There isn’t much to do in a cold, dark place except count the stones that line the floor and walls—nine hundred and eight—and do exercises to keep warm. I stretch and walk around in circles, jump and practice my high kick.
Without a single window, I lose track of time. I think it might be morning, given the way my stomach rumbles with hunger. Maybe all that jumping was a bad idea. But if I don’t keep moving, if I don’t stay busy, then I’ll only think about Ana and Sofía.
And my burning wrists.
I’m sick of my heart hurting. The pain goes deep, deeper than the fissures Atoc opened in the earth. It’s been forged by long years of living without my parents, of nearly starving as I tried to survive in a city blown up after the revolt. The ache grew when Ana and Sofía died. I’m bleeding, and I don’t know how to stop it.
I need Catalina. Not the condesa. Mi amiga. My friend.
My only visitor comes during the night to add more oil to the torches—one guard, who ignores my request for a blanket.
This is very bad. I can’t do anything from down here. All I’ve managed to do so far is cause my friends’ deaths. Reason tells me it’s not my fault. I didn’t shoot the arrows, and I didn’t create a giant hole in the middle of the earth for Ana to fall into.
But my heart—my traitorous heart—whispers that none of my friends would have been in danger if it hadn’t been for me. I shouldn’t have executed that messenger. I ought to have expected an attack once we reached the castillo. I ought to have found a way to secure Ana’s release. Or stopped her from leaving on that mission in the first place.
I could have pushed harder. Planned better. Done more.
But I’d been arrogant.
Catalina was right. The weight of the condesa’s responsibility is tremendous.
My knees give out, and I slump to the stone floor.
There has to be something I can do. Maybe I can connect with the other Illustrian prisoners? But a quick glance around the dungeon proves to be a vain endeavor. I don’t see or hear any other victims. My cell seems to be in an empty wing.
Think, Ximena. Use your head.
With Ana gone—I flinch at the thought—her magic surrounding the bridge has vanished. Finding the Estrella isn’t just about safeguarding Catalina’s reign; it’s about ensuring the Illustrians’ survival. Once Atoc realizes he can cross that bridge … I shudder. The fortress can withstand an attack, but with food scarce there’s no way our people will outlast a prolonged assault.
I gently bang the back of my head against the cool stone. Thud, thud, thud.
Overthrowing Atoc is my priority. Finding the Estrella guarantees victory. But even so, I have to send a message to Catalina to let her know how much time she has to prepare for the attack.
And for that I need a loom.
The lock creaks and slides back, wrenching me from my thoughts. Heavy footsteps thudding in the dark make me lurch to my feet. A shape materializes. It’s Rumi—his shoulders hunched, carrying a blanket tucked under his arm, a basket in one hand. I sniff. The basket definitely has food. Some kind of cheese and bread. It takes everything in me not to rush to the bars and snatch both out of his hands.
He stops in front of the door to my cell. “Congratulations, you’ve earned an extended stay down here. If that’s what you were hoping to achieve with your antics yesterday, it worked.”
I clench my fists. Intolerable idiot.
“If you’ve come to gloat,” I say, “I’d rather not hear it.”
He reaches for the key hanging on a rusty nail in the wall. “I’m here to do a job, Condesa. Observing your rash stupidity is just a perk, and my prerogative.”
I don’t expect sympathy from him. But his tone, sour like week-old milk, sends a sharp flare of annoyance coursing through my body. I welcome it. I prefer to have a target for my emotions instead of holding on to my grief.
“I don’t think it’s stupid or rash to stand up for a friend,” I say. “But I guess that’s where we differ.” As a quip, it’s not one of my best, but I’m reasonably proud of my tone—I sound stronger than I feel.
Rumi turns the key, opens the door, and forcefully throws the blanket at my face. The basket with food he drops by the door. “Oh, I’m in complete agreement with you. We’re certainly different.”
“Fundamentally.”
He runs a cold, assessing eye over my person, seemingly dismissing me, until his attention focuses on my wrists. I tuck them behind my back, wrapping them around my ruined dress.
“Let me see.”
“Go away,” I snarl.
He takes a step closer. “Show me where it hurts.”
“Ándate a la mierda.” Showing him my wounds feels wrong. They’re raw, and they badly sting. I don’t want him near me, let alone examining my injuries.
“Fine,” he snaps when it becomes clear I won’t give in. The door to my cell clangs shut behind him, ringing in my ears. “Someone will be down with a chamber pot.”
My stomach twists at the thought of relieving myself in the room where I ate my dinner, but hunger wins, and I eat the marraqueta loaf, queso blanco, and plátanos in one sitting.
The chamber pot is delivered. The guards set up cacho, a Llacsan dice game, where they play by torchlight. Their hollering and laughing keeps me up for hours, so I sit in the corner of my cell, glaring in their general direction for most of the night.
Rumi returns sometime later. A full day may have passed. By now I’ve taken several hundred restless turns in the cell. I want to scream in frustration. I have to get out of here. Illustrians are depending on me; Catalina is depending on me. I still don’t have any idea of how I can get a loom.
Then there’s the not so small matter of my raw wrists.
They’re getting worse—bubbling and oozing. Without proper care, infection will set in. The infection will lead to a fever, and I’ll be useless if I get sick.
Nothing can jeopardize my mission. Nothing.
The loud clang of the lock sliding open makes me turn toward the dungeon’s door. Rumi approaches, carrying another basket. I’d been fed earlier by one of the guards, and the blanket hasn’t been taken away. What is he doing down here?
He takes the keys to the cell off the rusty nail and uses them to come inside my prison. “Let’s get this over with, Condesa.” He gives me a resigned look.
My fingers twitch as if reaching for my blades, but I have only my hurting hands to defend myself with. “Get ready for what?”
He pulls a carefully wrapped package slowly from the basket.
I frown. “What’s that for?”
Rumi opens the folds, revealing pressed herbs. He means to treat my rope burns.
I back away. “You’re not coming near my wrists.” He’ll be rough, and heaven knows what else he has in that basket. He might make things worse, then I’ll be ruined. I need to be alert, to somehow find a loom so I can write my messages for Catalina. If he drugs me, or puts the wrong medication on my wounds, I’ll have to recover and I don’t have time for that. “I want to see a healer.”
He lifts a dark brow. “I am a healer, you fool.”
I purse my lips. “You?”
Somehow that doesn’t fit. To heal people, you have to understand them. You have to take the time to listen and actually hear what bothers them. Rumi doesn’t strike me as a good listener. It does, however, explain why his clothes reek of burnt leaves.
“Yes,” he says. “Me. It’s my Pacha magic. I don’t have all day, and I will literally sit on you to get this done, Condesa. Don’t fight me on this.”
If he thinks I’m going to willingly submit to his treatment, he’s in for a surprise, healer or no. I’m not going to risk my hands for nothing. I need to weave my messages.
He takes a step forward.
I take a step back. Glancing over my shoulder, I calculate how many moves I have left. About three more steps until my back reaches the cold stone. An idea streaks through my mind, bright like a shooting star. I hold on to it as if my life depends on it. And in a way, it does. “What’s in it for me?”
Rumi blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“What’s in it for you?” he repeats. “How about not having to deal with an infection? Not succumbing to fever? Avoiding death?”
I shake my head. “That benefits you. I’m your charge, right? What would it look like if you couldn’t keep one girl alive? Will the king still trust you if his soon-to-be wife falls ill?”
A scowl rips through his face, sudden and fierce. “The mark of a true Illustrian. Always wanting more than their due. Well? What is it?”
“I want your promise that you’ll bring me what I ask for.”
“My promise?” he says, raising his voice to a near shout. “As if you have any room to negotiate—”
“I’ll fight you if you take one step closer,” I snap. “Hear this, Llacsan: I can make your life easier or much, much worse. Give me what I ask for, and I’ll let my wrists be treated. That’s what I’m proposing.”
“What do you want?” His voice comes out in a growl.
“The promise first.”
He rolls his eyes until the whites show. “I promise to bring what you ask for—within reason. I can’t guarantee your release. At present, the king won’t let anyone breathe your name.”
I smile—a triumphant smile that spreads from ear to ear. “I want a loom.”
Rumi takes a step back, stunned, his dark eyes widening. There’s a long beat of silence.
“Well?”
“Why,” he asks carefully, “do you want a loom?”
“I like to weave.”
Rumi frowns. “That’s not an Illustrian hobby.”
I shrug. So I shouldn’t like to weave because of who I am? That’s ridiculous. I like creating with my hands. There’s something rewarding about making art out of nothing. The tucking and untucking, the folding over and under. Repeating until a bright new thing winks back at me. I make tapestries with my own two hands. There isn’t anything better than creating something beautiful, especially if it hides a message that can save my people. Who gives a damn if I’m an Illustrian or not? The loom can’t tell the difference.
“You really like to weave?” he asks in a skeptical tone.
I shake my head. “No, I really love to weave.”
A peculiar expression crosses his face, incredulousness mixed with surprise. I know what he thinks of me—or rather, the condesa, Catalina—spoiled, vain, and useless with a streak of cruelty. That’s what all Llacsans say. It’s how they define us. Illustrians are cruel. Monsters and oppressors. Harbingers of disease and misfortune.
We invaded their lands, sure, but they’d invaded the original natives of Inkasisa—the Illari. Driven them away until they disappeared into the Yanu Jungle, left to fight poisonous insects and snakes and the untamed wild. We aren’t all that different from the Llacsans.
We’d just won.
Rumi studies me, his head tilted slightly to the side. Another beat of silence follows, my heart thundering in my chest. I need him to get me that loom. If he doesn’t …
“I’ll see if I can find one in the castillo,” he says at last. “If not, I’ll have to send for one.”
My relief nearly sends me to my knees. It worked.
He holds out his hand. “Your wrists.”
I hesitate. I have a profound respect for healers. They fix people. It’s something to admire, the ability to make someone better and whole. I don’t want to confuse Rumi for one of them. He’s my enemy and always will be.
“I can do it myself,” I say stiffly. “Just tell me what to do.”
Rumi lets out an exasperated sigh. He drops the basket by my feet, snatches my hand, turns my knuckles downward, and drops the herbs into my palm. I let out a small yelp, but he ignores it. He steps away and leans against the bars.
“I brought several remedies,” he says in a curt tone. “Use the vinegar to disinfect the wounds first.”
“Vinegar?” My wounds already blister; adding something that acidic will feel as if I’ve stuck my hands in a fire.
“It’ll heal faster,” he says, a hint of challenge in his eyes.
That pushes me. I sit down, my legs folded over each other, and pull the basket closer. Holding up a glass vial with what looks like white vinegar, I wait for Rumi’s go-ahead. He nods, and I find a cloth inside the basket then soak a corner of it.
I take a deep breath and press the rag against my burns. The intense sting makes me bite my lip. A cold, sharp ache follows a loud rushing noise in my ears that threatens to overwhelm my senses. I take away the cloth, eyes watering. I suddenly realize Rumi is sitting in front of me.
“I’ll get this done in a moment,” he says briskly.
I faintly nod, my wrist screaming. He pours more vinegar onto the cloth and cleans my wrist. He takes out a bandage and then presses the herbs—dried lavender—and wraps everything together, finishing with a tight knot. Rumi quickly cleans my other hand, and I try not to make a sound.
Once finished, he gathers his supplies and stands. I remain on the ground. My head swims, and I’m weirdly light-headed.
“We need to do that once a day,” he says in that same brisk tone. “Don’t sleep on your hands.”
“I want the loom.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps. “I said I’ll get it, and I will.”
He leaves without a backward glance. I crawl to the stone wall and lean against it, appreciating its harsh coldness. My wrists feel like they’re on fire. I tip my head back, and my gaze snags on a word etched into the stone, just above eye level. I reach for it, sink my finger into the crevices, the edges sharp. Courage, it says, written in Castellano. Whoever carved this message must have been an Illustrian. I close my eyes, my finger tracing the word as if it’s a lifeline, as if it connects me to the person who carved it.
My heart whispers a name, and I believe it.
Ana.
Rumi visits again. Instead of the loom, he brings that infernal medicine basket and a book.
A book.
I frown. What is this? Reading in the dim light will give me a headache. “That’s not a loom.”
He holds out the book in between the bars. “Take it.”
I eye it warily. Studying is more Catalina’s thing. At the keep, it’s a normal occurrence to see her surrounded by piles of books in the library. Everyone is given access to these written tales, all the ones that survived the revolt. But it’s Catalina who painstakingly keeps track of each page and tome. “I’m actually not much of a reader.”
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 naïve. 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.