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
