The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2)

by Becky Wallace

  They’d stopped a street short of the Duke’s Dagger, near the edge of the day market. It was empty of life; nothing moved except the moonlit awnings flapping in the breeze.

  Maribelle was searching through her cloak, and Dom realized that there were pockets sewn into the lining, similar to the cloak Johanna wore when she was Storyspinning. Maribelle expertly dusted her hair with some white powder and wrapped the material around her waist so that it resembled a long, ragged-edged skirt.

  “Tie this for me. There are places to cinch it all the way down.”

  He obliged, while she completed the outfit with a pair of oversize false teeth.

  “How do I look?” she asked, the teeth giving her an exaggerated overbite.

  If he hadn’t been so angry, he would have laughed. “Too pretty not to draw attention.”

  She frowned at him, and one of the buckteeth stuck out over her bottom lip. “It works in Maringa. No one ever notices me.”

  “So you do this a lot, then?”

  “What I do in Maringa is none of your business.”

  He eyed her, then took a handful of dirt and rubbed it on her cheeks. “Perfect,” he said with a gloating smirk. “Lady Maribelle, daughter of Santarem’s richest duke, would never walk around town covered in mud. No one would guess your identity now.”

  “Go find some place to wait,” she said, waving in the general vicinity of a barn. “Spying is as much watching as it is doing.”

  And sometimes it was just doing.

  As he walked away, he fingered the slip of paper he’d lifted from Maribelle’s pocket. He knew it must have directions to each of the potential spies’ locations, but he hoped the note would give him some other clues.

  Stopping midstride in the shadows of the barn, Dom realized he’d gotten that and much, much more.

  • • •

  Maribelle spat her false teeth into her palm and wiped them on the edge of her cloak. “Raul has a gambling problem.”

  She twisted her skirt around and untied the knots that held it in place. “I thought maybe it was some complicated code—intentionally throwing hands or making poor choices to alert a relay—and I’m fairly good at spotting those types of things, but no. Raul is simply the worst card player I’ve ever seen.”

  Dom had followed her instructions choosing the stable as a safe, quiet place to wait. He’d created a little nook for himself in one of the empty stalls, pulling a lantern and a blanket down, and angling himself against the back wall of the building.

  Instead of responding to her statement, he spread out the torn paper he’d been carrying in his pocket for weeks and the strip he’d lifted from Maribelle. “You are good at codes,” he agreed, pulling back the edge of the blanket, revealing his scribbles on the barn’s wood floor. “But they aren’t that difficult when you can relate them to something you already know.”

  The directions, the name of the pub—he’d been able to identify those on the coded list, and from there he’d worked backward, figuring out the cipher and applying it to what had been the love letter.

  Her lips moved as she read the words he’d written. She paled, but said, “It’s not what you think.”

  “That you’ve betrayed me?” The charcoal he’d used to decipher her notes crumbled in his clenched fist. “That you’ve betrayed us all?”

  “No, Dominic. You don’t understand.”

  “What don’t I understand? Twenty-six cannons, four ballistae, one hundred and twenty-four longbows, a series of directions that make no sense.” He advanced on Maribelle with every word, backing her into the corner. “Did another copy of this message get sent?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, raising her hands defensively between them. “Yes, I sent another copy, but it’s not what . . .”

  Anger was an acquaintance, something that visited Dom from time to time and left no lasting mark, but this feeling . . . this was rage. It was as black and gritty as the charcoal on his palms. It was murder in the making.

  Dom had fought with Rafi a time or two, and gone a few rounds with an underlord’s son, but he’d never wanted to kill someone before. Leaving Maribelle crumpled in the corner of this horse stall was an apt punishment for her treachery.

  Her eyes flicked to the stall door, but Dom wasn’t going to let her go. He gripped her arms above the elbows, holding her in place, forcing her to face him.

  “Was tonight part of your game? Running around the township. Climbing buildings. Were you trying to make me distrust the people I care about most?”

  She grasped his forearms, but she didn’t try to pull away. “I am trying to help you, but there are more elements at play. More people I’m responsible to.”

  “Like your father?”

  “No.” She closed her eyes, her lashes trembling in perfect crescents against her cheeks. “Think. What information did I give away?”

  “The exact details of our armory.”

  “Nothing Belem’s army wouldn’t have seen when they approached the walls.”

  “Now they know how to defend against what we’ve prepared.”

  “I gave them inconsequential information and got crucial information in return. I found a real spy in your household. One who is sharing much more significant details.”

  Now he gave her a little shake. Her eyes opened and a tear ran down her cheek.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I want you to succeed. I need you to succeed and Belem to fail grandly. My father can have no allies.”

  “Why?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “Because . . . because my rebellion is growing, but it won’t survive if Belem can come to my father’s aid.”

  Chapter 45

  * * *

  Leão

  As a child Leão had had horrific nightmares—as many children with a strong Spirit affinity often did. To help him sleep, his grandmother had once given him a handful of acorns. Her voice was soft, her hands tender as she pressed them into his palm.

  “Can you keep a secret, Leão?”

  Still shaking from his most recent dream, he blinked away his tears and frowned at the fistful of nuts.

  “Do you know how we light the streets of Olinda?”

  “No.”

  She harrumphed and pressed her finger to one of the acorns. “Certain items—naturally occurring things like pebbles and pinecones, things that haven’t been changed by our hands—can hold a small amount of essência.”

  With a tap of her finger, an acorn began to glow a dull red.

  “H-how did you do that?”

  Her face creased with a smile—one of the warm ones she reserved for moments when they were alone. Then she taught him the complicated and secret process of imbuing the acorn with the proper amounts of Fire, for light, and Air, to keep the magic from expanding beyond the shell.

  Johanna’s necklace must have been created through a much more difficult sort of spell to be able to transmit images to the glass. And the collars . . . the metal was heated and shaped, taken from its natural form and turned into something else. According to his grandmother, that should have made it impossible for the beryllium to hold essência, let alone drain and transfer it. He guessed it was some property peculiar to the metal.

  For two days he stayed far away from the pulsing sense of power, and anyone else whose essência he could feel, by sticking to the poorest parts of town and the very edges of the city. Many homes on the farthest northern border of Cruzamento, the ones closest to Roraima, were abandoned. It was considered bad luck to live so close to what had once been the kingdom’s seat, and many people complained about the snakes that seemed to find a way into the homes and businesses, closets and beds.

  During those days he poured every ounce of his essência into small, unnoticeable items and let his energy recover overnight.

  On the third day he snuck into the city—creeping past the dozens of soldiers who tried to mix with the merchants and salespeople—drawing closer to the center of the power. He blended in, another fighti
ng man visiting one of the pubs during his off-duty hours. And he hoped that with all the flitting notes of essência from the Keepers and slaves, the addition of his would go unnoticed.

  It was part luck and part miracle that he saw Pira, stumbling and dirty, leave the blacksmith’s shop at dawn. His first impulse was to rush to her side, but he kept his distance, watching from an upper room of an inn as she staggered to the well and dumped a bucket of water over her head. She dropped to the well’s edge, head down in an unfamiliar posture of exhaustion and despair. Even at a distance he could see the soot that stained her apron and blackened her hands, and he almost abandoned his plan.

  She’s right there! His heart railed against his rib cage, demanding he take action. Go! Get her now and run.

  Instead he forced himself to rely on his training. He could hear Jacaré saying the words to the youngest cadets: Slow down, study your surroundings, don’t deviate from the strategy. Rushing to Pira’s aid without considering the consequences would end in disaster.

  He gripped the windowsill till it cracked, and even though a sliver sank into his thumb, he didn’t let go. It was the only thing stopping him from breaking the window and racing into the blacksmith’s shop after her.

  A few moments later, black smoke rose from the chimney, and he could hear the distinct thump of a hammer against metal.

  He watched the street for a while longer, trying to gauge the number of people who possessed the least bit of essência. There were a dozen or so with Keeper levels of power, and perhaps two dozen more who had significantly less.

  Once he was sure he had a good estimate of what he was facing, Leão crept down to the street and laid his traps.

  • • •

  It was, perhaps, twenty minutes till full dark. The sky to the east purpled like a bruise, the color fading as it spread to the west.

  Leão had returned to his room at the inn, waiting for Pira to step outside the shop. The stream of smoke never stopped pouring out of the chimney, and he’d listened to her hammer fall most of the day. Two different women entered the barn, one collared and carrying a basket, and the other moving like she was in charge. For a moment he considered blasting the second woman, but her essência was weaker than his. Killing her would draw the attention of the person with the real power that much faster.

  Checking the long dagger at his hip, and hoping he wouldn’t need to use it, Leão crept to the alley directly across from the blacksmith’s shop.

  One acorn, glowing slightly blue with the essência he’d packed into it, was clenched in his fist.

  Slowly, forcing itself behind the horizon, the sun set. One minute before full dark Leão threw the nut toward the pulsing sense of power. It rolled, coming to a stop against the front stairs of a grand inn.

  A moment later the sun disappeared, and the acorn exploded with something more significant than light. The entire porch erupted with a blast of searing flame. The few people on the street scattered and screamed. Leão kept moving, knowing that the burning building would have everyone’s attention.

  As he entered the blacksmith’s shop, his second acorn blew. His time was ticking away—perhaps five minutes before the Keeper realized the explosions, lightning bolts, and wind tunnels were distractions.

  The firelit forge illuminated his path. Pira lay on the ground, far too still given the disturbance outside.

  “Pira,” he croaked her name. His heart crawled into his throat, choking off his breath.

  Not wasting another moment to consider her condition, Leão scooped her body into his arms, balancing her weight against his knees. She was alive but exhausted. Deep smudges colored the hollows under her eyes and blended with streaks of coal dust.

  Carrying her was not an option. They had to move fast, putting distance between themselves and the Keeper with all the power. Despite the risk that he’d alert their enemies to his real location, he had to heal her.

  Timing his use of power with the third acorn, he flooded her with as much energy as he dared.

  Her eyes snapped open, healthy pink color rushing into her cheeks. She blinked several times, then raised a hand to his face.

  “This can’t be real,” she said, tracing his bottom lip with one finger. “You’re not real.”

  “They’ll be after us any second,” he said, gripping her collar.

  “How did you . . .”

  His fingers slid off the metal like it was coated in grease. “What do I do?”

  “You can’t open it,” she said, directing his fingers to the back. “I’ve tried that a million times.”

  “Can we pry it or . . .”

  She showed him a deep gash on the side of her neck where she’d tried, and failed, to do just that.

  Thunder rumbled as his fourth acorn detonated. The explosion was so big it would have knocked anyone nearby to the ground.

  “We’ve got to go now.” Holding Pira’s hand, he ducked out of the shop and joined the chaos in the street. She didn’t question him, keeping pace at his side.

  A few more blocks, a twisting warren of streets, and they’d be free. Once on the horses, they’d be safe. They were so close.

  Leão tripped, something catching him in the ankle, and he went down on one knee. He bounced to his feet, expecting Pira to be several paces ahead.

  Instead she was leaning against the alley wall. Her fingers digging into the bricks, pain twisting her features.

  “Run.” Her voice was strangled, her arms shaking.

  “Yes.” He reached for her hand, but she snapped it away from him, smashing her elbow into the bricks.

  “Run,” she said, ignoring the blood that dripped off her fingertips. She groaned, her warrior’s face contorting with anguish, tears pooling in her pale blue eyes.

  He grabbed her arms, but her body was rigid, her muscles locked in place. “Pira . . .” He tried to force her away from the wall, but she punched him solidly in the jaw.

  “Run from me!” she managed, then kicked him in the knee, and he tumbled to the ground in front of her.

  “No.” The word was horror and disbelief.

  She growled and raised his knife. “I can’t . . . I’m not . . . please.”

  He hadn’t even felt her disarm him. She must have taken the weapon when he tripped—when she tripped him. “You’re under their control,” he realized with sudden dread.

  The knife cut down in a sharp arc and he rolled, barely avoiding a killing blow. It sliced across the top of his shoulder, skipping along his collarbone. The metal bit deep. Pain lanced through the muscle.

  Pira sobbed, her chest rising and falling. “Go!” she said, stepping over him, poised to finish him off.

  Pushing himself onto his side, he knocked the blade from her fist, but she was on him instantly. All her training, all her skill, rained down on him.

  Her fists and feet dropped onto his back and stomach, precise perfect blows. A kick to his jaw snapped his head back, forcing his teeth to clack together. She followed it with a knee to his sternum, and an elbow strike to the face. Dizzy and wounded, blood dripping from his shoulder, Leão tried to wrap his left arm over his head, to protect it from her abuse, while his right arm reached for the blade.

  Instead of fear for his life, he felt a wrenching sadness. He was going to have to hurt Pira to save her. If only he could reach the knife, he could incapacitate her, and then they could go.

  “I . . . I’m . . . sorry,” she said as she stomped on his forearm. “I . . . have to kill you . . . now.”

  Chapter 46

  * * *

  Pira

  Pira wished for the rats.

  She prayed they’d come swarming up the alley, stepping on one another in their haste to feed on her flesh. Their wicked teeth, gleaming and sharp, would have been a welcome improvement over witnessing Leão’s death by her own hand.

  Her thoughts twisted in her head, trying to buck free of Vibora’s control. But like a well-trained rider, the cursed Keeper didn’t give up the reins.
>
  As if watching from a distance, Pira saw her foot kick his arm away from the blade. He didn’t seem to notice, nearly unconscious from the blood loss and the beating he’d already taken. She bent at the knees rather than the waist—the collar used the best of Pira’s training against her—and her too-steady hand reached for the blade.

  The voice in her head screamed, begged, and pleaded. Turn it on yourself. Get control. Fall on it. Something. You can’t kill him! But the words were unheeded. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt in a perfect stabbing grip. Not too tight and not too loose, thumb pressed against the crosspiece for maximum control.

  The toe of her boot lodged under Leão’s side, and with a strong push she rolled him onto his back.

  “No,” she whispered, her tongue the only thing to heed her thoughts. “Get up,” she managed, before the magic stripped her of that ability as well.

  He didn’t move. His left eye was already swollen shut, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his breathing uneven. Weak and submissive, he waited silently for the blow that would end it all.

  There was simple acceptance on his beautiful, broken face. No thrashing or crying or pleading as she plummeted onto his stomach, forcing the remaining air out of his lungs.

  “Leão.” The word was a razor slicing open her heart, yet the traitorous organ continued fueling her actions.

  She tried to plead with her eyes, begging him to understand that the hand that raised the blade didn’t really belong to her.

  His lips twitched, and she thought he was trying to say her name.

  Then she drove the knife into his heart.

  Chapter 47

  * * *

  Johanna

  Rafi stood in the Council House’s far corner like an outsider.

  Johanna had hoped that Performers’ Camp, and its lighthearted atmosphere, would help him shake off his worries even for a few moments. And if she was being honest with herself, she’d wanted to impress him with her home. Obviously, they weren’t a rich people, but they had wealth in kindness and custom.