“Dinner,” I said to the Weaver, whirling around the door—to its outside face. And let go of the handle. Just as the door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the cottage, I saw the ball of faelight that Ianthe lifted to illuminate the room. Saw the horrible face of the Weaver, that mouth of stumped teeth opening wide with delight and unholy hunger. A death-god of old—starved for life. With a beautiful priestess before her. I was already hurtling for the trees when the guards and Ianthe began screaming.
