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
“He has been caught,” Alma declared, fixing her golden-green eyes—beautifully wide set above her high cheekbones—on Iseult. “Is there anyone else we should be looking for?”
“Maybe. Yes.”
“Then we will post more guards.”
We. Iseult didn’t have to speculate who that we might be. There was only one person Alma could ever mean.
The last time Iseult had seen her mother, Gretchya, had been two months before in Dalmotti beneath a willow tree’s draping branches. Gretchya had tended an arrow wound in Iseult’s biceps and declared that she and Alma would be traveling to Saldonica to join a tribe called Korelli. She had claimed she’d always planned to invite Iseult—that they wouldn’t have left without warning—but Iseult hadn’t believed her then.
And now she saw her instincts had been correct: this was not Saldonica, and this was not the Korelli tribe. The hunters wore thick wool and thicker furs, a style distinctive to eastern Nomatsi tribes. And Alma wore velvet pantaloons beneath her black Threadwitch gown, while a black scarf encased her neck and a vest of thick bear fur covered her torso. Nomatsis from the southwest wore neither fur nor hide; they believed it an insult to Little Sister.
Shame on Gretchya, Iseult supposed, for teaching her daughter too well. Now Iseult had caught her in all her lies—though it gave her no pleasure to be right. Only more loathing that she couldn’t keep tucked away. It bled out from behind her left lung, feasting like some parasite upon her chest.
“Can you walk?” Alma asked, still watching Iseult. Scrutinizing her as if she could read her thoughts.
Iseult set her jaw. “Of course.” She pushed to her feet and helped Owl rise. Then they hurried after Alma, already striding into a new stretch of forest, the Solfatarra’s bite vanishing behind.
It felt as if they walked for miles before Alma finally led them into a Nomatsi encampment. There was no sign of the camp from afar—no smoke to plume. No noises to split the forest. Only old walls thrust up amidst the trees, crumbling ruins from a forgotten past.
As Iseult and Owl trailed around a curved stretch of wall that might have once been a tower, magic dusted Iseult’s skin. It pulled the breath from her lungs, plucked the hairs on her arms. Glamour, she realized, even as the individual Threads of the spell shifted and fell away, revealing a new world.