It was worth it. To secure victory for the Thirteen, to be Wing Leader, one night in a storm was nothing. She’d been through worse, trapped in snowy mountain passes with fewer layers of clothes, no way out, and no food. She’d survived storms some witches didn’t awaken from the next morning. But she still would have preferred snow.

Manon studied the labyrinth of rock around them. She could feel eyes out there—­observing. Yet nothing came closer, nothing dared. So after a while, she curled on her side, just like Abraxos, her head and chest angled toward the cliff face, and tucked her arms across herself, holding tight.

Mercifully, it stopped raining in the night, or at least the angle of the wind shifted to stop pounding on them. She slept better after that, but she still shook from cold—­though it felt slightly warmer. Those small hints of warmth and dryness ­were probably what kept her from shaking to death or getting ill, she realized as she dozed off, awakening at the gray light of dawn.

When she opened her eyes, she was in shadow—­shadow, but dry and warm, thanks to the massive wing shielding her from the elements and the heat of Abraxos’s breath filling the space like a little furnace. He was still snoozing—­a deep, heavy sleep.

She had to brush ice crystals off his outstretched wing before he came awake.

•

The storm had cleared and the skies ­were an untamed blue—­clear enough that they only needed to circle the western outcropping of the Ruhnns once before Manon spotted what she’d been looking for. Not just bones, but trees shrouded in dusty gray webs like mourning widows.

It ­wasn’t spidersilk, she saw as Abraxos swooped low, gliding over the trees. These ­were only ordinary webs.

If you could call an entire mountain wood shrouded in webs ordinary. Abraxos growled every so often at something below—­shadows or whispers she ­couldn’t see. But she did notice the crawling on the branches, spiders of every shape and size, as if they had all been summoned ­here to live under the protection of their massive brethren.

It took them half the morning to find the ashen mountain caves hovering above the veiled wood, where bare bones littered the ground. She circled a few times, then set Abraxos down on an outcropping of stone at one of the cave mouths, the cliff face behind them a sheer plunge to a dried-­out ravine below.

Abraxos paced like a mountain cat, tail lashing this way and that as he watched the cave.

She pointed to the edge of the cliff. “Enough. Sit down and stop moving. You know why ­we’re ­here. So don’t ruin it.”

He huffed but plopped down, shooting grayish dust into the air. He draped his long tail along the length of the cliff ’s edge, a physical barrier between Manon and the plunge. Manon stared him down for a moment before an otherworldly, feminine laugh flittered from the cave mouth. “Now that beast is one we have not seen for an age.”

Manon kept her face blank. The light was bright enough to reveal several ancient, merciless eyes looming within the cave mouth—­and three massive shadows lurking behind. The voice said, closer now, pincers clicking like an accompanying drum, “And it has been an age since we dealt with the Ironteeth.”

Manon didn’t dare touch Wind-­Cleaver as she said, “The world is changing, sister.”

“Sister,” the spider mused. “I suppose we are sisters, you and I. Two faces of the same dark coin, from the same dark maker. Sisters in spirit, if not in flesh.”

Then she emerged into the murky light, the mist sweeping past her like a pilgrimage of phantom souls. She was black and gray, and the sheer mass of her was enough to make Manon’s mouth go dry. Despite the size, she was elegantly built, her legs long and smooth, her body streamlined and gleaming. Glorious.

Abraxos let out a soft growl, but Manon held out a hand to silence him.

“I see now,” Manon said softly, “why my Blueblood sisters still worship you.”

“Do they, now?” The spider remained motionless, but the three behind her crept closer, silent and observing with their many dark eyes. “We can hardly recall the last time the Blueblood priestesses brought their sacrifices to our foothills. We do miss them.”

Manon smiled tightly. “I can think of a few I’d like to send your way.”

A soft, wicked laugh. “A Blackbeak, no doubt.” Those eight massive eyes took her in, swallowed her ­whole. “Your hair reminds me of our silk.”

“I suppose I should be flattered.”

“Tell me your name, Blackbeak.”

“My name does not matter,” Manon said. “I’ve come to bargain.”

“What would a Blackbeak witch want with our precious silk?”

She turned to reveal the vigilant Abraxos, his focus pinned on the massive spider, tense from the tip of his nose to his iron-­spiked tail. “His wings need reinforcement. I heard the legends and wondered if your silk might help.”

“We have bartered our silk to merchants and thieves and kings, to be spun into dresses and veils and sails. But never for wings.”

“I’ll need ten yards of it—­woven bolts, if you have them.”

The spider seemed to still further. “Men have sacrificed their lives for a yard.”

“Name your price.”

“Ten yards . . .” She turned to the three waiting behind her—offspring or minions or guards, Manon didn’t know. “Bring out the bolt. I shall inspect it before I name my price.”

Good. This was going well. Silence fell as the three scuttled into the cave, and Manon tried not to kick any of the tiny spiders crawling across her boots. Or look for the eyes she felt watching from the nearby caves across the ravine.

“Tell me, Blackbeak,” the spider said, “how did you come across your mount?”

“He was a gift from the King of Adarlan. We are to be a part of his host, and when we are done serving him, we will take them home—­to the Wastes. To reclaim our kingdom.”

“Ah. And is the curse broken?”

“Not yet. But when we find the Crochan who can undo it . . .” She would enjoy that bloodletting.

“Such a delightfully nasty curse. You won the land, only for the cunning Crochans to curse it beyond use. Have you seen the Wastes these days?”

“No,” Manon said. “I have not yet been to our home.”

“A merchant came by a few years ago—­he told me there was a mortal High King who had set himself up there. But I heard a whisper on the wind recently that said he’d been deposed by a young woman with wine-­red hair who now calls herself their High Queen.”