The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (12 page)

“For
what
?”

“Prison riot.”

Leão let him drop and joined the throng.

•  •  •

As Leão neared the prison, he felt a tickle against his consciousness. It wasn’t
essência
precisely, too faint and too fleeting to be of any real power.

He followed the boy up a rickety ladder to the walkway that was suspended above the prison and gave a clear view of the quad.

The prison stood across a walled-in courtyard from the Camaçari garrison’s barracks. Dozens of windows, filled with bars instead of glass, checkered its stone-and-wood face at regular intervals.

“What’s happening?” the boy asked as he sat beside a friend on the walkway, dangling his legs over the edge.

“Prisoners went crazy,” answered another boy.

“Why?”

The other boy shrugged and watched the scene.

Farther down, a child of about twelve answered, “A girl was singing, and someone made her stop.”

“Singing?” Leão asked, hope zipping into his chest.

“Yep,” the boy answered. He pointed to a greasy cloth sack at his side. “I was delivering breakfast to the soldiers. One minute she was singing and the prisoners went scary-quiet listening. Then she stopped and they all went crazy.” He leaned toward Leão and the other boys like he was sharing something confidential. “They were pounding on the bars and walls. When a guard went in to see what was happening, they snatched him and stole his keys, then captured the rest of the guards on duty. They aren’t gonna let them go until Ceara releases all the prisoners.”

“Is it common to sing in prison?”

The group eyed Leão askance, and he guessed that it wasn’t. “Are there lots of women in there?”

The boy who had guided Leão to the walkway answered, “The whole top floor is for women.”

“That’s not where this one was,” the delivery boy replied, pulling a slightly mashed meat pie out of his bag. “I heard her, and her voice was coming from the Crypt.”

All the boys oohed like this was important information. It probably was, and judging from the name, it wasn’t a good place to be. Leão said, “So, the Crypt . . .”

“You’re not from here, are you?” the delivery boy asked around a mouthful of food.

“No, I’m not.”

“No one who goes down into the Crypt comes back alive. You only get sent there if you’re gonna die.”

•  •  •

Soldiers milled about the garrison quad, waiting for a command for action. Some figured they’d just wait until the prisoners ran out of food and water. Others expected an order to burn them out, and damn the consequences to their captured comrades.

The thick layer of fog that draped the square between the barracks and the prison had nothing to do with the overcast sky. From the walkway above, someone might have noticed that the low-hanging cloud didn’t extend beyond the courtyard and stopped abruptly at the gate. But the walls of Camaçari were, as usual, unattended.

Fog wasn’t like rain or ice. It was too ephemeral, too easily disturbed, for Leão to blanket a larger area without straining, and he knew with a creeping sense of unease that before the day was over, he’d probably need every shred of his power.

The soldiers pacing around the perimeter called out every few minutes, but even their voices seemed stifled by the mist. They drifted closer to one another, leaving a large portion of the yard unchecked.

As the watch switched positions, Leão descended from the barrack’s roof where he’d spent an impatient half hour waiting for clouds to drift in front of the sun and cast a myriad of shadows onto the foggy prison yard. He moved with all the silence his training supplied, staying low. Leaping down the stairs to the Crypt, he landed silently on the balls of his feet and slid two picks from his pocket.

One minute passed. Two. The tumblers in the lock wouldn’t shift, even when he urged them with a hint of Air. Frustrated, and feeling his hold on the mist begin to wane, he resorted to a less delicate tactic.

Using his body as a shield, Leão sent a concentrated blast of fire into the lock. The heavy piece of metal melted, running down the door’s face like tears of mercury. The stones beyond were slick beneath Leão’s feet. Above his head the murmurs of the prisoners planning their revolt were muted.

The corridor didn’t run in a perfectly straight line, but drifted off slightly to his right. A few more steps and he felt it again—the flickering
essência
, spotty and incomplete, and wholly different from anything he’d ever come in contact with.

Distracted, he didn’t sense the guard till it was almost too late. A dagger lashed out; Leão raised his arm to block it, taking a nasty gash on his forearm. A blast of air slammed the guard against the nearest cell with a skull-smashing crack.

Leão pressed forward, releasing his magical hold and letting the dead man slump to the ground. The cells on either side of the guard’s body were empty. The barred doors were open, revealing piles of moldy hay and lumps that might be old blankets, scraps of clothing, or worse.

Then he caught a whiff of rotting flesh.

He cringed but rushed on. Needing to know, for sure, that it wasn’t Johanna moldering in this hellhole.

The second-to-last cell was windowless, but foggy white light revealed a huddled lump too large to be a pile of blankets.

This lock fell away easily, clicking open in less than five seconds, but the barred door whined as he pushed it open. The body didn’t move.

From the next cell he heard a whisper of movement and tensed.

“Hello? Is someone out there?”

He knew that voice. “Johanna? It’s me, Leão.”

“Leão—”

The rest of her words were cut off when an explosion rang out overhead.

Jacaré followed the leads he had received from various barmaids and street-corner gossips, and with no results, he sat at the city’s central fountain, waiting for Leão to report back. After two hours, and with an increasing sense of irritation and impatience, Jacaré went to look for his companion.

He hadn’t gone far when there was a blast of
essência
and an equally loud eruption. Leão wouldn’t have done anything to draw attention to himself, but someone else with enough power for Jacaré to feel halfway across the township had just blown something up.

Turning north, he ran.

The explosion was immense—stones churned against one another, and dust showered down on her head. Flames flickered through the plank ceiling, and men screamed.

“Jo!” The lock on her cell clinked to the floor, and Leão filled the doorway. “Are you hurt?”

She threw herself into his arms, sobbing with relief that the one person who could save Rafi had arrived. “In the next cell,” she said. “You’ve got to help him.”

“No, Johanna. There are other Keepers here. I didn’t cause that explosion—”

Ignoring his words, she brushed past him and into the adjoining cell. “Rafi.” She fell to her knees next to his crumpled form, one of his arms still stretched between the cell bars as if reaching for her. “No. No. No. No,” fell from her mouth in a broken refrain.

Her heart hadn’t had time to heal. The pain from her family’s deaths had been hastily bandaged, still raw and festering, something she could survive till she slowed down enough to inspect the wounds. But seeing Rafi, vulnerable and unmoving, with sunken cheeks and cracked lips, was
severing
.

“We have to leave,” Leão said gently.

Johanna didn’t hear him and didn’t feel his hand on her shoulder. She reached forward with nerveless fingers to brush the tangled curls off Rafi’s forehead, tracing the line of his brow, the slant of his cheekbone.

His face was hot, practically broiling with fever. “He’s alive,” she whispered, leaning over Rafi’s body.

“Jo.” Leão’s tone was half plea and half command.

“He’s alive, Leão, and you will heal him, or I will not move from this spot.” It was a weak threat and she knew it. Rafi had carried her away from her brother’s body. Leão could most certainly haul her away from Rafi, but she wouldn’t make it easy. He’d be fighting a battle on two fronts, against her and whoever else was out there. “He’s the Duke of Santiago and my . . . my betrothed.” She could see the conflict on Leão’s face. “Please. He’s my Pira.”

The young Keeper took a quick, surprised breath and knelt down beside her. He pressed a hand against Rafi’s chest. “I can’t heal all of this. Not if I have to fight.”

“Fix him. He’ll fight beside you. He’s good.”

“Against magic?”

She opened her mouth to counter, but Leão shook his head. “I’ll clean and close the wounds, but I can’t do any more without risking our survival.”

It was already a risk, she could tell by the stiffness of Leão’s movements, but he pressed one hand to Rafi’s chest while Johanna prayed to Mother Lua for a miracle.

Rafi shuddered as the magic poured into him; he gulped air and his eyelashes quivered.

“Please, please, please,” she said aloud, clasping her broken hand over her shattered heart.

His eyes opened slowly. “Johanna? What’s going on—”

She smothered his words with a kiss, then said, “We have to go.”

Another explosion blasted overhead, and she threw her body over his.

“I’m pleased to see you, too,” he whispered against her neck, his voice scratchy.

A glistening bubble surrounded them, and Johanna looked up, seeing Leão’s expression shift from concern to concentration.

“We run
now
,” Leão commanded.

With Rafi’s arm draped around her, Johanna followed Leão up the stairs and onto the small square of stones beyond the door.

A bell pealed wildly. Soldiers struggled out of the garrison, stepping into boots and pulling shirts over their heads. Simultaneously, a head peeked out the hole in the prison’s side. Limbs bound in ragged fabric followed. One barefoot man, then a dozen, streamed through the opening. Some wore random pieces of armor and carried handmade weapons—a table leg, the back of a chair for a shield, chunks of rock from the tumbledown wall. Shouts rang. Fights broke out. The flood of prisoners overran the men at the burning gate.

Weapons were raised against the unarmed, knocking some back, forcing others to the ground. A crack. A stab. A wheeze, groan, and splatter.

A gust of air blew the gates open, crushing those who stood nearest to them. Five men stood silhouetted in the opening. The man in the center was significantly taller than the rest; the other four held crossbows.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had another Keeper to fight face-to-face. This is shaping up to be a very pleasant day.” The voice was male, a tenor with a slight vibrato. He raised his hands chest-high and pushed outward. Everyone in his direct path tumbled over. “Or you could bring the girl to me and I could kill you speedily, but that wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.”

Johanna knew who “the girl” was, and from the arms tightening around her, she guessed Rafi knew too.

Leão pressed them both back into the stairwell. “I’ll create a hole in the city wall behind us. It will open onto the jungle. You run. You don’t look back. I’ll send Jacaré after you.” He handed Rafi a short sword. “Protect her. Get her to the wall.”

“I will.” Rafi took the blade without hesitation.

“Leão—”

He hushed Johanna with a touch, his fingers firm. “Be safe. I’ll come when I can.”

She hadn’t liked the Keepers much, even once she understood their mission, but Leão had always been sweet to her. “Be safe.”

Raising one hand toward the wall and one hand toward the approaching group, Leão counted down.

The earth lurched under their feet, a violent wrenching that knocked five of the barbicans out of the wall. Rafi and Johanna clung to each other, lumbering over obstacles, till they were through the hole.

Johanna stopped to see if Leão was following. He stood, tall and fearsome, protecting their escape with a shimmering barrier of light. Bolts of lightning struck on the far side. Crossbow bolts flew, thumping into chests and limbs. Some men died instantly and others slowly.

Leão stood firm, never flinching against the cataclysm that threatened to overwhelm him. Johanna turned away, ignoring the weight of guilt. More people were going to die, and it would be on no one’s head but her own.

Jacaré moved through Camaçari as only a Keeper could. His speed and agility drew the attention of the people standing on the street, and they moved out of his way.

The garrison courtyard was a nightmare relived. Soldiers cut down untrained men. The dying screamed, clutching at gaping wounds as if they could keep their blood from escaping between their fingers. Fire licked the bodies of the unmoving.

For a moment recollection was superimposed over reality. Jacaré could see the hazy image of a girl kneeling at the feet of a sword-wielding Mage. Her blond hair ruffled in the wind, the delicate wing of a shoulder blade exposed by her torn and bloodied dress, the soft curve of her spine as she waited for the death stroke.

The earth rolled under Jacaré’s feet, and the sharp bite of a stone against his palm shocked him to the present scene. A Mage was there, taller and darker than the one who haunted his nightmares, but he was surrounded by collar-wearing minions for protection. No girl was hunched at his feet, but it was little relief. Johanna would soon be at his mercy unless someone could guide her to safety.

Jacaré took a deep breath, forcing away the horror of the memory, and he rushed forward with his weapon drawn. He could approach from behind, take down some of the Mage’s men, and provide enough distraction for Leão to get Johanna away.

But would Leão know how to fix the barrier?

Across the courtyard, blocking a narrow gap in the picket wall, Jacaré spotted Leão casting a broad iridescent shield and fending off the lightning assault. He didn’t need such a large shield to protect himself. If he had made it smaller, he could have reserved power for a stronger offensive attack.

The shield shuddered under a fireball, wavering for a moment before stabilizing. It changed color to a deep green and flashed three times, then returned to normal, then switched to the flashing green again.