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.

Surprisingly fast, she realized, and hurried to catch up to Yellowlegs. As she strode through the forest of mirrors, her reflection shifted everywhere. In one she appeared short and fat, in another tall and impossibly thin. In another she stood upside down, and in yet another she walked sideways. It was enough to give her a headache.

“Done gawking?” Yellowlegs said. Celaena ignored her, but sheathed her dagger as she followed the woman into a small sitting area before a dim, grated oven. No reason to have her weapon out—not when she still needed Yellowlegs to cooperate.

The sitting area lay in a rough circle cleared of junk and stacks of mirrors, with little more than a rug and a few chairs to make it hospitable. Yellowlegs hobbled over to the raised hearthstone, yanking a few logs from a tiny stack perched on the rim. Celaena remained on the edge of the worn red rug, watching as Yellowlegs threw open the iron grate of the oven, tossed in the wood, and slammed the grate shut again. Within seconds, light flared, made brighter still by the surrounding mirrors.

“The stones of this oven,” Yellowlegs said, patting the curved wall of dark bricks like an old pet, “came from the ruins of the Crochan capital city. The wood of this wagon was hewn from the walls of their sacred schools. That’s why my wagon is … unusual inside.”

Celaena said nothing. It would have been easy to dismiss it as a bit of carnival dramatics, except she was seeing it for herself.

“So,” Yellowlegs said, remaining standing as well, despite the aged wooden furniture scattered around them. “Questions.”

Even though the air in the wagon was chill, the burning oven somehow made it instantly warm—warm enough for Celaena’s layers of clothing to be uncomfortable. She’d been told a story once, on a hot summer night in the Red Desert; a story about what one of the long-lost Ironteeth witches had done to a young girl. What had been left of her.

Gleaming white bones. Nothing more.

Celaena glanced at the oven again and angled herself closer to the door. Across the small sitting area, more mirrors waited in the gloom—as if even the light of the fire couldn’t reach them.

Yellowlegs leaned closer to the grate, rubbing her gnarled fingers in front of it. The firelight danced along her iron nails. “Ask away, girl.”

What had Dorian wanted to know so badly? Had he come inside this strange, smothering place? At least he’d survived. If only because Yellowlegs wanted to use whatever information she’d gleaned from him. Foolish, foolish man.

Was she any different, though?

This might be her only chance to learn what she needed to know, despite the risk, despite how messy and complicated the aftermath might be.

“I found a riddle, and my friends have been debating its answer for weeks. We even have a bet going about it,” she said as vaguely as she could. “Answer it, if you’re so clever and all-knowing. I’ll toss in an extra gold coin if you get it right.”

“Impudent children. Wasting my time with this nonsense.” Yellowlegs watched the mirrors now, as if she could see something Celaena couldn’t.

Or as if she’s already bored.

Some of the tightness in her chest loosening, Celaena pulled the riddle from her pocket and read it aloud.

When she was done, Yellowlegs slowly turned her head to Celaena, her voice low and rough. “Where did you find that?”

Celaena shrugged. “Give me the answer and I might tell you. What sort of objects does this riddle describe?”

“Wyrdkeys,” Yellowlegs breathed, eyes glowing. “It describes the three Wyrdkeys to open the Wyrdgate.”

Cold slithered down Celaena’s spine, but she said, with more bravado than she felt, “Tell me what they are—the Wyrdkeys, the Wyrdgate. For all I know, you might be lying about the answer. I’d rather not be made a fool of.”

“This information is not for the idle games of mortals,” Yellowlegs snapped.

Gold gleamed in Celaena’s palm. “Name your price.”

The woman studied her from head to toe, sniffing once. “Nameless is my price,” Yellowlegs said. “But gold will do for now.”

Celaena set five extra gold coins down on the hearthstone, the heat from the flame singeing her face. Such a small fire, but she was already slick with sweat.

“Once you know this, there is no unknowing it,” the witch warned. And from the gleam in Yellowlegs’s eyes, Celaena knew that the old woman hadn’t bought her lie about the bet for one heartbeat.

Celaena took a step closer. “Tell me.”

Yellowlegs looked toward another mirror. “The Wyrd governs and forms the foundation of this world. Not just Erilea, but all life. There are worlds that exist beyond your knowledge, worlds that lie on top of each other and don’t know it. Right now, you could be standing on the bottom of someone else’s ocean. The Wyrd keeps these realms apart.”