The World Weavers Read Free

Jonas’s side of the table. The Magistrate and scholar conferred in whispers across Jonas before addressing the table.
    â€œWe see no reason to doubt the Templar’s information,” the Magistrate said. “We do not feel it will harm relations with the Southern Territory to close the city for a short period while we obtain more information.”
    The frustration on the Herald’s face matched Jonas’s internal conflict.
    â€œSo be it, but I want it noted that I do not agree with these actions, and I consider detaining ­people of the Southern Territory a precursor to a war I will not condone.” The Herald swept up her papers and left the room.
    The Templar looked triumphant and walked over to speak with the Mother Superior. While they whispered, Jonas stood with the Magistrate and scholar and gathered his papers. As they left the room, Jonas turned toward the dormitories. The Magistrate put a hand on his arm to stop him. Jonas reluctantly turned.
    â€œI know that bowing to the will of Parasu is difficult,” the Magistrate said, his voice sympathetic. “You are young and cannot yet understand why we must make these decisions. As the Voice, you must trust in Parasu.”
    Jonas gave a short nod and turned away. He reversed direction, heading toward the Temple of the One instead, hoping to lose himself in the dark peacefulness of the domed building. He also hoped he might see Alannah, one of his pledge mates and a Counselor of the One who’d become his confidant the past few months. Talking to her refocused his thoughts. Talking to her made him feel like he was still completely human.

 
    CHAPTER 2
    T ori stared down at the faded epitaph carved into the granite grave—­ Resting place of Vrishni Saria Agnew.
    Saria’s name was still legible after hundreds of years. Tori’s ancestors had carefully tended and recarved the letters as they faded.
    Saria had been a Vrishni, a wandering prophet. She had traveled to the desert and given the Southerners the prophecy that the Chosen would weave the deities and the One into a whole once again. But Vrishni Saria had kept one final vision secret from the Southerners. She had returned to her home in the North and started a family, knowing that her bloodline was the key to completing the prophecy and keeping the deities from destroying mankind. The Descendants of the Prophet Saria created their own carefully concealed towns, trained their children to defend themselves and hid from the followers of the deities. Saria’s Descendants revered her almost as a deity herself.
    â€œAll her Descendants except this one,” Tori murmured, clutching a bundle of flowers in her hand. Tori’s feli , Zara, bumped her white-­and-­black striped head against Tori’s waist, sensing her mood. Tori knelt and placed the flowers beside the headstone.
    Today was the Spring Festival of the Founding. Tori’s temple, which was far north of Illian, and the Northern mountain temples like it, sent acolytes out to decorate the graves of important acolytes and Vrishni. But these flowers weren’t in honor of Saria.
    â€œI’m surprised to see you decorating her grave,” a familiar male voice said from behind her. “I know you despise your role as Descendant.”
    â€œThese flowers aren’t for her,” Tori said, glancing over her shoulder. “And I don’t despise being a Descendant. I despise what it has cost my family.”
    Evan was dressed in travel leathers like her own and bore an uncanny resemblance to her, even though they were distant cousins. Each had thick black brows and hair, though Tori bobbed her hair and Evan pulled his long mane back with a leather cord.
    â€œI forgot,” Evan said, his stern features softening. “Your children . . . they were buried here as well?”
    Tori gritted her teeth. “And my husband. You should not forget. They were murdered for the