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
The power of the Aether. The power to place souls where he willed—that was how Aeduan had come into this world again, into this body. The first Monk Evrane had entered the Water Well to heal, and the Rook King had done his work. Then the first Aeduan had stepped into the Aether Well, and the Rook King had acted again. Old souls placed into new homes.
It was not a permanent solution, though, and as easily as the Rook King had given the old soul a body, he could also take it away.
Which meant Corlant’s promises of new bodies were hollow. He could no more touch the work of the Rook King than the Rook King could touch the wind. But of course Corlant would lie; that had always been Portia’s way.
“So you have figured it out,” Saria said with a sly grin. “I knew you would eventually. Still, one cannot be too careful.” She raised a single hand. Then a second squawk shattered over Aeduan—and with it came the sound of stone against stone. Of gravel rising, ready to choke and claim and crush and end.
Moments later, Aeduan’s mouth was covered. His nose, his eyes. His everything. He could not see, he could not move. And it did not take long before darkness swept in.
She chose me.
She chose me.
Impossible.
Gretchya had entered the fight and chosen to save Iseult. Yet even as Iseult watched her mother fling up her blade, a tiny figure against a monster wreathed in shadow, her mind could not accept it.
She chose me. She chose me. Impossible.
Then her mother bellowed with a voice to shred and to break, “No one touches my daughter!” And a tiny sliver of truth cut into Iseult’s heart.
Not impossible.
The sliver cut deeper. It curved beneath her left lung and latched on.
And the shadow wyrm seemed as surprised as Iseult. As if the same word—“impossible”—sang through its mind too. Cyan speckled over silver Threads, and it paused its attack. Mouth open and shadows near enough for Gretchya to touch.
Even the winter coiling off its body seemed to pause. There was only Iseult and Gretchya and this monster.
Except it didn’t look so monstrous now. Tucked beneath the shadows were two eyes, dark as a new moon and just as fathomless. And tucked within those eyes was understanding. It knew what mothers were; it recognized what Gretchya had dared to do, and perhaps it was even a mother too.
It was all the time Gretchya needed. With hands that had carried Iseult and guided her, had fought for her and endured, she hauled Iseult to her feet. Then she braced an arm behind her daughter’s back and together, they limped away.