Read Online The Braided Path: The Weavers of Saramyr, The Skein of Lament and the Ascendancy Veil by Chris Wooding - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chris Wooding
Ads: Link
crawl. It was old, very old; and where the True Masks were concerned, age meant power. She dreaded to think how many minds had been lost to that Mask, and how much of Vyrrch’s remained . .
.
‘What do you advise then, Weave-lord?’ she replied, concealing her distaste with a skill born through many years of practice. Silently, she dared him to suggest having her daughter
executed.
‘You must appear conciliatory, at least. You have deceived them, and they will expect you to acknowledge that. Do not underestimate the hatred that we of Saramyr bear for
Aberrants.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Vyrrch,’ she snapped. Though slender and willowy, with petite features and an innocent appearance, she could be iron when she wanted to be.
‘She’s not an Aberrant. She’s just a child with a talent. My child.’
‘I know well the semantics of the word, Mistress,’ he wheezed, shifting his hunched body. He was clothed in ragged robes, a patchwork of fibres, beads, bits of matting and animal
hide cannibalised together in an insane fashion. All the Weavers wore similar attire. Anais had never had the desire to delve deep enough into their world to ask why.
The Weavers had been responsible for the practice of killing Aberrant children for more than a hundred years. They were gifted at tracking down the signs, searching with their unearthly senses
across the Weave to root out corruption in the purity of the human form. Though they were reclusive as a rule, preferring to remain in the comfort of noble houses or in their monasteries in the
mountains, they made exception where Aberrants were concerned. Weavers travelled from town to village to city, appearing at festivals or gatherings, teaching the common folk to recognise the
Aberrant in their midst, urging them to give up the creatures that hid among them. The visit of a Weaver to a town was an almost religious event, and the people gathered in fear and awe, both
repulsed and drawn by the strange men in their Masks. While there, they listened to the Weaver’s teachings, and passed on that wisdom to their children. Though the content of the teachings
never varied, the Weavers were tireless, and their word had become so ingrained in the psyche of the people of Saramyr that it was as familiar as the rhymes of childhood or the sound of a
mother’s voice.
Vyrrch waited for Anais’s gaze to cool before continuing. ‘What I think of the matter is not relevant. You must be prepared for the wrath of the families. The child you have borne is
an Aberrant to them. They will make little distinction between Lucia and the twisted, blind, limbless children that we of the Weavers must deal with every day. Both are . . . deviant . Until
today, they believed the line of Erinima had an heir. Sickly, perhaps – I believe that was your excuse for hiding her away from us? – but an heir nonetheless. Now they find it does not,
and many possibilities will—’
‘It does , Vyrrch,’ Anais smouldered. ‘My child will take the throne.’
‘As an Aberrant?’ Vyrrch chuckled. ‘I doubt that.’
Anais turned to the fountain to cover the tightening of her jaw. She knew Vyrrch spoke the truth. The people would never suffer an Aberrant as ruler. And yet, what other choice was there?
Apart from her phenomenal speed at picking up speech, Lucia had displayed few outward signs of her abilities until she reached two harvests of age; but Anais knew. If she was honest with
herself, she had known instinctively, early in the pregnancy, that the child in her womb was abnormal. At first she did not dare believe; but later, when she faced the reality of the situation, she
did not care. She would not consider telling her doctor; he would have counselled poisoning the child in the womb. No, she would not have given Lucia up for anything.
Perhaps that would be her downfall. Perhaps, if she had given up Lucia, she would have borne many healthy babies afterward. But she made her choice, and
.
‘What do you advise then, Weave-lord?’ she replied, concealing her distaste with a skill born through many years of practice. Silently, she dared him to suggest having her daughter
executed.
‘You must appear conciliatory, at least. You have deceived them, and they will expect you to acknowledge that. Do not underestimate the hatred that we of Saramyr bear for
Aberrants.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Vyrrch,’ she snapped. Though slender and willowy, with petite features and an innocent appearance, she could be iron when she wanted to be.
‘She’s not an Aberrant. She’s just a child with a talent. My child.’
‘I know well the semantics of the word, Mistress,’ he wheezed, shifting his hunched body. He was clothed in ragged robes, a patchwork of fibres, beads, bits of matting and animal
hide cannibalised together in an insane fashion. All the Weavers wore similar attire. Anais had never had the desire to delve deep enough into their world to ask why.
The Weavers had been responsible for the practice of killing Aberrant children for more than a hundred years. They were gifted at tracking down the signs, searching with their unearthly senses
across the Weave to root out corruption in the purity of the human form. Though they were reclusive as a rule, preferring to remain in the comfort of noble houses or in their monasteries in the
mountains, they made exception where Aberrants were concerned. Weavers travelled from town to village to city, appearing at festivals or gatherings, teaching the common folk to recognise the
Aberrant in their midst, urging them to give up the creatures that hid among them. The visit of a Weaver to a town was an almost religious event, and the people gathered in fear and awe, both
repulsed and drawn by the strange men in their Masks. While there, they listened to the Weaver’s teachings, and passed on that wisdom to their children. Though the content of the teachings
never varied, the Weavers were tireless, and their word had become so ingrained in the psyche of the people of Saramyr that it was as familiar as the rhymes of childhood or the sound of a
mother’s voice.
Vyrrch waited for Anais’s gaze to cool before continuing. ‘What I think of the matter is not relevant. You must be prepared for the wrath of the families. The child you have borne is
an Aberrant to them. They will make little distinction between Lucia and the twisted, blind, limbless children that we of the Weavers must deal with every day. Both are . . . deviant . Until
today, they believed the line of Erinima had an heir. Sickly, perhaps – I believe that was your excuse for hiding her away from us? – but an heir nonetheless. Now they find it does not,
and many possibilities will—’
‘It does , Vyrrch,’ Anais smouldered. ‘My child will take the throne.’
‘As an Aberrant?’ Vyrrch chuckled. ‘I doubt that.’
Anais turned to the fountain to cover the tightening of her jaw. She knew Vyrrch spoke the truth. The people would never suffer an Aberrant as ruler. And yet, what other choice was there?
Apart from her phenomenal speed at picking up speech, Lucia had displayed few outward signs of her abilities until she reached two harvests of age; but Anais knew. If she was honest with
herself, she had known instinctively, early in the pregnancy, that the child in her womb was abnormal. At first she did not dare believe; but later, when she faced the reality of the situation, she
did not care. She would not consider telling her doctor; he would have counselled poisoning the child in the womb. No, she would not have given Lucia up for anything.
Perhaps that would be her downfall. Perhaps, if she had given up Lucia, she would have borne many healthy babies afterward. But she made her choice, and
Similar Books
