Keeley tossed her hands in the air. “I don’t even know the wood elves. Have never met them. Know nothing about them. Why in hells would they give the gold to me?”

“And why can’t you get it yourself?” Gemma asked. “Don’t you all have an alliance with the elves?”

“They say they don’t have it,” the king replied.

“They’re lying,” the queen snarled.

“But unless the dwarves want to start a war,” Caid explained for Keeley’s benefit, “they can’t search the wood elf territory to find it.”

“Exactly,” Vulfegundis said on a sigh, before pushing back from the table. “If you get us the gold, Blacksmith Queen . . . you get our army.”

“I was also hoping to get the wood elf army, though,” Keeley reminded them.

The king and queen laughed at that, Vulfegundis taking her husband’s arm before they headed toward their royal bedrooms.

“Yeah,” the queen said, still laughing, “good luck with that, human.”

Once they were gone, Keeley cracked her neck, a sure sign to Caid that she was ridiculously stressed.

“Well?” Keeley pushed, looking at Laila.

“You have two choices, my friend. Try to get the elf army or find the fucking gold.” Laila shook her head. “Sadly . . . there are no other options.”

Keeley rubbed her eyes. “And they were both so nice to me all night! I thought they liked me.”

“They definitely liked you,” Quinn said, standing up from the table.

“How do you figure?”

“You and your sister yelled at the king and queen of the Amichai dwarves . . . and you’re still breathing. Trust me, blacksmith. They liked you.”

When Keeley looked at Caid for confirmation, he shrugged and admitted, “He’s absolutely right. I thought we’d be rolling your head out of here.”

CHAPTER 23

Straton the Devourer attacked their town before the suns had risen above the distant horizon. Such a sudden, brutal attack—the mercenary army they’d all been hearing about for weeks yanking their gate doors open and riding in—that the town’s guards didn’t have time to do anything but be immediately slaughtered.

She just happened to be up so early because she and her sister Efa had to set up the stall where they sold eggs and whole chickens from their farm.

Most of the other sellers had panicked when those mercenaries came riding in, hacking away and shooting down good, honest people with their arrows. But for some reason, she didn’t panic. She simply grabbed her younger-by-a-year sister and they ran until they found a good hiding place.

Once, ages ago, these lands were ruled over by rulers called “jarls” rather than kings. The old jarl’s longhouse still stood despite the fact that the rest of the town had been made over into something much more modern to accommodate the travelers and traders who came in off the river behind them. This was a port town and, she now realized, a perfect place for the Devourer to set up a new home base since Prince Marius still had control over the Old King’s castle. But the lord who ruled this town and his advisors thought they’d be safe from an attack by Straton because they were “friends” of the former Old King.

She assumed they quickly learned that wasn’t true when they were dragged from their homes and immediately hung from scaffolds until they were dead.

The raid was short but devastating. Afterward, all the town’s inhabitants were dragged into its center. Straton stood in front of them, informed them that this was now his town and all would be well as long as they were “nice” to him and his men. While he gave this speech, the bodies of their town leaders swayed from the scaffolding.

He also promised that things would remain “normal” but soon after, many of the younger women were separated from their families and forced to one of the pubs to “work.” She knew what that work would entail. Something she didn’t want for her sisters or herself.

Yet the most horrifying thing that she and Efa saw from the safety of their hiding place was when one of the Ó Broin sisters was dragged kicking and screaming before Straton.

“Here she is, my lord,” one of the mercenaries said. “The local witch.”

It was true. She was a local witch, but she wasn’t the only one. All of the Ó Broin sisters were witches. But they weren’t like witches in the big covens. They were just nature witches who made basic potions and healing balms from herbs and small spells. They were not witches with enough power to take down a whole city or even a small battle unit. They just helped locals with their basic aches and pains and births. That was it.

But it seemed Straton was expecting more. Perhaps the loss of the Amhuinn Witches was a bigger issue for him than it was for the rest of the Old King’s sons. If he thought that one of the Ó Broins could help him with his battle for the throne . . . he was sure to be disappointed.

Unfortunately for his captive, he probably wouldn’t know that for a long time.

Frightening-looking cuffs were placed on the witch’s wrists and Straton dragged her off to the longhouse where he planned to live until he became the Old King.

“What should we do?” Efa whispered to her. But what could they do? Nothing. Nothing but hide.

When she saw their chance, she grabbed her sister and led her to the hidden tunnels under the town and prayed that this occupation would end soon. But she had the feeling that the gods weren’t listening. Not anymore.

* * *

Beatrix sat in the smaller throne and waited for this waste of her precious time to end.

She was trapped under a fur cape that felt as if it weighed ten thousand pounds while a priest walked around her in a circle, swinging that gold jar from its long chain so blasted incense slid into her nose. She’d already sneezed twelve times since this ridiculousness had begun.

Initially she’d amused herself by staring into the audience of royals watching the proceedings and wondering how many of them were planning to betray her. When that grew tiresome, she tried to guess which she’d end up beheading for some little infraction she’d come up with.

But soon she had to stop because her gaze kept falling on the Dowager Queen, who insisted on indicating to Beatrix that she should smile. But Beatrix hadn’t worked this hard to be here so she could smile when she didn’t feel like it.

After at least two hours—two hours of this dreck!—they put the gold and gem-encrusted crown on her head, a scepter in one hand and an orb in the other.

There were words spoken and she repeated them. And as the suns set, Beatrix was finally announced “the undoubted queen of the Hill Lands.”

She was then forced into another gown chosen by the Dowager Queen and the festivities began. King Marius—thankfully—found himself a pretty young virgin to amuse himself with and Beatrix was about to slip away from the revelers in the main hall so she could go to her room and get some much-needed work done.

But before she could—and as the royal attendants became more and more drunk and outrageous—Duke Gennadius decided to yell across the room to Marius, “And what about your remaining brothers, my king?”

It wasn’t the question that caught her attention. It was the way he’d said “king.” There was a tone to it she didn’t like. A sarcasm.

Of course, Marius, drunk as well and deep into the mortified virgin’s cleavage, was completely oblivious.

“They will be hunted down and killed, one by one, my friend!” Marius yelled back to the delight and cheers of the court.

“And the other queen?”

There it was. Proving to Beatrix that the duke wasn’t drunk at all and that her sister had already become a problem. Just as she’d always known she would be.

Beatrix glanced behind her at Agathon and gave a small nod. He lowered his gaze and quickly disappeared behind the satin curtains that hid the hallway exit.

“There is no other queen!” Marius replied, still oblivious. “The only queen of these lands sits by my side.”

Marius gestured to his left but quickly realized it was his mother who sat next to him. Squinting, he looked down the length of the table until he spied Beatrix.

“I mean . . . there she is! My beau—” He cleared his throat. “My very handsome bride and your undoubted Queen Beatrix.”

“But the Witches of Amhuinn also named her sister as queen. Will she be queen of other territories? Perhaps you’ll share the Hill Lands with her.”

“She will be queen of her gravesite,” Marius shot back. “That pretender will never wear the crown; she will never sit on the throne.”

“Rumor has it that she has already gotten the backing of the Amichai tribes. What if they come from the mountains to be her army?”

Marius gazed drunkenly at Duke Gennadius and managed only to repeat, “But I am king.”

Panic and insubordination. Beatrix watched it spread among the royals in the hall like a fast-moving plague.

The Dowager Queen was quickly on her feet, attempting to soothe with words. But Beatrix knew better. She’d been preparing for all this since she’d read her first scroll on the early Old Kings. She’d only been three at the time and her mother had thought she was merely playing with the parchment, so she kept taking it from Beatrix’s grasp. It had been Keeley who’d realized that Beatrix could read and returned the scroll to her. Then brought her more. Then brought her books.

She’d always be grateful to Keeley for that.

Slowly, Beatrix pushed her chair back and stood.

“My lords,” she began, happily cutting off the Dowager Queen’s useless speech. “Duke Gennadius. I understand your concerns and I’ve already put plans into place to address any trouble that may come from the Amichai.”

The Dowager Queen’s gaze quickly snapped to her but it was Marius who asked, “You have?”

Beatrix moved away from the table and across the floor so that she stood before the table where the duke and his wife sat.