But there’s a sudden shift in the air. A dangerous quality that sinks into my bones. The hair on my arms stands on end.
“Catalina,” Manuel whispers in a hoarse tone. “Ven aquí.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of movement on the opposite side of the moat where we left the tracker. I turn around and as I do, Manuel slowly pitches toward me, as if wanting to shield me from what’s coming.
We are surrounded by people wielding bows and arrows. There must be about fifty of them of various ages, all dressed in black-and-white tunics. Standing on the other end of the bridge is our traitorous guide. Her arrow is aimed at the level of Manuel’s heart. I clutch his arm.
“Go to the foot of the statue,” she calls coldly. “You’ll know what to do.”
“If we don’t?” Manuel asks.
All of them shift and aim for him. In a second he’ll have fifty arrows embedded in his body.
“We’ll go,” I say, tugging at his wrist. He backs away from the bridge, each step careful and measured. I lead us toward the immense vulture. The base is a triangle-shaped platform with Quechuan words carved into the stone. Beautiful etchings depict hearts—some appear dark, others are painted white. With a soft hand, I trace one of the patterns and study the massive outstretched wings made of the same stone. The wings curve and dip in the middle, a deliberate design, but I don’t understand what we’re supposed to do.
“What do you think?” Manuel asks.
“There are a few words here.” I lean forward, squinting in the dying light. “‘Be weighed, but once, so the jungle may know if you’re true.’” I glance back up. “I think we’re meant to sit on the wings.”
“It’s a scale,” he says. “And if we’re found lacking, they’ll shoot us.”
I glance back toward the bridge. Several of the Illari have crossed over, their weapons notched. I didn’t hear them make a sound, never even felt them. I fight to keep my panic at bay, but it sweeps into my senses, and my breath comes out in shallow puffs. Manuel unsheathes his machete, much good it will do him from this distance.
“We have to be weighed,” I say. “It’s the only way.”
“One day,” he mutters, “I’d like to not fear for my life while in your company.”
“Nonsense. You’re not afraid of anything.”
He hesitates before slowly returning his attention to me. Dark eyes troubled. There’s a current of confusion and dismay hidden in the deep lines bracketing his mouth. As if he’s just realized his worst fear and it involves me. “That’s not true.”
“What are you afraid of?”
His lips flatten. “Not the time.”
A small smile threatens to tug my mouth, but it’s overruled by the widening pit deep in my belly. I might die in the next few minutes. I try to figure out how we can climb up onto the wings. And then I see the way up, subtle and nearly hidden by the great feathers. The statue has steps carved along the side of the vulture’s body.
“I’ll go first—”
“Absolutely not,” Manuel snaps, and before I can say another word, he races up the steps and settles onto the middle of the right wing. Terror seizes my body, the blood rioting in my veins. The Illari press closer, until they’re only a few feet away from me, but I barely notice. I can’t tear my gaze away from Manuel.
He sits cupped in the great wing, and waits. And then the head of the vulture moves toward Manuel, peering at him with coolly assessing eyes. My breath lodges at the back of my throat. Manuel stares up at the bird, unwavering, a stubborn set to his shoulders. He grips his blade, readying to start swinging at anyone who comes near him.
I thought I loved him when I knew him at the Illustrian keep. But this person has captured every corner of my heart. His bravery and loyalty, his exasperating sense of duty. And right now, in this moment, as he glares with unflinching confidence at an enchanted statue.
I clutch at my arms, terrified of losing him.
There’s a loud grating noise as the vulture’s left wing descends to the ground and Manuel is lifted higher. The vulture has weighed his heart and deemed it worthy for life.
I sink to the ground, my ears ringing from my heartbeat thrashing against my ribs. I was prepared to fight all of the Illari. Manuel climbs down the stairs, loud, furious stomps. I expect to see profound relief cut into his features—but his dark eyes are twin fires, blazing and angry. He scowls at the crowd of people surrounding us and then at the statue.
It’s my turn to be weighed.
There is no hope of escape.
Manuel offers his calloused palm to help me stand. I take it, feeling the reassuring strength of his hand, and then I brush past him. With shaking knees, I climb up the steps. My mind crowds with thoughts of my failures. I’m responsible for Sofía’s and Ana’s deaths. I’m the reason why Illustrians have died, terrified of starving because I didn’t know how to manage our food resources. If I’d been stronger, maybe Ximena would have seen a worthy queen. Instead she saw a weak royal incapable of leading. I want to plead my case to the statue, defend myself against the damning evidence. But I remain quiet and push my hysteria down into the depths of my soul, where it might never be found.
Not even by magic.
By the time I reach the right wing, it’s returned to its original height, waiting for the next heart to be judged. I scoot onto the middle, tuck my legs close, and inhale deeply, willing myself to remain calm. The Illari raise their arrows and aim at my face, my stomach, my legs. If I fail this test, it’ll be a massacre.
Manuel tilts his head back. “Catalina.”
My name is a soft caress, and I shiver as the sudden warmth beats away my fear. I lean forward to catch his eye, and raise a brow.
“You are worthy,” he whispers.
I’m thankful to be sitting, and for half a second I forget that I might die, might bleed all over this white stone. The vulture moves its head and faces me. I force myself to meet its hard gaze, but my hands are laced tightly in my lap, fingers turning bone white. The blood drains from my face as I keep my mouth shut, even as protests bubble up to the surface.
You are vengeful and proud, a voice inside my head whispers.
A soft gasp escapes from my lips.
You have been wronged, but you are doing wrong yourself. Change is within reach, a fine balance. If you ignore the signs, you will fail and lose everything and everyone you hold dear.
My stomach twists.
Even now your heart is closed.
But it is not evil.
The stone groans as the vulture’s head turns away. My stomach lurches as the wing moves. I can’t watch it happen, can’t look to see Manuel’s disappointment.
“Look,” he says breathlessly.
I force my eyes open, sure to find arrows flying. But the wing is high up.
Relief swoops into my heart, and I want to curl up as tremors rock my body. There’s a loud thud as someone races up the stone steps. Strong hands grip my arms and pull me forward. Manuel drags me off the wing. He hugs me tight, my cheek pressing against the rough fabric of his tunic. My knees buckle, but Manuel won’t let me fall. Together we climb down to face them all.
The Illari lower their arrows, stash their bows. Our guide walks forward, a tentative smile on her lips. It’s the friendliest expression I’ve seen on her, and while I ought to return the gesture, I’d rather dissolve into a puddle.
A magical statue believes my heart isn’t evil—it’s broken and wounded and scared—but it’s not evil. After everything, this test felt the hardest.
The tracker meets us at the foot of the stairs. Manuel stares at her coldly, holding me tight against his side. Her smile stretches. “I am Chaska.”
CAPÍTULO
Dieciocho
Walking through the jungle with the Illari is different from when it was just Manuel and me. For one, the sense of danger is dulled. I’m not worried about predators or getting lost. Now I fear the men and women watching us with wary eyes. They touch my
ratty tunic and braid. One of them takes ahold of my hand and examines my fingernails and smooth palms. I look to Manuel in alarm, but he silently shakes his head.
Keep silent. Play along.
There’s no harm in their examinations. At least they aren’t pointing their arrows at us anymore. Manuel stays close. Ever watchful—in case their goodwill only lasts so long.
The sun dips lower in the sky and the mosquitos remain ever vigilante. The Illari warriors melt into the shadows of the jungle, disappearing suddenly and without warning. Here one minute. Gone the next. It happens so quickly, I could have missed it had I blinked.
I search in every direction for hints of their black-and-white tunics, for red fringes and feathered headdresses. “Where have they gone?” I ask Chaska.
“To their posts,” she says. “They guard the outer territory of Paititi. But we haven’t lost all of them.” She gestures behind me, and I whirl around to find three warriors remaining. They are bare chested and covered in paint, red and deep purple. I nod at them, but none respond.
“How many warriors are in Paititi?” Manuel asks.
“As numerous as the stars,” she says simply.
My brows reach my hairline. “So many as that?”
“We won’t be driven out of our homes again.”
She’s talking about the Llacsans, of course. Hundreds of years ago they conquered the land near Qullqi Orqo, the great mountain that once held all of the silver in Inkasisa. The Illari ran for their lives into the jungle, never to be seen or heard from again. My people had come in some time after, taken that land from the Llacsans, and founded our capital, La Ciudad Blanca.
We held on to that for four hundred years, until the revolt led by Atoc ten years ago. My family will forever be known as the Illustrians who lost their people their home. The thought sits heavily in my stomach, an indigestible lump.
I’m so close to arriving in Paititi, so close to asking for their help. What if they don’t listen? What if they hear my plea and dismiss it altogether? Now that the moment is quickly approaching, I can’t think of anything else. What does the lost city look like? Who will I have to convince? The Llacsans conquered them hundreds of years ago. I can only pray to Luna their anger burns as bright as mine.
Now that we’ve passed the third test, Chaska’s demeanor warms. Instead of walking ahead, she walks at my side, breathing the same air under the shady trees. The scent is sweet and thick, like the darkest of honey slathered onto a bit of toast.
“Every day in the jungle, you must ask Pachamama’s permission to be here,” she says. “If you don’t, you might anger her, and she won’t treat you kindly. One of her many spirit children might give you trouble.”
“What spirits?” I ask.
“The most powerful is Duende, a mischievous being. Powerful enough to trap you in another realm.”
“I’ve never heard of that word—or the spirit.”
“It means ‘goblin.’”
“And the earth goddess controls the goblin?”
“Pachamama does not.” Chaska gently sweeps aside a thick vine blocking our way. “There is no control here, outsider. Only balance. Everything is carefully weighed. We all have a place. I did not think you belonged—you cannot bear the heat, I suspect you are a bad runner, and you’re unable to take a deer or even a rabbit. But the vulture king says you’re worthy. We shall see.”
“I would appreciate it if you called me by my given name.” I have nothing else to say. Every word is true. I want to remain angry—for her putting us through those tests, for pointing out my shortcomings—but I can’t blame the Illari for defending themselves. Not when my family couldn’t maintain our people’s safety from the Llacsans.
I chance a look behind me. Manuel follows along in our wake, his weapon in his hands. He meets my gaze and jerks his chin to the right. I look to where he’s indicating, but all I can see are more mammoth trees tucked side by side like books on a shelf.
¿Qué? I mouth.
Manuel rolls his eyes. “Watch where you’re going.”
I turn around in time to catch myself before stumbling over a massive root.
We continue on the pathless green, and my mind circles back to the spirits Chaska mentioned. I think about the bloody butterflies and the sorcerer by the river who transformed into a caimán. Every incident felt like a defense against our presence. We are not wanted here—and yet the vulture gave his permission for us to stay.
Why?
Chaska guides us through a valley of branches and bark and rainbow-colored flowers. Hummingbirds shoot past, and spiderwebs glimmer high over our heads, draped across the branches like mosquito netting. Butterflies tangle in the sticky web, and I shudder as I pass. Chaska points to a large rubber tree covered in sap. At the base is a colony of inch-long black ants. Their sharp, squeaky noises make my skin crawl.
“The izula ant,” Chaska says. “Careful of that one. The worst pain I have ever known. Lasted a full day before I got my mind back.”
I quickly step away from the tree, and she laughs.
“They are guardians of the jungle. We use their poison against our enemies.”
I raise my brows. “Do they obey your command?”
Chaska shoots me a pitying look. “We do not command the creatures of the jungle. But we know what they can do and hope they will act in the way Pachamama made them to act. That is the best we can hope for.”
“I’m still confused.”
“You do not listen,” she chides.
I’m about to respond when a sudden blast of cold wind slaps my cheeks. It’s frigid, and a chill skitters down my spine. “Did you feel that?”
Chaska nods. “It comes from the dying part of the forest.”
Manuel narrows his gaze. “The area we saw from the hill—we’re close?”
She raises her brow and beckons for us to follow. We do, if a little grudgingly. I don’t think I’m going to like what she has to show us.
As we walk, we’re bathed in a golden light with a greenish hue, our clothes cast in the same color, as if the jungle has enchanted us. The wind turns colder, and at first I welcome winter’s touch—let it kiss my mouth, dust my eyelids, and tousle my hair.
But then its kiss turns into a feral bite.
I fold my arms across my chest, trying to shield my body from the blast. Under my feet, the jungle floor turns brittle white. I blink a few times, not understanding or believing what I’m seeing.
It’s utter and complete desolation.
A massive oak tree has fallen over and taken down several others with it. They lie broken and frozen across one another, locked in a frigid embrace. My teeth chatter as we follow Chaska past the cemetery of giants. Beyond, the decay stretches out, killing anything in its path. The jungle may not be a friend of mine, but I’m devastated regardless. It’s only after a few more steps that I finally notice what’s missing—other than the heat and the color green.
“Why is it so quiet?”
“Nothing lives here,” Chaska says.
She’s right. I haven’t heard a single hoot or croak or roar since we crossed into this eerie plain. I study the terrain and pick up a handful of the white-smudged dirt. I expect it to be freezing, but it’s not. Only the howling wind is. The ground feels gritty like coarse sand, almost silver in color, and gives off a subtle shimmer. It reminds me of something, but it’s so cold, I’m having a hard time thinking straight.
Even the Illari guards tremble. They gather around us, alert and watchful. I can sense they’re uneasy with our distance from cover. The wind lifts the dust beneath our feet and thickens the air, blurring our vision. We can hardly see ten feet in front of us. I tip my head back, frowning. It’s a clear night, but because of the swirling dust, it’s impossible to catch sight of the stars or Luna herself.
“Diosa.” Manuel walks over to the fallen trees. “They’re dead, and covered in the same dust as the ground.”
I startle and glance down at the palmful of dir
t cupped in my hand. That’s what the sand reminds me of—Ximena’s moondust.
“You see the similarities too?” Chaska asks, catching the look of sudden understanding on my face.
I nod. “It doesn’t feel like moondust, though. The dust is normally softer.”
Chaska doesn’t comment, merely studies me thoughtfully—her head tilted to the side, the lines across her brow deepening.
“What happened?” I ask. “What killed these trees?”
I think about that odd silver flower, the one that had taken root. Is it possible that the Illari haven’t seen it? In this part of the forest, it’d be impossible to pinpoint the source. But the section Manuel and I saw was small—surrounding that one plant. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell Chaska, but something holds me back. There might be a better use for the information.
“A very good question, traveler. I don’t know the answer, but whatever caused this, it’s not of the jungle. It came here like you did. An invader.”
“I’m not an invader,” I say. “I’m a visitor. I’m here because I need help.”
“Your people are conquerors. Destroyers of culture and traditions. Murderers and thieves.”
I flush. “The Llacsans are your enemy. Not us.”
She lifts her chin, dark gaze flashing like sudden streaks of lightning against a black night. “We are never happy with war.”
It’s not as if I am either. “I understand,” I say.
“When did this part of the jungle change?” Manuel asks. His tone is coaxing and soft.
But Chaska is unfazed and impossible to charm. She points a finger at me. “It started right before her arrival.” She turns away and walks off in a huff as my mouth drops to the jungle floor
Manuel’s lips tighten. “I don’t like this.”
Written in Starlight Page 15
