The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (11 page)

“Ha! Do you think I’m new to this game, child? Dukes don’t maintain their lands for long when guided by their heart or other organs.” He nodded to the next cell. “And young Lord DeSilva will be a perfect illustration for this lesson.”

She closed her eyes, drained by her climb up the chimney, her fight against Ceara and his guard, and an overwhelming sense of desperation. All her worldly possessions, her family, and her identity had been stripped from her. The only thing she had left was her Performer skills. What could Storyspinning and acrobatics do for her now?

With a chuckle Ceara slapped his guard on the shoulder. As he walked away, he yelled, “Keep an eye on her. If DeSilva starts to stink, come get someone to drag what’s left of him away.”

Think. Think. Think.
The cell was well constructed, the barred door was iron. She couldn’t break out, but could she appeal to the guard’s humanity? She’d done it before—talking her younger brothers out of trouble more times than she could count.

Johanna listened till she heard the outer door of the prison shut, then waited a little longer. She wanted to give Don Diego enough time to feel relaxed, complacent. Eventually he leaned against the wall across from her cell, resting his back against the stone column.

“Don Diego,” she said, in her meekest voice—the one that she used when she was performing the role of a child. Most men, even the meanest and ugliest, like this guard, had a soft spot for the innocent. “Why are you doing this? Why do you serve Ceara?”

He straightened a little and his arms dropped to his sides, but he didn’t answer.

She inched toward the bars, keeping her hands folded at her waist. “Please, let us out.”

Don Diego’s top lip curled and he shook his head.

Innocent isn’t working. Bribery perhaps?

“Is Rafael DeSilva really in the next cell?” She saw Don Diego’s eyes slide to her right, but he made no other movement. “You know he’ll soon be the Duke of Santiago. Letting him go, getting him help, it would be worth a fortune.”

Not a twitch or a shift or a blink. He was listening. Johanna knew she had his attention.

“If you don’t believe me, ask around,” she said, wrapping her hands around the bars and leaning as close to the soldier as possible. “Go get a drink. Listen to the gossip. His mother will have sent birds by now, seeking assistance in finding her son. She’ll reward you.” She eyed the boots on his feet, old and broken in, but cared for. The leather breastplate he wore over his short-sleeved tunic showed similar maintenance. “She’d treat you far better than Ceara. You could have ten pairs of boot—”

Don Diego’s arm shot between the bars, his hand clenching around her throat. “Shut up.”

She gripped his wrist and tried to pry free.

“Ceara chose me to stay with you because he knows where my loyalties lie.” He shook her to emphasize his words. “Do you want me to make DeSilva scream? Lord or not, all men cry if pushed hard enough.”

Spots floated across her vision, and her hands slipped away from his.

“Let her go.” The voice was rough, barely loud enough to make out the words. “She bruises easily. Ceara will notice.”

Rafi.
Her heart cartwheeled, spinning with the dark blotches in her eyes.

Don Diego’s fingers tightened another notch, and Johanna went up on her toes to try to relieve the pain. Then he released her with a quick shove.

She stumbled into the wall that divided the cells, sinking to the floor and struggling for breath.

“Are you worried that I’m touching your pretty things?” Don Diego kicked the cell door, making it vibrate.

Rafi laughed and it turned to a hacking cough. When it subsided, he managed to say, “No, but Belem doesn’t pay for damaged goods, and you really don’t want to make Ceara angry. He’ll slip a little poison into your rations if you’re not careful.”

Don Diego’s eyebrows rose for an instant before his face settled into a sneer. “Ceara would never hurt one of his own.”

“He killed his own liege lord. He’d have no problem dispatching a common soldier in the same way.”

Don Diego was a man who enjoyed hurting the defenseless, who took pride in destroying the weak.

The way he looked at Johanna made Rafi’s skin crawl.

Ignoring the pain, Rafi forced himself to scuttle across the floor. It was a slow, tedious process, with his arm pressed against his infected side and his pulse thrashing in his ears, but being closer to her—even with a stone wall between them—made him feel better.

“Johanna.” He tried to clear his throat, but he couldn’t muster much saliva. “Johanna, are you all right?”

There was a beat before she answered. “Of course. I’m fine.”

Rafi imagined her sticking out her chin stubbornly and giving their guard an evil glare. She never liked to appear weak. That gumption was one of her most attractive qualities.

He heard a rustle of fabric, and when she spoke again, her voice was closer. “How are you? I’ve been so worried—”

“Just a fever,” he said, wincing at the lie. From the smell rising from his wounds, he was fairly certain his time was short. Blood poisoning was fatal unless treated quickly, and Rafi feared his chance had passed. He was going to die from a simple infection. It certainly wasn’t the glorious exit he’d imagined for himself. And it was happening much too soon. He had plans, hopes to right the wrongs of Santarem, see his family. . . .

He pressed his fist to his mouth, holding it there until he was sure his words would be steady. “Will you do something for me?”

Don Diego repositioned his feet, frowning at them alternately.

“Now?” she asked, and Rafi wished he could see her face. Would she look surprised or would there be humor beneath it?

“Yes,
now
.”

“What do you want,
my lord
?”

There it was, the irritation he was hoping for. She’d need to hang on to that fire in the days to come, especially since she’d have to face them alone.

“Will you . . . will you sing for me?”

“Sing.”

Despite the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, he smiled. “Did you have some other pressing engagement?”

A snort. “Yes, actually. The highest lord in the land was expecting me at his table any moment.”

“I am one of the highest lords in the land, and I’m asking you to sing for me. Please.”

Don Diego grunted and folded his arms. Rafi doubted their guard was overly fond of music, and hoped it would send him scurrying for an early breakfast. A drink. Anything that would leave Rafi alone with Johanna for a few moments.

She let out a long sigh, as if she was so put out to use her talents. “What would you have me sing?”

“Sing ‘Lamento de Amantes.’ ”

Her answer was immediate. “No.”

“Johanna, please.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Rafael DeSilva, and you’re wrong.” The last word came out as two wavering syllables. “The Lovers’ Lament” was the song his mother had sung at his father’s funeral. It was low and haunting, telling the story of a love that reached beyond the grave.

Rafi wasn’t sure he understood a love like that, but he imagined that the protectiveness he felt, the concern, the sweet heat when he touched Johanna, was the beginning. He wished they’d have more time together to find out what it could become.

He crawled as close as he could to the wall and stretched out along its length, wanting to be wrapped around her instead.

“You sang it so beautifully back home. Just this once. Sing it for me.”

She took a breath, and Rafi was afraid she’d deny him again. Instead, when she opened her mouth, she filled the entire prison with sound.

Halfway through the first verse, Don Diego left, stomping away and slamming the door behind him, but Rafi didn’t care. Over her song he heard the rustle of her moving closer, then saw the flicker of a pale hand in a narrow shaft of the dawn’s light.

Lying on his side, he reached through the bars so he could brush her fingers. They were cold and small against his fever-flushed skin, but already so familiar. He cushioned his head against his outstretched arm, relieved by her touch.

The pull of sleep overpowered him, and his eyes drifted shut. He tried to listen to every word, afraid that if he gave in before the song ended, he’d never hear her voice again.

As Johanna sang, a pall fell over the prison. The moans and screams from the floors above were replaced with the quiet shuffle of feet and the occasional muffled cough.

She didn’t realize it at first, too focused on Rafi’s overly hot fingers clenched around her own to recognize that her private performance had many more listeners. And when Rafi’s hand relaxed, her chest spasmed with fear. She searched for his pulse and found the slow thump against her fingertips, and left her hand there.

Over the sound of her relieved sigh she heard a voice through the thin layer of planking that divided the floors of the prison. “Please, I haven’t heard anything like that in so long. Don’t stop.”

That plea was echoed by one, then a dozen other voices. “Angel! Angel! Sing again.”

Music had always been a gift, an outlet for her feelings. With nothing to do besides hold Rafi’s hand through the cell bars, she sang. Songs of heartbreak, songs of rage, and songs of vengeance and despair. The stone walls of her cell reverberated the sound, and she sang louder, stretching her voice to its furthest range.

She poured every ounce of her own tattered emotions into her music, giving a performance she’d never be able to replicate for its authenticity. And failed to notice the creak of the door and the tread of heavy boots till the heel stomped down on her hand.

Her song turned to a startled inhale.

“Stop,” Don Diego said, grinding his foot. “Stop singing.”

In the sudden silence she heard her bones crack. Pain flared and she screamed.

“Make another noise and I’ll break your other hand.”

He lifted his boot, and she scuttled to the farthest corner of her cell.

“Not another whisper,” he said, kicking the barred door to imply his threat.

Johanna clutched her arm to her chest.

“Angel?” a voice yelled from above. “Sing, angel!”

Don Diego moved toward Rafi’s cell.

“Please! I won’t make a sound,” she promised, and the guard halted.

Angry shouts started on the upper floor. Feet stomped, metal ground. And then the rioting began.

Something about Camaçari made Leão feel claustrophobic.

It wasn’t the walls, exactly. Roraima was a walled city, but the ruins, even in their tumbledown state, had a sense of pattern—as if the generations of builders had followed some master plan, allotting a specific amount of space between buildings and an equal distance to the road.

There wasn’t a straight road in all of Camaçari. In the older sections the homes and businesses were centered on a well or fountain. Those on the immediate square all faced toward the water source, but beyond that the streets branched every which way, winding and twisting till they dead-ended at hovels built right against the barbican walls. The walkways and turrets above, which no guard patrolled, seemed to tilt inward, dangling precariously over the inhabitants.

Maybe that’s what it is,
he thought as he shifted the sword on his back.
There’s nowhere in the city that lets you see beyond the walls.

The people didn’t seem to notice that they were sheep corralled in a butcher’s pen. They went about their business, heedless to the world beyond.

Jacaré and Leão had arrived late in the day and immediately parted company, each with a specific task and agreeing to return the following afternoon. Jacaré was going to check the inns, asking after girls who matched Johanna’s description, and listening to gossip.

Leão scouted along the city’s perimeter, looking for any sign of Johanna, listening to conversations, and testing the air for any lingering
essência
.

He found it.

Occasional threads of magic pulled at his attention. At first he chased them, expecting to find a Keeper manipulating slaves, but instead he found a bricklayer with excellent balance, using the merest breath of Air to keep him on a steeply pitched roof. And later, as the sun was beginning to set, a woman haggling with a street vendor used Spirit to get her way. Neither of them realized what they were doing—their gifts were innate and untrained—but it added to Leão’s discomfort.

Ever since Leão had led their party into the ambush that left Tex dead and separated them from Pira and Johanna, he’d tried to stay sharply attuned to the energy of the people and animals around him. He wasn’t going to be caught unaware and let his crew down again.

Guilt coated him like the mud around the city—thick and deep and nearly impossible to avoid. He tried to push past the feeling, but it churned around him, dragging him into a pit of misery. Leão knew he couldn’t do anything about Tex now—the old man’s death would always stain his conscience—but Pira was out there. Somewhere.

Once Johanna was found, and safely in Jacaré’s care, Leão was going to find Pira. No matter what commands he had to defy. He’d find her, and they’d talk about that night at Performer’s Camp. She could deny it, but there had been something between them besides exhaustion-driven folly. It had been too real and too intense for it to have simply been a lapse in their judgment. He knew it. Just like he knew she was out there, alive, waiting.

Leão took a room in a small inn and rested uneasily until dawn. He ventured out with the earliest risers, the street cleaners and delivery boys, moving through the city as if they owned it.

A bell sounded on the north side of the city. One on the south side answered. A baker dropped an entire pan of bread in surprise. Shop owners stopped their daily preparations and exchanged interested looks. Boys whooped and dashed past Leão, headed toward the northern bell.

He caught one by the back of his vest and hauled him to a stop. “What is it? Why are you all running?”

The child took a swing at Leão’s arm. “Lemme go! I gotta get a seat!”