The Yellowlegs heir, a haughty bull of a witch named Iskra, had merely given her offending sentinel a warning to keep her mouth shut and sent her down to the infirmary in the belly of the mountain. Fool.

   All the coven leaders ­were under orders to keep their sentinels in line—­to suppress the fighting between Clans. Or ­else the three Matrons would come down on them like a hammer. Without punishment, without Iskra making an example of her, the offending witch would keep at it until she got strung up by her toes by the new High Witch of the Yellowlegs Clan.

   They’d held a sham of a memorial ser­vice last night for Baba Yellowlegs in the cavernous mess hall—­lighting any old candles in lieu of the traditional black ones, wearing what­ever hoods they could find, and going through the Sacred Words to the Three-­Faced Goddess as though they ­were reading a recipe.

   Manon had never met Baba Yellowlegs, and didn’t particularly care that she’d died. She was more interested in who had killed her, and why. They all ­were, and it was those questions that ­were exchanged between the expected words of loss and mourning. Asterin and Vesta had done the talking, as they usually did, chatting up the other witches while Manon listened from nearby. No one knew anything, though. Even her two Shadows, concealed in the dark pockets of the mess hall as they’d been trained to do, had overheard nothing.

   It was the not knowing that made her shoulders tight as Manon stalked up the sloped hallway to where the Matrons and all the Coven leaders ­were to assemble, Blackbeak and Yellowlegs witches stepping aside to let her pass. She resented not knowing anything that might be useful, that might give the Thirteen or the Blackbeaks an advantage. Of course, the Bluebloods ­were nowhere to be seen. The reclusive witches had arrived first and claimed the uppermost rooms in the Omega, saying they needed the mountain breeze to complete their rituals every day.

   Religious fanatics with their noses in the wind, was what Mother Blackbeak had always called them. But it had been their insane devotion to the Three-­Faced Goddess and their vision of the Witch Kingdom under Ironteeth rule that had mustered the Clans five centuries ago—­even if it had been the Blackbeak sentinels who’d won the battles for them.

   Manon treated her body as she would any other weapon: she kept it clean and honed and ready at any time to defend and destroy. But even her training ­couldn’t keep her from being out of breath when she reached the atrium by the black bridge that connected the Omega to the Northern Fang. She hated the expanse of stone without even touching it. It smelled wrong.

   It smelled like those two prisoners she’d seen with the duke. In fact, this ­whole place reeked like that. The scent ­wasn’t natural; it didn’t belong in this world.

   About fifty witches—­the highest-­ranking coven leaders in each Clan—­were gathered at the giant hole in the side of the mountain. Manon spotted her grandmother immediately, standing at the bridge entrance with what had to be the Blueblood and Yellowlegs Matrons.

   The new Yellowlegs Matron was supposedly some half ­sister of Baba, and she certainly looked the part: huddled in brown robes, saffron ankles peeking out, white hair braided back to reveal a wrinkled, brutal face mottled with age. By rule, all Yellowlegs wore their iron teeth and nails on permanent display, and the new High Witch’s ­were shining in the dull morning light.

   Unsurprisingly, the Blueblood Matron was tall and willowy, more priestess than warrior. She wore the traditional deep blue robes, and a band of iron stars circled her brow. As Manon approached the crowd, she could see that the stars ­were barbed. Not surprising, either.

   Legend had it that all witches had been gifted by the Three-­Faced Goddess with iron teeth and nails to keep them anchored to this world when magic threatened to pull them away. The iron crown, supposedly, was proof that the magic in the Blueblood line ran so strong that their leader needed more—­needed iron and pain—­to keep her tethered in this realm.

   Nonsense. Especially when magic had been gone these past ten years. But Manon had heard rumors of the rituals the Bluebloods did in their forests and caves, rituals in which pain was the gateway to magic, to opening their senses. Oracles, mystics, zealots.

   Manon stalked through the ranks of the assembled Blackbeak coven leaders. They ­were the most numerous—­twenty coven leaders, over which Manon ruled with her Thirteen. Each leader touched two fingers to her brow in deference. She ignored them and took up a spot at the front of the crowd, where her grandmother gave her an acknowledging glance.

   An honor, for any High Witch to acknowledge an individual. Manon bowed her head, pressing two fingers to her brow. Obedience, discipline, and brutality ­were the most beloved words in the Blackbeak Clan. All ­else was to be extinguished without second thought.

   She still had her chin high, hands behind her back, when she spotted the other two heirs watching her.

   The Blueblood heir, Petrah, stood closest to the High Witches, her group in the center of the crowd. Manon stiffened but held her gaze.

   Her freckled skin was as pale as Manon’s, and her braided hair was as golden as Asterin’s—­a deep, brassy color that caught the gray light. She was beautiful, like so many of them, but grave. Above her blue eyes, a worn leather band rested on her brow in lieu of the iron-­star crown. There was no way of telling how old she was, but she ­couldn’t be much older than Manon if she looked this way after magic had vanished. There was no aggression, but no smile, either. Smiles ­were rare amongst witches—­unless you ­were on the hunt or on a killing field.

   The Yellowlegs heir, though . . . Iskra was grinning at Manon, bristling with a challenge that Manon found herself aching to meet. Iskra hadn’t forgotten the brawl between their sentinels in the hallway yesterday. If anything, from the look in Iskra’s brown eyes, it seemed that the brawl had been an invitation. Manon found herself debating how much trouble she’d get into for shredding the throat of the Yellowlegs heir. It would put an end to any fights between their sentinels.

   It would also put an end to her life, if the attack ­were unprovoked. Witch justice was swift. Dominance battles could end in loss of life, but the claim had to be made up front. Without a formal provocation from Iskra, Manon’s hands ­were tied.

   “Now that ­we’re assembled,” the Blueblood Matron—­Cresseida—said, drawing Manon’s attention, “shall we show you what ­we’ve been brought ­here to do?”

   Mother Blackbeak waved a hand to the bridge, black robes billowing in the icy wind. “We walk into the sky, witches.”

   •

   The crossing of the black bridge was more harrowing than Manon wanted to admit. First, there was the miserable stone, which throbbed beneath her feet, giving off that reek that no one ­else seemed to notice. Then there was the screeching wind, which battered them this way and that, trying to shove them over the carved railing.

   They ­couldn’t even see the floor of the Gap. Mist shrouded everything below the bridge—­a mist that hadn’t vanished in the day they’d been ­here, or the days they’d hiked up the Gap. It was, she supposed, some trick of the king’s. Contemplating it led only to more questions, none of which she bothered to voice, or really care about all that much.