapped, his cheeks and forehead sunburned.
“Inimigo.” Vibora stopped in front of his footrest and offered a stiff bow.
She bowed to him. What in Mother Lua’s great name does Inimigo have that can command Vibora’s allegiance?
“That,” he said, pointing to Pira, “is the wrong girl.”
“Yes. I know, sir.” Vibora snapped her fingers, and the m
uscles in Pira’s knees turned to water. She tumbled to the floor with a graceless thump. “Barrata has gone after the princess.”
The duke considered this information for a moment, one finger tapping the side of his face. “That is upsetting,” he said in a monotone that defied the anger in his eyes. “Perhaps, then, I won’t be able to uphold my end of the bargain, since you’ve failed to uphold yours.”
Pira’s head was bowed, but from the corner of her eye she saw Vibora’s lips thin. Why didn’t she burn Inimigo where he sat?
“I don’t think that would be wise, my lord. Sapo would be vastly disappointed.”
Inimigo grunted, but the sound was vexed instead of fearful. Barrata was afraid of Sapo. As was Vibora. Was Inimigo stupid—a pawn in some game he didn’t understand—or was he truly that powerful?
“I, too, am disappointed, and I know that Duke Belem will feel similarly.” He turned to the man whom he hadn’t bothered to introduce, and said, “Well, Underlord, you’ve heard the information firsthand from my miserably incompetent steward. Please relay the message to your master. Our plans must go forward with all due haste.”
What plans? Pira wondered.
“It will be done,” the underlord said as he rose from his chair. “Be certain that my duke will remain forever your ally.”
“As long as he’s dependent on Maringa’s steel, he will be.”
The underlord’s mouth opened, but he held his tongue.
Inimigo flicked his hand, and the underlord fled from the room with steps that got quicker as he drew nearer the door.
Once the man was gone, Inimigo reached for a small bag that rested at the base of a crystal lantern. “So many people need me, or at least what I can offer.” He tossed the bag to Vibora. It hit her palm with a wet smack. She opened the drawstring and looked inside.
A wicked grin split Inimigo’s face. “You’ll never find it. Waste as many of your servants as you wish, but without my help, you, Sapo, and Barrata will never amount to anything more than sideshow Performers. You can’t conquer a country without me. You can’t muster an army without me. You can’t rule without me. And I won’t let you.”
He stood and smoothed the wrinkles in his jacket. “I’ll see you in Cruzamento in two weeks, Vibora. Do not consider defying my orders.”
When the door to the inn closed and Vibora dropped the leather bag, Pira had a clearer idea of how to regard the duke. The contents spilled onto the woven rug and spread into a macabre circle.
Eyes, at least six pairs, irises glazed, stared up at Pira. Their owners had seen something forbidden and paid the price.
Inimigo might not have essência, but there was no question that he had some sort of power.
Chapter 15
* * *
Rafi
His mother called them fever dreams—hallucinations based loosely on truth, but mixed with fantastical elements of his imagination.
Rafi knew, as he sweated and shivered, that the things he was seeing weren’t quite right. Johanna wrestling a bear. A giant drinking tea out of a thimble. A familiar laugh ringing in his ears.
Icy water splashed onto his face, and he surfaced from the nightmare with a gasp and a cough.
“Mighty Keepers.” The laugh rolled again. “It is Lord DeSilva. I can’t believe such greatness is quivering on my prison floor.”
Raising a shaking hand, Rafi wiped the water from his eyes. It was dark in the jail, and he’d been asleep on the molding pile of hay for what felt like an eternity. His muscles throbbed and his head pounded as he looked around the room’s stone walls.
Against the floor-to-ceiling bars that created the cell’s door leaned a man with a bucket. He gave it a second toss, thoroughly drenching Rafi with its chilled contents.
Cold rivulets dripped down his face, but none managed to wash away the rancid flavor in his mouth. A hint of moonlight somewhere down the hall backlit the man’s body, but Rafi recognized the build and arrogant slouch.
“Ceara,” Rafi managed. He’d never liked the underlord and neither had his father, but they couldn’t force an underlord out of his position without cause. Smugness and poor taste weren’t quite enough, and Camilio DeSilva had never found legitimate reason to strip the man of his title.
No matter the history between Ceara and the DeSilva family, Rafi was grateful the underlord had arrived to free him from incarceration. “I think I have blood poisoning. Please call your physician and get your men to let me out.”
Rafi tried to roll over, but the agony that tore up his side made him stop with a low groan. The gashes from the weeds hadn’t been terribly deep—he’d survived worse wounds—and he had cleaned and bound them as best he could without assistance. They weren’t healing very neatly, having seeped green as he and Johanna traveled on the peddler’s cart, but it wasn’t until they arrived in Camaçari that Rafi realized he might need medical attention. The brawl had certainly done the injuries no good, tearing them open afresh.
“My men?” Ceara said, stepping closer and grabbing the bars with both hands. “Do you see anyone else around here?”
The narrow hallway beyond the cell appeared to be empty. Rafi remembered Bartlett’s men handing him off to the garrison soldiers, who deposited him none too gently on the prison floor. After that everything slipped into darkness. He was still struggling to clear the haze from his mind. Something was off, something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite figure what it was.
“All the prisoners in this wing have been moved,” Ceara continued. “Apparently, the guards brought in a common tavern brawler who was sick with marsh fever. They had to isolate him for fear it would spread to the rest of the prisoners and the garrison. You know how contagious it is, especially with the fall rainstorms finally starting.”
Common tavern brawler. “Ceara, you know who I am. You know I don’t have marsh fever.”
“One of my men, who was raised in Santiago, mistakenly identified a commoner as the young Lord DeSilva.” Ceara clicked his tongue. “That soldier is going to face an unfortunate accident tomorrow morning, and no one else will remember that a man matching your description was thrown into my prison. In a few days a corpse will be carted out of this cell and burned so that the marsh fever won’t continue to spread.”
A tremor shook Rafi’s body that had nothing to do with his illness. “This isn’t funny, Ceara. People know where I am.”
“That’s true.” Ceara’s shadow nodded. “Old Bartlett, who has no love for you or any of the DeSilvas, turned you in. Did you know his family was in Roraima when it fell? He always blamed your father for not going to King Wilhelm’s aid sooner. Not that anyone would believe anything Bartlett said about you. He’s taken one too many blows to the head.” Ceara chuckled and raised his hand to his left ear. “You may have noticed.”
Sweat broke out along Rafi’s brow. He reached for his belt dagger, though he knew instinctively that it wasn’t there, and that even if it had been, he was in no condition to use it.
“What I’m really interested in is the little beauty who accompanied you to Bartlett’s inn. What kind of girl could have drawn an honorable DeSilva away from his estate and his duties?”
“She’s no one.” Rafi wished he could take the words back the instant they were out of his mouth. He sounded too defensive, too desperate.
“Really? That is disappointing.” Ceara stepped back from the bars, almost disappearing from sight. “I’m afraid you’re alone in that estimation. I received a very interesting letter from the Duke of Belem. He asked me to send one of my . . . assistants . . . to Santiago to kidnap this girl, but you so kindly saved me the effort. When I deliver her to Belem’s estate, he’s promised me a little something in return.”
Rafi knew the answer; it was the one thing that Ceara couldn’t simply take for himself. Still, he asked, “What did he promise you?”
“All of Santiago.”
Closing his eyes, Rafi wished he could slip into a nightmare. Bears and giants were preferable to
the ringing echo of Ceara’s laugh.
“It would be silly of me not to test the veracity of Belem’s claim. So I’m asking you one more time: Who is the girl you brought to Camaçari, and why does Belem want her?” Ceara reached his arm through the bars and held out a small glass vile. “In return for the information I’ll offer you a way to expedite your suffering. It’s a simple poison. Colorless. Tasteless. It takes about thirty minutes to stop a strong man’s heart.” He snapped his fingers, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. “And you drop dead. No one will ever guess how you died.”
“Poison is a coward’s tool. Come slit my throat and be done with it.”
Ceara snorted. “I’m certain your father would have said the same thing had he been given the chance.”
A rush of anger lent strength to Rafi’s limbs. He lurched to his feet and took two steps before crashing against the bars. The material of Ceara’s tunic slipped through his fingers as the underlord skipped away.
“Did you poison my father?” Rafi asked with a growl.
“No. I wasn’t anywhere nearby when Camilio died.”
Rafi’s legs buckled and he crumbled to the floor, his ears buzzing with untruth.
“It’s so much cleaner to pay someone else to commit crimes in your name,” Ceara said, and laughed as Rafi attempted a weak swat through the bars.
“Bastard.” He leaned against the cold iron, too dizzy and weak to move.
Glass shattered above Rafi, shards raining down onto his unprotected head. A small wooden plug fell onto his lap.
“I hope you die slowly, then,” Ceara said as he marched out of the prison, leaving Rafi to suffer alone.
Chapter 16
* * *
Johanna
Johanna’s fists were bruised, but the wooden door she’d punched and kicked and screamed at was no worse for wear. Like the rest of the inn and its owner, the door was solid. She’d tried picking the lock, but the splinters she’d stripped off the bed frame snapped when she jammed them between the tumblers.
The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) Page 6