He’s an eight circle born He’s a master of illusions He weaves them upon the air Till you’d think they’re breathing He’s a master of illusion Well he knows what he’s weaving No lover can hold his attention He has no heart worth giving He falls in love of a sudden In a single sundering moment With his own babe newborn With his child festival-conceived And though the child is not right And though the child is misbegotten He is in love and weaving And in his own illusion caught Then the elders of the clan All together, much affronted “We’ve heard of your spawn Misformed, misbegotten Like the beasts of the field Only female, not full huma Give him up to the void Give him to the dark and cold End the life with no meaning The disgrace to his line Oh through the night he gallops On a horse fresh acquired One step ahead of the line elders Through the snow and through the ice One more gallop, one more ride One more rush, one more escape And as he rides he weaves Good illusion, tightly knit And he rides and he weaves Well he knows what the knits Through the night Long cold night Through the ice, without stop Even a master of illusion Has an ending and a pause His power spun on the babe Tight-held, under his cloak His mortal life spun His illusion all the rest They find him as the sun rises Fallen from the horse and dead But the babe is in his arms Well alive, and well made The elders inspect and prod Can find flaw nor stain He grows to be archmage And bear children to his line None ever noticed a lack Nor a reason to repine And the master of illusion Did not give his life in vain.
