The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (22 page)

Checking the long dagger at his hip, and hoping he wouldn’t need to use it, Leão crept to the alley directly across from the blacksmith’s shop.

One acorn, glowing slightly blue with the
essência
he’d packed into it, was clenched in his fist.

Slowly, forcing itself behind the horizon, the sun set. One minute before full dark Leão threw the nut toward the pulsing sense of power. It rolled, coming to a stop against the front stairs of a grand inn.

A moment later the sun disappeared, and the acorn exploded with something more significant than light. The entire porch erupted with a blast of searing flame. The few people on the street scattered and screamed. Leão kept moving, knowing that the burning building would have everyone’s attention.

As he entered the blacksmith’s shop, his second acorn blew. His time was ticking away—perhaps five minutes before the Keeper realized the explosions, lightning bolts, and wind tunnels were distractions.

The firelit forge illuminated his path. Pira lay on the ground, far too still given the disturbance outside.

“Pira,” he croaked her name. His heart crawled into his throat, choking off his breath.

Not wasting another moment to consider her condition, Leão scooped her body into his arms, balancing her weight against his knees. She was alive but exhausted. Deep smudges colored the hollows under her eyes and blended with streaks of coal dust.

Carrying her was not an option. They had to move fast, putting distance between themselves and the Keeper with all the power. Despite the risk that he’d alert their enemies to his real location, he had to heal her.

Timing his use of power with the third acorn, he flooded her with as much energy as he dared.

Her eyes snapped open, healthy pink color rushing into her cheeks. She blinked several times, then raised a hand to his face.

“This can’t be real,” she said, tracing his bottom lip with one finger. “You’re not real.”

“They’ll be after us any second,” he said, gripping her collar.

“How did you . . .”

His fingers slid off the metal like it was coated in grease. “What do I do?”

“You can’t open it,” she said, directing his fingers to the back. “I’ve tried that a million times.”

“Can we pry it or . . .”

She showed him a deep gash on the side of her neck where she’d tried, and failed, to do just that.

Thunder rumbled as his fourth acorn detonated. The explosion was so big it would have knocked anyone nearby to the ground.

“We’ve got to go now.” Holding Pira’s hand, he ducked out of the shop and joined the chaos in the street. She didn’t question him, keeping pace at his side.

A few more blocks, a twisting warren of streets, and they’d be free. Once on the horses, they’d be safe. They were so close.

Leão tripped, something catching him in the ankle, and he went down on one knee. He bounced to his feet, expecting Pira to be several paces ahead.

Instead she was leaning against the alley wall. Her fingers digging into the bricks, pain twisting her features.

“Run.” Her voice was strangled, her arms shaking.

“Yes.” He reached for her hand, but she snapped it away from him, smashing her elbow into the bricks.

“Run,” she said, ignoring the blood that dripped off her fingertips. She groaned, her warrior’s face contorting with anguish, tears pooling in her pale blue eyes.

He grabbed her arms, but her body was rigid, her muscles locked in place. “Pira . . .” He tried to force her away from the wall, but she punched him solidly in the jaw.

“Run from
me
!” she managed, then kicked him in the knee, and he tumbled to the ground in front of her.

“No.” The word was horror and disbelief.

She growled and raised his knife. “I can’t . . . I’m not . . . please.”

He hadn’t even felt her disarm him. She must have taken the weapon when he tripped—when
she tripped him
. “You’re under their control,” he realized with sudden dread.

The knife cut down in a sharp arc and he rolled, barely avoiding a killing blow. It sliced across the top of his shoulder, skipping along his collarbone. The metal bit deep. Pain lanced through the muscle.

Pira sobbed, her chest rising and falling. “Go!” she said, stepping over him, poised to finish him off.

Pushing himself onto his side, he knocked the blade from her fist, but she was on him instantly. All her training, all her skill, rained down on him.

Her fists and feet dropped onto his back and stomach, precise perfect blows. A kick to his jaw snapped his head back, forcing his teeth to clack together. She followed it with a knee to his sternum, and an elbow strike to the face. Dizzy and wounded, blood dripping from his shoulder, Leão tried to wrap his left arm over his head, to protect it from her abuse, while his right arm reached for the blade.

Instead of fear for his life, he felt a wrenching sadness. He was going to have to hurt Pira to save her. If only he could reach the knife, he could incapacitate her, and then they could go.

“I . . . I’m . . . sorry,” she said as she stomped on his forearm. “I . . . have to kill you . . . now.”

Pira wished for the rats.

She prayed they’d come swarming up the alley, stepping on one another in their haste to feed on her flesh. Their wicked teeth, gleaming and sharp, would have been a welcome improvement over witnessing Leão’s death by her own hand.

Her thoughts twisted in her head, trying to buck free of Vibora’s control. But like a well-trained rider, the cursed Keeper didn’t give up the reins.

As if watching from a distance, Pira saw her foot kick his arm away from the blade. He didn’t seem to notice, nearly unconscious from the blood loss and the beating he’d already taken. She bent at the knees rather than the waist—the collar used the best of Pira’s training against her—and her too-steady hand reached for the blade.

The voice in her head screamed, begged, and pleaded.
Turn it on yourself. Get control. Fall on it. Something. You can’t kill
him
!
But the words were unheeded. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt in a perfect stabbing grip. Not too tight and not too loose, thumb pressed against the crosspiece for maximum control.

The toe of her boot lodged under Leão’s side, and with a strong push she rolled him onto his back.

“No,” she whispered, her tongue the only thing to heed her thoughts. “Get up,” she managed, before the magic stripped her of that ability as well.

He didn’t move. His left eye was already swollen shut, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his breathing uneven. Weak and submissive, he waited silently for the blow that would end it all.

There was simple acceptance on his beautiful, broken face. No thrashing or crying or pleading as she plummeted onto his stomach, forcing the remaining air out of his lungs.

“Leão.” The word was a razor slicing open her heart, yet the traitorous organ continued fueling her actions.

She tried to plead with her eyes, begging him to understand that the hand that raised the blade didn’t really belong to her.

His lips twitched, and she thought he was trying to say her name.

Then she drove the knife into his heart.

Rafi stood in the Council House’s far corner like an outsider.

Johanna had hoped that Performers’ Camp, and its lighthearted atmosphere, would help him shake off his worries even for a few moments. And if she was being honest with herself, she’d wanted to impress him with her home. Obviously, they weren’t a rich people, but they had wealth in kindness and custom.

Both Jacaré and Rafi wore Performer-style clothes—simple white shirts that laced up at the collar, and sleeves that could be tied at the wrists or the elbows, and dark trousers tucked into their boots. It was almost painful to see Rafi dressed as a Performer, to think of him ducking low to enter a wagon. He didn’t belong here, but that didn’t stop her from wishing he’d stay.

“There’s nothing for us to discuss,” Jacaré said as he lowered himself into one of the Council chairs. “If you can spare us a place to sleep for the night and a few provisions, we’ll be on our way tomorrow.”

“All in due time,” Elma said as she relaxed into her seat, leaning her staff against her leg. “Didsbury, I’ve got people working on accommodations and provisions for their travels, but would you mind making sure that everything is arranged for the trip to the wall?”

Instead of sitting, Didsbury stood at Elma’s side, focused on Jacaré and Rafi. “I can. But as head of the guard, I need to know if I should expect any threats.”

“Nothing tonight,” Elma said quietly. “You will need to appoint someone to take command in your stead. You’ll be accompanying Johanna and me tomorrow.”

“I will?”

“These men will not come through Performers’ Camp again, and Johanna and I will need assistance returning.”

A slight gasp escaped through Johanna’s lips.
Is that a prophecy or a command?

“All right.” Didsbury nodded to Elma and smiled briefly at Johanna. “I’ll make sure everything is ready.”

Once he’d left the room, Elma directed Johanna to the bookshelf. “I’d like you to bring me the last volume in the third row. You might recognize it.”

Books were expensive, bulky, and not particularly travel-friendly, so the volumes the Performers kept in the Council House were precious. They ranged in size and shape and material, but they all contained the same thing. Each of the books held a master Storyspinner’s collection of stories, the things he or she had learned from teachers and parents, with a bit of personal history mixed in. Shelf space was dedicated to only the premiere Storyspinners of each generation, though every person with even the slightest storytelling skill kept a journal, in case one was privy to an incredible event—or made up a tale that everyone, everywhere, would want to hear over and over.

Some of the tomes were so old they were rarely taken off their shelves, and only with special permission, the pages fragile in their antiquity. The book that Elma directed Johanna to wasn’t ancient, but she hesitated before pulling it off the shelf.

The handwriting on the spine was so familiar it felt scrawled on her heart. The sting of the nib throbbing with fresh pain.

“Arlo Von Arlo,” she whispered, her finger tracing the letter
L
as it looped into the
O
. “I didn’t know this was here.”

Elma nodded. “We made your mother leave it behind when your family was expelled.”

Johanna felt yanked between anger and relief. At least the manuscript hadn’t burned with the wagons, but the wagons wouldn’t have burned if her family hadn’t been expelled. There was no right way to feel in that moment, so she tried to settle on gratitude that this book of stories and memories had survived.

“All right, dear, I need you to turn to the story of King Wilhelm and his bride.”

Instead of following the hedgewitch’s command, Johanna hugged the book close. “I already know who I am, Elma.”

“Do you
really
, Johanna? I think your father knew something that perhaps even Jacaré hasn’t figured out yet, and something you’ve never guessed.” She held out her hand for the book, then turned to the page she wanted before handing it back. “Start here. You read it. Your voice is much more suited to this than mine.”

Johanna exchanged a look with Jacaré, whose forehead was furrowed. She supposed he was confused or perhaps interested, but his face always seemed distant no matter what he was feeling.

Rafi raised his eyebrows at her, a simple
Go ahead
, or maybe an
I don’t care
.

She began to read from the paragraph Elma had indicated, though she could have recited it from memory. “ ‘Many years passed, but the king had not found a suitable bride. His people were concerned, and they sent girls and women, young and old, from every state and from the isles to gain the king’s hand, but none could earn his fancy.

“ ‘Then, one night, a knock sounded at the Citadel’s gate.’ ” Johanna stopped. The words in her mind didn’t match the ones on the page. “ ‘A girl slumped against the age-old wood, begging for assistance. The sentries hadn’t seen her approach, but everyone who heard her voice hurried to find the king, begging him to open the door and let her in. The halls outside Wilhelm’s personal chambers were clogged with servants and soldiers, all pleading with him to give the girl admittance.

“ ‘But the king closed his ears to her voice, certain there was madness afoot. Finally, on the third day, she began to sing. The sound was beautiful and eerie, the melody completely unfamiliar, and after five minutes the king could resist no more. He pushed through the people who’d lined up near the gate to listen and broke the lock open—’ ”

“This doesn’t make any sense. Why would the gate be locked? King Wilhelm would never have kept it shut for three days,” Rafi said, sitting up straight in his chair. “It must be a tale that Arlo tried to make more . . . interesting.”

“Oh, this is certainly interesting.” Elma smiled slyly, then nodded to Johanna. “Continue.”

Arlo had added to stories all the time, so it wasn’t as if what she’d read was all that surprising. Some stories were embellished and changed, while others were always true to one version. “ ‘Her clothes were torn and filthy. Long gouges marred her skin, and her cloak and dress, which had once been fine, were blood-soaked,’ ” Johanna read on. “ ‘And finger-length thorns were snared in her braid. She trembled from fatigue and hunger, but her beauty was undeniable. King Wilhelm took one look at her and said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”’ ”

“That’s enough,” Elma said, her grin tilted and smug.

Rafi ran his hands through his curly hair, tugging at the knots. “It’s obviously false. It sounds like she’d come through the hedge on the back side of the Citadel. On the Keepers’ side of the barrier.”

“That’s because she did.” It was Johanna who spoke, her voice soft. “Queen Christiana was from Olinda—she was a Keeper.”