Page 7 of The Weaver

Urkot sighed and bumped a hind leg against Rekosh’s hindquarters. “Hid away working on it for days, and you could not even show it to your sire?”

Mandibles twitching, Rekosh snatched up his bag and slung it over his head and shoulder. “You are wrong, stoneskull.”

“In what way, needlelegs?”

“It is not for him, and I was not hidden away while I worked on it.”

“I entered your den eight times in the last few days, and Telok”—Urkot tilted his head toward their friend—“said he did so six more, yet not once did you notice our presence.”

“Indeed,” Telok said flatly.

“I knew of your presence,” Rekosh replied. “I simply chose to keep my focus upon my work.”

Based on the way the others looked at him, they didn’t believe his claim any more than he did. They knew he’d been utterly lost in the task...and so did he.

“Have you even had a meal since you began?” Urkot asked.

Rekosh let out a heavy breath, turning a palm upward. “I have eaten enough. Such was my focus that I did not feel the need to eat more.”

Urkot pushed himself upright and slid down from the dais. “So, you starved yourself and hid in your den. You could well have done that back in Kaldarak.”

“I do not have all my tools in Kaldarak.”

Telok restlessly scraped the tip of a leg on the floor. “You have every tool you could possibly need there.”

With a low growl, Rekosh gestured to his bag. “This is the finest piece of weaving ever to come from Takarahl. It has no equal. Not here, not there. It could not be crafted with any toolsbut my own. And once I give it to Ahmya, all shall know that both her beauty and her mate are unrivaled.”

Urkot chittered. “You are not her mate.”

“Yet,” Rekosh corrected.

“And you are not unrivaled,” added Telok.

Rekosh drew himself taller, squaring his shoulders. “Name my better at the loom.”

Mandibles rising in what the humans called a smile, Urkot said, “Ketahn is your equal, at least.”

“Ketahn is years out of practice, not that practice would make a difference. It is an insult that any of you even give thought to the possibility that he is my equal.”

Telok clicked his fangs. “I do not believe he would agree.”

Rekosh huffed. “Because his pride outweighs his honesty.”

“He is also your equal in his unwavering focus on this rivalry you two have rekindled,” Urkot said.

“Focus is not the word you mean, Urkot,” said Telok. “It is obsession.”

Bracing his hands on his sides, Rekosh glared at Telok. “No, it ispassion. Perhaps you will find some of your own one day.”

“I am still willing to bite, Rekosh.”

“Ah, but you will not.” Rekosh lifted his mandibles. “A wound would only delay us further.”

“I will refrain not because it would delay us, but because your agonized whining along the way would plunge me into madness.”

Urkot crossed his forearms in a sign of the eight—an incomplete gesture, given his missing arm. “Eight shield us from that. We would not survive the journey.”

“Yet if we rely upon Telok to speak with us, we would instead die of boredom,” said Rekosh.

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