Chapter 68
* * *
Rafi
Light, it felt good to smash that smug Keeper’s words down his throat. The carefully composed arrogance, the constant expression of discontent, disappeared the instant Rafi’s fist cracked against Jacaré’s jaw. For a moment he showed a real emotion—shocked disbelief.
As if from a distance, Rafi felt Johanna’s hands on his chest, shoving him step by step to the edge of the campsite.
“What are you doing? What is wrong with you?”
He barely heard her, still immersed in the heat of his anger and wanting to stay that way. Anger was an easier emotion for Rafi to face than paralyzing fear. It was sweat and adrenaline, action and release—all a welcome change to the chilled dread that had dribbled into his bone marrow.
“What did that prove?” Jo asked, giving him one last push, which left him standing in the darkness around the campsite and her still in the light.
“That Keepers aren’t unbeatable.” Rafi smiled, and felt a sharp tinge of pain in his bottom lip. He didn’t remember Jacaré landing a single punch, but the metallic taste in his mouth suggested he was wrong. It didn’t matter. “That I’m stronger than he thinks. That he underestimated me, and that if he can be beaten, then Sapo can be as well.”
“So you punched him in the face to prove that point?”
“Yes.” One of his knuckles was bleeding, but the sting of the gash and the pull of the muscles made him feel alive. He wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t blind. Death was on the horizon, either in a magical battle or when he returned the essência to the barrier, and he refused to live the rest of his life under the shadow of dread. “He needed to know I wasn’t going to lie down and let these Keepers trample over me and my land. I intend to put up the best fight possible.”
“Like when Beta stood against the Horde.”
Fear was a feather in the back of his throat, and he swallowed to force it away. “I hope the odds aren’t that impossible, but yes.”
“You plan to die in the end.” Her voice was too flat, void of emotion.
He had known this conversation was coming, but he’d hoped to put it off till after they’d beaten Sapo. “I’d like to live. I’d like to take down Belem and Inimigo and establish peace. I’d like to go home to Santiago and apologize to my mother for all my stupid mistakes and give my brother a hug. I’d like to see the docks rebuilt and the sewers of Santiago running smoothly. I’d like to do a dozen other things that seemed mundane and irritating when I was going to be duke. But most of all”—he stepped forward quickly, using the same speed he had with Jacaré, and wrapped his arms tight around her—“I want to hear your stories. Not the ones you memorized, but the funny, embarrassing, heart-wrenching tales about Johanna Von Arlo. I want you to sing me to sleep every night. I want to spend an eternity kissing your lips and memorizing the texture of your skin.”
“You’re not going to die,” she said, her elbows digging into his ribs, trying to break free. “You’ll have plenty of time to do all those things after.”
After. After. If only after were a possibility.
“Johanna?” James approached. “We want to go over the plans.”
Rafi raised his eyebrows at Johanna.
“I came up here to tell you that the Performers agreed,” she said, backing away from him. “You’ve got your army. They’ll be ready to march tomorrow afternoon.”
• • •
The Performers moved faster than any army in any of the books that Rafi had studied. It was the nature of their society to be ready to change locations, without stopping for supplies, at a moment’s notice.
At noon the next day the youngest, fittest, and most powerful members of each troupe cracked their whips over their horses’ heads and began the climb to the valley’s lip. Jacaré had spent the rest of the night walking throughout the camp identifying which members had a strong essência, and through that Rafi learned to sense both the presence and strength of it in those around him.
Birds were sent to each of the states, seeking reports from Performers’ friends, and Rafi took the opportunity to send another letter home. It was difficult to compose, knowing that these few lines would be the last he could offer to his brother, mother, and country. But they were not to know any of that. The letter had to remain on point.
He named Dom heir, with Lady DeSilva serving as his regent until he came of age, should Rafi be killed in the ensuing battle. Rafi also confirmed Johanna’s true identity and stipulated she be cared for as royalty, and finally, that if Johanna wished, Santiago would help her regain and rebuild her ancestral home.
There wasn’t room for apologies and good-byes, but he hoped his actions would serve as testimony enough if he didn’t get a chance to tell them himself.
As the brightly colored army made its way toward Cruzamento, Rafi rode knee to knee with Jacaré.
Neither had said a word about the brawl the night before, and Rafi wasn’t going to acknowledge the nick of guilt he felt about the bruises on Jacaré’s face. As if by some unspoken agreement, they chose to focus on the other challenges ahead.
“Strictly by numbers, I’m more powerful than Sapo. Can’t I just blast him with fire or lightning or something?”
Jacaré actually laughed. It was a cold sound, devoid of humor. “Do you want to lose the battle in the first five minutes?”
The blue light of essência flared up around Rafi with the unexpected rush of his anger. Johanna whipped around in her saddle, eyes narrowed with concern. No one else seemed to notice, and Jacaré didn’t comment.
“Relax,” Jacaré snapped. “You may have the power of a hundred Keepers, but Sapo’s had hundreds of years to hone his skill. If I gave a child an excellent sword but put him up to fight against a master, who would win?”
Rafi exhaled and tried to release his grip on the power. He’d always had a quick temper, but he’d trained himself to hide his anger until he could release it on the training yard. Since the incident at the wall, rage had boiled just below the surface. When it started to bubble over, blue light burst through his skin. He struggled to rein it in, to tamp it down, but his first inclination was to blow something up.
When the glow began to fade, Jacaré continued his analogy. “Even with a stick a master would win because he knows how to defend himself against the worst or wildest attacks. Sapo may not be as powerful as you are, but he’s sure to be crafty.
“The battle will focus on ambushes over field maneuvers. Sapo wants the power you have, which means he’ll try to incapacitate rather than kill you.” He gave Rafi a significant look. “You can always tap the Performers if you’re running low.”
“Don’t we have to collar people to use their power?”
“No.” Jacaré touched his eyebrow absently, brushing against the scab that Rafi had not offered to heal. “The barrier was built without collars. To some extent, essência can be shared by touch. We lined up along Donovan’s Wall and funneled it all into one person. You can use the strongest of these people if things get bad . . . and maybe you noticed, but those with the most essência are the most athletic. They’ll be the best fighters anyway.”
Jacaré followed Rafi’s gaze, looking up the line of wagons. “How many of them are you willing to sacrifice as fodder?”
“None,” Rafi said quickly.
“Then we’ll need to be devious in the ways we use them.”
Chapter 69
* * *
Dom
The short-lived battle in the meadow had given the townspeople enough time to get inside the estate’s walls. All the preparations Dom had made—building the palisade, strengthening the walls, stockpiling food, drying out the powder—weren’t enough. Belem had come ready to bypass the palisades, tear down the walls, or, if necessary, starve them out. The blown bridges were only a slight inconvenience. Belem’s engineers were working on ways to get their cannons and ballistae across the ravine and until then he had other methods of destroying Santiago.
The central market was the first thing to go, with the docks a close second. Belem’s men burned everything on the east side of the river that bisected the township, and cut off any escape Dom’s people hoped to make by water.
There wasn’t enough room inside the DeSilvas’ manor to fit the whole township, and all those crowded in the courtyard were affected by the billowing smoke from Santiago’s flames. Men, women, and children hung wet cloths over their faces just so they could breathe.
Once night fell, Belem’s troops stopped shooting flaming arrows onto the estate’s roofs, but Captain Demian reported that there were . . . things . . . floating in the well water. Belem had camped between the central aquifer and the estate, and had his soldiers dump feces and animal carcasses into the wells and the river south of his base. The water that came into the estate was full of that filth and completely undrinkable. Even with the rain barrels and strict rationing there wouldn’t be enough clean water to keep the entire township alive for more than a few days.
Frustrated and angry, Dom paced the halls of the estate, until he found himself at Maribelle’s room. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there; she’d been unconscious since their frantic ride back to the township. While the arrow hadn’t struck anything vital, she had lost a significant amount of blood.
“I’m sorry,” he said, apologizing to her attendants. “I don’t know why I’m here. I guess . . . I just hoped that maybe . . .” He trailed off, trying to put into words what he was thinking. That he could glean inspiration from Maribelle’s sleeping body? That he could absorb some of her resourcefulness by sitting nearby? That he could apologize for having treated her so poorly?
He shook his head in embarrassment and despair.
They seemed to understand. One of the shorter ones, he wasn’t sure which, patted his shoulder as if she guessed at what he wasn’t saying.
“I know you are sworn to keep her secrets, but if there’s anything you know that could help us . . . ,” he begged, looking them each in the eye. “Please.”
They exchanged a look he couldn’t quite read.
“Lord Dom, her trust is hard to earn, and for good reason,” she said. “We’ve been with her since the beginning, and she keeps secrets even from us. But if we knew anything that would help, we’d tell you now.”
They knew what he had only grudgingly admitted. The estate walls weren’t going to keep any of them safe for very much longer.
“There are the wells,” the dark-haired one—he thought she’d been introduced as Eva—said, biting her bottom lip.
“They’re unsafe to use—”
“Not to drink from, Lord Dom, but to travel through. The wells of Santiago are interconnected with horizontal tunnels running to one another and the central aquifer. Someone might have . . . liberated . . . a copy of Lord Rafi’s sewage maps and found the connection.”
Dom’s mouth opened in shock. He knew that before Rafi had gone after Johanna, he’d been planning to add new sewer lines but wanted to make sure they didn’t come near the groundwater reserves. “Have you been in these tunnels?” he asked, adrenaline making his fingers twitch. “Are they passable?”
The ladies exchanged a glance. “Yes,” Eva said, nodding. “A person who was, say, my size or a little bigger could fit through most of the passages.”
“Would someone my size fit through the tunnels?” He held his breath, knowing that even if the answer was no, he was going to use this information to his advantage.
“Yes.”
Dom called Lady DeSilva, Captain Demian, and a grizzled veteran named Gesias to help him work out a plan. Townspeople looked on while Gesias and Eva climbed down the courtyard’s central well and came up at the one just beyond the kitchen door.
The water was only knee deep, and although it was moving, if they hugged the walls, it wasn’t strong enough to sweep them off their feet.
“I know what you’re thinking, Dominic,” Lady DeSilva whispered as Dom marked the locations of the wells nearest the enormous tent topped by Belem’s pennant. “And I’m telling you no. You’re the highest-ranking member—”
“Yes, I know, Mother. You reminded me of that before I interrogated Brynn.” He winced at the bitterness in his own voice. He didn’t mean to be so sharp, but the memory still cut. “It also means that you cannot command me to stay. I’m leaving the state in your hands, and it will be in better care than it would be if you left it in mine.”
Lady DeSilva grabbed his collar and forced him to look away from the map. “If something happens to you, I will . . .”
“I’m sure you won’t be able to think of a punishment harsh enough.”
She fidgeted with the crease in his shirt, smoothing her hands down his sleeves, trying to hide the tears glistening in her eyes. “I’m proud of you,” she said finally. “You’ve honored the DeSilva name.”
Pride filled his chest. It felt good to have done something right, but Dom simply couldn’t accept the praise. “I sincerely hope that you will never, ever expect this much from me again. I have every intention of handing this responsibility to Rafi as soon as he returns.”
“I’m sure,” Lady DeSilva said with a laugh, then pressed a good-bye kiss to her son’s cheek.
Four teams of two, eight of the DeSilvas’ best soldiers, climbed into the wells and split off to four separate segments of Santiago. Three of the teams would provide a distraction, killing as many soldiers as possible, creating confusion, destroying food and weapons stores, and returning to the wells without getting caught.
Dom had joined Gesias and one other guard; they would come up closest to the ornate silk tent that sheltered the duke. The time for diplomacy had passed, and they would convince Belem to leave Santiago or die. It was a desperate plan. They all knew it.
Gesias led them through the tunnels, then free-climbed up the brick-sided well and disappeared over the lip. Dom waited, tense and impatient, staring up at the bucket and crank, and wishing he could see beyond.
A shadow appeared at the well’s mouth and waved for Dom to move to the side. He exchanged a quick look with the other member of their team, then pressed himself against the wall an instant before a body fell over the side, sinking to the bottom and disappearing under the weight of weapons and light armor.
Dom knew that his decisions had killed men, he’d heard them scream and watched them burn, but seeing it from a distance and feeling a dead man’s leg pressed against his own were two different things. Guilt and sorrow warred for a place in Dom’s mind, but they lost to the sudden, overpowering awareness that he was alive. He stood for too long, staring at the lifeless hand that floated on the water’s surface.
The other soldier jostled Dom, and for a moment he really thought about what he was doing.
Sneaking into the enemy camp in the middle of the night? This is crazy.
It is, but you can stay in the well with the dead man, or go face the men who are destroying your home. Choose.
Dom gripped the rope and hauled himself skyward.
They came up on the far side of the well and sheltered in its shadow. Gesias gave a quick rundown of their situation. They were deep into enemy territory, and the camp was quiet save for the snoring of men, exhausted after a day of battle and certain the dawn would hold victory for their duke.
Security was lax. Only the camp’s perimeter was ringed with sentries, and two guards stood watch on the duke’s tent. Gesias would take care of the guard in the back, and they’d enter through the rear door and eliminate whoever waited inside.
Moving on silent feet, they paused in the shadow of the tent closest to Belem’s while Gesias loaded a small crossbow and yanked back the crank.
This was the moment everything depended on—Gesias’s ability to take down the guard silently.
Dom took a breath and held it, eyes focused on the guard, on the dim light from the tent beyond. Wild energy danced in his fingertips as he eased his dagger out of its sheath. It took every ounce of his self-control
to wait, wait, wait. . . .
The arrow flew and Dom dashed forward. If it missed, he would follow it up with a killing blow.
He didn’t need to worry. The bolt punched through the man’s throat, eliminating the possibility of a shout, but his armor would make a clatter as he fell. Dom caught the guard and eased him to the ground.
Gesias nodded his approval and then followed the other soldier under the tent’s flap.
The interior was divided into a large center room and two smaller sleeping chambers on either side. Both were dark, but the distinct growl of sleep rumbled from the room on the right. Gesias signaled for their other crewmate to keep a lookout. Dom didn’t wait for the command to follow.
His dagger was cool against his palm, but he felt a desperate need to warm the blade in Belem’s blood. Moving silently, with Gesias hard on his heels, Dom entered the sleeping chamber. It, like the rest of the tent, didn’t lack for comforts. Two braziers of glowing coals warmed the air around a long, low bed topped with silky furs and heaps of pillows. Bedside tables were littered with half-eaten food and melted candles, and an open chest showed an assortment of weapons.
Sleeping heavily in the middle of the bed was Belem, his chest bare save for King Wilhelm’s crystal signet.
It would have been easy to kill him and flee, but it was too simple a death for the man who’d ripped that necklace off Johanna’s throat and marched a foreign army onto DeSilva soil.
No. This man was going to suffer and then retreat with his tail between his legs.
Dom dropped onto the side of the bed and covered Belem’s face with a hard hand. The duke woke with a jolt.
“I dare you to scream,” Dom said, wedging his dagger under Belem’s jowls. “Let’s see how long you live after that.”
Panic rolled off Belem, as potent as the bottle of wine that had spilled at his bedside. His eyes were wide, flitting from Dom’s face to the weapon’s hilt.
The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) Page 26