Chapters (70)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- Map
- Epigraph
- BEGINNINGS
- PART I
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- PART II
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- TRICKSTER
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Also by Susan Dennard
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- Newsletter Sign-up
“All right,” Kahina said eventually. Her smirk loosened into a smile, as if this entire arrangement had been her idea and now she were the one with all the bargaining power. “Give me a day, and I will acquire all prisoners. Do we have a deal?”
“Only once you agree to free them.”
“Yes, yes.” She swatted the air. “I will give them to you, and you may free them. Now do we have a deal?”
Stix matched Kahina’s smile, while at her shins, the gray cat nuzzled and purred. “Yes,” she replied. “We have a deal.”
“Excellent.” Kahina tapped her jade ring. “Now tell me: where did you find the blade and glass?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Iseult did not sleep. She couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to—not while Owl shivered on the bunk beside her. Not with Eridysi’s diary so near. Her goal for two weeks, the one item she needed to face Hell-Bards with, was only paces away.
For hours now, Iseult had mulled Corlant’s words. His easy declaration that he was the first Portia had ever claimed confounded her. Yes, Lev had described the first Hell-Bard and the saint that Purists worshipped as Midne, a woman who’d lived a thousand years ago. And yes, there were people who could live a thousand years, born and reborn. The same soul passing into different bodies …
Paladin. A word relegated to myth. Some called them knights, some called them witches, and most called them nothing at all because they had been forgotten so long. But could Corlant possibly be such a person?
For the thousandth time Iseult wished the weasel were near. Where are you? she thought. Please, come to us. Please help. But the weasel did not reply.
Midnight bloomed outside. Another Threadwitching night with the moon bright and inescapable through the cabin’s lone window. At least, in all her hours of wakefulness, Iseult had managed to almost remove the wool in her mouth. It had taken constant jaw wiggling, constant pressure from her tongue, and repeated shifting of her soft palate—like she was clearing a yawn—but all the effort, all the ache building in her face had paid off.
Just a little more pushing, a little more straining … There. She spat it to the ground. Triumph wefted through her muscles.
She glanced across the room, at the pale, sleeping Threads that twirled above another cot: Corlant. While on the floor near his feet slept Aeduan and Evrane. Outside, two Purists stood guard, though their attention was weak and one was half asleep.
“Owl,” Iseult tried to whisper. All that came out was a filmy croak. She smacked her lips and swallowed. Then: “Owl.”
This time, her voice cooperated. And this time, Owl’s eyes shot to hers. Surprise rippled across her Threads. She couldn’t speak, her own mouth still full, but at least she was now listening—and at least her white terror had briefly misted away.