Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(25)

He stares at me, his hand still outstretched. And waits. I sigh, snatch the book, and glance at the title. Historia de las Llacsans.

History of the Llacsans. Wonderful.

“Why would I read this?”

“Consider it an education,” he says testily. “You’ve got plenty of time for reading. And you need a bandage change.”

Resigned, I let him pour vinegar onto my wrists again and change the old bandages. It hurts a little less than the day before. I study him while he works. What if he breaks his promise? Maybe he has no intention of finding a loom. My attempts to ask him are met with curt dismissals. Unease sweeps over me. His cold indifference does nothing to soothe my nerves.

Rumi goes back up to his king, and I leave the book on the floor. I don’t need to read about their history. I only care about tomorrow.

I stay in the dungeon. The guards play their dice game. Someone changes the oil in the torches. I sleep on the stone when I can get comfortable, but mostly I stare at the ceiling or stretch my sore legs. On the rare occasion the guards are gone, I practice my fighting stances.

Rumi notices the book by the door on his next visit. Other than his lips pressing into a flat line, he barely registers my presence. Even so, it breaks up the monotony. He makes sure I have food and water, changes my bandages, and leaves.

He doesn’t bring the loom.

It’s hard for me to admit when I’ve made a mistake. I thought I’d been clever in getting him to agree to the deal. But I wasn’t clever—I was foolish. And na?ve. I trusted a Llacsan to keep his word. Catalina isn’t here to see me fail, but if I don’t send a message soon, she’ll know I failed anyway.

A group of guards descend on my cell. Weak from lack of sleep, I don’t resist when a female guard, one of the few I’ve seen, lifts me by my armpits. I stumble and another helps her carry me from the dungeon. Moonlight cutting through the windows hurts my eyes, but I welcome the pain. The goddess revives me as if I’m drinking water after having none for days and days.

My head clears. My vision focuses. Small changes, but I feel them in my soul.

And when Atoc’s guards deposit me onto the bed inside the pigskin-colored room, the first thing I see standing in the middle is a loom.





CAPíTULO





It still hurts that I had to part with my own loom—a gift from my Llacsan nanny. Whatever I feel about the rest of them, I won’t and can’t tolerate a single thing against her. She helped raise me. It was her dedication to my early upbringing that turned me into the weaver I am today. She’d patiently sit with me for hours while I practiced making diamond and cloud patterns and learned how to create shapes and letters by weaving strands over and under the warp thread.

It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of her.

The guards shut the door behind me and I step closer to the loom. This one, sturdy and handsome with contrasting light and dark wood, takes up most of the space in the center of the room. A small stool sits in front of it. Next to it are rolled-up balls of wool, varying in shades of yellows, purples, reds, and deep blues the color of blueberries. The loom is bigger than mine by probably half a foot, but that doesn’t matter. It’ll work.

Moonlight peeps through the curtains, giving my legs the energy to stand. Skirting around the loom, I fling open the balcony doors. Silver light pours in, transforming my room from something dark and claustrophobic into a livable space bathed in Luna’s rays.

Food is sitting in a big bowl on the dresser—herbed quinoa, crispy papas flavored with black mint and smoked salt, and grilled choclo, a long ear of it. But even that doesn’t tempt me from sinking onto the stool and thinking of a new design to weave.

My heart beats fast, and I grab some white wool. I loop the warp thread around the top and bottom wooden bars. As I work, my gaze snags on the basket filled with colors.

I should use Illustrian neutrals … but I’ve never had the chance to experiment. The basket is a riot, a parade, a fiesta of color, and I want to dive into it with both eyes open.

I bite my lip. Catalina will expect me to use my wool, I know that, but maybe it’s wiser to hide the message in traditional Llacsan color combinations. Maybe Atoc and his priest will be less suspicious. Atoc might even appreciate the tapestry on its own merit. Or be happy that I can weave at all. Excelling in a Llacsan skill will only make him look better. A wife who can follow his traditions.

I reach for the wool in the basket and then thread a strand around my finger. A bright tomato red. I glance at the window and look for the moon. Will Luna be pleased? Will the moonlight still turn to thread in my fingers if I use dyed wool?

There’s only one way to find out. I push aside my white wool, fighting off the stab of guilt, and weave the red thread, over and under, until I reach the other end. Next, I add a watermelon pink and an eggplant purple. Up, over, and down, up, over, and down, until the three colors cover the bottom third, making a thick stripe of each color.

Starting at the middle, I begin with a simple diamond pattern, weaving a red strand from the left to the right. I know countless techniques by heart, but this one is my favorite. It’s the first one I learned.

“Under one, over three, under one, over two, under one, over two, and repeat,” I say under my breath. Then I start from the other side and repeat the process.

As I work, the moonlight glints around me, growing brighter. My fingers blur as I move from left to right and back again. I finish with the red, start on the pink, and then I’m ready for my moon thread.