The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2)

by Becky Wallace

  “It’s too late,” she said softly.

  “Of course it’s not,” Dom said, wiping the tears away with his thumb. “You’re not married yet.”

  Her face changed, resentment replacing sorrow. “You’ve only decided you care about me because you like having my attention all to yourself.”

  He couldn’t lie; he probably wouldn’t have admitted his feelings if he hadn’t been forced to.

  “There were always other girls—girls of your class, rich merchants’ daughters—that I had to watch you sneak off with to the barn and the garden and the meadows. Because of my station I got the pleasure of packing the snacks you’d take to your little romantic entanglements.” The side of her fist pressed against his chest. “You’ve never looked at me as something other than a servant, never considered the way I felt, until I showed interest in someone else.”

  “I know and I’m sorry. That was thoughtless and immature.” With a roiling sense of self-loathing, Dom realized that those words weren’t true. He hadn’t acted thoughtlessly; he’d known exactly what he was doing—playing a foolish little game with Brynn’s affections simply because he could. “Can’t we—”

  “No.” Pushing him away, she stood tall, the tears on her face long forgotten. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t pretend you see me as something more than a servant now. I’ll always be lower than you, and I’ll never be worthy of your notice.”

  She was breathing hard and so was he. The words racing out of them and stealing all the air. Dom sought for something to say, some way to fix this. Should he take it all back, pretending that it had been an effort to charm her? No, he’d be someone different, someone more like Rafi.

  “I apologize for any pain I may have caused you,” he said, stepping away and giving her free access to leave, which seemed like the right thing to do, even if it felt wrong. “Please pass my congratulations on to your aunt and brother.”

  “See? This is what I’m talking about. You don’t know anything about me. My aunt died six months ago, but you didn’t notice, even when I took a few days off to handle her funeral arrangements without even my brother to help. You don’t notice anything until it’s about to be taken from you.” With that she turned and fled down the hall.

  Dom righted the goblet on the tray, his finger sliding across the smooth lip without any conscious thought.

  The glass was fine, so clear it almost disappeared into the tray’s gleaming silver surface. It was right there, obvious but almost invisible.

  Like so many other things.

  Chapter 56

  * * *

  Pira

  An Elite Guard was trained to sleep lightly and maintain a sense of time and location. As the cart bounced over a hole in the road, jolting Pira awake, she realized she’d done none of those things. She had no idea how or where she’d passed the night, but from the cramp in her neck and the gray light of the sky overhead she guessed she’d been in the cart for a long while.

  Bodies were pressed close to her. She was lodged between a white-haired man and a middle-aged woman. Both were small boned like Performers, and both were blank eyed. She didn’t remember them from among the original dozen Sapo had brought with him to Cruzamento, and one look at the collars around their necks confirmed her suspicions. These were new captures, wearing collars she’d made with her own hands.

  Made by my hands.

  Leão.

  With dreadful clarity she remembered. Centering the knife on Leão’s chest. Plunging it deep into his body. Sapo healing the ghastly wound and then forcing her shaking hands to lock the collar around Leão’s throat.

  But Leão didn’t wake up. He didn’t move, didn’t shift. His chest rose and fell, his pulse thundered in the hollow of his throat, but his eyes didn’t open.

  Essência usually helped Keepers recover quickly, but Leão’s was being diverted to Sapo. Pira had heard of cases like Leão’s, of times when a Keeper had gone to the very precipice of death, and although the physical body recovered, the soul escaped into Mother Lua’s embace. Then it was only a matter of time. The body might last for a few days longer, until it withered away from dehydration or starvation.

  It was against Keeper law to heal a body in Leão’s state, continually prolonging its life, until even magic couldn’t keep the heart beating.

  But Sapo followed no such law. Keeping Leão drained of his power and sedated served Sapo’s purposes. He’d have one less slave to worry about feeding, training, keeping on task. Leão had become a well, something for Sapo to use and drain and use again.

  Leão tried to save me, and one way or another I’ve killed him.

  Unless she could figure out some way to defeat Sapo.

  A hysterical laugh bubbled to her lips. She clamped her hand over her mouth and felt tears drip onto her fingers.

  No one could defeat Sapo.

  She’d made fifty collars in the time she’d worked in the blacksmith’s shop. As she looked down the line of carts, seeing heads bob in each one, she guessed Sapo had used half. Beyond that were two long lines of armed and mounted soldiers.

  “Where are we going?” she asked the man, but he stared at her listlessly.

  The woman answered, raising a quaking hand to her collar. “Performers’ Camp.” She cleared her throat and started again. “My grandmother was a Performer. I heard one of the drivers say we were going to Performers’ Camp to rally the rest of the army. I always wanted to see the valley.”

  “What army—”

  Her words were drowned out by a guttural scream. It arose from the carriage near the middle of the train. Pira moved to her knees to get a better look but was nearly knocked over when a blast of essência rent the air. The people in her cart went rigid. Their eyes rolled back in their heads, while their heels drummed against the cart’s bed and their fingers scraped against the wood convulsively.

  The door to the carriage swung open and Sapo tumbled out, clutching his hair in his hands.

  Vibora followed close behind, yelling after him as he ran to the top of one of the rolling hills that hugged the east side of the trail. The wagons following the carriage jarred to a halt, a trumpet blew, and the entire line of soldiers stopped. Every head turned toward Sapo.

  “No!” he screamed again, dropping to his knees. Horizontal lightning tore across the sky, dividing their position from that of the Citadel.

  “Stop! Don’t waste your power!” Vibora fell to the ground behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle, her face pressed into the curve of his neck.

  “The barrier is falling! Can’t you feel it?”

  The barrier is falling. Pira lurched to the far side of the cart, trying to get a better look at whatever had drawn Sapo’s interest. If the barrier is falling, then Jacaré failed. If Jacaré failed, then this line of carts, all those unused collars . . . this is the beginning. Without the barrier for protection, who can stop him from recruiting new members of the Nata from Olinda and using them to destroy Santarem?

  “It doesn’t matter! You have enough power now, and when we get to Performers’ Camp, you’ll have so much more.” Vibora tried to smooth down his rumpled hair, but he smacked her hand away.

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d found the heir.” He threw an elbow to break her grip around his stomach, and stood up. For once, he towered over her. “This is your fault.”

  “Sapo, I tried—”

  He struck her across the face with the back of his hand, and she tumbled to the ground at his feet.

  Vibora pressed her palm to her cheek, her expression wounded. “Sapo,” she whimpered.

  He held up a hand, silencing her. “Miserable wench. No wonder Jacaré left you to die—” He cut off suddenly and pointed into the distance, somewhere northeast of their position. “What . . . what is that?”

  Pira’s attention was torn between the scene on the hill and the sustained column of lightning glowing in the distance. The beacon of blue stretched from the sky to touch the mountain’s feet. I
t reminded her of the time when Leão had touched the glass that was connected with Johanna’s pendant. A blue glow had emanated from his fingers. This lightning was precisely the same color.

  “Oh! Oh!” Sapo beat his fists against his temples in a sudden fit of childlike glee. “It’s so perfect!”

  “What is that?”

  He seized Vibora’s wrists and hauled her to her feet, hugging her close, oblivious to her rigid posture.

  “The barrier didn’t fall,” Sapo continued. “The lines of power didn’t collapse and disperse. They condensed. It has all been absorbed by someone.”

  “Barrata? Did he succeed?” Vibora asked, arching away from his grip.

  “Barrata, the heir. It doesn’t particularly matter,” he said, kissing her soundly. “Once that person is collared, I’ll control it all.”

  Vibora nodded but didn’t speak. Her gaze caught Pira’s for a moment, and the woman’s composure broke. A flicker of despair passed over her features.

  Pira turned away, unwilling to share in her captor’s desperation.

  Chapter 57

  * * *

  Dom

  The window opened easily under Dom’s palm. He wasn’t surprised; it wasn’t the first time he’d climbed from the roof into this particular room, just the first time that the room was occupied by this particular lady.

  Raindrops dripped onto the desk that hugged the wall under the window, splattering the letters stacked neatly in the center.

  He didn’t bother to rifle through them. All Maribelle’s correspondences were undoubtedly in code, and he didn’t have time to decipher anything now. The meeting with his mother and the soldiers had run late, and the rest of the house had gone to dinner without them. Maribelle and her attendants would return in less than ten minutes, and he didn’t know what he was looking for exactly.

  Something incriminating. Something that would put her firmly on his list of enemies. Maribelle had ulterior motives. Even if she was leading a rebellion against her father—and Dom was sure there was more to that story than she was letting on—it didn’t mean her loyalties lay with Santiago.

  If he failed on all those counts, maybe he could find a code book, a list of names, or a map that would help him infiltrate her spy ring.

  All the guest rooms in the north wing had the same layout: a small sitting room with two adjoining bedrooms, one for nobility and one for attendants. Dom crossed the plush carpet between the desk and the door on quiet feet, pausing to listen for voices on the other side.

  Silence. Perfect.

  He started under the bed—it seemed like a good place to hide things—and he was right. A half dozen daggers were driven into the bed frame within easy reach of Maribelle’s pillow. She could slip her arm between the mattress and the headboard, snag one, and take out an intruder without worrying about stabbing herself in her sleep.

  It was a good idea, he admitted grudgingly.

  The chest of drawers held only silken underthings, which he felt guilty pawing through. It was one thing to imagine her wearing them, and something entirely different to touch them without her consent.

  Her box of jewelry held an enormous amount of baubles, but no secrets. And the only thing under the rug was dust.

  Frustrated, but not surprised, Dom moved to the closet. The smell was noteworthy. Instead of the powerful fragrance of lavender that scented the rest of the room, the confined space had a musty, almost animal aroma. It reminded him of the rabbit he and Rafi had kept as children.

  Would Maribelle hide a rabbit in her closet?

  The space was overrun with dresses and skirts, but there was a careful sense of order. Blues next to purples, pinks and reds side by side. All hung from a series of hooks on the wall, with matching slippers below. There was an obscene number of boots and shoes, sometimes three or four pairs in the same exact color and style, which didn’t seem at all logical. Maribelle wasn’t the kind of person to wear the same dress twice, let alone enough times to warrant an extra pair of matching shoes.

  A large trunk, perhaps waist-high and as wide as Dom’s arms outstretched, was pressed against the rear wall of the closet. Leather bands, held in place with nailheads, wrapped around the frame, and a large iron lock held it shut.

  The back of the closet was dark. He wouldn’t be able to pry open the lock without a candle or at least a bit more light. So he opened the door wide, letting the dim moonlight and fire illuminate the space. It also brought the sound of whispering voices. Someone was in the sitting room.

  Low and hurried, the tone was significantly less giddy than Dom was used to hearing from Maribelle’s attendants. He couldn’t catch every word that was being said through the wall, but gathered that it had something to do with the man who’d been selected as the new captain.

  A third voice added to the mix. Maribelle was back from wherever she’d gone. Dom cursed silently and closed the closet door partway. The lock on the room’s outer door clicked open, and Maribelle came in, still carrying on a conversation with the women in the sitting room.

  “As far as I can tell, the water in the well is fine,” Maribelle said, undressing as she moved. “There are too many access points, and the soldiers are stretched too thin to guard all the wells in the township.”

  “Could it be something else? Something other than the wells?” one woman asked. “The message was unclear, and I think it’s a key word instead of a code.”

  “Why are we doing this, anyway?” The voice was softer than the previous one but had a similar cadence. “We should go home. We’re wasting time here while our friends die in ill-planned attacks against your father’s troops. If Sapo’s away from Maringa, then we’re missing an opportunity to take over while your father’s greatest weapon is elsewhere.”

  Dom pressed himself into the first row of dresses, watching through the narrow gap. Maribelle had shared a few tidbits about the strange people who worked for her father, but it wasn’t enough. She was, obviously, keeping him in the dark about some things.

  “You’re too attached to Lord Dom,” the first voice said. At least, Dom thought it was the first voice; Maribelle’s attendants all sounded alike to him. “You aren’t looking at this objectively anymore. You’ve forgotten our goal.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Maribelle said as she stepped out of her skirt. She wadded up the material and tossed it toward the closet. “This has been my plan, my goal, since the very beginning. I’ve fought for this. I’ve suffered for this.”

  Standing in nothing but a blouse that clung to her damply, Maribelle shouldn’t have been intimidating, but her tone shut the other women’s mouths.

  “I know what I’m doing,” she continued. “We need the united powers of Impreza and Santiago to help us defeat my father’s troops. We can’t expect Duke Fernando’s and the DeSilvas’ help if they’re waging a war against Belem.”

  “What about Sapo?”

  “What about him?” Maribelle snapped. “He’s got goals of his own, and all the recent reports suggest he’s hunting this lost princess. While he’s busy, we will destroy Belem, unite with Impreza and Santiago, and take Maringa. Sapo will never stand a chance against all four states. And he’ll never, ever help my father hurt us again.”

  Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her hands clenched at her sides. Maribelle played the beautiful coquette perfectly, but she was every bit as deadly and devious as her father. Dom wanted to be suspicious of her. He’d come to her room hoping to find proof of her duplicity, and instead he’d caught her in an unguarded moment, speaking without restraint to her closest confidants, and showing all the colors of an ally.

  The varying facets of her personality were both confusing and interesting. What had turned a pampered duke’s daughter into a scheming rebel? It was one thing to harbor hatred toward an abusive parent, and something entirely different to work toward that parent’s destruction. What were her motivations? Power, greed, or maybe vengeance? He didn’t know, but he was determined to find out. Until he
understood her, he wasn’t positive he should trust her.

  “Was there anything else?” Maribelle asked as she shrugged out of her blouse, leaving her in nothing but a thin, thigh-length camisole.

  Dom looked away and then looked back, afraid of missing something important in her body language.

  “The stable hand is out again tonight. Cintia is on him.”

  Maribelle nodded. “And Brynn?”

  “In her room with Michael.”

  “Who has been following the boy?” Maribelle asked, rubbing her temple.

  There was silence except for the shifting of material.

  “Michael loves Dom,” piped up one of the attendants.

  “And he’s eight.”

  Michael? Dom held his breath.

  “Age means nothing. Children are perfect spies. They’re often overlooked and forgotten. He may not even know he’s providing information to the other side.” Maribelle took a deep breath. “Eva, please follow him tomorrow.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.” Maribelle shooed them out of the room. “Get some rest. We won’t have any downtime till this is all over.” The door clicked shut after them, and she let out a deep sigh.

  Cintia and Eva . . . wait.

  Dom mentally replayed the conversation. Two ladies were with Maribelle, and another was out watching the stable hand.

  Three attendants? But Maribelle had brought only two with her. Both attractive, one was a half head taller than Maribelle, and the other was closer to Maribelle’s size but with lighter hair and fairer skin. Who was the third?

  Footsteps came closer, and Dom had to make a decision to try to hide or be noticed or . . .

  The closet door swung open completely and Dom lunged at Maribelle, clamping a hand over her mouth and stifling her gasp of surprise. He looped an arm across her body, trapping her arms at her sides, and pinned her face-first against the door’s frame. She struggled, bringing her heel up and nearly catching him in the groin. He shifted, and the blow landed on his thigh instead.