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Chapters (39)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. PROLOGUE
  4. ONE
  5. TWO
  6. THREE
  7. FOUR
  8. FIVE
  9. SIX
  10. SEVEN
  11. EIGHT
  12. NINE
  13. TEN
  14. ELEVEN
  15. TWELVE
  16. THIRTEEN
  17. FOURTEEN
  18. FIFTEEN
  19. SIXTEEN
  20. SEVENTEEN
  21. EIGHTEEN
  22. NINETEEN
  23. TWENTY
  24. TWENTY-ONE
  25. TWENTY-TWO
  26. TWENTY-THREE
  27. TWENTY-FOUR
  28. TWENTY-FIVE
  29. TWENTY-SIX
  30. TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. TWENTY-NINE
  33. THIRTY
  34. THIRTY-ONE
  35. THIRTY-TWO
  36. TOR BOOKS BY JACQUELINE CAREY
  37. PRAISE FOR JACQUELINE CAREY
  38. GODSLAYER
  39. Copyright Page

A node-point was near, very near. Such was the light he perceived behind his lids, the beating red light. His circumscribed heart thumped, responding to its erratic pulse. If he could reach it … one, just one. If he could birth himself into the Marasoumië, he would be alive in the world. And where there was one, there was another, in a trail that led him all the way to Darkhaven.

Home.

Tanaros reached.

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-THREE

BESHTANAG ENDURED, HALF-STARVED AND weary.

From her balcony, Lilias watched her enemies, wondering if they knew. Would it matter? Would they act differently? She thought not. They had never known it for a trap. They went about the siege as they had begun it, with determined patience. By late afternoon the skies had cleared, though rain still dripped from the pines. Here and there Aracus Altorus strode, a tiny figure, recognizable by his hair. He wasted no time, ordering construction to begin anew on their siege-engines.

Three days.

That was how long they would have had to wait, if Darkhaven’s army had arrived at Jakar as planned. Even now, the Fjeltroll would be on the march, trampling the undergrowth beneath their broad feet, commanded by General Tanaros.

Only they were not coming, would never arrive. Lilias knew. She had gone, alone, to the cavern of the Marasoumië, deep beneath Beshtanag. Had gone and stood, wondering if she dared to flee. The node-lights flickered erratically. Something was wrong, very wrong, in the Ways.

Probing, she had found it. There were not one, but two souls trapped within the Marasoumië; no mere mortals, but beings of power, under whose influence the Ways buckled and flexed. One bore a power equal to her own, a very Soumanië, and only the complete exhaustion of his energies kept him from wielding it. The other was one of the Branded, and the mark of Godslayer and a Shaper’s power upon his flesh kept the Marasoumië from devouring him entire. For the rest, it was sheer stubbornness that kept him alive, forcing the Ways to bend to his will.

Either way, it was unsafe to enter.

She had stared at the node-point for a long time. Once, she might have dared it, when she was young enough to be fearless in her abilities. Not now, when she had spent so much of herself, pouring it into the stone and wood of this place. In the end, did it matter? Beshtanag was her home. She didn’t know where she would go if she fled it.

So she had stayed.