Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(22)

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 cell 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.