Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)(87)

People streamed by, hardly glancing at her as she made her way to the black wagon. This could easily be folly, but what harm was there in asking? If Yellowlegs truly was a witch, then perhaps she had the gift of Sight. Perhaps she could make sense of the riddle in the tomb.

When Celaena reached the wagon, it was mercifully devoid of patrons. Baba Yellowlegs sat on the top stair, smoking a long bone pipe whose bowl was shaped like a screaming mouth. Pleasant.

“Come to look into the mirrors?” she said, smoke spilling from her withered lips. “Done running from fate at last?”

“I have some questions for you.”

The witch sniffed her, and Celaena fought the urge to step back. “You do indeed stink of questions—and the Staghorn Mountains. From Terrasen, are you? What’s your name?”

Celaena stuck her hands deep in her pockets. “Lillian Gordaina.”

The witch spat on the ground. “What’s your real name, Lillian?” Celaena stiffened. Yellowlegs crowed with laughter. “Come,” she cawed, “want to have your fortune told? I can tell you who you’ll marry, how many children you’ll have, when you’ll die …”

“If you’re indeed as good as you claim, you know I’m not interested in those things. I’d like to talk to you instead,” Celaena said, flashing the three gold coins in her palm.

“Cheap goat,” Yellowlegs said, taking another long drag from the pipe. “That’s all my gifts are worth to you?”

Perhaps this would be a waste of time. And money. And pride.

Celaena turned away with a scowl, shoving her hands into the pockets of her dark cloak.

“Wait,” Yellowlegs said.

Celaena kept walking.

“The prince gave me four coins.”

She paused and looked over her shoulder at the crone. A cold, clawed hand gripped her heart.

Yellowlegs smiled at her. “He had such interesting questions, too. He thought I didn’t recognize him, but I can smell Havilliard blood a mile off. Seven gold pieces, and I’ll answer your questions—and tell you his.”

She’d sell Dorian’s questions to her—to anyone? That familiar calm went through her. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

Yellowlegs’s iron teeth glinted in the light of the torches. “It would be bad for business if I were branded a liar. Would it make you more comfortable if I swore on one of your soft-hearted gods? Or perhaps on one of mine?”

Celaena studied the black wagon, swiftly braiding her hair back. One door, no back exit, no sign of trick panels. No way out, and plenty of warning in case someone came in. She checked her weapons—two long daggers, a knife in her boot, and three of Philippa’s deadly hairpins. More than enough.

“Make it six coins,” Celaena said softly, “and I won’t report you to the guard for trying to sell the prince’s secrets.”

“Who says the guard won’t be interested in them, too? You’d be surprised how many people want to know what truly interests the prince of the realm.”

Celaena slammed six gold coins onto the step beside the tiny crone. “Three pieces for my questions,” she said, bringing her face as close to Yellowlegs’s as she dared. The reek from the woman’s mouth was like carrion and stale smoke. “And three for your silence about the prince.”

Yellowlegs’s eyes gleamed, her iron nails clinking together as she stretched out a hand to grab the coins. “Get in the caravan.” The door behind her swung open soundlessly. A dark interior lay beyond, speckled with patches of glimmering light. Yellowlegs snuffed out her bone pipe.

She’d been hoping for this—to get inside the caravan, and thus avoid having anyone see her with Yellowlegs.

The old woman groaned as she stood, a hand braced on her knee. “Care to tell me your name now?”

A chill wind blew from within the caravan, sliding along Celaena’s neck. Carnival trick. “I’ll ask the questions,” Celaena said, and stalked up the steps into the caravan.

Inside, there were a few measly candles, whose light flickered along row after row, stack after stack, of mirrors. They were every shape, every size, some leaning against the walls, some propped against each other like old friends, some little more than shards clinging to their frames.

And everywhere else, wherever there was a bit of space, were papers and scrolls, jars full of herbs or liquids, brooms … junk.

In the gloom, the caravan stretched on much wider and longer than should have been possible. A winding path had been made between the mirrors, leading into the dark—a path that Yellowlegs was now treading, as if there were anywhere to go inside this strange place.

This can’t be real—it must be an illusion of the mirrors.

Celaena glanced back toward the wagon door in time to see it snick shut. Her dagger was out before the sound had finished echoing through the wagon. Ahead, Yellowlegs chuckled, lifting the candle in her hand. Its holder seemed to be shaped like a skull mounted on some sort of longer bone.

Tacky, cheap carnival tricks, Celaena told herself again and again, her breath clouding in the chill air inside the wagon. None of it was real. But Yellowlegs—and the knowledge she offered—truly was.

“Come along, girl. Come sit with me where we might talk.”

Celaena carefully stepped over a fallen mirror, keeping an eye on the bobbing skull-lantern—and on the door, any possible exits (none as far as she could see, but perhaps there was a trapdoor in the floor), and how the woman moved.