Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(14)

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 jalape?o 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.

Though my people would disagree, I secretly think their use of color in their weaving is beautiful. I dye my wool various shades of neutrals to keep with Illustrian tradition. But sometimes I crave to pair colors together to see what I could come up with. There’s only so much you can do with art when using white as the main color.

The chamberlain at the front of the room clears his throat. “Behold, majesty of the upper mountain and lower jungle, and everything in between. Son of the sun god, Inti, and faithful servant of Pachamama, King Atoc, ruler of Inkasisa!”

I steel myself for looking into the eyes of my enemy for the first time. Years of training have prepared me for this moment. But even so, my hands shake. I move them behind my back and lift my chin. Anger and fear both war within me. I pray to Luna that my anger will win.

From a door to my left, the usurper strides out. Short and squat, with a blunt face and deep bronze skin, dark eyes and hair. He wears a flowing cape knitted with gold strands over a red tunic and black trousers. I scan his wrists—no adornments. Ana said Atoc had fashioned the Estrella into a silver bracelet.

The priest leads a procession after the false king. I tremble with what I hope is rage at the sorcerer’s presence. Next comes the rest of Atoc’s family. The boy stands at the end of the line, his attention intent on Atoc, as if he’s a sunflower and the king his sun. They form a curved line around the dais then turn to face the room as the usurper steps onto the platform.

The boy’s eyes flicker over to mine.

As he stands among several men and women who all fairly resemble one another, the truth sends an icy chill coursing through my veins. He’s related to Atoc. I ought to have known.

I search for Princesa Tamaya—the king’s younger and only living sibling—but none of the women look my age or are dressed in the finery befitting a princesa. As the highest-ranking female in the court, why wouldn’t she be here? Shouldn’t she be trailing after her brother?

“Condesa,” Atoc says coldly. “Come forward.”

I square my shoulders and slowly walk across the long aisle, past the sneers and hurling insults, past the mocking stares, down the whole ostentatious length of it, until I stand in front of the pretender. Sweat beads at my hairline, but I don’t wipe it away. I don’t want to accidentally lower my chin.

Servants stand on either side of Atoc, fanning him with banana leaves. Gold glitters from the rings and bracelets adorning his throat and ears. His crown shimmers from the moonlight washing the room in silver light. I remember that crown. Remember how it used to sit on the queen’s dark curls. Back when my parents were alive.

Everyone drops to their knees, but I stay on my feet. The guards shove me down, forcing my head forward until my forehead cracks against the floor. My breath tickles the stone.

“Get up, Condesa,” the usurper says.

Part of me wants to gag. The other half wants to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness. The false king with his cold eyes glittering and solemn, sitting stiffly in his imagined godlike persona, looking down his nose at me—an Illustrian.

Sofía’s pale, shocked face flashes through my mind. I can never forget Atoc is dangerous—explosive, ruthless, and worst of all, entirely ignorant. He claims to want to help Llacsans and the Lowlanders, his people, then he plans for a road to cut through their territory, destroying homes and wildlife, all to easily export the koka drug to neighboring countries. Gratification, wealth, and notoriety are his real gods, and his greed invites dangerous criminals from powerful countries into Inkasisa who worship at the same altar.

I’m afraid of what his ignorance may cost me—my life, my mission, or Catalina herself—if I ever let it slip I’m her decoy. I don’t want to be afraid, so I cling to my anger.