Home > Written in Starlight (Woven in Moonlight #2)(4)

Written in Starlight (Woven in Moonlight #2)(4)
Author: Isabel Ibanez

“Not against anything with teeth.”

He shoots me a pointed look. “Do you?”

I grudgingly nod. “She taught me.”

“Good.” He gestures to my sleeves. “Keep those down to avoid bugs and scratches. If you’re bitten, and the wounds become infected, maggots will appear.” He hesitates. “If maggots appear … Just try to avoid infection, all right? Once that happens, find somewhere to hide and then—”

“Die peacefully,” I cut in. “That’s what you mean?”

“Actually, yes. The maggots are an indicator of a serious problem.”

I gag as a shudder rips through me.

He steps closer and, in an undertone, whispers, “This is your last chance, Catalina. Say you’ll accept Princesa Tamaya as your queen, and you’ll be welcomed back to La Ciudad. Don’t let your pride—”

“Rumi,” one of the guards says. “It’s time.”

He’s wrong, this vigilante. It isn’t my pride. I have to think of what’s best for my people, and another Llacsan on the throne is not the answer—I am. The last Llacsan ruler murdered my family and destroyed our city.

It will be a moonless black night before I give up my birthright. I shake my head.

The Llacsan healer nods and drops a hesitant hand onto my shoulder. I pull away—gently. He may have stayed longer than planned, showed me where to find food, and built me a fire, but he’s still leaving me here.

And I’ll never forget the role he played in my downfall.

They leave in a single file, Rumi at the back. He shoots me one last look over his shoulder before the jungle’s long arms encircle him. The sounds of their departure settle into the night, my ears straining to hear every grunt, every footstep, until there’s nothing more. Only the song of the jungle: toads and insects screeching, owls hooting, leaves rustling in the heavy wind. There’s moisture in the air and a moment later a deep rumble bears down from above.

A storm comes.

 

 

CAPÍTULO


Tres


I need to find shelter from the approaching storm, but I can’t make myself move away from the fire’s warm glow. It’s my final link to humanity. This fire pit, this half-hidden stone pillar, is my last known location. The moment I step away, I’ll become untethered and truly alone. Lost forever. I sink to my knees, holding out my hands to the flames. What if the Llacsans change their mind? What if they grow a conscience and decide it’s inhumane to leave me here?

Maybe they’ll come back if I wait long enough.

Thunder roars in the treetops as I think through my options. Rumi and his companions will meet a torrential downpour on the way out. The trail will disappear from under their feet. They may not even survive the night. And if they can’t, how will I? I let myself have a few minutes, my thoughts skittering from one thing to another. If I don’t pack now, if I don’t move, I’ll lose whatever meager possessions I have left in the dark once the storm douses the fire. I inhale deeply, the scent of dirt, decaying plants, vegetation, and wood filling my nostrils.

Move, Catalina.

Another roar crashes from above. I jump to my feet, throwing the telescope and bread into the pack. I run to the hammock, untying the knots, and then fold the delicate netting. I jam everything into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I take one last look around to make sure I’m not leaving anything useful behind. The fire’s heat beckons, but I ignore the call. I leave the safety of the small clearing and march into the jungle, where darkness engulfs me. I need a cave, a hollow in a tree, anything to shield me from the downpour. From the sound of the booming thunder, the storm will be immense.

I’ve taken ten steps before it becomes nearly impossible to see anything in the cloying night. Only my little fire is visible in the distance.

A sudden rumble roars overhead. The treetops dump water, soaking everything. I jerk wildly and race for a tree, but there’s no escaping the pouring rain. It drowns my fire, creating a muddy sludge in the center of the clearing. My camp site disappears, becoming part of the jungle as if it’d never existed.

Water slides from the top of my head and travels down my body. Every article of clothing is sopping wet in seconds, including my boots. My tunic and pants stick to my skin as I continue walking away from the clearing. My long wet hair is a weight on my shoulders. The strap of my pack digs into my skin, but I ignore the discomfort and push on. Leaves bigger than half my body block the way, but I use my covered shoulder and arm to push through. With every step, my feet squish inside my leather boots.

Squish, squish, squish.

The heavy downpour slows my progress, but I refuse to let it defeat me. Everyone else may have, but not this damn rain. I keep walking, forcing myself to take slow, steady steps, every now and again tipping my head back to catch water in my mouth. I climb over fallen logs, traverse long stretches of sodden grass. At least the mosquitos have disappeared. Small mercies. Thunder rumbles again above the treetops, promising more rain, and the heavens deliver. I imagine a bucket, the level of water rising and rising. Soon my bucket will overflow. But at least I’m getting plenty of water.

I keep moving. Anytime the terrain veers upward, I readjust and go in the opposite direction so that I’m consistently walking downhill. Even in the gloom, the hazy outline of a mountain ridge looms in the distance. I decide to head away from it, but only Luna knows if I’m heading toward a river or a stream. My meandering walk takes me deeper and deeper into the jungle. The rain slows, the water no longer pounding the top of my head.

When the downpour stops altogether, a miracle happens.

The forest slowly lights up, a buttery, soft yellow. I let out a gasp, my bag dropping to my feet. Surrounding me, a shimmery gleam dusts the tree trunks, the grassy knotted floor, the curling vines. I venture closer to one of the plants—it’s covered in glowing fungus.

Fungus.

“Imagine that,” I whisper. I pick up my pack, dismiss the stabbing pain coming from the bottoms of my feet—the miles walked are catching up to me—and set off, seeking a way that won’t take me up the mountain. At last I find an overhang of rock and duck under, nestling close to the stone. I use the sodden pack as a makeshift pillow, and, ignoring the hunger pains, force myself to shut my eyes.

My first night in the jungle.

 

I wake with a start. Somewhere in the distance a rustling draws near. Branches parting, twigs snapping. I sit up and rub my eyes. The rain has started again, thick and incessant. Is it morning? I peep out into the dark. The rain casts a heavy gloom on the forest. Impossible to tell what time it is. The sound of the water slapping the overhang almost drowns out the rustling, but it continues drawing closer and louder.

The ground shakes.

What beast makes that kind of racket? I slowly exhale as I reach into my pack for the dagger. The blade is dirty with dried blood. I grip the leather-wrapped handle and wait for whatever predator is stalking me. The seconds stretch as my heart slams against my ribs, painful and fast like the onslaught of a battering ram.

The rustling grows louder. The jungle carpet quakes.

I climb out from under the overhang, clutching my weapon at the level of my heart. Water blurs my vision, but I don’t soften my stance. “Come out if you’re going to eat me!” My voice is a wail against the rain, against the forest.

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