The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (39 page)

Pira couldn’t quite believe that, but she nodded anyway. “She did save me in the end.”

“She did,” he said, his voice hoarse.

There was more that Pira wanted to say, more questions she wanted to ask. She wanted to spend more time with Jacaré—the brother she remembered—but neither of them was any good at sharing their feelings. The little exchange was a nice start. The rest would have to wait for another day.

“While I’m sure you appreciate my advice”—there was a hint of humor in his voice, but Pira knew him well enough to recognize that it was forced—“I actually came to talk to you about a project I need some help with.”

Johanna lay still for a few moments, her head resting in the crook of Rafi’s arm. There was nothing particularly romantic about their sleeping arrangements. Dom snored rather loudly a pace away, and Jacaré and Leão were asleep somewhere near the door. All the extra blankets had been sent to the tent the former slaves occupied, and it made sense for the rest of them to curl up together.

She couldn’t complain. Sleeping close to Rafi, sharing his warmth, feeling the stubble on his chin catch in her hair, were all things that she longed to continue. Nights lying next to Rafi, even on rock-ridden ground with too many other bedfellows, were precious.

Her stomach wrung like a wet rag, twisting with misery. They’d argued politics and plans till they were both hoarse, and had come to a loose agreement about her future and the future of Santarem. She’d convinced Rafi that with the imminent threat gone, a council made up of dukes and their underlords would help nurture the peace of Santarem, and at his insistence she’d been persuaded to accept a new title: Grand Arbiter.

Her presence on the council would give the Performers representation, and she’d already received backing from Vicente and Cruzamento—both had pledged to serve King Wilhelm’s heir once she could prove her claim.

And thanks to Dom, she had the necklace that had once been her father’s. She also had a letter from Rafi’s father asserting her identity, the testimony of dozens of Performers, and at least one Keeper. Rafi felt certain it would be enough.

Part of her longed for the simple life of a Performer. She’d buy a wagon of her own and join a troupe, and she and Michael would live out their lives far distant from intrigue and violence. But as she watched the rise and fall of Rafi’s chest and felt his breath feather across her brow, she knew that this was her destiny. He’d accepted the lot he’d drawn, and she would take control of hers.

A shadow passed across the tent’s outer wall and then moved closer to the door. A hand parted the flaps, and Jacaré was instantly on his feet, weapon drawn. Besides the whisk of his sword, Johanna heard no other noise. He held out one hand toward Johanna, motioning for her to stay still.

A pale face peeked between the tent flaps. Jacaré straightened from his defensive crouch, eyeing the woman with openmouthed confusion. They didn’t exchange any words, but he pressed his palm over his heart and gave a half bow. The woman hesitated, then gave a nod in response. She backed out of the tent, and Jacaré waved for Johanna to follow.

What in Mother Lua’s name was going on?

Johanna slid out from Rafi’s arms and he slept on, undisturbed. She stepped carefully over the sleeping bodies and out of the tent.

“Jacaré?”

The Keeper emerged from the darkness along the tent’s side. “Johanna, she went toward the northern perimeter.” He pointed toward the line of mountains in the distance. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Who is she?”

“I’ll stay here and keep watch,” he said, not answering her question. “You’ll be fine.”

She wasn’t worried about her safety, but new concerns rushed in. This was a precipice. She could feel herself standing on the crumbling edge, unsure if she should take a step backward toward comfort and safety, or if she should leap into the void.

“Go,” Jacaré said, giving her a little push.

Beyond the ring of the wagons the woman had stopped next to one of the boulders, her posture impatient and expectant.

“Adri—Johanna,” the woman called to her, her voice laced with recognizable power, though it resounded with tenderness instead of compulsion.

The woman was tall, Johanna realized as she edged closer. Not quite as tall as Pira, but at least four fingers taller than Johanna, and thin in a way that suggested illness. Starlight spilled onto her face, highlighting eyes of an indiscernible color, a narrow nose, and a full mouth. The skin on her face was drawn tightly, highlighting the hollows beneath her cheekbones and the small cleft in her chin. She might have been beautiful once.

“Do I know you?” Johanna asked before she noticed the scarf tied artfully around the woman’s neck. “Were you one of Sapo’s captives? Were you the one who wanted to speak with me?”

“Yes.” The word trembled somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I am . . . I am a Seer.”

Johanna hesitated, measuring her words. “Forgive me, but I knew one other Seer, and everything she foresaw was bleak and miserable. If my future only holds darkness, please, I’d rather not know.”

“Oh, no. Not for you, my darling girl!” The woman reached for Johanna’s hand, and after a moment’s indecision Johanna slipped her fingers into the stranger’s. They fit together, similar in their size and shape, small and thin. Johanna was surprised to find comfort and familiarity in the contact.

“Your past has prepared you for a glorious future,” the Seer explained. “For you I see a home full of music and laughter. You will have many great friends, and friends destined for greatness.”

Breath rushed out of Johanna’s lungs, replaced by relief.

“But all of this will come at the price of sacrifice—of yourself and others close to you. Your life will be devoted to service, your decisions will always be made with others in mind, but you will be assured in this choice. It is a life to be proud of.”

A tear dropped onto Johanna’s hand. She wasn’t sure if it was her own or if it belonged to the Seer. They were both crying freely, but Johanna couldn’t quite explain why. She felt sadness for all that had happened, for all those she’d lost, but these were tears of connection, of finding a soul that echoed her own.

“What about Rafi? Will he survive? Will we . . .” She couldn’t finish.

The Seer cupped Johanna’s chin, smoothing away the tears with her thumbs. “I have done all I could to protect you, but there are decisions to be made,” she said, as if that were clarification. “Happiness will be yours to
make
.”

“What does that even mean?” Johanna asked with a half laugh. These prospects were much better than what Elma had revealed, but they still weren’t particularly clear.

The woman smiled sadly, and Johanna allowed her to draw in close. “Happiness is a decision. Every day, even on the bad ones, you must decide to seek the good in the world.”

“I will try.”

“You
will
.” The Seer pressed her lips against Johanna’s forehead, sealing her benediction.

Fog had risen, obscuring the field and tents, and Johanna got the sense that it was drawing the Seer away. “Must you go?” Johanna said hastily, gripping the woman’s hand.

“I’d love to stay, but I simply don’t belong here. My purposes have been fulfilled,” she said in a near whisper. “Never fear. I will always be watching out for you.”

She took a few steps backward, fading into the evening mist, before disappearing. Shapes drifted, shadows twisted and merged, then the fog cleared with a sudden snap, in a way that was completely unnatural.

“Is she gone?” Jacaré asked, startling Johanna with his appearance.

Shivering, Johanna rubbed at the goose bumps pebbling her arms. “I don’t know. She walked away.”

“Did she say anything to you? Anything helpful?”

“She said that there will be sacrifices ahead, but that in the end I’ll make my own happiness.”

Jacaré put a gentle hand on Johanna’s back. There had been times in the weeks that she’d known him when she would have shoved him away, but now his touch felt protective and solid. His comfort was welcome. “It’s good advice. We’re never happier than when we make a conscious decision to be.”

The words rang true, and she hoped that no matter what the next few days held, she would choose to be happy.

“Who was she, Jacaré? You seemed to know her.”

“I’d never met her, Johanna. But you and I both know who she was.”

Gulping against the tightness in her throat, Johanna whispered, “She was my mother.”

If despair could be forced into a shape, it would be the Citadel. The gray stone towers hunched beneath the Keepers’ Mountains like careworn shoulders, the dark windows were bereft of light and life, and the gaping, groaning gate gave Rafi the impression of abject hopelessness.

“Welcome home,” Johanna said aloud, earning a laugh from Dom.

Rafi smiled at them both, glad to know that his brother and Johanna were friends. Maybe the castle wouldn’t be so bad if it was filled with the right kind of people.

Jacaré had been commanded by the Mage Council to stay with Jo, and while he didn’t have a particularly pleasant personality, he’d protect her and offer her some companionship. Half of the troops Dom had brought to the battle would stay as her Guard, led by Captain Demian.

Demian was a good man, and though it flooded Rafi with a hot wave of jealousy, he’d be a good fit for Johanna if . . .

Rafi wiped the rest of that thought away. He wasn’t giving up hope. At least not yet.

“It’s sturdy,” Leão offered, studying the battlements. “It won’t take much to make it livable.”

He raised a hand and water rushed out the open gate, carrying mice and other detritus past the group.

“If you ever get tired of being a soldier, I’m sure my mother would hire you to mop our floors,” Dom said, his mouth twitching.

Leão caught the sarcasm. “I’ll consider that offer.”

Pira grunted. “I didn’t see any snakes as we passed through the township, so taking down the barrier has reversed some of the negative side effects,” she said, not able to hide a little shiver. “That is a definite improvement.”

The land was returning to normal. Little shoots of green covered the road that stretched from the Roraima township to the Citadel, and a fuzz of moss coated all the fallen buildings. There were signs of recovery that the Keepers insisted weren’t there before.

All good things, apparently, but Rafi couldn’t shake off the feeling that this building, large as it was, would become Johanna’s prison more than her home.

They’d stretched the journey to the Citadel over two days, moving slowly so that those who were wounded or recovering wouldn’t be overtaxed, and the line of Performers’ wagons could find a clear path over the broken road. It also gave time for word of their victory to spread. Riders from Cruzamento and Vicente brought letters confirming the rumors about Duke Belem’s escape, and about the various underlords vying for his title. Maringa wasn’t in much better shape. A quarter of the state had sided with the rebels—Maribelle’s rebels—but Inimigo held the capital and the mines.

Rafi could see the DeSilva honor hanging heavy around his brother’s neck. The DeSilvas owed Maribelle, and Dom would fulfill that debt.

Peace wasn’t something that would happen overnight, but perhaps they were closer.

The tie to the barrier would be split between Johanna and Dom, instead of Rafi. It had been Jacaré’s suggestion, and they’d all agreed, though the reasoning wrung Rafi’s stomach.

“Shall we go in?” Johanna said, taking his hand.

Rafi nodded and let her lead him through the gate.

Everyone split off in different directions. Leão magically repaired things as he went, and Performers carried in supplies, some of the older ones pointing out different features they remembered from times when they’d entertained the king and his underlords.

“Do you want to stay and listen?” Rafi asked as Johanna led him past the group and to the base of a twisting staircase.

“I’ll live here forever. I’ll have plenty of time to figure out where the kitchens are.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “Would you like to explore with me instead?”

His heart galloped, his face flushing hot. “Yes.”

They stayed on the stairs, ignoring the landings that branched off into hallways that had once been private quarters and meeting rooms, until they stepped through an open door and onto the roof.

The ruins of Roraima stretched in front of them, the rubble sprouting with the first signs of rebirth. The city disappeared into a fold in the land and reappeared in the sprawling outskirts of Cruzamento. Beyond that everything was lushly green and vibrant. “It was probably a beautiful view, once,” she said. But Rafi saw none of it; he was focused solely on Johanna.

She caught him staring and smiled shyly. “Now would be the perfect opportunity to kiss me.”

“No.”

The smile dropped from her mouth. “Why not?”

Rafi shook his head, trying to ignore the knot twisting beneath his ribs. “Kissing you now would feel too much like a good-bye.” He motioned to the moon, nearly full and dangling over the horizon. “Tomorrow after the power is returned, we can come back up here, and I’ll kiss you in full sight of anyone who cares to watch.” He stepped close, putting his hands low on her waist and drawing her in. “Tomorrow I will kiss you, and you will never forget it.”

“Rafi . . .” Her hands slid up his sides, winding deep into his hair.

The feel of her hands on his skin, of her lips on his throat and on the new scar on the underside of his chin, was almost enough to break his resolve. Instead he reached for her wrists and gently unwound her grip.

“I don’t want a soldier’s send-off, Johanna. You know those never turn out well in the stories,” he said, and she dropped her face against his chest. “This is a promise. And you know I don’t break my word.”

She sighed, her breath a warm spot over his heart. “Then I better not tell you that I’m in love with you either.”

“Probably not.” He raised her chin. “I’ll wait till after all this is over with to express the deepest wishes of my heart.”