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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

And she studies what it will take to become the next Puppeteer.

SEVEN

Iseult hadn’t meant to sleep, but exhaustion would not be denied. It wasn’t surprising really, she’d slept so little these past two months.

Fool. Iseult had promised the weasel that she would keep watch tonight; she was lucky no one had appeared while she slept.

The nightmares had come, though. They always did. Except it wasn’t the faces of the Cleaved or the killed that haunted her tonight. It was Safi, a week before she’d been wed and had her magic shorn away. Iseult had been so selfishly focused on herself, so selfishly consumed by her longing for simpler days and her hatred for the lingering eyes of Cartorra, that she hadn’t been ready.

She had failed at her one and only task in this life: protect her Threadsister because, as she’d been told, No one can protect Safi like Thread-family.

“I’m coming,” she whispered to the shadows of the hut. Owl slept beside her, Threads faded with sleep, the weasel curled nearby. “I’m coming.” Iseult shoved down all the maggots burrowing in her chest and fumbled for a nearby lantern. It guttered, the oil sloshed. Less oil than before she’d fallen asleep. Fool, fool.

Iseult pushed to her feet. Owl did not awaken, but the weasel did. She followed Iseult to the table and watched with glittering eyes as Iseult removed a roll of tattered papers from inside her woolen tunic. Torn, water-damaged, and flattened, these eight diary pages had been Iseult’s salvation. And her curse. The final stick upon the pyre. The final step away from Moon Mother’s light.

Her eyes briefly slid to the black circle on her hand. The ink sucked up all light; a tiny doorway into death. It had hurt when the Witchmark master had tattooed it, but as Henrick had told her and Safi: The world must know who you are. The world must know that here, in this palace, lives the Cahr Awen.

Iseult and Safi had complied because they’d thought that giving the Emperor what he’d expected to see would allow them to cut the purse more easily. How wrong they’d been. How wrong she’d been. They had gone to Praga to find Safi’s uncle and save him from death as a traitor. Instead, Safi had been turned into a Hell-Bard and Iseult had been forced to flee.

Iseult smoothed down the pages. The weasel had not been elegant when she’d ripped apart Eridysi’s journal, and there’d been the wear of travel. Esme had crossed marshes and mountains, farms and forests in search of Iseult.

There was so much missing too. So much Iseult didn’t know and could not figure out on her own. Even with the weasel’s mental images to guide her, Iseult needed more words, more diagrams, more explanations.