She grabbed his arms, forcing him to see that the words were hurting her more than the shock caused by his power. “There’s not enough time—”
The woman interrupted Johanna. “I’m sure you’ll prefer this over the alternative. We will meet at the Citadel at the full moon, and one way or another we will finish this.”
Chapter 62
* * *
Dom
Prisoners were usually held in the township’s jail, but because of her crime and the pending attack, Brynn was confined in a barrack basement. It was a dark, dank, windowless hole—a short-term holding place for the worst sort of criminals. The murderers. The rapists. The traitors. The people who didn’t deserve a comfortable place to stay, and wouldn’t live long enough to suffer from the lack of accommodations.
Dom stood on the last stair from the bottom, out of sight of the guards he knew were waiting around the corner, and pressed two fingers to the gash that trailed from above his heart to the middle of his sternum. It hurt, the new stitches protesting their rough treatment, but he needed to feel the pain to remember his anger.
Brynn’s crimes could have far-reaching consequences, he reminded himself. If the estate is overrun, innocent people will die, the soldiers from Belem will likely rape and pillage, burn and destroy. Those atrocities could, in part, be laid at Brynn’s feet.
He forced down the disbelief, focusing on the sharp sting of righteous fury till his feet took the last step.
“Lord Dom.” The soldier outside the cell door gave a brief salute. “Your mother and her guard are inside.” He knocked twice before opening the lock.
“Thank you,” Dom said as he squeezed through the narrow entryway.
Brynn was curled in the cell’s farthest corner, elbows on her knees, head resting on her arms. Lady DeSilva sat in a small chair near the door, and the guard split the distance between the two women. A lantern hung from a bracket above his head, casting a small circle of light around him and shadows on Lady DeSilva’s cold expression. There was nothing sympathetic in her eyes, and the corners of her mouth were pinched.
“She won’t speak to me,” Lady DeSilva said, standing and smoothing down the wrinkles in her skirt. “I thought, perhaps, she’d offer some explanation of her actions, but she just sits there. Mute. Refusing to look at me.” Her voice cracked, and Dom saw that underneath his mother’s stony facade she, too, was struggling with Brynn’s treachery.
“And so,” she continued, carefully articulating each word. “I turn her over to you, the highest-ranking member of our household, to interrogate as you see fit.”
Instead of moving toward the door, Lady DeSilva ignored her guard’s outstretched arm and squatted next to Brynn. Dom’s mother studied the wild red curls that hung loose, then reached out with gentle fingers and raised Brynn’s chin.
“You held my hand when Camilio died.” Her lips trembled, but she continued. “I trusted you. I cared for you. I would have gladly claimed you as my own.”
At that Brynn turned her face away, pressing her forehead against the wall.
Lady DeSilva stood, regaining her perfect posture. “You are the worst sort of traitor, Brynn Cavalcanti. You manipulated the very people who would have sacrificed themselves to save you. May that thought haunt you for the rest of your very short life.”
She whisked out of the room, her guard hesitating between following her or staying with Dom.
“Go,” Dom commanded, certain he wouldn’t need anyone to protect him from Brynn.
Dom grabbed the chair, dragged it under the lantern, and sat, his toes a few inches from Brynn’s thigh. She didn’t acknowledge him, keeping her face turned to the wall.
“I don’t want to do this,” he said, fatigue instead of fury lacing his words. “So please, for both our sakes, tell me anything you may know of Belem’s plans.”
He waited, till the silence stretched thin enough to snap. Brynn said nothing. Not a sniffle, not a whimper, not a sigh.
“Tell me who your contacts are. Tell me who you were passing messages to. Tell me who recruited you.” Dom stood then, pacing anxiously behind the chair. If she didn’t say something, he’d have to find someone who could force answers out of her. And that, even more than the looming battle, terrified him. “Please, for the love of all that’s holy, give me an explanation.”
Nothing.
“Damn it, Brynn! Answer me.” He grabbed the back of the chair and threw it across the small space. It cracked against the door and one of the legs snapped off. She cringed but didn’t move otherwise.
Dom dropped to his knees at her side and took hold of her shoulders. “Please, say something. Give me an excuse to pardon you. Lie to me!”
She looked at him then, her eyes wide and tear filled. “I can’t.”
“Because you don’t know anything? Because you’re so devoted to Belem? Because . . .” His voice trailed off, and he saw something else in her face. Certainty. Acceptance. “Because you’re protecting someone.”
Jealousy bit with vicious ardor. “The butcher’s son? Renato? Are you sacrificing yourself for your beloved fiancé?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Renato had nothing to do with this. He’s just a nice boy who got caught in the middle.”
“And I’m sure his father will say the same when he wakes up.”
Brynn closed her eyes and shook her head, not bothering to argue. Even after all the lies and deception, he believed her in this. “If not Renato, then who? Cook isn’t involved, your aunt’s dead, your brother . . .” Dom’s voice trailed off. “Gavin was due back last week, wasn’t he?”
“Shh.” She clamped a hand over Dom’s mouth. “They’ll know.”
He yanked her hand away. “No one is down here. No one will hear us.”
“They’ll kill Gavin, if they haven’t already.”
“Belem has—” Dom stopped, realizing that something didn’t quite make sense. “Your brother sails with Guildmaster Tolapia, but they didn’t go south, Brynn. They went north.”
Her breath caught, and she went unnaturally still. And then he knew. He knew the truth.
“They were sailing to Camaçari, like they do every fall. Belem doesn’t have your brother.” His heart faltered. “Ceara does.”
“Yes,” she whispered, dropping her head back onto her knees.
“Maribelle had her attendants checking on our supplies, but it wasn’t food she should have been worrying about. It was the cannon powder. You did all of this to save your brother.”
She nodded, her hair falling over her face like a veil.
“The butcher was your contact. You worked with him and his son—”
“Renato was just a ploy. Seeing him gave me an excuse to pass messages to his father when I couldn’t get them out any other way.”
Dom wanted to feel relieved, to hang on to the naive hope that this girl had betrayed him only for her brother’s sake, but he had a sick sense that there was something missing from her story. “How long has Ceara had your brother?” When she didn’t answer, the gashes over his heart began to throb in time with his pulse. “How long, Brynn?”
“Two weeks,” she said weakly.
“Maribelle said she intercepted the first message almost a month ago, just after Belem returned to his estate.” Dom’s breath rushed out in a harsh rattle. “You were spying for Belem before Ceara captured your brother.” He saw her standing next to Belem’s chair, keeping the duke’s cup filled, smiling prettily. How long had it been going on? Months? Years?
“It was never supposed to go this far. I was just sharing gossip—rumors I heard in the kitchen, who visited, who left, which nobles fought, and which snuck away together.” She twisted her fingers together. “Little things, innocuous trivia. It was never supposed to hurt anyone. He promised me enough money to join one of the upper classes—”
“So you betrayed me for money? I would have given you money.” He lurched to his feet, towering over her.
“I never wanted your money.”
“Then what, Brynn? What did you want?”
“You!” She stood and grabbed the front of his shirt. “I wanted to be the girl you couldn’t toss aside.”
“You already were!”
“No, Dom. I was a challenge. You only ever saw me as the one maid who wouldn’t give in to your charm.”
“You’re wrong. You were the only girl I imagined was my friend.” Dom broke her grip and stepped away, backing toward the door. “I see you now, Brynn. I see you for exactly what you are.”
• • •
Belem’s forward scouts had been spotted. They were approaching from the west, heading for the bridges that spanned the ravine between the two states. Dom had one final task to complete before he left for battle.
Opening the nursery door, he found Michael asleep on the floor, stretched out in front of the fire that warded off the chill brought by the seasonal rains. He looked sweet and unhindered, one arm thrown over the back of Rafi’s big red hunting hound, and the other folded under his head.
The animal snorted as Dom entered the room but didn’t shift. Perhaps it sensed how badly the child needed his rest.
“Michael,” Dom said, shaking the boy gently. “I have a special job for you.”
“For me?” The boy rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. He’d been crying since he heard about Brynn’s arrest.
“Yes.” Dom pressed the heavy key into the child’s hand and explained how it was to be used. “If something happens, if Belem’s troops get over the walls or if I . . . I don’t come back, then you do what I asked. Can you promise?”
Michael’s lips puckered, but he nodded his head solemnly. “I promise, Lord Dom.”
“Thank you. I knew I could trust you with this.”
The boy’s small fist clenched the key, and he pressed it over his heart in a salute. “I won’t fail you.”
Dom dropped to his knees and crushed the child to his chest in a tight hug.
If Santiago fell, being trapped in the barracks would be a fate worse than death. Brynn didn’t deserve that. At least in this one thing Dom’s conscience would be clear.
Chapter 63
* * *
Pira
Leão was being kept in a box—a coffin, really, but without a lid.
The simple casket of wood was slightly too short for his long frame. His knees were bent, the soles of his feet pressed against the bottom. Keepers didn’t bury their dead. They were cremated; the smoke supposedly carried their souls into Mother Lua’s embrace. But it was much too easy for Pira to imagine Sapo’s intentions. Keep the body alive for as long as possible, drain Leão’s wealth of essência, and then drop him in a hole somewhere convenient.
Sapo forced her down beside the box and said, “Water it.”
As if Leão were a useful garden herb. Water it. Feed it.
Her fingers gripped her thighs to stop from taking a swing at someone who could blast her instantly.
“You care about him,” Sapo said, nodding to the silent servant who stalked close at his heels. The slave set a bowl of water and a strip of linen next to Pira. “You’ll see that he gets the water he needs, because even now, even defeated, you hold on to hope like I hold on to essência.”
She hated that he was right. That she would smooth water over Leão’s cracked lips and dribble what she could into his too-still mouth. Even as she hated it, she planned to find some broth so she could give him something more substantial than water.
Sapo leaned close, his breath moist against her ear. “I’ll tell you a little secret. You won’t need to nourish him for too much longer. My Seer has promised that should the heir gain the power—and you saw the light as well as I—she will become my slave, and there will be no Mage on either side of the wall who can stop me.”
“I wouldn’t put much faith in anything Críquete has to say. Or haven’t you learned that lesson already?”
“You love to taunt.” He ran his fingers across the top of her head, looping one around her ear. She couldn’t help but cringe away from his touch. “Remember that when all this is over, you will still be mine.”
“I’d rather die.”
“That can be arranged.”
Pira held her arms out wide, which drew a long, loud laugh from Sapo. “Perhaps if Jacaré and the rest of the Keepers had as much fire as you do, they would have defeated the Nata cleanly.”
“There’s nothing clean in war.”
“Too true.” He toed the bowl, spilling some of the water on the ground. “Keep him alive.”
“Or what? You’ll kill him?”
“No,” Sapo said, taking a few backward steps, smiling as he moved. “I’ll make you do it. Then I’ll heal him again and have you kill him again, over and over until you learn the price of disobedience.”
She held his gaze till he turned and walked deeper into their camp, then she dipped the corner of the cloth into the water and trickled it across Leão’s lips.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I really need you to . . .” She paused, wiping a speckle of blood off his chin. “I really need you.”
• • •
Críquete found Pira the next afternoon when the battle train stopped for lunch. The Seer knelt next to Pira as she tried to force water into Leão’s mouth. His bottom lip was bleeding from a crack in the middle, and despite her efforts, he was obviously dehydrated.
Críquete reached into the coffin and raised Leão’s head a bit, tipping it back so his mouth hung open. “If you rub his throat, his body will swallow on its own. That might help.”
Pira didn’t say anything but did as the Seer suggested. Sure enough, the water she’d managed to get into his mouth disappeared down his throat.
“He seems like a nice boy,” Críquete said, looking into Leão’s face. “I would have chosen someone like this for my daughter. Alas, it was not meant to be.”
“Your daughter? You have a daughter?”
“Of course. You’ve met her.”
Pira looked around the camp, wondering if she was one of the many captured girls with dead eyes and listless movements. “Where is she?”
“Not so far now.” Críquete settled Leão’s head back into the box. She pointed to the east, over the hills pockmarked by open-faced mines. “You’ll see her. Soon. A few days.”
“If you say so.”
Críquete nodded, looking into the afternoon sunlight, her gaze blank. “Or I will. One way or another.”
Pira snorted. “Do you ever say anything clear enough to be helpful?”
“I told you to run fast when the opportunity presented itself. But that warning wasn’t enough.” She reached under her skirt and withdrew the long hammer handle. “You forgot this.”
Pira wished her temper and her pride had allowed her to listen to Críquete’s previous warning. She took the handle; one end was cracked, probably why it had been discarded.
“When will I need it?” she asked, gripping it harder, feeling the wood bite through her calluses.
“I don’t know, but you’ll have to keep it hidden.”
“I will.” She placed it into the box next to Leão. No one would search him for a weapon.
Chapter 64
* * *
Johanna
Rain turned the trail between the wall and Performers’ Camp treacherous. The few surviving Performers, weak after Jacaré’s and Rafi’s efforts at healing them, stumbled over loose gravel and damp stone.
Yara leaned against Johanna for support. She’d always been a vibrant woman, an eye-catching entertainer, but with her voice broken and her face somber, she seemed a faded version of herself.
“I was making dinner and watching my children try to train our new puppy.” She paused, wiping the tears out of her eyes. “I looked up and saw someone unfamiliar standing at the back of the wagon, and wondered if he was from another troupe or . . . I don’t know.
“I’ve always trusted other Performers without question. Isn’t that silly of me, knowing what I
know about the rest of Santarem?” Yara raised her fingers to her throat. “Were we delusional to think that because we were isolated and didn’t involve ourselves in politics, we were safe?”
Johanna didn’t answer that question. Arlo had been steeped in the kingdom’s turmoil, but maybe he’d chosen to spy for King Wilhelm—and to save Johanna’s life—in an effort to keep the gritty fingers of war from reaching into their perfect little valley.
The conversation broiled in her mind and left her stomach bubbling with a sick sense of responsibility. Her fathers, both Arlo and King Wilhelm, had given their lives to protect the things they loved. And now Rafi . . .
She checked the line of Performers following her, and saw Rafi swing the arm of an injured Skylighter over his shoulder. Her heart swooped at the simple, thoughtful action, then plunged to her feet when he caught her looking. His mouth opened as if he was going to call to her, but she couldn’t bear to hear anything he had to say.
Seven days and Rafi would be another body cooling in the ground.
She couldn’t acknowledge him. If she opened her mouth now, she wouldn’t be able to say anything coherent—she’d either rail on him for thinking he could so calmly plan to sacrifice his life, or burst into hysterical tears because he was exactly the kind of person who would give up everything for those he loved.
His eyes were on her back; she could feel the warmth of his stare, trying to thaw the chill that had penetrated to her very soul. Ignoring him, ignoring the comfort he’d try to offer, she marched on.
Two wagons blocked the trail that led into Performers’ Camp. Four Fireswords stood behind the barricade, weapons dangling from their sashes, and the short bows they used for hunting slung across their backs.
“Stop!” a voice shouted from a small gap between the axles. “Don’t come any farther.”
“James, it’s me, Johanna.”
“Prove it.”
“You can see me,” she said, edging closer to the wagons with her hands held out to her sides. She heard Rafi’s voice from somewhere behind her, calling her to stop, but ignored him. “Isn’t that enough?”
The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) Page 24