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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

A quick upward glance, almost ashamed, almost scolding, then Gretchya’s attention was on the boot once more. She laced it too tightly; leather creaked. “I did not give in to him. I fought him every day by enduring.” She tied off a knot with far too much force. “By being what he wanted so he would never look your way. There is no greater fight than that, and one day—when you have a daughter of your own—maybe you will understand.”

She shoved to her feet, a panic in her movements Iseult also recognized from two months ago. The failure of stasis. The punching through of emotions Gretchya was not supposed to have.

But it was too late. Iseult felt nothing; she was nothing. If Gretchya had thought her story would evoke pity, she had been wrong. Iseult had no pity left for anyone nor emotions left at all.

“Thank you,” she said, and though it made her muscles scream, she pushed to her feet unaided. The tent wavered; a roar filled her ears.

“I’m dressed,” she called. “You can come in now.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Safi had never performed more in her life. If she’d thought the last two days of foul submission to Henrick had been a challenge, they paled in comparison to a day of pretending she was not about to leave.

An eternity passed before the day finally ended, and another eternity passed before the evening’s festivities—dancing and smiling and feasting—ended too. Leopold secured Safi’s hand for two dances, smiling the entire way. He looked as carefree as he always did. Which meant he must not know about her earlier excursions. Thank the gods.

“Come to my quarters,” he told her at the end of their second dance. “Bring only yourself.”

So Safi did. She went dressed in the midnight-blue gown she’d worn that night to the dancing celebrations, with only herself, her Truth-lens, the stolen golden chain, and her Threadstones. She still wore her noose too.

Leopold greeted her with his usual kiss, and they followed the same steps they had each night. Only when the lights were low and the wall revealed did he finally speak. “Remove your noose.”

Safi obeyed. Then their silence resumed. A chilly silence, for it would seem that Leopold had abandoned his usual masks. Safi was glad. She and Leopold had days alone ahead of them, and she didn’t want to wade through every smirk or casual shrug, fretting over what they might mean. Cold and lethal as his true self might be, it was at least easier to understand.

They traced the same path they’d taken before. Leopold’s stride was long, and Safi moved to match it. When they reached the chest and stone wall, two large packs and two piles of traveling clothes awaited.