Woven in Moonlight

by Isabel Ibañez

  My ears pound as I clutch the reins. It takes everything in me to keep the horse moving toward the castillo and not the fields. Rage turns my vision to blood red. My fingers itch for my sword. The usurper has taken everything from us.

  Our families.

  Our homes.

  Our queen.

  And now the damned farmlands.

  “Ándate a la mierda, Atoc!” Sofía shouts. We whoop in agreement, knowing such words will have to be swallowed in the coming days.

  We gallop on, the city materializing on the horizon as dusk settles into darkness, the moon rising, the stars peeking out. Goose bumps mar my skin. The night promises danger.

  Luna, give me strength.

  We travel through the walnut trees, around the village neighborhood, and past La Ciudad’s outer wall. Now, instead of Illustrians living in the city, it’s the infernal Llacsans. Murals of the usurper and his entourage—particularly of Atoc and his younger sister, Tamaya—besmirch the once white walls. As if Atoc needs to remind everyone who won the war.

  We pass a pair of Llacsans huddling on tattered blankets against the city gate. They peer at us with red-rimmed eyes, their noses blotchy and bleeding. These are the unfortunate souls trapped in addiction. Ensnared by the deadly promises of Atoc’s favorite export.

  We ride silently, leaving the city walls. As we approach the castillo entrance, I grip the reins tighter and grit my teeth.

  “Take a breath,” Sofía murmurs as we ride up the pathway to the iron gates.

  The castillo looms ahead of us, its white walls gleaming, simple and austere. The windows are narrow and arched, mere slits. Like prison windows. I can’t imagine what my life will be like living inside. What horrors await me? Images of a dark dungeon buried beneath the castillo swim in my head. Of long, drawn-out days without food and cold nights without any hope of warmth.

  My anger morphs into dread.

  I’d agreed to this plan and jumped without thinking, the same way I’d jumped at being Catalina’s decoy all those years ago. That impulse brought me to the home of my enemy, where I’ll be scrutinized for any show of weakness. Once inside, I can never be Ximena. What if I mess up and they catch the lie? I clench my eyes and fight to remember why I’m riding toward the ugly and terrifying unknown.

  How far am I willing to go for my queen?

  I open my eyes again as we reach the front of the path. Tall iron gates block our way. A poster depicting El Lobo hangs from one of the bars. It offers a reward for information regarding the masked vigilante.

  I pull back on the reins. And wait. Sofía follows my lead, quiet and alert.

  The night hangs heavy and silent, as if hushed by something sinister, lurking on the other side of the castillo walls, like a hidden snare waiting for a fox.

  “I see movement,” I whisper to Sofía. “Upper wall. Left of the gates. Damn it, put your weapon away. You’re supposed to be my maid.”

  Sofía frowns, but sheaths her sword. “I don’t like this.”

  That makes two of us.

  I tilt my head back and look up to where I’d seen someone creeping along the edge. Two men squint down from the watchtower. Only the moon and stars illuminate our upturned faces.

  “Who are you?”

  My heart hammers in my chest. No turning back now.

  “The condesa,” I say, loud and clear. “I’m here by At—the king’s demand.”

  The sound of a rattling chain slashes the air and slowly the door rises, foot by foot, like the jaws of an anaconda before swallowing its prey whole. I nudge my horse forward, Sofía on my left. Thank Luna I asked her to come. My body is trembling so hard, I’m half amazed I haven’t spooked the damn horse.

  The courtyard is as I remembered—only more colorful. I’m expecting a white building, but the exterior walls are painted a vibrant shade of green. Murals depicting the false king wearing a crown of sunflowers sully every inch. The yard is in the shape of a square, with white archways lining each side. Giant potted plants are strewn about and stone benches line the walls. The stables, if memory serves, are off to the right.

  A pair of doors blocks the main entrance—tall, formidable, and made of iron, designed to keep intruders out. They swing open and a man around Ana’s age walks out to meet us. He studies me coldly. He’s stocky, wearing amulets at his throat and wrists, and dressed in an eggplant robe that ripples as he approaches. His nostrils flare as he continues his assessment.

  “Condesa.” He says the title condescendingly. “I am the priest Sajra.”

  My heartbeat thrashes in my ears and I instinctively reach for the handle of my blade. Sofía sucks in a deep breath. This is the man behind the king. The loud shadow responsible for some of Atoc’s most unthinkable edicts. The torturer who uses his blood magic to ruin lives.

  He stops in front of my horse and runs an index finger along the horse’s neck. I keep still, my attention on his hands.

  “You were supposed to come alone,” he says in a neutral tone.

  I clench my jaw, my body coiling tight.

  The priest steps away from the horse. A prickle of warning makes the hairs on my forearms stand on end, and a glint of silver arrests my attention, turning it to a darkened window.

  I gasp.

  Something long and thin blurs past me.

  My mouth drops open as the force of an arrow catapults Sofía off her horse. Her head cracks against the ground.

  Blood gushes from the hole in her chest, staining the white stone.

  CAPÍTULO

  I keep blinking. My eyes tell me one thing, my head another. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

  Shaking, I slide from my horse and fall to my knees beside Sofía. Her eyes watch me. Blood trickles out of her nose and mouth; long, snakelike streaks slither down her cheeks and neck. Her body convulses as her blood soaks through my skirt and sticks to my shins. She’s losing too much. The arrow pierced her chest, near her heart. Pulling the arrow will only kill her faster. But maybe I can stop the bleeding? I reach for the shaft.

  “Don’t,” she says, panting. “I’m already dead.”

  I grip her hand. It’s icy. “No.”

  “Condesa,” Sofía whispers, her voice thin, as if she’s already a ghost. “Save my mother—”

  Rough hands jerk me away. A rattling gasp comes from Sofía, but I don’t see the moment she dies. That’s taken away from me like everyone and everything I’ve already lost. My parents and home, the city I loved before it was corrupted, the chance to wholly be myself. It was my decision to bring Sofía. This is on me.

  Instinct takes over.

  My heels smash toes, my elbows drive into stomachs. I claw and kick as the Llacsan diablos pull me farther away from Sofía. The world is awash in blood red. I flip soldiers onto their backs, crush windpipes, and break arms. My hits are imperfect, sloppy, fueled by rage and grief. More of them come. I’m surrounded. My small daggers are hidden in my boots and thanks to Ana, I know that a well-placed thrust can cause as much damage as a sword. I bend and reach for my right boot.

  The priest steps forward and everything slows.

  “That’s enough, Condesa,” he says, giving an arrogant lift of his jaw, his eyes careful.

  By now I have a dagger in each hand. I have two more hidden deep within my shoes. My chest rises and falls in tune with my breath. Then suddenly my throat tightens, as if someone has wrapped their hands around it, squeezing. A subtle constriction that makes my toes curl. The priest holds up a single index finger. That’s all it takes for him to block the air from my lungs.

  I freeze.

  “That’s it,” Sajra says with a cold smile. “You’re done now.”

  I shut my eyes. Something sour tickles the back of my throat.

  The priest loosens his hold and I suck in air, the smell tainted from all the blood staining the cobblestone.

  My heartbeat slows, shock and hurt melting away, leaving dread and guilt tangling together like unattended balls of wool. When I open my eyes,
the scene before me is so depressing, I almost laugh. Twelve men encircle me, arrows notched at the ready. Their stunned faces spell out their horror. The men I’ve taken down half crawl, half limp away.

  I made a mistake. I’m supposed to be the condesa—not a resistance fighter. Not Ximena the rebel. Catalina wouldn’t have fought. She would have been expected to cry furious tears while remaining dignified.

  Fool that I am, I’ve given the priest of all people a reason to suspect me. Even after Sofía had warned me not to lash out and show strength. As Catalina’s decoy, I’m her greatest weapon against Atoc. He’s supposed to think I’m docile and subservient.

  The priest stands close enough to touch. Close enough to destroy me with his blood magic. I know he won’t. I’m here to marry his king. I control my breath, and my heart slowly stops thumping painfully in my chest. The daggers go back into my boots. Sofía’s sword is collected off the ground by one of the guards, the blade soaked with her blood. Her vacant expression will haunt me forever. I press my hand tight to my mouth. That weapon belonged to Ana, and I’ll be damned if I allow a Llacsan to wield it. Slowly, I let my hand drop to my side in a tight fist.

  “I want that back,” I say to the priest.

  His gaze flickers to the sword clutched in the guard’s meaty paw. “Are you done showing off?”

  I hiss. Showing off? Is that what I was doing? Sajra regards me with his lifted chin and ugly smirk. I clench my jaw and nod once.

  “Then come with me, and maybe I’ll make sure it’s not lost.”

  It’s a lie. I’ll never see Ana’s sword again. It’s gone like Sofía, and my heart feels as if it’s been ripped away, leaving a jagged hole in its place.

  The priest turns on his heel. As if by their own accord, my feet follow the evil Llacsan. They follow because of Catalina—my future queen, my best friend, the sister I never had, and the only person left living who knows the real me.

  The guards keep their pointed arrows trained on me. Not once do any of them lower their weapons.

  I know, because I watch.

  The castillo doesn’t look at all like I remember it from the time I visited as a child. Gone are the calming white stones I trailed my fingers along. Gone are the empty spaces. Instead the Llacsans have painted everything in vivid colors that make my head spin: One hallway, the bright yellow of the maracuya fruit lashes out; another, it’s a raw meat red that threatens to overwhelm me. If the castillo’s exterior is sober, then the interior is drunk on cerveza.

  Nearly every inch of space displays paintings of Llacsans, tropical flowers, parrots, or llamas. Potted plants in every corner, candles burning vanilla and orange and eucalyptus blend together and attack my nose. Dogs and cats and a mule cross my path.

  I want the white back.

  It gives space to breathe.

  The guards press into my sides. The priest snaps his fingers and motions toward a hunched boy leaning against a door frame just inside a massive foyer.

  A guard yanks my elbow, pulling me to an abrupt stop, and I let out a sharp hiss.

  “Get the condesa ready for court,” Sajra says to the boy, then heads off to wherever priests go in this forsaken place. Half the guards follow him. Three remain, their arrows notched and aimed at my heart.

  The boy’s eyes flicker to mine. His dark heavy-lidded gaze betrays a careful alertness, instantly replaced by a flash of contempt. He straightens, assuming responsibility as easily as if he’s donned a shirt.

  I study the face of my jailor.

  He’s not handsome. All sharp angles and lines. A blade-like nose, thin lips, and a razor-edged jaw. His rich brown skin, a blend of copper and the tawny rock from a mountain cliff, sets off his shoulder-length black hair. It curls slightly and softens his pronounced cheekbones. He’s wearing beige trousers, a black shirt opened at the collar, and the common Llacsan leather sandals that leave the wearer with dirty feet.

  “Do us both a favor and hand over the daggers in your boots,” the boy says, his arms crossed. He asks me to give up my weapons the same way an attentive host might ask if I’d like something to drink.

  The guards shift uneasily on their feet, waiting for me to obey—or not.

  Without taking my attention off the boy, I bend and pull out two of my four daggers, throwing them at his feet. He doesn’t bother to retrieve them.

  “What else?”

  “That’s it,” I say. “I’m not an armory.”

  The boy lifts an eyebrow.

  Images of Sofía fill my vision, and angry retorts burn on my tongue. My temper wants release. “I hate what you’ve done with the castillo. Just because there’s a lot of colors to choose from doesn’t mean you actually have to use them all.”

  He blinks. “I don’t have time to talk about paint, Condesa. His Radiance is waiting.”

  The way he says His Radiance with such devotion turns my stomach.

  “I think you have more,” he presses.

  I splay my hands. “I’m all out.”

  He stares at me for a moment then slowly shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Believe what you want, Llacsan.”

  His black brows pull into a swift frown. I guess he doesn’t like it when I say Llacsan like it’s a dirty word. One guard growls. The boy raises a single hand, and I step forward, ready to heave another insult—

  The boy shoves me backward.

  My head hits the castillo wall, and his arm presses hard against my throat. I hadn’t thought he was particularly tall, but now he towers over me. I try to push his arm away, needing to breathe. His other hand grabs my left thigh, yanks it up, and he deftly removes the dagger hidden there. He tosses it over his shoulder and eases the pressure on my throat. I suck in air.

  He stares down at me, hatred radiating off him like boiling water threatening to escape a pot. I see it in the way he curls his lip. I feel it in the way his fingers dig into my skin.

  The scent of dirt and herbs coming from his clothes hovers between us. An odd smell that reminds me of burnt leaves. I gag against his forearm, my eyes watering from the pungent odor. It makes me weirdly light-headed.

  “Now the right,” he says coldly. “Or am I getting it for you?”

  I fight against the impulse to spit in his eye. Abruptly, he steps away as if he can’t stand the idea of being near me for a second longer. The feeling is mutual.

  The boy hunches his shoulders again and leans against the wall. I bend forward, my hands on my knees, and gulp in air, free of his awful scent. When my breathing returns to normal, I straighten and shoot my jailer a glare. I take out my last dagger. I’m tempted to launch the blade into his heart. He stiffens, as if guessing my intention. His hand hovers near his pocket.

  Common sense takes over and I toss the knife at his feet. It clatters against the stone, and he relaxes.

  “You’ll be meeting with His Majesty,” he says. “Try to contain your delirium.”

  I keep silent.

  “A word of advice, Condesa. A little humility before my king will go a long way. His Radiance might put you in a room with an actual bed in it.” He straightens away from the door. “Or he might decide he doesn’t want you after all, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in the dungeon.”

  The blood drains from my face. “He wouldn’t dare—”

  The boy’s face shifts into a faintly pitying look. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? To be disrespected and mistreated? I can’t imagine how that feels, my being a Llacsan and all.”

  What does he mean?

  The Llacsans were never mistreated. It was their choice to stay up by the mountain, their choice to hold on to their old ways and not embrace the future. The Illustrian queen wanted them to assimilate. She wanted a unified country, and they ungratefully protested her rule.

  They killed her.

  The boy jerks his head in the direction of the massive double doors at the opposite end of the foyer. “Ready to meet my king, Condesa?”

  The guards press ar
ound me, and I have no choice but to follow the boy’s lazy strut across the open, square foyer. It’s overlooked by balconies on all four sides. Guards on each end of the tall doors use long gold handles to open them, and as they swing inward, the boy bends his head closer to mine, his breath tickling the curve of my neck. “After you.”

  With my knees shaking, I take the first step toward my enemy.

  CAPÍTULO

  An empty gold throne sits on a dais between two large columns. I don’t know why this surprises me. After the revolt, Atoc seized most of the Illustrians’ gold. Family heirlooms were melted down so that His Royal Highness had a shiny place to rest his ass.

  The long hall varies in earth tones: the orange-and-red blend of clay, the rich brown of the earth drenched in rain, the tawny gold of the sunlit mountain cliff.

  The boy motions for me to wait. “You’ll be called forward. Then you can stand in front of the king.”

  I try to refrain from rolling my eyes. What pomp! What ceremony! Does the king think to intimidate me with his traditions?

  Am I intimidated?

  My head says no, but the rest of me disagrees. My palms are slick with sweat. To my surprise, my knees shake. For once I’m thankful to have chosen a skirt. Bloody as it is from the hole in Sofía’s chest.

  The boy leaves my side, weaves through the assembly, and stands by the throne. The guards he leaves with me, each with a firm hold on one of my arms.

  So I wait, casting an eye around the room.

  Llacsans crowd the great hall, dressed in their traditional ensembles—solid color cotton tunics, trousers, and open-toed sandals. Their capes are woven masterpieces, varying in colors from jalapeño green to rose-petal red. Some depict the silver mountain, others the jungle. Several show llamas and condors. The women wear elaborate macramé shawls hemmed with fringe, and tailored blouses tucked into layered pollera skirts. Headdresses made of vibrantly hued gems, feathers, and gold adorn their braided hairstyles.