Woven in Moonlight
ISABEL IBAÑEZ
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TO MY FAMILIA:
Mami, papi, Rodrigo, and the entire Bolivian brigade
ANDREW,
who believed in me before I did
CAPÍTULO
My banged-up spoon scrapes the bottom of a barrel that should’ve held enough dried beans to last for three more months.
No, no, no.
There has to be more.
Sickness churns my stomach, and my knuckles brush against bare wood as I coax a handful of shriveled beans into a half-empty bag. I wipe dirty hands against my white trousers and ignore the sweat dripping down my neck. The kingdom of Inkasisa is in the middle of her stifling wet season. Even though it’s night, there’s no escaping the muggy heat.
“Something wrong, Condesa?” asks the next person in line waiting for their ration.
Yes, in fact. We’re all going to starve. Not that I can say this out loud. It goes against everything I know to do as their leader: A condesa should never show fear.
I school my features into what I hope is a pleasant expression, then turn to face the long line of Illustrians waiting for their evening portions. Drawn faces stare back at me. White clothes hang off gaunt frames, loose and big like the tents the Illustrians sleep in next to the keep.
My whole life, I’ve trained for situations like this: manage expectations, soothe people’s worries, feed them. It’s the condesa’s job.
We’re standing in the round storage building with the door propped open, allowing for people to crowd around as I sort through the provisions. Luna’s light casts rectangular patterns on the dozens of empty barrels piled on their sides, while a rickety wooden staircase leads up to the armory housing swords, shields, and bundled arrows. All we could carry when we fled for our lives the day La Ciudad Blanca fell.
What would Ana, our general, want me to say? Manage them. You’re in charge. Don’t forget what’s at stake. We need to survive until we can take back the throne.
I glance at the door, half expecting to find Ana’s broad shoulders leaning against the frame, moonlight reflecting off the silver wisps in her hair. But she’s not there. Ana left four days ago on a mission to chase a rumor about Atoc, the false Llacsan king—a rumor that, if true, guarantees our victory.
She promised to be back by yesterday.
An arm brushes against mine. Catalina, silently reminding me of her presence. The knot in my chest unwinds slightly. I forgot she was standing behind me, ever helpful.
“Bring me the wheat, por favor.” I gesture toward the wall the barrels of rations are lined against. “And the cloth bags over on that shelf.”
She obeys, grabbing the supplies off the shelf first and handing them to me, her dark eyes lowered. Then she darts toward the barrel.
“Condesa?” a woman asks. “Is this all that’s left?”
I hesitate; the lie waiting on the tip of my tongue tastes sour and wrong. My gaze returns to the dwindling piles of food at my feet: husked corn, a half-filled bag of rice, and an almost empty basket of bread. Not nearly enough.
A lie won’t feed all these people.
“We’re short on some supplies,” I say with a tight smile. “No beans, I’m afraid, but—”
Next to me Catalina stiffens, pausing in her attempt to drag the wheat barrel to my side. Normally it takes the effort of two people, but somehow she manages by herself. Which means this barrel isn’t full either.
The woman’s mouth drops open. “No beans? ¿No hay comida?”
“That’s not what I said.” I force my smile to remain in place as I come to a split-second decision—our best and only option. “We have to be careful with what we have. So here’s what’s going to happen: Starting immediately, everyone will receive less than half their usual ration, per family. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s either that or we starve,” I say bluntly. “Your pick.”
Voices rise up.
“Less than half?”
“Not ideal?”
Another woman shouts, “How can there be no food left?”
A headache presses against my temple. “We do have some food—”
But the woman’s words travel down the line, catching fire in the dark, until fifty people clamor for attention, wanting answers, wanting their rations. They wave their empty baskets in the air. Their loud cries boom like thunder in my ears. I want to duck for cover. But if I don’t do something, I’m going to have a full-blown riot on my hands.
“Reassure them,” Catalina hisses.
“I can’t offer what we don’t have,” I whisper. Catalina shoots me a meaningful look. A condesa should know how to maintain control of any situation. “I’m doing my job. You do yours.”
“Your job is my job,” she snaps.
The people’s cries swell, bouncing off the walls and threatening to strike me down. “¡Comida! ¡Comida!” The crowd stomps their feet and pushes in, hot breath brushing against my face like heavy smoke. I fight the impulse to step back.
Someone in the crowd yells for El Lobo, and I tense, hoping no one else sings that stupid vigilante’s praises. Every time something goes wrong, someone inevitably brings up the man in the mask. The trickster.
“El Lobo can help us—”
“He steals from Atoc’s coffers all the time—”
“He’s the hero of Inkasisa—”
Oh, for goodness sake. He’s a man in a ridiculous mask. Even my niñera could prank that puffed-up idiotic pretend king. And she was eighty the last time I saw her.
“We want El Lobo!” someone shouts.
“Lobo! Lobo!”
“That’s enough!” My voice rings out, sharp as the edge of a blade. “No one speaks his name in my presence, understood? He’s a scoundrel who plays pranks on the false king. That kind of reckless behavior could get us killed. The vigilante is dangerous and not one of us.”
Someone throws a rock at a window. Glass shatters, and moonlight-touched shards fly everywhere. Faces blur as my vision darkens and I can only make out hints of mottled cheeks and flailing arms as the crowd bellows for the vigilante. They press forward until Catalina and I are almost backed against the wall.
“Condesa,” Catalina says, her eyes wide and frantic.
My mouth goes dry. The words don’t come. I glance at the empty doorway, willing Ana to appear. But more people push into the building.
“I need …” I begin.
“¿Qué? ¡Más fuerte!”
“I need you all to remain calm,” I say louder. “Shouting or throwing rocks won’t fix the—”
Their protests grow louder and louder until I can’t distinguish what they’re saying. My legs wobble, and it takes every ounce of will left in me just to remain upright. It’s not supposed to be like this. Ten years ago my people were the aristócratas of Inkasisa. But our way of life, our culture, is gone, like pages torn from a book. No more visits to the plaza to hear live music while strolling with friends in our long
skirts and fancy leather shoes. Or walking Cala Cala, the prettiest path overlooking La Ciudad, where you can pick figs and peaches while enjoying the vista. Birthday fiestas are a thing of the past, existing only in my memory, but sometimes I can still taste my abuela’s torta de nuez, a rich walnut cake smothered in creamed coffee and dulce de leche.
Another rock sails toward a window, jarring me from my thoughts. Shards of splintering glass ring in my ear. My nerves threaten to eat me from the inside out. An empty feeling in the pit of my stomach makes my head spin.
Catalina touches my arm and steps in front of me. “What the condesa means is that we have a plan to get more food underway. For now we have plenty. Everyone will receive the usual amount.”
I cut her a warning look, but Catalina ignores me. So does everyone else. Her words work like a balm over a blistering wound. The crowd quiets and holds out their baskets, mollified, shuffling around her like chickens clucking for feed.
“Why don’t you all step back in line and I’ll sort out the food? Have you on your way so that you can put your children to bed, and have something to cook for your families tomorrow, all right?”
They file into a straight line like obedient schoolchildren. I step away from Catalina, my shoulders slumping. They don’t want me or the bad news I carry. I can’t give them what they need, so I give them what they want instead—Catalina. Their friend.
Something I can’t be as their supposed queen.
She knocks the lid off the barrel at my elbow and scoops up a handful of wheat. “Who’s first?”
Catalina distributes heaping portions of wheat and bundles of husked corn until only a smattering of provisions remain. Then she reaches for the barrels that contain the last of our supplies—for emergencies only.
I stand off to the side, my fists clenched and my mouth shut. I can’t manage a polite smile even if I try. Ana normally leads undercover raids to La Ciudad to steal food, but since she’s not back, who knows how long it’ll be before we get more supplies? At the rate Catalina’s giving out rations, we have mere days left. And just who does she think they’ll come after when everyone discovers how close to starving we are?
Certainly not to their friend.
Catalina spares me a brief glance, then she picks up a small bowl by her feet filled with a handful of dried beans, ground wheat, and an ear of corn. Her own ration she set aside earlier. She hands it to the next person in line.
“I need air,” I say curtly. Without looking at her, I head toward the door. The remaining crowd parts so I can pass. Glass crunches underneath the soles of my leather boots. I avert my gaze from their watchful eyes, but I feel their disappointment anyway.
The condesa has let them down.
When I want to escape, I head to the top of the northernmost tower in the keep, the massive fortress that once housed the legendary Illustrian army before it was destroyed by Atoc’s supernatural weapon. After the revolt, we sought refuge within this stronghold of massive stone towers and high arches. Mountains envelope the rear of the fortress, and abysms several hundred feet deep encircle those. It’s as if our fortress stands on a floating island. A single bridge allows entry, enchanted by Ana’s magic. Only Illustrians can cross.
But that hasn’t stopped Atoc’s priest from trying.
Outside the storage building, mosquitos buzz and toads croak in the sweltering night. The heat of my torch sends rivulets of sweat dripping down my face. The air hangs heavy with the smell of cooking fires drifting from the long rows of tents next to the keep. The scents are of simple dishes, beans over white rice, and nothing at all like how we used to eat in La Ciudad: plates piled high with silpancho or salteñas, grilled choclo and fried yuca, and then washed down with toasted cane sugar, ginger, and mango juice. Overhead, a full moon adorns the night like a bright jewel. Luna’s looking her best.
I pass the stables and spot Sofía practicing drills with her mother’s blade. A gift for her eighteenth birthday. Ana was so proud to hand over her most prized possession. That blade had saved us during the invasion. Now her magic saves us day and night. Ana is everything to everyone on this side of the bridge.
General and mother. Mentor and friend. If she’s in danger—or worse—how long can we survive without her?
I open the double doors to the great hall, a square room filled with long wooden tables and a fireplace. Above the dirty fireplace is a shield that belonged to an Illustrian queen who ruled Inkasisa hundreds of years ago. Our battle cry Carpe Noctem—“Seize the Night”—is etched along the upper arch. The ceilings are tall, and tapestries I’ve woven over the years decorate the stone walls. Shooting stars are stitched across the length of them. Some with puffy clouds that look real enough to float away. The skies and heavens, moon and stars, Illustrian pride.
I climb the tower’s spiral staircase, trailing my fingers against the rough wall. My boots thud against the stone. At the top, a small round room waits for me, empty except for a basket of white llama wool and a sturdy wooden loom, a gift from my Llacsan niñera. I haven’t seen her since Atoc drove us out of our own city.
Ten years ago. A lifetime.
The loom sits near an arched window, close enough to bathe in Luna’s moonlight, but not close enough for the heights to make me queasy. The room is far removed from everyone else, making it easier to weave without any distraction.
My fingers twitch. I want to weave. No, I need to.
With my heart thudding, I grab a bundle of the snow-white wool and tie knots on the top and bottom pegs. Once the loom is properly warped, I gather more wool. I start at the top, threading the strands over and under to create diamond-shaped lights peppering the evening sky.
As I work, moonlight glints around me, growing brighter, as if peering over my shoulder to watch me work. My fingers blur as I move from left to right and back again. When I finish dotting the tapestry with twinkly lights, it’s ready for my magic thread. The one only I can make.
The one made of moonlight.
My fingers tingle, and I reach for a ray of silver light. Feel it glide over my hand, like putting an arm through a sleeve. The moonlight slants, turning supple and smooth, bending and twisting as it lengthens.
My breath catches. No matter how many times I use Luna’s rays to make thread, it always manages to surprise me—the shimmer of magic courses through me, delighting the fabric of my soul.
I work the incandescent thread, over and under again, building a scene of the night sky. The moonlight turns to moondust as I weave, fluttering to the stone floor like falling snowflakes.
In what feels like minutes, a new tapestry winks back at me. A glittering silver work of art that lights up the small room. Pools of moondust gather at my feet, as if I’ve wandered into winter. My neck and shoulders stiffen—a telltale sign that I’ve once again lost track of time. The pain is worth it. While I weave, life’s troubles melt away: worry about Ana, our lack of food, and the infernal Llacsans. I pick up the strand to finish the bottom row.
Footsteps shuffle behind me. I stiffen, bracing myself for the fight I know is coming.
“It’s beautiful,” Catalina says from the doorway. “One of your best, I think.” Her voice turns wistful. “And that’s saying something. The moon thread—”
I turn to face her. “Is the food all gone?”
She shakes her head as she steps into the room.
“How much do we have left?”
She avoids my gaze. “Enough for a few days.”
I suck in a breath and hold it for a long moment. It forces my anger deep within me. A trick Ana taught me to keep my temper in check. She always keeps calm and thinks of practical solutions. I admire the way she handles bad news, however ugly. If it were me, I’d hit something with my loom. Preferably a Llacsan.
I let out my breath slowly.
Catalina bends closer to study the tapestry. The silver light flickers across her face. People say we look like sisters. Same wavy hair and dark eyes, olive skin and thick, arched brows. S
ome days I like to pretend we are. But right now I want to stay mad at her for putting us in the most impossible situation. Three hundred displaced Illustrians live near our fortress in rows and rows of tents. Their homes cover the grounds, leaving little room for growing food.
I sigh. I know her heart. She means well. But coño.
“We’re going to starve, Catalina.”
“I appreciate everything you’re doing,” she says in the same soothing tone she uses on overwrought children. “I really do. But you need to trust me—”
I throw my hands up, because really, I can’t do a damn thing to fix our plight.
It’s not my place. I’m not the real condesa.
Catalina is.
“You’re the one in charge,” I say. “I’m only pretending to know better.” I grab the leftover wool and furiously wind the long strand into a tight ball.
“Ana will come back, and she’ll lead another foraging mission into La Ciudad. You’ll see. She’ll steal enough to feed us for several months. I know what I’m doing, and you ought to trust her. She’s always looked out for me. For both of us.”
“Then where is she? Ana said three days. It’s been four. You should have let me go after her, or at the very least let Sofía go.” I raise my voice. “Maybe Atoc’s priest got ahold of her. Did you think of that?”
“Stop it,” Catalina says. “Just stop it. This isn’t helping, Ximena.”
Goose bumps flare on my forearms. I rarely hear my real name said aloud. When Ana first brought me into the keep ten years ago, she switched me with Catalina behind closed doors.
Back then, her protective parents limited public outings and kept her social circles centered around family. But they all perished in the revolt. When Ana had dressed me in the Condesa’s fine clothing, Illustrians never questioned my identity. They believed I was their heir, their last hope to reclaim the throne, safely hidden from Atoc.
That’s when Catalina became Andrea. Only Ana’s two children, Sofía and Manuel, know the truth, and as a form of habit, they call me the condesa like everyone else.
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