Page 60 of The Weaver

Of course, that didn’t mean it was less dangerous than anywhere else.

Rekosh returned his attention to Ahmya, shifted closer, and took her spear from her grasp before plucking her up off her perch. With one arm under her legs and another at her back, he cradled her to his chest.

“What are you doing?” she asked as she looped her arm over his shoulder and placed a hand on his warm chest.

“I will speak,” he said, climbing the rock to reach the area at its crest. “But these are not striding words.”

“Not striding words?”

“We must sit. The story is…heavy.”

She felt some of that weight in that moment; it was apparent both in his voice and in the way he moved, which seemed a little slower, a little more deliberate and measured, than his usual effortless grace.

He walked past the pool and its crystal clear, shimmering water, and brought her to a shady spot nearby. A few taller stone outcroppings, covered in vines and moss, stood there like lopsided pillars flanking a low wall of fallen rocks and boulders. Some of the ground within the natural alcove created by the formation was covered in fine grass and tufts of moss.

Propping the spears against the tall stone, Rekosh slippedoff his bag and set it atop the moss before lowering himself beside it. His folded forelegs created a makeshift seat in front of him, and he placed Ahmya atop them with her back against his chest once he’d settled.

Reaching aside, he opened his bag and took out his waterskin, which he handed to her. “Drink,vi’keishi.”

“Thank you.” Ahmya smiled and uncorked it, taking a long draft of the cool water. He drank too before returning it to his bag.

When she began to shift to face him, Rekosh settled his upper hands on her shoulders, keeping her in place.

Ahmya’s brow creased. “Rekosh?”

He slid one of his palms from her shoulder up her neck, where he cupped her throat and gently tipped her head back. His red eyes were solemn as he peered down at her.

Ahmya searched his gaze. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“I want to.” He trailed his other hand over her cheek, brushing her skin with the backs of his claws.

A shiver ran through Ahmya at his touch, at his voice, at that gaze so intent upon her. “I will listen.”

Rekosh withdrew his hand from her neck and slipped his fingers into her hair. The tips of his claws grazed her scalp as he combed through the strands, but he was so delicate, so reverent, that all she felt was the tingling left in their wake. He simply brushed her hair, remaining quiet for long enough that Ahmya had a feeling it was his way of soothing himself.

Keeping her head tilted back, she closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap, giving him all the time he needed.

“As I said, I was smallest of my brood,” he began, voice low. “My father was a weaver, my mother a Fang. I could not go with her, so I followed him to hide from others. To be safe. He taught me to weave. Taught me many things. Maybe he did not know why I followed him, but it brought him joy. Joy insharing needle, thread, and loom, joy in teaching and seeing me learn.

“Because I was a small broodling amongst big vrix, I kept my words to myself and listened, and I learned many things. A warrior’s fangs and claws have strength, but words have strength also. Knowing is strength. And because I was small, they spoke as though I was not there.” His fingers continued their work, parting her hair into sections that he held firm without ever pulling.

“Whispers, vrix say. That is what I learned.” Rekosh chittered. “But most are not whispered.”

“Our word is gossip,” Ahmya said with a smirk.

“Gossip, yes. I sat near my father, and I wove, and I listened. Soon, I learned words could sometimes make me safe. Knowing could be used as a shield and a spear. Knowing the words a vrix wanted to hear was strength. But all I wanted was to be the greatest weaver in Takarahl so my father would see me with all eight eyes, so he would have pride.”

A sharp pang struck Ahmya’s chest, and her eyes prickled with the threat of tears. She opened them. Drawing in a slow, deep breath, she willed those tears away and settled a hand upon Rekosh’s leg. It was harder, more solid, than the rest of him, but its hairs were soft against her palm, and they rose slightly at her touch.

“I understand how that feels,” she said. “I wanted the same with my father. He…did not see me no matter how much I sought his approval, no matter how hard I tried.”

His chest rumbled with an unhappy hum. “I am sorry,vi’keishi. But know that I have seen you always.”

Her lower lip quivered, and she couldn’t stop the tears from filling her eyes despite her efforts. “I know.”

He leaned down and rubbed his hard mouth against her temple. His warm breath flowed over her skin. “No tears, Ahmya. No more rain.”

Ahmya released a small laugh. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually cry so easily… At least I didn’t before waking up in this world.”

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