Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(13)

A guard yanks my elbow, pulling me to an abrupt stop, and I let out a sharp hiss.

“Get the condesa ready for court,” Sajra says to the boy, then heads off to wherever priests go in this forsaken place. Half the guards follow him. Three remain, their arrows notched and aimed at my heart.

The boy’s eyes flicker to mine. His dark heavy-lidded gaze betrays a careful alertness, instantly replaced by a flash of contempt. He straightens, assuming responsibility as easily as if he’s donned a shirt.

I study the face of my jailor.

He’s not handsome. All sharp angles and lines. A blade-like nose, thin lips, and a razor-edged jaw. His rich brown skin, a blend of copper and the tawny rock from a mountain cliff, sets off his shoulder-length black hair. It curls slightly and softens his pronounced cheekbones. He’s wearing beige trousers, a black shirt opened at the collar, and the common Llacsan leather sandals that leave the wearer with dirty feet.

“Do us both a favor and hand over the daggers in your boots,” the boy says, his arms crossed. He asks me to give up my weapons the same way an attentive host might ask if I’d like something to drink.

The guards shift uneasily on their feet, waiting for me to obey—or not.

Without taking my attention off the boy, I bend and pull out two of my four daggers, throwing them at his feet. He doesn’t bother to retrieve them.

“What else?”

“That’s it,” I say. “I’m not an armory.”

The boy lifts an eyebrow.

Images of Sofía fill my vision, and angry retorts burn on my tongue. My temper wants release. “I hate what you’ve done with the castillo. Just because there’s a lot of colors to choose from doesn’t mean you actually have to use them all.”

He blinks. “I don’t have time to talk about paint, Condesa. His Radiance is waiting.”

The way he says His Radiance with such devotion turns my stomach.

“I think you have more,” he presses.

I splay my hands. “I’m all out.”

He stares at me for a moment then slowly shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Believe what you want, Llacsan.”

His black brows pull into a swift frown. I guess he doesn’t like it when I say Llacsan like it’s a dirty word. One guard growls. The boy raises a single hand, and I step forward, ready to heave another insult—

The boy shoves me backward.

My head hits the castillo wall, and his arm presses hard against my throat. I hadn’t thought he was particularly tall, but now he towers over me. I try to push his arm away, needing to breathe. His other hand grabs my left thigh, yanks it up, and he deftly removes the dagger hidden there. He tosses it over his shoulder and eases the pressure on my throat. I suck in air.

He stares down at me, hatred radiating off him like boiling water threatening to escape a pot. I see it in the way he curls his lip. I feel it in the way his fingers dig into my skin.

The scent of dirt and herbs coming from his clothes hovers between us. An odd smell that reminds me of burnt leaves. I gag against his forearm, my eyes watering from the pungent odor. It makes me weirdly light-headed.

“Now the right,” he says coldly. “Or am I getting it for you?”

I fight against the impulse to spit in his eye. Abruptly, he steps away as if he can’t stand the idea of being near me for a second longer. The feeling is mutual.

The boy hunches his shoulders again and leans against the wall. I bend forward, my hands on my knees, and gulp in air, free of his awful scent. When my breathing returns to normal, I straighten and shoot my jailer a glare. I take out my last dagger. I’m tempted to launch the blade into his heart. He stiffens, as if guessing my intention. His hand hovers near his pocket.

Common sense takes over and I toss the knife at his feet. It clatters against the stone, and he relaxes.

“You’ll be meeting with His Majesty,” he says. “Try to contain your delirium.”

I keep silent.

“A word of advice, Condesa. A little humility before my king will go a long way. His Radiance might put you in a room with an actual bed in it.” He straightens away from the door. “Or he might decide he doesn’t want you after all, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in the dungeon.”

The blood drains from my face. “He wouldn’t dare—”

The boy’s face shifts into a faintly pitying look. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? To be disrespected and mistreated? I can’t imagine how that feels, my being a Llacsan and all.”

What does he mean?

The Llacsans were never mistreated. It was their choice to stay up by the mountain, their choice to hold on to their old ways and not embrace the future. The Illustrian queen wanted them to assimilate. She wanted a unified country, and they ungratefully protested her rule.

They killed her.

The boy jerks his head in the direction of the massive double doors at the opposite end of the foyer. “Ready to meet my king, Condesa?”

The guards press around me, and I have no choice but to follow the boy’s lazy strut across the open, square foyer. It’s overlooked by balconies on all four sides. Guards on each end of the tall doors use long gold handles to open them, and as they swing inward, the boy bends his head closer to mine, his breath tickling the curve of my neck. “After you.”