Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(33)

“It’s horrible, what he’s doing.” I lean forward, my voice dripping with honey. “Can’t something be done about it?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

The blandness of his tone brings me up short. I note the dangerous alertness in his dark eyes. A warning rings loudly in my head. But for what, I don’t know.

“You seem distraught over her fate,” I say carefully. “You weren’t the only one upset by Atoc’s announcement.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you? Dissension in our ranks. Spreading distrust like wildfire in a dying forest. And you mean King Atoc.”

I smile slowly, because of course I would. He may not be easily rankled, but I’m almost positive there are others who don’t want the princesa to die.

“You wouldn’t understand anyway,” he says curtly. “Being chosen as a sacrifice to Inti is the highest honor anyone could ever receive. Of course it’s sad, but His Radiance picked her out of everyone in Inkasisa. He saw how her beauty and grace would please our god.” His voice drops to a whisper. “She’s the perfect choice. A pure being.”

He swings from despair to adoration in a matter of seconds. His loyalty for his king wins out over his distress for Princesa Tamaya.

“How will they murder her?”

A flash of distaste twists his lips, but it’s gone a second later. “It’s not murder.”

“So you say. Well? What will they do to her?”

His shoulders tighten, but his voice is nonchalant, as if we’re discussing what we ate for desayuno. “There will be a ceremony in her honor in the Plaza del Sol, and right after, she’ll be led up to the top of Qullqi Orqo Mountain.”

I hiss out a disgusted breath. “Where she’ll be left to freeze to death.”

“Where she’ll be strangled.”

I stare at him in horror.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he repeats.

No, I’ll never understand. Our worlds have an impassable chasm between them. Their god Inti is brutal. Luna would never demand something so cruel from her followers.

“Then I guess I owe her my congratulations,” I say sarcastically. “You’ll be sure to pass them on to the princesa? I don’t think the king wants us to be friends.”

His lips tighten. “Well, I can hardly blame his judgment on that. Let me take you to your room. Dinner should be waiting for you.”

As we leave, a guard I recognize catches my eye. He stands some twenty feet away on a grassy patch of land surrounded by vivid pink flores. He carries a giggling boy on his shoulders. The child attempts to use a miniature slingshot, but only ends up dropping rocks on the guard’s head.

“One of your guards,” Rumi says. “Pidru and his son. He’s very ill.”

I pull my attention away from the laughing child. “Who is?”

“Pidru’s son, Achik.”

“You can’t heal him?”

“Do you care?” Rumi counters.

I grit my teeth. Insufferable Llacsan.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a faint smirk as he opens the door to the side entrance. We’re silent the whole way up to the third floor. At one point, he absently takes ahold of my wrist, paying careful attention to the wounds from the rope. Rumi traces the raw puckered skin with his index finger. A shiver skips down my spine, and I shrink from his touch. From the odd smell of his clothes and his assessing eyes.

“Coconut oil will help lessen the appearance of the scars,” he says. “Though they won’t go away entirely.”

“Fine,” I say. He’s switched on me again. His tone sounds mild and approachable. Rumi the healer wants to take care of my scars. Little does he know I have several up and down my body. Years of training guaranteed that. I don’t mind the ones on my wrists. Every scar tells a story. The ones I have from that day in the square are part of Ana’s life. Her last chapter. I don’t want to forget how her story ended.

When we arrive at my room, Rumi opens the door and motions for me to go inside.

But I hesitate.

I used two generous rounds of wool on my tapestry last night. In order to write another message, I’ll need several more yards. And I’ll have to write another message—preferably once I’ve found the Estrella.

“What is it, Condesa?” Rumi asks, impatient.

“I need more wool.”

“That’s too bad.” He crosses his arms. “You’re not getting any from me.”

Not after how I apparently “preened” earlier. There has to be some way I can slide into his good graces. Some way I can convince him I didn’t mean any harm. At least, not in the way he thinks.

“I was only trying to help.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He takes a step away from me. “You wanted to help?” He starts laughing humorlessly. “So says the Illustrian who kept us oppressed for hundreds of years. Were you listening to a word I said earlier?”

That’s unfair. I didn’t personally mistreat the Llacsans. It’s not like I’d been cruel to my nanny. I cared for her. I gave some of my money to the homeless Llacsans I saw in La Ciudad—and that was after the revolt. After my parents died and I lost everyone and everything.

But an unbidden image assaults my mind. A memory long tucked away and witnessed by a younger version of myself. Llacsans protesting, blocking roads, and walking off their hard-labor jobs. No one could travel anywhere or buy anything because of their demonstrations around the city.