The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (19 page)

This is my forever. No more traveling with friends. No more wagons stuck in the mud or performing by the beach. No more hesitant kisses under balsa trees, or hungry kisses in tiny inns.

Once this is over, once the barrier is stabilized, there will be no more Rafi.

She told tales of miracles, of love reaching across distances, of happy endings, but this story,
her
story, would be the other kind. It would be the allegory—one that taught about sacrifice, and the good of the many over the desires of the one.

Oh stop it, Johanna. This isn’t martyrdom, for Light’s sake. So you don’t find true love. You get to
live
and help others and save a kingdom.

Raise your chin. Be Johanna the Brave, Johanna the Bold. Never, never Johanna the Heartbroken.

A crunch of wood over stone drew her attention, and one tear escaped down her face. Silhouetted against the bright daylight at the cavern’s mouth stood a stooped shape Johanna knew. It belonged to perhaps the last person in all of Performers’ Camp she wanted to see.

“Oh, my dear girl.” Elma’s voice sounded like Johanna’s heart felt—raw, wounded, sorry. “I wish there was some way to have prevented all of this and all that is to come.”

If it were possible, the tear trail on Johanna’s cheek would have evaporated from her sudden flash of anger. “There wasn’t any way to protect us? You turned us away. You sent my family to their deaths! You—”

“Did exactly what needed to be done to save Performers’ Camp.” Elma straightened, and for the first time in her life Johanna realized how tall the woman would have been without the weight of years on her back. “Trouble follows you. I wanted to let your family stay, but that would have been the end of all of us. And even after sending you all away . . .”

“What then?” Johanna clutched the hedgewitch’s arm, not to steady, but to shock.

“I . . . I don’t know. I’m not sure.” Elma dropped heavily onto the bench, sending the small bowl of soap skittering to the rocky floor.

Her wrinkled eyes were pale, nearly white in the dim cavern light, but under the pockets of sagging flesh Johanna saw the fine almond shape.

Erase the years, add a healthy flush to her skin, shave away the white hair . . .

“You’re like them. You’re a Keeper,” Johanna said as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “How did I not see this before? I always thought your gift was wisdom and an uncanny ability to read people. A trick like the rest of us Performers have, but you can see the future. Can’t you?”

Elma reached for Johanna’s hand and finished the healing Jacaré had started. It erased the pain, but it didn’t piece together her broken heart. “The future is too fluid to be able to tell too much too far in advance. If you look beyond a few days, there’s no guarantee that the circumstances won’t have changed by a breath of wind or the death of a giant.”

“And yet you forced my family to leave.”

“That was one thing I was certain of. If you stayed at Performers’ Camp, all the rest would suffer.”

“Well, I’m back now. Does that change what you see,
witch
?”

Elma closed her eyes. Time ticked away with the water that dripped into the bathing pool. A prickle of discomfort made Johanna fidget as she waited for Elma to complete whatever it was she was doing.

“I see an end or a beginning. I see the demise of all you’ve ever loved or a rebirth of those you
will
love but do not know. I see misery and chaos and murder,” Elma said finally. Her voice was flat, brushing against Johanna’s senses and making her shiver.

“What else?”

Elma pulled up her hood. “No matter what happens now, what decisions are made, I see death, death, death. And you are at the middle of it all.”

Johanna’s heart thudded rapidly in her ears; her panicked breaths matched it. “Is there nothing I can do to stop this? Nothing to save us all?”

Elma used her stick to heft herself to her feet. She paused, looking down at Johanna, her expression shadowed by her cowl. “Remember one thing: No matter what I tell you, Johanna Von Arlo . . . Princess Adriana Veado Von Wilhelm . . . you will determine who has the power. Choose well.”

•  •  •

Didsbury sat on a fallen log outside the bathing cavern, elbows on knees, sword dangling at his side. Johanna could see it now, the hint of Keeper heritage that marked the faces of so many of her friends—light eyes, fair hair, and sun-kissed skin. Unlike their distant relatives, however, the Performers were always quick to flash a smile and show emotion.

He met Johanna’s eyes as she left the tunnel, and Johanna schooled her features, but it was too late. Didsbury’s bright grin faded with the last of the day’s light.

“And here I’d hoped you’d be happy to see me.” He waved to the ribbons of Johanna’s bodice, hanging loose at her waist. “May I?”

She nodded but felt strangely unhinged at his nearness. Performers weren’t shy when it came to helping one another with a quick change between acts. Didsbury’s troupe had performed with hers a half dozen times over the past two years. Johanna knew she’d helped him into a vest once or twice, and he’d laced her shoes when she’d switched from an acrobatic costume into a Storyspinner’s dress.

His fingers were sure and quick as he tied the bow, yet his hands lingered at her waist longer than necessary.

There had never been anything between Johanna and Didsbury—her father wouldn’t have allowed that—but he was a well-known flirt, quick to kiss with the merest hint of encouragement.

Johanna took a step away.

“Elma said to bring you and your . . .
friends
 . . . to the Council House when you’re all cleaned up.” There was a question in his words, but it wasn’t one Johanna even knew how to answer. And when she didn’t, Didsbury pressed.

“You’re a pretty girl, Jo. Always have been.” His tone was light. “Pretty enough to attract a duke for sure.”

“Oh stop, Didsbury.” She tried to play along, though really she didn’t feel like playing at anything. “It’s not what you think it is.”

“Really? I suppose Duke Rafael DeSilva escorts girls across the country on foot, when his state is on the brink of war, out of a sense of . . . what would you call it? Chivalry, maybe?”

“Actually, yes. He’s perfectly gallant.”
Decent, moral, noble, wonderful. And never, never, never going to be mine.
“And when we left Santiago, there weren’t any threats.”

Didsbury laughed, unaware of Johanna’s heartache. “That may be true. He is from Santiago. Those DeSilvas would bite off their own tongues to avoid offense.”

It was an old joke, and one that wasn’t completely untrue. Johanna felt an unwilling smirk tug at her mouth. Didsbury’s laugh was unburdened and infectious. It was a lifeline to an easier time, and she was tempted to snatch it, letting him reel her closer to something more comfortable and familiar.

He reached for her freshly healed hand. “I’m glad you’re home, Jo. No matter the circumstances.”

It felt good to be welcomed by someone, and she gave his fingers a squeeze in response.

“Johanna.”

Rafi’s voice was a terrible jolt of reality. She released Didsbury’s hand too quickly, guiltily.

The young duke’s face was free of the dark stubble that had dusted his chin, and she remembered its rough texture against the delicate skin of her throat. His expression, however, was as forbidding as a fortress gate.

“When you’re done here,” he said, and the gate creaked open for a moment, revealing the awful hurt that hid beyond it. His jaw clenched, and he stared at a point just beyond Johanna. “When you’re
through
, can we please move to the Council House? Apparently, Santiago is in danger, and my first duty should be to my people.”

Should be. Will be. He didn’t say it, but he might as well have. Rafi would be returning to Santiago with or without her, and that knowledge left her with a tangle of happy disappointment. He would be doing his duty, and she’d be left alone—giving her exactly what she thought she wanted.

Jacaré missed none of it, standing behind Rafi and taking in the scene. His face, as always, was unreadable, but Johanna imagined that behind all his stoicism was a malicious sense of triumph.

“Of course,” she said, ignoring her own hurts. “Didsbury, please take us to the Council House.”

“Wake up, Pira.”

A hand jostled her shoulder, making her arm throb. Without opening her eyes, Pira grabbed the wrist of the person shaking her and twisted it to the side. The bones ground and the owner gasped in surprise.

Something hard cracked Pira across the ribs, and her grip on the assailant slackened.

“What the . . . what was that?” Pira peeled open her too-dry eyes to find Críquete standing over her with a stout hammer handle.

Críquete regarded Pira for a moment before dropping the handle with a dull thump. “You might find that useful.”

“Did you have to hit me with it?” Pira said, rubbing the injured spot.

“Did you have to try to break my arm?” Críquete rolled her wrist, testing the joint.

“I’m tired of being woken up when I’ve barely fallen asleep.”

Críquete made a disgusted face. “Are you a member of the Elite Guard or not?”

“What could you possibly know about the Elite Guard?”

The woman was too young to have lived on the Santarem side of the barrier before the Mage Wars. It wasn’t that Vibora and Sapo looked hundreds of years old, but there was something about their presence that felt ancient. Críquete was older than Pira, but Keepers aged at less than half the rate of the people of Santarem, and Pira wasn’t sure if or how that affected people who shared Keeper blood.

“Probably more than you do. I had a very thorough teacher.”

With a grunt Pira pushed herself up to sitting. “I wouldn’t trust anything Vibora or Sapo told you, and nothing Barrata said. Ever.”

“Not them.” Críquete’s smile was sad. “Tex.”

Pira tried to block the memory, not wanting to hear the scream of the horses or feel the heat on her skin as the column of flame struck. Tex had been in front of her and had taken the blast straight on. It was shocking to see someone’s life extinguished so suddenly.

“Ah.” Críquete nodded, reading the look on Pira’s face. “He’s dead now. Alas, it is how it was intended to be.”

Oh Light. There it was again, crazy Seerspeak.
But she knows Tex’s name,
Pira thought.
Seers’ visions aren’t usually that specific. General, hazy details, faded landmarks, whispered voices, but names?

“How did you hear about Tex?”

“Pira, I
knew
him. I slept on the floor of his cabin on the border of Olinda. I know the color of the curtains in his windows because I sewed them. I know his children’s names and how keenly he felt their loss, even though he never showed it.” She leaned against the forge and wrapped her arms around her body, trying to keep some warmth in her too-thin frame. “I even know why he was cast out.”

Speculation about Tex’s exile was widespread. He’d murdered someone in cold blood. He’d lost his temper and beaten a recruit. He’d killed a young woman who may or may not have been his mistress. He’d publicly ridiculed the Mage Council.

None of the rumors made any sense, but Pira knew that one day he’d lived on a small piece of property not far from her and Jacaré’s cottage, and the next he was gone, banished beyond the borders of the city, forbidden from entering on pain of death. No one had enforced the threat—he’d been an honored member of their community and a legend among the Guard—but she’d seen Tex only a handful of times after his supposed banishment. To an inquisitive little girl, Tex had been a white-haired phantom who occasionally appeared at their fireside and spoke to Jacaré in hushed whispers.

“He was exiled because of me,” Críquete said, her wide eyes haunted. “He gave up his prestige and his reputation because of me.”

“Well . . . he obviously didn’t kill you. So what got him in trouble?”

Her smile was a bit vague. “He helped me commit suicide.”

If Pira could have kicked herself, she would have done it. Obviously, Críquete was insane. “See, here’s the thing: You’re not dead,” she said in her most patient voice. “You’re breathing. And that indicates the opposite of death.”

“Didn’t you wonder as you left Olinda how he knew the valleys and passes so well? Things do change after hundreds of years. Landslides, high snow seasons, fallen trees—anything could have blocked the way, and yet Tex walked you straight to Donovan’s Wall. Didn’t he?”

“He had a special affinity for knowing which direction would be the best to travel.”

“That’s true, but didn’t you ever wonder about how he always found the perfect place to stop for the night?”

“No,” Pira said with a sigh.

“Tex made a pilgrimage to the wall twice each year and camped in the same places along the way.”

“Why?”

“He’s been waiting to escort me home.” She rubbed at the scarred skin beneath her collar. “For nearly two decades he waited. I never made it back, and now I never will.”

“Who are you?” Pira asked, trying again and failing to place Críquete’s face.

“No one of importance. Except to Sapo,” she said with a shrug. “To him I’m a trophy, his first success with the collar, and a sign of his intelligence. He’s been planning to take over Santarem for a long, long time, but it took him a long, long time to get all the pieces into play.”

“Have you heard his plan? He’s going to pull down the wall.”

“Not if you intercede.”

Pira touched the collar around her own throat. “I can’t. Vibora knows every time I plan to do something. She knows I want to kill her.”

“So don’t kill her.” Críquete patted the hammer’s handle. “Incapacitate her.”

“Even if I could, then what? I can’t get this thing off,” she said, gripping the collar roughly. “She’ll torture me until I come running to her to make it stop.”

“Haven’t you learned anything about magic on this side of the wall? Anything about its nature?”

“Obviously not.”

“When the opportunity presents itself,” Críquete said, her voice a hair above a whisper, “make sure you run hard and far.”