Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(36)

He shrugs, idly nibbling on pasankalla—puffed choclo topped with sugar—and reading painted signs hanging over shop windows. I didn’t see him buy an entire bag. He catches my longing stare and grudgingly drops a handful in my waiting hands. I pop several in my mouth, enjoying the burst of sugar.

The court mingles with villagers crowding the cobbled streets. I never lose sight of Atoc. The guards surrounding him keep their long spears pointed to the cloudless sky.

Rumi nudges my arm. “Over here. Stay close, Condesa.”

As if I needed the reminder. Sentries follow my every move. Dogging each step. Hearing every word. I pray I won’t run into an Illustrian spy. It’d be too dangerous for them, considering the amount of guards surrounding me.

I follow Rumi to the salte?a line. There’re dozens of people waiting for one. The smell alone makes my mouth water.

“It’s too long,” I say.

He gives me a look and shuffles to the front. Loud cries of protest follow.

“We were next!” a man exclaims.

“Get in the back!”

“I’m on the king’s business,” Rumi says, squaring his shoulders. “Let me through.”

I roll my eyes. But he returns carrying a bag full of almond-shaped pastries filled with diced meat and potatoes, peas, raisins, and a single black olive baked in a savory soup. We sit at one of the available tables and Rumi hands me a salte?a, a spoon, and a clay plate.

I drop the pastry onto the plate and am just about to pierce the dough when Rumi makes a loud sound of disgust at the back of his throat.

“What are you doing?” he asks, sounding like I’m about to murder a baby alpaca.

I stare at him blankly.

Rumi makes more disgusted noises as he drags my plate away. “Condesa, let me teach you how to eat a salte?a correctly.” He picks one up, holding the pointed ends with his middle finger and thumb, and gently shakes it. “After you shake it, take a small bite at one of the ends. Then pour the soup into your spoon first so it doesn’t spill all over your plate.”

It takes several spoonfuls before Rumi eats all of the jugo. Meanwhile, my stomach continues to rumble. I eye my food longingly.

“You’re eating it wrong if you get even a drop of juice on your plate,” he says in a serious tone. He bites into the pastry and proceeds to scoop the filling into his mouth. He eats the whole thing without spilling any of it.

Isn’t he talented. I grab the plate with my salte?a, my stomach still rumbling loudly. I try to eat the salte?a the way he taught me, but some of the soup ends up on my plate.

Rumi smirks at me. “You know what they say about people who spill the juice, right?”

I eye him warily. “What?”

“That they’re terrible kissers.”

For some unfathomable reason my cheeks warm. I glare at him and grab another salte?a.

This time I don’t spill a drop. Somehow it tastes better. Probably because most of it gets to my stomach. When I finish, I stare at him as he devours his third salte?a. He eats like a starving wolf. As if any moment the food will vanish into thin air.

“So,” I say. “The princesa?”

Rumi grunts and reaches for another salte?a.

I frown. Why doesn’t he want to do something about it? The Llacsans living in the city certainly do. And if they care enough, they’ll speak up. “I don’t think anyone in La Ciudad has a clue about her execution.”

He chokes on his first bite of his fourth salte?a.

“What do you think the people will do when they learn the truth?” I ask loudly. Several Llacsans enjoying their food stare in my direction.

Rumi accidentally dribbles jugo onto his plate.

“Ha! Looks like you’re a terrible kisser too.”

He stares at me in impotent fury. “You don’t get to ask or talk about the princesa. Stop spreading rumors and being dramatic.” He shakes his salte?a at me.

It seems Atoc is blithely unaware that his decision regarding his sister will have terrible consequences. Consequences that are better for us. An idea strikes me. Can the Llacsans loyal to the princesa come to our side?

“Will they revolt, do you think? Boycott tax day? Cut down trees and block the roads?”

“They’ll do nothing,” he says coldly. “We all obey the king and respect his leadership. And it’s not an execution. It’s an honor to be chosen—”

I wave my hand dismissively. “For the sacrifice. So you’ve mentioned.”

His lips thin.

I think about the distress I heard in the crowd’s voices as they wondered about the princesa’s absence. I remember the murmuring at court when the king made his announcement. Rumi is wrong.

The Llacsans won’t take her death lightly.

He eats the rest of his food in silence and doesn’t speak to me the whole way back to the castillo.

Fine by me.



I need to focus. Distractions are mounting, and they only serve to confuse me and slow down my progress. How many times in training did I have to remind myself to block out everything except for the task at hand? Keep my eye on the target. Focus on my opponent. Stay alert.

The next day I avoid all conversation with Rumi. I don’t want to clutter my mind thinking about the princesa—after all, what is she to me?

No one.

What do I care about her fate?