The Storyspinner (5 page)

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.

Wher
e’
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.”

Dom heard a girl’s pleasant voice and tapped on the door quickly. “May I come in?”

“It’s just Lord Dom,” Brynn explained. “You can ignore him if you want. He’ll likely talk you deaf if you let him in.”

“I don’t mind the company,” she said. “You won’t let me escape anyway.”

He heard the rustle of bed coverings and clothes before he was admitted.

“Hello, I’m Dominic.” He sketched a half bow in his best courtly imitation. “I’m the less responsible, less rigid, and more attractive younger brother of the lord who beat you into submission yesterday.”

Chapter 13

Johanna

Johanna liked Dom immediately. Dom had the same dark hair and eyes as Rafi, but he had a mouth made for smiling and maybe mischief.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“And you, my lady.” He dropped into the chair next to the fireplace and stretched out his legs, stacking one boot on top of the other. Brynn kicked his foot out of the way as she arranged the tray over Johanna’s blanket-covered lap. “They tell me you are a Performer.”

“I was.” Johanna steadied the plate with one hand and shoveled food into her mouth with the other. “We were expelled when my father died.”

“They forced you to leave?” His voice squeaked a little in surprise. “That’s . . . harsh.”

“It’s one of our laws,” she said around a mouthful of porridge. “Death during a show is bad for business, and a sign of bad luck. A hedgewitch reviews each situation and reads each family’s fortune, then she makes a suggestion to the Performers’ Council. If bad luck follows us—and a family is usually cursed if one member dies while performing—then they ask us to leave before it spreads to the rest of our troupe.”

Johanna didn’t mention that her mother had been intoxicated during the review, and that Marin said nothing to convince the Council to rule in their favor.

“Bad luck is contagious?” Dom dug a cookie out of his pocket and offered it to Johanna.

“Like marsh fever.”

Brynn had busied herself with a pile of silk, hanging it on the dressing screen and smoothing out the wrinkles, but stopped long enough to pull a face. Johanna didn’t mind. Few people understood Performers and their lifestyle.

“That’s very interesting,” Dom said.

He squinted a bit at Johanna, and she wondered what he saw. A girl who might have been pretty if it hadn’t been for her ridiculously short hair?

“What type of Performer are . . . or . . . were you?”

“I’m a jack-of-all-trades. I can swing on the trapeze and am a bit of an acrobat, but my father wanted me to focus on something a little less dangerous. So I’m mostly a singer and a Storyspinner.”

Dom slapped one of his knees and said, “Tell me a tale then!”

“What would you like to hear?”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea, miss,” Brynn said, stepping closer to the bed. “What with your injuries—”

“I told you I’m fine. I’ve had much worse.” Johanna tugged up her sleeve, baring a still-pink scar that stretched the length of her forearm. “I got this when I dropped a firesword. It was hot and sharp, and stung for days.” She fingered her dark hair. “It was the same day I singed off all of this.”

She spun the tale, explaining how she wanted to apprentice to the master Firesword, but they wouldn’t take her after she’d burned herself.

Johanna’s voice rose and fell, lyrical as a ballad, as she wove the details of a silly mistake into a story worth listening to. As she spoke she watched her captive audience, gauging their emotions and learning about them. Dom was perhaps a year younger than Johanna and seemed a little bit plush and lazy, but altogether likable. Brynn, on the other hand, worked and fidgeted, darting looks between Johanna and Dom.

She cares for him,
Johanna realized. In Belem and Maringa relationships between the gentry and peasants were outlawed. In Impreza and the outer holdings of Roraima such unions were frowned upon.
But maybe here in Santiago ther
e’
s hope for them.

Then she thought of the conceited soon-to-be duke and knew there wasn’t a chance.

Chapter 14

Jacaré

“So that’s it?” Pira whispered, her eyes flashing. “
That
pile of stone kept the invaders out of our lands for so many centuries?”

The hulking fortress didn’t look as impressive as Jacaré remembered it. No bright banners snapped in the wind. No polished armor reflected the stray bands of sunlight peeking through the clouds. There were no voices, no careful tread of patrol, no smell of horses or livestock. It looked defeated, lifeless, monochromatic.

“Not this empty structure,
criança
.” He called her a child and watched her cringe at the nickname. “The people who once lived here. They protected the wall and kept others from entering our lands.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, reliving the last time he’d been so close to the Citadel. Keepers lined the wall, each standing an arm’s distance apart with their palms flexed toward Santarem. One hundred full Mages worked together, guiding the combined power of his people to construct the barrier. They poured their
essência
into the spell. The majority of them died, and the rest of them remained forever changed.

Jacaré had been deemed too young to participate, being only a year older then than Leão was now. But he’d been heartsore from too much war and loss and ignored the command.

He had stood directly at the center of the Citadel, not far from where Leão crouched among the brambles, and offered his
essência
to help create the barrier. He’d lived so much in those eighteen years, and suffered to protect his people. The thought of giving his life hadn’t scared him, but living with the memories did.

Something had gone amiss; instead of killing him, the magic had rebounded, smashing into him with the force of a landslide. Instead of putting his total
essência
into the wall, the magic had changed him. He’d survived and aged perhaps two years in the three hundred since. A grown man, the High Captain of the Elite Guard, who looked like he should be Leão’s best friend instead of his commanding officer.

At first it seemed like a cruel joke. He’d wanted to die but was cursed with more time. In the passing centuries he learned to put his loss behind him and live with the memories and nightmares. He hadn’t disobeyed an order since that day.

Until now.

“We should never have relied on someone else to protect us,” Pira continued. “We should have used our magic and destroyed them all.”

“Enough, Pira.” Jacaré didn’t lose his patience often, but his sister pushed him closer to the bounds of his control than any other person. “Scout ahead. Leão should have a report by now. See if you can follow his trail.”

She nodded and moved along the scree, her feet seeming to float above the loose rocks.

“They don’t understand,” said Texugo, once she was well out of earshot. “Their entire generation can’t. They’ve never had cannon fire ringing in their ears days after a battle. The smell of burning pitch and the flavor of fear are all elements of a grand story. They don’t believe there is anything more powerful than magic.”

“That’s a lot of words from you, my friend,” Jacaré said, and wondered for the thousandth time since they’d left Olinda if dragging Tex on this task had been the wrong decision. The man had been old when Jacaré was young. Now wrinkles etched his skin like furrows in pale sand, and time had bleached all the color from his hair. Tex wasn’t just old. He was ancient.

Despite his age and cantankerous attitude, Tex knew Santarem better than anyone. He’d traveled it from coast to coast, and from mountaintop to desert dune. But more than that, he remembered the people.

“I’ve got a few more things to say.” Tex lounged against the boulder like it was a feathered divan. “Something’s . . . not right.”

It wasn’t a very definitive statement, but Jacaré didn’t need clarification. Traversing the mountains between Olinda and Santarem should have been a dangerous journey. But the peaks had been bereft of living creatures, both predator and prey. The deer herds had abandoned their valleys, the wild goats had disappeared from the slopes, and the giant cats had vanished.

“I know. I feel it too.”

Tex studied his boots for a long moment before speaking again. “You know the barrier better than I do, Jacaré. If those creatures are getting across, doesn’t that mean it’s very weak?”

“Probably.”

The older man grimaced. “Have you given any thought to what we’ll face when we cross the wall?”

“It won’t be like last time.”

Tex snorted. “Don’t be naive. It’s always like that. There will be bloodshed. There will be loss. There will be no return for some.” His thin white eyebrows rose. “Given the speed your scouts are returning to us, I think bloodshed will come sooner rather than later.”

Leão made no noise as he ran; Pira made little. The only sign of their passing was a thin cloud of dust that puffed behind them.

The two came to an abrupt halt, their dust catching them with a whoosh.

“There are men in the Citadel—at least six—and one woman.” Leão flushed and shot an uncomfortable look at Pira. “She’s not there willingly.”

“They don’t change, Jacaré,” Texugo said, levering himself to his feet and checking his weapons.

“Which is
exactly
why we’re here.”

*    *    *

Donovan’s Wall provided the foundation for the lowest level of the Citadel’s northern face. Miles of gray stone were blemished by an ironbound gate that led into the building. Only one man and the tiny baby he carried had exited through that gate and the dense bramble hedge beyond and survived.

The barrier hummed against Jacaré’s skin, but no jolt of power tossed him back. Instead the magic seemed to welcome him. The bramble curled into itself; the sharp thorns tucking their points into the branches rather than snagging his flesh. The air grew bitter with the acrid sap that dripped from the plant.

His crew followed, unhindered, pressing against the wall on either side of the gate. Its hinges were rusted and broken, but it swung open silently under Jacaré’s touch. He slipped through the door at a crouch, with Pira above him, short bow at the ready.

The rear hall was empty, but the smell of urine and rotting food scraps said it hadn’t been for long.

Leão tapped his ear and pointed upward with four fingers, then pointed to the front of the Citadel with three more.

Jacaré nodded, and Leão and Pira peeled off, making their way through the hall and to the front entrance.

Tex headed for the central staircase, pulling his two-handed mace as he went.

The upper floor of the Citadel was in a slightly better state than the main floor, likely because the small contingent of guards slept on that level and occasionally patrolled on the third story when the weather was pleasant.

The soldiers threw dice on the once-fine rug in the center of the hallway, too involved in their game to realize death stalked toward them on silent feet.

They died as they sat. Dice and blood spilled across the slate floor with a click and splatter.

Jacaré stopped to wipe his blade on one guard’s grease-stained uniform and searched the bodies for clues. He found what he was looking for almost immediately and cut free the coat of arms stitched above the man’s heart.

He tucked it into his palm and entered the chamber which had once been the private quarters of a king. Everything of value had been stripped away except the enormous bed built into the Citadel’s wall.

A body lay sprawled across the tangled sheets.

“Too late for the girl?” Tex asked as he surveyed the scene with casual distaste.

“Isn’t it always?”

Tex didn’t respond, and Jacaré should have known better than to wait for false assurances. Their mission had little chance of success, just as the poor peasant girl had little chance of survival in the hands of six repulsive soldiers.

He’d been too late to save her, but maybe he’d make it in time to save the princess.

“Take care of this,” Jacaré nodded toward the bed.

“Of course.” Tex reached into his belt pouch and pulled out one seed, glowing red against his fingers. With a flick he tossed it onto the bed, which instantly burst into flame.

They stood together in silence and watched the macabre blaze.