Keziah

“When I was twelve years old,” he said, taking a deep breath, “a weaver witch put a curse on me.” 

Immediately sobered, my body tensed cold and stiff as stone with that one word. Witch. It was an old and ugly slur. 

Uncle often called my Mother a witch when he ranted. The term better fit him. His weavings of control and obedience over me fell far outside what I had read of the work of other Weavers. But I could never say it out loud.

I first heard of witches through my Father's bedtime stories; monsters who came for naughty children. Cautionary tales full of well-intended weavings turned to vile curses. Or of down-on-their-luck weavers falling to the lure of witchcraft. His stories inspired me to research the history when I was old enough to learn the darker meanings of his tales.  

The history books varied widely in their thoughts on the origin. But most agreed the fear of witches emerged from the Weavers’ War that brought down the Old Empire two hundred years ago. Arbitrary lines split Weavers into the righteous who wove with the Loom and those who wove outside it–shunned as Witches. 

Even after the Old Empire fell and the lines of power were redrawn, the Witch Hunts continued for another hundred years. The terrors only ended when desperation for weaver’s work outgrew the desire to hunt them out of existence. 

Calling someone a witch brought up old fears of terror and war. Wounds hidden so deep they carried down family lines even though those who lived through it were long dead. 

In my opinion, it was all nonsense.

There was no hard line between a simple weaving and a witch’s curse. Anyone could call a weaving a curse. Or a weaver a witch.

Callum didn’t stop me when I pulled away this time, but his hands lingered until I left his reach. 

Sidestepping the discarded plate and scattered crumbs on the floor I limped to the fireplace. Holding my hands out to soak in its warmth. 

He followed me, hovering a few inches behind so his heat radiated against me as warm as the low-burning fire. He stayed that way, so close but never touching. The silence between us stretched on increasing in intensity as it lingered.

Did he want me to step back into his embrace? Show curiosity for his story? 

I didn’t want to hear the rest of it. It wouldn’t be a happy story of puffy rabbit tails and rainbows if it started with a witch and a curse. 

But there was no way to run from it either. It was better to push the arrow through than pull back on the barbs once you had already been pierced. 

With a sigh that tickled across my neck, he moved away first, sitting in the wingback chair facing the hearth. 

“Before the weaver cursed me, the Earl of Verbodine stuck his blade in my father’s heart.” 

I flinched. Oh. 

It wasn’t surprising to hear Uncle lay at the center of his hurt. I had expected that much.

It was the sudden change in the vibe that made me shiver. The scent of snow and a sweeping coldness seeped out of him until I could no longer feel warmth from the hearth. 

“His weaver held me back,” he continued his voice low and bitter. “Unable to move. I had to watch every awful moment. The Marquis of Breccia stood witness and did nothing. The Earl, the Marquis, and the Weaver are the three I must destroy to avenge my father.” 

His eyes unfocused looking beyond the room. He must have slipped into his mind reliving the day that haunted him.  

Twelve years old. Not that much older than me when my world fell apart. Something else we could share.

“Who was the Weaver?” I asked.  

“I don’t know. I don’t have a name. All I remember is a woman with her long hair in a single braid.”   

A single braid? Braids must always be worn in number. It was a tenet of the Great Loom–or maybe just a superstition–but a single braid invited misfortune. It was only worn in deep mourning for the loss of a threadmate or child.

One quick answer came to mind why a weaver in mourning would join in on his father’s murder. “Did your father–”

“My father was a good and upright man,” Callum cut me off before I could finish. “They were guests welcomed with open arms into our home. My father was treating them to a morning hunt–as sport. Verbodine, without warning or provocation, struck my father down.”

Callum seemed shocked by his own temper. He leaned back heavily and squeezed his leftover anger into the arms of the chair.  

“Can you tell me about the curse?”

He took a moment to think about it, a rueful smile on his lips. “Not yet.”  

“But you think it’s part of why we are entangled?”

“Liola thought so.” 

I had forgotten. The healer had mentioned it when she mended his hand. I wondered if Uncle’s weaving in my mind had been part of it as well, but thinking of it caused it to ache so I let the idea go unexplored.

He ran a hand over his braids tugging at the end of one, and twirling it around his long middle finger. The move seemed unconscious, like a childish nervous habit. 

I took the chance to push aside the heavy thoughts of his past and really look at him. In all my fear and the fast changes throughout the day, I had only seen him as big, intimidating, and deadly. In the orange glow of the fire, he seemed softer. The lack of armor had something to do with it, but even without the shiny metal, he intimidated me. From his long strong fingers to his toes–how could toes manage to look strong? The burly knight filled out his tunic and trousers in a way I tried not to give too much thought to. Or get caught looking at for too long. 

His handsome face was a painter’s dream: a strong brow, straight nose, big pink lips, and a dusting of freckles across his cheeks. But it was his hair that kept drawing my eyes. Bright orange as the fire and tied back in braids that hung down to the middle of his back. But only from the crown of his head. The sides were shaved short in an undercut and cut shorter still in places to create the shape of antlers emerging from his temples. 

I’d never seen a design like it before, but most of his knights wore their hair in a similar fashion. Undercut with designs shaved a layer deeper almost down to the scalp. Only the hair on the crown of their heads was left long and braided. It must be the custom in Truehorn.  

“What?” he asked, catching me staring. 

“Is this the symbol of your house?” I asked. Leaning over, I ran a finger along one prong of the antler shape above the tip of his ear. The tiny hairs tickled my finger in a way that made me want to do it again. Callum grabbed my hand pulling it away before I could.

“Yes.” 

He shifted in his seat and stretched his leg out hooking his foot around the leg of the stool. He dragged it with the awful squeal of wood scraping stone, steadied it in front of his chair, and patted the seat.

“Sit, I’ll take the pins from your hair,” he said releasing his hold on my hand. “You can’t sleep comfortably with all that poking you.”

I blinked, confused by the quick change in subject, but sat anyway. I stretched my back straight as an arrow, but my shoulders barely reached past the height of his knees on either side of me. 

The stool is short. It was a sorry excuse even when not spoken aloud.

He deftly pulled the bobby pins from my hair, much gentler than the maids had been when they jabbed it all into place. He took his time unweaving the braids and running his fingers through my curls to search for lost pins.

I closed my eyes to concentrate on the gentle touch. It had been a long time since someone had done this for me. Together with the warmth of the fire, it lulled me into a sleepy peace.

“Don’t lean back,” he sounded almost panicked when he grabbed my shoulders to set me upright again. Wide awake, I sat primly like he demanded as he finished releasing the last braid. “I didn't want to pull your hair."

The mumbled excuse sounded silly even to me. I didn’t have a clue why leaning on him would cause him so much worry when we’d laid together on the bed not long ago. Was he regretting letting his guard down around me? 

“Do you have someone at home you do this for?” I asked to fill the silence. I really needed to know if he had a wife or partner waiting for him.

“My little sister.”

Cute. And humanizing. And not a girlfriend.