Remi 

I felt vindicated.  

For a whole five seconds, but honestly, being right about falling into a trap wasn’t something I wanted to be right about. I hated being right all the time. I was the pessimist in our little duo. With Cal, I had to be. 

Cal was the shining golden hero. Even when life threw its worst at him, he managed to trudge on ahead. He pulled me out of the dark on more than one occasion, and I kept him from living a life too chivalrous to have a little bit of fun. 

“What do we do now?” Cal asked. His concern for the girl was so thick in his voice it made me queasy. “Can you unweave some of the work on her?” 

“I sew skin,” Liola said like that was a thing that was perfectly normal to do. “I mend what is broken. I can’t undo another’s work. She has to fight it off herself, wait for it to break its hold, or you need–” 

“An expert in the Loom,” I finished for her. “Where can we find one?” 

Liola looked like she wanted to make another hmm-ing noise of disappointment for interrupting her, but she answered instead. “In Everwoven. Only a learned weaver of the Loom would know enough of the work to help, and they seldom leave the academy.”  

I grimaced so hard my nose must have crinkled halfway up to my eyeballs. 

Everwoven was a city-state of weavers. Built in a valley at the center of the continent surrounded by the high peaks of the Ring Range. The nearly impassable mountains protected Everwoven from the border squabbles of the outer ring nations. It was perfect. Except for the fact that it was a nation of weavers, governed by weavers, for the growth and learning of the Great Weft. Scholars and religious zealots playing at weaving the world in their image. Not my kind of place.

It was also not easy to get into. Weavers from anywhere were welcome to ‘come home’ to Everwoven, but plain old non-weavers needed an invitation or a lot of paperwork. A request to hire a weaver could be made, but it involved even more paperwork, a lot of money, and a few connections. And it still took months for the weaver to show up. 

If Liola was right, this would not be a problem with a quick solution. 

“So she’s our problem now,” I mumbled. 

“To be direct, she is Cal’s problem,” Liola said, giving me that knowing look I hated. 

How did all wise matrons have that same look of, ‘I know and I don’t approve?’ Did they practice it at their teas? 

“Then I will take responsibility for her,” Cal said. “At least, until we can find a solution.” 

I thought he might have been trying to hide a smile.

I really, really wanted to slap him. With my gauntlets on. 

He might be a grown man in charge of a whole Duchy, but as his friend and brother in blood, it was still my duty to take care of him.  

“You should also keep your distance from her.” I thought that was reasonable. “If being close to her entangled you together, then a little distance could be helpful.” 

“You’re right,” Cal said, nodding. He stood from his chair and squeezed his right hand tight, testing the new skin. “I’ll lead the teams looking for where the tunnel opens up. Remi, watch over her, and wait to see if Holwick or Octayvo return.” 

Cal sounded confident, but looked dazed. It had been a lot of information that sounded like nonsense. There was no telling how being wrapped up with the girl affected him. I wanted to comfort him, but settled for placing a hand on his shoulder. He tapped it in appreciation of the gesture, and I tried not to think too much about the warmth of his callused fingers. 

“Thank you for your assistance, Dame Liola,” Cal said. He dipped his head slightly in a sign of respect for her.  

She had packed her medicines away and heaved the heavy saddlebags over her arm as she stood. She was a knight in her own right through her weaving; strong, hardy, and used to the battlefield.  

“Righto, I’m going back out,” she said. 

She looked down at the girl bent over on the ground again and sighed. The glare she gave us after made her disappointment clear. But, Liola was also a knight, and she wouldn’t openly question her commander. Not in front of a stranger. 

“There aren’t too many worrisome injuries left, mostly a bunch of whiners, but I’ll be busy late into the night patching them up.” With an unhurried pace, she walked away with a harumph rather than a goodbye. 

“Take care of her, Remi. I trust you.” And with that Cal turned to leave as well. Slow at first, like it was hard to go, and then falling into his usual confident strides. I watched him until he left the hall with Dame Arne and his squire following close behind him. 

And then there was me, her, and a cold, empty hall full of food sitting untouched. I wondered if the food was a trap as well; a devious plan to lure us in and eat ourselves to our death. The men would be hungry. Even if it was cold, a feast was a feast. 

“It's cold on the floor, isn’t it?” I asked.  

I didn’t want to touch her, in case whatever she was weaved with was contagious. The question was rhetorical, but she nodded. It wasn’t a big movement. I might have even imagined it. 

“Are you waking up, sleepy bride?”  

There it was again. Barely there, but it was movement and an answer. Someone was at home in there. 

“Fine. I am going to pick you up, put you back in your chair, and you are not going to weave anything on me. Got it?” 

One more teeny tiny nod. It reminded me of how a drunk would respond when they were most of the way gone. 

I stood over her, feet on either side of her dress, and hauled her up into the chair. She didn’t weigh much, but there was no way to do it gracefully. Her spine was stiff as a rod, but with no strength in her joints, she flopped about like a puppet. I had to arrange her limbs to keep her balanced and upright.

It gave me the heebie-jeebies. The little hairs prickling on the back of my neck. I interlocked my fingers and placed them over my heart in the symbol of the Weft. I wasn’t superstitious, but a little caution felt warranted in this situation.

“Better?” It was another rhetorical question. I was not going to touch her again unless I had to.

Little nod. 

“Good. Remember you are a prisoner and not a guest,” I had to lay down the line somewhere. “You will be treated with respect only as much as you earn it.” 

No nod this time, but her eyes followed me as I approached the table to inspect the food. The main course hadn’t made it to the table. It was probably in the kitchen getting overcooked to a crisp. There was bread and butter though, and I was hungry. 

I took off my helm, placing it next to the gauntlets I’d removed earlier, neatly arranging them on the table. I picked up what looked to be a silver knife. I puffed a breath on the metal and gave it a bit of buff with a napkin. It looked normal. I tested a bit of bread and the knife remained shiny, so I dipped it into the butter. The knife didn’t corrode. Not a very good test for poison, but it was enough to match my hunger. The bread was soft inside with a crisp crust and the butter was rich. All it needed was a slice of juicy meat to be perfect. 

Lost to the joy of food for the first time since this morning, I spent fifteen minutes in the simplicity of buttering one bite at a time and chewing until there was nothing left to chew. The girl wasn’t great company so she was easy enough to ignore even when her eyes followed every bite.

“How?” The word was soft, barely more than the mew of a kitten. 

“How?” I repeated, leaning back against the table as I buttered the last bit of bread. So she could speak now, but ‘how’ what? “Oh, how can you earn respect?” 

Little nod. 

Interesting. She must have been considering my words all this while. Good. 

“Do what you're told,” I said. I popped the last bit of bread in my mouth and took my time to chew it thoroughly before finishing my answer. Time for an interrogation. I’d have her dancing to my strings soon enough. “And, tell us what we need to know. Where does the tunnel lead?” 

Her lips moved almost like she was attempting to chew, but no sound came out. 

“That’s not very cooperative,” I said, flashing her an exaggerated frown. “I guess you’re not feeling very chatty, yet. Let’s try yes or no answers. Did Earl Verbodine and Marquis Breccia flee through the tunnel below the keep?” 

No nod, no answer, just the tremble of her lip and downcast eyes. 

I stood. Allowing the glory of my full height in the heavy armor to intimidate her. “Why did you ask how to be a good prisoner if you had no intention of attempting it?”  

I found her more frustrating now that she showed a response than when she was a blank doll.  

“Did you cause the entanglement?” 

“No.” The word was sharp, the loudest she had been, and accompanied by a little head shake. 

“Did you know it would happen?” 

“No.” 

“Do you know how to undo it?” 

“No” 

Well, there went the easy way out. Not that I would trust her to do any weaving on Cal. Still, it provided a modicum of comfort to hear she wasn’t actively behind the entanglement of their threads. If she was merely a pawn of Verbodine's, perhaps it would be easy to flip her into a pawn for us. 

“Do you know anything that would be helpful at all?”  

It looked like a struggle, but she managed to lift her shoulders up and down in a small shrug.  

I brushed the crumbs from my fingers and grabbed two napkins from the table. 

“Since you can move now, and since you have failed to earn my respect, and insist on being treated as a prisoner. I will tie you up like one.” 

Using the napkins, I tied her wrists to the arms of the chair, a little tighter than necessary.  

Cal would have wanted chivalry. To keep to the code: courage, honor, courtesy, justice, and an enthusiasm to help the weak.

But, I had run out of patience with being nice.