He stares at me for a moment then slowly shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Believe what you want, Llacsan.”
His black brows pull into a swift frown. I guess he doesn’t like it when I sayLlacsanlike it’s a dirty word. One guard growls. The boy raises a single hand, and I step forward, ready to heave another insult—
The boy shoves me backward.
My head hits the castillo wall, and his arm presses hard against my throat. I hadn’t thought he was particularly tall, but now he towers over me. I try to push his arm away, needing to breathe. His other hand grabs my left thigh, yanks it up, and he deftly removes the dagger hidden there. He tosses it over his shoulder and eases the pressure on my throat. I suck in air.
He stares down at me, hatred radiating off him like boiling water threatening to escape a pot. I see it in the way he curls his lip. I feel it in the way his fingers dig into my skin.
The scent of dirt and herbs coming from his clothes hovers between us. An odd smell that reminds me of burnt leaves. I gag against his forearm, my eyes watering from the pungent odor. It makes me weirdly light-headed.
“Now the right,” he says coldly. “Or am I getting it for you?”
I fight against the impulse to spit in his eye. Abruptly, he steps away as if he can’t stand the idea of being near me for a second longer. The feeling is mutual.
The boy hunches his shoulders again and leans against the wall. I bend forward, my hands on my knees, and gulp in air, free of his awful scent. When my breathing returns to normal, I straighten and shoot my jailer a glare. I take out my last dagger. I’m tempted to launch the blade into his heart. He stiffens, as if guessing my intention. His hand hovers near his pocket.
Common sense takes over and I toss the knife at his feet. It clatters against the stone, and he relaxes.
“You’ll be meeting with His Majesty,” he says. “Try to contain your delirium.”
I keep silent.
“A word of advice, Condesa. A little humility before my king will go a long way. His Radiance might put you in a room with an actual bed in it.” He straightens away from the door. “Or he might decide he doesn’t want you after all, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in the dungeon.”
The blood drains from my face. “He wouldn’tdare—”
The boy’s face shifts into a faintly pitying look. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? To be disrespected and mistreated? I can’t imagine how that feels, my being a Llacsan and all.”
What does he mean?
The Llacsans were never mistreated. It was their choice to stay up by the mountain, their choice to hold on to their old ways and not embrace the future. The Illustrian queen wanted them to assimilate. She wanted a unified country, and they ungratefully protested her rule.
They killed her.
The boy jerks his head in the direction of the massive double doors at the opposite end of the foyer. “Ready to meet my king, Condesa?”
The guards press around me, and I have no choice but to follow the boy’s lazy strut across the open, square foyer. It’s overlooked by balconies on all four sides. Guards on each end of the tall doors use long gold handles to open them, and as they swing inward, the boy bends his head closer to mine, his breath tickling the curve of my neck. “After you.”
With my knees shaking, I take the first step toward my enemy.
CAPÍTULO
An empty gold throne sits on a dais between two large columns. I don’t know why this surprises me. After the revolt, Atoc seized most of the Illustrians’ gold. Family heirlooms were melted down so that His Royal Highness had a shiny place to rest his ass.
The long hall varies in earth tones: the orange-and-red blend of clay, the rich brown of the earth drenched in rain, the tawny gold of the sunlit mountain cliff.
The boy motions for me to wait. “You’ll be called forward. Then you can stand in front of the king.”
I try to refrain from rolling my eyes. What pomp! What ceremony! Does the king think to intimidate me with his traditions?
Am I intimidated?
My head says no, but the rest of me disagrees. My palms are slick with sweat. To my surprise, my knees shake. For once I’m thankful to have chosen a skirt. Bloody as it is from the hole in Sofía’s chest.
The boy leaves my side, weaves through the assembly, and stands by the throne. The guards he leaves with me, each with a firm hold on one of my arms.
