“My abuela would blush to hear you talk,” Juan Carlos says mildly, rounding one of the corners.
I sidestep a squawking chicken, and their hold loosens enough for me to jump, my fingers just grazing the wool. Rumi spins around, somehow forcing me toward the wall. I pull up my hands in time to save myself from the crash. I barely notice the sting on my palms.
“Where are you taking my tapestry? I worked on it for hours—give it back!”
“You’ll present it to the king,” Juan Carlos says as we reach the stairs. “The giving of gifts is an important part of our culture. Understanding our traditions will help make you into a better partner for my king. The tapestry is a fine gift. It will put you back in his good graces.”
“When have I ever been in his good graces?”
“You ask too many questions,” Rumi says.
“It’s because I have a mind.”
He turns his head away but not before I catch the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Don’t you want to be in his good graces?”
Oh no, this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with his image. When Juan Carlos said Rumi was worried, this is what he meant. He’s worried about his reputation in the castillo.
“More like put you back in his good graces,” I snap. “You’re a fool. Chasing after the king like a lovesick child, desperate for a scrap of attention. Everyone at court laughing at the spectacle you make.”
Rumi scowls. “Do you have any idea—”
He stops, breathing hard through his nostrils. I wait, my hands on my hips.
“All eyes are on me,” he says finally. “It’s not a good thing. I’m not going to repeat myself. You’ll take this tapestry, give it to the king after court, and all will be like it once was.”
“Why isn’t it a good thing?” I ask.
He gives me an exasperated look and strides on, still clutching my tapestry.
What was that about? For a moment something flashed in his eyes. It almost looked like … fear. But for what? His position in the castillo?
“I bet my time in prison didn’t work wonders for your position in the castillo.”
Juan Carlos shoots a quick look at Rumi. That’s it. My jailor is in trouble with his king.
“You know nothing about what I do here, Condesa,” he says tightly.
I open my mouth to let out a sharp retort but realize he’s right. Other than being a relative of Atoc’s and a healer, I have no idea who he is. What does he do all day? The question bubbles up, unbidden and unwanted. I squelch it, chalking it up to curiosity, and return to the important matter at hand.
Carnaval is a mere five weeks away. I’ve been in the castillo almost one week and Catalina knows nothing of my wedding date. That means one whole week lost for preparation. We thought we’d have more than enough time to find the Estrella, and that we’d have Ana to guide us. My stomach tightens into a knot. They’ll know about Ana by now. How I’ve failed her and Sofía. It’s Catalina who has to take over. She’s never had that kind of responsibility. I hope Catalina knows enough to fortify the newly visible bridge with soldiers. I hope she manages the provisions wisely.
We reach the tall double doors to the great hall. Rumi half turns in my direction, keeping the tapestry out of my reach. “Present the tapestry after court, Condesa,” he says again. “Present it sincerely and privately. Remember what I said about flattery? It’ll work wonders. Ready?”
“Of course not.”
“Too bad,” Juan Carlos says.
I make one last attempt to grab the weaving, but Rumi jerks away. The doors swing open, and I follow behind him, my attention on the silvery words that spell out my treason.
And my doom.
CAPÍTULO
The false king stands on the dais, wrapped in an intricate woven cape and feathered headdress. As much as I hate to admit it, the piece certainly has flare. Catalina would love it if she could forget that it sits on the head of a Llacsan.
Color continues to dog my step wherever I venture. It’s splashed on the walls, woven into their fabric, and painted on their faces. Back home, white and its cool crispness adorn every Illustrian. Even the children. And if I’m being honest—privately—it always made me sad to see them trying to keep their outfits pristine.
Rumi wears simple black trousers and a hat, a multicolored striped vest and leather sandals. He looks royal, matching the king’s cool stare as we walk down the long aisle toward the throne.
Rumi drops to one knee. “May the High King of Inkasisa live—”
“Enough,” Atoc snaps. “Move away, primo.”
Rumi scrambles to join the rest of his family. Once again I frown at Princesa Tamaya’s absence. She’s old enough to be here. Unknowns are not what my people need right now. What is Atoc hiding with his sister? Something dangerous?
Atoc stares down at me as if I’m an araña to be stepped on. On his left stands the high priest, dressed in a long robe, his beady eyes watching my every move as I approach. I can’t return his gaze, the cold fingers of his magic capturing my breath imprinted in my memory.
“Condesa,” Atoc says coldly. His fingers curl tightly over the armrest of his gold throne.
“King Atoc.”
He tilts his head at the empty gold seat to his right. “You’re to keep silent.”
I swallow a retort. I vowed to control myself, to play the part. Catalina and our people are relying on me. At least I called him king.
Rumi rushes to my side, awkward and bumbling amid laughter from the court, and places the tapestry into my hands. I expect Atoc to remark on the work, but he’s already looking toward the doors. The healer walks to the side of the dais and gives me an expressive look that says something along the lines of, Don’t embarrass me.
As if he doesn’t do that enough to himself already. But I go and sit stiffly, the tapestry on my lap. Atoc frowns at the bundled fabric. I clutch at it protectively. He opens his mouth to say something—
“They’re assembled outside, King Atoc,” Sajra says, and everyone’s attention turns to the tall double doors.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Allow the first petitioner inside,” the false king says. His bronze arm rests near mine, and I scoot as far away as I can. He doesn’t seem to notice. Instead he settles into his role—a solemn face, his posture cold and uninviting, a god in his gold seat. His throne is made of fuego and mentiras.
Unlike last time, there are only twenty people in attendance. Llacsans, dressed in their finery, sit on benches lining the aisle. Two guards open the doors, and a small group wearing the traditional garb of the Tierra Baja region—light tunic and trousers, and well-made cognac leather sandals—strides in.
Inkasisa has the Highlands—El Altiplano—and the Lowlands—Tierra Baja—a region of tropical land that forever stays humid and warm, even during the wet season. Atoc claims to rule the whole of Inkasisa, but there are several tribes in the Tierra Baja that have their own heads of state.
Of course, they all pay the king’s tax. Everyone does, except the Illari living in the Yanu Jungle. Legend says that after the Llacsans drove them out of La Ciudad, they fled to the jungle and built a city made entirely of gold called Paititi. Only one person ever came back from trying to find it, hundreds of years ago, and when he stepped out from the tree line, he became blind and unable to return to the city. Manuel always dreamed of finding it.
A sharp stab lances my heart. Has he found out about his mother? About Sofía?
I shove the question aside and try to focus on the petitioners. Perhaps I’ll learn something useful. They pay their respects, going on and on about the usurper’s greatness and splendor. No wonder he has a puffed-up image of himself. I expect Atoc to demand a giant gold statue fashioned after his regrettable profile.
“What is your complaint, petitioner?” Atoc asks, buttered up enough that I could have stuffed him inside a furnace and baked him.
A Lowlander steps forward, his head appropriately angled d
ownward, his hands holding a sombrero. His eyes flicker over to mine nervously. “Highest King of Inkasisa, my complaint is about the onslaught of Illustrians festering within La Ciudad.”
I narrow my gaze and sit up straighter.
“Go on,” Atoc says.
“They’re causing a ruckus in the streets,” the petitioner says. “Stealing food in El Mercado, sleeping under doorways. Some are even trying to reclaim their old—” He breaks off, clearing his throat. “Trying to steal our homes.”
My eyes shut. Catalina. She must have run out of food after giving away too much, acting more like our people’s friend and not the queen they need. Now Illustrians at the keep are taking matters into their own hands. Fed up, hungry, wanting leadership—they’re rioting in the city, putting themselves in great danger.
What a mess. I can’t blame the Illustrians who leave the keep to search for food. Hunger is a relentless taskmaster.
I remember the days of living under the doorways of La Ciudad after the city had fallen. My ability to hide in tunnels, dark alleys, and sprawling catwalks was my salvation, but Catalina never had the same education in survival. She was whisked away from the horror and kept safe and fed, adored child that she was. She never had to fight for a loaf of bread. Perhaps we’d done her a disservice by keeping her so sheltered? If we hadn’t, she’d have at least learned how to be strong.
Because right now, her show of weakness could kill us.
“Certainly a problem,” Atoc agrees, a cold smile bending his unforgiving mouth. I want to take his headdress and smack his face with it. “Tell me, what do you propose I do?”
I touch his arm with a single index finger. “Perhaps I can go—”
“Be silent,” Atoc snaps. “Go on, petitioner.”
“Round them up,” the man says. “They’re repeat offenders, greedy—”
“What?” I say.
“Done,” Atoc says over me, gripping my wrist. “Capitán, see to it immediately.”
His capitán is standing by the tall double doors. At Atoc’s word, he nods and leaves, taking with him several of the guards lining the walls. My heart sinks. More Illustrians crowding the dungeons, their lives hanging over my head.
Why couldn’t Catalina have made my job just a little bit easier? I slump in my seat. My feet tap against the stone floor, wanting to carry me out of this stifling room and into open air. The walls are closing in on me like strong currents, hitting me like a smothering wave. There’s no escape. The role I play only compounds my anxiety. I don’t want to look at the face of my enemy for another second, let alone several more weeks. I’m trapped behind this mask of my own choosing. Trapped by the walls I volunteered to live within.
One wrong move, one careless slip, and my life is forfeit.
I inhale deeply. Rising tides can’t be held back, but they can be ridden. I have to ride this wave through. It’s the only way I’ll be free.
Court drags on as the king’s plans for tomorrow’s city outing are finalized. I’m not included, which will give me the perfect opportunity to explore the castle with fewer people present.
Then conversation moves swiftly to the new fields opening for the production of the koka leaf. My mood plummets lower than ever. Atoc expects everyone to take part in the planting and selling of the koka leaf, distorting and corrupting the plant until it becomes a drug. That’s what he wants us to be known for. That’s what he wants to base our entire economy on.
I sneak a glance at Rumi. His eyes are half lidded, as if profoundly bored. Gone is his intense scrutiny. It seems he can fall asleep where he stands. How annoying. Madre de Luna, doesn’t he care?
Atoc doesn’t want what’s good and right for everyone, only his family and friends. He stole the lives and dreams of everyone else, consequences be damned. I’ll make him pay for never looking back at the destruction he’s left in his wake.
The next petitioner is called forward. This one is wealthy, judging from the amount of gold jewelry adorning his wrists and neck. “My king, last night while riding through La Ciudad, I was robbed by El Lobo. He took my bag of notas, the coat off my back—even my horse!”
Once I watched an oncoming thunderstorm roll toward the Illustrian keep. Blinding lightning streaked through menacing clouds. I remember the howling wind; I remember gripping the windowsill, bracing myself for the onslaught. The expression on Atoc’s face reminds me of the storm. Terrible, dangerous, unforgiving.
“Say no more,” Atoc says, and then he turns to face another guard. “What’s being done?”
The guard rises from his seat on a long wooden bench and clears his throat.
“Well?” Atoc asks.
The man fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I regret to say that we have no new leads, Your Majesty. If we had more time—”
“¿Tiempo?” his king asks coldly. “You’ve had more than enough time to get me information. You’re telling me we don’t even have his name? Is he a Llacsan? An Illustrian?”
Atoc shoots me a glare.
“We don’t claim the vigilante as our own,” I say.
His forehead wrinkles. I don’t think he believes me.
The guard shrugs helplessly. “He wears that black mask, it covers his entire face, my king, and we—”
“Last night he raided another one of our storehouses,” Atoc says. “Four days before that he robbed members of our court on their way to Tierra Baja. He’s making us all look like fools.”
I clutch my sides to keep myself from laughing. The poor man who stands before his angry king turns purple.
“I expect better news by next court,” Atoc says softly. “Get out of my sight.”
The guard flinches before shutting the door behind him, and everyone starts speaking at once about the mysterious man dressed in black.
Sajra steps forward and quite abruptly descends upon the room like fire suffocated by a thick blanket. “Your Greatness?”
The Llacsan king nods toward the priest.
“Have you decided on who will be sacrificed during Carnaval? There is much to prepare.”
“I have made my decision,” Atoc proclaims, his voice booming. “Princesa Tamaya will be sacrificed to Inti during Carnaval. She is honored to have been chosen and welcomes the day when she’ll be reunited with the sun god.”
I gape at him. He means to kill his sister?
Low murmuring erupts, disbelief and cries of surprise. Once again Atoc demands attention by reaching out his arms, a silent gesture that everyone quickly obeys. “I believe I’m feeling charitable enough for one more petitioner. Send them in.”
The next petitioner owns a stall in El Mercado. He has an argument with the stall owner next to his and wants Atoc to intervene in the dispute. Sajra answers for the king, and a solution is promised in seven days, during the next court meeting.
It’s been a long time since I truly visited the market: ordered salteñas and walked past the long line of stalls, admiring the many kinds of woven wares—pouches and bags, blankets and capes. In another life, I might have set up my stall to sell alongside them.
The tapestry rustles in my lap as I shift in the seat. A salty taste crawls up my throat. I can’t let Atoc have this tapestry. The message must reach Catalina. Perhaps the healer has forgotten all about it. Perhaps he—
“Now, what’s that on your lap?” Atoc asks, squinting at my shimmering tapestry.
I deflate like a pastry left out in the sun. Carajo. I try to swallow, but my throat refuses to work. Everyone in the room focuses on me.
“Well?” He takes ahold of my arm. “Where did you get it?”
Sajra steps forward from somewhere behind me. He leans over my armrest in order to examine my work closely. His breath tickles my cheek and I shiver as he runs his finger along the silver thread.
Sweat beads at my hairline. Madre de Luna. Can the priest see the message with his blood magic? Is that even possible? I can’t give the tapestry to Atoc, or my message will remain in the
castillo forever. What happens if someone becomes suspicious?
I grip the tapestry with both hands. “I …”
The vendor turns to leave.
The word flies out of my mouth. “Espera.”
The merchant looks back at me, a deep crease between his brows. “Are you speaking to me, Condesa?”
My heart thunders in my chest. Most of our spies get their information by hiding in the market. Catalina will have stationed spies at the castillo gates, too. We talked about it before I left. I can only hope she remembered.
Luna, please let this work.
“I have a gift for this man,” I say loudly, my voice ringing in the hall. It’s my best chance. Giving the message to the merchant ensures the tapestry will leave the castillo.
Atoc releases my arm in surprise. “What?”
I turn to the Llacsan vendor. “For your trouble at the market, I’d like to give you this work of art I wove myself. Please accept it as a gift. It would bring me much joy to see this tapestry decorating your stall. Perhaps I’ll get to see it one day myself, on a visit.”
I stand and hold my work for all the room to see. The merchant appears dazzled, mouth agape. He comes up on the dais, takes the tapestry, and says his thanks.
“I happen to enjoy weaving. Immensely, actually. What if I wove more tapestries? Perhaps you could sell them in your shop?”
The vendor blanches but covers his dismay quickly by looking to Atoc.
“The gift is plenty,” Atoc snaps. “He doesn’t need your help to fill up his stall.”
But what about the other messages I have to send? “Are you sure?” I press. “I believe they’d fetch a good price. He might earn even more notas than he was planning.”
“That’s enough, Condesa,” Atoc says, his tone cold. “I thought your gift was meant for me.”
“It’s essentially for you. It’s a gift for your people.”
The vendor turns and leaves, holding my tapestry as if it were a baby.
Relief floods my senses. I sit down, my knees shaking. Atoc turns to me, a speculative look in his eye. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then in a low, hard voice, he says, “What made you think to give a gift like that to a merchant?”
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