The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (34 page)

“Thank you.” Dom didn’t rise to the bait, but whirled his blade casually, a trick Johanna had taught him, to draw an enemy’s focus. “I suppose I should take that as a compliment.” Then he spun the dagger around his finger, hoping it disguised his desperate need to hear about Rafi.

“Blood poisoning.” Ceara wrinkled his nose as if he could smell the rank wounds that would result in such a condition. “He refused my assistance. You DeSilvas have such a problem with pride. You were aware of that, no?”

Dom raised his eyebrows at Belem’s naked posterior as the dimpled duke scrambled to his weapon stash. “It’s difficult to be humble when no one else can compare.”

“Why don’t you stop playing with your little knife and prove it.” Ceara stepped over Gesias’s body, swinging his sword in a full arc. Dom stepped into the blow and the blades clashed. Metal screeched as Ceara’s blade slid down and caught on the hilt of Dom’s weapon. With leverage in Ceara’s favor, Dom kicked out, catching Ceara in the groin.

“Guards!” Belem screamed as he located a sword. “Intruder! Intruder!” He moved to block the door, eyes darting between the still-hunched Ceara and the opening beyond.

“I think this is where the DeSilva line ends.” Ceara straightened slowly, all his arrogance replaced by cold fury. “I’ll share the details of your death with your mother right before I break her neck.”

“Good luck with that,” Dom said as he spun the dagger again. “You’re going to need it.” He looked bored, idly whipping his knife around, but his palms were damp and sweat prickled along his ribs. He needed to get out of this tent alive, to get back to the estate and stand with his people.

Shouts were raised outside the tent; soldiers were approaching.

“Maybe I’ll take a sampling of all Santiago has to offer.” Ceara raised his sword to engage, and Dom flipped the dagger so it landed blade-first in his palm. “I’ll start with that little maid—”

Ceara’s words cut off as Dom’s blade thudded into his stomach. He looked down, conceit melting into a look of surprise. His blade fell from his hand and he tumbled after it.

A soldier stepped into the tent at Belem’s side and raised a crossbow. Dom dove to the ground, sheltering behind the bed as the bolt flew over his head. His breath came in erratic pants as he drew his small knife, sliced a gap in the tent wall, and scrambled through the hole. A burning line cut across his hip, but he rolled forward, sliding in leaf debris.

The camp had come alive, men dashing from their tents, voices raised, and then a bugle sounded from the south side. The soldier who followed Dom out straightened and looked toward the sound. A second bugle, and then a new call. A sound Dom would have recognized anywhere—the deep ring of a shell horn.

The soldier stared down at Dom, raised his weapon, and then disappeared as a cannonball blasted into his legs.

Dom froze, watching as the ball bounced, pummeling through the tent wall, and then exploded. Shouts turned to screams of terror, men rushed toward the tent and away, a second volley of cannonballs burst through the camp, and Dom lay on the ground, unable to move.

He blinked once, twice. His heart kicked in his chest and his brain registered what it was hearing.

Shell horns. Cannons. Surprise attack.

Uncle Fernando.

Ignoring the burn across his side, Dom scrambled to a crouch, took a half dozen stumbling steps, and fell headfirst into the well.

An army had been sighted; a battalion of Inimigo’s soldiers, sixteen wagons carrying collared slaves and supplies, and two carriages, all moving east from Cruzamento.

“We’re outnumbered,” whispered James. The young Firesword had been quiet since learning of Julia’s death, but he was taking the role as the captain of their small squad seriously.

“And overmatched,” Yara added. “We’ve got one hundred people with no fighting experience and no magic.”

“We have Rafi.” Johanna met Rafi’s stare across the fire. He looked so young and vulnerable, the perfect hero contemplating his last night in Santarem. Perhaps his last night ever. Her heart thudded a broken rhythm in her chest, limping along with a dozen wounds. She pressed the heel of her hand against the sore spot, as if she could ease the ache.

Rafi’s expression shifted to concern and he mimicked her pose. The action made her pain ten times worse. She closed her eyes to break the connection, to blot out the worry on his face, and tried to listen to what Jacaré had to say.

“The odds aren’t as bad as they seem,” he explained. He took a stick and drew the road ahead of them, adding some circles to either side of the trail. “To the south is the village of Vicente, and off the road are some open-faced copper mines. They’re abandoned, falling into ruin, but we can use them like foxholes, hiding and popping out when they least expect us.”

He laid out his plan, and Johanna heard the words, but they washed over her without sinking in. She felt separated from the group, a distant observer, and no matter how she tried to engage herself in conversation, her mind kept dashing to other places.

Rafi sat next to Jacaré—they’d been plotting as they traveled. Throughout the journey the clouds had swirled, the wind had picked up, a boulder had rolled across their path. Rafi had been practicing, and while Johanna doubted Jacaré was the kind of teacher to offer much praise, his mouth had looked a little less angry as the day passed.

Unlike the rest of the group, and despite using magic all day, Rafi seemed energetic and refreshed. His long fingers drew lines that represented their defenses and offensive tactics. She nodded at all the right places, but her thoughts drifted to something else: Joshua and Michael.

They’d always been mischievous and usually silly, but a few times they’d come close to real trouble. Like when they’d played with the Skylighters’ powders and tried to sneak into the animal cages in Performers’ Camp. Her own troupe didn’t have animals. Her father didn’t trust that the big cats and monkeys wouldn’t follow their natural instincts—he’d seen too many accidents during his time—but maybe the best animal trainers among the Performers were like Barrata to some small degree. Their gift with animals was really some unconscious use of their
essência
.

Like her own gift with Storyspinning.

She got up and left the fireside in the middle of the conversation, her thoughts spinning like a wagon wheel in a mudhole.

Fireswords were one obvious weapon. Jacaré had already talked to the Skylighters about ways to use their powders to blow things up. The animal trainers’ mountain cats and jaguars would be messy but were a possibility. What could the rest of them do?

Too bad I can’t talk our enemies into submission.
She almost laughed at the thought.
Or maybe I could distract them. I’m good at that. I . . .

She hurried back to the campfire. “I have an idea,” she said to Jacaré, her voice breathless. “A way for Storyspinners to help in the foxholes.”

Battles were supposed to be fought on wide-open plains, with careful lines of infantry and cavalry. Flags were raised, representatives from each group rode to the center of the field, and a last effort to broker peace was made. Or final insults were hurled.

There should have been shouts rising from both armies as the men rallied themselves into a frenzy. He should have known the face of his enemy, been able to identify where the leader stood behind his lines, and sent a specially trained group of men to flank his adversary’s position.

Instead Rafi squatted in an open pit mine with twenty soberly dressed Performers. The mine was like a well, a gaping vertical shaft with a bottom far enough from the surface to be cloaked in utter darkness. The terraced walls were pockmarked at irregular intervals where horizontal tunnels connected one mine to another.

Johanna had disappeared into one of those holes a few moments before dawn with half a dozen Storyspinners and a handful of Fireswords at her back. He’d wished for a chance to hold her close before her plans were set into motion.

He swallowed against the sudden dryness of his throat.
That’s all right,
he tried to convince himself.
I will see her again, and hold her close, and tell her—

A whistle sounded, the note high and shrill, mimicking the call of the red-bellied macaw. The enemy had been sighted.

“Lord DeSilva?” The Performer at his side, a small man named Ursu, who had the largest capacity for
essência
, touched Rafi’s arm softly. “That’s the signal.”

“Thank you.” Rafi reached for the power and it fell easily into his hands. In his mind’s eye he saw it as a glowing rope that he could manipulate into any shape. He wove the power around himself, forming a bright barrier of electricity beyond his position. It stretched across the road in a crescent shape, encompassing the two nearest mines and their hidden occupants.

Pressing his hands against the gritty gray-black stone around the top of the mine, Rafi lifted himself over the edge. Alone, a glowing figure on the horizon, he walked to the center of the road and held out both arms.

It was time to put a face to the enemy.

Pira had been given the “privilege” of riding inside the carriage with Sapo and Vibora. She sat on the bench across from the Keepers, eyes half closed, head resting on the joint between the walls.

Her captors sat side by side throughout the journey from Cruzamento, but Vibora turned her entire body toward the window, watching the passing terrain. Sapo alternated between looking out his window and staring at Vibora’s back in a way that made Pira’s skin crawl.

Soldiers rode in half-armor—breastplates, helmets, and gauntlets—as if waiting for an ambush over each of the hills or in the scrubby forest that patched the landscape. Pira hoped whoever stood against them knew that these men weren’t the worst things they would be facing.

A captain, Pira guessed by his plumed helmet, rode up and trotted alongside the carriage window. “Sir? I think we’ve found them, or they’ve found us. There’s one man standing on top of the next rise, blocking the trail.”

“One man?” Sapo said as he pushed open the door, with Vibora close behind him. Pira followed tight on their heels. She hadn’t been commanded to stay, so she didn’t. Sapo called the line to a halt and took the spyglass the captain offered.

“Who is it?” Vibora asked, stepping close to Sapo. Pira hung back a few steps, as a good servant might, out of the way but not out of earshot.

“I don’t know, but he’s the one who absorbed the
essência
.” A hint of worry entered Sapo’s voice. “He’s not one of us, that’s for sure.”

Vibora took the glass out of Sapo’s hand. “That’s Rafael DeSilva. Interesting that he ended up with the power.”

“It doesn’t matter. He can’t possibly know how to use it.” Sapo yelled down the line for Críquete. The waiflike Keeper approached, her shawl, as always, pulled tightly around her. “This boy, what have you seen that involves him?”

“Many things.” She jolted, her face twitching as Sapo shocked her through the collar.

“Specifics, Críquete.”

She exhaled; her eyes drifted over Vibora and Pira before focusing on Sapo once again. “He’ll call on power from both the Earth and the Sky, but this battle will be a thing from his nightmares.”

Sapo gave a deep, vibrant laugh and pulled Vibora close. “His nightmares will be our dreams come true.” He kissed her sloppily on the lips, though she didn’t return his affection with much ardor. “Chill a bottle of wine, Críquete. I expect this battle to be quick.”

He raised one hand as if to stroke Vibora’s cheek, but opened his fingers with a sudden flick. Vines shot up from the ground. Thick, twisting creepers, bright green and studded with thorns, snapped around Vibora’s legs.

With a scream she fell backward and tried to scramble away, but her feet were hobbled by the vines. “What are you doing?”

Pira felt her
essência
drain as Vibora used it to counter Sapo’s attack. Flames licked up the vines, but they didn’t burn. Then ice crystals glazed the dirt around Vibora’s feet and whitened the stalk of the growing plant. With a snap of Sapo’s fingers, a flash of heat melted the ice, turning the dirt into a puddle of mud.

Vibora couldn’t compete; she didn’t have control of enough slaves or
essência
. Vines wrapped around her hips and spread across her ribs, forcing her upright, encasing her like a bug in its shell.

The air around Vibora crackled with a sudden burst of purple-red light—a lightning blast that Sapo absorbed before it could hit him. Leaves exploded from the vines, twining around Vibora’s head in a helmet of greenery.

“This,” Sapo said, pointing toward the hill, “is the result of your failure.” Without a word, a slave from one of the nearest wagons climbed over the side and stumbled to his master, dragging a bag that clinked as it hit the ground.

“If you had only found the princess, if Barrata had been able to accomplish
one
task . . .”

“No, Sapo, please.” Vibora flailed against her living cage, blood splattering as she tore her skin on the extended thorns.

Sapo drew out the moment, opening the bag’s mouth, sorting through its contents slowly, ignoring Vibora’s pleas. Finally he selected one shining collar and held it up to the sunlight. The perfectly smooth surface reflected the light like a well-polished blade.

A blade would be better,
Pira thought, struggling to stay on her feet.
Dead would be better than being under Sapo’s inflluence.

For as awful as Vibora was, Sapo was infinitely worse. Pira stumbled closer, for the moment under her own control, fueled only by pity and fear. Was there anything she could do to help?

A small hand fell on her arm. “No,” Críquete whispered. “Not yet.”

The seer must have read the disbelief on Pira’s face, because she added, “Your chance will come, but this is not it.”

Sapo spun the collar around his finger a few times, watching Vibora’s frantic struggles.