The bamboo weighs more than I thought it would. Its shade is a bruised yellow, and when I tilt the bamboo, liquid sloshes from within. He lops off one more stalk at the joint, wipes it down, and then holds the plant at arm’s length, chopping the top with one fluid motion. Silently, he hands it to me in exchange for the other. The bamboo is now a sort of wooden cup, and inside laps astonishingly clear water. I bring the stalk to my lips and drink the whole thing down, and while it’s this side of warm, it tastes refreshing, like diluted herbal tea. Manuel finishes his drink and turns the stalk around to chop off the top of the other end. Again, he hands it over to me and I eagerly polish off every drop. As soon as I’m done, my stomach rumbles.
Manuel rummages in his pack and pulls out a handful of walnuts and a banana. I scarf both down in a matter of seconds. I’m still hungry, but now the feeling is bearable. What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of hot quinoa piled high with fried eggs and diced red onion and locoto. I want to ask for more food, but he’s already turned away, examining the landscape. He doesn’t eat anything, and guilt settles onto my shoulders, weighing them down further. I must have eaten his meager supply.
His back is still facing me. “Lista?”
“Ready,” I say, trudging after him. His disapproval picks at me like a vulture nibbling on raw flesh. It hurts, more than I’d like, and as I carefully step my way through the path he’s blazing, I try to hold on to my reasons for staying. I’ve failed my people, failed to keep my promise that I’d return their lives to the way they were before the Llacsan revolt. My people lost everything and wanted revenge; they wanted the Illustrian royal family back in power.
I am the only survivor. Their last hope to reclaim our way of life, our culture.
If I’m not their condesa, then who am I? I’ve only known one future. Behind closed doors, Ana—Manuel’s mother—trained me to be worthy of the title, and I soaked up her knowledge as if I were a starving plant in the desert. Memorizing history texts, studying geography and the many countries surrounding Inkasisa, categorizing them into compartments in my mind labeled “enemy” or “friend.” I speak the foreign languages of our neighbors passably well, but I’ve mastered the most important one: diplomacy.
When I turned seventeen, Ana sat me down and we discussed suitable marriage candidates from neighboring countries. Manuel had been gone for two years then, and I didn’t know if I was ever going to see him again. So I paid attention, remembering their names and ranks. And on top of all that, I’ve studied the stars, worshiping our goddess, Luna. I love her as if she were my own mother, even if she doesn’t love me like the dutiful daughter I hope I am.
Everything I’ve done has been for the throne. For the future of my people, so that our traditions and beliefs will survive the ravages of time.
I’m nothing if I’m not the condesa.
Manuel stops abruptly, and I reach out to keep myself from slamming into him, my fingers barely skimming his shoulders. The line of his back stiffens at my touch. I pull away and peer around him, stuffing my hurt deep within me. It has no place in this jungle.
Manuel thinks like Ximena—wanting to see this Llacsan queen with his own eyes and come to his own conclusion. He might end up being completely fine with having yet another Llacsan on the throne, even though the last ten years have been demoralizing. Barely living behind the fortress, biding our time to take back the throne while we fought starvation and boredom.
Like my former friend, he doesn’t believe in me either.
I shove the thought out of my mind. Manuel drops to his haunches, peering around, and eventually finds my pack, half hidden under a tangle of brush, the dagger lying discarded and nearly forgotten next to it. He hands both things to me and stands, frowning at a nearby tree. Something else has gotten his attention.
“What is it?”
Manuel takes a step closer to the massive trunk, its timber a reddish brown. “This is a mahogany tree. Take a look, and tell me what you see.” I step closer, inspecting the ragged bark. There’s nothing of note. When I tell him so, he raises a brow. “Try again.”
It’s painfully hot, the mosquitos are lunching on my skin, and my stomach grumbles loudly, demanding a hearty meal. I’m in no mood for one of his lessons. “Just tell me.”
He remains still and stubbornly silent, his expression grim.
I sigh and study the bark again. Deep grooves run up and down the length of the trunk, some curving and deep, others shallow and straighter. I place my fingers into the marks and Manuel snarls. I jump back, alarmed. He maneuvers me behind him in a flash.
“What did I say about touching anything?”
“It’s only a tree,” I mutter.
The sharp hiss is the only warning.
Manuel slams his machete against the trunk. Something falls to the ground, and he scoops it up using his weapon. On the steel blade rests the trapezoidal head of a snake, brilliant yellow with brownish flecks near its cleft mouth. Surrounding its diamond-shaped eyes are ridges that look like eyelashes. Even dead, the pellet gaze is focused on mine. Its vermillion forked tongue rests languidly against Manuel’s steel.
“Oropel,” he says. “One of the vipers. I would have had to cut off your hand if it’d bitten you. Never touch anything without looking everywhere first. Understand?”
I nod.
“Now tell me what you see.”
I don’t touch the bark this time. My knees shake, but somehow I remain upright. This time, I finally see what captivated his attention. Along the trunk are faint claw marks that run high over my head and down to my knees.
“There,” I say, jerking my chin at the wood. “An animal made them.”
He nods. “Jaguar marking her territory. Probably the one who hunted you.”
I shudder. “Why is this important?”
He points to the large plants surrounding the tree trunk. “It’s not, but those are.”
After I take a step back, I finally see the entire picture. What wasn’t visible to me when only studying the timber. All the stalks have been cut in half. Deliberately and in plain sight once you know where to look.
“I don’t understand.”
“It means we’re being hunted,” Manuel whispers. “By the Illari.”
CAPÍTULO
Ocho
I press closer to Manuel, thankful for his presence, and for the blade curled tightly in his palm. He stands with his feet braced apart, his attention flicking to several gaps in the immense green. His chest rises and falls, and I mimic his quiet breathing, straining my ears to listen for any signs of the approaching threat.
But the jungle song rises around us, making it impossible to detect any irregular movements in the brush.
“They’ve tracked you before then left you alone, right?” I clutch his tunic sleeve, trying to keep an even tone but failing.
Manuel shoots me an exasperated glance. “What makes you think they left me alone? I’ve been in hiding.”
“But—”
“Quiet.” He slowly turns, machete raised, and peers into the jungle gloom. “They’re waiting.”
My voice is a soft hush. “For what?”
“You said we were close to the border, right? A day’s walk?”