Woven in Moonlight

by Isabel Ibañez

“I thought I heard a shout,” she says. “Perhaps you ought to leave, Condesa.”

  “What? No. I’m not leaving until you tell me about the Estrella.”

  She looks over her shoulder at me. “I think you may be needed elsewhere. There are several prisoners in the dungeon who won’t live past tomorrow.”

  She must be talking about the Llacsan journalists—the ones who faced Atoc and were forever maimed by the priest.

  “And what?” I ask. “You want me to set them free?”

  “Yes.” She steps forward and places a light hand on my arm. “There are also Illustrians down there. Atoc’s ordered their execution, Condesa.”

  I swallow and look away. I couldn’t possibly risk saving them. If I were caught, my entire mission would be jeopardized. “How do you know about the captives?”

  The realization comes at me swiftly, like an arrow cutting through the sky. One of her spies told her. Maybe even El Lobo himself. And she’s asking me to help him. Because his mission is to save everyone and their mamá también—except Ana, I think sourly and unfairly. He’s attempting a rescue.

  “It’s your choice,” she says. “But either way, we’re done for the night. Fue un placer, Condesa.”

  I’m thoroughly dismissed, but another question sits burning on my tongue. “Can’t you escape too? I can manage the lock …”

  For all her openness, there’s something guarded about Princesa Tamaya, but looking at me now, her eyes wide and earnest, I feel her sincerity as if it were hands and arms I could touch. “That’s very kind, and I appreciate it.” Her voice drops to a determined whisper. “But I can’t run away from this. I will not run away from my brother.”

  “But—”

  She retrieves my sword from beneath her cot, hands me my mask, and gently pushes me toward the door. “Remember, it’s your choice whether you help him or not. It’ll do wonderful things for your character.”

  I wasn’t aware my character needed improving, but I let her push me out the door and onto the dark spiral staircase. My woolen ants go back inside the lock, and as it clamps shut once more, I’m unable to keep myself from feeling like I’m making a colossal mistake in not helping her escape.

  CAPÍTULO

  By the time I reach the last step, I’ve made my decision. El Lobo couldn’t rescue Ana, but he still fought to save the Illustrians captured with her. I couldn’t save Sofía or Ana, but here’s my chance to help. It’s risky, but I can’t let anyone else die if there’s even a chance I can rescue them. Who knows what else might be in store for the prisoners trapped under the castillo? Would Atoc submit them to Sajra’s ghoulish blood magic?

  I creep through the gardens, ducking behind tall shrubbery in order to evade the patrolling guards. Running in a crouch, I sneak into the castillo using the side entrance. Thanks to Rumi, I have another way to the dungeons that doesn’t involve tiptoeing through the main corridors. The dungeon entrance is on the other side of the castillo foyer, down a short hallway, and through an iron door that leads to a long flight of descending steps.

  Walking on the balls of my feet, I cross the room, careful to look over my shoulder for any signs of movement. I reach the hallway and press myself against the wall, expecting to see another guard standing watch in front of the door.

  I’m right about the guard, wrong about his standing watch. The sentry lies on the ground, slumped sideways. His leg holds the door open. Blood pools around his smashed-in skull.

  El Lobo’s doing, no doubt.

  I carefully step over the body and pull the door open. I make it halfway down the stone steps before the scuffling reaches my ears. Shapes move in the flickering light of a single blazing torch. Two men fight, their grunts audible from where I hide in the semidarkness. The room is large, with rows of cells lining the far wall. I can’t discern exactly who is in which cell, but I can just make out the shadowy shapes of two prisoners in each. At least two of them are the journalists. The other four prisoners must be the Illustrians who Princesa Tamaya spoke of.

  There’s a loud whistling noise—El Lobo fights the guard with a slingshot. A sharp crack splits the air. I slink farther into the dark corner by the stairs. The scents of blood and sweat fill my nostrils. The victor of the fight comes into view.

  El Lobo.

  Question after question crowds my mind: How does he know about the prisoners? Does he have a spy in the castillo? Madre de Luna, was he at court like me, watching their horrifying torture? My skin prickles as a new question pops into my head.

  Does the vigilante work in the castillo?

  Juan Carlos’s face hovers at the forefront. He kept watch outside the hall’s entrance during the sentencing of the Llacsan writers. He would have seen the prisoners dragged into court and back out, wounded and bleeding, and missing both hands.

  I don’t have more time to dwell on the man-in-black’s identity. El Lobo snatches the key from the iron nail and opens one of the prison doors. In the lambent light, two captives stumble out of the cell. They are missing their hands—it’s the Llacsan journalists. One of them sobs, loud hiccupping noises. Dried blood covers his chin. He’s the one who lost his tongue.

  El Lobo places a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. “We have to hurry,” he says in his low, accented rasp. “Stop your tears and help me get you out of here.”

  The shorter Llacsan helps his friend toward the stairs. The remaining prisoners scramble to the bars of their cells, arms outreached, waving frantically at the vigilante. I squint into the dim dark of the dungeon and recognize the white clothing of my people.

  The vigilante is leaving them behind. He’s only helping the Llacsans—a telling choice. Is he one of them? My fingers curl into a fist. He’s a breath away from their salvation. He ought to save them, too.

  One Illustrian wraps his fingers around the cell bars, gripping it until his knuckles are bone white. His tunic and pants are smeared in filth. “Lobo,” he whispers. “Por favor.”

  The man in black urges the journalists toward the stairs and glances over his shoulder to the remaining four prisoners. My throat goes dry. He deliberates for one long moment before yanking the key from the first cell and opening the other doors. El Lobo rushes inside and helps the Illustrians to their feet. They’re all too thin, with jutting cheekbones and deep shadows under their eyes.

  “Why do you help us, too?” one of them whispers as the vigilante scoops her up in his arms.

  “I wouldn’t wish your fate on anyone,” he rasps. “Up the stairs, the rest of you. Hurry.”

  They move, and I trail behind them, my heart hammering in my chest. Would I have done the same? Would I have helped the Llacsan prisoners, or just my own?

  I’m afraid of the answer.

  I hope that I would have.

  El Lobo leads them to the same side entrance I entered the castillo through. He gently sets the woman on her feet. Pulling out his sword, he attempts to push open the door, but the sleeping guard blocks his path.

  He shoves the man out of the way and motions for everyone to follow him. The group heads straight into the garden. We’re right below my balcony. I tilt my head back and catch the silhouette of the woven anaconda. It starts to creep over the rail, but I let out a low whistle while frantically shaking my head. It hisses, but mercifully retreats.

  El Lobo leads the prisoners farther into the garden. I follow—and freeze. Six robed figures emerge from behind the thick tree trunks of the toborochi trees. Each carries a long, thin blade. Sajra’s spies. Six men against El Lobo and the weak prisoners.

  I see red. In seconds I’ve drawn my sword. I don’t stop to think. I charge at the closest spy within reach. He spins in time to block what would have been a direct hit, but I manage to pierce his side.

  El Lobo whirls around too, and the prisoners huddle behind him. He takes a step forward, brandishing his sword.

  “No, you idiot!” I shout. “Get them out of here!”

  There are too many of them. If he joins the fight, he�
��ll risk the prisoners’ lives. He can’t take on these men. But I can. My body hums in anticipation.

  I launch a kick at my attacker’s temple and drive my blade into his heart without a second thought. These men are loyal to Sajra, who maimed the journalists. He wanted to keep them silent, destroy their ability to write their protests. I cannot stand for that. Another spy rushes at me from behind. I vault sideways to avoid the thrust. Pivoting, I land a blow on the man’s shoulder. He aims for my exposed side, and I barely have time to dodge the blade.

  With a hoarse cry, I slash at his head, but he ducks in time. My blade shears off the tip of his hood. Throughout all of this, the vigilante hesitates.

  “Get them out,” I snap, swinging my sword around. “Or this will have been for nothing!”

  He curses and herds the prisoners deeper into the garden. The five remaining men circle me. I swallow my fear and hold up my blade. The whirring of a slingshot slices through the night. A round shape hurtles past me and crashes into the stomach of one of the men. He grunts as the force of the hit lifts Sajra’s spy off his feet and flings him backward.

  I lunge toward the robed fighter directly in front of me and thrust my blade into his thigh. Steel rips through muscle. Blood gushes from the wound. He drops to one knee, gasping.

  Now there are three.

  My arm muscles burn. I back away as they advance. The spy in the middle attacks first. Our blades clash, and we’re nose to nose. His hood covers his head—but the cold smile that bends his mouth is in plain view.

  I blink in surprise. A low chuckle comes from behind me. The sound sends a chill down the length of my spine, and my throat constricts. My sword clatters onto the cobbled pathway. I drop to my knees and look around for the priest. This is his blood magic.

  The attacker at my side flips his blade around. The hilt comes toward my head. For the second time that night, I slump forward.

  And then I see nothing at all.

  I wake up in a foul-smelling room. All the windows are shut, preventing the cool night air from ridding the stench of metal. My cheek presses against a scratchy wool rug. Pain throbs from a spot just above my right ear. Gingerly, I push myself into a seated position.

  Open bottles of blood line wooden shelves. Diagrams of human body parts hang on the walls, along with detailed paintings of various wild plants and herbs, squat toadstools, and a flower with shimmery silver petals labeled Killasisa.

  And sitting in a plush velvet chair in the corner of the room is the priest. He coldly regards me. “Interesting wardrobe, Condesa.”

  My hand flies to my face. He took off my mask. Panic roars to life inside me, all senses on high alert. How could I have been so stupid? So careless? I look for my sword, but it must still be in the garden and I’m completely out of moondust. I have no defense against the murderous priest.

  “Imagine my delight,” he says with a brittle smile, “to find His Radiance’s bride is in league with El Lobo. King Atoc will be very pleased.”

  Terror claws at my edges. I’m having a hard time seeing straight, which doesn’t stop the swirl of panicked thoughts in my head. Once Atoc learns of what I’ve done, I’m as good as dead.

  “Since you haven’t brought me to the king, I imagine you want something. What is it?”

  He produces that acid smile again. “You’re not as dumb as you look. I want the name of El Lobo.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “Don’t you.”

  It’s not a question.

  “No,” I say slowly. “I don’t.”

  I rise, my knees wobbling. The room spins, and I grimace at the blurry outline of the priest. He stands before me. I try to move around him, but he latches onto me with his bony fingers. A simple twist, and I break free. But he bends his head toward mine; his words, uttered low in a soft anaconda’s hiss, turn me to stone: “Just who do you think His Radiance will believe, Condesa? If he even suspects you’re working against him, what do you think he’ll do? Engagement or not, he’ll torture the information out of you. He’ll launch a campaign against the Illustrian keep and burn it to the ground. Whatever respect my king believes he feels for you will be gone. Whatever you’re planning will be over before it has begun. Is that what you want?”

  I swallow, my throat thick and dry like paper. “I don’t know his name,” I whisper.

  His nails dig into my arm, but I force myself to remain still. The priest must be playing a game of his own. Why else wouldn’t he have turned me in already? I have to ensure it remains this way. I can’t go back to a cell.

  “Do you want the throne?” I ask.

  He bares his teeth at me. “Do you know El Lobo’s name? Tell me, or we go to His Radiance.”

  I hesitate. Perhaps I could give a fake name—

  “Condesa.” He eyes me shrewdly. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “We’re not in league—I was trying to free the Illustrian prisoners, but he ended up saving all of them. When your men showed up, I didn’t think. I acted. That’s what happened and it’s all I know about the vigilante.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he says. “And you’re wasting my time. There are ways I can rip the truth from you.”

  Sajra lifts his hands and I back away, horrified, the image of the Llacsans’ shriveled, chopped hands haunting my dreams. I sweep both of my own hands behind my back.

  “No. No. Wait. I—”

  Sajra’s laugh skips down my spine. He advances slowly, folding the cuff of his right sleeve and then his left. Precise, terrifying movements. There’s nowhere for me to go, and I can’t scream without bringing in more of Atoc’s men. He’s going to level me to the ground. Turn me to dust, shriveled up and useless.

  “His name,” Sajra says.

  “¡No lo sé!” I cry out. “I don’t know. I swear it.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  His awful magic does its work: My blood rushes under my skin, moving at a brisk pace, spreading out of my chest. I drop to my knees. My heart is trying to pump blood and failing, and I feel every hard-earned thump.

  “Stop,” I whisper. “I don’t know it. You’ll gain nothing by killing me.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he rasps.

  Blood leaches from my heart. My breath comes in impossibly quick spurts as my lungs fight to replenish the lost air, and a cool fuzziness starts to sap the feeling from my head. I’m going to die in this disgusting room, utterly useless to Catalina, to my people. “I don’t know,” I say hoarsely. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  My body is a weak and shuddering thing. Seconds from becoming lifeless. I can feel myself drifting closer toward the ground, unable to keep upright.

  “All right, Condesa,” Sajra says. “You’ve managed to convince me.”

  I inhale deeply, my vision swimming. The words don’t register, but sweet life-giving blood courses back into my veins. It rushes into my heart, my lungs, wild and forceful. Air comes easily. My heart thumps painfully against my ribs.

  “You bastard,” I hiss.

  Sajra takes a seat in a leather chair, his face pale. I remember how using Pacha magic tires out the Llacsans. Maybe I could use this as an advantage. “I can still siphon your blood.”

  I’m sure he can, despite how tired he looks. But he stopped for a reason. This I know for certain.

  “Your general is dead,” he says almost conversationally. “Her magic shrouding the Illustrian bridge has vanished—of course I knew about her gifts, Condesa. Don’t look so surprised.” He leans forward, gazing at me with dark eyes that walk the line between black and brown.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want El Lobo’s name,” he says. “You have until Carnaval to bring it to me.”

  “Or you’ll do what?”

  He doesn’t have to voice his threat. I can read it in every line of his face. If I don’t bring him El Lobo’s name, he’ll unleash his magic on all the Illustrians hiding in the keep.

  “No
one will be spared,” he says. “The women—”

  I flinch.

  “The children—”

  I shut my eyes.

  “No one will survive.”

  Tears drip down my face as I imagine the piles of dried and shrunken bodies. I can’t mask the horror that pools within my heart. He’ll murder all of them.

  “You have two weeks,” he says, lifting his finger.

  My throat constricts. I can’t speak, can’t breathe. He whirls away, and my throat clears. I clutch the rug, fingers digging into the crevices, sucking in air. I’m still catching my breath when he calls for his guards. They help me to my feet and drag me back to my room, where I drop onto the bed.

  My dreams are the stuff of nightmares.

  CAPÍTULO

  The earthquake starts after the ninth bell. I’ve buttered my marraqueta and taken one delicious bite into the chewy dough when the floor pitches beneath my bare feet.

  I clutch the bread loaf and wait. The breakfast tray shakes on top of the dresser. The clay plate rattles against the wood. I gasp and drop to my knees, squeezing my eyes shut.

  This is how my parents died. Buried under rubble.

  I shove the thought away, gasping for air, and curl myself into a ball. The mirror tilts and smashes, shards exploding in every direction. The bedposts slam against the stone wall. The ground lurches and I scream.

  At last, at last. The world stills. I can breathe again.

  I scramble onto my knees and fling the door open. Shouts and cries erupt from somewhere in the castillo. My guards are gone, and I race down the hallways, heading to the railing that overlooks the entry room two stories below.

  Atoc lets out a violent cry. People rush away as he paces, his arms swinging wide. He snatches a painting off the wall and hurls it to the other side of the room. The frame splits when it crashes against the stone wall.

  “Find them!” he shouts. “I want them back. I want them to burn. Find El Lobo!”

  The capitán issues orders. Servants rush to clean up the splintered painting. Atoc must have found out about the escaped prisoners. In his anger will he attack the Illustrian keep? Make random arrests? Maybe—