Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(35)

She sighs. “Condesa.”

For another moment I waver. Then the guard opens the door and Juan Carlos bounds in, all high energy and smiling. “You’re not dressed? Everyone’s waiting. Put on something suitable.”

I open my mouth to argue and then shut it. What’s the point? If these Llacsans don’t get their way, they’ll never leave me alone. Maybe if I exhibit exemplary behavior, Atoc will allow me some liberties—like exploring the castillo with fewer guards.

“Fine,” I mutter.

The maid cheers and ushers Juan Carlos outside as he says, “Make sure to do something with her hair. It’s a fright.”

I throw him a peeved look.

“Now that only makes it worse,” he says merrily before leaving.

She pushes a long rose-colored skirt and matching tunic into my hands. I dress and put on my boots. If I’m visiting El Mercado, I don’t want to be wearing sandals. The Llacsans let their animals run wild in La Ciudad. There’s no telling what I’ll accidentally step in.

“Rápido, rápido,” she says. “Here’s a faja to go with that outfit. I don’t have time to braid your hair. It will just have to be loose.”

A few minutes later I’m out the door, following Juan Carlos down the hall and out into the bright sunlit courtyard, where most of Atoc’s household waits in their finery. At my entrance, everyone turns and eyes my unbound hair; the other women wear theirs in elaborate braids and twists.

I joyfully wave as Rumi approaches, leading a mare.

“Dios,” he mutters. “Can’t you behave for at least an hour?”

I consider the question. “No, I can’t.”

He scowls, and I smile.

Atoc sits in an open carriage at the head of the procession, and his chamberlain whistles for everyone to mount their steeds. We travel to town in a single line.

La Ciudad Blanca. A city of white buildings glimmering gold in the sun’s rays. Of cobbled roads that twist and curve around square plazas, lined by arches. Of clay-tiled roofs and wooden doors etched with flowers. A city that bows to the snowcapped Qullqi Orqo Mountain looming before it.

A city overrun by Llacsans. I used to love it.

We arrive at the Plaza del Sol and despite my initial protests, a sense of freedom washes over me—however false. I’ll have to return to the castillo with everyone else. But for now I tip my head back and let the sun’s warmth kiss my cheeks. Atoc waves at the crowd of Llacsans gathered in the plaza. The same plaza where Ana disappeared into the earth.

My smile fades, and I trace the scars on my wrists.

“We’re supposed to walk around with His Radiance,” Rumi says. “He’ll want to go to El Mercado. They’ll have orange rinds dipped in dark chocolate waiting for him in his favorite shop.” Rumi jumps off his horse as the rest of court follows.

My stomach rumbles; I didn’t have a chance to eat desayuno. “Can we stop for salte?as?”

“You like them?” He sounds skeptical as he offers his hand.

I ignore it and slide off the saddle. “Absolutely.”

“Picante or dulce?”

“Spicy. Definitely spicy.”

We trail behind Atoc as he makes his rounds, smiling and greeting the crowd. Several Llacsans press around our group, some gaping, others not interested. I walk past a plump woman standing in front of a vendor selling freshly squeezed jugo de mandarina, saying, “But where is Princesa Tamaya?”

Another whispers, “She didn’t come—”

“I don’t see her—”

“What do you think happened—”

They sound like they actually care. My ears burn to hear more about the missing princesa. Murals of her likeness are painted on many of the once white walls. Fresh flowers surround her images and several people kneel, seemingly praying for her—or to her. The princesa is like a goddess among the Llacsans.

Atoc veers toward El Mercado, where vendors line the streets, calling out their wares.

Quince notas for chicken feet!

Diez for a cow’s tongue!

Tres for a horse’s tail!

Three Llacsan children run up to our group, holding out their hands. Their clothing is grimy and tattered. Dirt is caked under their fingernails, dust smudging their cheeks. All three are barefoot.

“Por favor,” one of them says. He barely comes up to my hip. “?Notas? ?Agua?”

I shift my feet. “Lo siento. I don’t have water.”

The children run off to another group heading toward the plaza, their hands pressed together to catch water. I sigh. This infernal pretender. What is he doing to Inkasisa? Making the koka leaf a legal export has certainly filled the coffers of the nobles loyal to Atoc, but what about the common Llacsans? The ones actually planting the seeds, living in La Ciudad, trying to eke out a living? Not one of them looks to have benefited from the increase in koka production.

We pass a shop selling sandals, and the scent of leather mixes with the spice of cinnamon ice cream sold across the street. The steps leading up to the temple entrance are crowded with Llacsans selling baskets woven from palm leaves, as well as beaded necklaces and fresh jugo de naranja. A group of merchants are outside their shop doors, girasoles in their arms and motioning toward a mural of the princesa.

I round on Rumi. “Do you hear the chatter about Princesa Tamaya?”