“You didn’t go to him,” said Dax. “So it seems he’s come to you.”
Safire stepped toward the dragon, pressing her palm to Sorrow’s warm, scaly throat. At Safire’s touch, Sorrow stopped trembling.
“I think,” said Dax softly from behind them, “that maybe he’s not the only one who’s waiting for you.”
Safire glanced to her cousin.
“Go,” he said, smiling. “We’ll be here when you need us.”
Fifty-Two
SIX WEEKS LATER
In the weeks since she’d set the Shadow God free, Eris had learned that while it was difficult to weave without a hand, it was far from impossible.
She had acquired a hook that could be fastened to her wrist, and though it had taken some getting used to at first, and it sometimes hurt to wear, it was proving to be useful. She still needed help with things like getting dressed and cutting up her food, but she was getting used to this, too: depending on others.
In the beginning, her mother stayed with her, showing her what to do. Eris quickly learned that spinning souls was not so different from spinning wool, and once she felt confident to do the work on her own, her mother started rebuilding the scrin, then recruiting weavers and spinners and dyers to fill it. So there were always apprentices around to help Eris if she needed it.
Her life was so full of people now that she sometimes missed being alone.
One morning, after a long and frustrating night of weaving, Eris threw down the shuttle and growled through her teeth. It had been a bad day. One in which she’d kept forgetting her right hand was gone.
It happened often, and the sensation was so strong, Eris could feel every finger and thumb as if they were still there. Like ghosts, they haunted her. And every time it happened, she’d have to realize all over again everything she’d lost.
Eris pushed the sorrow away and set down her threads. Leaning back from her loom, she stretched. Her back ached and her hand cramped and her vision was starting to blur from the dim light of the oil lamp. Looking out the windows of the scrin, she found the sun rising over the Star Isles, its golden light catching in the mist. But it was what lay beyond the mist that she wanted.
For eighteen years, while her mother sat in Leandra’s prison, there was no one spinning souls into stars. As a result, there was a lot of catching up to do.
But the work would still be here come sundown. And Eris would be too—because she’d chosen this. She wanted this.
Right now, though, the sea was calling.
So, getting up from her bench, Eris descended the steps of the scrin’s newly constructed mezzanine, where they’d rebuilt the Skyweaver’s loom. Tiptoeing past the young apprentices, who were just beginning to rise from their beds and head down to breakfast, Eris escaped out the garden door. She walked through the meadow glistening with dew, watching the mist evaporate with the heat of the rising sun, then headed down to the scrin’s wharf, tucked away in a quiet cove. A sailboat, used for deliveries, bobbed gently on the surf. When it wasn’t in use, it belonged to Eris.
Just before stepping aboard, Eris felt a familiar prickle at the back of her neck. A gust of cold rushed down her spine, and she spun to find she wasn’t alone.
Bloodred eyes burned into hers.
Eris’s heart beat fast and hard. She stepped quickly back to find the summoner looming before her, its blue-black wings hiding its true form. She hid her hook behind her back—a habit she’d fallen into lately.
“What could Jemsin possibly want from me?” Eris growled, trying to sound fiercer than she felt.
“Jemsin’s bones are at the bottom of the sea, Skyweaver.”
“What?” she whispered, shocked by this news.
“That girl of yours, her friends lured him into the wrecking grounds,” the summoner rasped. “His crew were eaten. His ship sank. Jemsin—nor I—will never bother you again.”
Eris’s hook fell back to her side.
“I thought you should know.”
Eris swallowed, nodding. “Thank you,” she said as the summoner melted into the shadows.
Alone, Eris paused, thinking of Jemsin. The man had been both rescuer and captor, and now he was dead. Had she already spun his soul into a star? The thought made her realize she bore him no hatred. Only wished him rest.
That girl of yours . . .
Just for a moment, Eris let herself look south across the Silver Sea, thinking of Safire. She’d thought, weeks ago, that perhaps Safire would stay. Instead, she said good-bye, boarded Dax’s ship, and returned to Firgaard.
Eris understood, of course. Safire’s whole life was in Firgaard.
She’d thought about visiting her. She didn’t need the doors anymore. Eris could call up the mists herself and step right from her tower into Safire’s bedroom if she wanted. But every time she longed to, she would look at the hook where her right hand used to be and talk herself out of it.
Eris tried to put the girl with sapphire eyes out of mind as she climbed into her boat. Unfurling the sails, she untied the ropes from the wharf, then steered herself out into open waters.
Eris listened to the rise and fall of the sea’s hushed breath. The water was calm today. It would make for easy sailing from here to the scrin.
With her hook curved around the wheel, Eris closed her eyes. No more Jemsin. No more empress. No more hiding or running away. With the wind in her hair and the salt on her lips, her newfound freedom glowed within her. Making her blood hum.
And then: a shadow passed overhead.
Eris opened her eyes. Looking up, she found a dragon flying directly above her.
Suddenly, the beast dived, swooping lower to the water, falling in line with Eris’s boat. On its back rode a girl whose face was half-hidden in a scarf. The wind whipped her raven-black hair and above the scarf, her eyes shone blue as sapphires.
“Where are you headed, sailor?”
Eris stared, not wanting to believe it. In case this was a dream.
Finally, she shook off her shock and shouted back: “I guess that depends on who’s asking.”
Eris thought she saw those blue eyes crinkle. And then, tired of keeping pace with such a slow craft, the dragon sped up, swooping in lazy circles around the ship.
“I’m wondering,” the rider called out, “if you’re still fond of princesses, or if you’ve changed your mind.”
Eris bit down on a smile. “Princesses are fine.” As the dragon swooped, Eris turned another circle, keeping it and its rider in her sight. “Though I prefer soldiers.”
“What about a former soldier?”
Eris’s heart skipped at that. “Why don’t you come down here and we’ll talk about it face-to-face?”
A moment later, the dragon was keeping pace with the boat again, soaring low, mindful of the sails. His rider patted his neck, saying something softly. As the dragon kept himself steady and close, Safire swung her leg over and jumped.
Her boots hit the deck and she rocked, throwing out her arms for balance. When she found it, she rose to her full height and pulled the sandskarf down from her face.
Her gaze went straight to the hook where Eris’s hand used to be. Eris fought the urge to hide it behind her back.
Wanting to divert Safire’s attention away from her missing hand, Eris nodded toward the wheel. “Want to try?”
Safire looked up, arching a brow. “Me? Steer a boat?”
“It might come in useful someday,” said Eris, feeling strangely nervous. “When you turn pirate.”
Safire shook her head, smiling, then stepped toward the wheel.
“All right,” said Safire, her eyes guarded but bright. As if she were just as nervous as Eris. “Show me.”
Carefully, Eris touched Safire’s hip with the curve of her hook, guiding her in front, then showed her where to grip the smooth wood of the wheel.
Safire reached for it, but kept her hands too close together. So, very gently, Eris nudged them apart, pushing them into proper position.
“Like that,” Eris said, standing close.
It was quiet for several heartbeats. After a long while, with her heart thudding against her ribs, Eris said, “What are you doing here?”
Safire turned then, abandoning the wheel, clearly not interested in sailing. Her eyes never wavered from Eris’s face as she said, “I left something behind.”
Above them, the dragon rose skyward, keeping watch. Around them, the sea had gone silent and still.
“Oh?” Eris swallowed. “And what’s that?”
Safire stepped in close. Reaching for Eris’s hook, she pressed it to her chest.
“My heart,” she whispered, touching her forehead to Eris’s.
And Eris thought: This is home.
No more running and hiding. This was where she belonged.
Acknowledgments
Heather Flaherty, for believing in these four fierce girls from the beginning.
Kristen Pettit, for always knowing what my stories need to level up. You are brilliant and kind and I’m forever indebted to you for turning me into an author. Thank you from the depths of my heart.
The team at HarperTeen, especially Elizabeth Lynch, Renée Cafiero, Allison Brown, Michelle Taormina, Audrey Diestelkamp, Bess Braswell, Olivia Russo, Martha Schwartz, and Vincent Cusenza.
Rachel Winterbottom, who saved one of Eris’s hands and Dax’s tender heart. Thank you for your ever wise and thoughtful feedback.
The whole team at Gollancz, but especially Stevie Finegan, Paul Stark, Cait Davies, Amy Davies, and Brendan Durkin.
Gemma Cooper—my lovely, savvy agent across the pond.
The team at HarperCollins Canada, especially Ashley Posluns, Shamin Alli, and Maeve O’Regan.
Myrthe Spiteri and the crew at Blossom Books (with an extra special shout-out to Maria Postema).
Jenny Bent and the Bent Agency team.
My foreign agents, publishers, translators, and cover designers.
The good folks at Café Nymph (where so much of this book got written) for letting me sit and write for hours on end.
Hay Cove: for your kindness, generosity, and warm welcome (and for looking in on me when I was snowed in and alone . . . and then shoveling me out!). I wish everyone had neighbors as wonderful as you.
Words Worth Books, for being so supportive of me.
E. K. Johnston, who cried for two hours after finishing this book (or so she tells me). Kate: thank you for your friendship, your publishing advice, but most of all your bighearted and beautiful stories.
Alice Maguire, for reading this book all night while you rocked Charlie to sleep. (And for loving it the best of the three.) I admire you more than you know.
Asnake Dabala, for driving across the country, getting lost in Quebec, making maji maji, and helping renovate the house. I would never have gotten this book written without you, my brother.
The women who raised me: Shirley Cesar, Emily Cesar, Mary Dejonge, Nancy McLauchlin, and Sylvia Cesar. If my fierce girls ring true, it’s because I was raised by the fiercest of women. You were (and are) the greatest role models a girl could ever hope for.
Mum, Dad, Jolene, and my entire family—for loving me, supporting me, and always being there for me.
Joe, for being the one I long to come home to every day, always. Thank you for fighting so hard for me this year.
Last of all: my readers, for your love and support. Seeing your smiling faces in my signing lines and reading your heartfelt messages is one of the best parts of this whole adventure. In so many ways these books are about finding your strength, and I wrote them because I believe this with my whole heart: that you, dear reader, are so much stronger than you think. I hope you find that strength within you. I hope you hone it, wield it, and use it for good.
About the Author
Photo by Ninth Street Photography
KRISTEN CICCARELLI is the internationally bestselling author of The Last Namsara and The Caged Queen. Before writing books for a living, she worked as an artisanal baker, an indie bookseller, and a ceramic artist. These days she resides in a blustery seaside cove on Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula with her blacksmith and her rescue dog. She likes her coffee dark, her weather broody, and her house warmed by a wood fire. Learn more at www.kristenciccarelli.com.
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Books by Kristen Ciccarelli
The Last Namsara
The Caged Queen
The Sky Weaver
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE SKY WEAVER. Copyright © 2019 by Kristen Ciccarelli. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover photography © 2019 by Michael Frost, Inc.
Photography inspiration by Manu Cabañero
Digital retouching by Sebastien Hue
Cover design by Michelle Taormina
Digital Edition NOVEMBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-256807-6
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-256804-5
1920212223 PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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The Sky Weaver Page 29
