Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(76)

Meeting Catalina.

The sun is bright outside, but I don’t mind the heat from its rays. Fresh air mingles in my lungs as they expand, taking in this little moment of freedom. Juan Carlos casts a lazy smile in my direction and gestures toward the stables.

“Lady’s choice. On horse or on foot?”

I glance up toward the sun, pulling my bottom lip with my teeth. I want to walk, to drag the time outside, getting my fill of unfettered blue skies. But the eleventh bell will toll any minute and I can’t miss the chance of seeing Catalina.

“Caballo,” I say.

Juan Carlos nods and snaps his fingers at a stable hand. In moments we’re riding toward La Ciudad. Inkasisa’s hilly landscape surrounds us, shadows peppering its curves and jagged peaks, flecking the earth with secrets and hidden enemies. Beyond the misty mountain rests the azure Lago Yaku, hiding the most powerful secret of all. I turn my attention to what lies ahead, at the foot of Qullqi Orqo Mountain.

La Ciudad Blanca. It takes shape as we ride closer, the red tiles sitting on top of the white walls and glittering under the sun. The city sprawls beneath the lavender mountain like a servant at the feet of its brooding sovereign.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Juan Carlos asks me.

There’s no denying it. “Yes.”

“Must have been hard living in a fortress all these years.”

I side-eye him. “Still trying to earn my trust?”

He laughs but doesn’t say anything else. I’m suddenly annoyed that my life is composed of secrets, that even the people in it aren’t capable of telling the truth. And I’m the worst one of them all. We’d shared old wounds the other day and built something akin to friendship.

“It was hard,” I say abruptly. “I remember what life was like before the revolt. My grandmother baked a lot and we always came into La Ciudad for salte?as in the early afternoon. My nanny liked to weave with me after dinner, right before my parents would tuck me into bed.”

He nudges his horse closer. “My family owned a tavern. I learned how to make silpancho when I was seven. Even now I remember how the customers liked the crispiness of my potatoes.”

“You cook.” I chuckle. “Of course you do. What’s your specialty?”

“I make the best sándwich de chola,” he says with a proud smile. “Double servings of braised pork, locoto, and my queso blanco and tomato salsa. The marraquetas are toasted on the grill, extra butter.”

He’s passionate about food. Huh. Who knew? If I had any talent in the kitchen, I’d spend all my time concocting new dishes, not watching over a wayward condesa.

“Why are you a guard then?” I lightly place a hand on his arm. “You should have your own tavern.”

His smile dims. “It’s my dream, but it’s too risky. Besides, I’m needed in the castillo.”

“Too risky?”

He nods. “It’s just me providing for my family. My father left us when it became clear my mother’s family wouldn’t accept him. I think he thought it’d be easier for us if he weren’t around. But my mother loved him and the day he left, he took her smiles with him.”

I frown. “Did your abuelos accept you?”

“There’s not many people I can’t charm, Condesa,” he says with a wink.

“Now that I do believe.” We reach the outer walls of La Ciudad and proceed forward, taking turns on the winding roads, passing homes, shops, and several inns. Carts ramble by, carrying various wares. Sentries patrol the cobbled streets. Many are stationed at the white temple near the Plaza del Sol.

The square teems with noise and people. Everything I miss and love, everything I crave and want after this is all over. We leave our horses in the public stalls, Juan Carlos depositing a single nota in the waiting hands of the stable master, and we walk the rest of the way to buy salte?as. Half of the plaza is being rebuilt after Atoc’s earthquake shook the ground.

The square is dusty, and half buried under cracked stone and piles of rubble, and despite the general bustle of activity, the people walking around us resemble the nearly destroyed city center. Broken and badly in need of repair. Some have fresh cuts and scrapes, missing limbs and patched heads. They wear forlorn and stricken expressions, because they know just as much as I do that they can’t trust the ground beneath them. Not with Atoc lording over us all.

And everywhere the scent of dirt and grime covers the people of La Ciudad. With the water shortage, there’s no respite from cracked lips and dry elbows. No salvation from parched throats and bodies in need of cleansing.

“I’m surprised Atoc allowed this outing,” I say as we walk avenues filled with people buying and selling whatever food is available: tomatoes and choclo, yuca and bags of beans kept in barrels.

“He’s gone for the day,” he says. “On a visit to the Lowlands.”

Which is about a day’s ride from La Ciudad. We walk past more shops, and through the windows I spot various wares for sale: fabrics, tinctures, and shelves overflowing with bars of soap. The corners of my mouth pull down. Perfect for empty bathtubs, since there’s not nearly enough water for drinking let alone bathing, but there’s plenty of everything else for sale. Items made possible by the planting and selling of the koka leaves. How long can we survive before we’re invaded by our neighboring countries, intent on the massive plots of land dedicated to the drug?