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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

Iseult reached Corlant. Huddled in as he was, his head was at her level. He clutched his damaged face in his hands. “I don’t want to kill you,” she told him.

“Coward.” He didn’t remove his hands. She wondered if he could still see her through the Dreaming. “I will simply be reborn again.”

“All the more reason to let you live.”

His Threads glistened with sky blue. Relief perhaps. Or maybe sadness. Then he lunged at her, arm extended. Hand flat. And suddenly his palm was on her, his crusted, oozing face only inches away.

Cold stabbed through everything, sucking Iseult dry yet stuffing her full. It was like Praga all over again, when Henrick had almost claimed her for the Loom. She was going to explode, to erupt, to collapse inward like broken ice upon a stream. Yet just like in Praga, a distant part of her still reigned. The cold, logical, Threadwitch part her mother had taught her so well. Lift up your sword, it said. So Iseult did. And kill him.

“May Moon Mother,” she gritted out, forcing her eyes to meet the bloodied crevices where his had been, “light your path, and may—”

Steel burst through Corlant’s heart, the tip piercing toward Iseult from a saber thrust into his back. A saber she had not wielded and had not seen coming. Blood spewed. Corlant gasped. His palm fell from her forehead, his magic failed.

And warmth rushed over Iseult as her own power roared in.

Corlant collapsed to the snow.

“And may Trickster never find you,” said Leopold the Fourth of Cartorra.

The Fool card finally played.

He looked just as he had in the palace when he’d helped Iseult escape: his sword dripped blood and his Threads were a cacophony of color with a wild core that would never fade. The only difference was that now Iseult knew who he was. Knew what he was.

“Why?” she asked him.

“Because no one should have to kill their own parent.” He sheathed the saber with practiced ease, his Threads briefly shrinking with an inward contemplation. Then he added, “Trust me, I would know.”

Corlant’s Threads gave a final shivering twist between them, and when Iseult looked down, she found that the lines on her father’s forehead had smoothed away. She could almost imagine the man he might have been. Could almost imagine the childhood she might have had if he hadn’t been cursed with Portia’s soul.

“Let’s go.” Her gaze lifted to Leopold once more. “There is one more person I must still try to save.”

FIFTY-THREE