The thrilling sequel to award-winning author Bradley P. Beaulieu’s epic fantasy series, The Book of the Holt.

Long ago, the elder gods devised a brutal contest — a game of ascension, where contestants gained power by killing their own. The prize? Godhood. Now, that game is stirring once again.

In the wake of the great battle at Ancris, the capital lies in ruins — and Faedryn, the trickster god, is closer than ever to escaping his prison.

While inquisitor Lorelei races to uncover the ancient truths that might stop him, Rylan is entangled in his own crisis. The artifact he stole, the key to Faedryn’s freedom, is no longer a secret. Every faction in the empire, from the imperial dragon legions to the ruthless Red Knives, are hunting him. But Rylan soon learns there is something worse than being caught — losing the shard altogether.

As Lorelei and Rylan struggle to undo the damage, they uncover a chilling truth: even if Faedryn remains imprisoned, the elder gods’ game may already be underway…

A God of Countless Guises is out today from Head of Zeus. You can order your copy on Bookshop.org

PROLOGUE: RHIANNON

Rhiannon Bloodhaven gripped the rough leather saddle loops as the mighty onyx dragon Ircundus beat the late summer air with her broad wings and soared through the Holt’s great citadel trees. In the saddle in front of her was Maladox, a burly man in his late forties with broad shoulders, unruly hair, and a long black beard, braided into three tails. The forest was alive with the calls of wrens and jays and shrill bark beetles. The incessant rain had ceased, but above the canopy, slate gray clouds still roiled, and the air was thick with humidity.

Rhiannon leaned left and peered past Maladox. Seven ivory dragons flew ahead of them. Each dragon bore one of the Seven except for the one farthest back, where Yeriel, the powerful leader of Gonsalond, sat in the saddle behind Hellebore, a woman with bright red hair. They were off to Gonsalond itself, the fabled city beyond the veil, a place Rhiannon had once dreamed of visiting. Rhiannon had practically begged Yeriel to be allowed to join her there, but now Rhiannon was growing nervous. She couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps she shouldn’t trust her, nor her protectors, the warrior women known as the Seven.

“What do you suppose they’re like?” Maladox asked. Rhiannon shrugged. “Hard, I reckon. Fierce.”

“Well, sure,” Maladox said, “but what about at home? Do they cook? Do they write poetry?” He pointed to the rearmost dragon, a long white slash against the mottled backdrop of the citadel trunks. “Hellebore seemed pretty friendly before we left.”

“True, but did you see the way Snow on the Mountain glared at you when she said hello to you?”

Snow on the Mountain, riding ahead of Hellebore, was the tallest of the lot. She had braided blonde hair, scars on her knobby knuckles, and an attitude like she didn’t give a good gods’ damn who saw them.

“Protective,” Maladox said absently as he steered Ircundus slightly left, “but I bet she’s a pussycat once you get to know her. The one who really scares me is the little one, Moth.” He pointed to the smallest of the Seven, flying near the center of the pack. “If she’s not a sedge witch, my mammy was a dirt-eating mole.”

“Old Mother Constance said sedge witches are crazy.”

“She wasn’t wrong. They eat grubs and insects to gather their power—”

“I know, Maladox—”

“—but I reckon it’s holding that power for so long that makes ’em crazy.”

As if she’d heard, Moth turned in her saddle and stared back at them. The way the wind was tugging at her pale hair reminded Rhiannon of cobwebs. Even from this distance Rhiannon could see her golden nose ring and the barbell piercings through the ridge of her nose.

Moth faced the way ahead, and Rhiannon felt relieved. “She seems more calculating than crazy.”

Amid the whump of Ircundus’s broad wings, Maladox glanced back with a bemused expression. “She can be both, you know.”

Rhiannon supposed that was true, but she wasn’t willing to admit it to Maladox. He’d been acting high and mighty all day.

“Do you suppose the Seven are undying, too?” Maladox asked. “What, like Yeriel?” Rhiannon shook her head. “I don’t think so. My mother said that when one dies or is wounded, another is chosen to take her place.” “Why just women, though?”

“I dunno. Is it so hard to believe Yeriel doesn’t trust men?” Maladox seemed to chew on that awhile. “S’pose not…” “Mother told me more,” Rhiannon continued. “Cordney’s an expert archer. Chirrup can tame any dragon. Snow on the Mountain is a healer. Dervish can light her blade aflame.”

“They have a flame wielder?”

There was a lot more awe in Maladox’s voice than Rhiannon had expected. “Yeah, I guess so. And Sable, the one in the black armor near the front? She has the best sword arm in the Holt, man or woman.”

Maladox scoffed noisily. “If you believe that, I’ve got a floating city in the mountains to sell you.”

Rhiannon punched his meaty shoulder. “You think she’d be one of the Seven otherwise? Anyway, I don’t know what they’re like at home, but I know this much: they swear oaths to protect Gonsalond and keep Faedryn warm and cozy in his little prison.” He shot a lopsided smile over his shoulder.“Warm and cozy…” Ircundus suddenly drifted right. Maladox tugged her reins to right their course, but the onyx only grumbled and roared. “Enough, you bloody wyrm!” Maladox tugged the reins again, harder. “We’re going to bloody” – he yanked so hard Rhiannon thought the reins would snap – “Gonsalond!”

Ircundus turned her massive, horned head and glared at Maladox. She snapped the frills around her head and horns; the bright yellow skin, once hidden, gleamed in the sunlight. Ircundus dipped her head, rolled her body, and lashed her spade-shaped tail so fast it thrummed through the air like a whipping branch. Rhiannon pressed a hand to her stomach and fought the urge to throw up. She still wasn’t used to flying on dragonback.

Maladox struggled with the reins. “You’re such a baby!” he blurted.

Ircundus gurgled – Rhiannon felt it in her legs – but whether the dragon was amused or annoyed to be following dragons she’d battled not long ago, Rhiannon wasn’t sure.

Yeriel turned in the saddle and regarded Ircundus, then Maladox, and seemed to laugh. She was pale as death, and her hair writhed like snakes. “We train our beasts properly in Gonsalond,” she called over the distance.

Maladox sat up straighter. “It’s no lack of training that’s got her riled. It’s those properly trained beasts of yours. They tussled, you know.”

Yeriel shrugged. “Chirrup can quiet her if you like.”

“Bloody hells, no.” He reached down and patted Ircundus’s neck. “She’ll be fine.”

Yeriel flashed a smile – white teeth behind lilac lips – then turned her head back. In front of her, Hellebore called over her shoulder, “Get ready! We’re almost there!”

Ircundus beat her wings, followed the ivories, and belched a great roar – the sort of sound she made when she was surprised or frightened. Rhiannon scanned the trees for the source of her discomfort, then felt like she was being dropped into a freezing river. She gasped. Maladox stiffened and uttered an uncharacteristic grunt. Ircundus’s roar became a keening call that sounded like a caribou. A few beats of her wings later, Ircundus fell silent, and the air turned warm. They were flying over different terrain than moments ago. It was more rugged. The citadels were coated in dark moss.

Rhiannon said, “We’re through the portal.”

Maladox glanced over his shoulder. “Aye, and one step closer to Faedryn.”

Rhiannon still wasn’t sure how she felt about seeing the trickster god. She was curious about him, of course – there wasn’t a soul in the Holt who didn’t wonder what he and his prison were really like – but she was also scared. Faedryn had killed Alra. He’d caused the Ruining. All the worst stories – from druin records to Church psalms to campfire ballads – told of a ruthless god who would stop at nothing to destroy Alra’s greatest creations. The thought of coming face to face with him made Rhiannon want to hide somewhere far, far away.

“You think she’ll take us to him?” she asked Maladox. “Sooner or later, sure.”

They rode silently over streams, past treeless hills, through vales where the bright sun came and went in a flash. “I hope it’s sooner,” Rhiannon said after a time.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because I want to know what we’re up against.” There was no sense delaying it, no matter how scared Rhiannon was. And besides, as her mentor Brother Mayhew used to say, facing your fears was a hundred times better than letting your imagination do it for you.

“Yeah, you’re probably right, but—” Maladox gasped. “Good gods, now there’s a sight.”

Rhiannon peered past Maladox and Ircundus’s bobbing head. A city in the trees! Walkways and bridgeboughs came into view, elegantly constructed decks, burrow doors, and corkscrew stairs. Everything seemed less built than grown, as if someone had turned the wood to clay, formed what they’d liked, and let it all harden again.

In the far distance, Rhiannon spotted a black stripe between two vast trees. She blinked, but the stripe remained, like a vertical strip of the forest had been torn away, revealing a starless void beyond. The closer they flew, the better Rhiannon saw twisted branches along its trunk, knots in its wavering black surface, and the deep, river-like runnels of a citadel tree in its shimmering bark. But its top was stunted, and it was completely isolated, unconnected by bridgeboughs or walkways to its neighbors.

“It’s the Umbral Tree…” It felt weird to say, even for Rhiannon, who’d read about the tree many times. And Brother Mayhew had told Rhiannon more besides: stories over campfires or meals in the abbey that told of Faedryn’s defeat, the planting of the magical tree, the trickster’s imprisonment beneath it.

Maladox held the reins in one hand and pressed the other to his belly. “Seven hells, the feel of it…”

Rhiannon felt it, too, like a snake writhing in her gut. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself.

Not far from the black tree, a dozen or more ivory dragons and a score of viridians were nesting in Gonsalond’s eyrie. Some beat their wings. Others pealed or craned their long necks. Like the eyries in Andalingr and Glaeyand, a staging deck was positioned near the eyrie’s base. The massive deck could hold twenty, maybe thirty dragons, and was used for large groups to take off and land with the help of eyrie hands.

Ircundus soared after the ivories without protest, but when they came within a few trees of the eyrie, the mighty onyx bellowed and veered right.

“She’s frightened,” Rhiannon said. “Lead her away!”

“I know,” Maladox growled.

He loosened the reins and allowed Ircundus to arc around the eyrie. They circled a citadel tree, a big one, and the deck was lost from sight. When it came back into view, the ivories had landed, and a dozen eyrie hands, men and women, young and old, were moving among them and gripping their reins. The hands wore light clothes and thick leather gloves and seemed unperturbed as the ivories pealed and clacked their jaws. The ivories soon quieted, Yeriel and her Seven dismounted, and the hands began pulling what looked to be dead ferrets from sacks on their belts and feeding them to the dragons.

Maladox guided Ircundus toward the deck, and Ircundus landed with a boom. One of the ivories shrieked. More followed suit. Soon all of them were making the same sound. Rhiannon’s skin crawled from the sheer intensity of it.

Ircundus threw her head back and roared. She swept her horns, narrowly missing Maladox, and Rhiannon was forced to hold tight to Maladox lest she be thrown. After a chorus of orders barked from the eyrie hands, the ivories fell silent, and Ircundus stilled.

Maladox loosened the reins and patted the black scales along Ircundus’s shoulder. “Down, girl. We’re safe now.”

Ircundus gurgled and slowly lowered her chest to the deck, but when one of the eyrie hands, a handsome fellow with nutmeg hair, approached, Ircundus fixed her gaze on him, gouged the deck with her wing talons, and growled a warning.

A warbling whistle filled the humid air, and Ircundus snapped her head toward Chirrup, a spritely woman with short chestnut hair and dragon-tooth earrings, who had broken away from the Seven. Chirrup was a rarity in the Holt. She was a dragon singer who could calm temperamental beasts with song. She paced toward Ircundus and touched the eyrie hand’s shoulder. The hand stepped back, blinked, and swallowed hard. And little wonder. Onyxes were one of the largest of the dragon breeds, and Ircundus was bigger than most. Her gargantuan form made Chirrup and the hand look like rag dolls, yet Chirrup seemed unbothered as she continued her steady approach. She stopped several paces from Ircundus and continued her melodic whistling. Ircundus raised her head like she was about to swallow Chirrup whole, then she grunted like a warthog and began swaying her head in time with the dragon singer’s hand.

“I told you no dragon singing,” Maladox growled. When Chirrup continued as if she hadn’t heard, Maladox slid off Ircundus, drew his axe, and strode toward the dragon singer. “Did you hear me?”

Dervish, a strikingly beautiful woman with jet black hair and cinnamon skin, rushed in front of Chirrup and drew her rapier. The sword burst into flames. Flame wielders were common in the tales of the Sapphire Coast but all but unheard of in the Holt.

Rhiannon cried out, “Maladox, don’t!”

Maladox stopped and stared at Dervish, his mouth hanging open. Ircundus lowered herself onto the deck and gurgled, as quiet and still as Rhiannon had ever seen her.

Yeriel stood beyond the eyrie hand and watched the conflict unfold in silence; then she strode to stand by Dervish and glared at Maladox. “Do you think I would invite you to Gonsalond,” she said calmly, “only to kill you here?”

Maladox blinked. He seemed unable to draw his gaze from Dervish, but at last, he took a half step back and slipped his axe into the steel loop on his belt. “Please, forgive my poor manners.” He waved one hand vaguely toward Chirrup, who had yet to stop her melodic song. “I just don’t trust that sort of thing.”

Dervish seemed not to have heard. She remained in a fighting stance, the flames licking the steel of her sword reflecting in her eyes.

Yeriel touched her shoulder. “Put your sword away, Dervish.”

Dervish’s nostrils flared, she jutted her jaw, and the flames went out. “You’ve entered a holy place,” she said to Maladox and Rhiannon. “Act like it.” Then she drove her rapier into its sheath and walked away.

Lithe Sable, dressed in black leather armor, joined Dervish, as did Cordney, Hellebore, and the burly one, Snow on the Mountain.

Chirrup finally ceased her song and said, “I’m taking Ircundus to a nest, where I’ll calm her until I’m sure she’s not a threat to the other dragons. You can visit her later if you like.”

“Very well,” Maladox said dumbly, still watching Dervish walk away.

But Chirrup hadn’t waited for a reply. She hopped into Ircundus’s saddle, took up the reins, and whistled a short, rising melody. Ircundus launched, and Maladox watched her go like he’d just given his only daughter to the druins.

Of the Seven, only Moth remained on the deck, the ruby in her nose ring sparkling in the bright sun. She smirked at Rhiannon. “Such a pretty little morsel.”

“Go on, Moth,” Yeriel said.

Moth looked Rhiannon up and down. “Such a pretty little morsel, indeed…” Then she jogged after the others, leaving Maladox and Rhiannon alone with Yeriel and the handsome eyrie hand.

“To the vault, Brelleg.”

It was only then that Rhiannon realized the handsome man was no hand at all, but a warden. He wore tooled leather armor and a mottled green cloak that seemed to shift its shades as Rhiannon stared at it.

Brelleg bowed. “Yes, my lady.” He marched toward a corner of the deck and started down a covered corkscrew stairway. Yeriel motioned Maladox to follow, which he did, albeit with a scowl on his face. Yeriel and Rhiannon followed him.

“To the vault, you said?” Rhiannon asked.

Yeriel nodded, her thick locks swaying like seaweed. “You have many questions. It will take days, even weeks to answer them all, but I guarantee this – every answer I give will, in one way or another, revolve around Faedryn.”

It took Rhiannon a moment to understand. “We’re going to see him?”

“You said you wanted to on the back of your onyx, didn’t you?”

Maladox glowered at the woman. Rhiannon tried to hide her surprise, and failed.

“Fear not,” Yeriel said with a laugh. “You were right. You do need to know what we’re fighting for, and better now than later.”

Brelleg led them ever downward. The people of Gonsalond came out to watch them from decks and walkways, or peered from inside their burrows. When they reached ground level, they entered a stairwell that led down into the earth and to a tunnel. Roots, large and small, comprised the tunnel walls at least as much as earth and stone. Clinging to the roots, thousands upon thousands of tiny, glowing mushrooms lit the way. Rhiannon felt like they were walking among stars. The roots changed from mottled brown to black, and they entered a rune-carved stone archway. Two wardens in leather armor stood at attention. They touched fists to their chests and bowed to Yeriel. “My lady…”

Beyond was a massive cavern, large enough, it seemed, to contain the whole of Thicket. More mushrooms clung to the walls, shedding a pale light. Stone slabs etched with arcane symbols covered the floor. High overhead, a man writhed in a cluster of black roots. Above him, more roots spread in a web so thick no stone or earth was visible beyond them. Staring at the writhing man, who was surely Faedryn, Rhiannon felt like she’d entered a perverse circus, a pavilion in the lowest realm of hell.

Brelleg remained near the arch as Yeriel led Rhiannon and Maladox to the center of the cavern. Rhiannon stared up and gawped at Faedryn. “Alra’s bright smile.”

Yeriel frowned. “We don’t invoke Alra’s name here.” Maladox’s bushy eyebrows pressed together as he frowned.

“You don’t believe in the goddess?”

Yeriel’s hair writhed, and her lilac lips pressed into a thin line. “Our fate is our own to decide, not Alra’s or anyone else’s.”

Rhiannon was barely listening. She continued to stare up at the trickster god wrapped in the Umbral Tree’s roots. He looked like a child being choked by its own swaddling. And his face, what little of it she could see through the roots, was covered in ritualistic scars. “Are those wards?” she asked, pointing.

“They are,” replied Yeriel. “They protected him once, but the magic of the Umbral Tree stripped that power from him long ago.”

Faedryn went still for a second, then kicked and writhed more wildly than before. His eyes, momentarily revealed, were closed.

“Is he…”Maladox squinted up into the gloom.“Is he dreamin’?” “In a way, yes,” Yeriel replied. “The spell that binds him also lulls him, but that spell has slowly been failing. He wakes more often.” She traced the path of one of the larger roots with her finger. “He uses the citadels to manipulate people from afar. And his powers have only seemed to grow since the destruction of Ancris’s shrine.”

Rhiannon wasn’t in the city when it broke apart, but she’d heard countless stories of neighborhoods crumbling, a mountain breaking into pieces and floating into the sky, thousands of people falling to their deaths. “But Ancris is hundreds of miles away. How could the shrine’s destruction affect Faedryn?”

“Well, for one thing, Strages’ awakening has given Faedryn hope and renewed strength. But another reason, the more worrying of the two by far, is that the Umbral Tree is weakening. Combine the two and Faedryn has more freedom than he’s had in centuries.”

“Well, can’t you stop him?” Rhiannon asked. It seemed like a legitimate question.

“I can impede him, but it takes effort, constant effort, and even then, he finds ways around my spells.”

Maladox’s brow creased. “If you don’t mind my asking, why haven’t you just…” He ran his thumb across his throat.

Yeriel hid a smile behind her hand, then grew more serious. “You may have heard that a part of Alra resides in Faedryn still.”

“Nope,” Maladox said, then said to Rhiannon, “you?”

Rhiannon nodded. “I read something along those lines in the abbey library. When Faedryn killed Alra, he tried to devour her soul, but she was too holy, and he wasn’t able to consume her. Not all the way.” She gazed up at Faedryn, wondering if it was true. “They say part of her is in him still.”

“It’s true,” Yeriel said. “Centuries ago, we hoped to reawaken the goddess, but I grew convinced that could never happen, so we did try to kill him once. The trouble is” – she pointed at the roots again – “he’s practically a part of the Umbral Tree now. Wounding him wounds the tree. It weakens the magic that keeps Faedryn in check. He nearly escaped. So here he remains, until we find a way to raise Alra or kill him with certainty.”

“Well, if he’s messing about so much,” Maladox growled, “why don’t you cut him off from the maze? Take an axe to those roots?” Yeriel shook her head. “Not everything can be solved on the edge of a blade. Cutting the roots would harm the Umbral Tree, possibly kill it, and that I cannot allow.”

“Cut the roots around the vyrd, then,” Rhiannon said, “or destroy the vyrd itself !”

“Ah, but Faedryn isn’t using the vyrd to reach the maze.” Yeriel circled Rhiannon and Maladox and spread her hands toward the floor. “He’s using the earth itself, the veins of indurium embedded within it.”

Rhiannon chewed the inside of her cheek then stopped. She was doing her best to not look frightened but it was getting harder by the moment. “There must be something we can do.”

“There is.” Yeriel stopped and faced Rhiannon. “Remain here. Let Moth guide you in the ways of magic. Let Sable teach you swordplay. In the meantime, Cordney will search for where your mother and the Red Knives have taken Strages. When we find him, you’ll join the Seven and bring him here. With his help, I may very well be able to kill Faedryn before he finds a way to break free.”

“Couldn’t we just get Strages’ shard?” Maladox asked.

The shard was a piece of the fabled Heartstone… It seemed like such a simple solution, and in some ways it was. Strages’ soul was bound to the glittering length of crystal, and those who knew how could control him through it, but it was very difficult to do so. Rhiannon knew. She’d once used Yeriel’s to force her away when she was coming for Rhiannon and her mother.

“No one knows where it is,” Yeriel told them, “but my wardens are searching for news. In the meantime, our primary hope lies with Strages. Make no mistake, he’s a tortured soul and we cannot trust him fully, but he is powerful and wise. He’s probably our only hope of dealing with Faedryn. Until then” – she pointed up at the knot of black roots – “we work to delay catastrophe.”

As if he’d heard, Faedryn twisted against the tangle of roots and roared like a trapped animal. He ripped an arm free and tore at the roots around his head and neck. The roots were thick but snapped like kindling. He had dark skin with many cuts and red abrasions. His hair had been reduced to a patchwork of black tufts. For all that, Rhiannon could see how handsome he might once have been.

“My lady, stand back!” Brelleg called.

Rhiannon heard him clomping fast toward them. She knew she should move but felt frozen in place. Faedryn’s eyes glittered like the firmament. He glared down at her, baring his teeth. A voice spoke inside her head, Who are you, child?

She was vaguely aware that Yeriel and Maladox were backing away.

Roots dropped down from the clump, fast, almost whiplike, toward her.

Rhiannon felt a hand grip her shoulder. Brelleg yanked her back and shoved her toward Maladox. He started drawing his sword, but the roots wrapped his neck and yanked him into the air like a trout from the Diamondflow. The sword fell from his fingers and clanged against the stone floor. He choked and wheezed and grasped at the roots.

Maladox gripped Rhiannon’s shoulders and pulled her toward the archway.

Yeriel raised her hands and twisted her fingers into arcane symbols. Her hands glowed yellow then searing white. She waved her arm and a blinding scythe of light slashed through the roots.

Brelleg fell hard on the rune-scribed stones and cried out in pain.

As the remains of the roots lifted and knotted up the trickster god once again, he seemed to be glaring directly down at Rhiannon, his eyes almost glowing. For a moment, she wanted to run away, not just from Faedryn and the Umbral Tree, but from all of Gonsalond. But Maladox was standing firm; she knew she had to as well. She rushed over to Brelleg and knelt down next to him. “Are you all right?”

His neck was red, scratched, and bleeding, like he’d been rescued from the gallows in the nick of time. He grimaced but nodded, and then the other two wardens arrived.

“Let them attend to him,” Yeriel said.

Rhiannon stood and backed away. The wardens helped Brelleg to his feet and led him slowly toward the arch.

“You see?” Yeriel said, nearly shouting. “This is why I need your help. This is why I must remain here while you help my Seven deal with your mother as they recover Strages. Can you do that for me? Can you help protect them?”

Faedryn writhed a moment longer, then went still, and perfect silence reigned.

Rhiannon took a deep breath. “Of course, my lady. I’ll do my best.”

A God of Countless Guises is out today from Head of Zeus. You can order your copy on Bookshop.org