The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2)

by Becky Wallace

  Both Jacaré and Rafi wore Performer-style clothes—simple white shirts that laced up at the collar, and sleeves that could be tied at the wrists or the elbows, and dark trousers tucked into their boots. It was almost painful to see Rafi dressed as a Performer, to think of him ducking low to enter a wagon. He didn’t belong here, but that didn’t stop her from wishing he’d stay.

  “There’s nothing for us to discuss,” Jacaré said as he lowered himself into one of the Council chairs. “If you can spare us a place to sleep for the night and a few provisions, we’ll be on our way tomorrow.”

  “All in due time,” Elma said as she relaxed into her seat, leaning her staff against her leg. “Didsbury, I’ve got people working on accommodations and provisions for their travels, but would you mind making sure that everything is arranged for the trip to the wall?”

  Instead of sitting, Didsbury stood at Elma’s side, focused on Jacaré and Rafi. “I can. But as head of the guard, I need to know if I should expect any threats.”

  “Nothing tonight,” Elma said quietly. “You will need to appoint someone to take command in your stead. You’ll be accompanying Johanna and me tomorrow.”

  “I will?”

  “These men will not come through Performers’ Camp again, and Johanna and I will need assistance returning.”

  A slight gasp escaped through Johanna’s lips. Is that a prophecy or a command?

  “All right.” Didsbury nodded to Elma and smiled briefly at Johanna. “I’ll make sure everything is ready.”

  Once he’d left the room, Elma directed Johanna to the bookshelf. “I’d like you to bring me the last volume in the third row. You might recognize it.”

  Books were expensive, bulky, and not particularly travel-friendly, so the volumes the Performers kept in the Council House were precious. They ranged in size and shape and material, but they all contained the same thing. Each of the books held a master Storyspinner’s collection of stories, the things he or she had learned from teachers and parents, with a bit of personal history mixed in. Shelf space was dedicated to only the premiere Storyspinners of each generation, though every person with even the slightest storytelling skill kept a journal, in case one was privy to an incredible event—or made up a tale that everyone, everywhere, would want to hear over and over.

  Some of the tomes were so old they were rarely taken off their shelves, and only with special permission, the pages fragile in their antiquity. The book that Elma directed Johanna to wasn’t ancient, but she hesitated before pulling it off the shelf.

  The handwriting on the spine was so familiar it felt scrawled on her heart. The sting of the nib throbbing with fresh pain.

  “Arlo Von Arlo,” she whispered, her finger tracing the letter L as it looped into the O. “I didn’t know this was here.”

  Elma nodded. “We made your mother leave it behind when your family was expelled.”

  Johanna felt yanked between anger and relief. At least the manuscript hadn’t burned with the wagons, but the wagons wouldn’t have burned if her family hadn’t been expelled. There was no right way to feel in that moment, so she tried to settle on gratitude that this book of stories and memories had survived.

  “All right, dear, I need you to turn to the story of King Wilhelm and his bride.”

  Instead of following the hedgewitch’s command, Johanna hugged the book close. “I already know who I am, Elma.”

  “Do you really, Johanna? I think your father knew something that perhaps even Jacaré hasn’t figured out yet, and something you’ve never guessed.” She held out her hand for the book, then turned to the page she wanted before handing it back. “Start here. You read it. Your voice is much more suited to this than mine.”

  Johanna exchanged a look with Jacaré, whose forehead was furrowed. She supposed he was confused or perhaps interested, but his face always seemed distant no matter what he was feeling.

  Rafi raised his eyebrows at her, a simple Go ahead, or maybe an I don’t care.

  She began to read from the paragraph Elma had indicated, though she could have recited it from memory. “ ‘Many years passed, but the king had not found a suitable bride. His people were concerned, and they sent girls and women, young and old, from every state and from the isles to gain the king’s hand, but none could earn his fancy.

  “ ‘Then, one night, a knock sounded at the Citadel’s gate.’ ” Johanna stopped. The words in her mind didn’t match the ones on the page. “ ‘A girl slumped against the age-old wood, begging for assistance. The sentries hadn’t seen her approach, but everyone who heard her voice hurried to find the king, begging him to open the door and let her in. The halls outside Wilhelm’s personal chambers were clogged with servants and soldiers, all pleading with him to give the girl admittance.

  “ ‘But the king closed his ears to her voice, certain there was madness afoot. Finally, on the third day, she began to sing. The sound was beautiful and eerie, the melody completely unfamiliar, and after five minutes the king could resist no more. He pushed through the people who’d lined up near the gate to listen and broke the lock open—’ ”

  “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would the gate be locked? King Wilhelm would never have kept it shut for three days,” Rafi said, sitting up straight in his chair. “It must be a tale that Arlo tried to make more . . . interesting.”

  “Oh, this is certainly interesting.” Elma smiled slyly, then nodded to Johanna. “Continue.”

  Arlo had added to stories all the time, so it wasn’t as if what she’d read was all that surprising. Some stories were embellished and changed, while others were always true to one version. “ ‘Her clothes were torn and filthy. Long gouges marred her skin, and her cloak and dress, which had once been fine, were blood-soaked,’ ” Johanna read on. “ ‘And finger-length thorns were snared in her braid. She trembled from fatigue and hunger, but her beauty was undeniable. King Wilhelm took one look at her and said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”’ ”

  “That’s enough,” Elma said, her grin tilted and smug.

  Rafi ran his hands through his curly hair, tugging at the knots. “It’s obviously false. It sounds like she’d come through the hedge on the back side of the Citadel. On the Keepers’ side of the barrier.”

  “That’s because she did.” It was Johanna who spoke, her voice soft. “Queen Christiana was from Olinda—she was a Keeper.”

  Chapter 48

  * * *

  Rafi

  The book fell out of Johanna’s hands and dropped with a thump that Rafi felt through the floor. He could see that the truth had stunned Johanna, and he supposed he should have helped her to a chair. But the realization rocked him so much that he could barely move from his own. It just made so much sense. “When you sang at the prison, the prisoners rioted. They took a guard hostage.”

  Elma nodded and Rafi continued, “And the way people respond to you when you tell a story, they stop what they’re doing to listen.”

  “Of course they do. I’m a good Storyspinner,” Johanna said, defensive. “Audiences are supposed to pay attention to me.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of Performers, Johanna. Even your parents, who were arguably the best at what they did. They never affected me the way you do.” He ran a hand over his mouth, remembering his inability to look away as Johanna performed. He hadn’t even been able to applaud, he’d been so drawn in by her song. “The night you sang at my estate, I felt . . . I don’t know . . . bound to you by the music. Like every word you sang was specifically for me.”

  He looked up then and saw the effect his words had on Johanna. Her eyes were unblinking, but her chin trembled.

  “That’s because I was trying to impress you, Rafi. I was desperate for your approval. And I didn’t even know why. . . .”

  She spun and ran out of the building, slamming the doors so hard that they bounced back open.

  Rafi sat frozen, watching Johanna disappear into the maze of wagons and tents.

  You don’t
understand. I didn’t mean . . . what did I mean? The story makes it sound like the queen bewitched the king with her voice, but I didn’t mean that Jo had done the same to me.

  Had she?

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Rafi said breathlessly. “She misunderstood.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Elma answered. “Mother Lua used magic to snare the huntsman. Queen Christiana used her voice to coerce King Wilhelm to open the gate. And Johanna used the same power, however unwittingly, on you.”

  Rafi didn’t care. He had hurt Johanna, and he needed to go after her. He stood, hoping he could find her in the confusing morass of tents and wagons.

  Jacaré blocked the doors, arms pressed against the frame. “Apologizing now will only make letting her go later that much harder.”

  There was triumph in his tone, as if this had been the final blow of a battle Rafi didn’t even realize he was fighting. He tried to sidestep the Keeper, but something wrapped around Rafi from behind. He couldn’t move, his limbs frozen, his feet floating a couple of inches above the ground.

  “Rest tonight, young lord. Write your family a letter. Let them know where you are.” Elma spun Rafi to face her, then lowered her arm so he dropped to the floor. “Johanna will need some time to process this revelation. Give it to her.”

  • • •

  The day dawned gray, casting pools of watery light through the Council House windows. The letter marked with his mother’s name leaned against the glass. Elma had promised someone would send it via bird later that day.

  After he’d written the short, carefully worded message, he’d climbed into the bed the Performers provided, but he hadn’t managed to sleep.

  He’d tossed and turned on the feather mattress. Even though he’d wanted to sleep, needed to sleep, he couldn’t wipe out the image of Johanna’s face the moment before she ran out of the room.

  Instead of fighting his thoughts, he’d lit the small taper a Performer had left behind and sought out some reading material. He’d picked journals off the shelves at random, reading a few paragraphs, getting a sense for the different styles of Storyspinning and how the skill had developed and changed through the years. It had compounded his guilt when he realized how good Johanna was at her craft. Instead of using heavy symbolism and complicated vocabulary, Johanna chose the simplest way to tell a story, letting the plot and characters carry the tale.

  When footsteps echoed from the loft above, Rafi closed the most recent in a long line of books and prepared for the journey, sorting through the clothes the Performers had given him, adding a vest and a jacket, both too short. It had grown cold during the night, and another storm loomed on the horizon.

  “Ready?” Jacaré asked as he stopped at the bottom of the stairs and waited, with obvious impatience, for Rafi to nod. “Then, let’s go.”

  Outside a crowd had gathered, lining the path that would lead them out of the valley. The people—whose noise and laughter during the night had added to Rafi’s inability to sleep—stood abnormally silent and motionless, watching.

  He saw movement at the far end of the line. Johanna walked between the columns of Performers. Some stepped forward, exchanging a few words, kissing her on the cheeks, or pressing some small item into her hands.

  A blond-headed little girl, probably close to Joshua’s age, brought a crown of flowers. Johanna hesitated, but bent and let the child place the garland on her head.

  Rafi held in a growl. “I guess the word is out, then? They know who Johanna really is?”

  Jacaré agreed with a grunt, and while it wasn’t words, the sound spoke volumes of displeasure.

  Johanna was dressed in jacket and pants, cut close to the skin. The material looked thick and sturdy, but supple as it hugged her shape like an acrobat’s costume. Her short hair was braided around her head, and the crown of flowers nestled inside of it.

  He’d seen her in gowns and day dresses, hunting leathers and trousers, but he’d never seen her look so beautiful and regal. And terrified. He took a step toward her and lifted his hand—wanting to assure her she wasn’t alone. She caught his gaze and held it for a moment before turning her back to him completely.

  Chapter 49

  * * *

  Johanna

  Once they were out of the valley, the hike from Performers’ Camp to Donovan’s Wall was all uphill. Didsbury led, with Jacaré behind, Johanna in the middle, and Elma and Rafi bringing up the rear.

  The old woman tired frequently, and powerful Keeper or not, she needed to rest her aged limbs. The pace was slow and laborious, and Jacaré practically buzzed with the energy to move faster, yet he didn’t say anything. No cutting remarks, no cruel looks. The end was in sight, and though they could have made the wall by nightfall without Elma, everyone agreed it would be better to face whatever happened next in the daylight.

  “We’ll stop here,” Didsbury said when the clouds overhead had grown heavy with rain. “Might as well put up the tents and get some rest before that storm hits.”

  Jacaré and Didsbury got to work, and Rafi disappeared off into the distance. Not that Johanna was watching. She could simply feel the lack of his presence. Maybe it was that little bit of Keeper power she was supposed to have, but she’d never been so conscious of his location until now. Knowing he was behind her as they walked, near enough to touch but still so far out of reach, was almost a physical pain.

  She used this new awareness to ignore him when he got close, horrified that there was actually something in her voice, something that she didn’t know how to control, that could bewitch him. So instead she remained mute and distant, keeping Rafi as far away as possible.

  The truth hurt on so many levels: that her skill wasn’t really something she’d gained through hard work and practice, that she was unable to influence an audience the way her father had, and most horribly, that she’d somehow managed to make Rafi feel something for her that he would never have felt on his own.

  “Where’d the lordling go?” Didsbury asked as he threaded one of the small foldaway poles through the roof of the tent. “Does he think I’m going to serve him because he’s some spoiled noble?”

  Johanna opened her mouth to defend Rafi, but Elma called to her.

  “Bring me something to eat, won’t you?” she asked as she rested on one of the boulders that speckled the landscape. The lumps of stone, the same slate gray as those that made up the smear of Donovan’s Wall in the distance, looked like blocks scattered by a giant child. Their rough edges poked through knee-high weeds and scrubby trees.

  Johanna unwrapped their day’s rations and set to work making dinner out of soft scones, dried fruit, and a sausage. Jacaré directed her to build a small fire between two of the largest stones, which would block the light and provide them some cover from unseen observers.

  A throat cleared behind her, and Johanna found Rafi holding out a mangled bunch of purple flowers with bright yellow centers.

  “What . . .”

  He offered them to her, hesitantly. His eyes dark and earnest. “Would you join me for a walk? I’d be honored.”

  A hand fell on Johanna’s shoulder. “It’s not really a good time or place for a stroll, is it, Johanna?” Didsbury’s voice was cloying, full of arrogance and a hint of possession. “It’ll be dark soon, and we really should stick together.”

  Rafi ignored him, but a muscle in his jaw feathered from the effort. “Please.”

  “Now is not the time,” Jacaré agreed, dropping an armful of dry grass near the shallow fire pit.

  Elma didn’t say anything, her head tipped to one side, staring off into the distance. “I don’t think—”

  “Please, Jo. I have one thing to say and then”—he took a deep, ragged breath—“and then you won’t hear anything else from me. I’ll make sure you get to the wall, as I promised, then I’ll return to Santiago without another word.”

  Didsbury’s fingers tightened as if he wanted to restrain Johanna, and that action, almost as much as Rafi’
s expression, made her step away.

  “All right. Lead the way.”

  “Don’t take the flowers,” Didsbury cautioned, a sneer turning his lips. “They’re mountain nightshade. Terribly poisonous.”

  Rafi’s arm dropped to his side, and a few blossoms fell from the bouquet and scattered across the ground.

  “I didn’t intend to lick them,” Johanna said tartly, then snatched the bouquet out of Rafi’s hand. “Come on, then.”

  She led, not because she knew where she was going, but because she didn’t want to walk beside Rafi, afraid that her face would expose the emotions she was trying so hard to mask. The Performer in her, the one trained to play dozens of different roles, had a difficult time competing with the girl who felt lost, confused, and overwhelmed.

  Giving up her life was hard enough, but now the few talents she’d been proud of weren’t really her own to claim. There was very little of Johanna Von Arlo left.

  She walked until she found an irregular ring of stones, and hoped that it was far enough from camp that no one would overhear.

  “I have something for you,” he said softly. “I know Performers bring gifts when they’re courting—”

  Johanna whirled around to face him, anger welling, to tell him that they were not courting and that under no circumstances could they or should they proceed with their betrothal, but when she saw what he held in his hand, the words died on her lips. “Is that . . . did you steal my father’s book?”

  “I borrowed it,” he said, color flooding his face. “I stayed up last night reading it, and I think that you should too.”

  Her resolve softened. “Rafi—”

  “ ‘King Wilhelm picked up the girl and carried her to the far west wing of the Citadel,’ ” Rafi read aloud, tilting the book toward the horizon, catching the last rays of sunlight. “ ‘He stayed away from her, afraid that the sound of her voice would affect him as it had his people. Once she was well, he received a daily report of her activities. It seemed that she never stopped moving, looking for good to do. She visited the hospital, talking to the sick and singing to the elderly. Everyone remarked that she seemed to glow, and King Wilhelm was certain it was because of the magic she carried.