The High Mountain Court by A.K. Mulford
Chapter Sixteen
Acrowd of onlookers and royal guards met Hale, Bri, and Talhan. Remy watched from the boat as that crafted mask fell over the Eastern Prince’s expression. He seemed cocky, with a lazy royal air as he waved and winked at the crowd. He thumbed a few gold coins at children and laughed like he basked in their cheers. That laugh grated against Remy’s ears. Remy hated seeing the performance but didn’t have to watch for long. The landing party had brought horses for Hale and the Eagles. They rode off into the city before Carys and Remy departed the barge along with the rest of the crowd.
Beautiful seafaring ships filled the port of Wynreach. One was hoisting its sails, readying to head down the Crushwold and out to sea. The Eastern Court was known for its merchant vessels. They traded all manner of Eastern goods from wool to perfumes throughout Okrith.
The Eastern Court had built the city of Wynreach between dense pine forests and rolling pastoral hills, leading out as far as the eye could see. Remy knew beyond that was the ocean. The majority of the buildings were crafted with intricate wood detailing, mirroring the history of logging and woodwork throughout the city. The capital had a mix of smells from chicory smoke fires to freshly baked bread and the crisp air that promised winter was nearing.
Towering in the center of the city was the castle of Wynreach. The castle’s twelve narrow towers connected with giant walls of gray stone, dominating the skyline. The outer walls had small windows for archers, while the inner walls had towering windows of stained glass. All the way from the river, the windows glowed. The castle was a combination of lovely and lethal, its delicate towers and glass windows in strange juxtaposition with the dark gray stone ramparts and battle armaments.
Hale and the Twin Eagles had disappeared toward that castle on the hilltop, lost among the crowds and winding roads. That castle was the prince’s home. How fitting, Remy thought, that the prince seemed a strange combination of lovely and lethal too. She looked at her hands, thinking about what he had told her moments before. He did not want her coming to the castle because his father would know Hale’s affections for Remy were real.
His affections for her were real. He cared for her.
Remy shook her head. She could not imagine any happy path forward, even if they stamped out the war with King Vostemur. There was no peace. They would never live happily ever after in that castle before her. That wasn’t who she was. She knew the consequences of the path she was taking and didn’t care, not nearly enough. Wanting to be in Hale’s life was going to get her killed. That was what Heather had warned her about.
Carys’s arm on Remy’s elbow pulled her out of her worried, cycling thoughts. The blonde fae steered Remy into the throng.
Carys navigated the city with ease. Remy couldn’t believe how densely packed it all was. Even as they turned away from the major thoroughfare, people filled the roads. Carts, boxes, tents filled with various trade goods sat stacked along the narrow roads. The smell of too many bodies pushed in on Remy, the same smell the taverns would get by the wee hours of the morning when too many revelers had danced for too many hours.
“This way,” Carys said, tugging on Remy’s arm again.
Remy readjusted her pack on her back. Carys led them down a quieter back street filled with densely packed three-story dwellings. It was a residential part of the city, one step up from a slum. Clotheslines hung high above their heads, drying servants’ attire and children’s clothing. This is where the humans who served the fae lived.
“You live with the humans?” Remy asked, eyeing the clothing above them.
“I don’t really dwell in the city, but my sister does, so we’ll stay with her while we’re here,” Carys said, ducking down another unnamed alley.
Even in this part of town, the houses had intricately carved doors and windowsills, detailed patterns shaped and painted into each of them. They were beautiful, even here. The entire city seemed to carry with it a sense of artistry, of vibrancy and color, that belied the image of King Norwood that Hale and his warriors had painted.
“Your sister lives with the humans?” Remy asked. The fae kept to themselves. They ruled every kingdom in the land and had done so with the help of the witches, but the humans were always treated as the servant class. Now the witches existed even below them, with very few allowed to exist freely without a fae master. Remy knew what it felt like to be treated like she was beneath everyone else. She would never forget it. She couldn’t imagine the humans enjoyed living with a fae.
“She’s not my full sister,” Carys said. Her long blonde braid swished across her back as she walked. “She’s my half-sister, and she’s half-fae.”
That statement made Remy pull up short. She stood there blinking for a moment before she carried on after Carys.
“I have never heard of a half-fae before,” Remy said, bewildered. She hadn’t even realized it was possible. Why had she never considered it before? She knew the High Mountain fae had witch blood, but . . . she’d never heard of fae mixing with humans.
“They exist,” Carys said. “Though many of the fae wish they did not. They get rid of most halflings.”
Her words bit into Remy. She said them so casually—too casually—for what it meant. The fae didn’t want any halflings because it complicated their vigilantly constructed hierarchy of the world, a world where the fae sat on the top.
“Do you share the same father or mother?” Remy asked, though she already suspected she knew.
“Father,” Carys confirmed bitterly. “When Morgan’s mother found out she was with child, she fled the Southern Court, afraid of what my father might do.”
“How did you find her?” Remy asked. She gripped her bow tighter in her left hand. She had left it strapped to her pack during their travels, but walking through a foreign city she felt safer holding it.
“My father confessed it on his deathbed,” Carys said, still with that cool detachment, that steely warrior exterior that Remy knew was merely a well-built facade. “My father knew of Morgan. He would arrange for good patronage for her mother, made sure that they were housed and cared for, all without Morgan’s mother knowing . . . but he kept Morgan a secret from everyone in my life until his dying breath . . . everyone except Ersan, that is.”
Remy had never heard the name Ersan before, but she suspected she knew who it was. Carys had admitted to her before that she left the Southern Court because she got her heart broken. Her not explaining who Ersan was any further told Remy enough.
“I’m sorry,” Remy said, trying and failing to be delicate with her words. “It sounds like he tried to do the right thing.”
“No. He didn’t.” Carys bit out. Remy wasn’t sure whether she was referring to her father or Ersan now. “She is my only sibling, and I didn’t know about her until a year ago. My mother died when I was a child, and my father was absent most of the time.” Carys ducked under a low-hanging blanket. “I didn’t know I had a family.”
Remy knew the pain of those words all too well. All her family was gone too. But she had Heather and Fenrin. She had been with Heather since she was seven, a year after the Siege of Yexshire, and Fenrin had come along when she was twelve, and they had swiftly become best friends. The thought of them made Remy ache. She regretted the way they parted, how easily she dismissed Heather’s concerns as she discarded them like a loaf of too-stale bread. They were her family, and she hadn’t appreciated them enough. Memories of the Southern Court flitted through her mind on the wind. The lush gardens, the rich foods, the beautiful clothing . . . she wondered how Fenrin was faring, if he was much better this day. She wondered if they would head west again and then carry on northward to meet her in Yexshire, or if they would remain in the South with their bag of gold. She knew it was a hopeful thought that they would come to Yexshire. Traveling into the North was dangerous enough, let alone traveling in the North as a witch. She hoped they wouldn’t follow her.
“Here we are,” Carys said, more to herself than to Remy. She had stopped in front of a small wooden door in an alley. Whorls of turquoise, violet, and gold were carved into the wood, though the paint was chipping away. The swept stoop had a few modest pots of flowering herbs dotted around the doorway. Carys stepped up off the street and knocked.
A human man opened the door. “Carys!” he said, grabbing the warrior and wrapping her into a tight hug. “It’s been months since we last saw you. How are you?”
“I’m good.” Carys laughed as the human put her back down. “I’m only in town for a couple nights, but I was hoping I could stay over. I brought a friend.”
The human man peered around Carys to size up Remy. He was middle-aged and lean but looked strong. His shaggy brown hair was beginning to gray at the temples along with his thick brown beard. He smiled at Remy, and it made her fidget with the bow in her hand.
“Remy, this is my brother-in-law, Magnus. Magnus, this is Remy.” Carys introduced them.
Magnus put out his hand and Remy shook it. His hands were rough with calluses from his unknown profession. “Pleasure to meet you, Remy.”
“Likewise,” Remy said. She felt wary. No stranger was kind to her. Magnus probably thought she was a human and not a witch.
“Come on in, Morgan’s just put the kettle on,” Magnus said, ushering them inside.
The townhouse was modest, with plain wood floorboards and peeling wallpaper, but it felt warm and welcoming. Magnus led them down the hallway through the home, ending in a sizable kitchen.
“Carys!” Small, delighted voices shouted as three small children bombarded Carys. She dropped to one knee to scoop them all into a giggling hug.
The woman at the stove turned, brushing her hands on her apron. She was a striking middle-aged blonde woman, the same color hair and blue eyes as her sister, though her cheeks and jaw line were softer. Her ears were longer at the top but didn’t taper into the fae peaks at the end. It was so strange to see ears looking somewhere between human and fae. She was much shorter than Carys, too, her figure was more filled out with motherly curves rather than Carys’s muscular soldier’s physique. But the familial link was clear—they were sisters.
“Hi,” the woman said, turning to Remy and shaking her hand. “I’m Morgan.”
“Remy,” she replied.
“Nice to meet you, Remy,” Morgan said. She had a tender countenance, very different from her sister in that regard as well. Morgan looked to the heap of children clamoring over Carys. “My eldest is Matthew,” she said, nodding to the boy with flaxen blond hair and warm brown eyes. He stood in the middle of his siblings. “Then Maxwell and little Molly.”
Remy smiled. They all had names beginning with the letter M. Her own siblings all had names beginning with the same letter. Some rolled their eyes at the tradition, but she had loved it. It had made them feel like one solid family unit.
“Have you brought us anything?” Maxwell asked. He would have looked the twin of his sibling were it not for him being an entire head shorter. Matthew nudged him. He had that well-mannered confidence of the eldest child.
Carys laughed. “I’d never forget to bring you something.” She raised a conspiratorial eyebrow as she pilfered through her pack. The boys lit up with excitement. The youngest, Molly, couldn’t have been over three. She played with her golden hair braided over her shoulders as she looked to her brothers, more interested in their reactions than the presents brought for them.
Something in Remy ached at that look Molly gave the older boys. She remembered that feeling so well, like her older brothers hung the sun in the sky, with her following their lead like a duckling, to their great frustration.
“Gifts from the West,” Carys said as she produced a bundle of cloth from her pack. Unwrapping it, she produced three small clay disks, a string loop attached to the top of each one. A different detailed little painting covered the face of each ornament. She handed the painting of a falcon with a fish in its talons to Matthew, a moon and constellations to Maxwell, and an oak tree brilliant with autumn colors to Molly. Remy wasn’t sure why she had chosen each painting for each child, but they seemed to be delighted with her selections.
Carys had brought these gifts all the way from the Western Court. They had been in her pack for weeks, undamaged during the endless hiking and riding. Remy thought back to how mindful she was not to sit on her pack round the fires like the rest of them. It now made sense. Carys had brought those clay ornaments all this way. She had been thinking of them this whole time.
“All right you three, go wash up for dinner.” Morgan’s voice cut above the din of her squealing children.
Morgan and Carys hugged each other at last, a long, beautiful hug that Remy yearned for. The children did as they were told, rumbling down the hallway and up the stairs to prepare for dinner.
The tightness in Remy’s muscles loosened. She felt that loving warmth as if it hung in the air. It was the feeling of being in a family.
* * *
After the children washed, they all crushed in to eat dinner around the kitchen table. A fae, a witch, a halfling, and a human sat at the table. It sounded like the beginning of a joke. Two chairs had magically appeared from somewhere in the house. Although the house was a bit run down, there was a sense that they loved the home. A patchwork of paintings hung on the walls. Baskets filled with grains and fresh produce were tucked into the corners. A mishmash of painted teacups hung on hooks on the wall. Evidence of three young children was everywhere: toys, drawings, and shoes strewn about the floor. It was happily chaotic and brimming with love.
Morgan prepared a delicious meal for them. The stew was hearty and spiced to perfection, the bread fresh and spongy. They carried on pleasant conversations, Carys telling the children exaggerated stories of all the places she had traveled. Morgan and Magnus seemed to understand that Remy didn’t want to answer questions about her life, so they chatted about their own. Magnus was a carpenter. He owned a shop on the high street selling ornate dining sets to his Eastern fae patrons. Morgan was a seamstress and repaired other humans’ clothing at night when the children were sleeping. They talked about their lives in such simple terms. Magnus would ruffle Maxwell’s hair, and Morgan would rub a hand down her husband’s back. Such mild, affectionate touches. It was a family.
The shadows grew long, and the bowls of stew disappeared. Remy lost herself to the fantasy of what a family would be like—to sit around a large dining table with loved ones and friends. Heather and Fenrin would be there, her children chasing each other around the table. She would sit with a swollen belly, her third child, and her husband would rest a warm hand on it and beam at her with happiness. She knew that husband’s face, though she dare not admit it to herself. They would laugh and eat until the candles burned out.
And as they did, that daydream twisted into one of smoke and screams. Northern guards running in as she ran to cover her children . . .
“Remy?” Carys’s voice snapped her out of her waking nightmare. “You want any more bread before I finish it?”
Carys held out the breadbasket to her. Remy shook the visions from her mind. It was a fantasy to think she could ever have something like that. Until the Northern King was dead, she would know no peace.
“No thanks,” Remy said, forcing a smile. “I’m stuffed.” She turned to Morgan and Magnus, “It was delici— ”
A knock came at the door. Carys stood, “I’ll get it,” she said, wiping her face with a napkin.
When Carys returned, she was frowning. She grabbed Remy by the forearm, pulling her to stand.
“We’ve had a long day—we’re going to bed,” Carys instructed. She clenched a piece of cream-colored paper in her fist as she nodded to Remy’s large traveling pack in the hallway.
“Thanks for the dinner, Morgs, you know how I adore your cooking.” Carys winked at her sister.
Remy followed Carys down the hall to a sitting room. Carys dropped her pack with a heavy thump onto the floor and pushed the two tiny couches together on either side of a worn wooden chest. Carys opened the chest and started pulling out cushions and blankets, transforming the lounge furniture into a bed. She did it in a silent, practiced way, without acknowledging or releasing the paper clenched in her hand.
“What’s going on?” Remy cut in, watching the female fae manically make the bed.
Carys collapsed, sitting onto the bed, her head in her hands.
“I knew this would happen,” she said, dropping her shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Remy sat beside her.
“The last time Hale communicated with King Norwood by fae fire, the King told him to stop in the city to meet with him before continuing on his quest.” Carys passed Remy the wrinkled piece of paper in her hand. “The King is curious to meet you, it seems.”
Remy unfolded the crinkled piece of paper. A watermark of the Eastern crest marked the back. On the front in flourished writing was an invitation.
“A ball to celebrate the Autumnal Equinox,” Remy read.
“The herald who brought it made very clear that they expect both of us to attend.” Malice touched her voice. “It took them a handful of hours to find us, faster than Hale or I predicted. The King doesn’t like his son keeping secrets.”
“Is he really as bad as he seems?” Remy muttered to the invitation.
“Worse.” Carys frowned. It was an invitation to a royal ball, and yet it felt like a punishment. The heavy hand of the Eastern King’s control was felt all the way in this townhouse at the edge of the city.
“At least we don’t have to meet with him alone,” Remy said, grasping for a positive.
“At least there will be excellent food and drinks.” Carys leaned into Remy, her voice brightening. “And we can go to the high road tomorrow and buy too-expensive dresses and charge it to Hale’s account.”
“Am I to wear a dress like the one in Ruttmore again?” Remy grimaced. The idea of parading around not only in front of the Eastern Court but the King himself in nothing but a slip of fabric made her queasy.
“Gods, no.” Carys laughed. “If anything, we’ll try to cover you up as much as possible.” Remy narrowed her eyes at Carys, forcing her to continue. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I don’t need to tell you that you are the most beautiful witch I have ever seen and that red dress nearly lit every male in the room on fire.”
Remy smirked. She did need to hear it.
“But tomorrow will be a different game entirely,” Carys said, cocking her head.
“How so?”
“Ruttmore was about drawing every eye to you. Now, we want them to not see you for what you really are.”
Remy looked to Carys, rubbing her hands nervously down her legs. “And what am I?”
“You are a weapon,” Carys said. “And many of those greedy fae will want to possess you for themselves. We don’t want them seeing you as a powerful red witch, and we definitely don’t want the King to see how important you are to Hale. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hale avoided you entirely the whole night.”
There it was again. Even Carys could tell that Remy was important to Hale, though she didn’t say how. Remy wished they could lay it all bare, these words and half-spoken truths. She wished she could be who she really was and not hide her powers anymore.
“Right,” Remy said, shucking off her shoes. “Let’s get some sleep. We have a big day of shopping tomorrow.”
Carys’s face split into a wide, white-toothed grin.