The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (23 page)

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.

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.

“ ‘Until one day, he saw her in the township playing a game with a group of orphans. No words were used, but the children obviously adored her, and it had nothing to do with her beautiful voice. So Wilhelm spent a few minutes—’ ”

“Rafi,” Johanna whispered, both afraid to use her voice and too saddened by her parents’—her
real
parents’—love story to speak at a louder volume. “Why are you reading this?”

He lowered the book slowly, one long finger marking the page. “Because you need to know.”

“Know what, exactly?” she asked, leaning against the boulder behind her, needing its solid support. “That my life is a series of lies, piled up in layers? That even when I think I know who I am, I don’t actually know anything?”

“That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I was trying to do.” He raked a hand through his tangled curls. “Your father loved your mother. It had nothing to do with her voice or any mystical, magical power.”

He was advancing, and Johanna had given herself nowhere to go. She wanted to turn and run from the look on his face, from the hurt and hunger in his eyes.

“I should have told you. . . .” He closed the book and tucked it into a pocket. “Yes, Johanna, when you sang at my estate, I felt drawn to you. If the table hadn’t kept us apart, I don’t know what I would have done. Kissed you? Right there in the middle of everyone?” He laughed, but the sound lacked humor. “But you stopped singing and went back to being this cold, aloof girl who took jabs at all my good intentions.

“Then I saw you with your brothers, the way you loved and protected them. And I respected you. I saw you teaching them, and struggling and working to make their lives better, and I admired you. I tromped across my state, dodged Keepers, and fought man-eating lizards. I held you in a tree as you mourned for your family, and my heart hurt for you.”

His hand cupped her chin. “I lay in a prison cell, certain I was going to die, and all I could think about was kissing you good-bye.” He was close. His body only a hand’s breadth from hers, his dark eyes drawing her in.

“Johanna.” He whispered her name, and the word spread across her skin like a fine layer of ash, coating everything it touched with an unmistakable heat. “Somewhere in all of that, I fell for you. Don’t you see that?”

Lips brushed her temple, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth. “Your voice has nothing to do with how I feel. It didn’t take magic to make me fall in love with you.”