“Atoc’s priest keeps trying to cross the bridge with his underlings,” I say. “You can’t give away our emergency reserves. That’s what they’re there for—in case the Llacsans manage to cross, we’ll have to wait them out.”
Catalina’s lips thin into a pale slash. “Keep your voice down. Everyone will hear you. Ana’s shadow magic will hold against the priest.”
As long as Ana’s still alive. I slump forward on the stool, my fingers tangling in my hair. When Ana told me about her plans for this undercover mission to La Ciudad, I was against it. The city is crawling with Atoc’s guards, and Ana isn’t as young as she used to be. But rumors swirl that his greatest weapon—the Estrella—has gone missing, and if they’re true, there won’t be a more opportune time to finally strike the Llacsans.
I wanted to go with her, but she refused. It’s an old argument. I already have a job. As a child, being the condesa’s decoy seemed easier than living on the streets among the people who’d killed my family and ruined my home. But I didn’t realize then what I’d be giving up—my very identity.
It’s an honor to protect Catalina. To give up my life for hers should it come to that. And despite my duty, despite the long years of living as somebody else, I love her. As a sister, as my future queen.
Sometimes, though, that kind of love just isn’t comfortable.
I send a silent prayer to Luna, asking for Ana’s safe return. If the Estrella’s missing, someone has to look into it. Ana knows the city better than anyone, aside from Manuel, who’s off traveling to the ends of Inkasisa to secure allies. They are few and far between. Most tribes are loyal to the false king, and the ones who aren’t don’t dare rise against him. But still, Ana sends Manuel to every corner of the kingdom. She’s stubborn that way. It’s a trait that has kept us alive all these years.
Catalina is right. Ana will come through. There simply is no other option.
“I need to read the stars,” Catalina says. “Maybe there will be something about Ana.”
I force a smile. She needs every bit of encouragement. “Buena suerte. I’ll be there in a minute.”
After she leaves, I finish weaving the bottom row of the tapestry. I tie off the strands so my work won’t unravel, then hang the tapestry on the wall. Next, I straighten up the place. The leftover wool goes back into my basket; the scraps go into my pocket. I scoop up the moondust shed from my weaving and dump the whole shimmering mess into a canvas bag I keep handy. When inhaled, the powder brings on a heavy, dreamless sleep. Sadly, I’m immune to it.
I sigh and head to the room I share with the condesa. We don’t have much furniture in the keep, and what little we do decorates our room: a narrow bed and dresser, one nightstand, and a pillow. The white paint on the stone walls has faded to a dingy gray.
Catalina is leaning—practically falling—out the window, a dented bronze telescope in her hands. She leans out farther, and I suck in a breath, forcing myself to remain silent. She’d only laugh at my worry. Illustrian magic—magic from the heavens, the night sky—manifests in different ways and at different ages. For some, the magic is slight, like the ability to stay up all night. Manuel’s Moonsight gives him clearer vision when the sun dips into the horizon. Sofía can illuminate darkened rooms. Others are masters of tides. Many who fight in our army become fiercer at night, dangerous like the creatures that hunt by the moon.
Mine is weaving with moonlight. But Catalina reads the stars, the constellations hanging miles above our heads. Deep in the night sky, she can see shifting, glittering lines. A trained and capable Illustrian seer can decipher each new message written in the heavens, but it takes years of dedicated learning and plenty of favor bestowed by Luna.
We used to rely on the seer’s guidance for every major decision. The last person who could accurately read the stars died in the revolt. Now we have only Catalina left to guide us.
And her predictions rarely come true.
“Any luck?”
“Maybe.” Catalina squints into the night. “I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”
That’s a no, then.
She glances at me, her eyes drawn. “Why is this so hard? Even when I see something that might be useful, I’m too scared to share. What if I’m wrong?”
I lean against the arched doorway. “It’ll get easier.”
She wipes her eyes, yawning. “How do you know?”
“Because everything does with practice.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “I think you’ve done enough tonight. Let’s get some sleep. I brought you moondust.”
Catalina tucks the telescope under her arm and smiles gratefully.
I plop onto the bed. “I’m sleeping in. Don’t kick me in the middle of the night.”
Catalina laughs and curls up beside me. “You always steal the blanket.”
“You have the only pillow in the entire keep.”
She nudges my shoulder sharply. I quickly snatch the pillow from underneath her head and smack her face with it. Catalina lets out a peal of laughter as she ducks away from my next hit. “Give me back my pillow, peasant.”
I scoff and land another blow. Catalina grabs the pillow back with a dramatic huff and tucks herself under the blanket, pretending to be annoyed. Anything to forget about the roles we play. I’m not the only one who can’t go by her own name.
She flings her arms wide, and I resist the urge to shove her off the bed. We settle into companionable silence. The pair of us staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought. I can’t get the image of empty food baskets out of my mind.
“You’re right,” she whispers. “It’s strange she’s not back yet.”
I turn toward Catalina and grab the small bundle of moondust from my pocket. “Try not to think about it.” I hold up the bag. “Are you ready for it?”
“Don’t waste it on me. I can try to sleep without it.”
I give her a look. “It’s not like I can’t make more.”
“How much time will you have to weave when you’re managing what we’re going to eat?” She refuses to meet my eye.
“Catalina …”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks. “I know I messed up. I just think the rations are paltry. Lo siento.”
I understand how tempting it is to offer comfort in some way, however small. She can’t be the condesa—not in public, anyway—so she makes up for it by helping and speaking for me, giving as much of herself as she can.
I throw my arm around her shoulders and squeeze. I don’t have the answers, but at least I can help her sleep. “Why don’t you try to rest? Use the moondust.”
She nods.
I blow a pinch of shimmering dust in her face. The effect is almost instant. Catalina’s eyes shut as she snuggles deeper into the pillow.
She looks so young when she sleeps. I inch the blanket higher until it tickles the bottom of her jaw, and then I close my eyes. Thoughts of Ana and our low supplies crash around in my head, and I wish for the millionth time moondust worked on me. We depend on Ana for so much: to lead our resistance, to protect our fortress, to keep our people alive. And she’s counting on us to keep things in order until she gets back.
It feels like my eyes have barely closed before a sharp knock jerks me awake. Next to me, Catalina sits up, rubbing her eyes. The heavy wooden door opens and Sofía pushes in, dressed for battle in a long-sleeve tunic and thick leather belt that stows her sword. On her feet are scuffed leather boots that I know hide slim blades in secret pockets.
“I hope you brought coffee,” I mumble. “Lots of it. Con azúcar.”
“We’re out of sugar,” Sofía says.
Of course we are. “Why are you up at dawn? Is there a training session I don’t know about?”
Sofía motions toward the window, her face grim and serious. “The enemy comes. They’re on the other side of the bridge.”
CAPÍTULO
I jump out of bed, flinging the sheets aside as if they’re on fire. “How many are there? Have they crossed the bridge?
” Has Ana’s magic—
Sofía holds up her hand. “The Llacsans aren’t warriors. They’re asking permission to cross the bridge because they have a message from Atoc.”
“Permission?” I ask.
In the years since the revolt, not one Llacsan has ever asked permission to enter the Illustrian stronghold. They’ve demanded entry, or Atoc’s priest has tried to cross over with his blood magic, hoping to force an unsuspecting Illustrian to show him the way.
“Condesa, what do you want to do?” Sofía asks.
I open my mouth to reply before realizing she isn’t talking to me.
Sofía is looking at Catalina.
My jaw tightens. I don’t make the decisions. I simply uphold them. Catalina’s voice is the loudest I hear in my head, governing what I think and sometimes even what I feel. I understand the role I play down to my bones, but that doesn’t mean it’s not hard. I want to be heard too. Sometimes, when my temper gets the best of me, I’m secretly pleased. That’s the real me breaking through the mask.
Catalina’s hands tug at the corner of the blanket. “Has your mother come back yet?”
Sofía’s eyes darken. “Not yet.”
I frown. This is bad. Really, really bad.
“No word from Manuel?” Catalina asks in a hopeful tone.
Sofía shakes her head. “My brother hasn’t written in months.”
“This is ridiculous. We need to send people to look for her—for them,” I say. “How many went with her?”
“Four. I already gave the order to send out a search team.” Sofía runs a hand through her dark hair in a gesture that mimics her mother.
“All right.” Catalina takes in a deep breath. Her fingers drop the edges of the blanket, and she sits up straighter. Her voice doesn’t waver as she speaks. “Take their weapons. Let them over the bridge. We’ll hear their message, and when Ana returns, we’ll decide what to do next.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. A million things could go wrong. We’ve never let a Llacsan across the bridge. What if it’s a trap?
“I want to hear that message.” Catalina raises her eyebrow at Sofía. “Better to know what Atoc wants, right?”
Sofía nods. “There’s more of us than there are of them. I think it’s what my mother would do.”
Catalina’s expression clears at the mention of Ana. “See to it, then.”
Sofía leaves at a full tilt and without a backward glance.
The idea of talking to the Llacsans twists my stomach. If the roles were reversed, Atoc would turn us away at the castillo gates. Or worse. Many Illustrian spies have perished in his dungeons. Death by hunger, loneliness, and darkness. No message is worth the risk of bringing them across.
But the condesa ordered it.
“Pick out what you want me to wear,” I say. “Nothing too frilly.”
“I wish I could meet with the messenger.”
I consider pricking the condesa with one of her hairpins. “And unravel years of careful planning? I’m your decoy.”
As soon as the words are out in the open, a flicker of unease sweeps over me. It is dangerous. That’s true for her, but also true for me.
Catalina folds her arms across her chest. Deep down she knows every precaution matters. When the Llacsans overran La Ciudad, the usurper ordered a search for the last Illustrian royal that stretched the whole of Inkasisa. But by then Ana—captain of the Queen’s Guard—had locked Catalina inside the fortress, hidden from prying eyes, Llacsan and Illustrian alike. Back then, Ana didn’t trust anyone. We were all too desperate.
Anger courses through my veins. Atoc murdered Catalina’s aunt—the Illustrian queen—along with my parents, by creating a powerful earthquake that destroyed the Illustrian neighborhoods of La Ciudad. Then he’d used the Estrella to summon ghosts who’d gone on a rampage. Illustrians died by the thousands, screaming, begging, helpless. The horror of the massacre hasn’t dulled with time.
I want the condesa on the throne. I’ll do anything to make it happen—fight, steal, lie, or kill. I’m not above it. Not if it ensures Catalina’s future. Not if it brings me that much closer to the life I want, which involves something far different from pretending to be the condesa and swinging around my blade during training. I want to weave tapestries, learn how to cook, and explore Inkasisa.
Only Atoc stands in the way.
Catalina studies me, her head slightly tilted. “You look like you’re about to kill someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“You look … feral. What is it?”
I shake my head. I need to focus on today. On protecting our future queen.
Her dark eyes flick to mine. We’ve never talked about the cost of switching places, because I’m afraid of what would come out of my mouth. Does she know the anger I keep trapped inside?
“Wear the white skirt and woven belt.” She sighs.
“I promise to tell you everything,” I say. “Every word, every detail. But I need you to stay out of the way. You can go over your notes on the constellations. Perfect your craft—”
“Funny thing about my craft,” she says sarcastically. “I sort of need it to be nighttime.”
I search for something else. “Then think about ways to lure El Lobo to the keep?”
Catalina’s eyes light up, and I sneer. Even she falls for that overhyped act. If the masked vigilante is on our side, why haven’t we received a visit from him? For all I know, he’s merely having a laugh at the king’s expense. That’s very different from the revolution we’re planning. The revolution I’ve trained for every day of my life.
I change out of my trousers and knee-length tunic and pull on Illustrian-white garments. Catalina clasps a silver beaded necklace around my neck. I wrap the leather laces of the only sandals I own tight around my ankles.
The condesa turns me around so I face a chipped full-length mirror. She narrowly gazes at my reflection, the corners of her mouth turned down. I examine what she sees: unruly wavy hair, face clean of any makeup, shoulders slightly hunched. I try to imagine what I’d look like if I wore the simple clothing Catalina usually wears as Andrea, helpmate to Condesa. The person I might be if I weren’t her decoy. Whoever that is.
I quickly wind my hair into a knot on top of my head, pinch my cheeks, and turn to face her. “This is the best it’s going to get.”
“You’re not going to brush out the knots?”
She says it like I’m suggesting I greet Atoc’s messenger naked. “It’s already up.”
I grab my sword propped against the dresser. It’s not that I don’t care about my looks—it’s that I feel ridiculous dressing up. Maybe one day I’ll be able to put on a skirt without trying to be somebody else. Maybe one day I’ll look like myself.
I move toward the window to check on the progress of the messenger. The faded curtains whip in the breeze, and a smattering of rain sprinkles my face. The usual pull in my belly flares as I lean out of the window. We’re three stories high and I feel every one of them.
I shield my eyes from the drizzle. The messenger rides a dapple-gray mare, flanked by twelve guards. I grip the handle of my sword, the weight a comfort in my palm. The group gallops confidently toward our fortress, an arrogant set to their shoulders, as if they own the land and the people on it.
Catalina stands next to me, hands on her hips. “What do you think he’ll say?”
“Well, he’s not inviting us to tea,” I say dryly.
“At least Atoc didn’t send the priest,” she says, relief palpable in her voice.
The messenger and his companions ride through the iron gate and into our courtyard. They stop next to the fountain with exclamations of delight. The group dismounts their horses and creeps closer to the fountain, which is fed by an aqueduct carrying water from our coveted mountain spring. Ana destroyed the aqueduct’s path to La Ciudad after the revolt. Because of her, all the fountains in the city dried up, contributing to the water shortage crippling the region. Her hope was to hit the
m where it would hurt most. Then cut them down at their weakest.
Our guards draw their swords and surround the Llacsans. The messenger, dressed in a vibrant striped vest and black trousers, tips his head back and peers up toward our window. I sidestep out of view, pulling the condesa with me.
“He looks like a brute,” Catalina says.
“I’m going down. I’ll send for you when it’s safe.” I dart around her and shut the door behind me. I don’t want to see the forlorn expression on her face.
My feet somehow carry me down the two flights of stairs and toward the great hall. I keep my steps light on the stone floor, ignoring the sting from the leather laces wrapped too tightly around my ankles.
My heart thrums wildly. What does Atoc want? He doesn’t have designs on peace, that’s for certain. I take a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart. The last thing I want or need is to reveal any weakness.
I straighten and push the double doors to the courtyard wide open. Droplets of rain patter softly onto my shoulders.
Everyone hushes at my entrance, Illustrian and Llacsan alike. Sofía steps aside so I can face the Llacsans, but signals for our guards to press closer, forcing the enemy into a cramped circle. Their spears lie at their feet in a neat pile. Every one of them wears sandals and loose-fitting tunics under brightly hued vests. None are dressed for battle. Thankfully, the courtyard is closed off to the rest of the Illustrians. Sofía’s doing, more than likely. She doesn’t have much patience for pesky questions.
Archers stand in the windows of the twin white stone towers guarding the entrance of our keep. I’ve never climbed to the top, but Catalina says that from them you can see La Ciudad in the distance.
Sofía comes to stand by my side. “Condesa.” She nods and I return the gesture, thankful she’s present.
The Llacsan standing at the front of the group steps forward.
The messenger.
“Buenos días, señorita,” he says. “King Atoc, His Majesty of the upper mountain and lower jungle and everything in between, sends you his greetings—and a message.”
Woven in Moonlight Page 2