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
Next, she turned her attention to the horizon, a mere glimpse above the tower’s fallen walls. Threads blazed like beacons to the north, green as pine trees with a single focused goal: pursuit. And worse—far worse—was Corlant’s storm. It seethed to the south, silver Threads spun from stolen power. Brighter than the shadow wyrm’s had ever been and convulsing with countless shades, countless magics. He would be unstoppable when he arrived.
Iseult just prayed that she would be too.
FORTY-NINE
Safi paced the stone tower in a loose perimeter. Each squint through a crack or a hole revealed only forest, wind and snow.
Darkness coiled off Iseult at the tower’s heart, tendrils thick as river eels. Safi kept her distance—not merely because of the hoarfrost crackling around her Threadsister, but because those shadows and ice reached for Safi whenever she got too near. Like a hundred little vines to drag her down.
She rubbed her hands together as she strode and tried to remember what gloves felt like. She had no weapons, no shield. Her fists and fingers were all she possessed if the Cartorrans arrived.
When the Cartorrans arrived.
She also tried to recall what life had been like before she’d become a Hell-Bard. Before she’d had this strain tugging inside her chest. Iseult had been right: the doom was coming. And quickly. Compounded by the blizzard or simply a result of traveling too far from her chain, she couldn’t say. And it didn’t matter. The result was the same in the end.
“There’s … something,” Caden said, slouched against the only spot where snow didn’t reach. A corner tucked beneath all that remained of the second floor. “Something we need to discuss.”
“Now?” Safi asked. She tried for a smile. “Could we save the chat for when death isn’t right outside—”
“Now.” His head lolled back against the stone wall.
And Safi frowned, veering away from her circular path to join the Hell-Bard in his darkness.
“I will fight as best I can, but…” He swallowed. Tried to sit up, face tightening, but he’d lost too much blood and he couldn’t resist when Safi knelt and pushed him back down. His wound spurted. “Please find Zander and Lev. If you can. Even if it’s just bodies, I’ll die easier knowing—”
“No one is dying.” Safi shot back to her feet, head wagging. “That’s not an option. It’s never an option. Plus, Iseult will be done in the Dreaming soon, and she’ll be able to track their Threads—”
A squeak broke through the tower. Safi’s gaze lurched toward the weasel, racing toward her. It clawed up her body with ease, and just like with the old crow, a sensation of words, of meaning cut through Safi’s mind.
Person. Here.