“What’s not to like?” I ask lightly. “It’s beautiful.”
The seamstress’s shoulders sag with relief. “That’s wonderful, because His Majesty—”
The door snaps open and Atoc storms inside with his many attendants. My mouth goes dry. I try to step down from the mirror, but he stops me by holding up his hand.
“Quédate.” He loops around, slow like a condor hunting its prey. Goose bumps crawl across my skin. Atoc scowls as he studies the dress—every ruffle, every stitch. The impulse to run makes my feet twitch. I want to examine him in turn, see how he likes being regarded as a prized horse.
The women huddle off into the corner. For their sake, I force a smile.
“Isn’t it lovely?” I ask.
He doesn’t bother responding, but circles once more. He stops in front of me. “Lower the neckline,” he says curtly.
I jerk my head down—the neckline is right under my chin. Exactly where I want it. “Absolutely not.”
This time I get a foot down but Atoc grips my waist and hoists me back on the step. He glances at me with frank interest, heat in his gaze. “The sooner you learn who you answer to, the better your life will be. Stop fighting me.”
“You may have everyone else bending to do your will, but I’m not some creature you can control.”
His face turns to iron, hardening and immobile like the impenetrable wall of the Illustrian fortress. “Leave us.”
The seamstresses scurry away without a look in my direction. I want to call out, but I keep silent. This day was long coming. I knew that, at some point, he’d get me alone and his first move would be to put me thoroughly in my place.
My skin turns to ice, but I pull my shoulders back. I’m not going to let him scare me. I summon the fire I felt when I first arrived, before I’d lost Sofía and Ana. “I am the last royal in all of Inkasisa—”
A fist slams my belly. The hit is strong and fierce and for seconds I’m left in stunned silence. I topple off the stairs and end up on the floor, the stone scraping against the skin of my elbow. The lizard moves, its tiny claws scratching against the folds of my skirt, wanting to get out. I push my hand inside my pocket, forcing it still.
Atoc stares at me in fury. “I’ve told you, don’t interrupt me.”
I get to my feet, my knees buckling. We stare at each other for a long moment, my rage simmering, barely contained. I use it to lock away my terror until all that’s left is my desire for justice.
“No one’s ever told you,” he said. “About my first wife.”
An acid taste swells my tongue. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to know about his marriage to someone who was years younger than me. Long dead and all but forgotten.
“We were married for three years. She never gave me children. Do you know what I need in order to create a legacy, Condesa?”
I make my voice sound cold—colder than the snow gathering on top of our mountain. “Why ask the question if you know the answer?”
He leans forward. His hot breath brushes my cheek. There are deep lines at the corners of his eyes, carved into his skin from years of looking at the world in distrust. “I need children,” he says as if I hadn’t spoken. “That’s one of the things you’re good for, isn’t that right, Condesa?”
I know what my other uses are. Through marriage, he’ll have control over my people and a steady water supply—thank Luna it’ll never come to that. Not with my standing in his way as his fake bride. The scrape on my elbow is sticky with blood, stinging and raw. The lizard hisses, its long pink tongue sticking out of my pocket.
“Do you know how she died?” he asks.
“In childbirth.”
“Is that true?” His tone is like a blade dragged against my skin. “Is that what you really think?”
“What—what are you saying?”
Atoc’s stare holds. He reaches for the end of my braid and strokes the hair escaping the ribbon. “I’m saying she disappointed me. Be very careful, Condesa. I don’t ever forget slights, and yours have been numerous. Embarrassing me in front of court. Insolent in front of my servants. I’m telling you: Watch yourself. Don’t you want to live?”
I say nothing. He curls my braid around his hand, once, twice. He handles my hair like rope and he tugs, hard. I resist, and my knees buckle a second time. I’m struggling to remain upright. The part of my stomach where his fist slammed into me is sore.
“I’m not someone you can make a fool of,” he continues. “I have sacrificed too much, have lost too much. I will have what I want, and I’ll do anything to ensure my legacy.” His dark eyes narrow. “We have that in common, I think.”
Madre de Luna. For a second I can’t breathe. He was right—here I was, a stand-in for the last royal in Inkasisa, willing to do whatever it took to guarantee an Illustrian victory. I’d risk marriage to my enemy, a future of my own—my life to make that happen.
Atoc’s gaze drops to my bleeding elbow. He walks to the door and pokes his head out. There’s soft murmuring as he talks to one of his guards.
“Tell the seamstresses to lower the neckline.” He looks me over again, not missing a single detail, and adds in a gruff voice, “You look lovely.”
Then he’s gone. I sink onto the steps, my knees finally giving out completely, and examine my elbow. It’s a scraped-up, bloody mess. I can’t stop trembling, thinking of his plans for me. Thinking of his poor first wife. Thinking how it could have been Catalina in this room instead of me. My blood floods with panic. I lift shaking hands to my face, thankful I’m alone. To take off the mask. To let myself worry about my own skin.
The door opens, and Rumi walks in. He takes one look at me, sitting as I am, my wedding dress bunched around my legs, my arm close to my chest.
“Condesa.” He squats in front of me, lightly touching the area around my wound. “I’ll have to clean it. Come on—let’s go to the infirmary.”
He gently tugs me to my feet.
I gesture to the wedding dress. The fabric feels tight around my chest, as if I’m not getting enough air. “I have to get out of this.”
He nods. “All right.”
I blow out an exasperated breath when he spins around to give me privacy. “I can’t get out of this dress by myself. Can you help me?”
Rumi faces me. There’s a slightly dazed look on his face, but it’s gone before I can comment on it. I turn around and look at him over my shoulder. “There’s a row of buttons.”
“Right.” He swallows. “One second.”
Then he crosses the room and peers up and down the hall, presumably looking for help. I’ve never seen him this uncomfortable before. Finally he returns to my side, wearing a resigned expression, as if he’s about to endure the worst meal of his life.
He works swiftly, his fingers grazing my skin. “It’s done.”
After he’s turned around again, his back toward me, I quickly step out of the dress and change into my striped skirt and tunic. I lightly touch his shoulder to let him know I’m ready. He tenses under my fingers and I hastily pull away.
I follow him out of the room, down the hall, and toward the east wing. “Did he hurt you anywhere else?”
“Yes,” I say. “But it’s fine. I’ll have a bruise, but nothing is broken.”
Rumi gives me a sidelong glance. “What set him off?”
Away from Atoc, my nerves begin to settle and I feel safer. “My general well-being, I think.”
The corners of his lips kick up into a soft smile. We pass windows shaped into narrow slits. Outside is a closed-in courtyard, one I’ve seen but never visited. Llacsans are stomping koka stalks with their bare feet, turning the plant into a thick paste that’ll then be smoked in tobacco pipes. The result is something toxic and highly addictive. I turn away from the sight.
“Atoc’s personal stash,” Rumi says with one squeeze of lemon juice in his voice.
I’ve stayed far, far away from the drug, but nearly everyone at court smokes their pipes daily, litter
ing the halls and grand rooms in cloying smoke. I don’t have to ask Rumi if he’s ever tried it; his distaste for the drug radiates off him as we leave the stomping Llacsans.
“He’s ruined our economy with the production,” I say as we approach a long string of doors. Above one of them is a block of wood with a carving of plants.
“King Atoc was desperate,” Rumi says. “I’m sure he thought it was a good idea at the time.”
“Will you stop defending him, healer? Por favor. He’s destroyed tens of thousands of farmlands for the koka plant. You can’t convince me it was a good idea.”
“Are you an expert in farming now?”
We stop in front of the infirmary. My hands are on my hips; his are folded across his chest. Rumi leans against the wooden frame, settling into the argument. I swear he’s trying not to smile, as if sparring with me isn’t annoying but … fun.
“Whether you believe me or not, His Majesty did have good intentions. The koka leaf grows well in poor soil and withstands the onslaught of pests and blight. It’s lightweight and lasts a long time before rotting, which means it can travel long range across the mountains. It also sells for ten times more than, let’s say, citrus. King Atoc needed a viable export to lend credibility to his name. Because of the koka leaf, we are just as wealthy as our neighbors to the east and west.”
I hiss out a disgusted breath. How could he side with Atoc after what he just did to me?
“I don’t care about his intention,” I snap. “He’s made addicts of his countrymen. With the majority of campesinos planting the koka leaf, food production has stalled. No more regular supply of rice, bananas, yuca, maize, or citrus. Food prices have soared. When’s the last time you bought a loaf of bread? I can’t believe you’d support this. I thought you had more sense!”
“Stop putting words in my mouth and head,” he says. “I can speak and think for myself. Thanks.”
“Wait, so you don’t agree with Atoc?”
“King Atoc,” he corrects me for maybe the hundredth time. “Of course not, idiot. My people have been using the koka leaf for centuries. In its pure form, I can create forty remedies. Chewing the leaf helps with the high altitude and provides energy for miners and farmers doing strenuous tasks. But because the koka leaf is so expensive, many Llacsans and Lowlanders can’t afford a single stalk. I’m not saying I agree with his methods, but I understand why he took the easy path. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Sorry.”
Rumi rolls his eyes and uses his shoulder to open the door to the infirmary. The first thing I notice is the smell. All manner of vegetation grows inside the room. Pots of basil and rosemary line the table next to clay bowls piled high with garlic cloves. Hanging from the stone ceiling are dried bundles of lavender and thyme.
The room smells a lot like Rumi’s clothes. Well, a rotting version of them.
Afternoon sunlight streams in from the large rectangular windows, casting patterns on the floor. There are several empty cots in one corner, folded blankets neatly stacked on each. I recognize the intricate detailing in the geometric patterns and the depictions of parrots. Tamaya’s work.
“It smells like you,” I say.
An amused huff escapes his chest. “Thank you?”
I settle onto a wooden stool. It wobbles under my weight. Smoothing my long striped skirt, I study the rest of the hospital wing. Drawings of various herbs and plants hang on all four walls. One catches my eye—a tiny sketch, and though it doesn’t shine like the other drawings, it’s still the same flower as the one in the diagram hanging in Sajra’s den.
“What’s that flower?”
Rumi looks over his shoulder. “Killasisa. It’s a legendary flower people have searched for throughout the years.”
I’m about to ask him more, but he pulls out a clear bottle from one of the lower drawers. Vinegar. My stomach roils. He sees the expression on my face and a small smile creeps onto his mouth. “I know,” he says. “But I have to clean it. If I don’t, you’ll get an infection. Then I’ll have to cut your arm off.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Am I?”
“Try not to enjoy this so much.”
His smile grows wider. “It’s too late for that, Condesa.”
Rumi pours the vinegar on a clean white cloth and presses the dampened corner directly onto my wound. I clench my eyes and hiss out several curses.
“Do you want to visit El Mercado and have salteñas tomorrow?”
I blink. “What? With you?”
“Would you rather go with the king?” At my recoil, he sobers. “Sorry. Terrible thing to say. I think you need a break from the castillo. I can take you at eleventh bell.”
His dark eyes are on mine, crinkling at the corners from laughing. Chances to leave the castillo are rare and I’m not going to miss the opportunity—or turn down free salteñas. And I wouldn’t mind his company. As soon as the thought enters my mind, I blush. He notices, and that little line forms between his brows.
“Yes.” I look at my arm. “All right.”
He pours more vinegar onto the cloth and repeats the process.
My eyes spill with tears. “You owe me at least three for this.”
“I’ll be done in just a moment.” He blows softly on the wound. Then he takes the oily liquid right out of a cactus leaf and smears the mixture all over my messy elbow. “It seems like I’m always patching you up.”
I look over his handiwork. The wound is cleaner, the blood wiped away. “You’re a good healer, Rumi.”
His eyes flicker in surprise.
“What?”
“You’ve never called me by my name before.”
His pointing it out makes me flush. Of course he’d notice something like that.
I lift my eyes and our gazes lock.
He’s focused on me, not my damaged elbow. There’s bewilderment in his eyes, a question that I don’t know the answer to. I sit there, unmoving, his hand a gentle weight on my arm. His skin is warm and soft. That line between his brows becomes more pronounced. Then I shift my attention to my elbow, pretending to be absorbed by his skill.
“I feel … confused,” Rumi says softly.
My breath stops at my chest. “Why?”
A long moment passes. He removes his hand from my arm. “Your elbow will be fine. Don’t wipe away the mixture, and keep it from getting wet.”
“Rumi.”
He stands. “Do you want tea?”
I blink. “All right.”
He walks over to the hearth, where a black kettle hangs above the burning wood, and lights a fire. Then he pulls down a variety of herbs hanging from the ceiling. My lizard pokes its head out of my pocket, and I use my index finger to push him down. “Be still,” I mutter.
Rumi turns from the hearth. “Can you handle spicy?”
I give him a look. “Do your worst, healer.”
He smiles and places a steaming mug of tea in front of me. I take a cautious sip. “It’s good,” I say. “What’s in it?”
“It’s my own blend. A little heat from the locoto pepper, honey, pinch of lavender.”
Whenever he speaks about his herbs, Rumi comes to life. It’s like he takes off an ill-fitting coat and the clothes underneath are tailor-made for him. It strikes me how confident he seems to be away from Atoc and the court that laughs at him.
I take another sip. The warmth of the tea spreads all the way to my toes. The sting from my elbow vanishes, and I take a deep, calming breath. “My arm doesn’t hurt. Is this your magic at work?”
“More or less,” he says. “I have a knack at herb lore, but I don’t have to use it.”
“You mean that you can heal people without all this?” I gesture to the general room. When he doesn’t say anything, I take that as an affirmative. “Pretty useful on the battlefield.”
“It takes too much out of me,” he says. “Hence all this.”
“Right, right.” I take a de
ep breath. My thoughts are crammed with wanting to know what exactly he’d felt earlier. “So, we should talk about it.”
He straightens. “It?”
“Your confusion.”
His face flushes a deep, deep red. The silence stretches. I want to push him into an explanation, because I’m feeling just as uneasy, as if I’m about to walk across the Illustrian bridge all over again. Specific details stay with me long after I’ve seen him: the way his hair just grazes his broad shoulders, the deep corners that bracket his mouth when he’s trying to hold back a smile, the freckles dotting his nose.
I shouldn’t like him at all, but I do. I can’t make sense of it. The feelings are new and uncomfortable and alarming. But most of all, I hate one detail that looms larger than the others: He’s utterly decent. The kind of person I could respect and admire.
“Well?” I prod.
But the moment is gone. Rumi’s expression is carefully blank, like a fresh sheet of paper, and he’s leaning far away from me; any farther, and he’ll fall off his stool. He glances at the clock. “I have to see patients. The infirmary is officially open for the afternoon.”
I swallow my disappointment. It’s just as well. Nothing good could come of having that conversation. We both know it, and I was foolish to push him toward an open flame, one that could burn us both.
A guard shows up to escort me back to my room. As I leave, I pass two Llacsans waiting to see the healer. One grips his shoulder, wincing in pain. The other—a court member, judging by his fine cape and boots—leans against the wall, his head tilted back, attempting to slow the dribble of blood coming out of his nose.
That night, after Suyana has come and gone with the dinner tray, I take a seat on the stool in front of the loom and consider my dilemma. I am duty bound to write my message to Catalina. Duty bound to tell her the location of the Estrella.
I sigh and take up the threads. Silver light winks and glitters as the moonlight turns supple in my hands, bending and twisting. I weave the message into a striped owl. Once Catalina receives this, she’ll know exactly where to send her fighters to collect the Estrella.
As soon as I finish, the bird springs to life, stretching its full wings. It bounds off the tapestry and settles on my shoulder. All I have to do is open the balcony doors. But I told El Lobo that I’d hear his plan, and a bloodless revolt profoundly appeals to me. I don’t like war, don’t like the killing and the ripping apart of families and friends. If Princesa Tamaya and the vigilante can circumnavigate a battle, then wouldn’t that help everyone? Taking down Atoc without lives lost seems like the best option for both sides.
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