Read Online The Braided Path: The Weavers of Saramyr, The Skein of Lament and the Ascendancy Veil by Chris Wooding - Free Book Online
Authors: Chris Wooding
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Kerryn cut through the profusion on its way to meet
its sister, the Jalaza, and combine to form the Zan. Axekami was built on the confluence of the three rivers, and their sweeping flow served to carve the city neatly up into districts, joined by
proud bridges.
She let her eyes range over the capital, over her city, the centrepiece of a civilisation that stretched thousands of miles across an entire continent and encompassed millions of people.
The life here never ceased, an endless, beautiful swelter of thronging industry, thought and art. Orators held forth in Speaker’s Square while crowds gathered to jeer or clap; manxthwa and
horses jostled in their pens while traders harangued passers-by and jabbered at each other; philosophers sat in meditation while across the street new lovers coupled in fervour. Scholars debated in
the parks, blood spewed on to tiles as a bull banathi’s throat was slashed by a butcher’s blade, entertainers leered as they pulled impossible contortions, deals were made and broken
and reforged. Axekami was the hub of an empire spread so wide that it was only possible to maintain it via the medium of instantaneous communication through Weavers. It was the administrative,
political and social fulcrum on which the entire vastness of Saramyr balanced. Anais loved it, loved its constant ability to regenerate, the turbulence of innovation and activity; but she knew well
enough to fear it a little too, and she felt a ghost of that fear brush her now.
The Imperial Keep stood high and magnificent on the crest of a hill, looking out over all. It was a vast edifice of gold and bronze, shaped like a truncated pyramid, with its top flattened and
surmounted by a wondrous temple to Ocha, Emperor of the gods. It swarmed with pillars and arches, broken up by enormous statues that grew out of the walls, or which snaked along the grandiose
façade to wind around shining columns. At the four points of the compass stood a tall, slender tower, reaching high above the main body of the Keep, each one dedicated to one of the
Guardians of the Four Winds. Narrow bridges ran between the towers and the Keep, spanning the chasms between. The whole was surrounded by a great wall, decorated with carvings and scrollwork all
along its length, and broken only by a mighty gate, with its soaring arc of gold inscribed with blessings.
Anais turned away from the vista. The room was wide and airy, its walls and floor made from a smooth, semi-reflective stone known as lach . Three tall arches gave her the view of her city;
several smaller ones provided access to other rooms. A trickling fountain was the centrepiece, fashioned in the shape of two manta rays, their wings touching as they danced.
Messages had been arriving all day, both by hand and across the Weave, calling for a council. Her allies felt betrayed, her enemies incensed, and nothing she could do would assuage them. The
only heir to the throne of Saramyr was an Aberrant. She should have been killed at birth.
Weave-lord Vyrrch was in the room with her; the very last person she wanted to see right now. The Weavers were the ones who did the killing, and she could feel glowering disapprobation in every
syllable he spoke. He was at least wise enough not to berate her for hiding her child away from them, even though she knew that was what he was thinking. Did that foul ghoul seriously expect her to
give up her only child to their tender mercies?
‘You must be very cautious, Mistress,’ he gurgled. ‘Very cautious indeed. You have few options if you wish to avert a disaster.’
The Weave-lord was wearing his Mask, and for that, at least, she was thankful. His horribly deformed features were hidden behind a bronze visage, and though the Mask itself was distressing to
look upon, it was far preferable to what lay beneath. It depicted a demented face, its features distorted in what could be pain, insanity or leering pleasure. The very sight of it made her skin
its sister, the Jalaza, and combine to form the Zan. Axekami was built on the confluence of the three rivers, and their sweeping flow served to carve the city neatly up into districts, joined by
proud bridges.
She let her eyes range over the capital, over her city, the centrepiece of a civilisation that stretched thousands of miles across an entire continent and encompassed millions of people.
The life here never ceased, an endless, beautiful swelter of thronging industry, thought and art. Orators held forth in Speaker’s Square while crowds gathered to jeer or clap; manxthwa and
horses jostled in their pens while traders harangued passers-by and jabbered at each other; philosophers sat in meditation while across the street new lovers coupled in fervour. Scholars debated in
the parks, blood spewed on to tiles as a bull banathi’s throat was slashed by a butcher’s blade, entertainers leered as they pulled impossible contortions, deals were made and broken
and reforged. Axekami was the hub of an empire spread so wide that it was only possible to maintain it via the medium of instantaneous communication through Weavers. It was the administrative,
political and social fulcrum on which the entire vastness of Saramyr balanced. Anais loved it, loved its constant ability to regenerate, the turbulence of innovation and activity; but she knew well
enough to fear it a little too, and she felt a ghost of that fear brush her now.
The Imperial Keep stood high and magnificent on the crest of a hill, looking out over all. It was a vast edifice of gold and bronze, shaped like a truncated pyramid, with its top flattened and
surmounted by a wondrous temple to Ocha, Emperor of the gods. It swarmed with pillars and arches, broken up by enormous statues that grew out of the walls, or which snaked along the grandiose
façade to wind around shining columns. At the four points of the compass stood a tall, slender tower, reaching high above the main body of the Keep, each one dedicated to one of the
Guardians of the Four Winds. Narrow bridges ran between the towers and the Keep, spanning the chasms between. The whole was surrounded by a great wall, decorated with carvings and scrollwork all
along its length, and broken only by a mighty gate, with its soaring arc of gold inscribed with blessings.
Anais turned away from the vista. The room was wide and airy, its walls and floor made from a smooth, semi-reflective stone known as lach . Three tall arches gave her the view of her city;
several smaller ones provided access to other rooms. A trickling fountain was the centrepiece, fashioned in the shape of two manta rays, their wings touching as they danced.
Messages had been arriving all day, both by hand and across the Weave, calling for a council. Her allies felt betrayed, her enemies incensed, and nothing she could do would assuage them. The
only heir to the throne of Saramyr was an Aberrant. She should have been killed at birth.
Weave-lord Vyrrch was in the room with her; the very last person she wanted to see right now. The Weavers were the ones who did the killing, and she could feel glowering disapprobation in every
syllable he spoke. He was at least wise enough not to berate her for hiding her child away from them, even though she knew that was what he was thinking. Did that foul ghoul seriously expect her to
give up her only child to their tender mercies?
‘You must be very cautious, Mistress,’ he gurgled. ‘Very cautious indeed. You have few options if you wish to avert a disaster.’
The Weave-lord was wearing his Mask, and for that, at least, she was thankful. His horribly deformed features were hidden behind a bronze visage, and though the Mask itself was distressing to
look upon, it was far preferable to what lay beneath. It depicted a demented face, its features distorted in what could be pain, insanity or leering pleasure. The very sight of it made her skin
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