The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (28 page)

Giving information to the enemy was treason, but secrets shared between servants and then whispered to an untrustworthy friend or bedfellow were an unfortunate risk of running a large house. Sabotage, however, was an entirely different level of betrayal. And this particular act was something that would have resulted in the death of people that the spy knew.

The cannon powder came out of the caskets in wet clumps, sticking to Dom’s fingers and coating his hand with a sulfurous muck. He was certain the stench would stay with him for the rest of his life, but if they didn’t defeat Belem, there was a very good chance that the DeSilva line would be extinct by the week’s end. The duke could—and likely would—have Dom and his mother hanged from the estate’s gates, and Rafi, too, if he was ever found.

Careful not to flick it into the fire, Dom smoothed the powder in a thin layer on top of bedsheets he’d torn from the drying line. He prayed the exposure to the air and heat might dry the powder enough to make it usable.

It took hours, even with the fire built up high, but it was working. At least some of the powder would be ready as early as the next morning. Hopefully, by then the barrels would have also dried out enough to reuse.

Dom rolled into one of the washbasins full of soaking clothes, and let the citrus-scented water close over his head. He didn’t know if it was particularly clean, and he didn’t care. It washed some of the stinging grit away. Then he found himself a set of unused sheets, curled up in a relatively powder-free corner, and went to sleep.

•  •  •

Dom couldn’t say what exactly it was that woke him. He was dozing in a giant powder keg, so he certainly wasn’t sleeping deeply. But like so many times over the last few weeks, he had a sense that something was amiss.

He sat up slowly, eyeing the rows of sheets that hung from the drying lines like hammocks, weighted with the nearly dry powder. The only light in the too-warm room came from the fire in the hearth, which had burned down significantly while he slept. He wished he’d taken the risk of having a lantern nearby.

The rain fell steadily on the tile roof outside. One of the soldiers, standing protected under the eaves, called to his counterpart on the opposite corner. The next voice responded and passed the call to the next soldier, till all four had answered. Whatever had startled Dom wasn’t outside the building. Fingers of dread tickled up his spine.

Could the sound have come from inside?

The hanging pouches of powder swayed lightly, as if stirred by the wind or a gentle touch. Dom scanned the windows, but all were shut tight, keeping out the rainwater that would have destroyed his efforts.

Had the sheets been swinging on their own earlier or . . .

Sand through a sieve, salt spilling from a jar, something hissed across the floor with the tumbling of a thousand grains. He knew that sound.

Bolting to the trapdoor, Dom found it open wide, a trail of cannon powder trickling down the stairs in an unbroken line.

Oh Light.

He scuffed out the line, breaking it up, but he’d seen the powder in action and knew that one spark would light every speck. One firefly-size ember would land, and the entire thing would go, racing up the stairs and turning the washhouse and everything around it into a ball of flame.

Dom couldn’t let that happen. Afraid to yell and startle the culprit into lighting the powder, he sprinted after the sound of the footsteps and the hiss of powder as it trickled out of a sheet.

Whoever it was knew the way through the tunnel system and into the cellars, moving toward the stairs that would lead up to the kitchen. Before he turned the corner, Dom heard a sharp
shtick
of flint against steel.

The smell of the powder hung in the air. Could it burn, too?

“No!” Dom screamed as he dove around the corner and into the body holding a knife and flint.

His shoulder sank into the intruder’s stomach, and they tumbled to the floor. A slashing pain burned across Dom’s chest—a knife wound, he was sure—but he ignored it and used his weight to keep the weapon pinned between their bodies. A glancing blow crossed Dom’s head, but he managed to raise an elbow and block the second attempt.

The blade grazed Dom’s ribs again, but he used his toes to propel himself up the intruder’s body and slam the heel of his hand into a jutting jaw.

A bobbing light appeared over Dom’s head, then a booted foot materialized out of the darkness and kicked the traitor in the ear.

Once, twice, and the body went still.

Dom rolled to his side, pressing his hand against the gashes on his chest, and looked into the face of his savior.

“Maribelle.”

She dropped to the ground at his side, lowering the lantern to cast its light on his wounded chest.

“Don’t set it down,” he said, raising his hand to stop her. “We’re surrounded by cannon powder.”

A puddle of powder spilled out of the torn sheet and coated the ground around the intruder’s body.

“Is it
dry
?” Maribelle asked, holding the glass-entrapped flame high over her head.

“It is now.” Dom had hoped to be able to keep the secret a little longer, and announce it with more fanfare. It had been a brilliant, dangerous idea, and he was proud. Instead of celebrating, he was lying on the cellar floor bleeding with . . . “Who is it?”

Maribelle swung the light over the traitor’s face. “It’s the butcher.”

“You mean his son, Renato?”

She shook her head. “Not unless all his hair fell out and he doubled in girth overnight.”

Something in Dom’s chest loosened, relief rattling. The butcher had come with his son a few days earlier to deliver a large shipment of salted meat. Dom wagered that if he checked, he’d find the meat stored in the same passage where the powder had been. They were trusted members of the community, and with Brynn’s engagement, Renato had been visiting the estate more often.

Poor Brynn. Plied with love for information. Dom could imagine her sharing gossip with the man she thought would be her husband, only to have it passed to Belem.

This would hurt her, and no matter what had happened between them, he never wanted that. But he felt a guilty thrill that this also meant she could go back to being
his
Brynn.

Maribelle set the lantern on the stairs, then hastily tore strips from the sheet and bound the butcher’s hands together. “How bad are your wounds? Honestly?”

“It’s just a scratch,” he said, rolling to his feet. From one of his pockets he pulled a mostly clean square of linen and pressed against the worst spot.

“You’re sure?” she asked, peeling his hand away from his sternum.

“A few stitches, maybe, but I won’t die from it.”

Her fingers floated over the gash that crossed his heart. “You’re lucky.”

“It was a little knife.”

The smile that had curved her lips failed. “Sometimes the little wounds hurt the worst,” she said, and turned away from the kitchen stairs. “There’s something else you need to see.”

•  •  •

Dom wasn’t surprised that Maribelle knew her way around the cellar, its passages and storerooms. There weren’t many access points—the kitchen pantry, the washhouse, the barracks’ armory, and the barn—but it was certainly possible that she and her attendants had been using them to get around unseen.

“We have very little time before Belem arrives,” Maribelle said as she led the way. “His spies have ramped up their efforts to destroy us from the inside. I, in turn, have redoubled my efforts to find the traitor by splitting my attendants—”

“All three of them?”

She ignored him and pressed on. “I’ve worked on breaking the cipher his spies are using. I thought Belem was going to try to poison the wells, but the message we intercepted today said to ‘destroy all supplies.’ I thought maybe it meant they were trying to destroy your food stores, and I stationed a
couple
of people near the pantry and in the tunnel to watch for intruders.”

Maribelle stopped, shifting her weight nervously, before pointing to the gratelike door that led to the winery. Only a few people had keys—Dom had never been trusted with one—but the heavy lock on the door hung open.

A breath stuck in Dom’s lungs, burning like he’d inhaled something toxic.

“Careful,” Maribelle cautioned. “The floor’s wet.”

Of course it is.

The smell in the air wasn’t just noxious, it was slightly citrusy, but mostly it stank of potent alcohol.

Two lanterns hung from hooks on the wall, illuminating three people. One was Maribelle’s attendant; the second had her hood up, pulled forward to disguise her face, but Dom knew this was Maribelle’s secret weapon—another attendant, likely a twin to the first.

But it was the third person who drew Dom’s attention. She wore a tight-fitting tunic and black pants that hugged her body in a way she’d once said was inappropriate. A bruise marred her fair skin, and blood crusted one corner of her mouth. Her hair, bright and untamable, was hidden beneath a black scarf.

She struggled against her captors’ grip, and broke free to run straight into Dom’s arms.

“Help me,” Brynn said, resting her cheek against his clavicle, ignoring the blood on his skin.

He thought she’d feel warm and soft in his arms, but her face was cold and she smelled like the worst sort of pub.

The crates to his right were open; ten empty bottles and corks littered the floor.

“What did you do?” he whispered into her hair.

“It’s not what you think,” she responded as softly.

Closing his eyes, he ignored the sharp pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the knife wounds. “Then tell me what I should think.”

“I caught them down here—”

“Please don’t lie, Brynn. Not now.” Grabbing her elbows, he pushed her back a step. “You brought me the
Álcool Fogo
. We discussed how flammable it was.
You
were the only person who could have guessed that I had plans to use it.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “You don’t understand—”

“That you’ve turned traitor to Santiago. To my family. To
me
?” The last word was a shout. Dom took a shaky breath and moderated his tone. “I understand that completely.”

“Dom . . .”

He turned his back to her and faced Maribelle. “Can you watch over her while I get the guards?”

Maribelle opened her mouth, and Dom thought she was going to argue, but instead she said, “Yes, of course. And find someone to stitch up your wounds as well.”

Halfway to the stairs Dom stopped and rested his hands on his knees.

He was tired. He was injured. He was facing a battle that, even with all his plans in play, he might very well lose. At least, that’s what Dom told himself as he tried to catch his breath.

A sinkhole expanded inside his chest, sucking at his heart and lungs, crushing them in a black void.

This is not panic, or fear, or heartbreak,
Dom coached himself.
This is not heartbreak.

The soft sound of weeping replaced the thunderous pressure of a hundred voices. The booming pain inside Jacaré’s head disappeared, but it left behind a raw, gaping hole of sorrow. For a few moments, while he channeled the power of the wall through Johanna and Rafi, Jacaré had felt the presence of his friends and family long dead.

Their souls weren’t trapped inside the barrier, but their
essência
had left an echo of the people he’d known and loved and watched sacrifice themselves. He’d relived a dozen lifetimes in that brief moment, feeling his mother’s lips feather across his cheek and his best friend’s hand on his shoulder. He’d heard snatches of battle songs and the booming laughter of a former crewmate.

He opened his eyes and saw Johanna supporting Rafi’s head. She brushed his curly locks away from his brow, tears dripping onto the boy’s face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of this. I’m sorry for last night. . . .”

Her apology stretched on as Jacaré watched with a sick sort of realization. “Johanna,” he said, rising slowly. His legs were shaky from the strain on his
essência
and from a sense of grief that couldn’t be ignored. “What did you do?”

Her eyes went as flinty as the stone wall that stood behind her. “What did
you
do?” She gestured to Rafi’s prone form. “He’s
glowing
.”

Jacaré tilted his head back, searching the sky for any hint of the perfect tapestry of light that had hung for centuries above Donovan’s Wall. It was gone.

I failed.

His hands gripped the sides of his head, fingers spread over his shorn scalp. The leather
cadarço
he wore around his head pressed against his palms. He tore it free and threw it against the wall. He didn’t deserve to wear it.

I’ve failed them all.

His second attempt at saving the barrier had been as futile as his first. He’d tried to donate his
essência
to the wall then, and had been left with a fraction of the power he’d had. And now, even though he’d battled the temptation to take it all back, he’d failed to repair it. All that power, all the swirling light that had been sucked out of his friends, was useless now, stored in a lifeless teenage boy.

“Fix this,” Johanna said, her voice cutting through the miasma of Jacaré’s emotions. “Whatever you did, undo it.”

“I can’t!” Jacaré shouted. “You broke the connection with the wall. I pulled all the power through you and pushed it through him. It was supposed to be an unbroken circle, binding all three of us to the wall, but when you broke the connection, everything poured into him. There’s nothing I can do to change it now.”

A pain, fresh and vicious, shot through Jacaré’s calf. He looked down, wondering if he’d managed to fall onto one of his own weapons—and at this low point he could almost believe it—but he found a rat the size of a
capivara
tearing through the leather of his boot.

The animal raised its head, brandishing two yellow teeth marked with his blood. “What in the . . .” He grabbed the animal by the back of the neck and cocked his arm to throw it off the cliff, when something worse peeked over the edge.