Every Glistening Night

Chapter Twenty-One

A yawn breaks my lips before I can stifle it. Hannei's peripheral shifts to me as we play, though she continues to puff long notes from the ciwien pipe. Yefto sings a quick trill, eyes closed, before we finish the lullabye we'd been practicing.

"Is this tempo alright for you?" Hannei asks, interrupting the final resonance. "Would you like to play it a little faster? Or is it boring you? Would you rather pick another piece?"

My sluggish brain can barely keep up with her strings of questions. "It's fine the way it is," I manage. I clamp my lips together, suppressing another yawn. Silently, I resent my blackmailer for putting me in this situation.

"How about we call it for the day?" Yefto says. He squints at the sky. The sun seems to have sunk an inch from the place it was when we first came out here after our second meal.

"Alright." I hope my voice doesn't sound too relieved. Slowly, I push myself up from the rock I'd been sitting on. A steep trail brings me to the main mountain path, which I follow back to the fractured cliff, stopping off inside my cave to put my laivo away.

Women and men have already gathered in the clearing, forming circles in which they work and chat. Audrel waves to me as I approach, and a smile comes to my lips despite my fatigue. It makes the day a little less challenging to get through. Still, I nestle into my rock at the edge of the forest. My loom waits for me on the ground, where I left it this morning. I lean over it, continuing to cross threads over each other. Purple fabric begins to take shape, and the gold imbued into the weave is barely detectable.

Today, I'm going to have to figure out how to borrow another of these looms. I suppose I can help pack up the weaving supplies again this evening, slip one into my bag when no one is looking. If it worked once, it should work again. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have returned the previous loom. But I couldn't stand to have the vestiges of treachery lingering in my room.

I slip my hand into my pocket, retrieving another thin beam. I barely feel it against my skin. It's only a whisper of existence.

Three figures march into the clearing, around the clusters of tribes people. I nearly drop the thread in surprise. Rarely do I see Ixek walking about, at mealtimes, or at half moon gatherings. He stands out, his lanky frame towering over the other two warrior companions. He takes long strides to the matriarch's cave, where he disappears inside.

I press my fingers together, reminding myself of the sunlight thread. I focus back on my task and quickly add another strand of warmth to the fabric. It shouldn't be odd for Ixek to appear at camp, or enter the matriarch's cave. After all, his mother, Ulane m'ke, and grandmother, Nal m'se, are both inside. But it's just so strange to see him in daylight, opposed to the occasional visits he pays me when delivering the tiny cotton cloth. I've sewn at least four parcels by now. Never have I opened one, no matter how much curiosity itches in my fingertips.

Several hand-lengths of fabric later, I draw another sunlight thread from my pocket. My gaze falls on the cave just as Ixek emerges. The other warriors behind him head up the mountain path, but Ixek walks in the opposite direction — toward me. Sweat glimmers on my hands, especially between my thumb and index fingers, where I pinch the sunlight. Its warmth is a brand, a reminder, a warning.

I drop my eyes to the fabric and rapidly try to integrate it into the fabric. Right, left, criss, cross. The threads fly over each other, though my fingers snag and fumble in their haste.

A twig snaps. Ixek's feet pad swiftly over the ground, barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears.

Criss-cross. Criss-cross.