He turned to Dad, who was still staring in disbelief at the swirling black smoke on the TV screen. Kenna beat Skandar to the question. “Dad,” she said quietly, “who’s the Weaver?” “Shhh.” He waved a hand. “Something’s happening.” The view became clearer, the smoke lifting. Half sobbing, half shouting was coming from a figure on her knees in the sand. She was still in her armor, McGrath painted in blue across her back, surrounded by the other riders. “Please,” Aspen wailed across the arena, “please, bring him back!” Federico Jones—the fierceness of the race forgotten—managed to get Aspen to her feet, but she was still howling. “The Weaver took him. He’s gone. We won and the Weaver—” Aspen choked on the last word, tears running down her dirt-streaked face. A stern voice cracked like a whip. “Get these cameras off! Now! The Mainland can’t see this. Get them off, now!” The unicorns began to screech and bellow, the sound deafening. Their riders jumped into their saddles, trying to calm them as they reared and frothed at the mouth, looking more monstrous than Skandar had ever seen them. Only one of the twenty-five riders was left standing on the sand—the winning water wielder, Aspen McGrath. But her unicorn, New-Age Frost, was nowhere to be seen. “Who’s the Weaver?” Kenna asked again, her voice insistent. But nobody answered her.
