The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (30 page)

“They would be the Nata reborn,” Jacaré said in a low voice.

Amelia made a soft noise of disgust and agreement. “You have until the full moon rises to destroy Sapo and his minions, and solidify this kingdom. If you can’t defeat him in that time, you will face the united power of all the Keepers, and
we
will eliminate Sapo, his followers, and the rest of the people on this side of the wall. Then there will be no temptation for the Keepers to face. Ever again.” She nodded, and her soldiers came to her side, releasing Jacaré. “I will leave Jacaré with a command to teach this young man everything he knows. And believe me when I say he was
once
the very best we had.”

Johanna’s mind spun, searching for a different solution, a better compromise. She looked to Rafi, expecting him to have some rebuttal.

He stood tall, staring down the Keepers’ leader. “It will be done.”

“No.” The word was torn out of Johanna’s mouth. “Rafi,
no
. Don’t you understand? You’ll die. You won’t survive.”

“If that’s what it takes to protect Santarem, then so be it.”

She grabbed his arms, forcing him to see that the words were hurting her more than the shock caused by his power. “There’s not enough time—”

The woman interrupted Johanna. “I’m sure you’ll prefer this over the alternative. We will meet at the Citadel at the full moon, and one way or another we will finish this.”

Prisoners were usually held in the township’s jail, but because of her crime and the pending attack, Brynn was confined in a barrack basement. It was a dark, dank, windowless hole—a short-term holding place for the worst sort of criminals. The murderers. The rapists. The traitors. The people who didn’t deserve a comfortable place to stay, and wouldn’t live long enough to suffer from the lack of accommodations.

Dom stood on the last stair from the bottom, out of sight of the guards he knew were waiting around the corner, and pressed two fingers to the gash that trailed from above his heart to the middle of his sternum. It hurt, the new stitches protesting their rough treatment, but he needed to feel the pain to remember his anger.

Brynn’s crimes could have far-reaching consequences,
he reminded himself.
If the estate is overrun, innocent people will die, the soldiers from Belem will likely rape and pillage, burn and destroy. Those atrocities could, in part, be laid at Brynn’s feet.

He forced down the disbelief, focusing on the sharp sting of righteous fury till his feet took the last step.

“Lord Dom.” The soldier outside the cell door gave a brief salute. “Your mother and her guard are inside.” He knocked twice before opening the lock.

“Thank you,” Dom said as he squeezed through the narrow entryway.

Brynn was curled in the cell’s farthest corner, elbows on her knees, head resting on her arms. Lady DeSilva sat in a small chair near the door, and the guard split the distance between the two women. A lantern hung from a bracket above his head, casting a small circle of light around him and shadows on Lady DeSilva’s cold expression. There was nothing sympathetic in her eyes, and the corners of her mouth were pinched.

“She won’t speak to me,” Lady DeSilva said, standing and smoothing down the wrinkles in her skirt. “I thought, perhaps, she’d offer some explanation of her actions, but she just sits there. Mute. Refusing to look at me.” Her voice cracked, and Dom saw that underneath his mother’s stony facade she, too, was struggling with Brynn’s treachery.

“And so,” she continued, carefully articulating each word. “I turn her over to you, the highest-ranking member of our household, to interrogate as you see fit.”

Instead of moving toward the door, Lady DeSilva ignored her guard’s outstretched arm and squatted next to Brynn. Dom’s mother studied the wild red curls that hung loose, then reached out with gentle fingers and raised Brynn’s chin.

“You held my hand when Camilio died.” Her lips trembled, but she continued. “I trusted you. I cared for you. I would have gladly claimed you as my own.”

At that Brynn turned her face away, pressing her forehead against the wall.

Lady DeSilva stood, regaining her perfect posture. “You are the worst sort of traitor, Brynn Cavalcanti. You manipulated the very people who would have sacrificed themselves to save you. May that thought haunt you for the rest of your very short life.”

She whisked out of the room, her guard hesitating between following her or staying with Dom.

“Go,” Dom commanded, certain he wouldn’t need anyone to protect him from Brynn.

Dom grabbed the chair, dragged it under the lantern, and sat, his toes a few inches from Brynn’s thigh. She didn’t acknowledge him, keeping her face turned to the wall.

“I don’t want to do this,” he said, fatigue instead of fury lacing his words. “So please, for both our sakes, tell me anything you may know of Belem’s plans.”

He waited, till the silence stretched thin enough to snap. Brynn said nothing. Not a sniffle, not a whimper, not a sigh.

“Tell me who your contacts are. Tell me who you were passing messages to. Tell me who recruited you.” Dom stood then, pacing anxiously behind the chair. If she didn’t say something, he’d have to find someone who could
force
answers out of her. And that, even more than the looming battle, terrified him. “Please, for the love of all that’s holy, give me an explanation.”

Nothing.

“Damn it, Brynn! Answer me.” He grabbed the back of the chair and threw it across the small space. It cracked against the door and one of the legs snapped off. She cringed but didn’t move otherwise.

Dom dropped to his knees at her side and took hold of her shoulders. “Please, say something. Give me an excuse to pardon you.
Lie
to me!”

She looked at him then, her eyes wide and tear filled. “I can’t.”

“Because you don’t know anything? Because you’re so devoted to Belem? Because . . .” His voice trailed off, and he saw something else in her face. Certainty. Acceptance. “Because you’re protecting someone.”

Jealousy bit with vicious ardor. “The butcher’s son? Renato? Are you sacrificing yourself for your
beloved
fiancé?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Renato had nothing to do with this. He’s just a nice boy who got caught in the middle.”

“And I’m sure his father will say the same when he wakes up.”

Brynn closed her eyes and shook her head, not bothering to argue. Even after all the lies and deception, he believed her in this. “If not Renato, then who? Cook isn’t involved, your aunt’s dead, your brother . . .” Dom’s voice trailed off. “Gavin was due back last week, wasn’t he?”

“Shh.” She clamped a hand over Dom’s mouth. “They’ll know.”

He yanked her hand away. “No one is down here. No one will hear us.”

“They’ll kill Gavin, if they haven’t already.”

“Belem has—” Dom stopped, realizing that something didn’t quite make sense. “Your brother sails with Guildmaster Tolapia, but they didn’t go south, Brynn. They went
north
.”

Her breath caught, and she went unnaturally still. And then he knew. He
knew
the truth.

“They were sailing to Camaçari, like they do every fall. Belem doesn’t have your brother.” His heart faltered. “Ceara does.”

“Yes,” she whispered, dropping her head back onto her knees.

“Maribelle had her attendants checking on our supplies, but it wasn’t food she should have been worrying about. It was the cannon powder. You did all of this to save your brother.”

She nodded, her hair falling over her face like a veil.

“The butcher was your contact. You worked with him and his son—”

“Renato was just a ploy. Seeing him gave me an excuse to pass messages to his father when I couldn’t get them out any other way.”

Dom wanted to feel relieved, to hang on to the naive hope that this girl had betrayed him only for her brother’s sake, but he had a sick sense that there was something missing from her story. “How long has Ceara had your brother?” When she didn’t answer, the gashes over his heart began to throb in time with his pulse. “How long, Brynn?”

“Two weeks,” she said weakly.

“Maribelle said she intercepted the first message almost a month ago, just after Belem returned to his estate.” Dom’s breath rushed out in a harsh rattle. “You were spying for Belem
before
Ceara captured your brother.” He saw her standing next to Belem’s chair, keeping the duke’s cup filled, smiling prettily. How long had it been going on? Months?
Years?

“It was never supposed to go this far. I was just sharing gossip—rumors I heard in the kitchen, who visited, who left, which nobles fought, and which snuck away together.” She twisted her fingers together. “Little things, innocuous trivia. It was never supposed to hurt anyone. He promised me enough money to join one of the upper classes—”

“So you betrayed me for money? I would have
given
you money.” He lurched to his feet, towering over her.

“I never wanted your money.”

“Then what, Brynn? What did you want?”

“You!” She stood and grabbed the front of his shirt. “I wanted to be the girl you couldn’t toss aside.”

“You already were!”

“No, Dom. I was a
challenge
. You only ever saw me as the one maid who wouldn’t give in to your charm.”

“You’re wrong. You were the only girl I imagined was my friend.” Dom broke her grip and stepped away, backing toward the door. “I see you now, Brynn. I see you for
exactly
what you are.”

•  •  •

Belem’s forward scouts had been spotted. They were approaching from the west, heading for the bridges that spanned the ravine between the two states. Dom had one final task to complete before he left for battle.

Opening the nursery door, he found Michael asleep on the floor, stretched out in front of the fire that warded off the chill brought by the seasonal rains. He looked sweet and unhindered, one arm thrown over the back of Rafi’s big red hunting hound, and the other folded under his head.

The animal snorted as Dom entered the room but didn’t shift. Perhaps it sensed how badly the child needed his rest.

“Michael,” Dom said, shaking the boy gently. “I have a special job for you.”

“For me?” The boy rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. He’d been crying since he heard about Brynn’s arrest.

“Yes.” Dom pressed the heavy key into the child’s hand and explained how it was to be used. “If something happens, if Belem’s troops get over the walls or if I . . . I don’t come back, then you do what I asked. Can you promise?”

Michael’s lips puckered, but he nodded his head solemnly. “I promise, Lord Dom.”

“Thank you. I knew I could trust you with this.”

The boy’s small fist clenched the key, and he pressed it over his heart in a salute. “I won’t fail you.”

Dom dropped to his knees and crushed the child to his chest in a tight hug.

If Santiago fell, being trapped in the barracks would be a fate worse than death. Brynn didn’t deserve
that
. At least in this one thing Dom’s conscience would be clear.

Leão was being kept in a box—a coffin, really, but without a lid.

The simple casket of wood was slightly too short for his long frame. His knees were bent, the soles of his feet pressed against the bottom. Keepers didn’t bury their dead. They were cremated; the smoke supposedly carried their souls into Mother Lua’s embrace. But it was much too easy for Pira to imagine Sapo’s intentions. Keep the body alive for as long as possible, drain Leão’s wealth of
essência
, and then drop him in a hole somewhere convenient.

Sapo forced her down beside the box and said, “Water it.”

As if Leão were a useful garden herb. Water it. Feed it.

Her fingers gripped her thighs to stop from taking a swing at someone who could blast her instantly.

“You care about him,” Sapo said, nodding to the silent servant who stalked close at his heels. The slave set a bowl of water and a strip of linen next to Pira. “You’ll see that he gets the water he needs, because even now, even defeated, you hold on to hope like I hold on to
essência
.”

She hated that he was right. That she would smooth water over Leão’s cracked lips and dribble what she could into his too-still mouth. Even as she hated it, she planned to find some broth so she could give him something more substantial than water.

Sapo leaned close, his breath moist against her ear. “I’ll tell you a little secret. You won’t need to nourish him for too much longer. My Seer has promised that should the heir gain the power—and you saw the light as well as I—she will become my slave, and there will be no Mage on either side of the wall who can stop me.”

“I wouldn’t put much faith in anything Críquete has to say. Or haven’t you learned that lesson already?”

“You love to taunt.” He ran his fingers across the top of her head, looping one around her ear. She couldn’t help but cringe away from his touch. “Remember that when all this is over, you will still be mine.”

“I’d rather die.”

“That can be arranged.”

Pira held her arms out wide, which drew a long, loud laugh from Sapo. “Perhaps if Jacaré and the rest of the Keepers had as much fire as you do, they would have defeated the Nata cleanly.”

“There’s nothing clean in war.”

“Too true.” He toed the bowl, spilling some of the water on the ground. “Keep him alive.”

“Or what? You’ll kill him?”

“No,” Sapo said, taking a few backward steps, smiling as he moved. “I’ll make you do it. Then I’ll heal him again and have you kill him again, over and over until you learn the price of disobedience.”

She held his gaze till he turned and walked deeper into their camp, then she dipped the corner of the cloth into the water and trickled it across Leão’s lips.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I really need you to . . .” She paused, wiping a speckle of blood off his chin. “I really need
you
.”

•  •  •

Críquete found Pira the next afternoon when the battle train stopped for lunch. The Seer knelt next to Pira as she tried to force water into Leão’s mouth. His bottom lip was bleeding from a crack in the middle, and despite her efforts, he was obviously dehydrated.