Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(31)

Luna, please let this work.

“I have a gift for this man,” I say loudly, my voice ringing in the hall. It’s my best chance. Giving the message to the merchant ensures the tapestry will leave the castillo.

Atoc releases my arm in surprise. “What?”

I turn to the Llacsan vendor. “For your trouble at the market, I’d like to give you this work of art I wove myself. Please accept it as a gift. It would bring me much joy to see this tapestry decorating your stall. Perhaps I’ll get to see it one day myself, on a visit.”

I stand and hold my work for all the room to see. The merchant appears dazzled, mouth agape. He comes up on the dais, takes the tapestry, and says his thanks.

“I happen to enjoy weaving. Immensely, actually. What if I wove more tapestries? Perhaps you could sell them in your shop?”

The vendor blanches but covers his dismay quickly by looking to Atoc.

“The gift is plenty,” Atoc snaps. “He doesn’t need your help to fill up his stall.”

But what about the other messages I have to send? “Are you sure?” I press. “I believe they’d fetch a good price. He might earn even more notas than he was planning.”

“That’s enough, Condesa,” Atoc says, his tone cold. “I thought your gift was meant for me.”

“It’s essentially for you. It’s a gift for your people.”

The vendor turns and leaves, holding my tapestry as if it were a baby.

Relief floods my senses. I sit down, my knees shaking. Atoc turns to me, a speculative look in his eye. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then in a low, hard voice, he says, “What made you think to give a gift like that to a merchant?”

The priest leans in to hear my response.

“It’s important that your people respect their future queen.” I fight to keep my voice steady. “What better way than to send a gift for all Llacsans to admire?”

“And what about a gift for your king?” he asks. “I deserve one.” I swallow hard. “Becoming your wife isn’t a grand enough gift?”

His eyes travel from my eyes to my mouth. “No.”

Sajra snickers and sinks back to his place.

Bile rises quickly as I look away. “I’ll be sure to weave you something special.”

I feel his gaze, but I won’t return it. When he shifts his attention back to court, I let out a slow breath. My heart continues to race. To keep from getting sick all over his gold throne, I focus on the positive: I managed to do my job. The first message has been sent. Our spies will spot the tapestry in the market and relay the message to Catalina.

As I settle back into the chair, I seek Rumi. Everyone else seems impressed by my weaving and generosity toward the Llacsan. Rumi’s response sends a shiver down my spine.

His is a look of pure hatred.





CAPíTULO





I freeze, unable to tear my gaze away from his stare. Usually, whenever I catch one of his expressions, it’s by accident, and whatever I’d seen vanishes in the space of a blink, only to be replaced by a scowl. But this time, he keeps his cold attention on me. Not breaking his hold. I don’t know how to respond, and a small part of me feels unsettled. Maybe a little surprised, too. Of course I know he hates me. Don’t I hate him as well? An insistent voice reminds me that he’d brought me the loom when he didn’t have to.

Dimly, I hear Atoc announce court is over, but all I can focus on is that nuisance of a healer. What difference does it make how that Llacsan looks at me? They’re all going to look at me that way by the end.

Again, I quash the things I don’t want or need to understand deep within me and hope none of them resurface. I have no room for such questions; I only have space in my life for the revolt.

My guards approach and I quickly step away from the throne. I crave fresh air, the chance to breathe in the eucalyptus trees surrounding the castillo. Madre de Luna, I want to be alone. I miss training. Miss swinging a sword.

“How do I get to the gardens?” I ask.

“We go with you,” the guard says in a stern tone.

That wasn’t my question. Annoyed, I open my mouth to repeat myself—

“I’ll take her.”

My face falls. I smell him before I see him. Slowly, I turn to face Rumi. His arms are folded, his lips turned down in a pronounced scowl.

Whatever it is I’ve done, it seems he wants to talk about it sooner rather than later. Not how I wanted to spend the last scrap of daylight.

“Fine,” I snap. “But I just wanted a place to—”

“Don’t care,” he interrupts, and ushers me to a side door that opens up to a long hallway. Numerous clay pots clutter the stone floor. I have to skip and weave around giant stacks of them.

He pulls me along until we reach another set of double doors. Using his shoulder, he pushes one open. Outside, the smell of the eucalyptus trees kisses my cheeks. It’s a pleasant scent that masks the odorous healer. Warm air gently sways through the trees’ leaves. I squint, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the last fighting glare of the sun before it meets the horizon. Everything always seems sweeter in the minutes before darkness descends.

I inhale deeply. “Honey and mint.”

Rumi glances down at me. Even slouching, he’s really quite tall, unlike most Llacsans. I half worry I’ll develop an ache from tilting my head back just so I can read his eyes. Surprise flickers in them.