“You’re leaving me here?”
Rumi ignores me as he rummages in his pack. I tilt my head back to study the overhang of tangled branches and leaves. I can’t find a single star through the tree limbs. The constellations are useless to me under the canopy. Any messages from Luna are hidden, not that I have much success in interpreting the stars. My first and foremost failure as the only remaining Illustrian seer.
Fear grasps at my heart. I’m so close to unraveling, and the urge to give in to my frustration and hurt nearly overwhelms me. I want to drop to my knees and howl and sob and scream out everything that’s in me, but I can’t—I’m terrified they won’t care. That their last sight of me will be a crying mess on the ground.
Pride keeps my back straight. Lifts my chin and fortifies me for the night ahead.
Rumi finds two items in his pack, both wrapped crudely in fraying fabric. Wordlessly, he hands them to me. I open the smaller one—rolls of bread, smashed together from being tossed around in his bag. The second bundle is longer, and when the wrapping falls softly to my feet, my breath hitches at the back of my throat.
It’s my dented bronze telescope. The one tool I need to properly read the constellations.
“From Ximena,” he whispers.
I bite down hard on my bottom lip. I want to hurl both gifts into the dark jungle. Let the beasts devour her pity. But my fingers clutch the telescope as if on their own accord, refusing to let go. I lift my eyes as they fill with tears. I dash at them angrily. Rumi stares for a moment, deliberating, until something in his gaze changes—softens and bends like a slash of starlight.
“Help her settle in for the night.” He slings his pack off his shoulder. “I’ll start a fire.”
The guards stiffen, their mouths opening at the mandate. Apparently, helping me set up camp wasn’t part of the plan. They divvy up the tasks—clearing the area and setting up a perimeter. Someone thrusts a hammock into my arms, and motions toward two trees a few yards apart. There’s rope on either end and I set about tying each to a trunk, careful not to touch any of the vines.
“Damn it,” I say as each end slides down the trunk. “Wouldn’t bedrolls be easier? I’d rather sleep in one of those.”
One of the guards barks out a laugh and says something to another, who promptly rolls his eyes in my direction. Rumi looks over at me, his hands at work making a fire. When it roars to life, he comes over to help with the hammock.
“If you sleep on the ground, you’ll wake up with several nasty bed companions. Scorpions, snakes, and spiders.” He finishes tying each end, and somehow the rope doesn’t slide. “Still think it’d be easier?”
I shake my head, shuddering.
“This is the jungle, Condesa,” he says softly. “Don’t you forget it. Have you had any water?”
I shake my head again, and now that he’s mentioned it, my throat suddenly feels dry, my tongue hot and swollen.
Rumi half turns and one of the guards tosses him a sac, the liquid sloshing loudly. He hands it over, and I drink my fill, not caring how the water is slightly warm. When I’m done, he passes the bag back to the owner.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask. “Because of her?”
I still can’t say her name. I’ve finally reached my breaking point. I went from having nearly everything to having nothing in a matter of days. For a few moments I was invincible. In my hands I had the power to reclaim our throne, and my people believed in me.
It still wasn’t enough.
“Because of her,” he echoes. “I want to be able to look her in the eye when she asks me how I left you.”
His words hit me oddly. I don’t want her empty pity, I didn’t need her to send Rumi—
“She sent me because she cares,” he says softly.
I flinch in surprise and it makes Rumi smile.
“You wear everything on your face.” He picks up the fine netting. “Drape this over your hammock, but not too close. The bugs will bite you right through it.” I stare at the bundle, despairing. His jaw clenches, but then he lets out a slow exhale, as if attempting to control his impatience. “Here, let me show you how to do it.”
Rumi places the netting up and over the hammock, using rocks and twigs to spread the fabric out into a canopy. Then he removes everything and hands over the netting so I can do it on my own. I imitate what he does, collecting various flotsam to hold my netting away from the hammock. Rumi nods in approval. I duck under my netting for a few minutes of respite from the mosquitos, and after a couple of wobbly attempts, manage to encase myself inside the hammock. The material is rough and scratchy.
My gaze returns to the fire, oddly reassuring as it pushes the dark heart of the forest away. Hunger flares deep in my belly, but I leave the rolls alone. What am I going to do after they leave? I peer into the steaming jungle, away from where the guards have convened around the cozy fire. All I see is a flat darkness that sends a chill down my spine.
My fingers curl around the edges of the hammock. How am I going to survive on my own? I’m optimistic, always have been, but making it out of the forest in one piece—alone—sounds foolish at best. If a menacing vine almost did me in earlier, imagine something with claws.
Unless … I turn to Rumi. Could I persuade him to stay with me? I nearly scoff at the idea until I remember that he really does seem to care for her. He might stay if it meant pleasing my former friend—the traitorous rat. As if he can sense my thoughts, the healer meets my gaze over the flickering fire. He slowly shakes his head, as if I’d asked the question out loud. His kindness has its limits, it seems.
I avert my gaze. What did I expect?
“Catalina,” he calls softly. I climb out of the hammock and make my way toward the group. My steps are heavy on the tangled brush under my boots. The guards are fidgeting, eager to be on their way. They have to survive the trek back out—follow the trail before the jungle swallows the way home.
“So this is it,” I say numbly. “Lovely meeting you all.”
“Don’t stay here for longer than a night,” Rumi says, ignoring my jab. “Keep moving and head downhill; eventually you’ll find water. Don’t touch any vines.” He thrusts his pack at me. “There’s a blanket inside, and a weapon. Do you know how to defend yourself with a dagger?”
“Not against anything with teeth.”
He shoots me a pointed look. “Do you?”
I grudgingly nod. “She taught me.”
“Good.” He gestures to my sleeves. “Keep those down to avoid bugs and scratches. If you’re bitten, and the wounds become infected, maggots will appear.” He hesitates. “If maggots appear … Just try to avoid infection, all right? Once that happens, find somewhere to hide and then—”
“Die peacefully,” I cut in. “That’s what you mean?”
“Actually, yes. The maggots are an indicator of a serious problem.”
I gag as a shudder rips through me.
He steps closer and, in an undertone, whispers, “This is your last chance, Catalina. Say you’ll accept Princesa Tamaya as your queen, and you’ll be welcomed back to La Ciudad. Don’t let your pride—”
“Rumi,” one of the guards says. “It’s time.”
He’s wrong, this vigilante. It isn’t my pride. I have to think of what’s best for my people, and another Llacsan on the throne is not the answer—I am. The last Llacsan ruler murdered my family and destroyed our city.
It will be a moonless black night before I give up my birthright. I shake my head.
The Llacsan healer nods and drops a hesitant hand onto my shoulder. I pull away—gently. He may have stayed longer than planned, showed me where to find food, and built me a fire, but he’s still leaving me here.
And I’ll never forget the role he played in my downfall.
They leave in a single file, Rumi at the back. He shoots me one last look over his shoulder before the jungle’s long arms encircle him. The sounds of their departure settle into the night, my ears straining to hear every gr
unt, every footstep, until there’s nothing more. Only the song of the jungle: toads and insects screeching, owls hooting, leaves rustling in the heavy wind. There’s moisture in the air and a moment later a deep rumble bears down from above.
A storm comes.
CAPÍTULO
Tres
I need to find shelter from the approaching storm, but I can’t make myself move away from the fire’s warm glow. It’s my final link to humanity. This fire pit, this half-hidden stone pillar, is my last known location. The moment I step away, I’ll become untethered and truly alone. Lost forever. I sink to my knees, holding out my hands to the flames. What if the Llacsans change their mind? What if they grow a conscience and decide it’s inhumane to leave me here?
Maybe they’ll come back if I wait long enough.
Thunder roars in the treetops as I think through my options. Rumi and his companions will meet a torrential downpour on the way out. The trail will disappear from under their feet. They may not even survive the night. And if they can’t, how will I? I let myself have a few minutes, my thoughts skittering from one thing to another. If I don’t pack now, if I don’t move, I’ll lose whatever meager possessions I have left in the dark once the storm douses the fire. I inhale deeply, the scent of dirt, decaying plants, vegetation, and wood filling my nostrils.
Move, Catalina.
Another roar crashes from above. I jump to my feet, throwing the telescope and bread into the pack. I run to the hammock, untying the knots, and then fold the delicate netting. I jam everything into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I take one last look around to make sure I’m not leaving anything useful behind. The fire’s heat beckons, but I ignore the call. I leave the safety of the small clearing and march into the jungle, where darkness engulfs me. I need a cave, a hollow in a tree, anything to shield me from the downpour. From the sound of the booming thunder, the storm will be immense.
I’ve taken ten steps before it becomes nearly impossible to see anything in the cloying night. Only my little fire is visible in the distance.
A sudden rumble roars overhead. The treetops dump water, soaking everything. I jerk wildly and race for a tree, but there’s no escaping the pouring rain. It drowns my fire, creating a muddy sludge in the center of the clearing. My camp site disappears, becoming part of the jungle as if it’d never existed.
Water slides from the top of my head and travels down my body. Every article of clothing is sopping wet in seconds, including my boots. My tunic and pants stick to my skin as I continue walking away from the clearing. My long wet hair is a weight on my shoulders. The strap of my pack digs into my skin, but I ignore the discomfort and push on. Leaves bigger than half my body block the way, but I use my covered shoulder and arm to push through. With every step, my feet squish inside my leather boots.
Squish, squish, squish.
The heavy downpour slows my progress, but I refuse to let it defeat me. Everyone else may have, but not this damn rain. I keep walking, forcing myself to take slow, steady steps, every now and again tipping my head back to catch water in my mouth. I climb over fallen logs, traverse long stretches of sodden grass. At least the mosquitos have disappeared. Small mercies. Thunder rumbles again above the treetops, promising more rain, and the heavens deliver. I imagine a bucket, the level of water rising and rising. Soon my bucket will overflow. But at least I’m getting plenty of water.
I keep moving. Anytime the terrain veers upward, I readjust and go in the opposite direction so that I’m consistently walking downhill. Even in the gloom, the hazy outline of a mountain ridge looms in the distance. I decide to head away from it, but only Luna knows if I’m heading toward a river or a stream. My meandering walk takes me deeper and deeper into the jungle. The rain slows, the water no longer pounding the top of my head.
When the downpour stops altogether, a miracle happens.
The forest slowly lights up, a buttery, soft yellow. I let out a gasp, my bag dropping to my feet. Surrounding me, a shimmery gleam dusts the tree trunks, the grassy knotted floor, the curling vines. I venture closer to one of the plants—it’s covered in glowing fungus.
Fungus.
“Imagine that,” I whisper. I pick up my pack, dismiss the stabbing pain coming from the bottoms of my feet—the miles walked are catching up to me—and set off, seeking a way that won’t take me up the mountain. At last I find an overhang of rock and duck under, nestling close to the stone. I use the sodden pack as a makeshift pillow, and, ignoring the hunger pains, force myself to shut my eyes.
My first night in the jungle.
I wake with a start. Somewhere in the distance a rustling draws near. Branches parting, twigs snapping. I sit up and rub my eyes. The rain has started again, thick and incessant. Is it morning? I peep out into the dark. The rain casts a heavy gloom on the forest. Impossible to tell what time it is. The sound of the water slapping the overhang almost drowns out the rustling, but it continues drawing closer and louder.
The ground shakes.
What beast makes that kind of racket? I slowly exhale as I reach into my pack for the dagger. The blade is dirty with dried blood. I grip the leather-wrapped handle and wait for whatever predator is stalking me. The seconds stretch as my heart slams against my ribs, painful and fast like the onslaught of a battering ram.
The rustling grows louder. The jungle carpet quakes.
I climb out from under the overhang, clutching my weapon at the level of my heart. Water blurs my vision, but I don’t soften my stance. “Come out if you’re going to eat me!” My voice is a wail against the rain, against the forest.
The rustling is deafening now.
My legs are shaking, the grip on the weapon trembling. I swallow back a painful lump. Maybe I can outrun the creature?
From the bushes come dozens of rabbits, howling monkeys, wild guinea pigs, and—are those anteaters? They rush past, veering around me and escaping from whatever approaches.
I’m not waiting around to find out. I bend to pick up my pack, my fingers clutch the strap—
The floor shifts and slides. A scream tears out of me as I’m knocked off my feet and swept into a thick mudslide. The sludge thrusts me toward a sleek hill covered in a mess of greenery and twigs. Trees whip past, a distorted painting on either side. The current propels me to a steep decline.
“Luna!” I shriek as I’m flung into the air, and I plummet down, down, down into a canopy of trees. I land on a branch with a hard thud. My pack and dagger slip from my grasp. Mud continues to pour from above, splattering onto my back in thick disgusting plops. I let out a shuddering breath. I’m curled around the tree, doubled over, facing the ground below. Most of the impact was on my stomach. I grip the tree and slowly climb down, my booted feet sliding on the slick wood.
Grime seeps into the corner of my mouth, cakes under my eyes, settles into my hair. My stomach hurts from when I landed on that branch. Which probably saved my life.
When I reach the ground, I drop to all fours and force my breath to even out. It hurts to inhale. Hurts to exhale. I catch sight of my pack and I crawl toward it, groaning as if I were a hundred years old and not eighteen. The rain rids my skin and hair of some of the mud, but my clothes will forever be stained in the color of filth.
Exhaustion blankets my vision, and fatigue overcomes my bones. From this tiny corner of the jungle, the sky is visible. I gingerly get on my knees and tilt my head backward. It’s dark and ominous, pouring rain, but comforting all the same. It’s a lifeline, an answer to my prayer. I’m not moving from this spot, rain be damned. Clutching the pack, I search for my dagger and find it perched on a rock. Then I attempt to set up camp.
But the hammock won’t stay up no matter how many knots I make.
I can’t start a fire in the rain.
And I’m not sure how one sets up a perimeter.
In the end, I prop against a tree trunk and wrap myself in the hammock, my pack tucked between my legs. I open my mouth to catch streams of water pouring down from overflo
wing bowl-shaped leaves. Then I reach into my bag and pull out the soggy bread rolls. I force myself to eat them all even though the texture reminds me of mushy rice. I finish my meal, reposition the bag, and clutch the dagger. The itchy, damp material of the hammock scratches the bottom of my jaw as I curl deeper into my cocoon.
This is how I fall asleep: alone, wet, hungry, and vulnerable to attack.
I try not to think about it as my eyes drift closed.
The next time I wake, it’s silent. I lean forward and peer up to the sky. Only a half circle is visible through the tangled tree canopy, but the night is as clear as if I were gazing into the unmarred surface of Lago Yaku. The hammock cocoon has dried stiff and smells like clothes that have been trapped in a trunk for a century. I shove at the fabric until I’m free, and then rummage through the bag for my telescope. If there was ever a time to seek Luna, it’s now.
I peer into the bronze scope and aim for the stars.
Luna is characteristically aloof, ever changing the shimmery lines that connect one star to another, forming constellations. The stars have their own language, and our diosa communicates through the heavens by creating symbols in the night sky. A celestial alphabet taught only to Illustrian seers. My great-aunt was a seer, and if I ever have a daughter, I’ll sit down and give her the test. Maybe she’ll inherit Luna’s blessed gift.
But for now I am the last seer of my people. The only one who survived the Llacsan revolt.
And though I’m fluent in Luna’s heavenly language, the constellations shift on me—in a moment, in a blink—leaving me unsure if I read the symbols right. This never happened to my aunt. The stars were always constant and true for her.
What am I doing wrong?
“Luna,” I whisper as the mosquitos return in full force. “Help me. Show me a way out of this place.”
I stand still and continue reading the shifting stars. They move slowly, lines connecting and disconnecting, rearranging themselves and changing shape, changing size and direction. It’s a mess up there. With a disgusted sound, I stop looking through the telescope. Why can’t I make any sense of what she’s trying to tell me?
Written in Starlight Page 2
