Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(30)

Then conversation moves swiftly to the new fields opening for the production of the koka leaf. My mood plummets lower than ever. Atoc expects everyone to take part in the planting and selling of the koka leaf, distorting and corrupting the plant until it becomes a drug. That’s what he wants us to be known for. That’s what he wants to base our entire economy on.

I sneak a glance at Rumi. His eyes are half lidded, as if profoundly bored. Gone is his intense scrutiny. It seems he can fall asleep where he stands. How annoying. Madre de Luna, doesn’t he care?

Atoc doesn’t want what’s good and right for everyone, only his family and friends. He stole the lives and dreams of everyone else, consequences be damned. I’ll make him pay for never looking back at the destruction he’s left in his wake.

The next petitioner is called forward. This one is wealthy, judging from the amount of gold jewelry adorning his wrists and neck. “My king, last night while riding through La Ciudad, I was robbed by El Lobo. He took my bag of notas, the coat off my back—even my horse!”

Once I watched an oncoming thunderstorm roll toward the Illustrian keep. Blinding lightning streaked through menacing clouds. I remember the howling wind; I remember gripping the windowsill, bracing myself for the onslaught. The expression on Atoc’s face reminds me of the storm. Terrible, dangerous, unforgiving.

“Say no more,” Atoc says, and then he turns to face another guard. “What’s being done?”

The guard rises from his seat on a long wooden bench and clears his throat.

“Well?” Atoc asks.

The man fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I regret to say that we have no new leads, Your Majesty. If we had more time—”

“?Tiempo?” his king asks coldly. “You’ve had more than enough time to get me information. You’re telling me we don’t even have his name? Is he a Llacsan? An Illustrian?”

Atoc shoots me a glare.

“We don’t claim the vigilante as our own,” I say.

His forehead wrinkles. I don’t think he believes me.

The guard shrugs helplessly. “He wears that black mask, it covers his entire face, my king, and we—”

“Last night he raided another one of our storehouses,” Atoc says. “Four days before that he robbed members of our court on their way to Tierra Baja. He’s making us all look like fools.”

I clutch my sides to keep myself from laughing. The poor man who stands before his angry king turns purple.

“I expect better news by next court,” Atoc says softly. “Get out of my sight.”

The guard flinches before shutting the door behind him, and everyone starts speaking at once about the mysterious man dressed in black.

Sajra steps forward and quite abruptly descends upon the room like fire suffocated by a thick blanket. “Your Greatness?”

The Llacsan king nods toward the priest.

“Have you decided on who will be sacrificed during Carnaval? There is much to prepare.”

“I have made my decision,” Atoc proclaims, his voice booming. “Princesa Tamaya will be sacrificed to Inti during Carnaval. She is honored to have been chosen and welcomes the day when she’ll be reunited with the sun god.”

I gape at him. He means to kill his sister?

Low murmuring erupts, disbelief and cries of surprise. Once again Atoc demands attention by reaching out his arms, a silent gesture that everyone quickly obeys. “I believe I’m feeling charitable enough for one more petitioner. Send them in.”

The next petitioner owns a stall in El Mercado. He has an argument with the stall owner next to his and wants Atoc to intervene in the dispute. Sajra answers for the king, and a solution is promised in seven days, during the next court meeting.

It’s been a long time since I truly visited the market: ordered salte?as and walked past the long line of stalls, admiring the many kinds of woven wares—pouches and bags, blankets and capes. In another life, I might have set up my stall to sell alongside them.

The tapestry rustles in my lap as I shift in the seat. A salty taste crawls up my throat. I can’t let Atoc have this tapestry. The message must reach Catalina. Perhaps the healer has forgotten all about it. Perhaps he—

“Now, what’s that on your lap?” Atoc asks, squinting at my shimmering tapestry.

I deflate like a pastry left out in the sun. Carajo. I try to swallow, but my throat refuses to work. Everyone in the room focuses on me.

“Well?” He takes ahold of my arm. “Where did you get it?”

Sajra steps forward from somewhere behind me. He leans over my armrest in order to examine my work closely. His breath tickles my cheek and I shiver as he runs his finger along the silver thread.

Sweat beads at my hairline. Madre de Luna. Can the priest see the message with his blood magic? Is that even possible? I can’t give the tapestry to Atoc, or my message will remain in the castillo forever. What happens if someone becomes suspicious?

I grip the tapestry with both hands. “I …”

The vendor turns to leave.

The word flies out of my mouth. “Espera.”

The merchant looks back at me, a deep crease between his brows. “Are you speaking to me, Condesa?”

My heart thunders in my chest. Most of our spies get their information by hiding in the market. Catalina will have stationed spies at the castillo gates, too. We talked about it before I left. I can only hope she remembered.