A bone-white banquet table set with elegant dishes ran down the center of the tent. It was lined on either side by females ranging in age from a sullen four-year-old to an ancient woman so wizened she looked like a skeleton that had been painted with a thin coat of skin. They came from all corners of Sentium, as different in appearance as the grimoires held on their laps.

At the head of the table, on a crystal throne piled with silk pillows, sat Rygoth.

“Please,” she said, indicating the three empty seats closest to her. “Join us.”

As Kara made her way past the seated witches—their eyes regarding her with as much jealousy as hatred—she noted that the tent had been decorated with beautiful works of art displayed as apathetically as cheap souvenirs. Breathtaking tapestries hung crooked on the wall. Dirty boots lay across an elaborately engraved chest. A tall, gilded mirror was too clouded with filth to provide Kara with a reflection. These treasures had been taken simply because Rygoth desired them, not because she appreciated their beauty. There was no joy in the ownership save the ownership itself.

Kara took the seat closest to Rygoth. Taff sat between his sister and a middle-aged witch with bulging eyes. Safi sat across from Kara, on the opposite side of the table, her hand just touching the grimoire inside her satchel. Behind Rygoth, curled on a fine rug, lay a wolf with silver fur and the raised tail of a scorpion. Kara recognized the creature from Kala Malta. He had been hers first, before Rygoth stole him.

No one spoke.

After closing the entrance flaps, the still-smiling twins took the two seats at the other end of the table, placing a grimoire the color of grave dirt between them. The other witches remained focused on Rygoth, their hands folded primly over the covers of their own grimoires like a class terrified of disobeying its teacher.

Rygoth snapped her fingers.

From another part of the tent came the clatter of silverware, the rushing of footsteps. Shabbily dressed servants entered the room, balancing tureens and platters on silver trays. They set out a mouthwatering feast: creamy soup with thick slices of sausage, buttered yams, fried taro, wild mushrooms, roasted venison, and dozens of other foods Kara didn’t even recognize. The servants moved in an odd, jerky fashion, like marionettes on a string. Kara looked into the eyes of a bearded man pouring wine into the witches’ goblets and saw the caged desperation there. Rygoth, who enjoyed using her wexari powers on humans as well as other animals, was controlling these servants with her mind, a manner of enslavement far more effective than shackles and chains.

“You must be tired from your long journey,” Rygoth said. “Eat.”

Kara saw Taff look hopefully in her direction.

“No thank you,” she said.

The enslaved servants weren’t the only reason for her lack of appetite. Half-masked by the aromas of the feast was a far less pleasant smell, sickeningly familiar. She reconsidered their surroundings: the smooth white table like a section of some great rib, the fleshy walls that billowed in and out as though breathing.

“We’re inside Niersook, aren’t we?” Kara asked.

“How astute of you to notice,” said Rygoth. “One of my finest creations. Quite adaptable. Also makes a good wagon when the need arises. You really should eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

The inside of the tent was warm enough for Kara to remove her cloak, but despite this her body had grown numb with cold. She had read in the Path that prisoners condemned to die were sometimes granted a last meal. Perhaps this was hers.

“I realize now that my attack on your ship was completely misguided,” said Rygoth. “And to send a magnificent beast like Coralis to perform such an insignificant task! How embarrassingly overzealous of me. Like sending a dragon to swat a fly. I’d been trapped in that cave for so long—I admit I overreacted. This time, I promised myself I would be more civilized.” Rygoth sipped her soup. “I know your plan. Sneak into the Well of Witches through the old entrance to Phadeen. Retrieve the white-haired witch. Undo the curse on your father. Quite daring! But it ends now.”

Rygoth listed their secrets as though they had been blazoned across the sky. Safi looked away, ashamed that the spell she had cast to shroud their conversations had failed so miserably.

“I’m doing you a kindness, children,” Rygoth said. “Have you truly stopped to consider what you might find waiting for you in the Well of Witches? An eternity of torment, if the stories are to be believed.” Rygoth crawled her gloved fingers across the table. “I have to confess, though, that despite the risks I’d love to see it for myself. Minoth Dravania’s blessed paradise blackened to purest evil.” The witch scoffed. “You have no idea who he even is, of course.”

“The headmaster of Sablethorn,” Kara replied, relishing the flicker of surprise in the wexari’s eyes. “He forced you to leave the school. That must have been quite a blow.”

Rygoth bit her lower lip and regarded Kara with a petulant glare, the wounds as fresh as if this had happened yesterday and not two thousand years ago.

“Sordyr told you,” she said, a hint of betrayal in her voice. Despite the fact that she had transformed her friend into a Forest Demon, Rygoth apparently still expected him to honor her secrets. “Minoth never liked me. I was a lowborn girl, just a simple miller’s daughter. Not one of his chosen. I showed him, though. All the other students agreed to be Sundered and sent off into the world like docile little sheep, but I refused! Perhaps they needed to prove themselves, but why should I have risked losing my powers and donning the green veil? Even in my youth, I was more powerful than any of them, including the teachers. Minoth called me insolent and dangerous, but the real reason he sent me away was because he feared me! And now look! He’s nothing but bone dust and I’ve become the most powerful wexari that Sentium has ever known!”

Rygoth’s painted lips curled upward, a wasted smile of triumph for a man long dead.

“But let us not spend any more words on Minoth Dravania,” she said, spitting the name out like a spoiled piece of meat. “You were about to promise me that you would stop this ill-advised attempt to restore your father’s soul.”

Kara ran the words through her head a second and third time, wondering if she had misunderstood.

“You want me to stop?” she asked. “Why? If I undo the curse on my father, Timoth Clen will be erased from existence—which rids you of your greatest enemy.”

“Nonsense. I want Timoth Clen to forge onward! Why search for witches myself when he’ll do all the hard work for me?”

“He’s going to kill them!”

“It won’t get that far,” Rygoth said. She sliced a small piece of rare meat from a nearby platter and slid it onto her plate, making sure not to get any blood on her white gloves. “I’ll wait until all those iron cages are filled and he’s about to perform his public execution—and then I’ll swoop in and rescue them all. How grateful they’ll be! Witches who might have resisted the idea of helping my cause will fall at my feet with gratitude. Timoth Clen is not only gathering my army, he’s building their loyalty to me. I’d be lying if I said I did not appreciate the irony.” She cut a tiny slice from her meat and chewed it slowly. “I’ll kill him afterward, of course, and all his graycloaks. Timoth Clen is not the only one who can arrange a public demonstration of power. But that’s nothing you need to worry about. Just abandon this hopeless quest to help your father, and I’ll leave you and your brother in peace. You have my word. But if you continue along this path, expect something truly unfortunate to happen.” She glanced down at their empty plates. “I really would prefer it if you three ate something.”

“We don’t want your stupid food!” exclaimed Taff, slamming his fist on the table so hard the silverware rattled. “You talk about killing our father and all those other people like it’s nothing you . . . you . . . witch!”

Rygoth’s perfect features darkened, the anger held at bay thus far spreading across her face like an ink stain.

“Of course you want my stupid food,” she said. “You want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your entire life.”

“I don’t,” said Taff, even as he took a turkey leg and began to chew it ravenously. “I don’t want any of it,” he mumbled, the words barely discernable through a mouthful of meat.

“Stop it,” said Kara.

“Or what?” Rygoth asked. “Even when you had powers you couldn’t stop me. What are you planning to do now?”

Tossing the turkey aside, Taff stuffed his mouth with anything else he could get his hands on: globs of mashed potatoes, green beans, yellow custard. Kara tried to stop him but he danced out of her hands, crawled onto the table. Kept eating. The witches laughed with childlike glee. A cold fury, absent since the days she had used the grimoire, coursed through Kara’s body. She eyed a carving knife leaning against a silver platter, wondered how fast she could get ahold of it and plunge it into Rygoth’s chest.

Taff started to gag.

“Release him!” Safi exclaimed, rising to her feet, the grimoire already open in front of her.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

The other witches slammed their spellbooks on the table and watched Safi eagerly, daring her to speak a single word.

Taff’s gagging grew louder. His face began to turn red.

“Calm down, girls,” said Rygoth. “No need to waste your pages.”

Rygoth glanced at Taff and the spell was broken. He spit out the mound of food clogging his throat and gasped for breath.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Kara said, rubbing his back. “This is between me and you.”

Rygoth laughed.

“‘Me and you’? Is that what you really believe? That there’s some sort of storybook battle looming between the two of us, the forces of good and evil?” She reached over and patted Kara on the head. “You’re not a threat to me, love. You’re just a plaything.”

Kara felt something slither inside her mind. She wanted to fight back against this uninvited presence, but she was no longer a wexari and had no means to do so. Rygoth laughed softly, covering her mouth. “Such confusion! Such sorrow! And something else. What is that?” Rygoth smacked her lips together as if tasting an unfamiliar food for the first time. “Ahh,” she said. “Guilt. You still have nightmares about him. The boy you killed. Simon.”

Beneath the table, Kara clenched her fists together.

“Get out of my head.”

“I’ve seen wexari who fail the Sundering go mad after losing their magic and donning the green veil,” Rygoth said. “But you . . .” Kara felt a clawing inside her brain, scooping out her innermost thoughts. “You miss it, of course, but you seem almost . . . grateful. Like you wanted to be punished for the things you’ve done. Killing the boy. Failing to protect your father. Forcing mindless animals to do your will.” Rygoth’s nose twitched as though she smelled something unpleasant. “Even the white-haired witch who tried to kill you . . . You feel guilty you couldn’t save her.” Kara felt a slackening in her head as Rygoth pulled away, the wexari looking almost as relieved as Kara to be free. “Are you always burdened by such feelings? How do you even live?”

Kara, her body shaking with silent tears, was unable to respond.

“Pathetic,” Rygoth said. She snapped her fingers and a servant brought over a new pair of white gloves, which Rygoth quickly exchanged for the old ones. “You’re nothing but a weak fool. Magic requires control, concentration, focus. I’m glad I took away your powers—you don’t deserve to be a witch.”

She’s right. All that power and I couldn’t save Father or Mother. . . . The villagers were right all along. . . . I’m no good . . . no good . . .

“You did set me free from that infernal cave, though,” Rygoth continued, “and I’m grateful for that. Without you, none of these wonderful things could have ever happened. I want you to remember that when the end comes.”

She dismissed Kara completely and pivoted toward Safi. “Now you, on the other hand, are an interesting one. You stopped Coralis, which is impressive enough, but I know that’s not the extent of your talents. You see things, don’t you? The future? Had any visions recently? Maybe something about a grimoire stitched back together from four different parts?”

Rygoth knows what Safi saw inside her cell, Kara thought. That’s the real reason we’re here.

“I haven’t seen anything about a grimoire,” Safi said, but she didn’t put much effort into the lie. It was useless to try to keep secrets from a woman who could poke around your mind.

“Now, Safi,” Rygoth said. “That grimoire is very special. It was Princess Evangeline’s. The first. All other grimoires taken together are but a shadow of its power. So I’m going to ask you a very important question. Do you know where the four parts of the grimoire have been hidden?”

Safi shook her head.

“I believe you. But you could find out for me. I could teach you how to focus your gift. With my guidance, you could become a powerful seer. We could help each other. I hope that this dinner has shown you that I am not without mercy. I could hurt your friends. I could make you do my bidding. But I have not.”

“So you’re just going to let us go?” asked Safi.

“If you wish it. But there’s no need for you to go back into the cold. You’re better than these two. Stay here where you belong.”

“I belong with them.”

Kara was afraid that Rygoth would erupt in anger, but instead she smiled—which was somehow worse.

“You’re free to go, then. The city gates are just an hour’s walk away.” She leaned forward, meeting Safi’s eyes. “I’ll give you one day to change your mind. After that—I may just change it for you.”