The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (36 page)

The armor was sticky, the breastplate too short for his torso, but Jacaré hoped that the blood that marred the golden emblem on his chest and the arrow shaft stuck in the metal would help him sneak past the last lines of defense.

Sapo had built his shield so that people and things could press through it without injury, but it stopped anything of magical means. Reserve soldiers and medical teams waited in anxious groups for a signal that would send them out to face the battle’s results. Jacaré headed due north, cutting far beyond the shield before stumbling into Sapo’s camp.

He was spotted by a medic, a balding man in a spotless gray tunic, who rushed to Jacaré’s side. “How bad is it?”

Jacaré hunched over, causing his stolen helmet to slip farther over his face. “Just a flesh wound.” He held his bloodstained fingers around the arrow’s shaft, completing his performance.

“It’s a miracle, friend. You must be Keeper-blessed.”

Jacaré managed a nod, but his eyes darted around the line, searching for the person responsible for all this disaster and madness.

The bald medic escorted him through the camp, and no one paid him a second glance.

The plan was simple, and so far succeeding. Find someone with no
essência
that he could force to free the slaves. Then locate Sapo. Blast him in the head. Battle over.

Jacaré kept his perusal of the camp secretive. Tents, soldiers, piles of extra weapons, then something caught his eye. Something that froze his feet to the ground.

The medic caught Jacaré’s elbow. “I should have called for a stretcher.”

The man’s words floated across the surface of Jacaré’s mind like leaves in a cyclone, small and inconsequential. Nothing compared with the storm of Jacaré’s emotions. Standing on a wagon’s seat, her hair hanging long and thick over her shoulders, was the only woman Jacaré had ever loved.

Vibora.

He’d watched her die, hundreds of years ago. Stabbed by a Mage while they were on an assignment. An assignment Jacaré had convinced her to take. Her death was blood he’d never been able to wash from his hands—hands that were continually being bloodied in an effort to stop innocent deaths like hers from happening again.

And now he could feel power emanating from her as she worked to support the opposition. He’d known for weeks that Vibora had become the enemy, but until that moment, he hadn’t really
felt
it.

Clutching the arrow’s shaft, he ripped it from the armor. It had been part of his disguise, but her duplicity hurt worse than any real arrow wound.

“Vibora!” he shouted, his
essência
rushing to the surface. People turned, some faces white with surprise and furrowed in concern, others flushed with anger. But Jacaré saw none of them. He was swept away from the battle, away from his duty, like a stick in an unconquerable current, and propelled toward her.

The upward slant of her cheekbones matched the angle of her eyes; the rose-colored lips formed his name as he approached. She’d changed, more than he had, but there was no question. This was his Vibora.

She raised a hand, as if she could stop his progress, her face set in the same lines of panic that had been stamped in his nightmares. “Jacaré, no.”

Two soldiers stepped to block his path. He cut them down with no compunction, striding forward, taking down the next two who stepped in his way. He’d lived for her. He’d killed for her. He’d devoted his whole life to honor her memory.

A barrier snapped into place around them, blocking out the rest of the soldiers rushing to her aid, like an invisible hand had shoved them all away. It was a neat piece of magic; something he wouldn’t have been able to do even at full strength—something Vibora should
never
have been able to do.

She vaulted over the wagon’s side, moving in jerks and starts, one arm wrapped around her body, her other hand gripping her throat.

Despite three hundred years of heartache and the fresher wounds of betrayal, he rushed to her, catching her as she fell against him, their bodies connecting from sternum to thigh.

“Jacaré.” She said his name again, and it shuddered through him, curdling the blood in his veins. “You . . . shouldn’t have come. Not now. You have to run.”

His mouth opened to ask what had happened, what she was doing, what was
wrong
with her, but he couldn’t pluck the right words free.

“You have to go.” Her hand dropped, revealing the silver-white collar.

The band around her throat filled him with a sort of sick relief—a trembling hope that some of her actions could be explained away. He wanted to believe that this Vibora was the same person who had once fought at his side and could never be his enemy. “I’ve just found you,” he said, reaching for the collar and knowing he wouldn’t be able to remove it. “I will not let you go again.”

“We’re in agreement, then.” The voice was familiar, musical, and nearly as painful to hear as Vibora’s. “I have no intention of letting her go anywhere. Ever.”

Jacaré had been so focused on Vibora that he hadn’t noticed her companion. The bench was small, the seat narrow. Sapo must have been pressed right up against her for them both to fit. That knowledge, more than anything else, broke through the wall of ice.

Battle fever rushed in, making Jacaré forget that he was outnumbered and overmatched. He stepped in front of Vibora, his sword and
essência
ready to bring Sapo down.

“Ah, the great Jacaré. Alive after all these years,” Sapo said as he jumped off the wagon’s seat with leisurely grace. “After all these
centuries
, and I never even suspected that she held on to that little love affair you shared at the academy.” He gave a slow round of applause, as if showing appreciation at the end of a show. “I suppose the Performers have it right. Acting
is
in our blood.”

Jacaré let a bolt of lightning fly, but it rebounded off Sapo’s small personal shield, making the air around him shudder.

“I heard that you were weak, but that’s embarrassing.” Sapo gave an enormous, gloating grin. “It must have been hard to live all these years with only a remnant of the power you once had. We should put you out of your misery. Vibora, love, why don’t you start?”

Her arm rose stiffly before flexing, her wrist bent at an awkward angle, like a disjointed marionette. One finger uncurled, bending so far that it bowed in the middle, and stopped to point at Jacaré’s heart.

“That’s fitting,” Sapo agreed, as if he hadn’t manipulated her actions. “He certainly broke
your
heart. Time to destroy his.”

Vibora’s mouth twisted with silent horror as fire blasted out of her extended arm. Jacaré dove to the right, fetching up against the barrier that separated them from the rest of the army.

“You missed.” Sapo gave an irritated grunt. “Let me show you how it’s done.” With a flick of his hand he tossed Jacaré to the enclosure’s far side. The invisible wall absorbed his weight and he bounced off of it, landing on his feet. Sapo hurled attack after attack—fire, ice, air, fire, earth. Jacaré managed to avoid them by raising his magical shield at precise moments, but he knew it was only a matter of time before his efforts fell short and one of Sapo’s blows landed.

His eyes darted to Vibora. Her body was visibly quaking in its efforts to fight off Sapo’s control, but otherwise she was out of harm’s way.

“While this is quite enjoyable,” Sapo said, yawning dramatically, “I have some important matters to attend to.”

A sudden rush of
essência
made Jacaré’s hair stand on end. Sapo’s next attack would not fail.

Jacaré raised his shield, expecting it to collapse under the force of the blow, but what bore him to the ground was something solid and soft. Under the scent of smoke and sweat were the sweet fragrance of summer gardenias and the memory of a body sleeping against his side. His sword fell somewhere to his right, but he didn’t reach for it. Instead his hand sought out the valley of a waist, where it used to rest so naturally.

“Vibora,” he whispered, fingers trailing up her back, reaching for her shoulder, and sliding off the wet pulp where it should have been. He sat up quickly, cradling her body as it tumbled limply across his lap.

“Jacaré.” She said his name with a weak smile, blood marring her white teeth. “Why didn’t you come for me?”

“I did, of course I did! But by the time I made it, your body . . . you were already gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As am I. . . .”

Her head lolled back, her eyes drifted shut, her lashes stilled against her cheeks.

Jacaré had convinced himself that there was nothing crueler than losing her the first time.

He was wrong.

Rafi volleyed six rounds of fireballs into the enemy’s shield, only to see it shimmer under his assault. It should have felt like a victory, knowing his attacks were making some difference, but his attention was split between the approaching soldiers and the collapsed mine. Ursu’s hand was on Rafi’s right shoulder and Yara’s on his left. They lent him whatever strength they had; it didn’t feel like very much against what they were facing.

Layer after layer of dirt fountained into the air, and so far they’d recovered two bodies, both dressed in close-fitting Performers’ gear. Neither moved.

He wouldn’t be able to keep searching for survivors without putting the rest of the Performers at risk. Nausea struck, making sweat bead across his upper lip, when he thought of leaving people, leaving Johanna, buried alive.

A boy appeared at Rafi’s side, shouting something about another army approaching. Rafi heard the words but couldn’t afford to split his attention.

Then he heard Belem’s name.

“Wait,” he said, trying to process the information and continue his magical efforts. “What did you say about Duke Belem?”

The boy was an apprentice Firesword, wearing a yellow sash around his waist, with a spyglass instead of a sword slung through it. He was breathing heavily, having run from one of the lookout points near the shield’s farthest edge. “An army is approaching behind Sapo’s troops. They’re carrying Lord Belem’s banner.”

The strands of power slipped through Rafi’s fingers. His shield started to crumple, but he caught it at the last possible moment. “They came from the south?”

“Yes, Lord Rafi. There aren’t many of them, but they’ve got more than a dozen cannons on wheels.”

Yara gave Rafi an encouraging squeeze, but it didn’t do anything to stop the fear winding tight around his stomach. Had Belem’s troops blown through Santiago? Was his homeland in ruins? Were Dom and his mother safe? “Are they headed toward us?”

“No, sir,” the boy said, cringing when a sudden lightning bolt crackled over their heads. “They’re moving west, toward Sapo’s left flank.”

“What?” Ursu asked, as confused as Rafi. “That doesn’t make any sense. You’re sure they aren’t moving toward
our
flank?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maybe they’re reinforcements,” Yara suggested.

Rafi shook his head, trying to guess what Belem had in mind. “Send the signal.”

“But, Lord DeSilva—”

“We need to give Performers’ Camp as much time as possible. Tell them to stick to the coast, but have them bypass Santiago.” The words tasted of ash and failure. “Tell them to head for Impreza. Fernando won’t turn them away.”

Vibora’s lips were lightly parted, her cheeks still pink. Jacaré shifted her body in his arms so the side of her head rested against his shoulder. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend she was sleeping. He’d lie down and stay beside her for however much time Mother Lua gave him.

A high-pitched whistle rose, followed by another round of applause. The sounds punctured holes in Jacaré’s despair, which drained away, leaving a viscous layer of fury behind.

“By the look on your face, Jacaré, I feel like I’d be doing you a favor to put you out of your misery.” Sapo took a step closer and folded his arms behind his back. “But that’s not my plan, you see. I’m going to collar you, like the rest of the Keepers I’ve captured, and then I’ll use your power to continue fueling mine. You’ll help destroy all the people you’ve worked so hard to save.”

Jacaré pressed a kiss to Vibora’s cooling brow and lowered her body to the ground.

“You can stay on your knees,” Sapo said, reaching for a shining collar that hung from his belt. “It will make this so much easier to snap on. And let’s be honest—with Belem sworn to me, his troops on his way here to clean up the rest of the Performers, Inimigo foolish enough to think I need him, and the princess cowering on the other side of that shield—it’s over. The battle has been won.”

Before Sapo could turn and call to one of the awestruck guards waiting beyond their little bubble of air, Jacaré shot a narrow tunnel of ice into Sapo’s side. It bounced off the thin personal shield Sapo maintained around his body, but he staggered. The congenial smile fell from his face, replaced by something chillingly dark. “And here I thought you’d given up.”

“I haven’t changed that much since the academy, Sapo.” Jacaré kicked his sword into the air and caught the hilt with practiced skill. “Let’s see if you’ve learned anything.”

“You really think I’m going to fight you?” Sapo snorted. “I’m going to destroy you.”

“You’re welcome to try.” Jacaré could feel his pulse in his fingertips; his breath was coming in rapid puffs. He’d never be able to win, but Sapo was supporting three shields: the giant barrier spanning the length of the camp, the bubble that kept the other soldiers away, and the small shield around his body. If Jacaré could draw Sapo’s attention for a while, it would give Rafi and the other Performers a chance to retreat from the soldiers on the field.

Sapo cracked his neck before reaching for the two-handed sword slung over his back. “Your
essência
will be useful, even if you are handless, and footless, and tongueless. Your sister has become very adept at keeping invalids alive.”

The last word hadn’t left his lips when Jacaré struck, raining concussive blows of fire in counterpoint to the slashes of his blade. Each time they came in contact with Sapo’s shield, the air shimmered like a heat mirage.