Weavers of War

Chapter Twenty-five

It was a disconcerting way to fight a war. Fotir had no idea from one moment to the next whether he should be advising his duke and the king or lending his magic to Grinsa. Several times already this day, the gleaner had entered his mind without warning, taking hold of his shaping magic to counter one of the Weaver’s attacks. It was disorienting enough having the man in his mind wielding his power. But to have this happen seemingly at random, with no time to prepare himself, left the minister dazed, his thoughts addled as if from a sharp blow. He could hardly follow the course of the battle unfolding on the plain before him. He knew only that it was going poorly.

Grinsa’s attempts to use the magic of the enemy to his own advantage-apparently a tactic suggested by Tavis-had worked at first, disrupting the Weaver’s initial attacks and costing the man a good number of his warriors. But the enemy had recovered quickly, reforming his lines and using the awesome power he wielded to devastating effect. The Eandi archers had inflicted some damage on the Qirsi army, but their ranks had been decimated by the Weaver’s shaping and fire power; fewer than a hundred remained alive and uninjured. Thus far Grinsa had managed to keep the enemy from doing the same to the Eandi swordsmen, but Fotir sensed that the gleaner’s strength was failing. Each new Qirsi assault exacted a greater toll than the previous one, and every time Grinsa reached for the minister’s power to defend the Eandi lines the effort seemed more desperate.

Grinsa stood quite close to where Fotir and his duke were watching the battle progress, but it might as well have been forty leagues. Having rid themselves of most of the archers, the Weaver and his servants had closed the distance between themselves and the Eandi lines. The Qirsi remained far enough away so that any advance by Kearney’s swordsmen would leave the Eandi soldiers exposed to the Weaver’s lethal power, but they were close enough to give the gleaner precious little time to respond to each new attack that Dusaan unleashed. All of Grinsa’s attention was directed forward, his gaze never straying from the Weaver.

“Damn them!” Hagan MarCullet growled, standing near Javan and Fotir. “Why won’t they just fight us and be done with it?” He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Fight, ye cowards!” he shouted.

Fotir glanced at the duke, who was already eyeing him, his expression bleak.

“Perhaps it is time we took the battle to them,” Javan said. “This doesn’t seem to be working.”

Hagan nodded. “Couldn’t the gleaner and the rest of you raise a mist? With the proper cover, we might be able to attack.”

The minister started to respond, but before he could say a word, Grinsa was in his mind again, drawing on his shaping power. Fotir could see nothing of the Weaver’s magic, of course, nor could he sense it, as Grinsa apparently could. But there could be no mistaking the panic in the gleaner’s thoughts.

“Get behind your shields!” Fotir called to all who could hear. “This is going to be bad.”

It was.

Even with Grinsa wielding the magic of so many, Fotir felt the collision of the gleaner’s power with that of the Weaver as if it were a body blow. He staggered, reaching out to steady himself on whatever was nearest, which turned out to be his duke’s shoulder. Grinsa touched his mind a second time, sending out another pulse of power. Nevertheless, when the Weaver’s magic hit the Eandi lines, it was like a storm tide rushing over castles of sand. The Qirsi attack shattered the bodies of hundreds of warriors, crashing through the King’s Guard, the soldiers of Sanbira, and the forces of Kentigern, Thorald, Heneagh, Labruinn, Tremain, and even Curgh. No army was spared.

Those who were able to raise their shields in time found themselves holding mangled pieces of wood and steel. But at least they were alive.

“The gleaner’s weakening, isn’t he?” the duke said.

“There are just too many of them,” Fotir answered, feeling that he needed to defend his friend.

“I’m not finding fault, First Minister, I’m merely making an observation.”

Reluctantly, Fotir nodded. “I can feel his weariness.”

“We should attack them,” Hagan said, echoing the duke’s words from a moment before. “Standing here waiting to die is not my idea of waging war.”

Javan cast a hard look at the Qirsi army. “We should at least suggest as much to the gleaner and the king, while there’s still time.”

Fotir nodded his agreement, and they hurried to where Grinsa and Kearney stood.

Grinsa’s face was as white as Panya’s glow, and sweat ran like tears down his cheeks.

“Please pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty,” the duke said, “but we’ve been wondering if it might not be time to alter our tactics.”

Kearney wore a pained expression, as if hope had long since abandoned him. “To what end, Javan?”

“We should take the fight to them. Have the gleaner raise a mist to conceal an assault on the Qirsi lines.”

“Any mist I raise the Weaver will defeat with a wind. I haven’t enough Qirsi to sustain both a mist and an opposing gale. It would be a slaughter.”

“It’s becoming that already,” the duke said.

Fotir thought the gleaner would argue, but he merely shrugged.

Kearney looked at Grinsa. “Can you keep the Weaver occupied for a time? Give us an opportunity to advance on him unseen?”

“Not without-” He faltered, his eyes widening slightly, though they never left the Weaver. “Actually there may be a way to give you that opportunity and perhaps win one for me, as well. Fotir, gather the Qirsi as quickly as you can. Bring them all to me. We haven’t much time before the Weaver attacks again.”

The minister glanced at his duke, who nodded immediately.

He sprinted off, running first to the west and then back to the east before returning to the gleaner. At one point he had to stop so that Grinsa could draw upon his power again and ward off another attack. Somehow, the gleaner was able to project more magic this time, and the Weaver’s assault had little effect. It seemed that whatever hope Grinsa had glimpsed had strengthened him, at least for the moment.

By the time he returned, there were a dozen Qirsi gathered around the king and gleaner.

Still, Grinsa frowned when he saw the minister had returned.

“Where’s Keziah?”

Fotir felt the blood drain from his face. “I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”

“What do you mean you didn’t see her?” Kearney demanded. “Where could she have gone?”

“It doesn’t matter right now!” the gleaner said, though there could be no mistaking the concern in his pale eyes. “I need all of you who have mists and winds to raise a mist together. Summon the mist from the center of the battle plain and when the Weaver raises a wind to counter it-”

“Wait,” Evetta said. “Aren’t you going to be weaving us?”

Somehow Grinsa managed a grin. “No, I’m not. The Weaver will think I am, and when he pits his magic against yours, I’ll strike at him.” He turned to the king. “Your warriors won’t have much time, Your Majesty. They must attack swiftly.”

“Should we use the horses?”

“I still think that would be a mistake. Especially in a mist. With the Qirsi on horseback, your warriors will have no doubt as to who the enemy is. And with your men on foot, the Weaver will have one less magic at his disposal.”

“Very well.”

“We should begin immediately.”

Kearney nodded. “We await the mist.”

Grinsa eyed his fellow Qirsi once more. “When the Weaver raises his wind, you’ll have to work together to fight against it. If this is to work, I can’t help you.”

“We’ll do our part,” Fotir said.

The gleaner smiled faintly. “I’m sure you will. Begin.”

Fotir faced the battle plain and began to draw upon his power of mists and winds. Without the gleaner in his mind, bolstering his magic, blending it with his own and that of the others, he felt weak and small. But among the Qirsi standing with him, several wielded this magic, and in just a short time a heavy fog had settled over the moor.

“Your Majesty?” Grinsa said.

Kearney drew his sword, as did Javan, Tavis, Hagan MarCullet and his son, and Gershon Trasker.

“Our lives are in your hands, gleaner,” the king said. “May the gods be kind to us all.”

“I’ll do all I can to protect you, Your Majesty. If by my death, I can insure your survival, and that of the others, then so be it.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.” Kearney faced his swordmaster. “Gershon, signal the attack.”

The swordmaster began barking commands, which were echoed along the Eandi lines in both directions. Within moments, soldiers were surging forward, their swords raised, war cries on their lips. It seemed that they had been waiting for this, impatient for the opportunity to fight back against this maddening, deadly foe.

The king and duke started forward as well, although not before Tavis turned to face the gleaner.

“When this is over,” Tavis said, “I want a new Fating.”

“What?”

The young lord was smiling, the scars he carried from Kentigern appearing to vanish for just a moment. Grinsa’s brow was furrowed as if he were frowning, but there was a smile on his lips as well.

“I’ve never had a real one, you know, and I think I’ve earned it.”

Grinsa laughed. “Fine. A Fating it is. Now go.”

Tavis gazed at the gleaner a moment longer, then turned and ran to join the rest.

Fotir and the other Qirsi continued to weave their mists and soon the Eandi warriors had vanished in the grey cloud they had created, though their shouts could still be heard.

“Why isn’t the Weaver doing anything?” Xivled jal Viste asked. “Why hasn’t he raised a wind yet?”

Grinsa was frowning, his eyes on the mist. “Where in Qirsar’s name is Kezi?” he muttered. Then, as if finally realizing that Xiv’s question had been directed at him, he shook his head, as if rousing himself. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I was wondering why the Weaver hadn’t raised a wind yet.”

“A good question. I think he may be confused. He’s probably wondering if this is a feint of some sort, or an act of desperation.”

“Little does he know that it’s both.”

Grinsa smirked. “Indeed.”

“Can he sense that you’re not weaving us?” Fotir asked.

“Probably, but even so, his lines are about to be attacked by more than two thousand men. He has to do something. The question is, will he strike out blindly, or try first to defeat the mist.”

* * *

For the first time since leaving Braedon’s Imperial Palace in the Weaver’s company, Nitara felt herself growing truly afraid. The mist itself was nothing to fear. The Weaver would have little trouble sweeping it away with a wind; he had far more sorcerers at his disposal than did the Eandi.

But it soon became apparent to her that he was making no effort to do so. Did he want the mist to remain in place? If so, what was it he expected of the rest of them? And if not, why had he allowed it to remain? Was he engaged in some other struggle? Or worse, had he been hurt or killed? Nitara tried to tell herself that this was impossible, but the night before she had seen blood on his face and robe, and this very morning another Weaver-another Weaver! — had taken hold of her magic and made her tumble from her mount. She had tried to convince herself otherwise, but this was the only explanation for what had happened to her, and for what had been done to others in the Weaver’s ranks. Where once, not more than a day ago, a mist like this one would have been of no concern at all, it now chilled her to her heart, as if Bian himself had summoned the vapor from his dark realm.

She could hear soldiers approaching. Hundreds of soldiers, perhaps more.

Abruptly she found herself helpless. She was on horseback, and she carried a blade, but she was no fighter. And without the Weaver, she had no magic with which to defend herself. She could raise a wind to blow away the mist, but what if the Weaver didn’t want that? Her other magics-gleaning and language of beasts-were of little use to her. She’d heard it said long ago that her people weren’t meant to be warriors, that their magics were not those of a conquering race. Indeed, these were words ascribed to Carthach himself, the traitor whose treason ended the first Qirsi War nine centuries before. But until this moment, she had never understood what he meant.

There were other Qirsi near her, barely visible through the dense mist, but none of them had said a word to her, and again, she wasn’t certain what the Weaver expected of them.

She actually had started to consider retreat, when at last a wind rose, gathering speed swiftly and stirring the fog so that it began to dissipate. Still the mist surrounded them, and other winds blew, clearly intended to counter the one raised by the Weaver. In the next instant, though, the Weaver’s gale died away, just as abruptly as it had appeared. Nitara began to hear voices calling out along the Qirsi front, the words impossible to make out at first. But it seemed this was a message that traveled the lines.

“Summon your own winds!” she heard. “Defeat this mist!”

She repeated the words, shouting them as well, listened as the command traveled past her and was lost in the wind and fog.

Before she could reach for her magic, the Eandi soldiers reached her. Nitara kicked at her mount, driving the beast directly at the men, hacking at them with her sword. There was no grace in her attack, no method. She was impelled by fear, and the certainty that if she didn’t kill the men they would kill her. From all around her came the cries of warriors and the clash of steel. Winds rose and fell, stirring the mist into a frenzy so that it seemed wraiths were dancing all around the battle, but failing to clear the air.

She could hear the chime of shattering metal and the muted snapping of bone, and she knew that there were shapers nearby. She nearly gagged on the smell of charred flesh, saw dark grey smoke mingling with the sorcerous fog. There were other Qirsi nearby who were better suited than she to fighting these men. She lashed out with her blade, doing little damage to the enemy, but keeping them at bay at least for the moment. As she fought, she turned her mount once more and kicked the beast to a gallop, retreating from the combat.

“Where are you going?” a man’s voice called to her. She stared into the swirling mist, unable to see more than a vague form, mounted and crowned with white hair.

“My magic won’t avail me in battle,” she answered. “From further back I can summon a wind.”

She heard no reply, but thought she saw the rider nod before he vanished.

As soon as Nitara felt that she was safe from Eandi steel she halted and added her own wind to the muddled gale that raged over the battle plain. Still the mist lingered, giving an unearthly quality to the sounds of battle-the screams and moans, the clang of steel, and the dull pounding of horses’ hooves. She tried to shift the direction of the wind she had summoned, but amid the magic of so many Qirsi, nothing she did seemed to have much effect.

The thought came to her with the brutal swiftness of a blow, stealing her breath and making her totter in her saddle.

What had happened to the Weaver? She and her fellow Qirsi were fighting this mist and their soldiers on their own, without his magic to bolster their power, without his vision to direct their efforts.

Was he dead? Was he locked in a battle of his own?

A second blow, even more potent than the first. The second Weaver. Who else could hope to engage him in combat for any length of time?

Before she knew what she was doing, Nitara was riding along the Qirsi lines searching for the Weaver, straining to see through the mist, desperate to catch sight of his chiseled face and regal mane. Gods, let him be alive!

She wasn’t certain how she could help him-of what use could she be in a battle between Weavers? She knew only that she needed to be with him. Nothing else mattered. Without Dusaan, this war was lost. And even if Nitara and her fellow Qirsi managed to prevail without him, what would be left of their movement? Who would rule the Forelands if not her Weaver? He was their strength, their cunning. He was their future. So Nitara rode, standing in her stirrups, gazing intently into the maddening white mist, her eyes tearing with the effort. She sensed that he was close, and also that he was in danger. More, it seemed that no one else understood this. It all fell to her. She could save him and so save the movement. Or she could fail and bring all to ruin.

* * *

As soon as he sensed the wind rising, Grinsa attacked. Shaping, fire, language of beasts, delusion, shaping again, healing, fire, language of beasts. Each time Dusaan warded one magic, Grinsa reached for another. He was weary and fear had crept deep into his heart. But he refused to despair, and he fought the Weaver with all the fury he had held within himself over the past year. Was Dusaan stronger than he? Perhaps. Grinsa didn’t care anymore. He struck at the man as a battle-crazed warrior hammers at the shield of his foe. He abandoned all to cruelty and vengeance, hatred and bloodlust. Shaping, healing, delusion, fire, language of beasts. Pity was weakness. Mercy might prove fatal. For this one moment, this final battle, he knew only malice and savagery.

For good or ill, this was his last onslaught. He would spend all destroying this man and crushing his movement. For Cresenne and Bryntelle, for Keziah and Tavis, for this land and its people, so imperfect and yet so deserving of his protection despite their flawed humanity. He drew upon his love of all, of life itself, and through a dark and perverse alchemy transformed it into power more fell and terrifying than any he had wielded before.

Fire, healing, language of beasts, delusion, shaping.

Magic coursed through his body, hot and terrible, searing his limbs, his lungs, his veins. He was ablaze with it, incandescent, as if Morna’s sun burned within him. Never before had he wielded power such as this; he had never even tried.

And within mere moments he knew that it wouldn’t be enough. Not nearly.

No matter how quickly he shifted from one magic to the next, Dusaan responded, altering his defenses to match every assault. Grinsa gave the Weaver no chance to fight back and kept him from weaving the magic of the sorcerers in the Qirsi army, but other than that, his attacks had no effect. Still he fought on, looking for an opening, hoping that just once he would reach for a magic that Dusaan had left unguarded. He didn’t.

Not even a Weaver could maintain such an attack forever. Already Grinsa sensed that he was nearing the limits of his endurance, and he knew that when his strength failed him, Dusaan would be ready. A voice within his mind-was it Cresenne’s? — called for him to break off his offensive, to save some of his strength for whatever would come after this gambit failed. Yet, he didn’t dare. He had sent Kearney, Tavis, and the rest of the Eandi forward under the cover of mist to bring war to the Qirsi army. As soon as he stopped trying to take control of Dusaan’s power, there would be nothing to stop the Weaver from slaughtering them.

Instead, he continued to pound at Dusaan’s mind with his own. Fire, shaping, delusion, fire, language of beasts, shaping. He could feel himself growing weaker. For a time, Dusaan had struggled to hold him off, like a swordsman parrying the attacks of a crazed foe. Now the Weaver seemed to be toying with him, as the same swordsman might play with a child, turning away his assaults with ease and unnerving confidence.

Still, when Dusaan’s reprisal came, Grinsa was utterly unprepared. One moment he was attempting to seize the Weaver’s healing magic, and the next he was on his back, the bones in both of his legs splintered like dry wood. Awash in a sea of pain, he never had the chance to scream. Suddenly he couldn’t draw breath. It seemed that some great demon from the Underrealm was kneeling on his chest.

Cresenne! he thought, silent tears on his face. I’ve failed! Forgive me!

He heard laughter in his mind, and then a voice.

“No, gleaner. You’ll not have such an easy death. You’ll see it all before the end. My victory, the destruction of your Eandi friends, the broken body of your sister. All of it. You’ll know torment and despair and humiliation before the sweet release you seek.” Dusaan laughed again. And then, out of spite, or simply because he could, the Weaver smashed the bone in Grinsa’s shoulder, the same one broken by the merchant Grinsa battled on the Wethy Crown. “That’s for Tihod,” he said, before leaving the gleaner with his agony and his sorrow.

Yes, there had been harrowing moments. Years from now when he looked back on this day, relishing once more his victory over the gleaner and the armies of the Eandi courts, he would admit that much to himself. Grinsa’s attack, while not unexpected, had been far more furious than he thought it would be. In its first few moments, Dusaan truly feared for his life. It didn’t take him long, however, to realize that the gleaner couldn’t hurt him. Perhaps if this had been Grinsa’s first attack it might have worked. But the gleaner was weary, his power diminished by all that had come before. The Weaver knew that he needed only to ward himself and wait. Eventually Grinsa’s strength would fail, and then the war would be Dusaan’s.

He would remember for the rest of his days how it felt to take hold of Grinsa’s power and turn it against the gleaner. No vengeance had ever tasted so sweet. It almost seemed that he could hear the bones shattering, that he could feel Grinsa’s hope wither and die. Was there risk in allowing the man to live? Of course, but not much. He was spent, broken, beaten. And he would die soon enough.

The Weaver could see nothing while the mist hung over the battle plain. It seemed that his warriors had managed to withstand the Eandi charge, but he couldn’t be certain of this so long as he battled the gleaner. After defeating Grinsa, however, Dusaan summoned a gale that swept away the fog, revealing a pitched battle between his Qirsi riders and the soldiers of Eibithar and Sanbira. The dead and wounded lay everywhere. Most were Eandi, their bodies broken or charred or bloodied by a sword stroke. But there were Qirsi dead as well, stark crimson stains on their pale skin and white hair.

As soon as the mist vanished, warriors on both sides faltered, as if uncertain as to what to do next.

Dusaan wasted no time. “Shapers!” he cried.

There would be no magic to oppose him this time, no pulse of power to match his own. He could destroy the Eandi at will. Grinsa was trying to take hold of his magic again. Dusaan sensed the attack coming and started to ward himself, but the gleaner’s attempt amounted to nothing. Grinsa had no strength left. His assault was so pitiful that Dusaan nearly laughed aloud. There was no one left to oppose him, at least no one who mattered.

The Weaver had thought to have the king of Eibithar murdered before this battle began, and his first thought now was to kill Kearney and thus deny the Eandi their leader. An instant later he reconsidered. By killing the king, he gave the man’s soldiers reason to fight and others reason to resist his advance across the land in subsequent days. Better to destroy the army and force Kearney’s surrender. He would ride at the head of Dusaan’s army a prisoner, stripped of his sword, his head bent, his hands bound. Let any others who might think to stand against the Qirsi see that.

He glanced at his warriors, gathering their power so as to strike at the enemy. The Qirsi were watching him. Fatigued, but expectant. They, too, knew that victory was near. He saw pride in their pale eyes, a desire to finish this, to realize the vision of which he had spoken so often.

The Eandi eyed him as well, terror and loathing on their faces. How long had he waited for this moment? It was all that he had imagined it would be, and more. He was as strong as a god, as indomitable as Qirsar himself. Power filled him-his own, and that of his servants. He had only to choose where to strike. He surveyed the battle plain for just an instant. Yes, there. A smile touched his lips, and he let the magic fly.

It was like fighting in a dream. He knew that others were nearby-the king, his father, Xaver-but he couldn’t see them and he hadn’t time to search for them in the mist. Qirsi horsemen appeared before him, and Tavis fought. Twice his clothes had been set ablaze. The first time, he had dropped to the ground, rolled back and forth until he extinguished the flames, and stood once more to fight on. The second time he didn’t bother with the fire on his shirt until after he had pulled the Qirsi from his saddle and killed him. He had burns on his neck and arm, but he didn’t care. He had been lucky to face Qirsi with fire magic. Shapers would have killed him.

The soldiers who saw what he had done cheered him, and after that they fought alongside him, guarding him from attacks, treating him as one of their own. At long last he had earned the trust of Kearney’s men-at-arms, perhaps even their respect. It was a shame that none of them would live out the day.

Even before the mist drifted away, borne on the sorcerer’s wind, Tavis sensed that the battle wasn’t going Grinsa’s way. It was intuition, nothing more-a cold, sour feeling in his stomach-but he took it as prophecy. He had often heard Grinsa speak with frustration of his gleaning power, of how uncertain it could be at times, and it occurred to him to wonder if this was what it was like: elusive, insubstantial glimpses of the future. When the air cleared, he wasn’t at all surprised.

The battle slowed, then ceased altogether, warriors on both sides staring up at the Weaver atop his mount, some of them with blades poised to strike. They remained that way for what seemed an eternity, though it was probably only a few moments. The young lord glanced to his left, saw Xaver standing motionless, his sword held loosely in his right hand, his eyes already fixed on Tavis. He opened his mouth and took a breath, as if intending to say something. And in that moment the Weaver struck.

Had Tavis been standing with his friend, he would have died as well, his entire body shattered as if some unseen fist had battered him to the earth. As it was, the Weaver’s magic reached only so far, stopping just a few fourspans from where Tavis was watching, helpless and aggrieved.

Heedless of all else, he bounded to his friend’s side, but it was already too late. Xaver lay lifeless on the grass, his body mangled, though there didn’t appear to be a mark on him. His eyes were closed, his face so utterly composed that one might well have thought him asleep and lost in a dream, had it not been for the small trickle of blood that seeped from his nose.

Tavis cradled the boy’s head in his lap, tears pouring down his cheeks and falling like rain on Xaver’s brow.

After a moment, he looked up, glaring at the Weaver. “You bastard!” he shouted. “You cowardly bastard!”

The Qirsi gazed back at him serenely, saying nothing. Then he turned toward Kearney.

“Surrender now, Your Majesty, and I’ll spare the rest of your men.”

Standing just a short distance from where Tavis knelt in the grass, Kearney gripped his sword and stood straight-backed, a gentle wind stirring his silver hair. “I’ll not surrender to you.”

The Weaver raised an eyebrow and gave a slight shrug. A moment later a sudden torrent of fire crashed into the other side of the Eandi army, searing flesh, hair, and clothing, scattering bodies as a gust of wind scatters seeds from a harvest flower.

The Weaver started to say something else, but Tavis heard none of it. At that moment Hagan MarCullet arrived, dropping to his knees beside his son’s shattered form, sobs racking his body, his voice breaking as he said the boy’s name again and again. Tavis laid the boy’s head in Hagan’s lap, drawing the swordmaster’s gaze.

“I’m so sorry, Hagan,” he managed to say. “If I hadn’t convinced you to let him fight-”

“Hush, boy. It wasn’t you or me. I know that; you should, too.”

Tavis nodded, wanting only to kill the Weaver, even if he died doing so. He heard more screams, reaching him as if from far off. Perhaps the Weaver had struck at them again.

The young lord hardly cared. He couldn’t take his eyes off Xaver, nor could he seem to stop crying.

“Lord Curgh,” a voice said from just behind him.

Tavis didn’t answer. This was the end. They’d die here on the Moorlands, or they’d be made slaves to the Qirsi. Either way, they had lost.

“Lord Curgh.” More insistent this time. Still Tavis refused to turn. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?

“Tavis.”

It was his name that reached him. Turning, he saw Marston of Shanstead standing over him, a look of deepest concern on his youthful face.

“What do you want?”

“It’s your father. I think you’d better come quickly.”

Tavis glanced quickly at Hagan, his blood turning cold. “Stay here,” he said.

He stood and hurried after Marston, his apprehension mounting with every step, his legs trembling so badly he expected to stumble at any moment. The thane led him past living soldiers and then past dead ones. No one spoke, or if they did, Tavis didn’t hear them. He just walked, following the man to where his father lay.

The duke lived still, but only barely. Like Xaver, he was unmarked. Shaping. How did one fight such an enemy?

“Your son, my lord,” said a soldier who knelt by Javan.

The duke’s eyes fluttered open. “Tavis?” he said, the word coming out as a sigh.

Tavis’s tears were flowing once more. Had they even stopped?

“Yes, Father,” he said, kneeling as well and taking his father’s hand. The duke’s skin was as cold as stone. “I’m here.”

“Tell your mother … Tell her I’m sorry I didn’t make it home to her.”

“Father-”

“No. Listen. You lead our house now. No matter what. Curgh is yours. Even in defeat, you remain who you are. Never surrender.”

Tavis didn’t know what to say, and he couldn’t have spoken if he had.

“This last year, you’ve made me proud.”

“You should have been king.”

Javan shook his head, closing his eyes. “No. The gods know. This was … my fate.”

The duke’s mouth opened, as if he was going to speak again. But he moved no more.

He should have taken his sword and rushed at the Weaver. He would have died, of course, but perhaps he would have inspired others to do the same. Maybe he could have turned the tide of this battle. But Tavis could do nothing more than kneel beside his father, the duke of Curgh, and surrender all to grief.

“Lay down your sword!” he heard the Weaver say, steel in his voice. “Save the lives of those few who remain under your command!”

“We don’t fear death,” Kearney answered, his voice equally strong. “Indeed, if surrender means submitting to the rule of a tyrant, we would rather die than yield.”

There was a brief silence. Then, “So be it. You bring this doom on yourself, Eandi.”

Wrenching himself out of his mourning, Tavis made himself watch. If this was to be the end of Eibithar, the end of the House of Curgh, he owed it to his father and Xaver to bear witness.

“Shapers,” the Weaver said, his eyes never leaving Kearney’s face.

She fought without purpose, without thought, without love or hate or fear. The Weaver drew upon her power as if it were ink in a well, using what he needed when he needed it. She offered neither resistance nor passion. Even when the mist surrounded her, and the Weaver no longer touched her mind, she didn’t grow afraid. Soldiers appeared before her, brandishing their blades, eyeing her with contempt, and she struck at them, using her magic to break their swords. But she didn’t kill. That she left to the other Qirsi. This was no attempt to embrace virtue. She knew that the Weaver used her magic to destroy Eandi warriors and that if Bian chose to judge her harshly when at last she died, he’d have ample reason for doing so. She simply didn’t care enough about any of this to take the lives of those she rendered unarmed.

Watching her do battle, one might have thought her resigned to the inevitability of her death, but that wasn’t right either. She didn’t want to die. Or more precisely, she didn’t want to face her dead in Bian’s Underrealm. Not like this.

Yet even that didn’t explain it.

It almost seemed that she was dead already. Nothing could be taken from her that she hadn’t already lost. Nothing could touch her. Not grief, though she would have welcomed tears; not rage, though anger might have brought with it courage and resolve; not even the cold calculation of ambition, though she knew that others around her fought for the glory promised them by the Weaver.

She was aware only of what she saw before her, of what the Weaver expected of her, of what she had to do to survive. That, and of the voice repeating itself in her mind, nudging her toward action.

Why did she resist? Was she afraid after all? Yes, it seemed she was. Not of death, but of failure which would bring pain and humiliation. Better to do nothing than to face those, for she would fail. She knew that as well.

Still, the voice remained with her, both gentle and insistent.

Don’t let him win.

She didn’t feel the Weaver’s touch for some time, and she began to think that perhaps he had been defeated, that none of this would fall to her. But then a wind whipped past her, driving off the mist, leaving her squinting in the bright sunlight. A moment later the Weaver touched her mind once more, dipping into the well, using her power to kill hundreds.

He’ll do this to everything. Fight him.

What could she do against such power? It would be a futile gesture, a sacrifice without meaning.

Again he took hold of her magic, crushing Eandi soldiers as if they were ants.

Don’t let him.

She had let Evanthya die. Her cowardice had cost her the one love she had ever known. Now it held her again, robbing her of her strength, her will.

My strength to you.

“Lay down your sword!”

Eibithar’s king stood defiant and regal, looking much as a king should. But Fetnalla knew that she didn’t do this for him, or for any of the Eandi. She harbored no love for them. Even here, at the end, she still found herself unable to forgive Brall for his suspicions, his betrayal of their friendship. No, whatever she did would be for Evanthya.

“So be it! You bring this doom on yourself, Eandi.”

The Weaver was already reaching for her power when he said, “Shapers.”

It made this easier in a way, for he strengthened her himself. He augmented her magic, blending it with his own and that of the others. She needed only to direct it, to turn it back on him.

It was not until she tried to do just this, however, that she realized how great a mistake she had made.

The Weaver hesitated, and then his eyes snapped toward her, blazing like ward fires.

“What are you doing?”

She struggled to fight him, to strike at him with her shaping power. But her magic was part of a far greater force now, an alloy forged from the power of so many. It was enormous, a weapon far beyond her abilities. She could no more wield it than a child could a soldier’s broadsword.

He glared at her, his eyes narrowing. Abruptly, she couldn’t breathe. “Why?” he demanded. “What could make you do this?”

Before she could answer a second mind touched her own, and she sensed that there was magic here as well. It was no match for the Weaver’s but still it was considerable, and it took hold of that great weapon, the one she hadn’t the power to master herself.

“No!” she heard the Weaver roar.

This second presence held fast, struggling to break the Weaver’s grip on her. She felt it growing more potent, as if feeding on the magic of the other Qirsi, until it equaled the Weaver’s might. And then it struck.

Dusaan struggled to wrest control of the magic from this other force-Fetnalla understood that she had become a battlefield, that somehow the fate of the Forelands would be determined by this fight for her power. And after a moment’s uncertainty, she chose.

Don’t let him win.

There was, of course, an explanation for all that was happening around her, one that made sense within the natural laws that governed Qirsi magic. She didn’t care. As far as Fetnalla was concerned, it was Evanthya fighting the Weaver, grappling with him for control of her magic, giving her the power to resist. My strength to you, her love had said.

Yes.

How many times had he surrendered to despair, thinking that he had lost this war, only to find that hope yet remained? But on this day, at last, Grinsa knew that he had lost, that with his body broken and his power exhausted, there was nothing more he could do to combat the Weaver and his army.

Yet when he heard those words-“What are you doing?”-he lifted his gaze to the Weaver’s face. And seeing doubt in the man’s eyes he dared hope that there might still be one last chance to save all that he held dear.

He reached forth with his mind and immediately found the woman. There were still many Qirsi in Dusaan’s army, but this one stood out like a gem among river stones. Bright, defiant, grieving, proud. He hadn’t time to wonder who she was, or why she did this. He reached for her magic, took hold of it with all the strength he had left.

Doing so he found himself in possession of all Dusaan’s servants, at least all those with shaping magic. For they were one, joined into a single force by the Weaver himself, ready to strike. He had only to seize them from the man, and they were his.

But he was weak, wounded, forlorn, and he would have failed had it not been for the woman. Her magic filled him, renewed him, restored his power and his spirit. Still, he hadn’t enough to overmaster the Weaver. Not without help.

And who else should come to his aid in that one last moment, than Tavis of Curgh, who despite all that he once had been, was now a man of courage and keenest insight. Grinsa heard the young lord’s voice cry out, saw him raise his sword and charge toward the Qirsi lines. His was a futile attack, an invitation to death, but it was also the last thing that Dusaan expected. The Weaver’s attention wavered. It was only for an instant, but it was enough. Taking hold of the magic, of this great, shining weapon the woman had offered him, Grinsa ripped it away from the Weaver, and smote him, drawing upon all the strength he had left, knowing that he would have only this one opportunity.

Dusaan flew off of his mount as if swatted by the hand of a god.

A shrill cry of disbelief and anguish and fury was ripped from the man’s throat as he tumbled through the air and landed in a heap just in front of his army. He stirred, reached one last time for his magic, shouting his rage. And Grinsa hammered at him again, crushing him, silencing him, ridding the Forelands of his malice and his terrifying magic.

For the span of a heartbeat, every man and woman on the battle plain was still. Qirsi, Eandi. None so much as took a breath. Grinsa heard no sound save the rustling of the grasses in the soft wind.

Then all was tumult.

* * *

She heard the king shout out for his men to attack, and she saw several of her fellow warriors turn their mounts and flee rather than face Eandi steel without the guiding power of the Weaver.

But Nitara paid no heed to any of them. Dusaan was dead. Her heart had been rent in two. She couldn’t bring herself to fight, nor did she care enough about her own survival to retreat. Vengeance was all that was left to her, and she took it.

The woman who had turned on them sat motionless, staring at the Weaver’s crumpled body, oblivious of all that was happening around her. There may even have been a tear on her face.

Nitara cared not. Raising her sword, she kicked at the flanks of her mount and charged the woman.

“For my people!” she shouted, and swung her weapon.

The woman looked up in time to see Nitara riding toward her, but she made no effort to defend herself. The blade sliced into her side and she fell to the ground, making no sound at all.

Nitara reined her horse to a halt, threw herself off of the beast, and strode to the woman’s side. Blood poured from the wound, darkening the grasses and soil, but Nitara hardly noticed. She laid the tip of her blade at the base of the woman’s neck, staring down at her, hating her more than she had ever hated anything or anyone.

“Why?” she shouted, tears suddenly coursing down her face. “Why did you betray him?”

The woman just gazed up at the sky, a slight smile on her lips. “My love,” she whispered, and was still.

“Tell me!” Nitara cried, though she knew that the woman was beyond hearing. “Damn you!”

Aware once more of the battle raging around her, she looked up. Three Eandi soldiers were advancing on her, swords held ready. No doubt she should have retreated to fight another day, but as far as she was concerned there were no more days. The living world had become for her a wasteland. Grinning darkly, she raised her sword and awaited their assault.