My mouth waters.
“You’re going to have to eat this fast,” she says, pulling drawers open. “I’ll pick out your clothes for the outing. His Majesty will want you in a full skirt, I think. Perhaps you’ll wear the mantilla, too?”
She drops several tunics onto the bed.
I sit up. “What do you mean ‘for the outing’? I’m not going.”
The maid ignores me and shakes out the creases of a night-colored skirt.
I scramble out of bed and stalk over to her. “I’m not going to La Ciudad.”
I can’t leave the castillo today—not with everyone else. Why does Atoc want me there anyway? He won’t notice my absence, not really. In response to my stubbornness, she grabs the cup of coffee and waves it under my nose.
“Why do I have to go on the outing?” I back away from the nearly overflowing cup. The last time I was forced to visit La Ciudad, my friend died. This could be another one of Atoc’s tricks.
“His Majesty’s orders are not for me to question. I have to get you dressed. Are you going to drink this or not?” She sets the cup on the dresser when I remain silent.
I sit on the bed and glare. “I’m not going to repeat myself.”
She pauses mid-fluff on the skirt and stares at me. Waiting, as if the answer is obvious. Anger sprouts like prickly weeds in my chest. He only wants to show off his prize. He wants to demonstrate his ownership. My skin itches as if an army of hormigas have bitten me.
“You realize if I don’t have you in a dress in ten minutes, I’ll get in trouble?”
I feel a second’s worth of sympathy, but I shove it away. I don’t want to feel anything for these Llacsans. They are my enemy. “Not my problem.”
She sighs. “Condesa.”
For another moment I waver. Then the guard opens the door and Juan Carlos bounds in, all high energy and smiling. “You’re not dressed? Everyone’s waiting. Put on something suitable.”
I open my mouth to argue and then shut it. What’s the point? If these Llacsans don’t get their way, they’ll never leave me alone. Maybe if I exhibit exemplary behavior, Atoc will allow me some liberties—like exploring the castillo with fewer guards.
“Fine,” I mutter.
The maid cheers and ushers Juan Carlos outside as he says, “Make sure to do something with her hair. It’s a fright.”
I throw him a peeved look.
“Now that only makes it worse,” he says merrily before leaving.
She pushes a long rose-colored skirt and matching tunic into my hands. I dress and put on my boots. If I’m visiting El Mercado, I don’t want to be wearing sandals. The Llacsans let their animals run wild in La Ciudad. There’s no telling what I’ll accidentally step in.
“Rápido, rápido,” she says. “Here’s a faja to go with that outfit. I don’t have time to braid your hair. It will just have to be loose.”
A few minutes later I’m out the door, following Juan Carlos down the hall and out into the bright sunlit courtyard, where most of Atoc’s household waits in their finery. At my entrance, everyone turns and eyes my unbound hair; the other women wear theirs in elaborate braids and twists.
I joyfully wave as Rumi approaches, leading a mare.
“Dios,” he mutters. “Can’t you behave for at least an hour?”
I consider the question. “No, I can’t.”
He scowls, and I smile.
Atoc sits in an open carriage at the head of the procession, and his chamberlain whistles for everyone to mount their steeds. We travel to town in a single line.
La Ciudad Blanca. A city of white buildings glimmering gold in the sun’s rays. Of cobbled roads that twist and curve around square plazas, lined by arches. Of clay-tiled roofs and wooden doors etched with flowers. A city that bows to the snowcapped Qullqi Orqo Mountain looming before it.
A city overrun by Llacsans. I used to love it.
We arrive at the Plaza del Sol and despite my initial protests, a sense of freedom washes over me—however false. I’ll have to return to the castillo with everyone else. But for now I tip my head back and let the sun’s warmth kiss my cheeks. Atoc waves at the crowd of Llacsans gathered in the plaza. The same plaza where Ana disappeared into the earth.
My smile fades, and I trace the scars on my wrists.
“We’re supposed to walk around with His Radiance,” Rumi says. “He’ll want to go to El Mercado. They’ll have orange rinds dipped in dark chocolate waiting for him in his favorite shop.” Rumi jumps off his horse as the rest of court follows.
My stomach rumbles; I didn’t have a chance to eat desayuno. “Can we stop for salteñas?”
“You like them?” He sounds skeptical as he offers his hand.
I ignore it and slide off the saddle. “Absolutely.”
“Picante or dulce?”
“Spicy. Definitely spicy.”
We trail behind Atoc as he makes his rounds, smiling and greeting the crowd. Several Llacsans press around our group, some gaping, others not interested. I walk past a plump woman standing in front of a vendor selling freshly squeezed jugo de mandarina, saying, “But where is Princesa Tamaya?”
Another whispers, “She didn’t come—”
“I don’t see her—”
“What do you think happened—”
They sound like they actually care. My ears burn to hear more about the missing princesa. Murals of her likeness are painted on many of the once white walls. Fresh flowers surround her images and several people kneel, seemingly praying for her—or to her. The princesa is like a goddess among the Llacsans.
Atoc veers toward El Mercado, where vendors line the streets, calling out their wares.
Quince notas for chicken feet!
Diez for a cow’s tongue!
Tres for a horse’s tail!
Three Llacsan children run up to our group, holding out their hands. Their clothing is grimy and tattered. Dirt is caked under their fingernails, dust smudging their cheeks. All three are barefoot.
“Por favor,” one of them says. He barely comes up to my hip. “¿Notas? ¿Agua?”
I shift my feet. “Lo siento. I don’t have water.”
The children run off to another group heading toward the plaza, their hands pressed together to catch water. I sigh. This infernal pretender. What is he doing to Inkasisa? Making the koka leaf a legal export has certainly filled the coffers of the nobles loyal to Atoc, but what about the common Llacsans? The ones actually planting the seeds, living in La Ciudad, trying to eke out a living? Not one of them looks to have benefited from the increase in koka production.
We pass a shop selling sandals, and the scent of leather mixes with the spice of cinnamon ice cream sold across the street. The steps leading up to the temple entrance are crowded with Llacsans selling baskets woven from palm leaves, as well as beaded necklaces and fresh jugo de naranja. A group of merchants are outside their shop doors, girasoles in their arms and motioning toward a mural of the princesa.
I round on Rumi. “Do you hear the chatter about Princesa Tamaya?”
He shrugs, idly nibbling on pasankalla—puffed choclo topped with sugar—and reading painted signs hanging over shop windows. I didn’t see him buy an entire bag. He catches my longing stare and grudgingly drops a handful in my waiting hands. I pop several in my mouth, enjoying the burst of sugar.
The court mingles with villagers crowding the cobbled streets. I never lose sight of Atoc. The guards surrounding him keep their long spears pointed to the cloudless sky.
Rumi nudges my arm. “Over here. Stay close, Condesa.”
As if I needed the reminder. Sentries follow my every move. Dogging each step. Hearing every word. I pray I won’t run into an Illustrian spy. It’d be too dangerous for them, considering the amount of guards surrounding me.
I follow Rumi to the salteña line. There’re dozens of people waiting for one. The smell alone makes my mouth water.
“It’s too long,” I say.
He gives me a look and shuffles to the front. Loud
cries of protest follow.
“We were next!” a man exclaims.
“Get in the back!”
“I’m on the king’s business,” Rumi says, squaring his shoulders. “Let me through.”
I roll my eyes. But he returns carrying a bag full of almond-shaped pastries filled with diced meat and potatoes, peas, raisins, and a single black olive baked in a savory soup. We sit at one of the available tables and Rumi hands me a salteña, a spoon, and a clay plate.
I drop the pastry onto the plate and am just about to pierce the dough when Rumi makes a loud sound of disgust at the back of his throat.
“What are you doing?” he asks, sounding like I’m about to murder a baby alpaca.
I stare at him blankly.
Rumi makes more disgusted noises as he drags my plate away. “Condesa, let me teach you how to eat a salteña correctly.” He picks one up, holding the pointed ends with his middle finger and thumb, and gently shakes it. “After you shake it, take a small bite at one of the ends. Then pour the soup into your spoon first so it doesn’t spill all over your plate.”
It takes several spoonfuls before Rumi eats all of the jugo. Meanwhile, my stomach continues to rumble. I eye my food longingly.
“You’re eating it wrong if you get even a drop of juice on your plate,” he says in a serious tone. He bites into the pastry and proceeds to scoop the filling into his mouth. He eats the whole thing without spilling any of it.
Isn’t he talented. I grab the plate with my salteña, my stomach still rumbling loudly. I try to eat the salteña the way he taught me, but some of the soup ends up on my plate.
Rumi smirks at me. “You know what they say about people who spill the juice, right?”
I eye him warily. “What?”
“That they’re terrible kissers.”
For some unfathomable reason my cheeks warm. I glare at him and grab another salteña.
This time I don’t spill a drop. Somehow it tastes better. Probably because most of it gets to my stomach. When I finish, I stare at him as he devours his third salteña. He eats like a starving wolf. As if any moment the food will vanish into thin air.
“So,” I say. “The princesa?”
Rumi grunts and reaches for another salteña.
I frown. Why doesn’t he want to do something about it? The Llacsans living in the city certainly do. And if they care enough, they’ll speak up. “I don’t think anyone in La Ciudad has a clue about her execution.”
He chokes on his first bite of his fourth salteña.
“What do you think the people will do when they learn the truth?” I ask loudly. Several Llacsans enjoying their food stare in my direction.
Rumi accidentally dribbles jugo onto his plate.
“Ha! Looks like you’re a terrible kisser too.”
He stares at me in impotent fury. “You don’t get to ask or talk about the princesa. Stop spreading rumors and being dramatic.” He shakes his salteña at me.
It seems Atoc is blithely unaware that his decision regarding his sister will have terrible consequences. Consequences that are better for us. An idea strikes me. Can the Llacsans loyal to the princesa come to our side?
“Will they revolt, do you think? Boycott tax day? Cut down trees and block the roads?”
“They’ll do nothing,” he says coldly. “We all obey the king and respect his leadership. And it’s not an execution. It’s an honor to be chosen—”
I wave my hand dismissively. “For the sacrifice. So you’ve mentioned.”
His lips thin.
I think about the distress I heard in the crowd’s voices as they wondered about the princesa’s absence. I remember the murmuring at court when the king made his announcement. Rumi is wrong.
The Llacsans won’t take her death lightly.
He eats the rest of his food in silence and doesn’t speak to me the whole way back to the castillo.
Fine by me.
I need to focus. Distractions are mounting, and they only serve to confuse me and slow down my progress. How many times in training did I have to remind myself to block out everything except for the task at hand? Keep my eye on the target. Focus on my opponent. Stay alert.
The next day I avoid all conversation with Rumi. I don’t want to clutter my mind thinking about the princesa—after all, what is she to me?
No one.
What do I care about her fate?
Not a damn thing.
Unrest among the Llacsans is a good thing. Let the princesa be executed, then. It might make a difference for Catalina’s bid for the throne.
Thankfully, Rumi seems to be of the same mindset, as he doesn’t talk to me either. I never press him for the wool I need. There has to be another avenue for me to pursue.
As the next three days blur together, I settle on a routine. In the mornings I eat desayuno sitting outside on the balcony, examining the comings and goings through the large iron gate to the side of the garden. All the servants enter and exit the castillo and into the city through that gate. Midafternoon, I study hallways and entrances, memorizing the castillo layout. In the evenings, the gardens have my sole attention. I know every corner, and I sit and observe members of the court as they flit around the tall plants. They’re a wealthy and bored bunch. Their loud chatter ricochets off the stone walls as they lounge on couches. Most of the time their eyes are red-rimmed, and they act drowsy, as if bone-tired.
But they aren’t dropping from mere exhaustion. Many of them are consumers of the koka leaf, made accessible thanks to our good and wise king. What a mess. The whole of Inkasisa will become addicted to the drug, Illustrians and Llacsans alike.
Though guards dog my every move, I also have the distinct feeling I’m being carefully observed by the priest and his followers. Signs like a tickle on the back of my neck. A creeping sensation that raises goose bumps on my arms. A flash of an eggplant-colored robe ducking around a corner.
Why are the priest’s minions stalking me? Did the order come from Atoc? I start keeping moondust in my pockets, just in case. It helps knowing I have some way of defending myself if the situation ever comes to that.
I often cross paths with Sajra. He seems to be everywhere at once. Coming out of meetings with the king, heading to the kitchens, walking the gardens. His horde of attendants sticks to him like sap to a tree. Their watchful eyes dart from person to person as they follow the priest.
They don’t miss much when it comes to the happenings in the castillo. Sajra certainly benefits from all the information. What he does with it, I can only guess.
At night I eat alone in my room and plan for the next day. It’s time to focus on the Estrella. I’ve mapped out the majority of the castillo, memorized the guard’s movements, their shifts, and what weapons they carry. I make a restless turn around my room, wringing my hands. Tension edges my shoulders. I only have the east wing of the castillo left to explore, and it’s been nearly impossible to view the entire length of it. Atoc and his entourage crowd that side, and as a result more guards patrol it.
My mind races with possible excuses I could have for visiting the hall. There’s nothing out of the ordinary to tour there except painting after painting of various animals.
I sigh. The paintings are my best option.
I pound on the door until the guard—Pablo? Pidru? Pedro?—opens it. “I think I’ll explore the castillo today, instead of the gardens. I haven’t seen all the paintings in the east wing, and they really are beautiful, don’t you think?”
He shrugs. “His Radiance said seeing the castillo and its grounds were fine, provided you had a guard with you at all times.”
I hide my smile. “Let’s head there, then.”
He points down a random corridor. I stride off, and then slow my steps and pretend to study the first painting I encounter. A detailed drawing of a llama. The guard stops at my side. I catch Atoc and his entourage at the end of the hall, climbing the stone steps that lead farther down the east wing. I lean closer to the paintin
g, tilting my head ever so slightly to get a better view.
I wonder where they go every day. Perhaps to his office. The thought is tantalizing. What sorts of secrets could be hidden in his private space? The guard clears his throat and I straighter. I sigh and move on to the next painting, pretending to be enthralled by yet another llama. The guard clears his throat again, this time louder and a bit longer, and I smile as I lean forward.
This continues until Atoc and his entourage are walking toward us, deep in conversation, coming back from wherever they had gone in the east wing. They pass by without a look in my direction. I’m nothing, barely taking up space in his life. His indifference only propels me onward.
I can’t properly explore the east wing with this guard breathing down my neck. Maybe I can bore him enough to leave me? I stop at the next painting and force myself to ponder every stroke. After doing this eight more times, the guard glances at me. “You’ll stay on the first floor?”
“Yes,” I say, then, “¿Por qué?”
He hesitates. “My son is sick, and I’d like to speak to the healer about giving him more té de maté. We only have a few hours left before the dinner bell. I want to catch him before he leaves the infirmary.”
My chest tightens as I picture the little boy playing outside in the garden. For some inexplicable reason, it bothers me to hear about his illness.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I’m sorry your son is sick.”
The words hang in the air, and I’m surprised to realize I mean them. I hate being sick. It means being trapped inside and not leaving my bed. Catalina insisted I was actually doing something by letting myself recover. I never felt that way.
“You’re sure?”
I nod. “Go take care of your son.”
“I won’t be gone long. Just depends how long the line is.” He still seems unsure. Stalling.
If only Catalina could see me now. Attempting to reassure a Llacsan guard whose name I can’t quite place. “What’s your name?”
“Pidru.”
Of course. Rumi also mentioned the boy’s name … what was it? I remember the child’s face. Dark curly hair and laughing eyes, a pointed chin, and round cheeks.
“Achik,” I say. “That’s your son’s name.”
Woven in Moonlight Page 11
