“So we need to hop over the wall and find this girl and bring her closer to it.” Pira shoved the glass toward Leão. “What’s the Council’s problem with that?”
Jacaré and Tex exchanged a look. The old man shook his head and turned back to the fire.
“They’re scared. We crossed Donovan’s Wall and erected the magical barrier to protect ourselves from the influences of the people on the other side.” Jacaré ignored Tex’s grunt and pressed on. “The people of Santarem have short life spans, but they outnumber us by more than a thousand to one. Even without magic, they could overwhelm us. During the Mage Wars, our people were divided. We killed each other and the people of Santarem.”
“It was an ugly, bloody mess,” Tex interjected. “No one wants to see it happen again.”
“Are they great fighters and strategists?” Leão asked, fingering the glass much like his grandmother had. The same blue glow emanated from his fingertips as he searched for a flaw in the magic.
Leão was a full Mage, gifted with the strength and ability to command all five elements, rather than just one or two like Pira and Tex. He’d chosen to become a soldier over the softer life of a diplomat. For that he had Jacaré’s respect. And because of Leão’s willingness to defy the Council, he also had Jacaré’s trust.
“Some are violent. They harm each other much more frequently than our people do.”
“I still don’t see the issue,” Pira said, stealing the glass back from Leão.
“There are several problems. Half the Council thinks that if the barrier collapses, the people of Santarem will attack us,” Jacaré explained. “The other half thinks that Santarem has forgotten us, and we’d be better off forgetting them. The Council won’t take action until they can come to a unanimous decision.
“It’s been two months already, and I fear the princess may be in danger.” He made eye contact with each person around the table. “If she dies without passing on the bond, the barrier will fall, and then it won’t matter what decision the Council makes.”
“What makes you think she’s in danger?” Pira asked, always looking for the fault in his logic.
“I believe her guardian was murdered, and whatever trouble found him will go after the princess next.”
Chapter 10
Leão
Leão shifted his pack, moving the sword strapped underneath closer to his right shoulder. He prayed he wasn’t going to need it for the rest of the journey, but something cold and venomous coiled in his belly. Death lurked somewhere nearby, waiting to strike.
He hoped to anticipate the bite and avoid its sting, but there were no guarantees for any member of their small group.
The sun had set on their third day of travel and with the failing light, the chilly air sank into his bones. Still, he held his position near the bramble hedge that hugged the mountain’s feet and listened to the sounds coming from the fortress centered in Donovan’s Wall. Jacaré called the square-shaped building the Citadel, and it was the first sign of civilization Leão had seen since they had left the borders of Olinda two days before.
Jacaré had been certain Pira would join their crew. The High Captain had four packs already prepared with foodstuffs, bedrolls, and weapons, and they left the cottage without a word to those who would miss them.
Defector, Leão’s conscience had taunted. You’re leaving your post. You’re disobeying orders. You’re defying the Mage Council.
The guilt waned as they passed the Elite Guard’s last outpost. The men stationed there had grown lax with nothing to do besides hunt the occasional mountain cat that raided the sheep herds nearby, and the crew had breezed past the location without detection.
The outpost wasn’t going to be much of a defense if something or someone did try to attack Olinda, and because of that Leão felt reassured by his decision to be part of Jacaré’s incursion.
Passing the outpost had been their only chance of being detected or detained, and after that the trip had gone smoothly. They’d seen no signs of the dangerous predators rumored to haunt the narrow canyon that sliced through the mountain range. Not a growl or call or print.
Leão had been a bit disappointed that he hadn’t faced any of the legendary creatures—pumas the size of horses and twice as fast—but as he turned his focus back to the Citadel, he realized there were plenty of challenges to come.
He used a trickle of his power to encourage the wind to blow in his direction, carrying the sounds of the fortress with it.
The men spoke harshly. If this was the quality of people that guarded the border, then Jacaré had been right to worry. From what Leão could tell, they spent more of their time swearing and spitting than doing any actual guard work. And their lack of concern showed.
The building they protected was falling into ruins. Two stone towers rose over the wall dividing the mountain range from the rest of Santarem. Portions of its crenellated ramparts had crumbled, leaving gaps like missing teeth in a sorry smile. The watchtower roofs under their hats of thatch leaned drunkenly toward each other, too weak to stand on their own.
It was a hideously constructed facility, but what it lacked in beauty it made up for with sheer immensity. Olinda didn’t need fortresses, nor could the Elite Guard have manned one this size.
Not that the Citadel was full; he’d only heard four voices in the entire hour he’d crouched among the thorn bushes. Enough men to raise a warning if there was an attack, but not enough to stop even a small group of people hoping to cross into Santarem.
Hoofbeats drew his attention. They clattered across a stone courtyard Leão couldn’t see. Two men, two horses, and a struggling captive.
From the sounds of the whimpers and occasional plea, he guessed it was a woman.
Mother Lua, these people are disgusting. He listened for a few moments more until he couldn’t ignore her cries. She may not be one of our own, but Jacaré will want to know. This is wrong, no matter which people she belongs to.
Chapter 11
Johanna
A voice drew Johanna from a dreamless slumber. Her eyes popped open, expecting to see the beams of her wagon ceiling or perhaps a starry sky, but never a watered-silk canopy.
Images flashed across Johanna’s mind like shadows on a tent wall: the deer, arrow, flying fists, arrogant prig, Lady DeSilva. Then she remembered.
There must have been something in the tea she gave me. Johanna stretched tentatively, feeling sore but not agonized. Whatever it was, it worked.
“Pardon, miss.” A redheaded girl in a maid’s cap held a bundle of pale blue fabric in her arms. “My lady asked me to attend to you. She sent this dressing gown for you to wear.”
Johanna would have to get out of the bed soon if she planned to walk across the forest and through the orchards before her brother sent out a search party. She didn’t want to leave the luxury behind but couldn’t bear to worry her family. “Where are my clothes?”
“They were taken by the laundress and will be returned when dry.”
“Oh.” Johanna fingered her borrowed nightgown, feeling the lump of bandages that bound her ribs underneath it. “I was hoping to go home now.”
The maid smiled sweetly. “Good thing your family has come here.”
“What?” Johanna checked the window; the sun was still in the sky. Her mother probably didn’t even realize she was missing.
“Your brother’s come to claim you.”
Johanna cursed.
The maid giggled, flushing as red as her hair.
“I’m sorry . . .”
“My name’s Brynn, miss. Don’t you worry, my brother’s a sailor. I’ve heard worse language on his shore visits, and find myself directing those same oaths at him before he returns to his ship.”
“Do you know which of my brothers is here?” Please say Joshua.
“I believe he gave the name of Thomas. Lord Rafae
l sent word to town to let your folks know you were well.”
Except that if Thomas was at the estate, in the middle of a work day, all was certainly not well.
“He’ll be up shortly with Lady DeSilva.”
Perfect.
Johanna let Brynn slip the robe around her shoulders and tuck her back into bed. Moments later a knock sounded at the bedroom door.
Thomas rushed through, his face pale as Mother Lua in the night sky, and so similar to their father’s that Johanna cringed. Lady DeSilva followed at a more stately pace.
He knelt next to the bed and took her hand. “Are you all right, Jo? The lady told me what happened.” His eyes flitted to the bump on his sister’s forehead, but the rest of her bruises were hidden. He pressed on, his voice worried. “What were you thinking? I told you to stay out of the forest by yourself. You know it isn’t safe. Girls are kidnapped every day. What if you’d been caught by someone with less honorable intentions? I can’t even . . . I don’t even . . .” He ran out of steam. “I just . . . I can’t protect you when you won’t do as I ask.”
Thomas rarely deviated from the script when it came to arguments. He asked all the questions without waiting for answers, his concern making Johanna feel guilty and foolish.
“I’m sorry.” She meant it, but for so many other reasons.
He bowed his head for a few breaths, then looked at her with intense blue eyes. “Can you walk home? I’m sure Mother will be frantic when she realizes you are gone.”
“No, no, no.” The duchess waved away the idea. “She can’t walk home, and she certainly can’t ride home. She may have cracked ribs.”
Thomas gave his sister a knowing smirk. “Johanna could walk on two broken ankles.”
Of course, he’d bring that up. Another time when her disobedience had resulted in an injury.
“My ribs aren’t broken anyway.” Johanna swung her feet over the side of the bed, feeling sad to leave the cozy comfort. Her fold-down pallet in the wagon wouldn’t be nearly as kind to her bruises. “If someone will bring me my clothes, we can be on our way.”
“They won’t be dry till morning,” Lady DeSilva said, folding her arms across her chest. “You will both stay the night. We can make up the room for you next door, Master Thomas.”
Thomas stood, his head barely coming to the duchess’s chin, and yet he knew how to command a room. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Your Grace. I have to return to the accounting office by dawn.” He held out a hand to Johanna, intending to pull her to her feet.
He’d probably lost half a day’s pay to see to his wayward sister, and they certainly couldn’t afford to lose any more. Johanna knew he’d carry her home if he had to.
Lady DeSilva put her hand over his. “Let her stay then. We’ll have our physician check her bruises again in the morning and you can escort her home tomorrow evening.”
All of Arlo and Marin’s children knew when to bow their heads to authority, but Thomas’s battle was evident on his face.
“Please forgive me for asking, my lady, but can you guarantee my sister’s safety while a ward of your household?”
The duchess pressed her lips together in a tight line, and Johanna prepared to be tossed out of the room. “If I am not mistaken, you are Arlo the Acrobat’s son and have visited this estate at least a dozen times. Correct?”
Thomas and Johanna exchanged a glance and nodded.
“As Performers, you’ve had a chance to compare our estate with those in Maringa, Belem, and Impreza. Would you say that I’m a tyrant or cruel or fail to uphold the laws of my land?”
“Of course not, my lady,” Thomas said, looking as taken back by the question as Johanna felt. “Your estate and township are orderly, your tenants happy, and your staff voices no complaints.”
It was true. The DeSilvas were known for treating their people as near equals rather than shoe-kissing subjects.
Lady DeSilva, at least. I’m still not sure about her lordling son.
“Will you let the words of my people serve as a testimony for my household, if my word of honor is not enough?” the lady continued.
Johanna mentally applauded the duchess. She worked Thomas like a pickpocket with a fat mark, taking control of the conversation without him noticing. The people of Santiago, the peasants and gentry alike, were prickly about their honor. Denying her request would have been a serious slight.
“Your word is enough, my lady,” Thomas said, and bent his neck to her will. “My father always believed you and your husband were rulers worthy of our respect.”
Lady DeSilva’s smile lit her face. “Give my son the chance and he’ll earn your respect as well.”
Johanna rolled her eyes, but only Brynn—who stood forgotten in the corner throughout the entire exchange—seemed to notice.
“Well then, we’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
Thomas stooped to kiss Johanna on the forehead, just as he always did. “Enjoy your time here.”
“I’ll try.”
Chapter 12
Dom
Dom always ate in the kitchen. There was no better way to start a morning than with pão de queijo hot from the pan, and milk fresh from the cow. He and Rafi used to sneak out of bed well before sunrise and wait under the kneading table. Cook would scream and rant and chase the boys out of her domain, but never before they got handfuls of cheese bread to tuck into their pockets.
It had been four months since they’d breakfasted together—and years since they could both fit under the table—but Dom still ate at the counter with the servants who stopped in for a bite. Rafi took a pannier of breads and meat with him to eat between visits with farmers and merchants.
Besides their weekly search of the forest for poachers’ traps, Dom only saw his brother on the training ground. They hacked at each other with practice swords and foils, rarely exchanging more than a few grunts or apologies when one or the other landed a particularly hard blow. Dom secretly missed their morning conversations and the time when they were brothers instead of lord and second son.
Things had changed for both of them when the duke had died.
“Good glory, that girl can eat,” Brynn said as she dropped a tray onto the counter beside Cook. “She said she’d like four more eggs and two more bowls of porridge and a few slices of bread.”
“Do you think she’s hiding it somewhere?” Cook asked as she stirred something with a rhythmic flick of her wrist. She was a lean woman for a chef, but strong as an ox. “The butcher’s boy told me he hasn’t sold them one slice of meat in all the time they’ve lived in town. I doubt they’re eating well if they’re hunting. It’s been too dry for anything besides a few lean hares and bony pheasants.”
“I watched her eat every bite,” Brynn said, pulling a face. “It’s almost unseemly.”
“She’s a Performer,” Dom said, breaking into the conversation. “She’s probably swallowed swords and balls of flame. I’m sure a dozen eggs wouldn’t hurt her stomach.”
“True.” Brynn blushed to the roots of her hair; she was always red when Dom was around. “But she’s also a girl. I couldn’t possibly eat so much.”
“Why don’t you grab her meal and I’ll go up with you and say good morning.” Dom tilted his head subtly toward the pantry, and mouthed the word “custard.”
Brynn ignored him. “Cookie, be a dear and fix our guest another tray? I’ve got to go check to see if her clothes are dry. Though it would be best for everyone if her pants got lost in the laundry. No girl in her right mind would wear breeches that tight.”
“She’s a Performer.” Dom backed into the pantry, never taking his eyes off Cook. She didn’t appreciate filching and could wield a wooden spoon like a mace.
“Still, she should have some decency, don’t you think?”
“Have you ever seen what the Performers wear while they’re swinging and
flying and climbing on each other?” He spoke a little louder than normal, hoping his voice would carry beyond the pantry’s door. Then he went to work, stuffing cookies, tarts, even an entire jar of blackberry preserves into the pockets that lined his pants from hip to calf.
“That’s different. I’ve seen Performer girls after shows and they’re all dressed like proper young ladies.” Her eyes were wide, her face extra red. Will you hurry? she mouthed.
Where’s the custard?
Cook turned, her eyes going wide, as her free hand patted the counter looking for her wooden spoon. “Dominic Marcello DeSilva, empty your pockets!”
Dom dodged wide, swinging around the kneading table and darting for the door. Cook brought her wooden spoon across his shoulder, but Dom made it into the hall without any further abuse.
The original portion of the estate was a sprawling three-level manor, but two stone wings had been added to form an open-ended triangle. As Dom rounded the corner and began pounding up the stairs, he heard Cook yell, “Your mother will hear about this!”
And she would, but when it came to cherry tarts, he’d accept any tongue-lashing.
Brynn huffed after him, a porcelain tray in her hands. “Must you antagonize her every day?”
Dom squinted at the ceiling as if mulling over a difficult sum. “Yes. I’m certain I must. Someone has to keep things interesting around here, or we’ll all become straight-faced and grim like Rafi.”
“Responsible, you mean,” Brynn said as she hurried down the hall. The sun poured through the eastern windows, casting splotches of colored light on the floor. “Some people find responsibility attractive.”
“People like you?” Dom asked and leaned against the doorframe, blocking her path.
Brynn’s face pinked again, but she lifted her chin haughtily. “What if I do?”
“Then you’re more a fool than I realized.”
“At least he’s not a little boy who steals treats from the kitchen.” She gave the door a quick knock before shouldering it open. “Miss? I’ve brought the food you asked for.”
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