Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver #Review #Epic Fantasy #Fiction

The dust is finally beginning to settle after the last few weeks of chaos, and I have been taking stock and checking that everything is as it should be.

Imagine my dismay to find our review for one of my favourite books this year had been missed. Huge apologies to Diana!

“Already the animals starve. Soon the bonemen will follow, the Moss Folk and woodlings, the watermaids and humans. Then the charmed will fade. And all who will roam a dead world are dead things. Until they too vanish for lack of remembering. Still, Weaver, it is not too late.”

In the frost-kissed cottage where the changing seasons are spun, Erith wears the Weaver’s mantle, a title that tests her mortal, halfling magic. As the equinox looms, her first tapestry nears completion—a breathtaking ode to spring. She journeys to the charmed isle of Innishold to release the beauty of nature’s awakening across the land.

But human hunters have defiled the enchanted forest and slaughtered winter’s white wolves. Enraged by the trespass, the Winter King seizes Erith’s tapestry and locks her within his ice-bound palace. Here, where comfort and warmth are mere glamours, she may weave only winter until every mortal village succumbs to starvation, ice, and the gray wraiths haunting the snow.

With humanity’s fate on a perilous edge, Erith must break free of the king’s grasp and unravel a legacy of secrets. In a charmed court where illusions hold sway, allies matter, foremost among them, the Autumn Prince. Immortal and beguiling, he offers a tantalizing future she has only imagined, one she will never possess—unless she claims her extraordinary power to weave life from the brink of death.

In the lyrical fantasy tradition of Margaret Rogerson and Holly Black, D. Wallace Peach spins a spellbinding tale of magic, resilience, and the transformative potency of tales—a tapestry woven with peril and hope set against the frigid backdrop of an eternal winter.

About the Author

D. Wallace Peach

A long-time reader, best-selling author D. Wallace Peach started writing later in life when years of working in business surrendered to a full-time indulgence in the imaginative world of books. She was instantly hooked.

In addition to fantasy books, Peach’s publishing career includes participation in various anthologies featuring short stories, flash fiction, and poetry. She’s an avid supporter of the arts in her local community, organizing and publishing annual anthologies of Oregon prose, poetry, and photography.

Peach lives in a log cabin amongst the tall evergreens and emerald moss of Oregon’s rainforest with her husband, two owls, a horde of bats, and the occasional family of coyotes.

For book descriptions, excerpts, maps, and behind the scenes info, please visit http://dwallacepeachbooks.com.

For her blog on all things writing, please visit http://mythsofthemirror.com.

Our Review

The world you enter when reading this story is in so many ways, far more real than the one we inhabit.

So many strange and wonderful creatures are beautifully created and described.

Erith Morningstar has been tasked with taking over her mother’s job of weaving the seasons into existence. It is not an easy job when there is so much at stake and so much opposition to it.

Enchantment, magic, romance, and danger—this story has it all. It would make a wonderful movie.

I loved it so much, I know I will be reading it again and again!

The magical enchantment in this story will break your heart with its beauty and make you believe in the power of magic again…

Excerpt from Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver

Movement in the dark periphery of my vision sent a bolt of fear up my spine. A second eerie note joined the first. I pushed through the drifts. Broken branches snagged my blanket, and brambles formed impenetrable barricades, forcing me to forge paths around them. Rancid breath whistled against my neck. Something scraped my shoulder, ripping my skin like a rusty blade. Pain flashed, hot as an iron-tipped scourge, second only to the terror that drove me crashing into the undergrowth. I whimpered to the trees, “Naggris, help me. Help me.”

The ground rumbled. The forest churned and thrashed. I staggered, my balance upturned as my vision flailed. A path opened, and my feet responded with a mind of their own. I darted into the gap, hoping the Tree Folk would seal it behind me. No time for a glance back, I fled through winter, searching for autumn’s gate, one pair of trees among thousands, a single horizontal branch in a sea of branches. My lungs ached from the cold. Flashes of white sparked in the corners of my eyes. But unlike the wylyali, they didn’t vanish when I shot a look their way. Wolves. A cry burst from my lips. Weregield hunted me. A wylyali ghosted into my vision. Paces to my left, twice my height, horned and gaunt, it leered at me through large, sullen eye sockets, their black depths pinpricked with spectral light.

Then, it vanished. My panic flared, and I surrendered to its power to propel me through the snow. I squinted into the forest for any sign of the gate or the weregield, and for a split second, I caught a glimpse of the wylyali standing in my path, arms open to snare me. I halted, panting. Fear whipped away the last shards of reason. Frantic, I yanked the sun’s tapestry from under my arm and flung it to the ground, unleashing a cloud of steam. Through the haze, I slanted a look at the unnatural creature. Ash gray skin stretched across its protruding bones. Unblinking, it stalked toward me, skirting the sun, its jaw slung low and lined with a trap of broken teeth…