Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(55)

“I thought I heard a shout,” she says. “Perhaps you ought to leave, Condesa.”

“What? No. I’m not leaving until you tell me about the Estrella.”

She looks over her shoulder at me. “I think you may be needed elsewhere. There are several prisoners in the dungeon who won’t live past tomorrow.”

She must be talking about the Llacsan journalists—the ones who faced Atoc and were forever maimed by the priest.

“And what?” I ask. “You want me to set them free?”

“Yes.” She steps forward and places a light hand on my arm. “There are also Illustrians down there. Atoc’s ordered their execution, Condesa.”

I swallow and look away. I couldn’t possibly risk saving them. If I were caught, my entire mission would be jeopardized. “How do you know about the captives?”

The realization comes at me swiftly, like an arrow cutting through the sky. One of her spies told her. Maybe even El Lobo himself. And she’s asking me to help him. Because his mission is to save everyone and their mamá también—except Ana, I think sourly and unfairly. He’s attempting a rescue.

“It’s your choice,” she says. “But either way, we’re done for the night. Fue un placer, Condesa.”

I’m thoroughly dismissed, but another question sits burning on my tongue. “Can’t you escape too? I can manage the lock …”

For all her openness, there’s something guarded about Princesa Tamaya, but looking at me now, her eyes wide and earnest, I feel her sincerity as if it were hands and arms I could touch. “That’s very kind, and I appreciate it.” Her voice drops to a determined whisper. “But I can’t run away from this. I will not run away from my brother.”

“But—”

She retrieves my sword from beneath her cot, hands me my mask, and gently pushes me toward the door. “Remember, it’s your choice whether you help him or not. It’ll do wonderful things for your character.”

I wasn’t aware my character needed improving, but I let her push me out the door and onto the dark spiral staircase. My woolen ants go back inside the lock, and as it clamps shut once more, I’m unable to keep myself from feeling like I’m making a colossal mistake in not helping her escape.





CAPíTULO





By the time I reach the last step, I’ve made my decision. El Lobo couldn’t rescue Ana, but he still fought to save the Illustrians captured with her. I couldn’t save Sofía or Ana, but here’s my chance to help. It’s risky, but I can’t let anyone else die if there’s even a chance I can rescue them. Who knows what else might be in store for the prisoners trapped under the castillo? Would Atoc submit them to Sajra’s ghoulish blood magic?

I creep through the gardens, ducking behind tall shrubbery in order to evade the patrolling guards. Running in a crouch, I sneak into the castillo using the side entrance. Thanks to Rumi, I have another way to the dungeons that doesn’t involve tiptoeing through the main corridors. The dungeon entrance is on the other side of the castillo foyer, down a short hallway, and through an iron door that leads to a long flight of descending steps.

Walking on the balls of my feet, I cross the room, careful to look over my shoulder for any signs of movement. I reach the hallway and press myself against the wall, expecting to see another guard standing watch in front of the door.

I’m right about the guard, wrong about his standing watch. The sentry lies on the ground, slumped sideways. His leg holds the door open. Blood pools around his smashed-in skull.

El Lobo’s doing, no doubt.

I carefully step over the body and pull the door open. I make it halfway down the stone steps before the scuffling reaches my ears. Shapes move in the flickering light of a single blazing torch. Two men fight, their grunts audible from where I hide in the semidarkness. The room is large, with rows of cells lining the far wall. I can’t discern exactly who is in which cell, but I can just make out the shadowy shapes of two prisoners in each. At least two of them are the journalists. The other four prisoners must be the Illustrians who Princesa Tamaya spoke of.

There’s a loud whistling noise—El Lobo fights the guard with a slingshot. A sharp crack splits the air. I slink farther into the dark corner by the stairs. The scents of blood and sweat fill my nostrils. The victor of the fight comes into view.

El Lobo.

Question after question crowds my mind: How does he know about the prisoners? Does he have a spy in the castillo? Madre de Luna, was he at court like me, watching their horrifying torture? My skin prickles as a new question pops into my head.

Does the vigilante work in the castillo?

Juan Carlos’s face hovers at the forefront. He kept watch outside the hall’s entrance during the sentencing of the Llacsan writers. He would have seen the prisoners dragged into court and back out, wounded and bleeding, and missing both hands.

I don’t have more time to dwell on the man-in-black’s identity. El Lobo snatches the key from the iron nail and opens one of the prison doors. In the lambent light, two captives stumble out of the cell. They are missing their hands—it’s the Llacsan journalists. One of them sobs, loud hiccupping noises. Dried blood covers his chin. He’s the one who lost his tongue.

El Lobo places a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. “We have to hurry,” he says in his low, accented rasp. “Stop your tears and help me get you out of here.”