Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(47)

I sink back against the cool throne. This man will be heard, consequences be damned.

“Crime pollutes the streets of Inkasisa,” the journalist says, “invited by the production of the koka leaf. Neighboring countries have sent their criminals, the worst of them, to buy, barter, and steal for the drug. Anyone with even the most modest of means is at risk for kidnapping and robbery. It’s not safe for a grown man to walk the streets at night. Women are terrorized, assaulted, and murdered. But you won’t stop the export or production of the koka leaf.” The journalist’s voice rises. “There will be a day when even you won’t be safe from our neighbors.”

The crowd shifts and murmurs, listening and protesting silently, folding their arms and lifting their chins. My heart sinks and sinks until I swear it’s hit the floor. This man is doomed. Both of them are.

“The Llacsans planting the seed aren’t paid well and most starve,” the shorter Llacsan puts in. “But your family and their friends have become extraordinarily wealthy. They have the best homes, the best land. None of your promises have been kept—we are not safe, we are not equal, we are not free. We’ve exchanged one tyrant for another.”

“Is that all?”

The journalist pales. “Is that not enough?”

There’s a long silence. No one speaks. I stare at Atoc’s profile, willing him to be reasonable.

“Both of you will be stripped of your properties,” Atoc says coldly. “You are never to set ink to paper again. Take them away.”

The guards yank at the Llacsans’ arms, but the tall one speaks again. “Your people are starving. You are not the same king we fought for!”

“Silence!” Sajra growls.

“We’re hungry. We—”

Atoc gestures at Sajra. “Cut out his tongue. I don’t want to hear him speak again.”

Acid rises within me. I turn away as the priest takes one of the guard’s blades and approaches the Llacsan.

“Please! We have families to support! We only ask that you—”

The Llacsan lets out a smothered cry. The sound of the blade cutting off the tongue poisons the air. A gurgle follows, something splatters onto the floor. The man sobs, groaning as he tries to scream. The other Llacsan gasps, huffing air as he cries.

“Sajra,” Atoc says calmly. “See that both can’t ever write a word again.”

The priest bows and turns to the Llacsans, his arms raised. I watch as their hands become pale, the blood leached from their fingers. Both pairs of hands blacken, then shrivel and curl into themselves as the Llacsans scream, fat tears leaking from the corners of their eyes. Sajra barks an order and the guards stride forward. With four quick slices, the useless hands are chopped off.

They fall onto the floor. Thud, thud, thud, thud. Dead and wasted things.

I stand up abruptly and scramble off the dais, loud exclamations following in my wake. I barely make it to one of the pots before I vomit. Through the haze of my nausea, I hear the king demand the Llacsans’ arrests and imprisonment in the dungeon. The words barely register.

The door opens, and they’re dragged down to the dungeon, moaning and crying as they go.

Clutching the clay rim, I steady my breathing. Someone takes away the pot, and I’m left on the floor, my ruffled skirt bunched around me.

A soft hand drops to my shoulder. Rumi. I can smell him. He lifts me up, and I wobble. His hand reaches around my shoulders. I feel his soft breath near my ear. The long line of his body presses against my side.

“Do not touch my betrothed,” Atoc says, eyeing Rumi’s arm.

Rumi tenses, and his hold on me tightens. And then he releases me. Cold air sweeps in where he stood. The strange smell on his clothes leaves with him. I suck in air.

“Come sit, Condesa.”

I obey, trembling. The moment I sit, Atoc reaches for my hand again. This time I try to resist, but his fingers cling to mine. Blood stains the stone at our feet. The hands have been taken away.

I sit numbly through the rest of court. Every now and then Atoc’s index finger traces my knuckles. A soft caress that threatens to send me back to one of the potted plants.

He’s touching me to unbalance me. I’m sure if it.

Atoc orders more farmlands destroyed to make room for koka leaf crops. Then he organizes a committee to handle the preparations for Carnaval. It’s to be the biggest festival yet. The loudest. The best parade to ever dance the streets of La Ciudad.

In short, it’s going to be a spectacle. At the heart of the celebration, the royal wedding.

Mine.

Three seamstresses are brought before us to show off their potential designs for my wedding dress. Each one holds its own neutral color scheme and fair share of ruffles and flowery stitching. It’s the embodiment of beauty for every Illustrian.

I’m strangely touched. It’s clear they worked hard on the designs, and the effort impresses me. It isn’t easy to create something out of nothing, and the fact that they’d chosen white doesn’t escape my notice either.

One of the seamstresses hands the drawings to Atoc, who pores over each. He doesn’t ask for my opinion. When he finishes, his lip curls. He tears up the sketches, and the women standing before us flinch.

“I want the dress and the suit to match,” he says. “In the Llacsan style.”

Madre de Luna. He really wants to eradicate all of our traditions, our way of life, our culture.