Kingdom's Vice Series: A Voyage of Vengeance ( #2 2015)

Chapter Thirty-Five

I sit in the tent, fidgeting uncontrollably, with no necklace to hold onto for strength. I stare down at my shoes, which are still soaked inside, the leather worn and beaten down. The heels, cracked and uneven, were once so sturdy and balanced. Now every step I take is shaky, uneven—uncertain.

There is a rustle at the entrance and I feel the muscles in my arms tense. I grab the fork that sits on the ottoman and arm myself with it, ready to gouge out eyes if need be. The old potato-sack fabric flaps in the wind, caught up in the movement of whatever hides behind it.

"Who's there?" I call out loudly, "I'm armed! Let ye be warned!" I fake the accent as well as I can, thinking some Katanian Larkarh approaches.

The woman steps out from behind the fraying fabric and lowers her hood when she conceals herself inside the tent. Her blue-green hair flows out from her lowered hood, her eyes like emeralds. She smiles at me and sets her bag down on the floor, before removing her coat and tossing it aside.

"Who are you?" I ask, the fork still firm in my grasp. I dare not lower it.

She chuckles, "The last to think of harming you," she says, almost mocking me. "Redermarke sent for me. My name is Erena Teyr."

I drop the fork, "You're the weaver?"

She unfastens the bag and pulls out a long coil of thread—silver, gold and blue. "Yes," she replies plainly, "Yes, I am."

"You're not here to expose me, are you?"

Her eyes dart sharply to me, "Are you accusing me?" she snaps. "Your brother entrusted me to teach you how to weave—to keep you busy while the others attend to more important matters."

My eyes light up, "But why does Duhamas get to go and I don't? I have just as much a right to attend to important matters as he does!" I realize the more I talk, the more I sound like an impudent child. No wonder Kennah-borns hate us.

She only smiles at me as she sets up the threads and two needles neatly on the table. "I'm sure your brother has his reasons, even if you don't necessarily like them." She dusts off her hands and gestures to the table, "Come, sit by me and we'll get started."

~.~.~

It's harder than it looks: stabbing a needle through some fabric, weaving and knotting, pulling and cutting.

I shake my head, "I don't know how you do this for a living," I try to twist the tip of the thread through the needle hole.

She lets out a breathy laugh, "Lots and lots of practise," she says, "and having no fear of sharp objects certainly helps."

"They taught you how to sew in Kennah?"

She nods, "My mother taught me long ago, and we sold some of our work to Bardhelm. I'm sure you would have worn one or two garments made by our very hands!"

I lower my hands and stare at them. Not much work as been done with these hands, unlike hers.

"Do you have someone that loves you?" she asks me suddenly, her eyes keen on her tapestry that is slowly taking shape. Silver and lilac threads encircle each other, creating a filigree on a golden canvas. "Someone back home?"

I sigh and reach for the hollow of my throat, where the pearls would be. "Yes," I reply, "though he is far away. We were separated,"

She gasps, "That must be terrible! To be parted from one you love must be very painful, as if nothing can cure it!"

I pause and lower my needle. "You speak as if you know of this pain yourself,"

She stops and stares out into nothing, before letting out a sigh. "I do indeed," she says. "I once knew someone, whom I loved very much. We played as children, joked of marriage and growing old together...silly, childish things."

I am scared of what she will say, should she go on. But I must press her further. No story comes without an ending.

"What happened to him?"

Her eyes drop into a look of despair when she speaks, as if death had hung heavy on her heart since his passing.

"It is as if he had passed on, though I dare not think such a thing would happen to him. He disappeared is all I know. His father, I do not think he was too fond of our friendship. Perhaps he had driven him away." She pauses again, swallowing hard. "The Master's eyes were ever watchful. And I daresay judgemental."

I weave another knot with the silver thread, and criss-cross it over the lilac one. "You've met his father, The Master?" daring not to meet her eyes.

She does not meet mine either. "I was well acquainted with The Master, and his punishments." She says. "He knew my family well, before they all deserted me."

"Deserted?"

She nods sadly, and turns her weave-work to me, presenting the stunning image of a sapphire stone in a lake of silver.

"It's beautiful!" I gasp, "It reminds me of home,"

She smiles, beams from where she sits, which seems like so far away. However, the distance seems somewhat stirred since our conversation began. These confessions seem to do some good, at least.

"My kin did not take omens lightly," she goes on, "My mother died after my birth, and so my siblings, and my father disregarded me, believing I was the one who had cursed her to an early death. And so, since I was a child, I have been alone, save for Alec."

My eyes widen.

Light be praised! It seems the weaver weaves more than just tapestries! She weaves old tales too!