Written in Starlight (Woven in Moonlight #2) - Isabel Ibanez Page 0,2
to my small leather pack, attached to the mule’s saddle. “Don’t forget that.” He throws it at me and then turns his attention to the last guard in line. He gives him the reins of my mule and says, “We’ll join you after we leave behind …” He trails off. “Be alert. Nothing in this jungle wants you here. Take care on the journey back out. And touch nothing.”
It’s almost time. They’re leaving me tonight.
I have to come up with a plan before then. Maybe I can follow them back out? Maybe I can read the constellations, even without my telescope. The idea crashes before it can fully take flight. I’ve never been good at reading the stars, despite my calling.
My shoulders slump as the guard nods and takes hold of all the reins and leads the horses and my sweet mule back the way we came, back to the little light that remains. Rumi nudges my shoulder, and I reluctantly turn away from the sight of freedom and march alongside him as the rest of the guards use thick swords to cut at the dense foliage. Rotted logs peppered with white mushrooms and yellow mold block our trek. My boots tread on a decaying mulch of damp leaves and cloying vines. Buttress roots supporting massive trees curl under the greeneries. If I somehow don’t twist my ankle, it’ll be a miracle.
A guard ahead slaps at his neck. “Damn mosquitos.”
They’re bothering me too. Annoying pricks I feel up and down my arms and legs. My thin trousers and tunic are a paltry shield.
“Be thankful it wasn’t a black scorpion,” another guard says. “The rainy season brings them out.”
I shudder and pull the sleeves of my tunic down as far as they can go. Then I shove away a thick batch of tangled branches, slick with slime. Luna knows what I’m touching, what I’m seeing. Nothing looks familiar.
“Want me to explain what you’re staring at?” Rumi asks conversationally.
“¿Qué?”
He gestures to the surrounding plant life. “That’s a foxtail fern. Over there are orchids. I’ve always thought they looked graceful. These rope-like vines are called lianas. Ever seen them before?”
I haven’t seen much of anything before. For most of my life I’ve been hidden behind the Illustrian fortress walls. I shake my head. He’s a walking guidebook. Prudence tells me to set aside my aversion to this Llacsan and listen closely. Because after tonight, I’ll be alone, and the idea of dying in this jungle makes fear seep into the very marrow of my bones. Whatever knowledge of the forest this Llacsan knows, I should learn also.
My life may depend on it.
Rumi spends the next few minutes pointing out the various wildlife. Jungle yams, avocado, orange and fig trees, and my personal favorite, maracuyá. I listen and study each one, knowing my small pack of food won’t last forever. I’m amazed by the amount of sustenance readily available at my fingertips.
“How far in are we going?”
“We walk until we’re too tired to continue,” he says over his shoulder. “Keep up.”
“I’m moving as fast as I can.” I stumble after him, noting how Rumi moves like her. Sure-footed, weapon raised, ready to face the world. I’m cowering in his shadow, flinching as the branches scratch at my face, tangling in my hair. He ducks under the liana vines and skirts around thorny bushes that are sharp enough to tear flesh. I try to mimic his steps but end up slipping on a particularly slimy stretch of forest floor.
“Oh, cielos.” I lurch forward, reaching for a vine to stop my fall—
“Don’t!” Rumi yells, jerking me away. The tips of my fingers brush the vine and the effect is instant. Hot, searing pain flares, burning the skin where I touched the plant. I try to wipe my hand on something, but Rumi grabs my wrist like a manacle.
“¡Para!” he yells to the other guards. “Necesito fuego.”
The guards encircle us, torches raised, as Rumi examines my fingertips. “Don’t touch anything—it’ll spread and only make it worse. I’ll be right back.”
I’m hardly listening. The pain is excruciating. Blisters form as each finger swells, and my palm feels as if it’s on fire. Carajo, it hurts. My breath comes out in sharp pants as I try to stop myself from crying. They already think I’m weak—spoiled, even. Maybe it’s true. A hoarse laugh escapes me in between huffs. Look at me. I’m a joke. I’m not strong or brave like my friend. I’m not a warrior.