“What about the baby?”

“Oh, gods! You have a baby?”

“No! Mum’s baby!”

“Oh. That baby. And that’s easy. Nothing. Your mum won’t let me take care of her.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “The first time I had her in my arms, I dropped her.”

“Keran!”

“She was fine! They bounce at that age.”

“No, they don’t!”

“It doesn’t matter. What I do know is that I know nothing about the baby.” Keran suddenly raised her forefinger and added, “But when I roll my eyes back in my head, she does laugh.”

“Why do you keep making my point for me?”

“All right, fine!” Keran snapped. “I’ll admit that I have no idea what makes Beatrix laugh. Or cry. Or rage. To be honest, I don’t think she’s ever been any of those things. That still doesn’t mean—”

“That she tried to kill her own sister?”

“You can think what you want, Gemma. But without proof . . .”

“I need to find out the truth.”

“How? Beatrix is gone. We don’t know when Keeley will wake up.”

Neither said “if” but Gemma knew it was implied.

“Maybe you should talk to the witches,” Keran suggested.

“Yes, I’m sure they’ll be gagging to tell me everything they know.”

“Were you being sarcastic that time?”

“Definitely.” Gemma scratched her jaw. “The Witches of Amhuinn haven’t exactly been friendly. I doubt they’ll spill their guts to me. And why should I ask them anything anyway?”

“Because it all started with them. Besides, you’re a monk.”

“So?”

“Aren’t you trained in interrogating witches?” Keran shrugged. “Just do that.”

* * *

The Witch Queen—Belinda to those who’d died many decades before—went over her tally of numbers again to make sure she’d gotten the math right. Nothing annoyed her more than when she was off by a point or two. It was sloppy and Belinda did not like sloppy.

Satisfied her numbers were correct, she started to sign off on the paperwork when the War Monk suddenly appeared before her, slapped her hands on the arms of Belinda’s throne, and threatened, “Tell me what you know, witch, or I shall burn you at the stake!”

Belinda didn’t have time to ask “What the unholy fuck did you just say to me?” before the monk’s cousin was there, grabbing the woman’s arm and dragging her kin off a few feet.

“What are you doing?” the cousin demanded.

“What you told me to. You said interrogate her as I’d been trained. That’s how monks interrogate witches.”

“Or you could ask her your questions like a normal person. That’s always an option.”

“I guess . . . although this seems faster.”

“Does it really?”

The monk rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll ask her nicely.”

“Again with the sarcasm.”

The monk stood once more before Belinda’s throne.

“I have a question,” she said with a forced smile.

“Yes?”

“How did you decide that my sister would be queen?”

“That’s actually a bit difficult to answer.”

The cousin suddenly appeared behind the monk. She was a good bit taller and towered over her the way the monk’s sister did. “Why is that difficult to answer?”

“Because in the past, when we were involved in choosing kings and queens, we did not do it the way your sister was chosen.”

“Chosen?” the monk repeated. “You mean by the gods?”

“No. That’s not how I mean. We are the Witches of Amhuinn. Our gods expect us to do the work.”

“The work? You mean, like, sacrifices?”

“Of course not. Barbarians make sacrifices. Our gods are math, science, and logic.”

“Are those just words you’re using?” the cousin asked. “Or actual gods?”

“Both.” Belinda leaned back on her throne. “Our order has been requested to choose a ruler about a dozen times over the past three thousand years or so.”

“Who requested it this time?”

“No one.”

The War Monk frowned. “What do you mean ‘no one’?”

“It means what you think it means. But we didn’t need anyone to request anything. It was obvious that the Old King would die, his many sons would slaughter one another until only the strongest remained, which was exactly what happened. The oldest three each have an army and definite plans of being the new Old King. Now the twins also remain, but they’re weak and will probably be eliminated before the true Brothers’ War comes to pass. Finally, when it’s all said and done, one son will be left standing. That one will be the new Old King. In other words, we were not needed to predict this eventual outcome.”

“If no one requested that you choose the new queen, then why did you choose my sister?”

“That was Delora. She said the gods had given her a name. The name of your sister.”

“I thought you said your gods expected you to do the work.”

The Witch Queen nodded. “They do. But she swears she’s a seer.”

“If you had no faith in her, then why did you give my sister’s name to the royal counsel?”

“I didn’t. Because I didn’t care what Delora saw, didn’t see, or thought she saw.”

“So Delora informed the counsel?”

“No. She informed the Dowager Queen before the Old King even died.”

“I thought the Old King had no wife. Only consorts.”

“That’s true. But there is one of his consorts who is brave enough to claim the Dowager Queen title, and that is Maila of the North.”

“Maila?” the cousin asked, moving around the War Monk.

“Yes. Maila. The mother of Prince Marius.”

* * *

Laila entered the healing chamber and started toward the bed. One of the demon wolves raised its head and snarled but she pointed a finger at him and warned, “Uh-uh.”

The beast rested his massive head on his paws and Laila moved to her brother’s side. She brushed her hand across his forehead and his eyes opened.

“Hungry?” she asked. But before he could answer, a high-pitched scream rang out through the chambers and tunnels.

Laila pulled her sword and moved to the foot of the bed, taking a battle stance. The demon wolves, now on their feet, all growling, stood on either side of her.

Witches poured out of the other chambers, rushing around, panicked. Another scream and, a few seconds later, Gemma stormed by, her fingers gripped tight in the hair of the witch Delora. The War Monk yanked the witch through the passageway, heading toward the throne room.

“Oh, shit.” Laila pointed at her brother, stopping him just as he was about to run after Gemma. “Stay here with Keeley!”

She followed Gemma instead, nearly colliding with Keran in the passageway.

“What’s going on?”

“As my mother would say,” the fighter snarled, “we’ve found rats in the pantry.”

Laila didn’t know what that meant but she went with Keran to the throne room.

As soon as Gemma passed through the entrance, she threw Delora to the floor. This was the War Monk Laila had seen when the farm was attacked. A warrior who felt her family was threatened and acted accordingly.

“What did my sister promise you, whore?” Gemma bellowed at Delora, her angry voice ringing out against the cave walls.

“Nothing!”

“Don’t lie to me!”

The witch, on her knees, held her arms out to the rest of her order. “My sisters . . . my queen, help me. Don’t let this War Mo—”

“Tsst!” the Witch Queen hissed, her gaze never lifting from the scroll she had before her, her quill scratch-scratching urgently against the parchment.

Delora’s watery eyes narrowed in anger. “What are you doing?”

“I am”—scratch, scratch—“busy calculating”—scratch, scratch—“the odds of”—scratch, scratch—“your being a treacherous cow.”

The queen finished, leaning back and announcing, “Look at that. The odds are huge in favor of your being treacherous.”

Delora stood. “You’d believe—”

“Numbers? Over you? Always. Numbers never lie.”

“The calculations could be wrong.”

Coming out of her seat, the queen roared, “My calculations?”

But several of the younger witches jumped in front of her. One of them begged, “Please! My queen.”

The Witch Queen sat back into her throne. “Be glad your sisters have such coolheaded natures.”

Gemma leaned in behind Delora and growled, “Too bad I don’t.”

“You don’t frighten me, War Monk,” Delora said to the pacing Gemma.

“Because you think you have my baby sister’s loyalty?” Gemma slipped her arm around Delora’s neck, letting it hang there casually like they were old friends. “The loyalty of a woman who stabbed her own sister? Does that seem . . . wise to you?”

“Basic logic.” The queen sighed. “Like math, that is not one of her best subjects.”

“Why is she even here?” Laila finally had to ask. “Our chieftain has always told us we go to the Witches of Amhuinn for knowledge. But she’s stupid.”

“I am right here!” Delora barked. “A little respect!”

Gemma tightened her arm around Delora’s throat and said softly, “Shut. Up.”

“She’s a legacy.” The queen pointed at Delora. “Her mother . . . one of the best witches I ever knew. Math, science, logic, history. They all fell at her feet, determined to be her possession. She was brilliant enough to be—”