The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (7 page)

“Let Ceara handle it. Nobles can take care of their own.”

“No.” She eyed the dagger hanging from Rafi’s belt. She lunged toward him and was clotheslined by Bartlett’s cask-size forearm. “Let me go, Bartlett. Let
him
go.” She kicked backward, aiming for his shins, but he deftly avoided the blow.

“Stay safe,” Rafi mumbled as he was half dragged, half carried away. “I’ll be back for you soon.”

“He fought to protect me, Bartlett.” She struggled harder, whipping her head from side to side. “That has to mean something to you.”

“There are only two things a man fights for: power and love,” Bartlett said, his voice gentle in her ear. “I’ve never met a noble who followed his heart.”

Lightning flashed outside the library window, drawing Dom’s attention away from his pile of books. Usually it didn’t take much to distract him—a sound in the courtyard, a pebble from his pocket, a stray whisker on his tutor’s chin—but he’d honestly tried to stay focused and he’d succeeded for . . .

He looked out the window, realizing that night had long ago fallen and the moonlight was blotted out by roiling storm clouds.

Hours.
Standing, he stretched his arms above his head.
I’ve been working for hours.
Frustration forced out a sigh.
I still don’t know anything.

What do you expect? You can’t make up for years of laziness with a few days of intense studying.

Dom had always gotten by with natural ability and a good memory, but he’d never excelled at his studies like Rafi had. Second sons didn’t need to be well rounded and well versed in history, military tactics, crop rotation, politics, or science. Second sons represented the family at parties and danced with pretty girls. Second sons were never expected to do anything meaningful.

Until now.

His mother was handling most of the preparations: food storage, weapons and armor purchasing, and contacting and conferencing with the underlords. She’d tasked Dom with looking through his father’s journals for the physical plans they’d used to defend the estate during the Ten Years’ War. The fighting had never come as far south as the manor, but his father had fortified their residence, their outlying garrisons, and portions of their border that he felt were particularly susceptible to attack.

It was an assignment that actually mattered, and Dom was failing miserably. He slammed the cover of a book shut, scattering the torn pieces of Maribelle’s letter and the sheets with his scribbled attempts at decoding it. Another failure.

One of the hounds that had been sleeping near his feet raised its head and regarded Dom with sad brown eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that. Go back to sleep, you ugly mutt.”

Instead of turning away offended, the animal sought Dom’s attention. It padded across the room and pressed close to Dom’s leg, its tail thumping the floor in anticipation.

He stroked the hound’s silky red-gold ears and scratched beneath its chin. “If only everyone were so easy to please—”

“Hello?” a voice called from the library’s doorway. “Is someone in here?” Brynn peeked around a bookshelf, looking a little nervous. “Oh, Lord Dom. I heard a crash and worried.”

She pinched closed the collar of her light-green dressing robe.

“I’m trying to figure a few things out.” Dom knelt and gathered his papers, though his eyes kept drifting to her face. Brynn’s red hair was tied back in a loose braid, a few curls escaping in a way that suggested she’d just woken up.

Her cheeks flushed, and Dom realized that he was kneeling at her feet among the papers. And staring.

Brynn had always been pretty, with fair coloring, green eyes, and a nicely rounded figure, but seeing her in the sputtering candlelight long after they both should have been in bed made her even more appealing. There was something clean about her appearance, something that made it more honest than Maribelle’s obvious beauty.

“Is . . . um . . .” Dom cleared his throat. “Is Michael in his own room, or has he escaped again?”

“I just came from there. I read him to sleep.” The color in her face deepened. “And must have nodded off myself.”

Dom squared the edges of his notes and stood. “He is exhausting.”

“I’ll say.” Her smile was sweet, and Dom could see that she had grown attached to their little charge. “I best be off. Mother Lua knows he’ll run me into the ground tomorrow.”

She turned to leave, but Dom stopped her. “May I ask you something?” It was an oddly formal way for him to phrase a question. Their relationship had always been more like equals or age-mates than noble and servant. She’d helped him sneak treats from the kitchen, and mended holes in pants so he didn’t have to explain how he’d ruined another pair. Lately something had shifted between them, and Dom didn’t feel like he could go to her with his flights of folly anymore.

“Of course,” she said softly.

He took a step closer, close enough that he could have reached out and touched her, but he didn’t. “I need you to do me a favor. Something I trust only you to do.”

“Anything,” she said, her tone dropping to match his.

Alone, on a stormy night, in a dimly lit room—Dom had a difficult time remembering what he meant to ask her. The situation seemed perfectly suited to so many other, more enjoyable things.

The moment stretched before he forced out the words, “I hate knowing there is a spy in our house and doing nothing about it.”

She gasped, her eyes growing round. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“I’m certain Maribelle is here for one of Inimigo’s wicked schemes. Reporting our every action back to her father.”

Brynn blinked a few times, her eyelashes fluttering against her creamy skin. “Well, of course she is.”

“You have access to her room,” he continued. “You can search through her things and read her notes. You’re just a maid. She’ll never suspect you.”

“Just a maid,” she said, and took a quick breath. “Yes, of course.”

Dom offered her a bright grin. “You can report what you find when you bring Michael to his fencing lessons.”

“That won’t work.” She returned his smile, but it lacked all its typical warmth. “Lady Maribelle is extremely wary of all the servants. She doesn’t let anyone into her room for any reason. The two ladies she brought with her do all the work, cleaning the space, taking care of her wardrobe.”

“Oh.”

“You might be able to get into her room, though.” She took a step away, her voice returning to normal volume. “She’d never guess you were there for
information
.”

“I suppose I could do that.” Dom knew her words were true, but the way she said them made him feel guilty—like he was doing something wrong.

Brynn retreated to the doorway. “Getting into ladies’ rooms is the one thing you truly excel at.”

It took a moment for her message to sink in, to strike the tender spot that he had already been nursing.

He called after her, but she was already gone.

Rain pelted Pira, dripping down her face and running under the collar. The rivulets of water made the raw skin underneath sting and burn.

Her horse tossed its head, as impatient and uncomfortable as its rider. They’d come to a crossroads, the small forest trail opening onto a broader, well-traveled road. “Is there a reason we’re sitting in the rain?”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a ball of air was forced between her teeth, her jaw cracking as it stretched around the invisible gag.

“You were told not to speak,” Vibora said without looking at Pira. “If you can’t learn to obey, I will make you.”

Pira growled in frustration, bringing her fist down on her thigh. It did nothing to make her feel better. She’d already learned a few hard lessons about obedience.

The evening Barrata arrived, she had tried to run when her captors had fallen asleep. She made it beyond the perimeter of their camp, when the collar yanked her off her feet. Pira fell flat on her back, cursing the sky, as stinging, hot prickles raced along her skin.

Barrata stood above her and giggled. “Make her crawl,” he said to Vibora, clapping his hands excitedly. “It’s always best when they know they’re nothing better than pets.”

Without her consent, Pira’s limbs flailed. She groaned, trying to lock her joints and keep her muscles tight. Vibora’s face contorted in concentration, and a dull ache started in the back of Pira’s head. At first it felt like a hand pressed against her skull, but the pain grew in intensity. In response, her muscles began to loosen, then move.

It was an uncoordinated slither, but eventually Pira followed her master back to the blanket they’d given her by the fire.

“Make her beg,” Barrata said.

With a tired sigh Vibora complied. “Ask me for a drink of water.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Pira managed through gritted teeth. The fist of control closed around her brain and squeezed. Tears sprang to her eyes as she tried to assert herself.

Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head.

“Ask me for a drink of water,” Vibora repeated.

“No,” Pira managed with a moan as the pain spread to her spine.

“Sapo’s going to love this one,” Barrata said, chafing his palms together. “She’s full of vinegar and violence.”

“It’ll be easier for everyone, especially you, if you simply obey.” Vibora had dropped onto a log, stretching her feet toward the fire.

Pira shook her head, failing to dislodge the invader inside her mind.
I will not do what you want.

“You will do what I tell you.”

The fist clenched. Sparks flashed across Pira’s vision, and she collapsed into the dirt. Something hooked around her vocal cords, and the words were yanked out of her mouth. “I want a drink of water,” Pira heard herself say, followed by a mumbled, “Please.”

After that it had seemed that Vibora’s control came easier. It didn’t matter how hard Pira fought, eventually after a round of torture and a headache that left her functionally blind, she gave in. As her
essência
drained away, Pira found that her ability to fight grew weaker.

She understood why Barrata’s minions seemed mindless. They hadn’t had as much
essência
to start with, and as Pira sat in the rain, she wondered how much longer it would be until she, too, lost her will.

“We’re a few hours outside of Cruzamento,” Vibora said, finally turning to look at Pira, a horse length away. “If Sapo had already arrived in the city, a rider would have met us here. As I neither hear nor sense anyone, we can ride on.” She held up one threatening finger. “If you’re going to cause any problems, I’ll leave you here in the forest. In the rain. With a command not to move no matter the situation. I can do that, you know.”

The ball of air in Pira’s mouth dissolved. She took a moment to rub her jaw but didn’t respond to Vibora’s threat.

The Keeper tilted her head to the side, studying Pira. “Jacaré made the same face when he was being stupid and stubborn. It must have aggravated him to have his child use the same tricks—”

“You loved him once,” Pira interrupted. “Did he break your heart? Was that what made you abandon your people and join this . . . this Sapo?”

A blast of power knocked Pira off her horse. She managed to catch herself before any bones snapped, but the fall forced the wind out of her lungs.

Vibora trotted her horse close and leaned over in the saddle. “Do not presume to talk to me about who abandoned whom.” An electric shock jolted through Pira’s body, and she bit her tongue as her muscles went rigid. “You know
nothing
.”

Panting, aching, but dauntless, Pira pressed on. “You don’t know much either.” She wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth. As part of her training to become an Elite Guard, she had been taught never to engage the enemy in a verbal confrontation. It gave too much away and left openings for secrets to leak out, but she couldn’t stop the words from rolling off her tongue. “Jacaré is my half
brother
. He never married. He lived alone until he was named as my caregiver when my parents died.”

It felt so good to have something to hold over Vibora, to know something she didn’t. Pira wanted to see her captor splutter, look shocked, or incensed, or surprised, but she was sadly disappointed.

“The forest or Cruzamento? Can you behave, or should I leave you here?”

Not a word about Jacaré, about their relationship, whatever it had been, or the information Pira had shared. Invisible bonds wove around her body, trapping her to the ground, staking her out for any hungry predator. Or rodent.

Pira cleared the images from her head.

Fool. She’s at least three hundred years old. She’s using a metal that the Mage Council doesn’t know about or has kept an incredible secret. She drains me of my
essência
and beats me with my own power.

You are overmatched, Pira.

For the first time since she’d been captured, Pira felt afraid. “Cruzamento.”

“Ask me nicely.”

Pira bowed her head. “Cruzamento, please.”

•  •  •

Cruzamento had been occupied before. The remnants of war were evident on the buildings’ faces and poorly concealed by slapdash construction. A doorframe boarded over, a wall that ended abruptly, leaving too large a gap between buildings, a weathered foundation with nothing on it—all signs of a city that had stood against Inimigo during the Ten Years’ War and been punished for it.

The people showed their scars with furtive, hurried movements, dashing past the Glorious Gander as if expecting to be snatched inside. The inn was, as its name suggested, glorious. With a columned portico, a curving driveway, and more greenery than the rest of the city combined, it looked more like a country manor than a place of lodging in a bustling merchant town.

Behind the fountain—which featured an enormous, water-spewing goose—a lacquered carriage was parked. The door had been gilded with a clenched fist, similar to the one on Vibora’s cloak.

“Were you expecting someone?” Pira asked as Vibora handed her reins to a waiting groom.