Woven in Moonlight

by Isabel Ibañez

  The priest leans in to hear my response.

  “It’s important that your people respect their future queen.” I fight to keep my voice steady. “What better way than to send a gift for all Llacsans to admire?”

  “And what about a gift for your king?” he asks. “I deserve one.” I swallow hard. “Becoming your wife isn’t a grand enough gift?”

  His eyes travel from my eyes to my mouth. “No.”

  Sajra snickers and sinks back to his place.

  Bile rises quickly as I look away. “I’ll be sure to weave you something special.”

  I feel his gaze, but I won’t return it. When he shifts his attention back to court, I let out a slow breath. My heart continues to race. To keep from getting sick all over his gold throne, I focus on the positive: I managed to do my job. The first message has been sent. Our spies will spot the tapestry in the market and relay the message to Catalina.

  As I settle back into the chair, I seek Rumi. Everyone else seems impressed by my weaving and generosity toward the Llacsan. Rumi’s response sends a shiver down my spine.

  His is a look of pure hatred.

  CAPÍTULO

  I freeze, unable to tear my gaze away from his stare. Usually, whenever I catch one of his expressions, it’s by accident, and whatever I’d seen vanishes in the space of a blink, only to be replaced by a scowl. But this time, he keeps his cold attention on me. Not breaking his hold. I don’t know how to respond, and a small part of me feels unsettled. Maybe a little surprised, too. Of course I know he hates me. Don’t I hate him as well? An insistent voice reminds me that he’d brought me the loom when he didn’t have to.

  Dimly, I hear Atoc announce court is over, but all I can focus on is that nuisance of a healer. What difference does it make how that Llacsan looks at me? They’re all going to look at me that way by the end.

  Again, I quash the things I don’t want or need to understand deep within me and hope none of them resurface. I have no room for such questions; I only have space in my life for the revolt.

  My guards approach and I quickly step away from the throne. I crave fresh air, the chance to breathe in the eucalyptus trees surrounding the castillo. Madre de Luna, I want to be alone. I miss training. Miss swinging a sword.

  “How do I get to the gardens?” I ask.

  “We go with you,” the guard says in a stern tone.

  That wasn’t my question. Annoyed, I open my mouth to repeat myself—

  “I’ll take her.”

  My face falls. I smell him before I see him. Slowly, I turn to face Rumi. His arms are folded, his lips turned down in a pronounced scowl.

  Whatever it is I’ve done, it seems he wants to talk about it sooner rather than later. Not how I wanted to spend the last scrap of daylight.

  “Fine,” I snap. “But I just wanted a place to—”

  “Don’t care,” he interrupts, and ushers me to a side door that opens up to a long hallway. Numerous clay pots clutter the stone floor. I have to skip and weave around giant stacks of them.

  He pulls me along until we reach another set of double doors. Using his shoulder, he pushes one open. Outside, the smell of the eucalyptus trees kisses my cheeks. It’s a pleasant scent that masks the odorous healer. Warm air gently sways through the trees’ leaves. I squint, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the last fighting glare of the sun before it meets the horizon. Everything always seems sweeter in the minutes before darkness descends.

  I inhale deeply. “Honey and mint.”

  Rumi glances down at me. Even slouching, he’s really quite tall, unlike most Llacsans. I half worry I’ll develop an ache from tilting my head back just so I can read his eyes. Surprise flickers in them.

  “The trees,” I explain.

  He scowls and pulls me to a stone bench. I lean backward and look up at him, steeling myself against his oncoming assault.

  “All right, Llacsan, let me have it.”

  His body goes rigid. “You were supposed to give the tapestry to the king.”

  That’s why he’s upset? Someone ought to tell this boy to grow a thicker skin.

  “I bet he has thousands,” I say. “Why aren’t you pleased? A Llacsan—one of your own—has something valuable from the future queen of Inkasisa. Isn’t receiving a tapestry a great honor?”

  “It would be, coming from a Llacsan,” he says in a deceptively calm voice. “Tell me something, Condesa. Do you have any idea how insulting it is for you to sit on that throne, preening like a peacock, showing off your weaving? You were meant to present it to King Atoc privately. Not flaunt your own skill.”

  “I—” My voice breaks off. I didn’t do that. I wanted to give my message to the vendor. That’s all I cared about. There was absolutely no preening.

  I don’t think. Damn it. Did I preen?

  “You were the one who suggested I give it to Atoc—”

  “King Atoc. Gods, show respect.”

  “As I was saying, it was your idea to give the tapestry as a gift.”

  “No. It was Juan Carlos’s.”

  I roll my eyes. “Semantics. You went along with it, and now you’re mad about it?”

  “I didn’t think you’d put on a show,” Rumi fumes. “Have you ever given a gift before? It’s about the receiver, you intolerable fool. This was supposed to be for him—not you.”

  I flinch.

  “Weaving is our skill; it’s Llacsan. For you to claim it as your own and act like it’s the best thing ever made … por Dios.” His voice rises with each word. Then it pitches higher, as if imitating me. “Why don’t you take it, you poor Llacsan? In fact, why don’t I provide all of your wares for you? Because I’m an Illustrian, I’m better at everything, even something your people have been doing for centuries. And you’re—”

  I jump to my feet, pushing him back. “You never should have brought it down!” He almost ruined everything. Thank Luna I had the wherewithal to think of a way for that message to be sent out. “Atoc asked me about it! What was I supposed to do? Ignore him? That would have gone well.”

  “How hard would it have been to tell him it was a gift you were planning on giving him after court was over?”

  “You shouldn’t have taken it,” I repeat stubbornly. “You acted in the wrong first.”

  “You really can’t see how your behavior is insulting?” There’s an almost despairing note in his tone. I fight anger with anger, but this sounds different, and it gives me pause. I didn’t do what he’s accusing me of intentionally, but I see how it could look that way. If my enemy came into our keep and proceeded to read the stars better than Catalina, I’d probably feel the same.

  The silence stretches. I don’t know how to reply—because I still think he shouldn’t have taken my tapestry to begin with.

  Rumi pinches his nose. “I never dreamed you’d take it upon yourself to—Dios,” he says while pacing. “And while wearing her dress.”

  “Whose?”

  “The princesa,” he says hoarsely. “It’s her dress.”

  Realization dawns. I understand the look of fear I saw in Rumi’s eyes before we entered the throne room. It doesn’t matter if you’re a relative of the king. He can do whatever he wants, kill whoever he wants, in order to solidify his control over Inkasisa. No wonder the healer doesn’t want any undue attention on him.

  My defense of Ana in the plaza endangered his life.

  “I don’t get to choose what I wear.”

  “I know that,” he says. “All your clothing must be hers. It makes sense now. She won’t need anything because she’s to be executed.”

  Several things become clear: Rumi isn’t happy about Atoc’s newest decree, and a family member of his will die in the next few weeks.

  “She’s your cousin, right?”

  He takes a step back in surprise. He’d been pacing farther away from me. “We’re not related by blood. My aunt married into their family but was widowed after only a year. His Majesty has always acknowledged the connection, though.”
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  “Ah,” I say. “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  “Why you become a sniveling buffoon in Atoc’s presence.”

  “King Atoc,” Rumi corrects me again, his gaze narrowing. “Sniveling buffoon?”

  “You’re trying to earn your place at court. And you look ridiculous. Someone ought to tell you. Or doesn’t everyone laughing at your expense get through that thick head of yours?”

  His expression hardens like the stone walls of my prison, granite and iron and fire. This is why he cares so much about his image. He’s not really part of the family—they don’t have the same blood. His position in court is a moving current under his feet. One wrong move, and he’ll go under.

  His response about the princesa is certainly telling too. He does seem incredibly distressed about her. I thought it was because she’s family, but now I wonder … Is he in love with her? If I ever meet her, I’ll offer my profound sympathies.

  “It’s horrible, what he’s doing.” I lean forward, my voice dripping with honey. “Can’t something be done about it?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  The blandness of his tone brings me up short. I note the dangerous alertness in his dark eyes. A warning rings loudly in my head. But for what, I don’t know.

  “You seem distraught over her fate,” I say carefully. “You weren’t the only one upset by Atoc’s announcement.”

  “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Dissension in our ranks. Spreading distrust like wildfire in a dying forest. And you mean King Atoc.”

  I smile slowly, because of course I would. He may not be easily rankled, but I’m almost positive there are others who don’t want the princesa to die.

  “You wouldn’t understand anyway,” he says curtly. “Being chosen as a sacrifice to Inti is the highest honor anyone could ever receive. Of course it’s sad, but His Radiance picked her out of everyone in Inkasisa. He saw how her beauty and grace would please our god.” His voice drops to a whisper. “She’s the perfect choice. A pure being.”

  He swings from despair to adoration in a matter of seconds. His loyalty for his king wins out over his distress for Princesa Tamaya.

  “How will they murder her?”

  A flash of distaste twists his lips, but it’s gone a second later. “It’s not murder.”

  “So you say. Well? What will they do to her?”

  His shoulders tighten, but his voice is nonchalant, as if we’re discussing what we ate for desayuno. “There will be a ceremony in her honor in the Plaza del Sol, and right after, she’ll be led up to the top of Qullqi Orqo Mountain.”

  I hiss out a disgusted breath. “Where she’ll be left to freeze to death.”

  “Where she’ll be strangled.”

  I stare at him in horror.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” he repeats.

  No, I’ll never understand. Our worlds have an impassable chasm between them. Their god Inti is brutal. Luna would never demand something so cruel from her followers.

  “Then I guess I owe her my congratulations,” I say sarcastically. “You’ll be sure to pass them on to the princesa? I don’t think the king wants us to be friends.”

  His lips tighten. “Well, I can hardly blame his judgment on that. Let me take you to your room. Dinner should be waiting for you.”

  As we leave, a guard I recognize catches my eye. He stands some twenty feet away on a grassy patch of land surrounded by vivid pink flores. He carries a giggling boy on his shoulders. The child attempts to use a miniature slingshot, but only ends up dropping rocks on the guard’s head.

  “One of your guards,” Rumi says. “Pidru and his son. He’s very ill.”

  I pull my attention away from the laughing child. “Who is?”

  “Pidru’s son, Achik.”

  “You can’t heal him?”

  “Do you care?” Rumi counters.

  I grit my teeth. Insufferable Llacsan.

  The corner of his mouth lifts into a faint smirk as he opens the door to the side entrance. We’re silent the whole way up to the third floor. At one point, he absently takes ahold of my wrist, paying careful attention to the wounds from the rope. Rumi traces the raw puckered skin with his index finger. A shiver skips down my spine, and I shrink from his touch. From the odd smell of his clothes and his assessing eyes.

  “Coconut oil will help lessen the appearance of the scars,” he says. “Though they won’t go away entirely.”

  “Fine,” I say. He’s switched on me again. His tone sounds mild and approachable. Rumi the healer wants to take care of my scars. Little does he know I have several up and down my body. Years of training guaranteed that. I don’t mind the ones on my wrists. Every scar tells a story. The ones I have from that day in the square are part of Ana’s life. Her last chapter. I don’t want to forget how her story ended.

  When we arrive at my room, Rumi opens the door and motions for me to go inside.

  But I hesitate.

  I used two generous rounds of wool on my tapestry last night. In order to write another message, I’ll need several more yards. And I’ll have to write another message—preferably once I’ve found the Estrella.

  “What is it, Condesa?” Rumi asks, impatient.

  “I need more wool.”

  “That’s too bad.” He crosses his arms. “You’re not getting any from me.”

  Not after how I apparently “preened” earlier. There has to be some way I can slide into his good graces. Some way I can convince him I didn’t mean any harm. At least, not in the way he thinks.

  “I was only trying to help.”

  It’s the wrong thing to say. He takes a step away from me. “You wanted to help?” He starts laughing humorlessly. “So says the Illustrian who kept us oppressed for hundreds of years. Were you listening to a word I said earlier?”

  That’s unfair. I didn’t personally mistreat the Llacsans. It’s not like I’d been cruel to my nanny. I cared for her. I gave some of my money to the homeless Llacsans I saw in La Ciudad—and that was after the revolt. After my parents died and I lost everyone and everything.

  But an unbidden image assaults my mind. A memory long tucked away and witnessed by a younger version of myself. Llacsans protesting, blocking roads, and walking off their hard-labor jobs. No one could travel anywhere or buy anything because of their demonstrations around the city.

  They wanted better pay.

  Swallowing hard, I glance away from Rumi’s scrutiny. That picture of the protest hovers in my head, and I can’t escape it. I try to imagine what it must have been like living under an Illustrian queen.

  “I didn’t create the system—I was born into it,” I say at last. It feels like a fair thing to say.

  His face seems to be at war. A flash of anger, a sharp narrowing of his gaze, then a slight pull of his eyebrows—exasperation maybe, but smoothed away to make room for a clenched jaw. “Please stop talking before I do something I regret. Por favor.”

  “What did I say that was so terrible?” My hands fly to my hips. “If you don’t explain it to me, how am I supposed to know—”

  “I’m a little tired of explaining myself,” Rumi says flatly. “Have been for years. And you all never listen. Do your own reading on the subject, why don’t you? And then come back and we’ll discuss whatever you like.”

  No one has ever spoken to me this way before. I wonder how I’d feel if I had to explain why I distrust the Llacsans. I wouldn’t want to talk about my dead parents to strangers. I wouldn’t want to share my hurt over and over again.

  “Where’s the book I lent you, Condesa?”

  I shut my eyes. I’d left it in the dungeon.

  When I open them again, a sad smile twists his lips. “That’s what I thought.”

  Rumi turns and leaves me standing there thinking about that infernal book.

  He doesn’t look back.

  The guards arrive as he rounds the corner. I scurry to my room, shut the door, and lean against it. I wish my though
ts would return to the wool and how to get more of it, so that I could weave more messages. But instead I think about that sad, twisted smile and about the book I never cracked open. Lying forgotten in that cold prison.

  I slide all the way to the floor, feeling boneless. What just happened? I’m Catalina’s decoy—her friend and confidante. Rumi is nothing to me. What do I care about his opinions?

  Stop it, Ximena. I shake my head. Focus. Remember what’s at stake. Catalina’s reign, the lives of all Illustrians. You don’t have time for this. I stand, pushing away from the door.

  Tomorrow I’ll begin the search for the Estrella.

  Nothing and no one will keep me from looking.

  CAPÍTULO

  The bell tower rings, announcing the eighth hour. I curl over, flipping my pillow to the cool side and snuggling deeper under the covers. Today is the day. The pretender and his entourage are planning on visiting La Ciudad this morning.

  I wait to hear the sounds of people gathering in the courtyard: a smattering of chatter, horses neighing, and carriage wheels clipping against stone as they’re brought around to the castillo entrance.

  I smile against the rough cotton of the pillow.

  I’ll have the whole castillo to myself.

  Of course, I’ll have my watchdogs hovering over my shoulder. But I can memorize the number of rooms on my floor, take stock of the castillo’s layout, determine the number of sentries on rotation. If my guards don’t let me wander around, then I’ll use the moondust powder.

  A couple of pinches is risky, but it’ll get the job done.

  The door snaps open, and the maid comes in carrying a tray laden with fried eggs, thick slices of bacon, and café con leche. The aroma of the dark nutty roast swirls in the room and I inhale deeply. A slab of what looks like dark chocolate sits next to the coffee.

  “From the merchant,” the maid says, following my gaze. “His thanks for your gift.”