Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver by D. Wallace Peach [BLITZ]

"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.

⇛The Book⇚

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Fantasy | New Adult | Young Adult

Published: January 2, 2025

Length: 310 Pages

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⇛The Excerpt⇚

A wicker basket of colorful spools rested at my feet. I picked through the bewitched thread my mother had hand-spun long before my birth. No matter how many seasons passed, the spools unwound and unwound, and I no longer fretted about reaching their ends. There was no end to magic, no end to the seasons, no end to my place on the cusp of two worlds.

A delicate pink caught my eye, a color crafted from the cherry blossoms bordering my garden. I held it against the tapestry, testing its suitability for flowering plum trees and coral bells I’d stitch into the meadows and along the forest’s edge.

“Should you desire my opinion, Erith,” a small voice piped up, “it requires a touch of carnation and a shimmer of sunshine. On the dogwood blossoms as well.”

“I wondered about those.” My gaze rose to my knee-high hospet. He sat cross-legged on the hearthstone in front of our shrinking fire, cracking walnuts with his sharp teeth. The creature blinked at me with eyes as clear as spring water, his waistcoat buttoned, cheeks rosy, and cinnamon hair parted in the middle like a magistrate. Nobbin kept my wood and moss cottage tidy, expecting little beyond customary respect and an occasional outfit when his garments aged past mending.

He also took it upon himself to offer artistic advice since my mother had chosen to join my father in the underworld.

“I might leave them as they are,” I said. “Dogwoods are white.”

Nobbin’s eyebrows tilted up in an expression of devilish skepticism. “Spring’s princess will agree with me. Give it a brush of magic. I know you dabble when I’m otherwise occupied.”

“You spy on me?”

“I’m observant. And I’m charmed.” He flicked his handcloth at the window. “Snow doesn’t glitter like that without your touch, my girl. You added that sparkle to your mother’s tapestry, and it impressed the Winter King.”

“Do you think so?” A blush heated my cheeks. “From what I’ve gathered, he’s not one to dole out compliments.”

“None of them are.” Nobbin held up a nut as if inspecting a precious gem. “Such is the nature of immortals. Add a layer of royalty on top, and we are lucky they don’t dismember anyone or anything tarnishing their crowns.”

“Dismember?” I cringed at the grisly thought and drew my black shawl around my shoulders. “My mother told me the courtiers are kind and cruel in equal measure. Without good reason for either.”

Not one to speak with his mouth full, Nobbin raised a finger and swallowed a morsel of walnut. “Indeed, they’re notoriously whimsical. But you are their weaver, and every artist must begin somewhere. You will earn your place, Erith, though it is no simple task to prove your power and demand respect. Spring is the first tapestry you may claim as your own creation, and it is a glorious start. I have untold faith in you.”

I smiled gratefully and stifled a shudder at the challenge ahead. Despite Nobbin’s trust in me, my confidence wavered like a weathervane on a gusty day. I’d done my best, and it would have to serve. The seasons’ rulers wouldn’t dismember me on a whim. I hoped.

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Best-selling author D. Wallace Peach grew up surrounded by her father’s well-loved paperback books. Fantasy was a staple, but it was Tolkien’s The Hobbit that planted the seeds which would grow into a passion for writing.

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.