The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (13 page)

The pattern of lights sent a code that only another member of the Elite Guard would recognize, telling a distant crew to pursue. It was simple and brilliant, but obeying it meant that Jacaré would be leaving his companion behind to face this Mage alone—a Mage with unknown ability and power.

It was the right thing to do to ensure Johanna’s survival, but it was a wicked slice. Tex had predicted that this mission would result in casualties, but neither of them had anticipated losing the entire crew.

Except me. Always the lone survivor.

The pattern of lights flickered faster, urgency in the flash. Pride filled Jacaré’s chest at the boy’s bravery, but it was tempered with grief. He hesitated for one long moment, questioning himself, his decisions, the value of many lives over the life of one so valiant and true.

He pressed his closed fist to his heart and raised it in Leão’s direction in a farewell salute, then dove through the hole in the wall.

With a crackle that shook the trees in the forest, the shield disintegrated and blasts of molten fire blazed against the prison’s remaining walls.

Jacaré took the opening Leão provided, and sprinted past with the speed only an Elite Guard could muster. They shared a glance, a moment of unspoken agreement. Jacaré would follow after Johanna, and Leão would do whatever it took to stop their pursuers.

Leão’s throat was dry from breathing so hard for so long. He was winded, worn down, but he pushed on to give his friends a chance to escape. There was no room for trepidation in this turmoil, only action and reaction. Attack, defend, or die.

After a count of one hundred, giving Jacaré ample time to get into the jungle, Leão tore down the city’s side wall. The barbicans fell like a giant’s pile of kindling, making that exit impassable.

“You’re going to make this difficult, are you?” It was that same high-pitched voice, magically magnified so that Leão could hear it over the melee. “You’re welcome to try.”

Instead of responding, Leão sent a blast of air to slam shut the garrison complex’s gate and cut off the other Keeper’s last avenue of retreat.

Six lightning bolts hit his shield at once, and the earth cracked beneath his feet. If he wanted to live, he couldn’t make many mistakes. Before his shield could unravel, he leaped to the side, sprinting for cover behind the still-standing walls of the prison.

Before he got far, a rope of liquid fire smashed into the place where he’d been standing. He dove, feeling his skin tighten from the scalding heat, and rolled until he fetched up against the prison’s stone foundation.

He was shaky, inside and out. His arms quaked, and exhaustion cramped the space between his shoulder blades, but his mind was racing through and disregarding possible scenarios.

I could try this. . . . No, this . . .

“I know you’re out there,” came a singsong shout. “It won’t take me long to find you!”

Leão worked his way behind the prison, using the remaining walls as a barrier, drawing closer to his attacker’s position. A wind tunnel appeared a dozen feet ahead, tearing at his clothes and sucking him toward the whipping gusts. He grasped for Air, desperate to establish a shield that would protect him, but the element wouldn’t stabilize.

This!
 His mind latched on to one of Pira’s tricks and pulled on the metal flecks in the fallen pile of stone. A portion of the prison wall sailed toward him, creating a head-high barrier, a perfect crescent of protection. The pieces fit together seamlessly, cocooning around him in a barrier shorter than he was tall.

He ducked down and hoped the guards and escapees would follow his lead and find someplace safe to hide. A few dashed inside his alcove, but too many others were struck by battle lust, trapped in the moment of kill or be killed.

And they would die, struck down by lightning or burned by flame. Nothing held out for long against the elements.

Leão did his best to protect them, narrowing his blasts of fire to long, vaporizing ropes, but the pinpointed attacks were sapping his strength, and his opponent wasn’t making the same effort to avoid casualties. Swaths of flame burned the field and anything that stood in their way.

Pressing his back to the wall, he took a deep breath, trying to steady his breathing and slow the pounding of his heart. He had enough energy for one final assault, but it needed to be brilliant. It needed to be unexpected.

“This has been entertaining. Really it has, but I’ve got princesses to catch, people to kill, pastries to eat.” The Keeper gave a little giggle.

Then there was a new sound, the tinkle of glass shattering against the stone. The man nearest Leão screamed, clutching the icicle that had stabbed through his stomach. Thousands of shards fell from the sky; some were as slim and pointed as stilettos and others were bludgeons, knocking men from their feet. One sliced a frozen line down the side of Leão’s face. The chill of the ice and the heat of his own blood redirected his thoughts to something else, something totally inappropriate for the moment.

Pira. She was also hot and cold, lethal and beautiful. She could cut you with her words or cudgel you with her fists. And she was the perfect inspiration Leão needed.

Even though he was close to blackout, his energy tapped, a small smile played at his lips.

He remembered one particular day when he was a greenling—a trainee for the Elite Guard—and couldn’t seem to stay on his feet. Mud had slipped him up when he tried to use a bow, engage a peer, and even mount his horse. Pira had used her Earth affinity to make the ground slide under his feet. She’d done it as a simple prank meant to test his mettle, but today it would be a weapon.

Leão dug his fingers into the dirt and held his other hand aloft. With the last dregs of his power, he tore a hole in the earth beneath the Keeper’s feet and slammed a fireball over the top like a burning lid.

Then he, too, fell . . . unconscious.

A bell rang, a steady gong filling Leão’s skull with an endless reverberation. He raised a hand and pressed it to his ear, but the sound didn’t fade. The ringing was
inside
his head, and it wouldn’t stop.

He blinked a few times, hoping to regain his vision, and slowly colors replaced the blackness. Fleshy, dancing shapes, edged with lines too dark to be shadows, appeared first. The blurring image became two distinct shapes before dissolving into one . . .

Arm.

It was draped lifelessly over a stone wall, and its owner was missing. Or more accurately, its owner was missing an arm.

Struggling to his feet, legs as wobbly as a newborn fawn’s, Leão pushed himself to stand against the stacked stones. Once he was upright, once he saw what was beyond, his knees buckled and only his grip on the top kept him from toppling again.

Oh Light. Did I do this?

He couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to remember. And then, like the opening of a door onto a room of memory, he did.

The scorch marks on the ground were wide as a carriage but round, with narrowed tails pointing in his direction—arrows identifying the culprit of the destruction. In the center of the field, not far from where the gates stood, a crater smoked. Bits and pieces of
people
littered the ground like overlarge confetti, with streamers of blood stretching from each portion.

The man nearest Leão, blessedly intact, began to stir. A whimper rose from his lips, then cut off as if it had never existed. He rolled to his side, covering his ears. Perhaps also hearing the gong in his head.

At least the movement was a good sign. At least one person had survived.

Despite his horror at the wreckage he’d caused, Leão couldn’t stay. He’d exposed his gifts; there was no disguising what had occurred. Rumors of Keepers, living magic-users, would soon have people searching for anyone that met his description.

One step, then another, careful to avoid the bodies of the dead—and a handful of living—he stumbled past his burning crater. The hole was deep, but he could see crumpled bodies at the bottom. Rats were already sniffing along the edge, looking for a meal from the corpses.

It was a sick sort of relief, knowing that the Keeper wouldn’t be able to follow Jacaré, Johanna, and Rafi. They could proceed to the wall unhindered and reestablish the barrier.

It also meant that this particular threat to Johanna had been eliminated, but there were other hazards out there. The Keeper who’d captured Pira had gone west. A soldier would follow up on a perceived danger and eliminate it. It was his duty.

At least that’s what he convinced himself.

The gates to the prison were open wide enough for Leão to squeeze through. Weary and exhausted, he didn’t wonder who had pried them open.

The palisade was complete; the cellars of the estate were stocked. The townspeople had been drilling on proper procedures to get inside the estate’s walls in a reasonable amount of time—too slow, in Dom’s opinion.

There was only one thing left to do, and it wasn’t something in his father’s plans. It was something Dom had discovered while studying the maps of the roads that led into and out of Santiago. He wasn’t sure if it was going to work, and with a spy around (and because he didn’t want to look like a fool if his idea failed), he didn’t mention his plan to anyone.

Instead he gave all the villagers a day off and told Cook to pack him a lunch. He invited Michael along, thinking the ride would tire the boy out and give Brynn a break, but his plan backfired.

“Ask Brynn to come with us,” Michael demanded, his cherubic face set in a pout. “I don’t want to go without her.”

Dom sat at the downsized table in the nursery that had been aired out for Michael’s use. Some of the toys were too young, even for him, but the table and its battalion of hand-carved soldiers had become one of the child’s favorite sources of entertainment.

Brynn sat in the rocking chair, stitching a patch on another pair of Michael’s pants.

“I’m sure she has other things to do,” Dom said, trying to draw her gaze, but she refused to acknowledge him. “Like fixing your clothes, which, by the way, you need to stop destroying.”

He didn’t have a clear view of Brynn’s face, but from the way she jammed the needle through the material, he guessed she was upset. Likely at him. For something he couldn’t name.

“She’s not
fixing
them. She’s adding pockets like yours.” The boy reached into the pocket on Dom’s right knee and pulled out a wrapped
doce de leite
. “And she wants to come. Don’t you, Brynn?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to invite myself along, Michael.” She stayed intent on her work, snapping off the thread with her teeth and holding the pants out in front of her. “I’m sure Lord Dom’s right. I’ve got plenty of things to clean, and sew, and straighten up.”

Dom held out his hands, palms up, but Michael didn’t get the point.

“I know she wants to go.” Michael left the table and stood next to the rocking chair. “You want to go, don’t you, Brynn?”

“Well . . .”

Tired of fighting, Dom groaned. “Do you want to come, Brynn? It’ll be a long ride, but if it sounds like a pleasant afternoon, you’re welcome to join us.”

Michael beamed; Brynn sighed.

“If you insist, my lord.”

I didn’t insist. Michael did, but if it will get us out of the house before dark, then fine.

The ride
was
long, and Michael enjoyed the first hour, talking and telling tales like a tiny Storyspinner. Once the second hour began to stretch, his stories turned into complaints and then into whining.

When they finally reached their destination, Dom led the horses down a steep incline to drink from the bottom of a ravine. The drop from the twisting trail was at least fourteen feet, and the path to the bottom was barely wide enough to allow one horse to pass. There were two bridges that crossed the ravine: one closer to the marsh that marked the boundary between Santiago and Belem, and another where the flat meadowlands turned into a scrub forest.

By the time Dom returned from watering the horses, Brynn had laid out lunch on a trampled-down patch of weeds. Michael was curled up on one corner of the blanket, well on his way to sleep.

“I knew it would wear him out, but I didn’t think it would be this bad,” Dom said as he sat across from Brynn.

“He doesn’t sleep well. He’s up half the night every night afraid to go to sleep, and once I can finally calm him down, he doesn’t rest.” She passed Dom a loaf of bread to slice, worry bowing her mouth. “He’s troubled by nightmares.”

Dom studied Brynn and noticed that she, too, looked worn. “And how are you, Brynn? Are you getting enough rest?”

Her green eyes flashed, her cheeks burned pink. “How I sleep is none of your business.”

The sharp words, the cold disdain, the odd tension between them, made Dom edgy. “Brynn . . . what’s wrong? You’ve been so angry lately.”

“I’ve been worried a bit for my brother. That’s all.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Gavin’s sailing with Guildmaster Tolapia for the autumn spawn. You know how treacherous the northern sea can be this time of year.”

“
Is
that all?”

She gave a quick nod and busied herself with the lunch.

“I just . . . I feel like something is wrong between us,” Dom said, struggling to put words to the awkwardness. “You and I . . . we . . .”
Have always been friends. I’ve always felt close to you, and lately I’ve wanted to be close to you.

With a raised brow she waited, not saying anything.

“You’ve always been my favorite,” he said eventually.

“Your favorite
what
?”

There it was again, the bite in her voice that he didn’t understand. Dom wasn’t used to having people upset with him. For anything. Sometimes girls pouted to draw his attention, but Brynn wasn’t that kind of girl.

She picked the seeds off her bread crust and tossed them into the grass. Her red curls, escaping her bun as always, gleamed against her alabaster skin. The spray of freckles across her nose and cheekbones nearly disappeared under her blush.