Read Online The Braided Path: The Weavers of Saramyr, The Skein of Lament and the Ascendancy Veil by Chris Wooding - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Wooding
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through complications she was
rendered barren in giving birth. She could have no more children. Lucia was the only one there would ever be. The sole heir to the realm of Saramyr.
And so she had hidden her child away from the world, knowing that the world would despise her. They would ignore her gentle nature and dreamy eyes, and see only a creature not human ,
something to be rooted out and destroyed before its seed could pollute the purity of the Saramyr folk. She had thought that the child might learn to hide her abnormalities, to control and suppress
them; but that hope was dashed now. Heart’s blood, how did they learn of it? She had been so careful to keep Lucia from the eyes of those that might harm her.
This land was sick, she thought bitterly. Sick and cursed. Every year, more children were born Aberrant, more were snatched by the Weavers. Animals, too, and plants. Farmers griped that the very
soil was evil, as whole crops grew twisted. The sickness was spreading, had been spreading for decades and nobody even knew what it was, much less where it came from.
The door was thrown open with a force that made her judder, and her husband thundered in, a black tower of rage.
‘What is this?’ he cried, seizing her by the arm and dragging her roughly to him. ‘ What is this? ’
She tore free from his grip, and he let her. He knew where the power lay in this relationship. She was the Blood Empress, ruler by bloodline. He was Emperor only by marriage; a marriage that
could be annulled if Anais wished it.
‘Welcome back, Durun,’ she replied sarcastically, glowering at him. ‘How was your hunt?’
‘What has happened while I’ve been gone?’ he cried. ‘The things I hear . . . our child . . . what have you done?’
‘Lucia is special , Durun. As you might know, if you had seen her more than once a year. Do not claim that she is our child: you have taken no hand in her
parenting.’
‘So it’s true? She’s an Aberrant?’ Durun roared.
‘No!’ Anais snapped, at the same time that Vyrrch said ‘Yes.’
Durun gazed in astonishment at his wife, and she, unflinching, gazed back. A taut silence fell.
She knew how he would react. The Emperor was nothing if not predictable. Most days she despised him, with his tight black attire and his long, lustrous black hair that fell straight to either
side of his face. She hated his proud bearing and his hawk nose, his knife-thin face and his dark eyes. The marriage had been purely political, arranged by her parents before their passing; but
while it had gained her Blood Batik as staunch and useful allies, she had paid for it by suffering this indolent braggart as a husband. Though he did have his moments, this was not one of them.
‘You gave birth to an Aberrant?’ he whispered.
‘You fathered one,’ she countered.
A momentary spasm of pain crossed his face.
‘Do you know what this means? Do you know what you’ve done?’
‘Do you know what the alternative was?’ she replied. ‘To kill my only child, and let Blood Erinima die out? Never!’
‘Better that you had,’ he hissed.
There was a chime outside the door then, forestalling her retort.
‘Another messenger awaits you,’ Vyrrch said in his throaty gurgle.
Flashing a final hot look at her husband, Anais pulled open the door and strode past the servant before he had time to tell her what she already knew. Durun stormed away to his chambers. For
that, Anais was thankful. She still had no idea how she would handle the anger of the high families, but she knew she would do it better without Durun at her side.
The chambers of Weave-lord Vyrrch were a monument to degradation. They were dingy and dark, hot and wet as a swamp in the heat of early summer. The high shutters – sealed
closed when they should have been open to admit the breeze – were draped in layers of coloured materials and tapestries. The vast, plush bed had collapsed and settled at an angle, its sheets
soiled and
rendered barren in giving birth. She could have no more children. Lucia was the only one there would ever be. The sole heir to the realm of Saramyr.
And so she had hidden her child away from the world, knowing that the world would despise her. They would ignore her gentle nature and dreamy eyes, and see only a creature not human ,
something to be rooted out and destroyed before its seed could pollute the purity of the Saramyr folk. She had thought that the child might learn to hide her abnormalities, to control and suppress
them; but that hope was dashed now. Heart’s blood, how did they learn of it? She had been so careful to keep Lucia from the eyes of those that might harm her.
This land was sick, she thought bitterly. Sick and cursed. Every year, more children were born Aberrant, more were snatched by the Weavers. Animals, too, and plants. Farmers griped that the very
soil was evil, as whole crops grew twisted. The sickness was spreading, had been spreading for decades and nobody even knew what it was, much less where it came from.
The door was thrown open with a force that made her judder, and her husband thundered in, a black tower of rage.
‘What is this?’ he cried, seizing her by the arm and dragging her roughly to him. ‘ What is this? ’
She tore free from his grip, and he let her. He knew where the power lay in this relationship. She was the Blood Empress, ruler by bloodline. He was Emperor only by marriage; a marriage that
could be annulled if Anais wished it.
‘Welcome back, Durun,’ she replied sarcastically, glowering at him. ‘How was your hunt?’
‘What has happened while I’ve been gone?’ he cried. ‘The things I hear . . . our child . . . what have you done?’
‘Lucia is special , Durun. As you might know, if you had seen her more than once a year. Do not claim that she is our child: you have taken no hand in her
parenting.’
‘So it’s true? She’s an Aberrant?’ Durun roared.
‘No!’ Anais snapped, at the same time that Vyrrch said ‘Yes.’
Durun gazed in astonishment at his wife, and she, unflinching, gazed back. A taut silence fell.
She knew how he would react. The Emperor was nothing if not predictable. Most days she despised him, with his tight black attire and his long, lustrous black hair that fell straight to either
side of his face. She hated his proud bearing and his hawk nose, his knife-thin face and his dark eyes. The marriage had been purely political, arranged by her parents before their passing; but
while it had gained her Blood Batik as staunch and useful allies, she had paid for it by suffering this indolent braggart as a husband. Though he did have his moments, this was not one of them.
‘You gave birth to an Aberrant?’ he whispered.
‘You fathered one,’ she countered.
A momentary spasm of pain crossed his face.
‘Do you know what this means? Do you know what you’ve done?’
‘Do you know what the alternative was?’ she replied. ‘To kill my only child, and let Blood Erinima die out? Never!’
‘Better that you had,’ he hissed.
There was a chime outside the door then, forestalling her retort.
‘Another messenger awaits you,’ Vyrrch said in his throaty gurgle.
Flashing a final hot look at her husband, Anais pulled open the door and strode past the servant before he had time to tell her what she already knew. Durun stormed away to his chambers. For
that, Anais was thankful. She still had no idea how she would handle the anger of the high families, but she knew she would do it better without Durun at her side.
The chambers of Weave-lord Vyrrch were a monument to degradation. They were dingy and dark, hot and wet as a swamp in the heat of early summer. The high shutters – sealed
closed when they should have been open to admit the breeze – were draped in layers of coloured materials and tapestries. The vast, plush bed had collapsed and settled at an angle, its sheets
soiled and
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