Page 3 of The Weaver

What little information he’d gathered still held some value. That made it worth his discomfort, did it not?

Would that I could say the same of what is to come.

Finally, he reached his destination. To most, it would’ve been just one of many dens along the tunnel with a dingy cloth hanging across the entryway, indistinguishable from the rest. But Rekosh dreaded this place.

Every step of this journey had strengthened his urge to turn around and leave. His limbs were taut, the fine hairs on his legs bristled, and his hearts thumped; escaping the females had not eased his tension. His body was reacting as though he were about to engage in battle.

What could he possibly hope to accomplish here apart from delaying his return to Kaldarak and his tribe?

Apart from delaying his reunion with Ahmya?

He raised the bundle and stroked his thumb across it. His greatest work was within. A creation crafted with such intense passion and artistry that it had nearly been enough to make him give thanks to the Eight.

But the gods had no hand in it. Ahmya had been his inspiration, his purpose. The dress was for her, because of her, and the only thing in all the world that surpassed its beauty was Ahmya herself.

“And still, it will not be enough,” he rasped as he lowered the bundle.

There were causes worth fighting for, worth bleeding for, worth dying for. Battling Zurvashi had been worth all the risk and more. But coming to this den…it wasn’t a cause, whether noble or otherwise. This wasn’t a necessary fight. He didn’t need to be here at all.

His mandibles twitched closer together as he shifted his rear legs back. Telok and Urkot awaited him, eager to depart. They all wished to reach Kaldarak before Ivy birthed her broodling, which would happen any day. He should not have kept them waiting this long.

As he began turning away, the silk curtain was swept aside from within the den. A vrix with dull red markings stood in the large opening—a male neither quite as tall nor as thin as Rekosh.

Forcing his mandibles to relax and willing his hearts to ease, Rekosh faced the elder vrix.

Raikarn’s eyes widened. A tremor coursed through him from his headcrest down to the tips of his legs, and he drew in a shaky breath through his nostril slits.

Rekosh’s fingers flexed. Despite the tunnel’s sounds having not diminished, his world was silent and still until words emerged, unbidden, from his throat. “Greetings, sire.”

Raikarn rushed forward, rising as he cupped the sides of Rekosh’s face and tipped their headcrests together. “Thank the Broodmother, the Protector, thanks to all the Eight!”

His sire’s voice was thinner than Rekosh remembered. And though there were old, familiar notes to his scent, they were overwhelmed by the lingering smells of unfamiliar vrix, smoke, and soot.

Rekosh could not decide how he felt about all of that—or whether it made him feel anything at all. He fought the urge to recoil from his sire’s touch.

“When they whispered of what Ishuun’s brood had done, that you had fled Takarahl with them, and that Zurvashi was hunting you…” A faint growl sounded in Raikarn’s chest, more relieved than anything. “But you are alive. You are home.”

“Alive, yes.” Rekosh drew back, though his sire did not release his hold.

“Come. We need not speak out here amidst the noise.” Raikarn all but dragged Rekosh into the den.

Rekosh didn’t resist. It was cooler inside the den, and the tunnel’s sounds were muted once the thick silk curtain fell into place behind him, but his tension and restlessness did not fade.

Raikarn released Rekosh and stepped back. The two vrix studied each other in the soft blue glow of the crystals on the walls.

“You look worn,” said Raikarn, mandibles drooping.

Rekosh chittered. “And you look old, but I had not intended to make mention of it.”

“I have spent moon cycles wondering whether you lived, and you jest?”

Anger stirred in Rekosh’s gut, sour and hot. “Considering all I have endured alongside my friends, I would say I have more than earned the right to jest.”

Huffing, Raikarn turned away. His shoulders sagged, and his movements were stiff as he stepped deeper into the den. “I cannot imagine, Rekosh. I cannot imagine what you have faced, just as I cannot imagine what your mother must have faced.”

Rekosh’s hearts constricted. He clamped his jaw shut and held his mandibles apart, if only barely.

“Nor can I understand why, even after all we suffered, you chose to face the Tangle, the thornskulls, and the ire of the queen…” Raikarn spun back toward Rekosh, suddenly seeming smaller and weaker, his hide duller. “But it matters not. Takarahl has a new queen, our lives are a little better with each day rather than a little worse, and you are home.”

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