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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

Now, the Eridysi flew so high that what few landmarks Safi glimpsed within the storm—rivers like silver thread and lakes like shadowy mirrors—were too far, too small. They didn’t feel real.

With a sigh, Safi pushed away thoughts of Merik. He was alive somewhere, and one day she would find him again. When the world was no longer a shitstorm clogging a storm drain. When Iseult was safe. When Uncle Eron was safe. When her Hell-Bard friends were safe and she was safe too.

Gazing down at a brief stretch of logging camps layered in white, Safi dug deep inside herself. The remnants of the Loom were still in there, its hold still cinched around her bones. The altitude’s cold might make the doom harder to tease out, but it lurked all the same. The dark magic, the vast power of control—they remained clamped around her heart.

Another peek beneath her gloves. Like a patch of untreated frostbite still exposed to the blizzard air, the darkness had grown across her skin. Shadows wriggled, and eventually there would be no stopping this. But she had not reached that point yet. She would not stop. She could not stop.

Her fingers moved to her pocket, where she gripped the Threadstones tight. She could almost pretend they were warm to the touch. She could almost pretend they made the Hell-Bard Loom weaken, her own heart and colors booming strong.

I’m coming, Iz, she told the horizon. I’m coming.

FORTY-ONE

“You have lost the diary and the Threadstones.” Corlant peered down at Iseult. So tall, his head almost reached the tent’s domed ceiling. And so near, Iseult had to crane her neck to meet his lopsided gaze.

Her mother had returned to her shadow, head bent, and a third person had joined them: Evrane, her Threads alight with smokelike birds and cruel curiosity. But there was fear in there too, rooted at the heart of every other feeling. Fear of Corlant, Iseult assumed. The false monk certainly shot wary glances his way every few moments while she, like Gretchya, tucked herself into a shadow.

Corlant scratched at his bindings. Fresher now, no longer stained with blood—though a patch of yellow did ooze outward. Slick in the weak firelight.

“It would seem you are an agent of chaos, Iseult. Years I held both stones and diary, then you ruined it in an instant, like one of Trickster’s own.”

Iseult blinked slowly. “I belong to no gods.”

He chuckled. “If only you knew how true that was, Dark-Giver.” His Threads flared with familiar amusement, and a chill slid down Iseult’s spine. It had been strange enough to have Aeduan call her that title. It was worse when Corlant said it. For him, it was a crooned endearment. Something that meant more than the sum of its two words.