Not to this fake king.
Rage blazes beneath my skin, lighting my body as if I were a torch. “Atoc!” I bellow. “You liar! Bastard, heaping pile of—”
Someone shouts in the crowd. For a moment I think it’s the Illustrians launching a rescue. A whirring noise slashes the air, and something hurtles toward one of the guards standing next to an Illustrian prisoner. My breath catches as the guard is lifted off his feet and catapulted into the crowd.
There’s a sudden silence. Another voice cries out, pointing upward toward the parapets lining the plaza. A lone figure dressed entirely in black stands along the edge, holding his telltale slingshot.
El Lobo. The vigilante of Inkasisa.
He lifts an arm in mocking salute to Atoc, who lets out a guttural roar. Mayhem descends in full force: people shouting, feet stomping in frantic escape, overturned carts filling the streets with dried beans and corn and smashed fruit. The ground trembles, cutting through the commotion. Everyone freezes.
Pacha magic. Atoc’s earthquakes. I bend my knees to keep balance, but the sudden shaking forces me to the ground. I’m not alone—the tremor drives all the Llacsans to their knees. I catch sight of El Lobo holding on to a balcony rail as the building sways left to right and back again. The vigilante jumps, reaching an Inkasisa flag. His body spins in a wide arc, and then he lets go, landing onto the crowd and disappearing fully.
This is my moment. I lurch forward, the ground pulsating under my feet. People scramble out of the way, running in the opposite direction of Atoc. He’s climbed onto the platform, seemingly oblivious and unafraid of the waking earth. His arms surge upward and another quake cracks the walls and splits stone. I push closer, trying to reach Ana. Someone trips over my dress, and I curse as we both slam onto the cobblestone. I heave the person off me, desperate to get to my feet.
El Lobo rushes onto the other end of the platform. A silver glint catches sunlight as the vigilante uses a sword to slice at the ropes binding the Illustrian prisoners. The first captive is free, scrambling off the platform, the second follows suit, jumping into the crowd, fastened hands and all, but Ana has fallen onto her side, bound at the wrists. Atoc stands above her, arms still outstretched.
“Lobo!” I scream. “Help her, please!”
The roar of the crowd drowns out my voice. Several guards surround him, and El Lobo is fighting them off with his thin blade. Atoc conjures another massive quake. This one splits open a wide crack near the platform, revealing the deep belly of the earth. Ana tries to crawl away, but Atoc laughs at her attempt and pulls her back by grabbing her hair.
Her eyes widen in terror.
Another earthquake fractures the plaza. The stones slap my knees and my teeth chatter. Before I can push onto my feet, Atoc shoves Ana toward the yawning hole in the cobblestone. Rolling out of control, her feet jerking wildly, she can’t grasp anything because her wrists are bound.
Seconds later Ana vanishes into the earth, screaming the whole way down.
“No!” Tears stream down my face as the ground continues to shake. My fingers can’t find purchase to push myself up. I’m not getting enough air. It hurts to breathe.
Ana is gone.
The earth swallowed her whole.
Somewhere in the madness, I’ve lost sight of El Lobo. He must have broken free of the guards because he’s nowhere to be seen.
Atoc quiets the earth, and he’s the only one left standing. Everyone is a mess of dusted cheeks and hair, skinned flesh and bloody gashes. The plaza is a war zone, buildings nearly toppling over, overturned food and flower carts spilling onto the street.
The memory rolls into my mind swiftly, the scent of smoke and metal strong in my nose. Bellowing cries pierced the black night. Not a single star hung in the sky. Dust and dirt and blood stung my eyes. I sat on the ruins of our house. And somewhere beneath me, my parents lie buried beneath cracked stone.
Atoc’s men rise to their feet, and I shove the recollection from my mind. Horses are found, carts are righted. People slowly come back to life as the shock wears off.
Atoc stalks toward me. He stops when he reaches the tattered hem of my dress. His toes brush the fabric. I tip my head back, not bothering to hide the tears streaking my face. He stares at me, eyes bloodshot and furious.
“Get her out of my sight.”
One of the guards ties my hands with a thick hemp rope. I barely notice. My vision blinks to black, and I taste salt on my tongue. The procession forms its long line—Atoc at the front—and we all travel back to the castillo in single file, battered and filthy. I bring up the rear, the rope yanking me along while I try to keep up on foot. The hemp bites into my skin, rubbing my wrists raw.
The last thing I want to do is cry, but the tears keep coming. My grief pecks at me like a starving vulture, tearing deep into my flesh until I feel Ana’s death in every part of my body.
We arrive at the castillo, but instead of the pink room, the guards drag me below to the dungeon. “You’re to stay down here until the king changes his mind,” one guard says.
He unwinds the rope from my wrists, rough and quick. I force myself not to wince. Another guard pushes me into the small barred cell. Guttering torches give enough light for me to see my bloody wrists, burning as if on fire.
“Can I have water?” I ask, my voice hoarse from crying.
“There’s none,” one of them says in a curt tone.
No water. Of course. Last night I’d received a tubful. Today not even a drop. “What’s going to happen to me?”
One guard shrugs. “All I know is that you’re to stay here.”
My punishment for speaking out against the king. Their footsteps echo in the dim dark of my prison. The door clangs shut, ricocheting off the stone and ringing in my ears. But not loud enough to block out the memories of Ana’s terrified screams as she vanished into the earth.
My second day in enemy territory.
CAPÍTULO
There isn’t much to do in a cold, dark place except count the stones that line the floor and walls—nine hundred and eight—and do exercises to keep warm. I stretch and walk around in circles, jump and practice my high kick.
Without a single window, I lose track of time. I think it might be morning, given the way my stomach rumbles with hunger. Maybe all that jumping was a bad idea. But if I don’t keep moving, if I don’t stay busy, then I’ll only think about Ana and Sofía.
And my burning wrists.
I’m sick of my heart hurting. The pain goes deep, deeper than the fissures Atoc opened in the earth. It’s been forged by long years of living without my parents, of nearly starving as I tried to survive in a city blown up after the revolt. The ache grew when Ana and Sofía died. I’m bleeding, and I don’t know how to stop it.
I need Catalina. Not the condesa. Mi amiga. My friend.
My only visitor comes during the night to add more oil to the torches—one guard, who ignores my request for a blanket.
This is very bad. I can’t do anything from down here. All I’ve managed to do so far is cause my friends’ deaths. Reason tells me it’s not my fault. I didn’t shoot the arrows, and I didn’t create a giant hole in the middle of the earth for Ana to fall into.
But my heart—my traitorous heart—whispers that none of my friends would have been in danger if it hadn’t been for me. I shouldn’t have executed that messenger. I ought to have expected an attack once we reached the castillo. I ought to have found a way to secure Ana’s release. Or stopped her from leaving on that mission in the first place.
I could have pushed harder. Planned better. Done more.
But I’d been arrogant.
Catalina was right. The weight of the condesa’s responsibility is tremendous.
My knees give out, and I slump to the stone floor.
There has to be something I can do. Maybe I can connect with the other Illustrian prisoners? But a quick glance around the dungeon proves to be a vain endeavor. I don’t see or hear any other victims. My ce
ll seems to be in an empty wing.
Think, Ximena. Use your head.
With Ana gone—I flinch at the thought—her magic surrounding the bridge has vanished. Finding the Estrella isn’t just about safeguarding Catalina’s reign; it’s about ensuring the Illustrians’ survival. Once Atoc realizes he can cross that bridge … I shudder. The fortress can withstand an attack, but with food scarce there’s no way our people will outlast a prolonged assault.
I gently bang the back of my head against the cool stone. Thud, thud, thud.
Overthrowing Atoc is my priority. Finding the Estrella guarantees victory. But even so, I have to send a message to Catalina to let her know how much time she has to prepare for the attack.
And for that I need a loom.
The lock creaks and slides back, wrenching me from my thoughts. Heavy footsteps thudding in the dark make me lurch to my feet. A shape materializes. It’s Rumi—his shoulders hunched, carrying a blanket tucked under his arm, a basket in one hand. I sniff. The basket definitely has food. Some kind of cheese and bread. It takes everything in me not to rush to the bars and snatch both out of his hands.
He stops in front of the door to my cell. “Congratulations, you’ve earned an extended stay down here. If that’s what you were hoping to achieve with your antics yesterday, it worked.”
I clench my fists. Intolerable idiot.
“If you’ve come to gloat,” I say, “I’d rather not hear it.”
He reaches for the key hanging on a rusty nail in the wall. “I’m here to do a job, Condesa. Observing your rash stupidity is just a perk, and my prerogative.”
I don’t expect sympathy from him. But his tone, sour like week-old milk, sends a sharp flare of annoyance coursing through my body. I welcome it. I prefer to have a target for my emotions instead of holding on to my grief.
“I don’t think it’s stupid or rash to stand up for a friend,” I say. “But I guess that’s where we differ.” As a quip, it’s not one of my best, but I’m reasonably proud of my tone—I sound stronger than I feel.
Rumi turns the key, opens the door, and forcefully throws the blanket at my face. The basket with food he drops by the door. “Oh, I’m in complete agreement with you. We’re certainly different.”
“Fundamentally.”
He runs a cold, assessing eye over my person, seemingly dismissing me, until his attention focuses on my wrists. I tuck them behind my back, wrapping them around my ruined dress.
“Let me see.”
“Go away,” I snarl.
He takes a step closer. “Show me where it hurts.”
“Ándate a la mierda.” Showing him my wounds feels wrong. They’re raw, and they badly sting. I don’t want him near me, let alone examining my injuries.
“Fine,” he snaps when it becomes clear I won’t give in. The door to my cell clangs shut behind him, ringing in my ears. “Someone will be down with a chamber pot.”
My stomach twists at the thought of relieving myself in the room where I ate my dinner, but hunger wins, and I eat the marraqueta loaf, queso blanco, and plátanos in one sitting.
The chamber pot is delivered. The guards set up cacho, a Llacsan dice game, where they play by torchlight. Their hollering and laughing keeps me up for hours, so I sit in the corner of my cell, glaring in their general direction for most of the night.
Rumi returns sometime later. A full day may have passed. By now I’ve taken several hundred restless turns in the cell. I want to scream in frustration. I have to get out of here. Illustrians are depending on me; Catalina is depending on me. I still don’t have any idea of how I can get a loom.
Then there’s the not so small matter of my raw wrists.
They’re getting worse—bubbling and oozing. Without proper care, infection will set in. The infection will lead to a fever, and I’ll be useless if I get sick.
Nothing can jeopardize my mission. Nothing.
The loud clang of the lock sliding open makes me turn toward the dungeon’s door. Rumi approaches, carrying another basket. I’d been fed earlier by one of the guards, and the blanket hasn’t been taken away. What is he doing down here?
He takes the keys to the cell off the rusty nail and uses them to come inside my prison. “Let’s get this over with, Condesa.” He gives me a resigned look.
My fingers twitch as if reaching for my blades, but I have only my hurting hands to defend myself with. “Get ready for what?”
He pulls a carefully wrapped package slowly from the basket.
I frown. “What’s that for?”
Rumi opens the folds, revealing pressed herbs. He means to treat my rope burns.
I back away. “You’re not coming near my wrists.” He’ll be rough, and heaven knows what else he has in that basket. He might make things worse, then I’ll be ruined. I need to be alert, to somehow find a loom so I can write my messages for Catalina. If he drugs me, or puts the wrong medication on my wounds, I’ll have to recover and I don’t have time for that. “I want to see a healer.”
He lifts a dark brow. “I am a healer, you fool.”
I purse my lips. “You?”
Somehow that doesn’t fit. To heal people, you have to understand them. You have to take the time to listen and actually hear what bothers them. Rumi doesn’t strike me as a good listener. It does, however, explain why his clothes reek of burnt leaves.
“Yes,” he says. “Me. It’s my Pacha magic. I don’t have all day, and I will literally sit on you to get this done, Condesa. Don’t fight me on this.”
If he thinks I’m going to willingly submit to his treatment, he’s in for a surprise, healer or no. I’m not going to risk my hands for nothing. I need to weave my messages.
He takes a step forward.
I take a step back. Glancing over my shoulder, I calculate how many moves I have left. About three more steps until my back reaches the cold stone. An idea streaks through my mind, bright like a shooting star. I hold on to it as if my life depends on it. And in a way, it does. “What’s in it for me?”
Rumi blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“What’s in it for you?” he repeats. “How about not having to deal with an infection? Not succumbing to fever? Avoiding death?”
I shake my head. “That benefits you. I’m your charge, right? What would it look like if you couldn’t keep one girl alive? Will the king still trust you if his soon-to-be wife falls ill?”
A scowl rips through his face, sudden and fierce. “The mark of a true Illustrian. Always wanting more than their due. Well? What is it?”
“I want your promise that you’ll bring me what I ask for.”
“My promise?” he says, raising his voice to a near shout. “As if you have any room to negotiate—”
“I’ll fight you if you take one step closer,” I snap. “Hear this, Llacsan: I can make your life easier or much, much worse. Give me what I ask for, and I’ll let my wrists be treated. That’s what I’m proposing.”
“What do you want?” His voice comes out in a growl.
“The promise first.”
He rolls his eyes until the whites show. “I promise to bring what you ask for—within reason. I can’t guarantee your release. At present, the king won’t let anyone breathe your name.”
I smile—a triumphant smile that spreads from ear to ear. “I want a loom.”
Rumi takes a step back, stunned, his dark eyes widening. There’s a long beat of silence.
“Well?”
“Why,” he asks carefully, “do you want a loom?”
“I like to weave.”
Rumi frowns. “That’s not an Illustrian hobby.”
I shrug. So I shouldn’t like to weave because of who I am? That’s ridiculous. I like creating with my hands. There’s something rewarding about making art out of nothing. The tucking and untucking, the folding over and under. Repeating until a bright new thing winks back at me. I make tapestries with my own two hands. There isn’t anything better than creating so
mething beautiful, especially if it hides a message that can save my people. Who gives a damn if I’m an Illustrian or not? The loom can’t tell the difference.
“You really like to weave?” he asks in a skeptical tone.
I shake my head. “No, I really love to weave.”
A peculiar expression crosses his face, incredulousness mixed with surprise. I know what he thinks of me—or rather, the condesa, Catalina—spoiled, vain, and useless with a streak of cruelty. That’s what all Llacsans say. It’s how they define us. Illustrians are cruel. Monsters and oppressors. Harbingers of disease and misfortune.
We invaded their lands, sure, but they’d invaded the original natives of Inkasisa—the Illari. Driven them away until they disappeared into the Yanu Jungle, left to fight poisonous insects and snakes and the untamed wild. We aren’t all that different from the Llacsans.
We’d just won.
Rumi studies me, his head tilted slightly to the side. Another beat of silence follows, my heart thundering in my chest. I need him to get me that loom. If he doesn’t …
“I’ll see if I can find one in the castillo,” he says at last. “If not, I’ll have to send for one.”
My relief nearly sends me to my knees. It worked.
He holds out his hand. “Your wrists.”
I hesitate. I have a profound respect for healers. They fix people. It’s something to admire, the ability to make someone better and whole. I don’t want to confuse Rumi for one of them. He’s my enemy and always will be.
“I can do it myself,” I say stiffly. “Just tell me what to do.”
Rumi lets out an exasperated sigh. He drops the basket by my feet, snatches my hand, turns my knuckles downward, and drops the herbs into my palm. I let out a small yelp, but he ignores it. He steps away and leans against the bars.
“I brought several remedies,” he says in a curt tone. “Use the vinegar to disinfect the wounds first.”
“Vinegar?” My wounds already blister; adding something that acidic will feel as if I’ve stuck my hands in a fire.
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