The Storyspinner (2 page)

An enormous cheer rose to the sky, completely blocking out the waves crashing on the beach nearby. The crowd didn’t mind that they’d been fooled. They loved the spectacle too much.

Her father finished his routine with a standing backflip and flourish. She couldn’t see his smile but could tell by the confidence in his wave that he was proud—as always—of his performance.

The audience applauded, then laughed when Arlo’s arms whipped through the air again, one shoulder dipping toward the rope.

Johanna didn’t laugh.

Her father rocked forward onto his toes, then back on his heels, throwing his hips out for balance. This wasn’t part of the act, and he never, ever deviated from his routine.

Something was wrong.

One foot lifted high off the rope, extending far to the side.

“No!” The scream wrenched from her throat. She tried to force her way forward, but the crowd was too tight, the bodies too close.

His other foot left the rope and he pinwheeled through the air, disappearing from view. The shrieks of delight turned to shrill cries of terror, all muffling the thud of his body as it smashed into the ground between groups of onlookers.

Weeks later when Johanna woke from sweat-soaked nightmares, she was very grateful her brothers had disobeyed that night and gone to play on the beach.

No child should ever have to watch their father die.

Chapter 2

Jacaré

The doors to the Council Hall hadn’t opened once in the three hours Jacaré had been waiting. Other petitioners had already filtered out of the antechamber, knowing their concerns weren’t going to be heard that day.

But Jacaré stayed, sometimes pacing, his Guard-issued boots clicking on the stone floor, and other times staring at the source of his worries.

The few remaining supplicants probably thought it odd that a trained soldier, who wore weapons on his back and frustration on his face, would bring a piece of stained glass with him to the Hall. But it was this sharp-edged object, smaller than his two palms, that forced him to seek out the Mage Council’s guidance in the first place.

The glass’s honey-glossed surface didn’t reflect the features of Jacaré’s young face, his golden hair shaved close to the scalp, or the eyes that so many people called dangerous. Instead it acted as a window, showing glimpses of the land on the other side of the rugged mountain range that divided the continent into two unequal pieces.

The pictures changed irregularly, sometimes showing faces and people, sometimes vistas and cities.

Well, it was
supposed
to. The window had frozen on one image eight weeks earlier and never shifted again.

Jacaré held the square of glass so tightly that it bit into his palms, leaving angry red ridges in his skin. He prayed for the surface to move, begged it to re-form into a different scene, a different face, a different
anything
.

The security of Jacaré’s people depended on a piece of glass he could shatter with his bare hands, and now the shoddy tool wasn’t even working.

He’d faced the Mage Council when the glass had been frozen for two weeks, and his worries had been ignored.

It’s probably just a hiccup in the magic,
they’d said, rolling their eyes at his concern. Some members of the Council made it clear that the Elite Guard—the police force that kept the less-magically gifted in order—was obsolete and treated the High Captain with little respect.

It’s not a perfect science, you know,
they chided, as if he was unfamiliar with magic and magical objects.

Jacaré did know; he’d been responsible for the Keepers’ protection for nearly three centuries. In that time, images had frozen for a week or so, but never longer.

This was no hiccup. Something had happened; the situation had changed. And there was more than the dysfunctional glass that gave Jacaré the constant feeling of unease.

“When will they see me?” he asked the uniformed attendant standing guard outside the ornate oak door. The carvings were supposed to remind everyone who passed through that the Mage Council was guided by the goddess, Mother Lua.

Jacaré didn’t have much faith in that.

“I told you, sir,” the servant said patiently. “These meetings take time. Many issues need to be discussed and—”

Jacaré didn’t wait to hear the rest, pushing past the attendant and throwing both doors open wide.

The Council sat behind a crescent-shaped table on a raised dais. One member argued his opinion at the center of the floor, where the large windows cast pools of light.

The man’s words cut off abruptly at Jacaré’s intrusion. “What are you doing here?” He turned to the flustered servant who hurried along at Jacaré’s heels. “Silva, how did he get in?”

“I’m sorry, so sorry, Mage Cristoval,” the servant said, rubbing his hands along the front of his green tunic. “He pushed me out of the way, sir.”

Jacaré ignored the exchange and walked straight to the head of the Mage Council. He’d known Amelia for a long time and recognized the look on her weathered face. She wasn’t happy to see him—though really, she never was.

“This is preposterous,” Cristoval continued, taking in Jacaré’s military uniform and the thin leather band he wore around his forehead that marked his station. “We’re in the middle of an important debate. He can’t be here. Our words are only for those sworn to the Council.”

“Peace, Cristoval.” Amelia stood, holding the wide sleeves of her robe away from the desk. “High Captain Jacaré must have a good reason to interrupt us. A very good reason.”

Jacaré slid the glass across the scroll Amelia had been writing on. It smeared the fresh ink and clinked against a jar of sand before coming to a stop.

“Explain this,” he commanded.

Amelia raised one white eyebrow at his insubordinate tone before picking up the glass. “How long has it been frozen?”

“Two months. I need to know exactly what it means.”

She lowered herself slowly into her chair, the lines on her face showing every one of her five hundred years. Her arthritic hands traced the image, a bright blue glow emanating from her fingertips.

“The guardian is dead,” she said in a near whisper, yet her words sent a ripple of murmurs through the Council room.

“You’re sure?” Jacaré asked, his heart fluttering like a startled quail. “He could have taken off the divining pendant and put it in a box or—”

“No.” Her mahogany eyes were solemn. “The man who received the pendant from the king died before passing it along to the rightful heir.”

For centuries the pendant had been worn by the royal family of Santarem, the nation south of Donovan’s Wall. It relayed images to the glass, offering the Keepers the wearer’s view of the court and country. Before the last king had been murdered, he passed the pendant on to someone not of his direct line. It continued to function, but the magical link between the glass and pendant had grown weaker, the pictures coming less frequently.

Jacaré had wanted to climb through the mountains and cross the wall then, but his request had been denied. Because he’d always been a good soldier, he had obeyed.

“What will happen at the wall?” Cristoval asked, moving to stand at Jacaré’s elbow. “Should we prepare Olinda to be invaded?”

“Of course not. Just because the guardian is dead doesn’t mean the heir followed him into the grave.” She covered the shining surface with her palm, hiding the image from sight. “The
chave
is still safe, as is the magic that keeps the wall protected.”

Jacaré heard the nuance in her words.
For now.

Arguments ensued. The youngest members of the Council fought with their elders; some suggested preemptive strikes. Others contended for preparing the city for war.

“Enough.” Amelia brought her hands together and a clap of thunder reverberated around the room. All conversation ceased. “There hasn’t been a single threat from Santarem since we crossed the mountains, and there is no reason to assume an attack will come now or anytime soon. We will discuss this as we discuss all other things: calmly and with consideration to all points of view.”

“If there was ever a time for action, it’s now,” Jacaré said, ignoring her glare. “I’ll take twenty men across the border, identify any threats, and seek out the pendant and the heir.”

“You will do nothing without permission from this Council.”

“My duty is to assure the safety of the wall, which is inexorably tied to the safety of the heir. You’re not asking me to ignore my duty, are you?”

Amelia leaned across the desk, closing the distance between their faces. Her
essência
—the raw energy she possessed and used to manipulate the elements—crackled around her like heat lightning. “I decide what your duty is. You will wait until this Council tells you what steps to take, or you will face the same fate as your predecessor.”

He knew better than to engage Amelia; such a battle would be short and ugly for Jacaré. She was the head of the Mage Council because she was the most powerful magic wielder among the Keepers, capable of calling on any of the elements to do her will with devastating results.

“Yes, ma’am.” Without being dismissed, Jacaré turned and left the Council room.

For weeks he’d been preparing to cross the wall, preferably with permission, but now it was time to defy them all.

Chapter 3

Johanna

Three Months Later

Johanna hopped over the creek, her boots slipping in the mud. She corrected her balance without a thought and dropped to a crouch.

And there it is,
she thought proudly, a smile dimpling her pale cheeks.

One drop of blood, bright as a ruby against a glistening film of dew, was all the evidence she needed. Her aim had been true, the stag clearly wounded when it bolted through the mango orchard and into the forest of untamed walnut trees beyond.

The rabbits weighing down her game bag would help feed her brothers for the next few days. But the deer—
a buck no less!
—could be smoked and salted to keep all their stomachs satisfied through the slender fall and wicked winter creeping closer.

Johanna ignored the shivery sensation along her spine, too pleased with her success to recognize that no birds sang, no rabbits hopped, no bugs burrowed. All the smart animals had found a place to hide.

Her mind wrapped itself in an imagined conversation.
I know you wanted me to stay out of the woods by myself,
she’d say as she passed a steaming bowl of venison soup to her older brother.
But, Thomas, I’d rather go hungry than eat mango again. It doesn’t matter how I cook it—boiled, baked, stewed—it still tastes like mango.

She immediately felt guilty, knowing her words would hurt his feelings. He’d worked so hard since their father’s death and their subsequent expulsion from Performers’ Camp. The accounting apprenticeship didn’t suit Thomas in any way, but his miserly pay bought enough flour and salt to keep them from starving. He certainly didn’t need his sister reminding him of his ink-stained fingers and threadbare clothes.

But her brother’s warnings chafed like a pair of ill-fitting shoes. She cast them aside and sought out a new adventure: the tightropes, the trapeze, the fireswords (although her hair was still recovering from that endeavor), and even the lion cage.

If Thomas knew her at all, he’d know that cautioning her away from the forest was practically the same as marching her to its borders. Especially when there was food to be found and plenty of mouths to feed.

She followed the blood trail. The drops got larger and closer together, finally collecting in pools where the deer had stopped to rest.

Not much farther.

Something crashed in the bushes to her left, and she veered toward the sound. Her fingers tingled with anticipation as she slipped her hunting knife from its sheath. Johanna hated putting deer down, watching their liquid eyes turn opaque. It filled her with an awful sense of finality, but still, she couldn’t let the animal suffer or her family go hungry.

The dense underbrush crackled, fallen leaves crunching as she eased toward her prey. The buck lay on its side, each breath leaving the animal’s throat with a harsh gurgle.

Her shot had been too high, catching the buck in the neck. The arrow’s shaft protruded from above the deer’s breastbone, the fletching torn away during its mad dash through the densely packed forest.

Johanna refused to look at the deer’s eyes, knowing she’d see its fear and be overwhelmed by guilt.

Thomas, Michael, Joshua, and even Mama need this,
she convinced herself, and raised her knife.

Over her pounding heart and the animal’s pained gasps, she heard another noise—a shuffle, a crack, the quiet tread of another predator. Johanna whirled, ready to slash and stab, to turn her tool of mercy into a weapon of destruction.

Too slow.

A heavy shoulder slammed into her ribs, knocking her to the ground. She grunted as a knee dropped onto her chest, forcing the air from her lungs and the knife from her hand.

Years of acrobatics prepared her for that moment. Ignoring the fear and breathlessness, Johanna kicked out with her right leg and looped it around the assailant’s neck, forcing his hood askew.

The stranglehold would have knocked him out eventually, but strong fingers found the sensitive tissue alongside her calf. They dug in mercilessly, scoring her flesh and tearing skin.

Gritting her teeth against the agony, she relaxed her grip on the attacker, and he released her leg. She drew her knee to her chest and hammered the man in the jaw with her heel.

He cried out, and she scrambled to her feet. One step and she was flat on her stomach with the man’s weight across her hips. Johanna threw her elbow, hoping to catch his nose, but received an explosive punch to the kidney.

Stars swirled across her vision, and she blinked to clear them, but another blow blasted across her ribs.

“Rafi?” a voice called from a few feet away. “Raf—holy mercy!”

From the corner of her eye Johanna saw boots.

“Help,” she mouthed, unable to find the breath to project her voice. “Help.”

Then . . . darkness.