The Storyspinner (21 page)

Chapter 59

Rafi

Rafi rubbed his eyes with his thumbs, trying to force away the grit of fatigue.

He stumbled into his room and nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized the chair in the corner was occupied.

“Mother!” He returned his dagger to its sheath. “What are you doing here?”

She slid her needle into the fabric she’d been embroidering and met his eyes. “What I have to say couldn’t wait another moment.”

Rafi dropped onto the edge of his bed and began tugging off his boots. “Does this have something to do with Uncle Fernando’s command to keep Johanna watched? I sent two men to guard her camp, even though I doubt she’s in danger.”

“I hope two will be enough.” She abandoned her embroidery and sat beside her son.

“You talk about Johanna as if her demise is imminent.” He loosed his dagger belt and held the knife between his fingers for a moment, remembering how deftly Johanna had tossed and flipped the one she owned. She could handle herself in a dangerous situation. He smiled at the thought and dropped the dagger on the bedside table.

The grin fell off his face when he saw the lines of worry etched on his mother’s. He placed a hand over hers and asked, “What’s going on?”

Lady DeSilva took a breath, and a deep sense of unease washed over Rafi.

“Do you remember the story Johanna was telling before Inimigo burst in? ‘The Survivor of Roraima’? Have you heard that tale before?”

“Once or twice. It’s a fable about a man who survived the razing of Roraima—which we all know is impossible—and how he smuggled out Wilhelm’s greatest treasure.”

“What if I told you the story was loosely based on truth?”

He eyed his mother askance. “Someone made off with the king’s bounty? Congratulations to him, but I still don’t see how this has anything to do with . . .”

A picture began forming in Rafi’s mind. Wilhelm and his family had been killed sixteen years ago, after he failed to diplomatically encourage Inimigo to give up the siege and go home. Wilhelm sent birds to his allies, but Inimigo’s troops shot them all down. One eventually got through and reached Rafi’s father, but by the time Camilio marshaled his troops, they were too late to save Roraima. The township had burned to the ground.

Rafi remembered how his father’s eyes had clouded over and his voice had rasped as he recounted the scene. His best friend strung up alongside his infant child over the gate, warning any who approached to stay away. Camilio had cut down the bodies himself and brought them back to his estate for interment. There had been no mention of the queen, but everyone assumed her body had been in one of the mass graves.

“How could someone have gotten out?” Rafi asked, finding his mother’s gaze. “The Citadel was surrounded on three sides and backed up to the mountain and the brambles. Even if someone had escaped onto the mountain, Inimigo’s troops would have shot him down.”

“I suppose that’s true.” She covered her mouth with her hand for a moment. “It’s just that Johanna bears such a remarkable resemblance to the queen. Fernando saw it too. With her hair so short, it was easy to dismiss, but when she stands in front of an audience, her presence feels so familiar.”

“Fernando said someone was hunting girls that matched Johanna’s description.” Rafi flopped back on his bed. “All because they resemble our dead queen? That’s insane.”

“It’s not only Johanna’s looks, Rafi. Her father—”

“Arlo the Acrobat,
not
Wilhelm the King.”

Lady DeSilva’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Arlo was a close personal friend of King Wilhelm’s, Rafi. He performed at the Citadel several times each year.”

Rafi rolled onto his elbow. “Roraima is near Performers’ Camp. I’m sure they had more performances than the other states.”

“Your father once told me that Wilhelm used Performers as spies, to keep tabs on the happenings in every dukedom.”

It was a genius idea. The Performers had a perfect excuse to be in every state and had access to the gentry. They could pass messages to members of other troupes without attracting suspicion. Rafi wished he’d thought of it first.

“You believe that Arlo smuggled out the princess while Roraima was under attack?” Rafi ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s a lovely fairy tale, Mother.”

“There’s one more thing.”

Her voice had dropped to a near whisper, as if she worried the shadows were listening. “I prepared Wilhelm and the baby’s bodies for interment, Rafi. The baby we buried was a boy.”

Rafi sat up so quickly his mother shied back. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“What was the point? There was no guarantee that Princess Adriana had survived the attack, and then the war started. It was more important to bring peace to Santarem than return an infant monarch to a throne she couldn’t maintain.”

“But why string up the wrong baby, Mother? Why would Inimigo do that?”

“So all of Santarem would believe his victory was complete, and to banish any hope that Wilhelm’s heir survived.”

Rafi rested his elbows on his knees and clutched at his hair with both hands. He couldn’t believe a person could be so repugnant, so disgusting, so consumed by victory.

I should have let Fernando kill him, and damn the consequences.

“For the sake of argument, let’s believe Johanna is . . . who you say she is. How can she pose a threat? She doesn’t have any people. She can’t marshal troops. She’s no danger to anyone.”

Lady DeSilva shook her head. “None of that matters. She’s the last remaining heir to a throne Inimigo has been coveting for decades. He’s not using aggression to seek it out, but a possible betrothal between you and his daughter would assure him your support. Belem is his closest ally, which leaves Wilhelm’s surviving underlords and Fernando to stop Inimigo from taking exactly what he wants.”

There was a weight in Rafi’s pocket, something so heavy that he was amazed he’d been able to push it to the back of his mind. He pulled out Fernando’s ring, and his mother gasped.

“Even less would stand in his way if I’m the heir to Impreza.”

His mother’s eyes welled with tears. “Fernando’s still young enough to produce another heir. Why would he . . . That fool.”

“Until we can convince him otherwise, I’m the heir to two dukedoms. And if we’re going to keep Inimigo off the throne, we’ll need to avoid a betrothal with his daughter.” Rafi smiled at the thought. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I know that look, Rafael Santiago DeSilva. I see it on your brother’s face ten times every day.” She gathered her embroidery supplies, packing up for the night. “In a few days, you will be the Duke of Santiago. Every decision you make now weighs on your future.”

“I couldn’t possibly forget.”
Even if I tried.

“As your advisor, I think it would be best if we entered into negotiation with Inimigo for his daughter’s hand.” She held up a finger forestalling Rafi’s complaint. “If nothing else, it could give us a hint at what intrigue is afoot.”

She was right. As usual.

“It’s not like any betrothal between you and Inimigo would be legal anyway,” she continued. “If Johanna is Wilhelm’s heir, then you’re honor bound to marry her.”

Chapter 60

Pira

Pira didn’t want to be welcomed as a guest. She didn’t want to go down into Performers’ Camp, though the smell of roasting meat and fresh vegetables made her salivate. She didn’t want to abandon the little camp they’d made upslope and spend the night in the valley.

But into the odd little community she marched because her brother commanded her to.

“Stable the horses, see that they get some oats, and try to rest,” Jacaré had ordered as he propelled a bound Benton down the hill. He followed Elma and Tex into a two-story building known as the Council House.

Elma assigned Didsbury to take Pira and Leão to the camp and make them comfortable. The young Firesword stopped at a bell-topped pole that marked the official entrance into the camp. He pulled a worn rope and rang the bell three times.

All movement in the camp ceased, children halted their games, women stopped stirring their pots, conversation died, and every head turned in Pira and Leão’s direction.

“We have guests!” Didsbury yelled.

The stillness broke like a rogue wave as all the Performers in camp rushed to greet their visitors. Someone took the horses’ leads out of Pira’s hand. “Wait!” she shouted, trying to follow their animals.

“Don’t worry about them,” Didsbury said at her shoulder. “They’ll be well cared for.”

She looked to Leão for help, but he had a child in one arm, several others clinging to his legs, and was carrying on a conversation with all of them at once.

Pira wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but she found herself sitting on a low padded stool with a bowl of steaming soup in one hand and a chunk of fresh bread in the other. On her right a young man, probably in his early twenties, described his acrobatic skills and on her left someone in a floor-length cape sang a battle song.

It was too much. Too much noise. Too many colors and textures and smells and people. She didn’t know who to answer, who to thank, which person to watch practice, or which of the dogs at her feet to kick.

Leão didn’t seem to have the same problem. He was shown to another stool across the fire. He ate, carried on two conversations, and applauded at the appropriate moments. His green eyes sparkled, and he flashed his dimples at every girl who spoke to him.

How can he handle all this attention?
Pira thought as she took a bite of her bread, using it as an excuse not to answer the questions of a child kneeling in front of her.

Growing up, it had usually been just her and Jacaré. Their meals had been quiet, tucked in their little cottage. Even the noise of the barrack cafeteria on its worst day couldn’t compare to the jangle of instruments and voices clamoring over one another.

“You need to finish your food before the dancing starts.”

The word “dancing” drew her attention. “I’m sorry? What?”

It was Didsbury. Again.

“They’re building up a bonfire at the center of camp. When it’s ready, we’ll all go dance.” He offered her a grin that was both sweet and a little nervous. “You’ll have to save one for me.”

“Oh.” Pira set aside her bowl, no longer interested in the soup. “I don’t dance.” Apparently dancing was one more thing the Keepers and the Performers had in common, but she hadn’t done much of it since she was a little girl. She always felt awkward and gawky with her too-long limbs.

Didsbury grabbed both of her hands, ignoring the bread she still gripped in her fist. “
Everyone
dances at Performers’ Camp. It would be rude not to.”

Rudeness had never really concerned Pira. If she didn’t want to do something, she didn’t do it.

She dug in her heels and leaned away from Didsbury. “Maybe later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” With a wink, he turned to the fray.

A pounding drum rhythm started and a cheer rose from the crowd. Pira found herself being moved from the padded stool and toward a towering bonfire. She ground her teeth and tugged free of the grip of . . . someone . . . who held her hand, but she caught sight of Leão with a teenage girl under each arm and several at his back. A coterie of small children skipped in front of and behind them.

He smiled at her over his shoulder and nodded for her to follow.

She didn’t want to go, but there was something in Leão’s face she hadn’t seen before—a sort of eager happiness. He looked forward to whatever was going to happen next.

Without a command from anyone in the crowd, all the young men and women (and some not so young) created a ring around the bonfire. A flute blew, and as one the group began a winding, skipping sort of dance around the flames.

She felt ridiculous, looking over most of her dance partners’ heads and treading on feet as she stepped at all the wrong times. Luckily the song didn’t last long, and Pira took the opportunity to slip outside the circle and tuck herself behind some of the white-haired members of the audience. They seemed unperturbed by her presence but wouldn’t let her escape the crowd. Eventually she quit trying, resigned to sit on the ground and watch the revelry.

Leão picked up on every dance as if he’d spent his whole life practicing. And maybe he had. Every time the music changed, a different girl would seek out Leão. They were all petite and lovely, with flashing flirtatious eyes and wide smiles. He’d dance, accept a kiss on the cheek, and move on.

Something small and sharp as a fine sewing needle jabbed into her chest every time he’d laugh or hold a hand or press his fingers against another girl’s waist.

Why would you let something like this bother you?
she thought, and forced herself not to seek out his lean form in the crowd.
You are an idiot.

Chapter 61

Leão

Leão shouldn’t have had any problem falling asleep. The bed was comfortable, the bedding fresh, and having walls and windows was an improvement over bugs attacking him all night long.

And yet, the soft breathing of the person on the wagon’s other pallet—just a scant four inches from his own—was enough to keep him awake.

He should have said no, should have turned down the Performers’ offer of shelter for the night, but he’d been afraid to offend them.

What difference did it make anyway? He and Pira slept side by side almost every night. Sure, her brother was usually on her other side, but being alone with her shouldn’t have made a difference.

But, oh Mother Lua, tonight it did.

He’d coerced her to dance, holding her tight so she couldn’t escape to a quiet seat on the side. Once he had her in his arms, he couldn’t pretend she was another soldier with a wicked jab and sharp tongue. She was a woman with long legs and full, pink lips.

Bedding down with his horse or even in a rank pigsty would have been more restful. No relaxation technique, no breathing exercise, no amount of sheep counting could wash away the memory of her body pressed close as they danced.

Light, how could I have been so blind?

The dance had ended and he hadn’t wanted to let her go, his palms aching to smooth down the length of her spine, to feel the texture of her skin, to—

She turned toward him in her sleep. Leão smothered his thoughts, afraid that perhaps she sensed him thinking about her. Not that it was possible, but members of the Elite Guard all developed an awareness of when they were being watched.

Pressing his forearm over his eyes didn’t block out the sweet torture of her nearness and the heat he could feel rising off her sleeping form.

Green grass. Blue sky. Boats on the water. Pira’s smile when she laughs. Pira’s eyes when sh
e’
s mad. Pira pinning me to the floor during that training exercise last year. Me pinning her back.

He rolled over, trying to create as much space between them as possible. The pallet’s hinges squealed as he moved.

“Leão, are you awake?” Her voice was low, husky with sleep.

“Umm-hmm.” He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Have Jacaré or Tex stopped in yet? Have you heard anything?”

The men had disappeared with Benton, Elma, and the rest of the Performers’ Council before the meal. There had been a few whispers of some sort of broken Performer Code, but no one had speculated about what was happening behind the Council House doors.

If they were anything like the Keepers’ Mage Council, a month could pass before they heard any word of Benton’s fate.

“No. Not yet.”

“Oh.” She stretched, her arm brushing against his as she reached high above her head. “No matter what happens tonight, I bet Jacaré will expect us to ride at dawn.”

“Yes.” He pinched his eyes shut tight, trying not to measure the distance between them, but his body knew she was right there.

Pira rolled onto her side, propping herself onto one of her elbows. “You aren’t getting sick, are you?”

Oh, I’m some sort of sick all right.

When he didn’t answer immediately, she pressed her hand against his cheek. “You feel a little feverish.” Her fingers trailed down his face, finding the pulse at the side of his neck. “Your heart’s beating fast.”

And with her words it leaped into an even faster pace.

“Pira.” Her name rolled off his tongue like a groan. Couldn’t she tell that every move she made, every little touch, incited a battle within him?

Sh
e’
s a commanding officer. She looks at me like I’m a child.

“I’m not good at healing. I have very little affinity for Spirit.” Her hand quested down his chest, pressing her palm over his heart. “But I can try.”

“Stop.” He grabbed her wrist gently, holding it in place. “I’m fine.”

He opened his eyes, finding her surprised face hovering near, but he didn’t release his grip.

“Are you sure?” Her breath was warm and minty against his skin.

And the war was lost.

He raised his head, pressing his lips against hers once, hesitantly. He expected her to jolt and then to slap him. She gasped, but didn’t move away.

So he kissed her again, with more intent. To his surprise she responded, her mouth softening against his.