The Braided Path: The Weavers of Saramyr / the Skein of Lament / the Ascendancy Veil

by Chris Wooding

  The Pre-Eminent of the Red Order looked down on her coldly. ‘Satisfied?’ she asked, then walked out of the room, leaving Asara kneeling in a pool of her own blood.

  An hour’s walk northeast of Araka Jo, deep in the forested mountains, lay the glade of an ipi.

  It was a place of preternatural stillness and tranquillity, a cavernous sanctum with a roof of interlaced branches and leaves through which the winter sun shone in bright, slanting shafts of light. Gently rolling hillocks and tuffets cradled pools as motionless and transparent as glass; rocks smooth and white like bleached bone hid half-buried in the earth. In the midst of the glade stood the ipi itself: a colossal tree, its bark black as char, rucked and gnarled with age. Its uppermost branches meshed with the canopy overhead, while the lower boughs reached out across the clearing like crooked arms, fingers shaggy with pine blades.

  Lucia knelt at the base of the tree, her head bowed, clad in a belted robe of dark green. She was meditating, communing with the spirit of the glade. To talk to an ipi was easy for her these days. Her power had grown at a frightening rate since she had emerged from the shrine of Alskain Mar back in the Xarana Fault, and all but the most ancient spirits were open to her now. Yet with every step she took into the world of the spirits, she took one away from the world of humanity, and she was becoming more like them by the day.

  Kaiku watched her from the edge of the glade. Somewhere in the trees, out of sight, were her Libera Dramach bodyguards. But in this place, in the ipi’s serene presence, Lucia might have been alone in all the world. And it was true, in a sense. For there was no one like Lucia, nobody who could imagine what it was like to be as she was, poised halfway between two worlds and belonging to neither any more.

  It pained Kaiku to see her so isolated. Mishani’s visit had reminded her of Yugi’s stinging words, how he had accused her of neglecting her friends while she subsumed herself in the teachings of the Red Order. Once, Lucia had been like a younger sister to her; now, Kaiku was not so sure.

  Eventually, Lucia lifted her head and stood. She picked her way barefoot along the knolls, retrieved her shoes from where she had left them at the edge of the glade, and then joined Kaiku.

  ‘Daygreet,’ she said with a beatific smile, and then hugged Kaiku impulsively. Kaiku, faintly surprised, returned it.

  ‘Gods, you are the same height as me now,’ she said.

  ‘Growing like a weed,’ Lucia laughed. ‘It’s been too long since you came to see me, Kaiku.’

  ‘I know,’ Kaiku muttered. ‘I know.’

  Lucia put her shoes on and they began to walk back towards Araka Jo. Kaiku dismissed the bodyguards and sent them ahead: their charge would be safer with her than with twenty armed men, and they recognised her even without the makeup and attire of the Order. She and Lucia ambled along the narrow forest trails. Lucia chattered happily as they went. She was in an unusually ebullient mood, certainly not the state of dreamy detachment that Kaiku had come to expect from her.

  ‘The blight is retreating,’ she said out of nowhere, interrupting herself in the process of telling Kaiku about her day.

  ‘It is?’

  ‘The ipi can sense it. Since the witchstone beneath Utraxxa broke. The land here is recovering, little by little.’ She watched a bird arrowing through the treetops as she spoke. ‘We are not too far gone to go back. Not yet.’

  ‘But that is wonderful news!’ Kaiku cried. Lucia gave her a sidelong grin. ‘No wonder you are so cheerful today.’

  ‘It is wonderful news,’ she agreed. ‘And I hear you have news also.’

  Kaiku nodded. ‘Though I am not so sure whether it is good news or bad.’ And she went on to tell Lucia about her and Cailin’s encounter with the leviathan. The Weave-whale, as Cailin had come to call it.

  ‘I am afraid of them,’ she admitted. ‘For too long we had ignored them as they ignored us, assuming them forever out of our reach. But we have attracted them now, I think. They have noticed what was once beneath their notice. Our meddling in the Weave is drawing creatures to which the Weavers’ capabilities for destruction pale in comparison.’

  ‘But what are they?’ Lucia asked.

  ‘Perhaps they are gods,’ came the reply.

  Lucia did not comment on that, but it sobered her. They walked on a short way in silence through the sun-dappled forest. A raven hopped from branch to branch overhead.

  ‘Lucia, I truly am sorry,’ Kaiku said at length. ‘I have neglected you for some time now. I was so caught up in learning how to use what I have that I . . . forgot what I had.’

  Lucia took her hand. It was a gesture from the old Lucia, the child, before she became a young woman.

  ‘It is the war,’ she said. ‘Do not be sorry, Kaiku. You are a weapon, as am I. What good is a weapon if its edge is not sharpened?’

  Kaiku was shocked at the fatalism in her tone. ‘Lucia, no! We are not merely weapons. If I taught you nothing else, I taught you that.’

  ‘Then you believe we have a choice? That we can turn away from all this now?’ She smiled sadly, and relinquished Kaiku’s hand. ‘I can’t. And I don’t believe you can, either.’

  ‘You have that choice, Lucia!’ she insisted.

  ‘Do I?’ Lucia laughed again, and this time it was bitter and made Kaiku uneasy. ‘If I wanted to duck the expectations the world has of me, I should have done it long ago. Before the Libera Dramach reorganised; before the battle at the Fold, even. Too many people have died in my name now. I cannot go back. That time has passed.’ She looked down the trail, and her eyes became unfocused. She was listening to the rustle of the forest. ‘I’ve become what they wanted of me. I’ve become their bridge to the spirits, for what good it will do. I am a weapon, and a weapon is useless if it is not wielded. I cannot stay useless for very much longer.’

  ‘Lucia—’ Kaiku began, but was interrupted.

  ‘You think I don’t know about the feya-kori? How we have no defence against them, no way to strike back? How long before you all call on me, then? Your last resort? Your only hope?’ They had stopped walking now, and Lucia looked fierce. ‘Do you know how that is, Kaiku? To spend your whole life knowing that your options are narrowing day by day, that eventually you must deliver on this promise that you never made! They look to me as their saviour, but I don’t know how to save anyone!’

  ‘You do not have to,’ Kaiku told her. ‘Listen to me: you do not have to.’

  Lucia looked away, not remotely convinced.

  ‘In my life I have known people who are so selfish that they would sacrifice anything and anyone to bring advantage to themselves,’ Kaiku said, putting her hand on Lucia’s arm. ‘And I have known a man so selfless that he was willing to throw away his life too cheaply for the good of others. I believe the right path lies somewhere in between. I have told you before, Lucia: you need to be a little more selfish. Think of yourself for once.’

  ‘Even at the expense of this land and everyone in it?’ Lucia replied scornfully.

  ‘Even then,’ said Kaiku. ‘For as much as you think it might, the fate of the world does not rest on your actions.’

  Lucia would not meet her gaze. ‘I’m afraid, Kaiku,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You don’t know,’ she said, and her expression revealed a depth of something that made Kaiku scared to see it. ‘I’m changing.’

  ‘Changing? How?’

  Lucia turned from her, staring out into the forest. Kaiku’s attention fell upon the burn scars on the nape of her neck. The stab of guilt at the sight would never go away, it seemed.

  ‘I realise I am distracted sometimes . . . most of the time,’ she said. ‘I realise how hard it is to talk to me. I do not blame you for not coming to see me so often.’ She raised a hand to forestall Kaiku’s protest. ‘It’s true, Kaiku. I can’t pay attention to anything any more. Everywhere I go, there are the voices. The breath of the wind, the mutter of the earth; the birds, the trees, the stone. I do not know what silence is.’ She tu
rned her face sideways, looking over her shoulder at Kaiku, and a tear slid down her cheek. ‘I can’t shut them out,’ she whispered.

  A lump rose in Kaiku’s throat.

  ‘I’m becoming like them,’ Lucia said, her voice small and terrifying in its hopelessness. ‘I’m forgetting. Forgetting how to care. I think of Zaelis and Flen, of my mother . . . and I don’t feel. They died because of me, and sometimes I can’t even recall their faces.’ Her lip began to tremble, and her face crumpled, and she rushed into Kaiku’s arms suddenly and clutched her so tightly that it hurt. ‘I’m so lonely,’ she said, and began to cry in earnest then.

  Kaiku’s stomach and heart were a knot of grief that brought tears to her own eyes. She wanted to reach Lucia somehow, to do something to make things better, but she was as helpless as anyone. All Kaiku could do was to be there for her, and she had been sadly remiss at that these past years.

  And as they held each other on the narrow forest trail, the leaves began to fall. First one, then two, then a dozen and more, drifting down from the evergreens to settle on their shoulders and pile around their feet. Lucia was weeping, and the trees were shedding in sympathy.

  THIRTEEN

  The Tkiurathi appeared one morning soon afterward, on a slope south of Araka Jo. By the time anyone noticed them, they had already made cookfires, strung up shelters of animal hide, and dozens of them were sleeping in the boughs like cats. A makeshift village of yurts and hemp hammocks had sprung up overnight amid the tree trunks. To all appearances, they might have been living there for weeks.

  Tsata was sitting in the crook of a tree, where the branch met the bole, one leg dangling. He was idly sharpening his gutting-hooks on a whetstone, his attention elsewhere. From his vantage point at the north side of the village he could see up the dirt trail towards Araka Jo. He believed at first that he had chosen this spot at random, but he decided in the end that he was fooling himself. He was keeping an eye on the trail. Waiting to see if Kaiku would come to him.

  A Tkiurathi woman called from below. She raised her blade, and he tossed her down the whetstone, which she plucked from the air with a grin of thanks before wandering back towards the centre of the village.

  Tsata slipped his gutting-hook back on to the catch at his belt and relaxed, watching the activity around him. It was exciting to be here in Saramyr again, and the better because this time he was not alone, but surrounded by his people. They took the strangeness of the land in their stride. They were brothers and sisters, insulated within their pash, comforted by the knowledge of community. Tsata found himself smiling.

  At the base of the trees, traditional three-sided yurts called repka had been built. They were communal places for living and sleeping, with splayed, tunnel-like arms around a large hub construction with a chimney-hole through which curls of smoke rose. Other fires had been made outside: the hunters had already caught some of the local wildlife, and Tsata had been busy indicating foods that were safe to eat. He was recognised as the authority on Saramyr within the pash, having been here before and having studied its language and its customs long before that.

  It was the way among the Tkiurathi that they were all teachers, each one sharing what unique knowledge or abilities they had. It had been one such man who had taught Tsata Saramyrrhic, a man who had travelled and lived here for decades before returning to his homeland. Tsata had a particular gift for languages – he had already learned a good deal of Quraal, which was the lingua franca of the trading settlements dotted around the Okhamban coast – and he had been bewildered and fascinated by stories of Saramyr. He applied himself to learning Saramyrrhic with a singularity of purpose that impressed his teacher, and within a few years he was as skilled at it as any foreigner could be. The months he had spent here had improved his command of the language vastly, but even now he was not entirely fluent in the overwhelming multitude of modes and inflections, the tiny subtleties of High Saramyrrhic that only those born to it could hope to master.

  When he looked away from the settlement and back to the trail, Kaiku was there. She was regarding him impishly, a wry expression on her face.

  ‘Are you coming down here, or shall I come up there?’ she called.

  He laughed; he knew her well enough to tell that she was not bluffing. With monkey-like grace, he slipped off the branch and swung from it to the ground ten feet below. There was a moment of awkward hesitation as they met, as each tried to determine whether to greet the other in their native fashion or that of the foreigner; then Kaiku stood on tiptoes, kissed him on the forehead and embraced him. Tsata was warmly surprised: it was an unusual gesture of extraordinary intimacy for a Saramyr to bestow.

  ‘Welcome back,’ she said.

  ‘It is good to be here,’ he said. ‘I wish all welcomes had been as pleasant.’

  ‘The feya-kori,’ Kaiku murmured, nodding slightly. ‘I fear you could have timed your arrival a little better.’

  ‘Perhaps we have arrived at just the right moment,’ he countered. ‘From what I have learned, there have been no darker days than these. And there is no further need to convince my people of the threat to us; the men who return to Okhamba will spread the word. Seventy-five of us lost their lives the day we landed, but the remainder will fight harder for their sacrifice.’ His face cleared suddenly. ‘But we can talk of such things later. Let me show you our new home. And you must tell me what has occurred in my absence.’

  It was as if they had never been apart. They fell easily into the rhythms of conversation that they had established during their long period of isolation, when they had lived and hunted together in the shattered wilderness of the Xarana Fault.

  He talked of the many obstacles he had faced in his mission to alert his people to the danger of the Weavers. Kaiku spoke of her induction into the Red Order and her training. She told him also of Lucia and Mishani; he had met them briefly before his departure from the Fold, but he knew them primarily through Kaiku’s stories. And she spoke of her fears for Lucia, and about the Weave-whales, and the plight of the beleaguered forces of the Empire.

  They wandered the village as they talked. Kaiku had chosen travel clothes over the attire of the Order for her visit to the Tkiurathi village, for she did not wish to appear intimidating. Now she was glad that she had. Amid the informality of the Tkiurathi, she would have felt self-conscious in her make-up.

  The people were muscled and lean, their skin tough and their hands seamed through the rigours of their lifestyle. She often found herself identifying them as much from the unique pattern of their tattoos as by their features, for it was difficult to see past them at first: they were such an overwhelmingly prominent facet of their appearance. The women were strong and physically unfeminine by Saramyr standards, having little softness about them, though Kaiku found in some a kind of wild beauty that was appealing. They sat as equals with the men, their long hair bound with cord or left loose, wearing sleeveless garments of hemp or hide and trousers of the same.

  Tsata sat with her around one of the campfires that had been built out in the open, along with a dozen other Tkiurathi who were eating. The men to either side of them handed them bowls and tipped a portion of their own bowls into those of the newcomers. It was a typically Okhamban gesture of sharing. Kaiku did not know how she was supposed to respond, for she had nothing to give back; but Tsata motioned to her not to worry, no response was needed, and he began to fill the remainder of both their bowls from a pot of stew that hung over the fire. It was the meat of some local animal mixed in with vegetables and unfamiliar spices: it smelt delicious, though not so delicate as Saramyr food, more laden with heavy flavour. By the time he had finished, they had been handed chunks of bread from others in the circle, torn from their own loaves. Kaiku could not help but thank them, even though she knew almost nothing of their language.

  ‘You do not need to thank them,’ Tsata told her. ‘You do so by allowing them to share in your food, when you have some and they are hungry.’

  ‘I know,’
she said. ‘But it is difficult to break the habits of a lifetime. Just as I would find it odd if some of your people turned up at the door of my house expecting to be fed.’

  ‘It does not quite work that way,’ he laughed. ‘But I can tell there will be many such misunderstandings between your folk and mine in the days to come.’

  One of the women, who had been studying Kaiku, said something to her in their rough, guttural dialect. She looked uncertainly at Tsata.

  ‘She says your language is very beautiful,’ he translated. ‘Like birds singing.’

  ‘Should I thank her for that?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes. Ghohkri.’

  Kaiku repeated the word to the woman, by chance pronouncing it perfectly to murmurs of approval from round the fire. Encouraged by her response, others started to ask her questions or make observations, which Tsata translated rapidly back and forth. Presently Kaiku was drawn into the conversation around the circle, with Tsata murmuring condensed explanations in her ear as people spoke to each other in Okhamban. She began to interject with a few comments of her own, to which there was always a slightly uncomfortable moment of incomprehension until Tsata could provide the Okhamban; but they were polite and patient, and Kaiku began to enjoy herself greatly. They were clearly fascinated by her, and they thought that even the shabby travel clothes she wore were incredibly exotic.

  ‘Gods, they should see the River District in Axekami,’ Kaiku commented to Tsata, then remembered that Axekami was not as it once was, and saddened a little.

  Eventually, they left the circle and wandered around the rest of the camp. Everywhere Kaiku looked, she found something out of the ordinary, whether it was the way the Tkiurathi fashioned their tools, the smell of their strange meals or the startling way they slept in the trees.

  ‘It is an old instinct,’ Tsata explained. ‘There are many things on the ground that cannot reach us in the branches. Some people still prefer it, even in a safe forest like this one. The rest of us sleep in the repka.’