Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(66)

For the first time, the princesa’s composure falters. Her jaw clenches as she shakes her head. Atoc settles back down, satisfied like a purring cat. Sajra looks as if he’s been deprived of his last meal.

The princesa snaps around in her stool and takes up the threads. Her fingers fly across the loom and a scene emerges. Delighted cries erupt. Without thinking, I stand and peer over her shoulder. At the top of her tapestry, intricately woven rain clouds pepper the sky. La Ciudad is buried under heavy rain, while the misty lavender mountain looms in the background. Off in the distance, Lago Yaku roils under the gusting winds.

The scene is so lifelike, I expect to see the woolly clouds float off the tapestry, thundering and dripping water. I’ve never seen anything like it. Since childhood, I’ve been stuffed with truths the same way one stuffs their bags for traveling: I’m the best weaver in all of Inkasisa; I’m a skilled leader and an efficient fighter. Illustrians are better at everything.

But they were all lying. Ana, my parents, Catalina. I’m not the best weaver; that title belongs to the princesa.

I’m standing behind the princesa and she leans into me. My gaze narrows on her work, searching each row. As she continues to weave across the tapestry, her pinky finger glides over something buried in Lago Yaku.

A gem capable of mass destruction. The conjuring of murderous spirits.

The Estrella.

My knees buckle, and I hastily sit back down on my stool. My own tapestry is only halfway done. I half-heartedly pick up the strands of wool as Atoc makes a loud disappointed sound. He shoots me a disgusted look. The message is clear.

I’ve embarrassed him. No better than his sister.

“Is this the best you can do?” he asks.

I gesture to the princesa’s work. “There’s no competing with that. She’s the better weaver.”

“Then why am I up here, wasting my time?”

The urge to batter him over the head with my loom is overwhelming. I inhale and force myself to calm my blood’s fevered rioting. When I reply, the words come out slowly. “You brought yourself. I didn’t invite you.”

Someone in the room sniggers. It’s a quiet sound, cut off a second later, as if the person who’d made it realized how dangerous it is to laugh at Atoc.

“Stay up here, the both of you,” the fake king snarls, my cape swirling around his shoulders as he marches to the door. His next words come out like a sharp bark from a guard dog. “Nothing to eat or drink for them. I don’t care if they starve.”

The door rattles when he slams it shut. Guards remain stationed outside the door. I look at the princesa grimly. My plan worked, but now I’m stuck up here. I wouldn’t put it past him to keep me up here until Carnaval.

“Do you think the wedding is off?” I whisper.

“Hardly,” Tamaya says. “He’ll cool down and send for you soon. He’s impulsive, but not entirely stupid. You can’t die before he marries you.” She reaches for me. “Sorry, but we have to hug. Do you realize what you’ve done?”

I nod. “I’m not entirely stupid either.”

She laughs and embraces me, slightly trembling. “What will you do with the information I’ve given you?”

It’s because I like her that I respond with the truth: “I don’t know.”

“Condesa, I think it’s time we talk.” She gestures to the couch. “Have a seat.”

Because I’m locked up with her, I don’t have a choice. I’m not ready for this conversation; I don’t have the answers to her questions. I can’t walk off in a huff like her brother did. I sit down beside her and take a deep breath. My time in the castillo has muddied my thoughts, and my mask has never felt so vulnerable. At the slightest provocation, I’m sure it’ll fall away, leaving me exposed. Defenseless. Ximena.

“Why do you think Atoc wants to marry you?”

My brows raise. It’s not at all where I assumed she’d start. “Because of our water supply.”

The princesa shakes her head. “It might be one reason, but it’s not the reason. He’s been forgetting our upbringing, our values. Disappearing as he secures more money, more power. I don’t mean to offend you, but in choosing you, he’s forsaking us. He’d rather indulge in a power play than choose someone good for Inkasisa.

“My brother wants legitimacy from his oppressors, for them to respect and fear him. In marrying you, he thinks he’ll own you—and by default, all Illustrians. He wants power, but his greed—so like your Illustrian ancestors—is twisting him into something else.”

“You don’t mean to offend me?” I repeat. “That’s a gracious statement coming from a Llacsan.”

The princesa gazes at me with solemn dark eyes.

“I used to think that all Llacsans hated Illustrians,” I say.

“If it were true,” she asks quietly, “could you blame them?”

The Llacsans revolted because of our mistreatment. So whose fault is it really that my parents are dead? How many of their parents died as we neglected them for centuries?

“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t blame them.”

The words are out in the open and I can’t take them back. I chance a quick look in her direction. I expect to see a triumphant smile. But the princesa merely tilts her head, curious. She’s analyzing me, trying to sift through what I really think. What I really want.