The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (15 page)

“What was?”

“So many nobles thrust their fist toward your face, expecting you to kiss it as a sign of obeisance.” She pressed her lips across his knuckles to demonstrate. “It’s quick and cold and thoughtless.” With a gentle twist she exposed the underside of his arm to the sunlight. The skin was smoother there, clean and pale. She touched the spot lightly with the pad of her thumb. “Turning your palm upward leaves you exposed. A kiss here is given only between Performers who are willing to share that vulnerability.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

Moving slowly, gaze locked on his, Johanna raised his wrist to her mouth. It was a simple brush, a contact so subtle, but it burned through his chest, forcing his breath out with a sudden rush.

It took all of Rafi’s self-control not to tackle her into the weeds and repeat the kiss they’d shared at the inn. And the sly little quirk of her lips told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Is there . . .” He stopped and reconsidered his words. “Is there anything else I should know about Performers? I wouldn’t want to make any other missteps.”

She looked away then, studying her swollen knuckles. “Performers don’t have betrothals. There are no contracts. No dowries.”

“Oh,” he said, crestfallen. If she’d been raised without the concept of betrothals, it would be very difficult for her to accept something she never imagined for herself.

“To show interest in a Performer, you usually exchange token gifts. Flowers, favorite foods, little things. And there are, of course, actual performances.” She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “A singer, for instance, would sing her intended’s favorite ballad. Like ‘Lamento de Amantes.’ ”

“Is that . . .” He hesitated, unsure he wanted the answer to his question. “Is that why you didn’t want to sing it for me in the prison? Because you were afraid of misleading me?”

“No, Rafi. No! I’m explaining this all wrong.” She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Leão was certain you were too far gone to save, but then I told him you were my betrothed, that I cared for you the same way he cares for Pira, and he healed you.”

“You told him we were betrothed? Did you say it only to save my life? Or because you felt . . .”

“Our betrothal is complicated. It’s so much more than two people who care for each other. It’s kingdoms and dukedoms and enemies.” She brushed the spot on his wrist as she considered her next words. “I don’t want to rule. I don’t want to be afraid for my life or for my family. But that doesn’t mean I’m saying no to
you
.”

He nodded slowly, trying to keep the growing sense of hope from showing on his face. “So . . . no promises?”

“At least not yet.”

Rafi could accept and respect that, but it wouldn’t stop him from making a few promises of his own. He would see her to safety, no matter what it cost him. He’d protect Johanna, and by doing that, protect Santarem.

Then, later, once their problems had been solved, he’d try to change her mind about taking the throne.

When he felt the prick of cold steel against his back, he wondered if there would be a later.

Jacaré’s sword point pressed into Rafi’s neck, not cutting the flesh but denting it.

“Stop!” Johanna scrambled to her feet. The movement was clumsy, and it jarred her broken hand. “Put down your sword.”

Like an animal, Jacaré froze as if hearing some whisper of prey in the distance. “Say it again.”

“What?” Johanna’s eyes darted between the kneeling Rafi and the towering figure behind him.

“Tell me to put down my sword.” His gaze was intense, focused.

Rafi, on the other hand, looked one moment from detonation.

“P-put down your swor—”

Rafi ducked under the blade, spinning on his knee, and threw an elbow into Jacaré’s forearm. The Keeper’s fingers loosened, but the blade didn’t fall. Lunging forward, Rafi tried to tackle Jacaré around the knees but somehow missed.

Johanna had seen the swirl of Jacaré’s movement, sidestepping the attack with incredible speed. He lowered the blade again, pressing the point into the middle of Rafi’s back.

“That wasn’t bad,” he said as he prodded Rafi with his boot. “You’re more agile than I expected.”

There was a ring of compliment in the words, but it was negated by an overarching air of superiority. He stared down at Rafi with lowered brows, studying him intently. “You’re very dark. I doubt there’s any Keeper in your bloodline. Yet . . .”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but sheathed his sword and offered Rafi a hand up. Rafi didn’t take it, coming to stand on his own. He tried to hide it, standing straight and proud, but the attack had cost him. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead, and he held his right arm a little too closely to his side, protecting the still-healing wounds there.

“What was that all about, Jacaré?” Her good fist clenched, and Johanna wished her fingers were gripping her dagger. She’d managed to stab him once, on the night her family was killed, and right now she’d be willing to do it again. “It was quite obvious that Rafi was helping me, not hurting me.”

“A lesson,” Jacaré said, eyeing them like an unhappy taskmaster. “You both let your guard down, too busy being romantic to be sensible. We don’t know who our enemies are. We don’t know where they are. They could be a half day or half mile away. Or they could be hiding in the bushes, waiting for the opportunity to knife you in the back or shoot you full of arrows.”

He turned his attention to Rafi. “If you care for her, you must do a better job taking care of her.”

Johanna huffed. “I take care of my—”

Jacaré held up a hand, forestalling Johanna’s words. “I know you try, but right now the entire world is looking for you. You need someone to watch out for you. A lot of someones, actually.”

“Right now I don’t have a lot of
someones
, I have you two.”
Two of the world’s most obstinate, single-minded people—like sides of the same coin.
Both were tall, with lean frames and stubborn chins. Though she realized as she looked at them side by side that she was afraid of one and afraid
for
the other.

Though Jacaré looked young, his experience showed in the down-turned corners of his mouth and the wariness in his eyes. Rafi’s face was animated, full of undisguised anger.

She’d feared for a while, when he’d been so close to death, that the flame of his life was fading before her eyes. Johanna knew that if Rafi’s life was snuffed out, she’d never be the same. She’d changed in the last year, even more so in the last two months. Scars of loss marred her heart; those would fade over time, but Rafi was like a brand. He’d seared his way into her soul.

Her father would have laughed, asking her if she’d learned nothing from the tales they told, about the fallacy and inconsistency of first love.

Yet Father’s final wish was for our family to go to Santiago. Was that because of the betrothal? Did he expect me to fall for Rafi?

No matter her father’s intentions, no matter the whims of fate or twists of destiny or power of Keepers, her feelings for Rafi had grown. He was good and honorable, and always put other people’s needs before his own . . . even to his own detriment.

“What was your plan?” Jacaré asked, shading his eyes from the sunlight and facing north.

“To get away from Camaçari.” Rafi looped the pouch he’d made with another portion of Johanna’s skirt over his shoulder and slung the short sword through it.

Jacaré raised an eyebrow. “And then?”

“We’d planned to go to the Great Maringa Library and research Keeper lore,” Johanna said, and felt awash with gratitude that they wouldn’t have to make the journey. “Without your help, we had no idea what our next steps should be. We had no other options.”

“You were willing to go into your enemy’s lair to save Santarem?”

It could have been Johanna’s imagination, but she thought she detected a grudging note of respect in his voice. “If it had to be done, we were going to do it.”

“I suggest we go to Performers’ Camp instead,” Jacaré said. “They’ll welcome you home and provide us with some supplies, and the location will give us ready access to the wall.”

Home.
The word was almost thrilling.
Someplace safe. Someplace normal.
The feeling spluttered. “That will be leading the danger directly to them. I can’t do that.”

There was no amusement in Jacaré’s smile. “You have no other option.”

Dom sat on the windowsill in Lady DeSilva’s office, one foot planted on the floor, the other tapping against the baseboard. He tried to stop after his mother tossed him a furiously irritated glance, but his knee would not quit bouncing as he listened to the information Maribelle relayed regarding his brother and Camaçari.

“This can’t be right,” Lady DeSilva said for perhaps the third time. “May I see your correspondence with your source?”

“You know I can’t share it with you. I won’t do anything that will endanger the few people who are loyal to me.” Maribelle folded and unfolded her hands in her lap, more nervous now than Dom had ever seen her. “I’m sure you, of all people, would understand.”

“What makes you think so?” Lady DeSilva’s voice had a keen edge.

Maribelle tilted her head, not missing the sharpness in the sentence. “Every noblewoman needs a network of informants. You wouldn’t strip me of mine.”

“I’d strip you of everything, including your shift, if it meant getting the information I need to find my son and protect our state.”

Dom’s leg froze. He’d made a lot of mischief; a few times he’d been in real trouble with real consequences. Usually when he hadn’t considered the results of his decisions. His mother’s tone was the one that meant a punishment was going to be delivered.

“I understand your position, my lady.”

But Dom was fairly certain Maribelle didn’t. Lady DeSilva did not make idle threats. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “Mother, perhaps we should thank Maribelle for the information and excuse her to join her ladies?”

Lady DeSilva drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, eyes narrowed slightly in Maribelle’s direction.

There was some sort of communication happening between the women, neither of them moving or speaking, staring at the other, their faces revealing nothing besides cool calculation.

Finally his mother spoke. “Thank you, Maribelle.”

“Of course, my lady.” Maribelle stood, sensing her dismissal. She offered a brief nod to the duchess, not quite a curtsy but a gesture of esteem between adversaries.

She made it almost to the door before Lady DeSilva stopped her.

“One thing.”

Turning slowly, an inmate whose reprieve has been rescinded, Maribelle faced the duchess. “Yes, my lady?”

“If you happen to hear more information—about my son, Camaçari, Ceara, or anything else that will affect Santiago—you
will
share it with me.” The ultimatum hung unspoken.

“I’ll share what I know about Rafi, Camaçari, Ceara, and things that affect Santiago.”

And not one word otherwise.
Her specificity made Dom’s ears burn, as did the smile she gave him as she walked out the door.

Neither Dom nor his mother said a word till the footfalls had faded away completely and silence had filled the room.

Lady DeSilva’s gaze was distant, focused to the north, where her eldest child had last been seen. Her fingers resumed their drumming, and Dom stood, waiting for her to voice her plan.

“I have a spy placed high in Ceara’s household, and I’ve heard nothing—
nothing
—about an alliance with Belem.” She opened one of the large ledgers on her desk and turned to the center of the book. All the pages looked identical to Dom’s eyes, but she ran her fingers over what appeared to be a bill of sale, lips moving with words that weren’t on the page. “He said Ceara received a huge shipment of high-quality wine from Belem, but I didn’t think . . .”

Dom’s mind was less concerned with the spies than with the potential of Belem attacking from the north. It would mean a long march for Belem’s troops, a longer supply line, and dividing his army, but it would also mean Santiago was hemmed in in every direction except the south.

“I know you met Maribelle at the Keeper’s Fountain.”

The words were not at all what he had expected his mother to say. “Excuse me?”

“I have informants
almost
everywhere, Dom.” Her tone was bitter; her anger at Belem and Ceara dribbling into her voice.

“You have me watched?”

“You left a work site in the middle of the day and met the daughter of a powerful duke at a community fountain. Did you honestly think that your actions would go unnoticed?”

“Maybe it was stupid of me, but yes. I thought we were hidden from view.”

She shook her head, and her laugh was cold. “I’m afraid not. Rumors of you half-naked in public will always reach my ears.”

“Mother—”

“I don’t care.” She raised a hand, as if warding off his explanations. “And I certainly don’t want to know any more.”

“Mother.” Dom shifted, uncomfortable.
Nothing happened. Not really. It could have. It would have been so easy, but for once I was actually thinking ahead. Well . . . somewhat.

For some reason he couldn’t explain, he didn’t want Brynn to know. She used to tease him about all the hearts he’d broken, and promised that at some point all his “conquests” would return to haunt him.

Like right now, for instance.

“Twist this to our advantage,” Lady DeSilva continued. “Maribelle is sharing information with us, information we’ll need until I can get verification from my contact in Camaçari.”

“I don’t think I’m the best person—”

“Don’t be obtuse. Maribelle brought this information to
you
, not me. There’s a reason, but I’m not certain if it’s part of her end game or something more simple. . . . She could fancy you, I suppose.”

“Many ladies do,” Dom said as he stepped away from the window, using humor to hide the crumb of hurt. He brushed it off, as he preferred to do with emotions that made him uncomfortable.