Will laughed. “I don’t get what’s going on with those two. He’s fine around the rest of us.”
Diego shook his head. “I canspekyulate, but…it’s on him to figure it out. Just hope he realizes how it makes her feel.”
“Telok is often blind for one who sees so much.” Rekosh turned his palms skyward and shrugged, another gesture learned from the humans.
“We are all blind sometimes,” said Ketahn.
Those words were far heavier than they should’ve been, but Urkot couldn’t understand why, couldn’t grasp at the threads in his mind.
It didn’t help that Rekosh was staring at him with that piercing gaze.
“Go on and get cleaned up,” Diego said, breaking Urkot free of that stare. “If you feel up for it when you’re done, we’ll probably be around a while. And knowing Cole, there’ll be plenty of food left over.”
Urkot nodded, raised a hand, and tapped his knuckle to his headcrest in a show of respect. Diego mimicked the gesture.
Rekosh hung back as the others continued onward, tilting his head as he regarded Urkot. Urkot’s hearts quickened. Somehow, his friend knew, and he would make Urkot share everything, would make him dig out the memories…
In vrix, Rekosh asked, “You are going to the temple?”
Mandibles twitching, Urkot narrowed his eyes. That question wasn’t at all what he’d expected, which only made him more wary. “Yes…”
The piercing gleam in Rekosh’s red eyes was replaced by a mirthful glint as he chittered.
Mandibles sagging, Urkot stared at his friend. “Have a few too many threads been severed in your head, weaver? What is amusing?”
Rekosh nudged Urkot’s foreleg with his own. “Nothing, delver. Enjoy the pools.”
As Rekosh strode past, Urkot turned to watch him. On any other day, he would’ve pressed Rekosh to speak plainly. They would’ve gone back and forth, like they were wrestling over the same length of rope, with the weaver delighting in every moment of it until finally revealing the source of his amusement. All in jest, of course.
But this was not any other day.
Grateful the encounter was over—and flooded with fresh guilt over that gratitude—Urkot hurried to his den.
Kaldarak was fast falling under the jungle’s night song as the sun fell and deep, dark blues and purples spread across the sky. Flamekeepers with torches moved about the platforms, igniting bowls of spinewood sap to fight the growing darkness with blue-green flames. With their daily tasks done, many thornskulls were outside their dens, conversing and sharing meals. Softnotes played on string instruments drifted on the air, weaving through the other sounds like wandering ghosts.
Blue crystal light illuminated Urkot’s den when he entered. He didn’t pause to look around, didn’t think; he removed his bag and belt of tools, setting them aside, retrieved a jar of vineroot oil, a comb carved of bone, a handful of cleanleaf, and a large cloth, and strode back out again.
With each step he took toward the temple, he felt the urge to move faster, to match the pace of his racing hearts. Though such haste would only draw unwanted attention, resisting that urge grew more difficult by the moment.
The temple was a huge, imposing shadow on the rocky hill overlooking Kaldarak. Eight towering figures stood atop it—the gods, their forms made mysterious and eerie by the encroaching darkness. The temple’s features were indistinct but for the glow of spinewood sap fires leading across the rope bridge and at the temple’s entrance.
The night’s first stars sparkled overhead as Urkot crossed the bridge. The sound of conversation and music faded behind him, slowly overtaken by the noise of the waterfall flowing out of the temple.
For that moment, he was utterly alone. No one near, no voices, no faces, no eyes upon him.
Was this how it felt to journey through the emptiness between the stars, or to be buried in a cave-in, cocooned by nothingness?
It was peaceful. Sorrowful. And…empty.
Releasing a heavy breath through his nose holes, Urkot forced himself onward.
Inside the temple, the tiered pools were fed by hot springs, making them soothingly warm. Once Urkot was in the water, his worries would melt away, his aches would fade, and the dustwould be washed from his hide. His body would relax, and his mind would follow.
When he reached the temple’s entrance, he stopped and signed in reverence to the Eight, raising his arms and crossing his forearms at their middles in front of his chest. He felt his missing lower left arm again as he made the gesture, much more clearly than before. He felt its muscles stretch and flex beneath his hide as it moved into position, felt it touching his right arm.
But his lower left arm was gone. It had been claimed by the mire and had rotted away, like the bodies of so many shadowstalkers and thornskulls during the war. Forever lost.
His gesture to pay respect to the gods was, as it had been for the last seven years, incomplete. He could only hope that they did not see it as disrespect, that they could sense his intent, or…or that perhaps they could see the spirit of his missing arm.
