The False Martyr by H. Nathan Wilcox Read Free Book Online

face to a pulp. He looked at her with controlled
indifference, but there was annoyance beneath that mask, not fear
or anger, just the annoyance of a patient parent wondering what to
do with an especially wicked child.
    “ I cannot stop you,” the
man continued in his emotionless whisper. “But I must maintain the
pattern. I saw a way to save those men, but the next time, the
Order may not be so forgiving. Do you understand?”
    Teth was not sure if she
did. Were they really going to kill those men for not catching the
shuttle? It wasn’t even their fault. She had heard stories of
Weavers. She knew they were crazy, but that was too much even for
the wildest tales. Considering, she studied the room, saw the men,
over a hundred, move in perfect harmony – smack, smack, smack. She
remembered the look of horror in the eye of the man she had
disturbed. He had known even before the executioner arrived that
his life was over. His had not been the look of a man who expected
to be beaten or expelled. It had been the look of a man who
expected to die.
    “ You people are crazy,”
Teth mumbled. She rubbed her forehead where it had hit the stones
and spit more blood.
    “ We are the last remnants
of Valatarian’s true disciples. And we are your only hope,” the man
replied with a frown. “Now, can we leave these men to their work?
If you’ll accompany me, I can answer some of your questions.” The
man gestured toward the door.
    With a final look back,
Teth led the way into the blinding light of the sun. She stumbled
and blinked against the scorching white, realizing only then how
much cooler it had seemed in the workshop. Shielding her eyes with
her hand, she looked up and found her guide was already several
paces ahead of her. With a grunt, she stumbled to catch up but
maintained some distance as if she had something to fear from the
little old man.
    “ What is your name?” she
asked the man. He slowed his pace as they reached the portion of
the path that ran in a circle around the tower.
    “ We do not have names
here,” he replied. “We exist only to provide a clear pattern for
the Master. We have no more need for names than do the strands on
the loom.”
    “ So this is a Weaver
commune?”
    “ As you already
knew.”
    Teth walked slowly
alongside the man with her sleeve pressed to her lip. She watched
the area around her, waiting for someone to spring from the bushes
to carry her away and drain her will. Parents often told their
unruly children that the Weavers would get them, that they would
drag them away to their communes where they would have no choice
but to obey. She, in particular, had lived under that threat. As a
willful child with no parents, she had even believed them, had
cowered in her room in fear that she be taken away to someplace
where her will, her very identity was forfeit. Milne had eventually
convinced her that it was all a story, that no such place existed,
and that it could not contain her if it did. The assurance had
dried Teth’s tears, but it had not stopped the threats.
    Now, the nightmare had
become true. She felt her breath catch even at the thought. She
forced her lungs to bring in air and considered what she had
already done. Some of the stories said that the Weavers drugged
their initiates or cast spells on them to steal their wills. Had
she been drugged? The water? The bread? She felt her head spinning,
her breaths increasing, her heart thumping. Were these the first
indications of the poison that would soon leave her like the men in
that room? She gasped, certain now that she could feel the drugs
fogging her mind.
    “ All those here
participate of their own volition,” the man said from beside her.
Did he show a smirk as he said it? “The stories you have heard are
lies. Our monks are not drugged. We do not cast spell upon them.
Their freewill remains, but they strive always to suppress it, to
align themselves with the Order and the pattern the Master is
working to maintain. Only