Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)(89)

“Then the Fae learned that the Valg had done something unforgivable. They had taken a piece of a Wyrdgate with their dark magic, and split it into three slivers—three keys. One key for each of their kings. Using all three at once, the Valg Kings were able to open that Wyrdgate at will, to manipulate its power to strengthen their forces, to allow an endless line of soldiers to pour into the world. The Fae knew that they must stop it.”

Celaena stared at the fire, at the mirrors, at the darkness of the wagon around her. The heat was smothering now.

“And so a small band of Fae set out to steal them from the Valg Kings,” Yellowlegs said, her voice coming nearer again. “It was an impossible task; most of those fools didn’t return.

“But the Wyrdkeys were indeed retrieved, and the Fae Queen Maeve banished the Valg to their realm. Yet for all her wisdom, Maeve couldn’t discover how to put the keys back in the gate—and no forge, no steel, no weight could destroy them. So Maeve, believing that no one should have their power, sent them across the sea with Brannon Galathynius, first King of Terrasen, to hide on this continent. And thus the Wyrdgate remained protected, its power unused.”

Silence fell. Even Yellowlegs’s hobbling steps had slowed.

“So the riddle is a … a map to where the keys are hidden?” Celaena asked, trembling now as she realized just what kind of power Nehemia and the others had been after. Worse, what the king might be after.

“Yes.”

Celaena licked her lips. “What might one do with the Wyrdkeys?”

“The person who holds all three Wyrdkeys would have control over the broken Wyrdgate—and all Erilea. They would be able to open and close the gate at will. They could conquer new worlds or let in all sorts of life to bend to their cause. But even one key could make someone immensely dangerous. Not enough power to open the gate, but enough to be a threat. You see, the keys themselves are pure power—power to be shaped as the wielder wills it. Tempting, isn’t it?”

The words echoed through her, blending with Elena’s command to find and destroy the source of evil. Evil. Evil that had arisen ten years ago, when a whole continent had suddenly found itself at mercy of one man—a man who had somehow become unstoppable.

A source of power that existed outside of magic. “It can’t be.”

Yellowlegs only let out a confirming chuckle.

Celaena kept shaking her head, her heart beating so violently she could hardly breathe. “The king has some of the Wyrdkeys? That’s how he was able to conquer the continent so easily?” But if he’d already done that—then what further plans did he have?

“Perhaps,” Yellowlegs said. “If I were to wager my hard-earned gold, I’d say he has at least one.”

Celaena scanned the dark, the mirrors, but saw only versions of herself looking back. She heard nothing but the crackling of the fire in the oven and her own uneven breathing.

Yellowlegs had stopped moving.

“Is there anything else?” Celaena demanded.

No response from the old woman.

“So you’re going to take my money and run?” Celaena eased toward the winding path through the mirrors, and the door that now seemed impossibly far away. “What if I still have questions?” Her own movements in the mirrors sent her nerves jumping, but she kept alert and focused—reminded herself what she had to do. She drew both her daggers.

“You think steel can hurt me?” came a voice that slithered across each mirror until its origin was everywhere and nowhere.

“Here I was, thinking we were having a grand time,” Celaena said, taking another step.

“Bah. Who can have a grand time when your guest is planning to kill you?”

Celaena smiled.

“Isn’t that why you’re moving toward the door?” Yellowlegs went on. “Not to escape, but to make sure I don’t get past your clever, wicked daggers?”

“Tell me who else you’ve sold the prince’s questions to and I’ll let you go.” Earlier, she’d been about to walk away—about to leave—when Yellowlegs’s mention of Dorian had stopped her cold. Now she had no choice about what she had to do. What she would do to protect Dorian. It was what she’d realized last night: she did have someone left—one friend. And there was nothing she wouldn’t do to keep him safe.

“And if I say that I’ve told no one?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.” Celaena spied the door at last. No sign of the witch. She paused, roughly in the center of the wagon. It would be easier to catch the woman here—easier to make it quick and clean.

“Pity,” Yellowlegs said, and Celaena angled herself toward the disembodied voice. There had to be some hidden exit—but where? If Yellowlegs got out, if she told anyone what Dorian had asked (whatever it might be), if she told anyone what Celaena had asked …

All around Celaena, her reflection shifted and glimmered. Quick, clean, then she’d be gone.

“What happens,” Yellowlegs hissed, “when the hunter becomes the hunted?”

From the corner of her eye, Celaena glimpsed the hunched form, chains sagging between the gnarled hands. She whirled toward the crone, dagger already flying—to disable, to get her down so she could—

The mirror shattered where Yellowlegs had been standing.

Behind her, there was a heavy clink, and a satisfied caw of laughter.