The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (18 page)

“Which people? Give me
something
, Maribelle, or I swear on Mother Lua’s name, I’ll personally escort you to the border and leave you there.”

“Don’t threaten me, Dominic,” she said, dropping the crust of her pie at his feet and idly brushing the crumbs off her hands. “You need me a lot more than you know.”

“Prove it.”

“Fine.” She hesitated, closing the basket’s lid before she spoke again. “Three nights ago I received some information from one of my sources. Your spy passed information—specific details about your food storage, well locations, and estate defenses—through one of my relays.”

The
pastelzinho
Dom had so quickly devoured threatened to make a reappearance.

“Don’t worry, I was able to stop it from spreading beyond my source. A coded message was tucked under a table leg at the Duke’s Dagger. The inn was crowded, as always, so my relay wasn’t able to see who left it behind, or who wanted to make off with it.”

“Which means any number of people could have put the message there.”

“True,” she conceded with a nod. “But it was in a code specific to Belem’s spies, and only a few people who serve at your estate were at the inn that night.”

“Who?” Dom’s fingers twitched; he wished she’d stop dragging out this game and get to the point.

“One groom from the stable, two maids, Raul, and one other soldier.”

Raul. Raul who we’ve all trusted so fully. He’d be a perfect person for Belem to use.

“The other names?”

“I’ll get them to you, but I need something in return.”

Dom snorted and dropped onto the fountain’s edge. “I’m not surprised.”

“It’s nothing painful,” she said, biting her bottom lip but failing to hide a smile. “Send a letter to your uncle Fernando, asking him to pick up a package for me the next time he has a ship in the Wisp Islands. I’ll write out the details for you later.”

“There’s a trick in this. I can feel it.”

She moved in front of him, wedging herself between his knees and smoothing her fingers up his chest, then interlacing them behind his head. “Sometimes tricks can be fun, Dominic.”

“Maribelle . . .”

Her voice was low, her breath fanning across his cheek. “You should kiss me now. Put on a show for whichever spy your mother has watching us.”

He wasn’t surprised that she knew, or at least guessed at, his mother’s plan, but still he hesitated.

“What’s wrong? Are you worried your precious Brynn will hear about this little tryst?” She pressed a slow kiss below his ear.

It shouldn’t have mattered to him what Brynn thought. She was practically engaged to someone else.

But she hasn’t said yes. Yet. There has to be a reason for that.

“Send a message to Fernando,” Maribelle continued. “I promise the package will only benefit Santiago and your uncle.” She must have sensed his inattention, and pecked him quickly on the lips.

He jerked away. “Fine,” he said, knowing his uncle wouldn’t take aboard a package that would cause any harm. “I’ll do it.”

Four men stood across the road that led to Performers’ Camp. Bright sashes tied around their hips held their swords loosely, never getting in the way of a quick draw. Matching bands wrapped around their brows. Hands loose at their sides, faces stoic. They would have seemed dangerous to anyone but Johanna.

She knew those guard dogs for what they were, playful beasts more likely to slobber on you than bite. Fireswords, all of them, and her friends.

At the sight of the men Rafi took her arm. She jumped at the contact. They hadn’t done much touching during their march—or talking, for that matter. Jacaré had discouraged any sort of conversation, constantly hassling them to move faster and quieter.

The silence had been nearly as heavy as Jacaré’s words, and she’d spent the majority of their hike weighing the truth and its consequences.

The Storyspinner in her screamed to follow her heart and fight for love, finding some sort of compromise that would allow Rafi to continue ruling Santiago and her to stay near the wall. But too many tales were doomed from the opening lines, especially when the lovers were working at cross-purposes.

It might be better for everyone if Princess Adriana went back to being dead.

Stepping away from Rafi’s touch, she broke into a light jog. “Didsbury!” She aimed for the man in the middle of the line.

His stance loosened; his head bobbed forward in surprise. “Johanna?” Then his face broke into a wide smile and he threw open his arms.

Johanna leaped into them; bands of lean muscle pressed her close and lifted her off the ground.

The other men’s voices broke into excited welcomes and questions.

“Light, it’s good to see you!”

“Where have you been?”

“Give me a hug.”

She was passed from one embrace to another, lips planting hard kisses on her cheeks. They were all warmth and homecoming, till they remembered she hadn’t come alone.

“Who’d you bring?” Didsbury asked, edging in front of Johanna, his body creating a physical barrier between her and Rafi. “Is that . . .” His voice trailed off, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword. It wasn’t a threat exactly, but it certainly wasn’t a welcome.

“Rafael DeSilva,” Rafi said, nodding at the men.

“The future Duke of Santiago,” she said, finishing for him.

Didsbury’s brow creased with concern. “Why’s he here, Jo? Why’d you bring him
here
?”

He’s my betrothed.
While it was technically true, she wasn’t sure the legalities had any hold on either of them. Santiago was Rafi’s home and his heritage. Staying with her in Roraima would cost him both, as well as his family, and Johanna knew too well that price of that particular sacrifice. She’d never ask him to make that choice.

“It’s a long story,” she said, feeling Rafi’s eyes on her. “And it’s not one to be told on a trail.”

“It better be a good one.” His voice was limned with concern rather than interest. “I’m surprised he’d leave his home with war on the horizon.”

“What? War?” Johanna’s words were a snap, and both Rafi and Jacaré jerked to attention.

“Duke Belem’s planning to attack Santiago. He’s closed his borders. How did you
not
know?”

Rafi’s mouth worked, but it was Jacaré who spoke. “May we enter Performers’ Camp? It seems we have a lot to discuss.”

The other guards sidled closer to Didsbury, and Johanna noticed that the band around his sleeve was red instead of yellow. She touched it with a questioning finger. “You’re the head of the guard now?”

He nodded; his lips, which tended toward smiling, curved sharply in the other direction. “Ask your other friend about Benton,” he said, nodding toward Jacaré. “We’re a little short on the details.”

Jacaré had told her that he and his crew had visited Performers’ Camp in search of information about her whereabouts, but that was it.

Johanna edged out of the box the guards had made around her. “May we come down to camp? Please. We need information.”

“You need more than that,” Didsbury said, his mouth ticking toward a grin. “You need a hot meal and a bath.” He nodded for Rafi and Jacaré to follow. “We can offer you, all of you, that hospitality at least.”

Wagons speckled the valley floor like bright beads in a palm. Fingers of green, studded with black knuckles of rock, cupped Performers’ Camp and sheltered it from the winds that blew out of the north, and hid the ocean to the east.

Johanna drank in the sight. Her eyes passed over the Council House at the center of camp, unconsciously searching for a red-and-yellow wagon.

It wasn’t there, of course. Its bones lay in a crumbled heap in a mango orchard, far to the south.

“We heard about your family.” Didsbury seemed to know what she was looking for and gave her arm a light squeeze. “Mother Lua will see their souls home.”

She nodded, grateful that it wasn’t a tale she’d have to tell. They walked past the bell pole, and her gratitude spread. Instead of announcing their arrival with three peals, Didsbury led them into camp like family instead of visitors.

Jacaré carried himself as always, watchful and wary. Rafi seemed to mirror the Keeper’s attitude, but nothing could hide the emotions in his dark eyes. He caught her gaze for a moment, then it dropped to the arm draped around her waist.

She almost stepped away, moving to his side instead, but she stayed with Didsbury.
Distance,
she counseled herself.
Don’t make this harder than it has to be.

“You three can clean up at the springs, and we’ll gather Elma and the Council at the House.” Didsbury sent one of the Fireswords as a runner and the other two to watch the trail. “She’s been asking for you. Seemed to know you’d be here soon.”

“Hmm.” Johanna couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for the old hedgewitch. If it weren’t for Elma and her supposed ability to see the future, Johanna’s family would have stayed safely in Performers’ Camp.

Had Elma sent them away knowing that it would result in their deaths?

Johanna didn’t like the answer to that question, no matter what it meant.

War. Belem. Home. Mother. Dom. War.

Rafi didn’t want to believe what the guard had said. It was only a rumor, and rumors got blown out of proportion.

But what if it’s not? Oh Light. Mother will manage the food, but Captain Alouette’s dead, so preparing the state for attack will fall to . . . Dom?

So lost in his thoughts, Rafi didn’t notice when their guide, a blond boy of about ten, stopped. Rafi trod right on the boy’s heel and earned a dirty look in return.

“I’m sorry,” Rafi said, finally taking in his surroundings.

“This way,” the boy said, waving them into a series of caverns tucked under the mountain’s feet at the northern edge of the valley. They entered through a natural cave and went down a half dozen man-made steps. The rock was dark and porous, light peeking through crevices above and pocking the ground beneath.

Two benches, each built into the tunnel’s wall, held mounds of neatly folded towels and a stone bowl full of soap shavings. Water lapped a few paces away, a hint of steam rising in the distance.

“Leave your boots and stuff here. No one will steal it,” the boy said with a growl in his voice. “The pools are down that way. Didsbury said to have you wash up and give you some clothes from the castoff pile. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Jacaré clapped Rafi on the shoulder as he walked past. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, but you’re not going to be able to go anywhere now or in the next few hours. Clean up and rest.”

Anger flashed through Rafi, replacing his fears instantly. “Don’t give me advice. We’re
not
on the same side.” He gave the Keeper a shove that forced him back onto his heels. “I heard what you said to Johanna. You can’t possibly expect her to stay
here
now that the world knows who she is. Everyone, everywhere, will be after her for their own gains.”

“Does that include you, Rafi? Or are you willing to give up your dukedom to live the quiet, powerless life she wants?”

“That’s not—”

“You’ve had half a day to tell her that I was wrong. Why didn’t you take her aside and promise to give up Santiago?” Jacaré smirked and stepped out of his boots. “Because it wasn’t a promise you could make. You won’t give up your dukedom, and you want her to take the throne. Then you can manipulate her every decision, turning Santarem into the happy kingdom you always imagined.”

“No!” Rafi’s voice echoed in the narrow cavern. “I mean . . . I don’t want to
control
Johanna. I just want her to take her rightful place.”

“Even though she wants nothing to do with politics and birthrights.”

“She
should
.” Rafi stood still, staring at the water eddying a few feet away, trying to ignore the whirlpool of his own emotions. His mother had once asked him if he wanted to be king, and his answer had been an instant no. But as the other dukes had fought for power and control, sacrificing Santarem’s best interests for their greed, and as his own underlords had betrayed him, taking the throne had become a more and more attractive idea. Being king meant he would have the power to pull down the other dukes and replace them with better men.

The ambition, however, made him feel guilty. He couldn’t simply take the throne; he needed Johanna for that, and she had no desire to rule. Rafi wouldn’t force her to do anything against her will, or he’d be no better than Belem and Inimigo.

But if she could only see . . .

There was no clear way out of this maelstrom. The thoughts circled around and around, tugging at him one way and then another with no clear escape.

Jacaré shrugged out of his shirt and folded it neatly before he spoke again. “I see something in you I once saw in myself—a compulsive need to fix the ills of Santarem. That’s a worthy goal.” The Keeper strode toward the pool. “Just make sure you’re not using Johanna to get what you want.”

“I am
not
using her. I want to protect her.”

“And the best way to do that is to let her disappear.”

Johanna slipped the jade-colored gown over her head. It was a typical Performer style with a corseted bodice and full skirt. Hints of eyelet lace traced beneath the bust and along the elbow-length sleeves.

The material was lightweight and smelled of the lime soap they produced at Performers’ Camp. She closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent. The quiet trickle of the water in the women’s bathing cavern, the metallic tang of damp stone under her feet, the texture of the ribbons as she struggled to tie the bodice with her still-healing hand: All of it gave her the sense of home, of belonging. This place, this sheltered little valley, with its boisterous people and loud wagons, would always call to her.

And yet the thought filled her with a trembling sense of sadness. Her hands stopped fumbling at the laces. She leaned against the stone wall, and closed her eyes, trapping the tears that tried to form