Woven in Moonlight

by Isabel Ibañez

  Though my people would disagree, I secretly think their use of color in their weaving is beautiful. I dye my wool various shades of neutrals to keep with Illustrian tradition. But sometimes I crave to pair colors together to see what I could come up with. There’s only so much you can do with art when using white as the main color.

  The chamberlain at the front of the room clears his throat. “Behold, majesty of the upper mountain and lower jungle, and everything in between. Son of the sun god, Inti, and faithful servant of Pachamama, King Atoc, ruler of Inkasisa!”

  I steel myself for looking into the eyes of my enemy for the first time. Years of training have prepared me for this moment. But even so, my hands shake. I move them behind my back and lift my chin. Anger and fear both war within me. I pray to Luna that my anger will win.

  From a door to my left, the usurper strides out. Short and squat, with a blunt face and deep bronze skin, dark eyes and hair. He wears a flowing cape knitted with gold strands over a red tunic and black trousers. I scan his wrists—no adornments. Ana said Atoc had fashioned the Estrella into a silver bracelet.

  The priest leads a procession after the false king. I tremble with what I hope is rage at the sorcerer’s presence. Next comes the rest of Atoc’s family. The boy stands at the end of the line, his attention intent on Atoc, as if he’s a sunflower and the king his sun. They form a curved line around the dais then turn to face the room as the usurper steps onto the platform.

  The boy’s eyes flicker over to mine.

  As he stands among several men and women who all fairly resemble one another, the truth sends an icy chill coursing through my veins. He’s related to Atoc. I ought to have known.

  I search for Princesa Tamaya—the king’s younger and only living sibling—but none of the women look my age or are dressed in the finery befitting a princesa. As the highest-ranking female in the court, why wouldn’t she be here? Shouldn’t she be trailing after her brother?

  “Condesa,” Atoc says coldly. “Come forward.”

  I square my shoulders and slowly walk across the long aisle, past the sneers and hurling insults, past the mocking stares, down the whole ostentatious length of it, until I stand in front of the pretender. Sweat beads at my hairline, but I don’t wipe it away. I don’t want to accidentally lower my chin.

  Servants stand on either side of Atoc, fanning him with banana leaves. Gold glitters from the rings and bracelets adorning his throat and ears. His crown shimmers from the moonlight washing the room in silver light. I remember that crown. Remember how it used to sit on the queen’s dark curls. Back when my parents were alive.

  Everyone drops to their knees, but I stay on my feet. The guards shove me down, forcing my head forward until my forehead cracks against the floor. My breath tickles the stone.

  “Get up, Condesa,” the usurper says.

  Part of me wants to gag. The other half wants to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness. The false king with his cold eyes glittering and solemn, sitting stiffly in his imagined godlike persona, looking down his nose at me—an Illustrian.

  Sofía’s pale, shocked face flashes through my mind. I can never forget Atoc is dangerous—explosive, ruthless, and worst of all, entirely ignorant. He claims to want to help Llacsans and the Lowlanders, his people, then he plans for a road to cut through their territory, destroying homes and wildlife, all to easily export the koka drug to neighboring countries. Gratification, wealth, and notoriety are his real gods, and his greed invites dangerous criminals from powerful countries into Inkasisa who worship at the same altar.

  I’m afraid of what his ignorance may cost me—my life, my mission, or Catalina herself—if I ever let it slip I’m her decoy. I don’t want to be afraid, so I cling to my anger.

  “You’re the niece of our oppressor,” he comments. “You don’t look a thing like her. Tyrant that she was, at least you could say she was beautiful.”

  I don’t flinch. He wants to demean me in front of his subjects? Fine. A small price to pay for revenge. “My deepest apologies for disappointing you.”

  He ignores my sarcasm.

  “Provided you don’t in the future, I’ll forgive your unfortunate appearance. After all, you will be my wife.”

  I stand in stunned silence. I’m prepared for this, or so I believed. But looking at my enemy, at the power radiating off him, I suddenly want to sit before I fall over. Dimly, his words circle me and none of it makes any sense. I can’t silence the roaring in my head.

  “… married at Carnaval. We’ll—”

  I startle. “What did you say?”

  A collective gasp erupts behind me. He regards me coldly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He leans forward. “Never,” he says, “interrupt me again. Nunca.”

  My mouth goes dry.

  He settles back, his fingers drumming against the seat. “I said the wedding will be during Carnaval.”

  I sway on my feet. Carnaval? That’s a mere … eight, no six, weeks from now. I thought I’d have more time. I have to find the Estrella, have to figure out how to get my tapestries out of the castillo. Ana needs to prepare our troops.

  A cold reality hits me. Ana isn’t at the keep. Sofía is dead. Manuel is away on his mission. The only person left to lead the Illustrians in the battle to win back the throne is … Catalina.

  The high priest marches to Atoc and whispers something in his ear. Sajra fastens a hard gaze on me, probing and invasive. Time slows as it did at the castillo gates and I struggle to remain on my feet.

  He bends and whispers once again, and Atoc nods.

  “An excellent idea, Sajra.”

  My heart thunders painfully, slamming against my ribs.

  “Until the wedding,” Atoc says, “you’re not to leave the castillo grounds, and a guard will be with you at all times. Should you try to leave, or inflict harm on any of my subjects, I’ll burn down the bridge. All Illustrians will be rounded up and sacrificed to Inti.”

  My lips thin. An empty threat. Ana’s magic will protect my people—

  I nearly faint.

  If Ana’s safety isn’t guaranteed, our protection will disappear. Even worse, our bridge will become visible. She must be released and returned to the fortress. The walls of the Illustrian keep are nearly indestructible. Without the Estrella, Atoc would lose a sizable chunk of his army trying to tear down the fortress.

  “I want complete access to the fort,” he goes on.

  “You’ll be given access after the wedding.” I keep my expression firm. “Not a moment before.”

  The room quiets, but I don’t care. He can’t be allowed inside the Illustrian fortress. As far as I know, none of these Llacsans understand how the protection spell on the bridge works. They don’t know it’s Ana who weaves it. To them, the only way inside the keep is with my word.

  He stands, his fists on his hips. “I’ll have it now.”

  “If you’re serious about peace between our people, then you’ll accept my terms,” I say. “How do I know you won’t try to murder me before the wedding?” I make my voice softer, almost coaxing. “Once we’re wed, the fortress is yours—along with the spring.”

  The words are out in the open and until I say them, I don’t realize how true they are. If I fail, my people will not only lose their future queen, but their home as well. Cielos, even their lives.

  This is our only chance to reclaim what belongs to us.

  “It’s only six weeks,” I say. “In the meantime, I’m here as your guarantee.”

  He appears mollified and sits again. “As a gesture of goodwill, I’ll be lenient.”

  Atoc snaps his fingers, beckoning to the boy standing at the end of the line. The boy who took away my weapons. The boy who smells like burning ragweed.

  “Rumi,” Atoc says again, louder this time. “Quit daydreaming or whatever in diablos you’re doing.”

  The boy jerks in surprise and laughter ripples through the crowd. He pushes his way through until he stands in front of his king. The people around hi
m give him a wide berth as he sinks to his knees. A few snicker when the boy lays a hand over his heart.

  “High King of Inkasisa,” he says. “I am your faithful servant. How may I—”

  “Take the condesa to her chamber,” Atoc says impatiently. “See to it she is bathed, and her garments burned. She can wear Llacsan clothing.” He doesn’t glance my way. “Leave a guard outside her door. The girl is your responsibility, primo.”

  “It will be my pleasure, Your Majesty. May the ruler of Inkasisa live forever,” Rumi says with a winsome smile, all simpering charm and polite manners. A sharp contrast to my earlier treatment. He remains kneeling, as if transfixed.

  Someone chuckles.

  “Rumi,” Atoc says, exasperated. “Do it now.”

  He springs to his feet. “Yes, Shining One. Por supuesto.”

  His king rolls his eyes and turns to face me. “You’re dismissed.”

  I frown. He never mentioned the Illustrian prisoners. “A moment, Atoc.”

  Atoc bends his head and examines his fingernails.

  “I want your assurance that the Illustrian prisoners will go free. That was part of the deal, right?”

  “It was,” he says mildly. “But you see, one of my cousins never made it back to the castillo.”

  My feet twitch as if preparing for flight. “Primo?”

  Atoc’s lips curl into a satisfied smile that could have belonged to a jaguar. “The messenger.”

  I’m cold all over. He’s going to hurt Ana because I’d been reckless. Sofía’s mother. My friend, who always made sure to save me a cup of coffee after lunch. Who baked cuñapes on my birthday and taught me how to plant cinnamon trees. “I didn’t know. Por favor, the Illustrians must go free,” I say, hating how my voice cracks, sounding like a plea.

  He stares at me, hand still raised as if he finds what’s under his fingernails more interesting than our conversation. I wait, holding my breath.

  Something in his expression shifts, as if an idea has taken root. “All right, Condesa. They will be permitted to leave the castillo.”

  I nearly sink to my knees in relief. My thanks burns on my tongue, wanting to be said, but I hold on to the words. He never should have taken Ana and the soldiers to begin with. Why should I thank him for their release?

  Rumi ambles down the steps of the dais. The guards grab my arms again and haul me back up the aisle lined by the disdainful faces of the Llacsan nobility. Such as they are. We’re almost to the tall doors when Atoc’s voice echoes in the throne room: “Oh, and, Condesa?”

  I turn, wary, his men still holding on to both arms.

  “You belong to me now. Never forget that I can round up more Illustrians if you don’t fall in line. On this, do not tempt me. I own you.”

  His words skid along my flesh, creating goose bumps. The guards push me forward; the doors slam shut behind me and the sound reverberates in the hall. I’m conscious of Atoc’s cousin standing behind me, the guards crowding me, and my jaw clenches.

  “How does it feel being His Radiance’s possession?” Rumi asks. “I imagine the loss of control is devastating.”

  “I belong to no one,” I say quietly.

  Rumi silently stares back at me, his expression inscrutable.

  I raise my chin, wanting a fight, but he doesn’t give one. Atoc wants to humiliate me, bend Illustrians to his will, amass power and legitimacy, and force us into compliance. If the condesa becomes his queen, Illustrians will have to fall in line.

  It’s fortunate, then, that the false king will marry her decoy instead.

  CAPÍTULO

  The guards maintain their tight grip on my arms as we follow Rumi’s lazy strut.

  “I can walk on my own,” I snap.

  “I have no doubt,” Rumi says over his shoulder. “But you’re not allowed to.”

  That’s right. I’m their wild animal not allowed loose in the castillo. I clench my jaw and forcibly remove their hands from my body. When one of the guards reaches for me again, I snarl. He retreats a step and glances at Rumi.

  “If they touch me again,” I say, “I’ll break their noses. Watch me.”

  Rumi throws his hands up in the air. “You’re a menace.”

  I smile at his turned back. It’s a small victory, but a victory nevertheless. We walk down a long corridor and up one staircase then another. The helplessness of my situation gnaws at me. Searching for the Estrella will be impossible if I’m constantly guarded. Is there a way to get Atoc’s primo to talk?

  “So you’re the king’s cousin,” I say, stepping over a chicken. Yes, a chicken. On the third floor. They belong in a pen, not a castillo.

  These people.

  Rumi makes no comment.

  “You must be proud,” I say, after turning down another corridor, chicken-free this time. “If he dies, are you next in line for the throne?”

  He whirls to face me, thunderstruck. “Is that a threat to the king’s life, Condesa?”

  And because I know it’ll annoy him, this Llacsan who worships the usurper, I smile. “It was just a question. Or are those not allowed either?”

  “Gods, you’re going to be insufferable throughout this, aren’t you?”

  “All signs point to it, don’t you think?”

  He mutters something about spoiled idiots and turns away.

  I don’t know what’s come over me, or where this sudden impulse to sass the king’s cousin stems from, but I enjoy annoying him. Perhaps because the only thing I can control at the moment is what comes out of my mouth. Without my daggers or my sword, it’s the only weapon I have left.

  “Am I allowed to leave my room?” I ask as we pass narrow window after narrow window. “How do you keep warm during the winter if none of these windows have glass?”

  I’ve only visited the castillo once and it was during the wet season—hot and unforgiving temperatures amid stormy afternoons that feed the earth and turn it green.

  A flash of bewilderment crosses his face. “Why do you want to know about the windows?”

  “Making conversation,” I say. Each annoyed expression that crosses his face is a small triumph. A triumph that can’t be measured, but it bolsters my confidence nevertheless. “I suppose we could talk about El Lobo.”

  Rumi scowls. “The human wart, you mean.”

  I have my reservations about the vigilante, but upon hearing Rumi’s dislike, my respect for him soars. “He’s not so bad. And since you don’t like the subject, you can think of something to say next.”

  “Generous of you,” he drawls. Another beat of silence, and then he adds, “Who trained you to fight?”

  I frown. “How did you know I could fight?”

  “Do you often carry around daggers as adornments?” His sarcastic tone feels like a smack. “I saw you fight in the courtyard.”

  I wince. My accursed temper will be the death of me, no doubt. But at least word will spread that the Illustrians and their condesa aren’t to be underestimated. “We all learn to fight, Llacsan. Or did you think we sat around all day admiring ourselves?”

  Rumi stops at a heavy wooden door, the middle in a long line. I wonder who else sleeps on this floor. He turns to face me. “It certainly wouldn’t surprise me.”

  As if we lazy aristocrats are capable of only climbing in and out carriages. As if we aren’t capable of surviving. “I don’t even own a hairbrush,” I mutter.

  The corners of his mouth deepen, as if he fights a reluctant smile. Or a smirk. Then it’s smoothed away by hostility. “This is you,” he says. “You’re not to leave unless escorted—”

  “I remember.”

  “Fine,” he says, waspish. He gestures to the guard on his left. He’s almost Rumi’s height, with long hair that brushes past his shoulders. They look about the same age, but this one smells better. Woodsy with a hint of mint. “This is Juan Carlos. If you need to find me, ask him. He’ll be outside your door all night.”

  I stare at the guard. “Nice to meet you.”

&n
bsp; Juan Carlos’s lips twitch at my sarcasm.

  “I’ll come for you mañana.” Rumi opens the door, and Juan Carlos ushers me inside.

  The lock slides into place.

  Someone has done a thorough job of going through my bag. Everything has been dumped on the floor. All of my clothes, gone. My boots and strappy sandals remain. They let me keep my llama wool, a knotty mess that’ll take hours to untangle.

  Looking around, I curl my lip. My room is the color of pigskin. It’s a narrow rectangle, with one big window at the end that leads out to a balcony. The bed has a woven striped blanket and a pillow. A real, honest-to-Luna pillow. I haven’t slept on one since I was a child.

  There’s a handsome wooden dresser with knobs painted in turquoise—of course—and a reading chair propped in the corner. A matching striped rug covers the floor.

  Throwing open the balcony doors, I let the evening air in, not caring if fat mosquitos wander through. The balcony looks sturdy, but even so, I don’t venture out. I’m on the third floor. High enough to unsettle my nerves. But the fresh air feels nice, and it gives me a glimpse of La Ciudad. The bell tower strikes the seventh hour. I look for home, but it’s too dark to see the fortress, even with all of Luna’s stars.

  They’re no doubt settling in for the night. Making do with the food on hand. Bowls of quinoa and several pitchers of jugo de lima on the table, Catalina at the head, smiling and beginning the meager meal with a prayer to Luna.

  I said goodbye to her only this morning and already I miss her. She’ll expect some word from me soon. I have to find a loom, have to tell her about the wedding during Carnaval.

  Carnaval. An Illustrian three-day festival honoring the moon and stars. Parades and costumes, sticky desserts sold on every street corner, dancing and music. It was my favorite time of year. But the Llacsans have claimed it as their own: Now during our holiday, they celebrate the Llacsan sun god and Mother Earth—Inti and Pachamama. The grand finale is a human sacrifice of someone around my age.

  I take a deep breath, and another. I still have time—weeks—before then.

  The door opens, and I spin away from the balcony. Servants carry in a metal tub. More follow with pails of water. I don’t bother hiding my surprise. I’m allowed a bath? With the water shortage in La Ciudad, how is that possible? Is it special treatment? Perhaps Atoc wants to show off his wealth. I suppose it doesn’t matter if he’s “wasteful” anyway. In his mind, access to our spring is a guarantee.