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Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Map
  5. Epigraph
  6. BEGINNINGS
  7. PART I
  8. ONE
  9. TWO
  10. THREE
  11. FOUR
  12. FIVE
  13. SIX
  14. SEVEN
  15. EIGHT
  16. NINE
  17. TEN
  18. ELEVEN
  19. TWELVE
  20. THIRTEEN
  21. FOURTEEN
  22. FIFTEEN
  23. SIXTEEN
  24. SEVENTEEN
  25. EIGHTEEN
  26. NINETEEN
  27. TWENTY
  28. TWENTY-ONE
  29. TWENTY-TWO
  30. TWENTY-THREE
  31. TWENTY-FOUR
  32. TWENTY-FIVE
  33. TWENTY-SIX
  34. TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. TWENTY-NINE
  37. THIRTY
  38. THIRTY-ONE
  39. THIRTY-TWO
  40. THIRTY-THREE
  41. THIRTY-FOUR
  42. THIRTY-FIVE
  43. THIRTY-SIX
  44. PART II
  45. THIRTY-SEVEN
  46. THIRTY-EIGHT
  47. THIRTY-NINE
  48. FORTY
  49. FORTY-ONE
  50. FORTY-TWO
  51. FORTY-THREE
  52. FORTY-FOUR
  53. FORTY-FIVE
  54. FORTY-SIX
  55. FORTY-SEVEN
  56. FORTY-EIGHT
  57. FORTY-NINE
  58. FIFTY
  59. FIFTY-ONE
  60. FIFTY-TWO
  61. FIFTY-THREE
  62. FIFTY-FOUR
  63. FIFTY-FIVE
  64. FIFTY-SIX
  65. FIFTY-SEVEN
  66. TRICKSTER
  67. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  68. Also by Susan Dennard
  69. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  70. Newsletter Sign-up

And Iseult will follow Safi every step of the way because that is what a Threadsister must do. Because no one can protect Safi like Thread-family, and because this is all Iseult is ever meant to be: the one who completes what Safi initiates. The one who cuts the purse while Safi distracts.

Yet Iseult’s gaze lingers on those mountains. Not so different from the Sirmayans, where the world had been simple. Pure. Silent. Where each day had begun with clarity and focus, no Threads to confuse her. No people to get in the way.

Iseult doesn’t want those days back. Of course she doesn’t. She has only just been reunited with Safi. She has only just been made whole again. And yet …

The mountains call to her. The silence tugs.

No, it is more than silence. Visions are forming in her head that shouldn’t be there—that don’t belong to her. And there is something outside. Tiny, white, and scampering this way through the night. A streak that Iseult would never have seen if it hadn’t started talking to her.

If she hadn’t started talking to her.

I am here, the weasel seems to say. I have come for you.

THREE

Iseult found food sooner than she’d expected—sooner than she had even dared hope. The soldiers had commandeered a shepherd’s hut not far from the road. Tidy, well stocked, and with a campfire still smoldering.

She quickly scanned the surrounding conifers for Threads, but no human was near. She did, however, discover two shaggy horses beside the hut that she recognized as the local mountain breed. They were thoroughly disinterested in her, while she was very interested in them. Such beasts would make her journey through the Ohrins much easier.

“Thank you,” she breathed to no god in particular. Trickster, perhaps. Or Wicked Cousin. She’d lost all right to address Moon Mother.

She reached out with her mind, aiming vaguely south. Vaguely downhill. Come, she told the weasel. And make sure you avoid the road.

A question came in response—more niggling in the back of Iseult’s mind than actual words, for the weasel had no voice. She had only impressions and feelings for Iseult to interpret.

Right now, the creature shivered with joy and wanted to know how Iseult’s slaughter had played out. Iseult didn’t want to remember it, though. Not for the weasel, not for herself. So she closed off her mind and shoved into the hut.

The door slammed backward, hitting something wooden. A cot, Iseult soon discovered as she stepped inside. Gray light fanned over seven bedrolls neatly arranged across the earthen floor. Everything stank of old sweat and older blood. On a rickety table at the hut’s center was an iron pot with a ladle poking out the side.