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Back Witchshadow Save as PDF
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

So as Vivia and Vaness once more sank into water that was quickly rising above their knees, Vivia pulled the Empress to her. “Come back,” she said, pumping her words with the same authority she’d heard in the undertow, the same bass line the iron had responded to so well. “Come back to me, Vaness. Come back.”

FIFTY-TWO

Iseult was in the Hell-Bard Loom again. It looked as it always had. Gray, gray, endless heaving gray. And there were the ghosts. There were the Hell-Bards she’d so foolishly thought she could control—and so wickedly thought she should control. They swarmed her exactly as they always had, singing the same refrain they’d always sung.

Except that this time, when they came, she did not fight them. Their voices clawed, their ghost hands pierced. And she let them. No trying to fight what crashed against her. No trying to rule what should not be ruled.

Yet no letting them rule her either. They would crush her if she listened too closely. If she gave them the notice they so desperately craved. Just like her own rage, just like all those feelings she’d kept shuttered away for a lifetime: too much and you would drown. But too little, and you would shrivel away.

I see you, she told each face that grappled in. I understand. But I am not you. I am me, and I must be set free.

And that was all it took. Acknowledgment. Acceptance. Then every shadow face reared away. Hundreds of them, thousands, all crowding in and wanting to be seen. Yet none tore her away—not when she looked them in the face and repeated, I see you, I understand.

Iseult wasn’t sure when her dream-self began crying. They weren’t the stunned tears of too much emotion from a secret corner broken wide, nor the bereft tears from a daughter wrapped in the Threads that build. These were tears of relief, tears of joy.

Because she really, truly understood now. This was stasis. This was what Threadwitches were meant to do. All the emotions of the world around them, yet never seeing their own—of course they had to keep themselves apart. Otherwise the weave of the world would overwhelm them. But somewhere over the generations, simple separation had become denial. Pale-knuckled, viciously fisted denial in a way that no human could ever sustain.

People were meant to feel.

And people were meant to dance, as Iseult had danced with a prince on a balcony unseen.

I see you, she told the ghosts over and over. I understand you, but I am not you. She lost all sense of time, of ghosts, of tears. Yet with each acknowledgment, she was carried farther through the Loom. A current of ghosts to take her where she wanted to go. A raft atop waves she could neither swim with nor swim against.