The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (37 page)

Sapo’s attacks were slower, almost unwieldy in their power, but each hit that landed on Jacaré’s shield nearly knocked him to the ground. It was only a matter of time before his shield vanished and Sapo’s blows landed on Jacaré’s unprotected flesh.

He managed to dodge a blast of fire by falling to his knees. The ball hit above his head, making the barrier shudder.

Sapo growled at his failure, and then sudden surprise crossed his face. He dropped one hand from his sword’s hilt and pressed it against his bicep. Jacaré hadn’t scored a hit, but Sapo reeled as if wounded.

The shield protecting the camp flickered like summer lightning, then dissolved, and the small barricade that kept their fight separate from the rest of the camp winked out. Cannon fire rang in the distance, and a ball bounced through the camp before smashing into the wagon Sapo and Vibora had been sitting in. Soldiers scattered, others crouched, unsure if they should be more afraid of the cannon fire or the Keeper who commanded them.

“What is Belem doing?” Sapo looked behind him, confusion shifting to anger.

Jacaré pressed the small advantage, throwing himself into a forward roll, coming to one knee at Sapo’s side, and slashing diagonally. The blade hissed across the invisible wall that protected Sapo’s body. He stumbled off balance and Jacaré followed. His second cut would have amputated Sapo’s arm, but only the barest edge of Jacaré’s sword made contact.

They both looked at the line of blood that marred the sleeve of Sapo’s shirt.

“Congratulations,” Sapo said, eyeing the spreading stain with a grin. “You’ve scored first blood. Enjoy that small victory.”

A sizzling heat bit into Jacaré’s back. A dagger skipped off his shoulder blade and sank into the muscle below. He expected to see a man looming behind him with his sword positioned to run him through. Instead there was a surprised soldier squatting several feet away, pawing at his empty belt.

“Metal affinity.” Sapo took slow, deliberate steps toward Jacaré, the tip of his sword dragging across the ground. “I have learned a few things since the academy.”

Jacaré coughed, and blood splattered across his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and struggled to his feet.

“Surrender, Jacaré.”

“Never.”

Sapo raised his hand, and Jacaré fumbled to raise his shield. It was the first defensive skill he’d ever learned, but it melted away like dew on a hot morning. His power was spent, his energy with it. He wavered, dizziness making balance difficult. Two stumbling steps backward brought him to Vibora’s corpse. If he was going to die, he was going to do it at her side.

The men ringing Sapo and Jacaré broke formation, retreating for cover as another cannon shell exploded close by. A hole appeared in their ranks, revealing a clear path through camp.

It was no escape for Jacaré. He wouldn’t run from Sapo and he wouldn’t leave Vibora behind. Not again.

“Lay down your weapon.”

Jacaré shook his head, ignoring the coppery taste in the back of his throat and the fact that he couldn’t lift his arm. “Take it from me.”

With a sigh, Sapo stepped closer. “If I must.” He raised his sword over his head, but the weapon flew from his hands.

“What?” Sapo looked at his empty palms, then turned to see where his blade had gone.

And stepped directly into Pira’s blow.

With a surge of pride and relief, Jacaré watched as his sister cracked Sapo across the face with a short staff of wood. The leader of the Nata fell to his knees, and Pira smashed him in the side of the head, spittle flying from his mouth.

Flame shot from Sapo’s fingertips, but it rebounded on him in a cloud of steam. He screamed, raising his arms to protect his face. A hole in the ground opened under his feet, sucking him into a muddy morass.

Jacaré’s thoughts were disconnected; he couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing. Pira was collared, but she wasn’t responding to Sapo’s attempts to control her. And she didn’t have affinity for Water.
How . . .

Leão, alive and whole, stepped into the circle. A red mark ringed his neck, and his cheeks were hollow, but he held Sapo’s sword with a certain grip.

“Today,” Leão said, grabbing a fistful of Sapo’s hair. “Justice outweighs mercy.”

Sapo’s scream cut off as the blade dropped across his neck.

Rafi sat at the center of a web of bodies. He’d called all the surviving Performers close; they shared their
essência
, but their mutual strength was fading. Exhausted and mentally bruised, Rafi did his best to protect the survivors by shrinking the shield blocking the road.

“Lord Rafi!” the lookout shouted. “Sapo’s troops are running.”

“Is it a trick?” Rafi asked, afraid to move and break the tentative hold he still had on the power.

“No, sir! They’ve turned directly west, heading straight toward Maringa.”

“What are Belem’s troops doing?” Rafi asked, unsure what it meant that his enemy had come to his rescue.

“Most are pursuing, but there’s a group of ten or so riding this way.”

“Friend or foe?” Rafi asked, unwilling to hope.

“Sir . . .” The apprentice Firesword hesitated, lowering the spyglass. “The approaching group. They’ve dropped Belem’s banner. They’re raising yours.”

If this was some trick, if Belem was here to deal the final blow . . .

Before Rafi made a move, he looked to Ursu and Yara, the two Performers closest to him. Deep shadows marred their eyes, and Yara’s hand quaked where it rested on Rafi’s back. They both nodded.

Rafi let the shield fall. The sudden release was an astounding relief. He hurried to his feet and fumbled for the sword provided for him by the Performers. The small band followed, ready for an attack, and unwilling to admit they were probably too worn out to defend against one.

A black horse with a white blaze on its nose cantered at the center of the approaching men. The rider took off his helmet, shaking out black hair not quite as curly as Rafi’s.

“That’s my brother,” Rafi said in awe, dropping his weapon to the ground.

Breaker trotted forward, the line of guards and standard-bearers falling back.

A cocky smile creased Dom’s face as he leaped out of the horse’s saddle, but there was something cautious behind the bravado. “No one expected
me
to save the day, probably you least of all.”

“Santiago’s safe?” Rafi asked, the words rushing out of his mouth.

“It is. We defeated Belem’s troops at the estate.” Dom paused for a moment and kicked the dirt between his feet. Rafi recognized the nervous habit. “I didn’t get your letter until after Belem’s attack, and came as quickly as I could.”

Relief was one more drop in a too-full barrel. Rafi gathered his brother in hug, pounding him on the back. “I want to know how you ended up with Inimigo’s cannons, but I don’t know where Johanna is. The mine collapsed and—”

“Then we better find the princess.” Dom whistled for his men to follow. “We’ll help wherever we can.”

“Make sure none of Inimigo’s troops double back and try to surprise us.”

“Already on it.” Dom dropped Breaker’s reins and jogged away.

Rafi wished he had time to say more, to thank Dom for coming, but he settled for a quick pat to Breaker’s flank and rushed to the last spot where he’d seen Johanna.

Despite his earlier efforts to excavate, the terraces of the mine had collapsed and the tunnels were blocked. Tons of dirt and stone filled the places where people had stood, and he could see a piece of black fabric trapped among the rubble.

“Has anyone seen Johanna?” he shouted.

Performers were emerging from the other mines, wounded and dirty. They fell into the arms of their loved ones and hurried across the field to seek out others who’d been caught in the melee.

Johanna wasn’t among them.

“The tunnels collapsed behind us,” an old man said as he stumbled closer to Rafi. “A few were trapped.”

“Was Johanna with you? How many are unaccounted for?” Desperate, Rafi slipped over the lip of the mine and tried to work his way deeper into the wreckage. Exhaustion made him clumsy, and he slipped, barking his knees on a stone.

“I don’t know,” the old Performer said, his voice soaked in sorrow. “I didn’t see her after.”

For a moment Rafi felt nothing, not the uneven dirt beneath his feet, not the sweat that dotted his brow, not the weariness that made his arms heavy. He was a void, an empty hole, as still and emotionless as the mine he knelt in.

I’m supposed to be the most powerful person in the world, and there is nothing I can do against all of this.

“Check the field,” the Performer advised. “Maybe she was among the inj—”

“Rafi?” A voice cut over all the others. It was shaky and weak, but he’d recognize it with or without the tang of power it carried.

He spun toward the sound and saw Johanna’s silhouette weaving toward the mine’s mouth. Scrambling over the boulders, he met her before she came too close to the edge.

There was blood on her forehead and down the side of her face, and she limped as she approached, but otherwise she was whole and alive.

Before he could put his relief into words, she was in his arms. Her cheek pressed against his chest, her arms tight around his waist.

“You have to help them. The tunnels. Some of them are trapped.” She took his hand, trying to tow him back into the mine. “We have to get them out.”

Tears were clogging her throat and making it hard to talk, but Johanna hurried on. “Please.” She climbed down into the hole, frantic to get her friends out. “James was behind me.”

Johanna pushed against a boulder that was three feet tall and partially buried, and was surprised that it wouldn’t move. She was a Performer. She was part Keeper. Shouldn’t she be able to do something? The tunnel was at least fifteen feet farther down. If Rafi could move all this stone . . .

She turned, expecting him to be hard at work, but instead he was standing a few feet behind her with his head down and his hands on his hips.

“What are you doing?” she yelled, grabbing a stone that was about the size of her head and trying to roll it aside. “They could be suffocating. We need to . . . we need to
save
them.”

“Jo.” There was a plea in his voice, but she ignored it. Pushing on. Digging at the stone. Bloodying her fingers.

“Someone get shovels and—”

“Jo.” He touched her arm lightly.

She swatted him away. “Help me!”

“Stop.”

“No. Not till they’re out.”

Rafi’s arms wrapped around her, gently pinning hers down. “We already found James.”

Found. Found, not saved.
Her breath came in jagged gasps, tearing at her lungs, but she couldn’t seem to slow it down. “I sent them to their deaths. The mines were my idea. I should have done something different. I should have . . .”

The world swirled inside her skull, and her legs turned to jelly. Rafi kept her from falling against the stones, but he sat down hard, jarring her back, and her thoughts.

She could feel his heart racing against her spine. The tendons in his hands stood out in sharp relief. He had already tried to save them, she realized, and was so weak from the attempt that he couldn’t hold her up.

Joshua, Thomas, Mama, Captain Alouette, Snout, Pira, Leão, Elma, Didsbury, Sergio, Olivia, Julia, James . . .

All dead. All killed before their time.

He squeezed her hard, as if he could force the remorse out of her. “You did what any good leader should do. You gave your people a chance at survival. You strategized to protect as many as possible. You put yourself in danger to protect them. No one would ever ask more.”

“No one would ask for more, but you
expect
more.” She felt his breath catch and knew that she’d surprised him. “You expect to live your life like this, constantly putting lives of individuals aside for the greater good. Even if that means sacrificing them—or sacrificing yourself.”

The pause in their conversation was long, long enough for her breathing to calm and her head to stop spinning.

“I have no intentions of dying this week or this year,” he said, guessing at the deeper meaning of her words. “Have a little faith, Johanna. We survived this battle when no one thought it was possible. I think chances are good we can survive anything else.”

It wasn’t the promise she wanted to hear. She wanted him to say,
Since I have you to live for, then I simply won’t die.
But she knew the truth. Rafi, the honorable lordling, would be a martyr for his people. He’d be venerated in song and story. His face would be painted on city walls. People would leave flowers at the feet of his statues. He’d be the hero every child looked up to and pretended to be.

But he’d never be hers.

A voice rose from across the smoking field. “Lord Rafi! Johanna! People are coming!”

They broke apart, struggling to their feet, preparing for another wave of attacks. Johanna fumbled for the dagger at her belt but found her sheath empty.

“It’s okay, Jo. Look.” Rafi pointed, and a small breeze blew the smoke away. Three familiar shapes were limping toward them. Two supporting a taller one in the middle. “They’ll be our allies,” he said with more optimism than she felt. “If anyone can help us figure out what needs to be done now, it’s those three.”

Rafi gave her hand a gentle squeeze, ratcheting the vice around her heart a little tighter.

Following Jacaré, Leão, and Pira were a straggling bunch of people. The haze of the battlefield hid their faces, but every now and then a beam of sunlight would catch the metal around their necks.

“Help us get these damn collars off!” Pira shouted.

Dom’s troops rushed forward, offering supporting hands. The former slaves fell to their knees, begging to have the collars removed. The DeSilva soldiers hurried, fingers fumbling against the smooth metal, seeking out the clasps. One by one the bands fell free, dropping from scarred throats.

“Thank you.” The words were repeated as embraces were exchanged between strangers.