Woven in Moonlight

by Isabel Ibañez

  At least they won’t find the folded piece of paper detailing the possible locations of the Estrella. I snuck it down my dress in case Atoc demanded all rooms searched.

  But they’d still find the sword and dark clothes.

  My hands suddenly hurt, and I glance down in surprise. I’d been clenching my fists, my nails digging half-moon imprints into my palm. Juan Carlos lifts a dark brow in my direction. “You seem like you’re in a bad mood.” I flex my hands. “I mean, worse than usual.”

  “Have you ever seen me in a good mood?”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile—not even once,” he says. “Watch out for the eggs.”

  I sidestep a pile of just-laid eggs, lying about as if it’s normal to have food on the floor. His words unsettle me. Catalina would have charmed this guard by now and sucked his secrets from him with her almost guileless manner and pretty grin. “You give your smiles away far too easily.”

  “Is that why you don’t care for my company?” he asks, completely serious.

  His words startle me to a stop. “It’s because you’re Llacsan, you—”

  Laughter flickers in his dark eyes, spreading to his lips, and then he throws back his head. His shoulders are shaking and he props himself against the wall to steady himself.

  My mood sours like rancid lemon juice. “Is this all a game to you?”

  Juan Carlos straightens from the stone wall. There’s still a hint of a smile plaguing his lips. “Of course not,” he says. “But that’s what makes it fun.”

  That’s when I feel it. A sharp prickle at the back of my neck, a sudden awareness that this boy isn’t as lighthearted and foolish as he seems. I bet my life he knows everything that goes on inside the castillo. With his agreeable manners and quips, lazy smile and affable personality, he gives off an almost studied air of harmlessness that makes him unthreatening and approachable. People must share their gossip with him, allow him to take them into his confidence, and blabber all manner of secrets and weaknesses. His shrewdness is deep and unassuming and thoroughly unrecognizable.

  Juan Carlos is a natural spy.

  He takes my arm and nudges me along until we get to the bottom of the staircase. Rumi is waiting for us. There are dark bags under his eyes, and I remember how he spent last night: tending to the guards I’d wounded. No wonder he looks like he didn’t get much sleep. At our approach, he sends me a cursory look that lasts mere seconds. Juan Carlos keeps pace behind us. We walk silently toward the throne room until Rumi reaches out and rests the back of his hand against my temple.

  I flinch, but I don’t move away from his touch. It feels rude, somehow. I catch the scent of burnt leaves and wet dirt hovering around him and wrinkle my nose.

  “No fever,” he says. “I was surprised to hear from Suyana that you were up and well today.”

  Clearing my throat, I pull away from him. The distance between us grows by a foot. I breathe easier with the extra space.

  “What was all the commotion about last night?” I ask.

  He pauses. “We had an intruder. Did you hear anything unusual?”

  I make a face. “I think I heard a chicken fight.”

  “Did the noise wake you up?” Juan Carlos says from behind us. “Draw you out of the room, Condesa?” His tone is coaxing and suggestive.

  “How could I have left?” I ask. “There’s a guard stationed outside my door, right?”

  “So you didn’t want to discover the source of the noise? It happened in front of your bedroom door.”

  Rumi studies us, a slight frown marring his features. He looks from my face to the guard’s, and the corners of his lips tighten.

  “I stayed in bed,” I insist, bristling. His interrogation needs to stop. I pin him with a stare, rifling through ways I might change the subject: “Why are you named Juan Carlos?”

  He blinks, clearly surprised. “What?”

  “That’s a common Illustrian name.”

  “My mother named me,” he explains. “An Illustrian.”

  Well. Isn’t that interesting? He chooses to fight for Atoc despite his background. We could use someone like him on our side. He’s standing shoulder to shoulder with the healer, and again I’m struck by the similarities. About the same height, dark wavy hair, bronze skin, and wide-set dark eyes. His face is less angular, rounder, like a hazelnut.

  Rumi tugs my arm and forces me to resume walking. “We’re going to be late.”

  “Did they catch the intruder?” I ask Juan Carlos.

  Rumi bares his teeth at me. “That’s none of your business, Condesa.”

  But Juan Carlos shakes his head as we approach the double doors. “El Lobo has been sneaking in and out of the castillo for a long time. He’s clever, and he fights better than most. His skill with a huaraca is unrivaled.”

  His words sound like a compliment. I narrow my gaze and try to picture Juan Carlos dressed in black. Could he be the vigilante? He’s certainly tall enough. Broad shouldered enough. And he knows how to use a sword.

  Fascinating.

  “It’s only a matter of time before the army catches El Lobo,” Rumi snaps. “The capitán already has a few leads. And the guards from last night are bound to remember something.”

  My mouth goes dry. Sentries swing the tall double doors open. Juan Carlos stays outside while Rumi leads me inside to my fate. Once again, guards walk me down the aisle to their waiting king. He’s dressed in a red-and-gold short-sleeved tunic and dark trousers, his ornate headdress an array of warm hues that set off the richness of his copper skin. No Estrella.

  He stares into my eyes, his face cold and haughty.

  Reflecting on last night, I think twice about being insolent. I have to survive. I’m no use to Catalina if I’m locked up or dead. As much as I hate it, my behavior needs to be exemplary. But the flattering words catch at the back of my throat. The guards force me onto my knees.

  “Condesa,” he says with a sneer.

  I lick my lips and swallow; my mouth feels full of cotton. “Your Radiance.”

  His fingers snap, his gold rings glinting. I’m brought to the seat on his left. When I sit, he takes ahold of my hand, threading his fingers through mine. My stomach churns, and I lean away from him. He smiles, clearly enjoying my discomfort. I think of Catalina and don’t move my hand.

  You have to be her, I remind myself. You can’t drop the mask, not ever.

  “Stand up, Capitán,” Atoc snarls.

  A tall man at the front of the aisle rises, a sword strapped to his side.

  “What news?” Atoc asks, his voice a soft purr.

  “Two of the guards are stable thanks to the healer’s efforts last night,” he says with a slight wobble. “We’ll begin questioning today. I’m sure one of the intruders was the masked vigilante, Shining One; the other was dressed in the same manner. It could be a brother, perhaps.”

  My hand starts to sweat in Atoc’s grasp. I pray to Luna he won’t notice.

  “How did they get in?”

  “We’re looking into all possibilities,” the capitán says. “A thorough search of the grounds and gates don’t show a forced entry.”

  The priest steps from the pillar’s shadow. “Interesting. The intruder could have been let inside by someone.” Then he pierces me with a pointed look, his dark eyes glittering. My body tenses.

  “It’s possible,” the capitán agrees. “Or the intruder was already inside the castillo.”

  Sharp whispering and nervous glances are exchanged among members of court. Atoc releases my hand. “And the condesa’s whereabouts?”

  I focus all my attention on the capitán. Don’t show them anything.

  “In her room,” he says. “With a guard stationed outside.”

  “I want more guards on every floor,” Atoc says, his voice drenched in disappointment. He would have loved to catch me in the wrong, I’m sure. “Patrolling the grounds and halls.”

  The capitán bows his head. “As you declare, Radiant One.”

&n
bsp; “Tell me what’s been done about the Illustrians crowding La Ciudad,” Atoc says, and this time I can’t keep myself from flinching. “Have they been arrested?”

  The capitán nods. “The ones we can catch, but dozens more sneak into our city every day. It’s my suspicion that there are some households offering them places to stay.”

  “No one would dare,” Atoc says. “Where are you keeping the felons?”

  My fingers are slick with sweat at this point. Catalina hasn’t regained control over our people and is still letting them put themselves in danger. What in Luna’s name is she doing? If she can’t oversee and manage the Illustrians, how will she reign as queen over Inkasisa?

  She can’t.

  The treasonous thought echoes in my head. I want to drown out the words, but they’re too insistent. Catalina is our only option, the rightful heir, and a whole world better than Atoc. She will simply have to learn, that’s all. Desperation can make a great teacher. But my unease remains, no matter what I tell myself.

  “They’re kept in the city jail, Your Radiance,” he says. “Though we’re nearly at capacity. Will the dungeons house them?”

  Atoc waves his hand benevolently. “If there is room. You may sit, Capitán.” He calls out to the guards standing by the double doors. “Bring forth the prisoners.”

  I straighten. What prisoners? Illustrian prisoners? I grip the gold armrest. The door opens, and two Llacsans in chains are brought forward. They wear leather sandals, and though smudged with dirt, their clothes fit well. The mark of a good seamstress.

  The herald steps forward. “Behold! His Majesty, King Atoc, ruler of the High and Lowlands, devoted servant of Inti, enduring forever—”

  “Enough!” Atoc exclaims, his voice ringing in the hall, high and metallic. “Move on to the charges. I don’t want to look at their faces longer than I have to.”

  The priest steps forward. “Shining One, these men stand accused of dragging your enduring name through the mud. Their publication blackens your reputation and dares to question your decrees. I am your humble servant and will carry out your justice.” He bows low.

  “Do you deny these charges?” Atoc demands of the two men.

  They’re silent.

  “Answer His Majesty!” Sajra roars.

  “We do not,” one of the Llacsans says, rubbing his throat. He’s standing slightly in front of the shorter Llacsan, as if wanting to protect him from Atoc. His dark eyes flicker to mine, and then back to the king.

  It’s a look that lasts only a moment, but the Llacsan’s face is seared into my mind. The expression is a mixture of pride and fear. I lean forward, almost of my own accord. There’s a haunted look in the Llacsan’s eyes. My hand itches to comfort him. To offer some encouragement for his bravery.

  “I am magnanimous,” Atoc says softly. “Don’t I hear the petitions of my people? Tell me what your complaints are.”

  It’s a horrible trap. Everyone knows it, especially the Llacsans in chains. But the taller Llacsan steps forward, his eyes blazing. “Our newsletter describes the events and times of Inkasisa. It’s a truthful account, and if you’re unhappy with what’s written, consider changing your methods.”

  Atoc’s body is coiled tight, like an anaconda waiting for the moment to strike. “Go on.”

  Stop talking, I want to shout. Be silent, fool. I don’t want to hear his words, because I know, I know, Atoc’s fury. I’ve seen it, and I’m afraid of it.

  But I remember the overwhelming feeling of wanting to help Ana even as I knew it was futile. Despite the danger, my protest had burst from my lips, from my heart. Because words empowered by justice can never be silenced.

  I sink back against the cool throne. This man will be heard, consequences be damned.

  “Crime pollutes the streets of Inkasisa,” the journalist says, “invited by the production of the koka leaf. Neighboring countries have sent their criminals, the worst of them, to buy, barter, and steal for the drug. Anyone with even the most modest of means is at risk for kidnapping and robbery. It’s not safe for a grown man to walk the streets at night. Women are terrorized, assaulted, and murdered. But you won’t stop the export or production of the koka leaf.” The journalist’s voice rises. “There will be a day when even you won’t be safe from our neighbors.”

  The crowd shifts and murmurs, listening and protesting silently, folding their arms and lifting their chins. My heart sinks and sinks until I swear it’s hit the floor. This man is doomed. Both of them are.

  “The Llacsans planting the seed aren’t paid well and most starve,” the shorter Llacsan puts in. “But your family and their friends have become extraordinarily wealthy. They have the best homes, the best land. None of your promises have been kept—we are not safe, we are not equal, we are not free. We’ve exchanged one tyrant for another.”

  “Is that all?”

  The journalist pales. “Is that not enough?”

  There’s a long silence. No one speaks. I stare at Atoc’s profile, willing him to be reasonable.

  “Both of you will be stripped of your properties,” Atoc says coldly. “You are never to set ink to paper again. Take them away.”

  The guards yank at the Llacsans’ arms, but the tall one speaks again. “Your people are starving. You are not the same king we fought for!”

  “Silence!” Sajra growls.

  “We’re hungry. We—”

  Atoc gestures at Sajra. “Cut out his tongue. I don’t want to hear him speak again.”

  Acid rises within me. I turn away as the priest takes one of the guard’s blades and approaches the Llacsan.

  “Please! We have families to support! We only ask that you—”

  The Llacsan lets out a smothered cry. The sound of the blade cutting off the tongue poisons the air. A gurgle follows, something splatters onto the floor. The man sobs, groaning as he tries to scream. The other Llacsan gasps, huffing air as he cries.

  “Sajra,” Atoc says calmly. “See that both can’t ever write a word again.”

  The priest bows and turns to the Llacsans, his arms raised. I watch as their hands become pale, the blood leached from their fingers. Both pairs of hands blacken, then shrivel and curl into themselves as the Llacsans scream, fat tears leaking from the corners of their eyes. Sajra barks an order and the guards stride forward. With four quick slices, the useless hands are chopped off.

  They fall onto the floor. Thud, thud, thud, thud. Dead and wasted things.

  I stand up abruptly and scramble off the dais, loud exclamations following in my wake. I barely make it to one of the pots before I vomit. Through the haze of my nausea, I hear the king demand the Llacsans’ arrests and imprisonment in the dungeon. The words barely register.

  The door opens, and they’re dragged down to the dungeon, moaning and crying as they go.

  Clutching the clay rim, I steady my breathing. Someone takes away the pot, and I’m left on the floor, my ruffled skirt bunched around me.

  A soft hand drops to my shoulder. Rumi. I can smell him. He lifts me up, and I wobble. His hand reaches around my shoulders. I feel his soft breath near my ear. The long line of his body presses against my side.

  “Do not touch my betrothed,” Atoc says, eyeing Rumi’s arm.

  Rumi tenses, and his hold on me tightens. And then he releases me. Cold air sweeps in where he stood. The strange smell on his clothes leaves with him. I suck in air.

  “Come sit, Condesa.”

  I obey, trembling. The moment I sit, Atoc reaches for my hand again. This time I try to resist, but his fingers cling to mine. Blood stains the stone at our feet. The hands have been taken away.

  I sit numbly through the rest of court. Every now and then Atoc’s index finger traces my knuckles. A soft caress that threatens to send me back to one of the potted plants.

  He’s touching me to unbalance me. I’m sure if it.

  Atoc orders more farmlands destroyed to make room for koka leaf crops. Then he organizes a committee to handle the preparatio
ns for Carnaval. It’s to be the biggest festival yet. The loudest. The best parade to ever dance the streets of La Ciudad.

  In short, it’s going to be a spectacle. At the heart of the celebration, the royal wedding.

  Mine.

  Three seamstresses are brought before us to show off their potential designs for my wedding dress. Each one holds its own neutral color scheme and fair share of ruffles and flowery stitching. It’s the embodiment of beauty for every Illustrian.

  I’m strangely touched. It’s clear they worked hard on the designs, and the effort impresses me. It isn’t easy to create something out of nothing, and the fact that they’d chosen white doesn’t escape my notice either.

  One of the seamstresses hands the drawings to Atoc, who pores over each. He doesn’t ask for my opinion. When he finishes, his lip curls. He tears up the sketches, and the women standing before us flinch.

  “I want the dress and the suit to match,” he says. “In the Llacsan style.”

  Madre de Luna. He really wants to eradicate all of our traditions, our way of life, our culture.

  The seamstresses nod meekly and promise to deliver something by next court.

  Atoc stands. We all follow suit. Court is over. I try to leave, but Atoc grasps my arm. “Enjoy the dress,” he says. “And you need not bother giving me a wedding present. A son will suffice.”

  “A son?” I squawk. Nothing could have prepared me for the immediate terror that assaults me. Fear clutches my heart, and I push against it until I can find my anger. I hold on to it like a shield.

  “The son you’ll bear me,” he says. “You’ll do this for me, unlike my first wife.”

  His first wife. I know all about her. She was fifteen when Atoc took her as his bride. He was in his early thirties. Disgust roils inside me like a churning hot spring.

  I jerk my arm away. “You won’t touch me.”

  “For now,” he concedes. Then he smiles and walks down the aisle, his procession following after him.

  Later that night I’m finally alone in my room. Suyana has come and gone with dinner, and Juan Carlos is stationed outside my door. Sickness clings to my belly no matter how many cups of té de maté I drink. My pulse speeds up as visions of the Llacsans’ withered, shrunken hands turn my insides upside down.