The Storyspinner (3 page)

Chapter 4

Rafi

Lord Rafael Santiago DeSilva pressed a hand to his bleeding mouth. He’d bitten his tongue when the poacher kicked him in the face.

His younger brother, Dominic, handed him a linen square to wipe away the blood. “I’ve never seen a boy fight with legs and limbs flying like that.” Dom dug a leather cord out of one of his many pockets and began wrapping it around the boy’s wrist. “A tiny thing too. Look at these knobby bones. It’s pitiful enough to move me to charity.”

Rafi grunted. “The only charity he’ll get from me is a short rope and a long drop.”

The summer had been cruel to the villagers and farm folk, with an unprecedented drought razing their crops, but the amount of poaching would leave the DeSilvas’ land barren of all edible wildlife if left unchecked. Rafael would let his people hunt the animals to oblivion if he wasn’t worried about the long-lasting effects. There was no guarantee that next year’s harvest would be more abundant than this year’s.

“Trial first. I’ll take the evidence; you take the thief?” Rafi nodded toward the now-still deer.

“Giving me the heavy end of the deal, as usual,” Dom joked as he hauled the poacher upright and slung him over his shoulder. He adjusted the load and froze.

“Our horses aren’t that far. Surely you can carry that sack of bones a half mile.” Rafi’s forehead wrinkled in confusion as he watched Dom gently—much more gently than a poacher deserved—return the boy to the ground. “If you’d prefer the deer, then have at it. I thought to save you some bloodstained clothes, but if you insist.”

Rafi stepped toward the poacher’s prone form, but his brother stopped him, placing a hand at the center of Rafi’s chest.

“Don’t.” Dom’s face had gone pale, his lips compressed in a tight line.

“Why?” Rafi asked, concern beginning to churn in his belly. “That blow to the ribs couldn’t possibly have killed him.”

“Her.”

“What?”

Dom edged closer, as if nearing a poisonous snake. Trembling fingers turned the thief’s face to a shaft of sunlight that filtered through the branches overhead. Rafi looked past the short cap of hair and dirt-smeared cheeks. Dark eyelashes fluttered against porcelain fair skin. Pink lips parted slightly in sleep. Loose laces exposed a long slender neck, the hard slant of a collarbone and a soft mound of . . .

“May the Keepers steal my soul,” Rafi cursed. “It’s a girl.”

Chapter 5

Jacaré

Jacaré went straight from the Council chambers to the Elite Guard’s barracks. Oil, sweat, and freshly molten metal flavored the air, all the comfortable scents of his home away from home.

The dark stone barracks were tucked behind Olinda’s capitol building, where the Mage Council met, and were used by the soldiers who devoted their lives to peace and safety.

A stone balustrade separated the practice field from the stables, blacksmith shops, and armory. Jacaré rested his elbows on the edge, watching the fight that had most of the Guard forgetting their duties. One blindfolded fighter moved with smooth precision, whipping her metal-tipped staff to block the blows of three attackers.

A swordsman swung his weapon low, hacking at the back of her knees. It should have hit her and ended the practice, but she sensed the blow before it landed and dove forward, swinging her staff to catch the man in the throat.

Jacaré cringed when he heard the crunch, knowing it would leave an awful bruise later. The other two fighters redoubled their efforts, trying and failing to take the girl down. When she struck one in the sternum, the other shook his head and backed away.

Pira raised her blindfold, helped her opponents to their feet, and checked on the bruises she’d inflicted. Onlookers whispered about her uncanny ability to sense the location of any weapon.

Every Keeper had an affinity to at least one element, Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit. Those with one strong talent—like Pira’s gift for Earth—were called
Saudade
and made up the bulk of the Keepers’ society.

A rare few—called Mages—were blessed with the ability to manipulate all five elements with their
essência
. The Mages on the Council were the strongest of their people, capable of turning a breath of air into a wind tunnel and a spark into a blaze.

Jacaré should have been impressed both with Pira’s skill and her sportsmanship, but as usual, watching her fight made him want to teach her a lesson.

He hopped over the railing and picked up two wooden practice swords from the bin of beginner weapons. Soldiers jumped out of his way as he crossed the field, pressing their fists over their hearts in salute to their commanding officer.

“Fight me,” he said, tossing her the slab of wood.

She caught it out of the air and weighed the sword in her palm. “Aren’t I a little old for practice swords, Jacaré?”

She never used his official title, no matter how many times he’d corrected her. The men she’d just defeated shifted nervously and took a few steps away to give the pair enough room to spar.

“You’re never too old to do as you’re told. Now raise your weapon.”

Pira wiped the sweat off her shaved head with her blindfold, an unhappy frown tugging down her full lips.

“Throw that thing away.” He waved to the strip of material. “If I’m going to beat you, I want you to see it coming.”

A few gasps escaped the soldiers near enough to hear—but no one dared to say a word.

“Fine.” She dropped the blindfold to the ground and sank into a fighter’s stance. “Go to.”

The fight ended in exactly ten seconds.

Pira lay flat on her back with the point of Jacaré’s sword pressed against the hollow of her throat.

A slow applause started with the soldiers nearest and spread to everyone watching from around the practice field.

“You can’t always use your affinity to save you, Pira.” He threw the sword to the side, and offered her a hand up. “You never know when your gift will fail or when your opponent will come after you with something besides a metal weapon. You have to be ready to fight anyone, in any condition.”

She bowed her head and looked at Jacaré through her lashes. The onlookers probably thought it was a sign of submission, but Jacaré knew better. He’d faced that blue-eyed glare a million times in the two decades he’d acted as her guardian.

“Thank you for the reminder, brother. I won’t forget.”

He hesitated for a moment, debating. He knew he could trust Pira, but if he involved her in his plans it could ruin her career for the rest of her life. And at only twenty years old, she had a very long life ahead of her.

“Was there something else?” she asked, her voice edged with anger.

Even after she’d been soundly beaten, she still couldn’t manage to call him “sir.” With that kind of an attitude Pira’s future with the Elite Guard would be short lived, whether she helped him or not.

“Meet me at the house after first watch.”

Chapter 6

Pira

The eighth chime of the watch bell was still ringing as Pira slipped out of the barracks. She didn’t have to sneak away, plenty of people heard the High Captain command her to meet with him that night. But the fewer people who saw her leave her room the better.

She’d only been a commissioned officer with the Elite Guard for a few months, and there were still plenty of people who assumed she’d been promoted because of her brother rather than her own hard work.

The spectacle on the practice field hadn’t helped matters.

She clenched her fists as she walked, feeling the layers of calluses that textured her palms. If they weren’t a sure sign of her hard work, then the ink that stained the space between her thumb and first finger certainly should have been.

Pira didn’t want to be a typical line soldier or even an officer. She wanted to command, and she spent every spare moment poring over tactical manuals, rewriting the very best concepts and rules in the tiny book she kept in her belt pouch. Nothing else mattered—not sleep, not family, not love. She’d given all those things up to pursue her career. And she was happy with the decision.

Until her brother found some way to humiliate her in front of her peers.

She wound through the hilly streets, skirting Olinda’s entertainment district, to get to the two-story cottage tucked into the woods at the edge of town—the home where Jacaré had raised her after their father died.

They were half siblings—she was the only child of their father’s very, very young second wife—but people couldn’t get over the resemblance. They were both tall and long limbed with olive skin and pale blue eyes, but it was more than coloring and features. Pira spent her early years mimicking Jacaré’s walk and fighting style.

Apparently she still didn’t have it quite right.

A group of four men approached on the other side of the street, each of them stumbling drunkenly and laughing too loudly. They weren’t breaking any laws, so she couldn’t haul them off to jail, but she could sense weapons under their cloaks.

Three daggers, a belt knife, and a short sword to be exact. The steel sent a vibration through the air that pressed against Pira’s skin like unseen fingers.

She wished one of them would stop, do something stupid, or even catcall her from across the street. She’d ached all day for a chance to break someone’s face—a face she could mentally replace with Jacaré’s—but the men moved on their way peaceably.

Mother Lua damn their souls to darkness,
she thought with frustration.

Despite the strain in their relationship, Pira knew her brother. And she knew he wouldn’t share his reason for the invitation if he could sense her temper. Jacaré never asked her to come to the house, and the request had piqued her interest. She’d barely been able to focus on her studies or drilling her unit that evening. Her mind tumbled with possibilities, rumors, and conjecture.

Lights spilled from the cottage windows, dressing the silver-barked aspen with dancing shadows. The leaves, already turning a late-summer golden, were gilded where the lamp’s glow shined on them.

Pira took a few deep breaths, focusing on all the good memories of the tiny house, before turning onto the gravel path. She walked lightly, but the crunch alerted Jacaré, and he pulled open the front door before she reached for the handle.

“You’re late.”

“You said after first watch. You didn’t specify when.”

His broad shoulders were stiff, his body blocking the entrance so she couldn’t see anything besides flames in the hearth beyond.

“Are you going to let me in?” She folded her arms tightly across her chest, wondering what in the world had her brother so on edge.

“If I do, will you swear that everything you see and hear tonight will remain a secret?”

Some part of her, the childish part that still sought his approval, leaped at the thought of being accepted into his inner circle. She smashed down that desire and forced herself to think critically. “Are you involved in something dangerous?”

“Probably.”

That wasn’t a surprise. She shifted her weight and saw a man-size shadow move closer to the fire. Whatever he was involved in, he wasn’t doing it alone.

“Is it illegal?”

“Yes or no, Pira.”

She drummed her fingers on her upper arm, thinking. There was only one question she needed answered, and she could already guess what her brother would say. “Is it for the good of the Keepers?”

“Would I do anything that wasn’t?”

Pira paused before answering. Not because she doubted her brother’s devotion to their people, but because she knew her hesitation would irritate him. “I suppose . . .”

He reached for the doorknob.

“Of course I’ll swear!” she said before he could shut the door in her face.

Pira wanted to take the words back the instant she realized who else occupied the cottage’s kitchen.

Chapter 7

Johanna

“I swear on my honor, and Dom’s and your own, Mother. I did not know he was a girl.”

“That doesn’t matter,” a woman’s voice responded. “You know the law. We don’t hand out justice with our fists.”

“Look at the way he’s dressed. It’s completely inappropriate. And he was poach—”

“Referring to the girl as a ‘he’ won’t change the facts, Rafael.” The tone was a velvet-wrapped dagger. Johanna kept her eyes closed, hoping to avoid the woman who could wield it so potently.

Her location was foreign, the sounds of horses and scent of lilacs on the air proved that certainty. And good glory, the satin coverlet felt delicious against her palms.

“You beat someone into unconsciousness. You bloodied her leg and likely broke her ribs.”

“I wouldn’t have hurt her if I’d known—”

“So you’d annihilate a boy you outweigh by double?”

“He tried to strangle me.”

“
She
defended herself. ”

The silence was damning, neither of them spoke, but the room filled with tension.

“Rafi.” The woman’s voice gentled. “What would you have me do? Shall I pretend it never happened?”

Fabric rustled, and Johanna opened her eyes a narrow slit. A woman and a man stood silhouetted against a large stained glass window. They were both tall and fine featured, but the man—
boy,
really
—had dark hair that curled on the verge of wild.

“I would never ask you to ignore the law, Your Grace,” he said with unusual formality. “I let my temper get the best of me. I’ll take the punishment you deem worthy.”

“Your Grace”? Where am I?

The woman raised her hand to her son’s cheek. “We won’t make it public knowledge. A few witnesses, perhaps the new weaponsmaster and the Captain of the Guard. Just enough people to satisfy questions, if there are any.”

“And the girl, of course.”

“It is her right.”

Another hesitation, a heavy exhale. “Will she still be tried for poaching?”

Johanna, a consummate actress, could have feigned sleep for days to come, especially in a bed more comfortable than any she’d ever enjoyed. But she also knew the importance of dramatic timing. She’d been coached for years on perfect delivery, and this was her moment to make an entrance into the conversation.

She tried to push herself upright, but her head spun like a loose wagon wheel. The groan of pain was legitimate.

“Our fair thief wakes,” the boy mumbled, stepping away from the window and nearer her bed. She saw then what the window’s light had disguised: dark eyes framed with thick lashes and straight brows, a fine nose, and a strong chin. He was perhaps two years her senior, nearing naming age.

The face wasn’t unfamiliar. It had been a few years since her troupe had performed for Duke and Lady DeSilva’s estate, but she remembered their son as a smiling boy who applauded and cheered and begged for so many songs that her mother’s infallible voice grew weary.

“I am many things, sir, but poacher is not a title I bear.”

He coughed, a cold approximation of a laugh and likely the best this stern—
but unfortunately handsome
—young man could manage. “The stag hanging in the smokehouse begs to differ.”

Johanna hated the way he loomed over her. She’d already spent too much time at his mercy and struggled to rise.

“Let me help, dear.” The woman, an older version of the Lady DeSilva Johanna remembered, sat beside her on the bed and placed a supporting hand behind her shoulder.

Johanna nodded her thanks to the duchess. “I shot the stag in the public forest, not far from Farmer Milner’s mango orchard.”

“Liar,” Rafi snapped. “You were well beyond the stream when I stumbled upon you.”

Sow-kissing mud sucker.
Johanna’s eyes traced his perfectly tailored hunting gear, high-quality leather jerkin and breeches. “Send one of your retainers to follow the blood trail, my lord. I’m certain you employ
someone
who could track it to where I made my shot.”

“You took it on my land.” Fire burned in his dark eyes and blazed red spots on his cheeks.

“Should I have let it suffer?” Johanna raised a hand, grimacing at the bolt of pain in her side. “Never mind. It’s apparent you enjoy punishing the helpless.”

“Why you venomous—”

“Rafi.” The lady called her son to heel. “Go. Send Snout to find the trail and follow it to its origin.”

The anger Johanna felt at being termed a poacher sputtered. What if the grass had been trampled? What if the blood had washed away? Johanna licked her lips nervously, her tongue finding a tender split.

“Your Grace.” She turned her gray eyes on the lady, offering a look that managed to be both humble and innocent. “I swear on my honor, on my family’s, on my dear father’s grave, that the deer was in the public forest when I took the shot. Please believe me.”

Rafael gave another irritated cough-laugh. “How long were you awake and listening to our conversation?”

“Long enough to make sure I hadn’t been tossed into the bed of a scoundrel.” She touched her forehead where a fresh bruise hummed. It must have been the last shot of their brawl because she didn’t remember receiving it.

“I’d never touch an ill-bred—”

“Enough!” The lady’s voice cut through the argument. “I gave you a command, my son, and I expect you to follow it with haste. We wouldn’t want a sudden storm to obliterate her claims.”

“Yes, Mother.” He gave her a half bow and glared vitriol at Johanna. “I’ll be back in less than two hours with confirmation of one of our stories.”