Weavers of War

Chapter Nine

Galdasten, Eibithar

It had been two days since Renald led his soldiers out of the castle in pursuit of Braedon’s army, four since he defied her, choosing to follow the counsel of his fool of a swordmaster and the first minister who, Elspeth was certain, had betrayed them all to the conspiracy. The duchess tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, that Renald would have made a poor king whose reign would do more to sully the Galdasten name than glorify it. But it wasn’t her husband for whom she had harbored ambitions; the fact that none of her sons would ever wear the crown made her seethe like Amon’s Ocean on a stormy day. If only she had been born into the Matriarchy of Sanbira where her keen mind would have allowed her to do more than merely recognize her duke’s many flaws, and her path to power wouldn’t have been blocked by the man’s weakness and timidity.

Even if he returned from this battle to which he had ridden, she would never again allow him into her bed. Let him fill his court with bastards, he’d take no more pleasure in her flesh. She would gladly take a lover herself and bear him a child, announcing to all that the babe wasn’t Renald’s, if the punishment for such a thing were not so severe. A part of her wanted just to kill Renald and be done with it, and not for the first time she found herself hoping that he wouldn’t survive the war. She knew, however, that the man’s death would do little to enhance the station of her sons. Renald the Younger would become duke a bit sooner, but he’d never have more. And Adler and Rory would both still be tied to their paltry thaneships. They deserved better fates.

More to the point, Galdasten deserved to be led by a great man. Elspeth had lived in the dukedom all her life and was as devoted to the house as any soldier or noble could be. Her father, the thane of Prindyr, whose title Rory would one day inherit, had been a great friend of Kell, the duke before Renald. Indeed, her father had planned to attend the feast that Kell hosted in Galdasten Castle during Morna’s turn in 872. At the last moment, however, amid fears that Elspeth, at the time a young lady just past her Fating, had come down with the pestilence, he remained in Prindyr. Hers turned out to be an ordinary fever, one that saved her father’s life. For that was the feast to which a madman brought vermin infected with the pestilence, killing the duke and his family, and dooming Galdasten to four generations of inconsequence. The House of Eagles should have been leading this realm, its banner flying above Audun’s Castle along with the purple and gold of Eibithar. Instead, its people bowed to a false king from Glyndwr, the weakest of the five major houses, and its foolish duke rode to fight on behalf of that king, thus preserving the very laws that barred his sons from the throne.

It all made Elspeth want to scream. Of course the duchess of a great house didn’t resort to such displays, so she spent her days on the castle walls, staring out at Falcon Bay and the Braedony war ships that controlled its waters. The guards stationed atop the battlements usually ignored her, having learned that they invited a sharp rebuke if they chose to offer her even the mildest greeting. She had to admit that Galdasten’s soldiers seemed in far better spirits since retaking the city. They gave little indication that they minded the presence of the emperor’s ships off their shores, as if they expected that once the war on the moors had been won, driving off the Braedony navy would be but a small matter. Elspeth doubted it would be so simple, but she kept this to herself.

It was late in the day; sunlight slanted sharply across the castle walls, casting long shadows and making the stone glow like gold. Liked winged wraiths, gulls circled lazily over Galdasten’s port, their cries plaintive and haunting. The air was still and the surface of the bay looked as smooth as polished steel.

Which made the sudden appearance of the lone ship that much stranger.

It sailed into the mouth of the bay as if pushed by Morna’s hand, skimming lightly across the surface, its sails full, its hull leaning so steeply that the straining cloth nearly touched the water. The ship flew no colors, but it sailed directly at the Braedony ships, leading Elspeth to believe that it had been sent by the emperor. Perhaps it carried a message to his commanders, or provisions of some sort, or additional men for combat.

But how could it be moving so quickly? Then it turned slightly, adjusting its course for just an instant, allowing the sun to hit its decks. And Elspeth gasped. Every person she saw aboard the vessel had white hair. Sorcerers, of course.

She should have run for help. She should at least have pointed out the ship to the soldiers standing nearby. But all the duchess could do was watch.

A sudden wind swept toward the first of the empire’s ships-she could actually see the gale move across the water. It seemed that the vessels were attempting to turn so that they might ram the Qirsi ship, but the wind hindered their movements. An instant later the ships were crushed, as if the same goddess that had guided this strange vessel into the harbor now smote the others. In mere moments the entire imperial navy had been destroyed; what Eibithar’s fleet had fought for days to do, to no avail, these Qirsi accomplished in the span of a few heartbeats.

Yet that was nothing compared with what they did next. It started as a faint golden glimmering along the surface of the bay, but it quickly built into a curling wall of flame that rose from the brine like Eilidh herself, indomitable, insatiable, merciless. Higher and higher it grew, racing toward the Wethy fleet. Elspeth heard herself cry out, was aware of the guards turning to look at her. But she couldn’t bring herself to look away as that wall of flame fell upon the vessels, in an eruption of fire and steam and charred fragments of wood.

“Demons and fire!” one of the man muttered. “What in Ean’s name was that?”

“It’s a Qirsi army,” Elspeth said, knowing as she spoke that it was true, that for all the dire warnings she had heard of a coming war with the renegades, she had not believed it until now. She faced the man. “Go find your captain! Have him place all his archers on the battlements and all his swordsmen at the north gate!” She glanced out at the bay again. The ship was already turning southward, toward the port. “Quickly! They’ll make land soon!”

Never before had she given a command to one of Renald’s men, but this soldier responded as if the order had come from the duke himself. He and his comrade bowed to her and strode, swords jangling, toward the arched entrance to the nearest tower.

Elspeth turned back to the bay, and saw that the Qirsi ship was speeding toward the city piers, driven once more by its phantom wind. She shook her head, terror gripping her heart. There wasn’t nearly enough time. They would be at the docks in mere moments. She crossed to the inner side of the wall and looked down on the ward in time to see the two soldiers emerge from the tower and run toward the armory.

“Hurry!” she shouted. The men didn’t even look up at her. They’re doing the best they can, a voice told her. Renald’s, naturally. Besides, what good will swords and arrows do against such magic? That question, for which she had no answer at all, forced her into motion.

The boys would be in the cloister for their devotions. All three of them had swords, and wore them proudly on their belts, but she didn’t want them fighting. Once more she saw in her mind that hideous wall of flame and she shuddered. She had ordered Galdasten’s warriors to their deaths, but she wouldn’t have her sons fighting a hopeless battle, not if there might still be some way to save them.

Men in the courtyard were shouting to one another and to the soldiers on the ramparts even before she entered the winding stairway, and before she reached the second level of the castle, where the cloister was, she heard soldiers entering the tower from the ward to make their way up to the top of the wall. Elspeth managed to leave the stairway before any of the men saw her. She ran through the corridor to the cloister.

The prelate had his back to the entrance as she entered the shrine, but he whirled on her, drawing a blade. Elspeth had to smile, despite her fear. The man was new to Galdasten-the old prelate had died during the previous harvest and this young man, Coulson Fendsar, who had once been an adherent in this very cloister, was elevated to the prelacy. He still seemed a bit unsure of himself at times, but the boys liked him a good deal and Elspeth thought his approach to the devotions refreshing if a bit unconventional. More to the point, she could hardly imagine the old prelate raising a weapon at all, much less putting himself between her children and armed invaders.

Seeing her, the prelate let out a long breath and lowered his sword. “My lady. I heard voices in the ward and feared the worst.”

“And with good reason, Father Prelate.”

“Have the empire’s men returned?”

She looked past him, saw her sons watching, the youngest, Rory, looking pale and frightened, as if he had just awakened from a terrible dream.

“No,” she said, lowering her voice. “A ship bearing a Qirsi army has just destroyed the fleets of Braedon and Wethyrn. They sail toward our piers even as we speak.”

“Ean save us all!”

“I don’t know that he can, Father.”

“Do you wish to take shelter here, my lady?” He straightened. “I’m not much with a blade, but I’d give my life in your defense.”

Again Elspeth smiled. “Thank you. I’ve come for my boys. I’m going to take them from the castle while there’s still time.”

Coulson nodded. “I understand, my lady. The duke would want no less. If I may be so bold, I’d suggest that you make your way to the Sanctuary of Amon. Most Qirsi still adhere to the Old Faith. Even these renegades may respect its walls.”

“Thank you, Father Prelate,” she said with surprise. “I hadn’t expected such … sound counsel to come from the cloister.”

A grin flashed across his youthful face and was gone. An instant later, he turned and beckoned to her sons. “Come, my lords,” he called. “Quickly now. You need to follow your mother.”

“What is it, Mother?” Renald the Younger asked. He was the image of his father, straight and thin as a blade, with unruly red hair and bright blue eyes. But he had Elspeth’s strength and nerve, and he looked eager for battle. “Braedon’s men again?”

“Not this time,” she said, ushering them all toward the doorway.

“Then who?”

“I bet it’s the Qirsi.”

She stopped for just an instant, staring at Adler, who had spoken. He was still a year shy of his Determining, but already he showed signs of being the cleverest of them all.

“What makes you say that?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Who else would it be, if it’s not the empire?”

“I’m scared, Mother,” Rory said.

She put an arm around him and kissed the top of his head. “Hush, child. Everything will be all right. Just come with me and do as I say. Can you do that?”

He nodded solemnly.

She urged them forward once more, stopping on the threshold to look back at the prelate.

“Thank you, Father Prelate. Ean keep you safe.”

“And you, my lady.”

She tried to smile, but failed, certain in that moment that she would never again see the man alive.

A moment later, fear for her sons overmastered all other concerns, and she was again in the corridors, hurrying the boys along toward the nearest of the sally ports. Everywhere she looked soldiers ran toward gates or towers, many with bows and quivers filled with arrows, others with swords and gleaming shields.

“Where are you taking us?” Renald asked, a frown creasing his smooth brow.

“Away from here.”

He stopped. “No! In Father’s absence I lead our house! I can’t flee, like a child or a woman!”

Elspeth gritted her teeth. She hadn’t time for this.

“Your father would be very proud,” she said thickly. “But he’d also tell you that you can’t fight this enemy.”

“Why not?” the boy demanded, proud, stubborn, defiant. Hadn’t she nurtured these very qualities, trying to make him more like his grandfather, more like her?

“Because this army is Qirsi. They’ll destroy this castle, and they’ll kill all who defend it.”

“I’m not afraid of dying.”

But I’m afraid of losing you! She remembered what it was to be this young, though the memory seemed to grow dimmer with each passing day.

“I know how brave you are,” she said, forcing a smile. “How brave all three of you are. It makes me very proud. But the fact is that all of you are still boys. Even you, Renald,” she said, raising a hand to keep him silent. “You’ve another year until your Fating, which means that you can’t yet lead this house, not even in your father’s absence. That responsibility falls to me, and I’m commanding you to follow me.” The smile returned for just an instant. “I need you to protect me, as well as your brothers. Father would tell you that your first duty is to our family.”

He stared at her a moment longer, his mouth twisting as it always had when he was deep in thought. Surely the Qirsi ship had reached the port by now. She wanted to grab the boy’s arm and pull him along behind her as she might a child half his age, but she knew how important it was that Renald accept this for himself.

“All right,” he said at last, reluctantly sheathing his sword.

“Come on then. We haven’t much time.”

They continued on to the sally port at the southern end of the fortress. The south gate road wasn’t the quickest way to the sanctuary, but it kept them a good distance from the pier and, Elspeth hoped, offered them their best chance of eluding the Qirsi.

By the time they were outside, however, the duchess could hear screams coming from the city, and before they were off Galdasten Tor, she could see the first of the white-hairs advancing on the castle. It occurred to her that she should have had them all change into plainer clothes, but by then it was too late.

“Hold, Duchess!” came a man’s voice.

The distance was great, but Elspeth didn’t know how far Qirsi magic could reach. She resisted an urge to look back at the white-hairs.

“Just keep moving,” she told the boys, her voice low and taut.

“Not another step, my lady!” the man called again, closer this time, the tone harder.

Still she didn’t slow.

Suddenly, a stone just beside the road exploded in a cloud of white dust, the report making her jump.

“Another step, and I do the same to one of you.”

Elspeth stopped, holding out a hand so that her sons would do the same. Turning slowly, she saw a tall Qirsi approaching her, followed by a company of perhaps two dozen sorcerers. But it was the leader who drew her eye. She had never seen a Qirsi like this one-comparing him in her mind with Pillad, her husband’s unremarkable first minister, she found it hard to believe that they were of the same race. This man was powerfully built and had an elegant bearing. He was even handsome in a chilling way, with his unruly white hair, brilliant golden eyes, and square face. He had the look of a noble-she could see why these others followed him.

Before she could stop the boy, Renald pulled his sword free and stepped in front of her.

“Get back, white-hair,” he said. Elspeth could see his hand trembling.

A sharp, ringing note echoed off the tor, and shards of steel fell to the ground, clattering off the stone road.

“I could do the same to your skull, whelp,” the man said. He gestured at the Qirsi standing with him. “So could any of my warriors. You may think yourself brave, but in this case you’d be wise to let fear stay your hand.”

Her son’s face shaded to crimson and Elspeth worried that he might say something rash. But he merely stared at the useless hilt of his sword.

“Your husband rode south with his army?” the man asked.

Elspeth regarded him for several moments. She wasn’t about to do anything foolish, but neither was she ready to just give him whatever information he wanted. “Who are you?”

The man grinned, though the look in his eyes remained deadly serious. “Very well. My name is Dusaan jal Kania.”

She narrowed her eyes. The name sounded familiar.

“Until recently, I was high chancellor to the emperor of Braedon.” His smile broadened at what he saw on her face. “This surprises you. Perhaps you think that a man in my position would have too little to gain and too much to lose from a movement such as ours.”

Elspeth opened her mouth, closed it again, shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought,” she admitted.

“It may also surprise you to learn that I’m a Weaver.”

“Gods save us all!”

“Indeed. Now I’m going to ask you again, and I won’t be so patient this time if you refuse to answer. Has the duke ridden south with his army?”

She hesitated, pressing her lips together. Then she nodded, feeling as she did that she was betraying her husband, wondering that she should care.

“And the first minister with him?”

“Yes, he-” She stared at him. “Pillad’s a traitor, isn’t he? He’s part of your conspiracy.”

The predatory smile returned. “As you might imagine, we don’t think of ourselves as traitors. But yes, he serves our movement.”

“I warned him,” she said, her voice low. “But the fool just wouldn’t listen.” The duchess nearly asked the man what orders he had given Pillad, but she wasn’t certain that she wanted to hear his answer, at least not in front of her children. Just a short time ago she had wished for Renald’s death. Faced now with the realization that he most likely would be killed, she found herself grieving for him, her eyes stinging with tears she had never believed she would shed.

“I see you understand,” he said.

“Understand what?” Renald the Younger demanded. He glared at her. “Mother?”

She ignored him, keeping her eyes on the Weaver. “What is it you want of us?”

“You’re to accompany us back to the castle and convince your soldiers to surrender the castle.”

Renald shook his head fiercely. “Never!”

“And if I don’t?”

“We’ll take it anyway, hundreds of men will die, and the fortress of your forebears will be destroyed.”

“You could do that?” But already she knew the answer. She had seen what this man and his army had done to the fleets in Falcon Bay.

“Weaving the magic of these other shapers, I can lay waste to the entire city.”

How could Kearney possibly prevail against this man? How could any sovereign? In that moment, Elspeth understood that she was looking upon the future of the Forelands.

“Very well. I’ll do as you command. In return, I ask that you spare my life and those of my sons.”

“Mother! You can’t do this!”

She looked at the boy. “Be quiet, Renald. Only a fool would doom so many men to their deaths simply out of pride and obstinacy. It’s time you learned what it means to lead a great house.”

The irony hit her as soon as she spoke the words. If this Qirsi standing before them truly intended to rule the seven realms, all Eandi nobility would be overthrown. Her sons would never rule in any court. Not even in Prindyr or Lynde, much less in Galdasten or the City of Kings. If the Weaver was thinking the same thing, he had the good grace to keep it to himself.

“Well?” she asked, eyeing the Qirsi once more.

“I make no promises, my lady, except to say that so long as you cooperate with us, you’ll not be harmed.”

She couldn’t be certain whether he meant only her or the boys as well, and she had the sense that his ambiguity was intentional. Fear for her sons seized her, and for a moment she couldn’t even bring herself to draw breath.

“Lead the way, my lady,” the Weaver said, his square face as placid as a morning tide. With a slender hand, he indicated the road back to the castle.

Run! she wanted to yell to her children. Make your way to the sanctuary and don’t look back! But she had little hope that they could escape the Qirsi, and every expectation that the Weaver would punish them all for making the attempt. So she turned, defeated and helpless, and meekly led them back toward the castle gate. The duke wouldn’t have recognized her; her sons wouldn’t so much as glance at her.

She kept her eyes fixed on the ramparts as she walked up the road, half hoping that Galdasten’s archers would loose their arrows despite her presence at the head of the Weaver’s army. Instead, they lowered their bows and called for the gate guards to open the portcullises. Just as the Weaver had known they would.

For all her talk of Renald’s cowardice, his weakness and poor leadership, Elspeth couldn’t imagine him giving up his castle without a single weapon being drawn. What have I become?

Within moments, they stood in the center of the lower ward, surrounded by men who even now looked to her for leadership. The archers still carried their bows, and the swordsmen held their blades ready. Elspeth could see murder in their eyes. She could still save Galdasten, if she were willing to sacrifice herself and her boys.

Perhaps the Qirsi read these thoughts in her eyes, for abruptly he grabbed Renald the Younger by the arm, pulling the boy away from her and in the same motion drawing his sword. For one terrifying instant, Elspeth thought the Weaver would kill the boy right there, but he didn’t. He merely laid the edge of his sword against Renald’s neck and looked at her, his expression unchanged.

“Tell them to lay down their weapons.”

“No, Mother, don’t!” the boy said gamely. “He’s not-”

“Quiet!” the Qirsi said. He pressed harder with his blade, so that a thin line of blood appeared at the boy’s throat and trickled over the steel.

Elspeth had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out.

“Now, my lady. Do it, or he dies.”

“Surrender your weapons,” she called to the soldiers, her eyes never straying from the steel and the blood. When several of the men hesitated, looking at one another, she said, “Please. I’ve seen what these Qirsi can do with their magic. They destroyed the entire Braedony fleet, and Wethyrn’s as well. We cannot defeat them; if we try, they’ll kill us all.”

The men stared at her for what seemed an eternity, until finally one of them stepped forward and dropped his sword and dagger only a few paces from where she stood. Then he bowed to her and took a step back. Slowly, others did the same, all of them offering obeisance to her as they added their weapons to the growing mound of steel.

Adler and Rory stood on either side of her, clinging to her hands, but though the Weaver had released Renald, the boy still would not look at her, nor did he bother to wipe the blood from his neck. He stood perfectly still, staring straight ahead, like a soldier bravely awaiting execution.

Soon archers were filing out of the towers to place their bows and quivers with the other arms. As the surrender continued, the Weaver whispered something to two of the other Qirsi, one of them a waif-like woman with eyes as bright as his own, and the other a man with pale yellow eyes in a lean face. A moment later these two started off in different directions, the woman with a half smile on her face.

“You two,” the Weaver said, pointing to the captains Renald had left behind to protect the castle. “Come here.”

The soldiers approached him, as a low murmur swept through the courtyard. They stopped just before him, both of them pale and tight-lipped.

“Your duke left the two of you in command of the army?”

Neither man spoke.

“Answer me.”

The Weaver didn’t move at all, but it seemed that both men suddenly sagged, as if they had abruptly taken ill.

“Yes,” one of them said. “We’re in command.”

He’s using magic on them, she had time to think.

“Get on your knees.”

The men dropped to their knees, their heads bowed.

The Weaver still held his sword, and now he stepped forward, raising the weapon as to strike them.

“No!” Elspeth cried.

The Qirsi glanced at her. “They’re soldiers, my lady. They understand that I can’t allow them to live. So long as these captains live, your husband’s soldiers remain an army. Without them, they become nothing more than a collection of defeated men.”

He faced them again, and with swift, powerful strokes hewed off the head of one man and then the other. Their bodies toppled sideways to the earth, blood darkening the grass. The other men said nothing nor did they make any move to retrieve their weapons.

Rory, on the other hand, was sobbing, his face pressed against her dress. Elspeth stroked his head, fearing that she’d be ill.

“See what you’ve done?” Renald said, glowering at her. “You made those men surrender and now they’re dead!”

She should have said something. She should have had some answer for the hatred she saw in her son’s eyes. But she couldn’t think of anything adequate. And in the next moment matters grew far worse.

“What are they doing with Father Coulson?” Adler asked.

The duchess’s head snapped up in time to see the man the Weaver had sent away moments before leading the prelate down the broad stone stairway that linked the castle’s upper and lower wards. Even from this distance, she could see that Coulson was trembling, and that his legs seemed barely to support him.

“What are they going to do to him, Mother?” Adler asked again.

She glanced at Renald, whose face had gone white and whose eyes still held such contempt.

“I don’t know, child,” she said. A lie, for who in that ward didn’t know, save for the young ones? The cloisters had long been tied to the courts and were known to be hostile to the Qirsi and their adherence to the Old Faith. Was it so surprising that these renegade white-hairs should strike at the prelacy?

“They’re going to kill him,” Renald said bitterly.

“They are not!” Adler shot back. “Are they, Mother?”

“Hush, child.”

The Qirsi man pulled the prelate with him until they stood before the Weaver. Then he threw Coulson to the ground and handed the Weaver the hilt of a shattered sword.

“This is his?” the Weaver asked.

“Yes, Weaver.”

The Qirsi nodded. “Thank you, Uestem.” He looked down at Coulson, a smile playing at the corners of his broad mouth. “So you fancy yourself a warrior, do you, Father Prelate?”

“I’m a man of the cloister,” he answered in a quaking voice. “But I’ll gladly take up arms to defend my house and my realm.”

“Bravely said. Of course, your house is defeated, and your realm will soon be mine. So it seems your courage has been wasted.”

Without another word, the Weaver raised his weapon once more and hacked off the prelate’s head.

Adler screamed, Rory’s sobbing grew louder.

Several of Galdasten’s soldiers looked away. Others shouted angrily, a few of them taking a step toward their weapons.

There was a strange, dry cracking sound, and the nearest of these men collapsed to the ground clutching his leg and howling with pain.

“That was his leg,” the Weaver said, his voice carrying across the ward. “It could just as easily have been his neck. And it will be for the next man who takes even a single step toward those weapons. Do I make myself clear?”

The others who had started toward the weapons stood utterly still, but several of them continued to eye the swords.

Apparently the Weaver noticed this as well, for a moment later there was a second snapping noise and another soldier fell to the ground. This one, however, didn’t cry out, nor did he writhe in pain. He simply lay still, his head tipped at a wrong angle, his eyes gazing sightless at the sky. The other men stepped back.

“You’re going to kill us, too, aren’t you?” Renald said, drawing the Weaver’s gaze.

“I have no intention of killing you today, Lord Galdasten.”

“What about tomorrow, or the day after that?”

The man smiled thinly. “Gleaning has always been my least favorite of the Qirsi magics.”

Renald said nothing.

“For now, you’ll be placed in the prison tower with your mother and your brothers. Beyond that, I can’t say.”

“You intend to rule the Forelands, and to be served by Qirsi lords, just as our king is served now by Eandi nobles. You can’t have men like me about, reminding your subjects of the day when the great houses ruled the seven realms.”

For some time the Qirsi just stared at him. Then he smiled faintly and said, “No, I don’t suppose we can.” With that, he turned away and beckoned to another of his Qirsi soldiers. “Take them to the prison tower,” he said, his voice so low that Elspeth had to strain to hear any of it. “Put the mother in one chamber, the boys in another. Make them comfortable, be certain that they’re fed, but don’t allow any of the Eandi to see them.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

“Can’t we be in the same chamber?” the duchess asked. “The younger ones are frightened.”

The Weaver frowned at her, as if annoyed that she had overheard. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

Rory still clung to her and now she indicated the boy with an open hand.

“But look at him. He’s only a boy. Surely there would be no harm-”

“I said no!” He spun toward the Qirsi soldier. “Take them away from here now!”

There could no longer be any doubt. Renald was right. The Qirsi intended to kill all three boys. Perhaps her as well, though she cared far less about that. They wouldn’t do it here. The executions of the captains and prelate had been intended to dishearten Galdasten’s soldiers, to sap them of their will to fight. But the killing of the duchess and her sons would enrage them. No, they would have to wait, though not long, for there was also danger in keeping them imprisoned for too long. It would be this night, perhaps the morning. No later. Elspeth felt her legs give way and suddenly found herself sitting on the grass only a short distance from the headless body of Father Coulson. Rory stared at her, a puzzled look on his puffy, tear-streaked face.

“Mother?”

“Get up,” the Qirsi soldier said, his voice flat.

“Please,” she sobbed, hot tears coursing down her cheeks. “Don’t do this.”

The Weaver kept his back to her, speaking in low tones with another of his soldiers.

“For pity’s sake, they’re just children!”

At that, he glanced back. “Yes. But one day they’d be men.”