Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(32)

“The trees,” I explain.

He scowls and pulls me to a stone bench. I lean backward and look up at him, steeling myself against his oncoming assault.

“All right, Llacsan, let me have it.”

His body goes rigid. “You were supposed to give the tapestry to the king.”

That’s why he’s upset? Someone ought to tell this boy to grow a thicker skin.

“I bet he has thousands,” I say. “Why aren’t you pleased? A Llacsan—one of your own—has something valuable from the future queen of Inkasisa. Isn’t receiving a tapestry a great honor?”

“It would be, coming from a Llacsan,” he says in a deceptively calm voice. “Tell me something, Condesa. Do you have any idea how insulting it is for you to sit on that throne, preening like a peacock, showing off your weaving? You were meant to present it to King Atoc privately. Not flaunt your own skill.”

“I—” My voice breaks off. I didn’t do that. I wanted to give my message to the vendor. That’s all I cared about. There was absolutely no preening.

I don’t think. Damn it. Did I preen?

“You were the one who suggested I give it to Atoc—”

“King Atoc. Gods, show respect.”

“As I was saying, it was your idea to give the tapestry as a gift.”

“No. It was Juan Carlos’s.”

I roll my eyes. “Semantics. You went along with it, and now you’re mad about it?”

“I didn’t think you’d put on a show,” Rumi fumes. “Have you ever given a gift before? It’s about the receiver, you intolerable fool. This was supposed to be for him—not you.”

I flinch.

“Weaving is our skill; it’s Llacsan. For you to claim it as your own and act like it’s the best thing ever made … por Dios.” His voice rises with each word. Then it pitches higher, as if imitating me. “Why don’t you take it, you poor Llacsan? In fact, why don’t I provide all of your wares for you? Because I’m an Illustrian, I’m better at everything, even something your people have been doing for centuries. And you’re—”

I jump to my feet, pushing him back. “You never should have brought it down!” He almost ruined everything. Thank Luna I had the wherewithal to think of a way for that message to be sent out. “Atoc asked me about it! What was I supposed to do? Ignore him? That would have gone well.”

“How hard would it have been to tell him it was a gift you were planning on giving him after court was over?”

“You shouldn’t have taken it,” I repeat stubbornly. “You acted in the wrong first.”

“You really can’t see how your behavior is insulting?” There’s an almost despairing note in his tone. I fight anger with anger, but this sounds different, and it gives me pause. I didn’t do what he’s accusing me of intentionally, but I see how it could look that way. If my enemy came into our keep and proceeded to read the stars better than Catalina, I’d probably feel the same.

The silence stretches. I don’t know how to reply—because I still think he shouldn’t have taken my tapestry to begin with.

Rumi pinches his nose. “I never dreamed you’d take it upon yourself to—Dios,” he says while pacing. “And while wearing her dress.”

“Whose?”

“The princesa,” he says hoarsely. “It’s her dress.”

Realization dawns. I understand the look of fear I saw in Rumi’s eyes before we entered the throne room. It doesn’t matter if you’re a relative of the king. He can do whatever he wants, kill whoever he wants, in order to solidify his control over Inkasisa. No wonder the healer doesn’t want any undue attention on him.

My defense of Ana in the plaza endangered his life.

“I don’t get to choose what I wear.”

“I know that,” he says. “All your clothing must be hers. It makes sense now. She won’t need anything because she’s to be executed.”

Several things become clear: Rumi isn’t happy about Atoc’s newest decree, and a family member of his will die in the next few weeks.

“She’s your cousin, right?”

He takes a step back in surprise. He’d been pacing farther away from me. “We’re not related by blood. My aunt married into their family but was widowed after only a year. His Majesty has always acknowledged the connection, though.”

“Ah,” I say. “That explains it.”

“What?”

“Why you become a sniveling buffoon in Atoc’s presence.”

“King Atoc,” Rumi corrects me again, his gaze narrowing. “Sniveling buffoon?”

“You’re trying to earn your place at court. And you look ridiculous. Someone ought to tell you. Or doesn’t everyone laughing at your expense get through that thick head of yours?”

His expression hardens like the stone walls of my prison, granite and iron and fire. This is why he cares so much about his image. He’s not really part of the family—they don’t have the same blood. His position in court is a moving current under his feet. One wrong move, and he’ll go under.

His response about the princesa is certainly telling too. He does seem incredibly distressed about her. I thought it was because she’s family, but now I wonder … Is he in love with her? If I ever meet her, I’ll offer my profound sympathies.