The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (38 page)

“Thank you for saving us.”

Dom sat on the ground with his back against one of the poles that supported the Performers’ tent. The peaked roof had a small hole that let the smoke from the fire escape without letting the rain in. It was comfortable, as tents went, and the heat from the fire, combined with his sore muscles, made him drowsy.

A sad bit of music rose from outside—nearly drowning out Rafi and Johanna’s argument at the tent’s far side. Drinks were being passed around; soldiers and Performers huddled together, remembering their dead.

It was a victory, but for Dom it felt hollow. He wouldn’t be returning to his normal life no matter how things worked out. He could accept the responsibility of being duke, but facing it alone was something else. Brynn was lost to him, and soon Rafi would be as well.

His brother had given him the barest details, fantastical as they were, about Keepers and magical barriers. They’d had an ugly quarrel over true honor, duty, and sheer stupidity, but nothing Dom said could sway Rafi. Johanna was taking another shot, but Rafi kept changing the subject.

Time for some of that alcohol the Performers are sharing.

He rose slowly, favoring the hip that had been grazed by the crossbow bolt, but his movement caught Rafi’s attention.

“Don’t leave,” Rafi said, cutting off whatever Johanna had been saying. “Jacaré’s gathering the Performers’ representatives. We’ve got important things to address.”

Dom did as his brother asked, and lowered himself to the ground with a groan. He didn’t want to listen to any more of Rafi and Jo’s fight or watch the way they revolved around each other, finding excuses to touch. Her words were angry, but her eyes betrayed her sadness. Rafi responded with sharpness that was at counterpoint to his desperate need to be close to her.

Knowing that the connection between Rafi and Jo could be severed in the next few days made Dom hurt for things that were gone and things that would never be. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he rested his head back against the tent pole to keep them from falling.

Don’t be ridiculous. DeSilvas don’t cry,
he reminded himself, but this short period of rest, these few moments of calm, gave him too much time to really examine the last few weeks at length. Brynn’s betrayal, Belem’s attack, and the miracle that had saved Santiago.

He knew better than to call it a miracle. Their safety hadn’t been assured by some benevolent god; it was all Maribelle’s doing.

Fernando’s arrival and cannon barrage had forced Belem’s troops against Santiago’s walls. The enemy rushed the main gates, hurriedly laying planks across the palisade.

It was a close thing, the gate buckling under their harried attempts, but with continued cannon fire and heavy losses—especially in the upper echelons of their command—Belem’s troops surrendered.

Dom’s hair was still wet with well water when his enemy raised a white flag.

Fernando confirmed Dom’s guess once he made it into the estate. “That ‘package’ Lady Maribelle requested I transport from the Wisp Islands? Three dozen of the finest cannons I’ve ever seen.” He called one of the artillery crews forward. “Brand new, freshly cast from lightweight metal, and all of them marked with Inimigo’s clenched fist.”

Lady DeSilva was equally amazed. “How did she manage something like this? Without telling anyone?”

The duke shook his head. “Is that girl promised to anyone?”

“No,” Dom said too quickly. His uncle noticed, raising eyebrows at Dom’s reaction. “I mean, why? Are you in the market for a new wife?”

Fernando’s eyes shifted to his sister and back, and he smiled in a way that made Dom feel exposed. “If you don’t take her hand, someone with close ties to you should. A woman that crafty is better as a friend than an enemy.”

Dom doubted, even now, that Maribelle would give her loyalty to someone simply because they shared a name.

She hadn’t woken before Dom rode north, and thoughts of her courage plagued him. She’d done so much for Santiago, for the freedom of his people, and he’d repaid her only with suspicion and unkindness. When he returned to Santiago, Dom swore, he’d find a way to make it up to her.

DeSilvas don’t break their promises.

Jacaré swept open the tent doors, and the stiff breeze that followed him shifted Dom’s attention to the present.

Two Performers entered in quick succession, and Johanna stepped away from the table to greet them.

“Is something wrong?” she asked quickly as they ringed the small table.

Rafi signaled Dom over, and he joined them at the far end.

“Inimigo’s troops are well on their way to Maringa. A few bands of stragglers have been dealt with,” the older man said. “We’ll keep watching for more. The freed slaves are resting. One of them keeps asking for you, Johanna, but she’s exhausted and difficult to understand.”

“All right,” Jo said with a nod. “I’ll try to see her when we’re finished here.”

“She’d appreciate that, my lady.”

“Please don’t call me that,” she said, her bearing stiff.

Rafi pressed a hand to her lower back and whispered a few words into her ear, and Dom saw it again—the intensity, the focus, the affection.

“Let’s discuss the future of Santarem,” Rafi said, taking control. He faced Dom, something deceitful in his smile. “You’re going to want to pay attention.”

The Performers had circled their wagons in the meadow east of the battlefield. Tents had been pitched inside the ring, with small fires burning within the perimeter.

Leão sat on a log near the fire with a blanket draped around him. He felt the cold all the way to his bones, like a flu he couldn’t shake and that no one could heal. Pira sat next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed when she stirred her bowlful of
feijoada
.

She’d positioned herself in front of the tent’s door, turning away anyone who came close with nothing more than a scowl. In the morning they would pool their power to destroy the collars, because none of them had recovered enough energy to do it now.

The sound of someone sobbing softly reached Leão’s sensitive ears, and Pira’s as well. She shifted, checking behind her every few minutes, conflict clear on her face. He knew Pira well enough to know that the former slave’s crying penetrated the armor she wore around her heart. Leão hoped that it wasn’t the only thing to get through to her tonight.

“Tell me again,” he said, feeling parched though he’d drunk all the water his stomach could handle. “How many soldiers did you have to get through to free me?”

There was a hint of a dimple in her cheek that appeared only when she was trying not to smile, but she didn’t respond to his query.

“Was it six? Seven?” He placed a hand on her knee. “Don’t be humble.”

“It was eleven, if you’re counting the one that I forced to take off your collar,” she said, brushing his hand away.

Leão forced a small laugh, though the truth terrified him. “Eleven. The mighty Pira. I should never underestimate you.”

“A lesson you should have learned much earlier.”

“That is the truth.”

They exchanged a look, holding gazes for a moment too long for friendly conversation. She broke it by returning her attention to her food.

“Even with all that bravery you’re still afraid of your feelings for me,” Leão said as he studied her profile.

The spoon fell out of her hand. “What?”

Leão took her bowl and set it on the ground. “You fought through a camp full of armed soldiers to get to me. You found a way to save me when no one else could have done it. And please don’t say that night at Performers’ Camp meant nothing to you, because I’ve relived that kiss a hundred times, praying—”

“No, Leão. No.” She stood, moving a step away. “That night was a mistake. I’m your superior officer. I could be stripped of my rank. I could be forced out of the Elite Guard.”

“That’s not going to happen. If we succeed and the barrier is restored, we will be honored,” he said, looking up at her, wishing she were still sitting beside him. Her proximity had made him feel daring. “You may even be advanced in rank.”

“
You
may be. You’re a full Mage and the grandson of the head of the Mage Council. You have hundreds of options, but I am not one of them.”

He stood slowly, letting the blanket tumble down behind him. “Why not? Because you’re afraid of what other people would think of us being together?” Grabbing her arms, he jerked her closer with all the strength he had. Her hands shot up between them, palms resting on his chest. “Are you
afraid
of what people would think?”

Her lips fell open in a little O of surprise; she blinked rapidly as she tried to formulate a response. Leão didn’t give her the option, covering her mouth with his.

She melted against him for a few of Leão’s too-fast heartbeats, and then just as quickly she wrenched away. He took a stumbling step backward at the sudden loss of connection.

“I made a decision long ago that I was an Elite Guard,” Pira said. “I don’t want to be another soldier. I want to be High Captain, and that will never happen if I let myself be distracted by a pretty boy who is fun to kiss.” She stepped into the space she’d forced between them, and looked directly into his eyes, driving her point home. “And that is all you’ll ever be to me, Leão. A pretty boy who is fun to kiss.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work.” He swallowed, nervous, doubting himself for a moment. Then he remembered the gentle brush of her fingers on his face when he nearly died in the alley. “You feel guilty for what Vibora made you do, but that wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do. Don’t you think I’ve put the pieces together, Pira? You’re following in your brother’s footsteps too closely. You can’t push away everyone you love simply because you’re afraid to get hurt.”

She spun away, heading toward the perimeter.

“Go ahead and run,” he said with certainty. “I’ll be right here waiting when you get back.”

“You’re relieved of duty.”

The sentry jumped to his feet, looking at Pira with nervous eyes. “I sat down for just a minute, and the view from the top of the boulder is really good,” he said as he rubbed the sleep from his face.

“You’re not in trouble.” If he were one of her men, she’d have him lashed, but he was a Performer—not even a Firesword—and he was exhausted. “Go back to camp.”

He edged around her, as if trying to keep a wild animal at bay.

Pira didn’t care what he thought, so long as he went. Emotion boiled in her chest; hurt, sadness, loss, filled her to bursting, and she didn’t want anyone to see it spill over. She dropped onto the boulder, clenching her arms tightly around the dreadful roiling in her middle, and tried to contain the tears.

The pain was real, as bright and wicked as an unexpected punch to the stomach, but it was something she wanted to feel. It was something she’d earned.

“He’s not wrong, you know,” Jacaré said, startling a half sob out of her.

She wiped away the evidence on her forearm before she spoke. “How did the meeting go with Rafi and Jo? Are we leaving for the wall tom—”

“There were a lot of lessons I intended you to learn.” He climbed onto the boulder and sat down beside her. “You excel at weapons. You’re a good leader, and make careful decisions when the consequences affect others.”

He paused, and she felt his eyes on her, but she couldn’t meet them. Instead she focused on the darkness, staring at the scrub forest and boulder-littered hills that stretched to the south.

“But I failed to teach you your own worth.”

She did turn then, seeking his gaze under the night sky. “What are you talking about? I know what I’m worth.”

“You might know your worth as a soldier, your worth in a fight, but I doubt you know your worth as a person.” Jacaré touched her shoulder, giving it a brotherly shake. “You don’t recognize that you are
worthy
of another person’s affection. You blame yourself for what happened to Leão, what happened with the slaves, but none of it was your fault. You didn’t choose to hurt those people, and in the end you saved them.”

It had been a long time since they’d talked like siblings, like people who knew each other outside the structure of command, and she realized how much she’d missed it. Her upbringing had been quiet, her memories full of Jacaré, the glint of the sun on weapons, hearty meals, and the smell of steel, leather, and sweat. It wasn’t a soft childhood, but it had turned her into an Elite Guard. She was proud of that, and she was proud of him. But even so, she had to admit to herself that despite his attention, his devotion to her and to the Guard, he’d never seemed fully happy.

“Are you preaching to me about love, Jacaré? You’re not exactly the prime example.”

He gave an irritated grunt. “What was the first thing I taught you in weapons training?”

“How to defend myself.”

“Did I smack you with a sword and make you learn from your mistakes?”

“Of course not.”

“Precisely. I tried to show you what I knew from experience, Pira. I’m asking you to trust that experience now.” He thumbed behind him, toward the fire where Leão sat. “You are worthy of every happiness. If that boy makes you happy, then don’t let some self-inflicted torture keep you from what you deserve.”

The emotions welled again, and she tried to slam a wall of self-control in place. “But I almost killed him,” she said, her voice watery. “I’ll never forget what it felt like to stab him. To feel
his
blood on my skin.”

“So don’t forget,” Jacaré said with a simple shrug. “Use that memory. Let it remind you how grateful you are that he survived. If you don’t, you might as well have died. Living without love isn’t really living at all.”

Her heart throbbed with a shared pain. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m sorry about Vibora. I know she must have been . . . different once, for you to have felt her loss so keenly for such a long time.”

“She was.” His lips compressed, not quite a smile. “You might have liked her. Or hated her. In some ways she was a lot like you.”