The High Mountain Court by A.K. Mulford

Chapter Two

“You have no right to bind my friends,” Remy spat out. “Witches are free in the West.”

The fae male had not yet shown his hand. Fenrin was right; the fae could assume they were all brown witches. They may be traffickers looking for some cheap money. If that were the case, showing her red magic would be a death sentence.

“You are as cunning as you are beautiful, little witch,” the fae looming before her said with that charming, deep voice.

His eyes swept over her face, as if assessing her beauty. Remy couldn’t help the flush that crept up her cheeks. He was truly stunning, this fae, like no one she had ever seen before. Tanned smooth skin swept over high cheekbones, and he had a strong, stubbled jawline. A whole head taller than Remy, he blocked the entire doorway with his large, muscled body.

Remy tried not to fall victim to the male flattery. So, this was the game he wanted to play.

She recast herself to fit his ploy: not the fighter, not the fool, but the vixen. Sabine and Josephine were not only skilled in the art of the bedroom, they also were experts in the art of the hustle, and Remy was a quick study.

She allowed her eyes to sweep over his body with an arched eyebrow. She wanted it to look like she was indulging in his form, but she was assessing her opponent. Remy had been sizing up strangers her whole life.

It was clear that this fae was a warrior. Not only in his muscles, but in his stance. He wore carefully selected leathers. Well-cared-for blades belted to his narrow hips, and Remy could tell there was a secret dagger hidden, sheathed, in the ankle of his boot.

Her gaze purposefully lingered for a beat on his full lips before sweeping back up to his entrancing gray eyes. She smirked up at him.

Remy swept a stray hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“Cunning indeed,” he said.

“If you have come for our brown witch services, I don’t see how tying up my mother and brother will garner you their aid,” Remy groused.

The fae warrior glanced over her shoulder to where Heather and Fenrin sat bound on the floor. Remy looked nothing like either of them. They both had fair complexions, and Remy had rich brown skin. Heather’s hair was a coppery red, Fenrin’s a straw blond, both pin straight, and Remy had thick loose curls the color of midnight that fell to the small of her back. Clearly not related by blood, Remy raised her chin at the fae, defying him to contradict her.

“Besides, you don’t seem like the type to be seeking a love potion,” she said with that coy smirk again. The male’s eyes danced with surprise. “So, I can assume you’ve come to take us to the North and sell us into servitude. If that is the case, I can assure you a brown witch will gain you not a single piece of gold, barely enough to cover the cost of dragging us there.”

“What is your name?” the male asked with a toothy grin.

“Remy,” she said.

“Remy.” He paused, as if savoring her name.

“And yours?” Even at a head shorter, she still leveled him with a look.

“You do not recognize me then?” he said with a flicker of surprise. A devious grin spread across his face. “I suppose a backcountry witch would not know my visage.”

Remy’s stomach tightened. He was not merely a fae male, then, but an important one. Her fingers twitched to use her magic.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Hale Norwood, Crown Prince of the Eastern Court.”

Remy’s stomach dropped. She had heard his name before. Of course she had. He was the eldest son of the Eastern Court’s King Norwood. Rumors said he was born a bastard but given a royal title anyway. They said he was a reckless warrior prince. He had taken over villages and scourged through towns in the name of his father, the King. No one knew where the Bastard Prince would pop up or what havoc he would wreak. Now here he was, in her tiny attic, all the way in the Western Court . . . and that could not be a good thing.

Remy dropped into a quick bow. “Your Highness.” The prince’s lips curved. Remy was certain now he saw through her. “Are you seeking the services of the brown witches?”

The prince rubbed the stubble of his chin, assessing her. “I am not seeking the services of a brown witch at all.” Those lead-colored eyes lit up as he added, “But you can help me, can’t you, Red?”

Shit.

The game was up.

Vixen be damned, time to be a fighter.

The prince advanced. Remy grabbed her bow beside the door and swung it with all her might. The wood broke over his muscled bicep in a pathetic snap.

Cursing the Gods for her broken bow, Remy cast out her magic. She blasted the door behind the prince, who stumbled and cleared the doorway. She bolted past and leapt down the stairs, willing her magic to slam the room’s door behind her and hold it fast.

Hold, hold, hold.

Her magic felt the force of the four fae warriors trying to kick it down.

She urged her legs forward, faster, out into the street. Stealing a look over her shoulder, she spotted no one chasing her yet. She whipped her head back around and ran face-first into the hard chest of the fae prince. He laughed as he caught her from falling. She looked up to the open second-floor window above her. He had jumped? She had forgotten how strong and swift the fae were.

The prince gripped her forearms as he implored, “I am not here for your head, witch. I need your help.”

Remy instantly processed his words. Lies. They must be. None of it made sense. She tugged at his grip. Kicking his leg, she freed a hand, but he caught her fist and spun her around, trapping her arms and pinning her back to his chest. Remy cast her magic again, crimson red glowing from her pinned hands as she levitated a nearby bucket. The bucket flew over, colliding into the prince’s head. He swore but did not release her as she stamped on his foot.

“Dammit. I am serious, Red. I need your help and I cannot let you go until you hear me,” he said, struggling to hold her, and then cursed again. “Gods, you are strong.”

She willed a broom to attack him, but he was expecting it this time. He released one arm to catch the broom in the air. Even one enormous arm was enough to pin her to him. But his grip was weaker, and when Remy lifted both of her legs, it forced the prince to bend forward to accommodate the sudden weight. She hadn’t expected that he would release her, but he lowered her just enough, just enough to grab the dagger sheathed in his boot. Before he realized what she was doing, she plunged the dagger into his outer thigh.

The prince yelped and dropped her. She sprang into a sprint, willing her magic into a maelstrom of debris. Buckets, barrels, and spades whizzed behind her.

She tore across the ground toward the forest’s edge behind the tavern. She pushed that speck of extra magic into her thighs, increasing her speed. But the fae had speed unlike any other, and she could hear the prince crashing after her.

The stab wound to his leg had done nothing to slow him down. Fae healed too quickly, Remy thought with despair, racing through her options and coming up short.

This would not be the way she would die.

As Remy breached the threshold of the forest, she dug into her power. She summoned all the magic left in her and directed it toward the giant pine tree in front of her. With an ear-splitting creak, the enormous tree bent. She pushed more, her hands shaking with the effort.

Come on. A little more. A little more. Yes!

Feeling the tree give, she heard the heavy swish of branches as she dashed under it. The massive boughs just missed her as the deafening crash shook the ground. Wind whooshed at her back. Still she did not stop. Her legs burned.

There was a river not too far into these woods. She’d jump into it. The fae had a supernatural sense of smell, but it could only work so well. If she swam down river, it would be a challenge to know where she emerged. She had to get to the river.

She prayed they would not punish Heather and Fenrin for hiding her. But that was the deal they had made with each other long ago. If ever there was a question of what she should do, Remy had promised to run.

Always run.

Remy’s ears filled with the crunching of leaves beneath her feet and her panting breaths. Her lungs reminded her with every stride that she was out of shape. She needed to run more often and maybe learn some hand-to-hand combat too.

As her mind wandered to her future escape training, she heard the swift movement of air. She ducked to the right, praying she was fast enough. She felt for her well of magic. The felling of the pine tree had drained her untrained power.

The running behind her was louder now. She didn’t dare a look back.

Faster, she willed her legs. In her panic, she summoned another flare of her magic. A crackling shield bent branches out of her way, and they snapped back behind her. She forged on, breathing so heavily her throat burned. The footsteps were right behind her.

A hand reached for the crook of her arm. Remy wrenched it away but forgot to cast her power to the branch in front of her. Shouting out half a curse, she ran headlong into the unyielding wood.

She fell hard.

Those mesmerizing eyes shone over her as the prince panted. He reached down and pressed a thumb to Remy’s temple, wiping away a droplet of blood.

“Are you all right?” His voice blurred like something muffled on an invisible wind.

Remy tried to scramble up, but the ground swayed beneath her. The prince’s arms shot out and caught her before she fell again. He hoisted her to her feet as she struggled.

“I told you, I won’t harm you,” he said, his voice cooling her like a winter’s wind. He stood straight, not a flicker of pain on his face, even though his trouser leg was soaked in blood. Remy didn’t feel the slightest hint of remorse. Fae healed so rapidly the wound would be gone in a few days.

Remy didn’t trust him for a second either. She willed a branch down to hit him on the head, but it was no more than a light smack.

“Who are you?” He laughed. His eyes filled with surprise and something like a begrudging admiration.

“I am no one,” Remy said as she fought the darkness that clouded her vision and threatened to pull her under.

“I highly doubt that, little witch.” The prince grinned.

Remy watched those shining eyes widen as she released a breath.

The darkness claimed her.

* * *

Remy heard scuffling sounds echoing through the cavernous hall before her eyes opened. They weren’t in the attic above the stables of the Rusty Hatchet. No, they were in a ruin of some sort. Her head throbbed. The blurring of her vision was abating. It looked like an ancient stone cathedral. Half of the roof had crumbled inward. The windows opened out into the night air except for the small hints of stained glass in the corners.

She looked over her shoulder to see the prince. Hale was his name, Remy remembered. He crouched before an ornate stone hearth. It had recently been lit, judging by the hungry flames licking up the stack of logs.

Across the darkness of the hall, Remy heard shuffling and then Heather’s voice.

“Remy!” she shouted and rushed over.

Fenrin appeared quick on her heels. They both looked unscathed, their hands unbound. Remy didn’t understand why her head still remained attached to her body or why Heather and Fenrin were here, unharmed.

Her copper-haired guardian knelt next to Remy, fretting over her like a child. She reached a hand to the swollen lump on Remy’s forehead and spun towards the prince.

“What did you do to her?” she accused.

“Nothing,” the prince said, shrugging. He craned his neck back to look at Remy and with a cat-like smile, said, “She did that all herself.”

“Bastard,” Remy hissed.

Heather stifled a gasp. She grabbed Remy’s arm in a silent warning. Remy rolled her eyes. He was the Bastard Prince of the East, after all.

“Very original, Red.” Hale’s lips thinned and his eyes narrowed at her.

“Don’t call me Red,” Remy snarled.

She didn’t like this prince talking about her red witch magic. Even if they were in a ruin in the middle of the forest, there was no telling who else might hear.

“Then don’t call me ‘bastard’,” the prince rumbled back.

“Kids, kids.” A feminine voice called from across the darkness.

A fae female appeared from the doorway. She was tall and lithe with a long white-blonde braid that swayed behind her as she walked. Her cloak opened to show her fighting leathers and a sword strapped to her hip. Two more fae appeared behind her, a male and a female.

Remy blanched. “You have two female soldiers?”

“You don’t believe females make good fighters?” The second one laughed as she entered the room.

The blonde fae neared Remy. Her large blue eyes glowed in the firelight.

“Says the little witch who nearly escaped a fae prince and felled a giant pine tree with her magic alone.” She spoke in a warm, velvety voice. “No one here will underestimate you because you are a woman.” She extended her hand, her braid slipping over her shoulder. “Carys.”

Remy took the fae’s hand. She had a powerful grip.

“Remy,” she said.

“Those two are Talhan and Briata, the Twin Eagles.” Carys nodded to the other two fae who had taken off their cloaks across the hall and were unbuckling bedrolls from their packs.

It was easy to tell they were twins, even without their moniker. Both were tall and muscular, the male slightly taller and bulkier than the female. It was clear why Eagles was their nickname; not only for their short, brown hair and hooked noses, but it was their eyes that completed the likeness. They had golden eyes, a remarkable, unearthly yellow. Remy shuddered when they gazed her way. They were attractive in the way all fae were, but their striking features would make anyone do a double take. No wonder they had kept their hoods up in the Rusty Hatchet.

The Twin Eagles gave Remy a nod and carried on with what they were doing.

“I have many more than two female soldiers,” the prince replied, “but these three are my best fighters, so I selected them to accompany me on this mission.”

“And what exactly is this mission?” Remy asked.

Heather put her hand on Remy’s arm again. Don’t push them, she told Remy with her eyes.

The prince dusted off his hands and sat, turning his back to the fire. Carys passed him a skin of water. He took it from her with a tip of his chin.

“We are looking for Prince Raffiel,” Hale said as if it were nothing at all that he was looking for the eldest child of the fallen King and Queen of the High Mountain Court.

Fenrin was the one to laugh this time, but when the prince gave him a look, Fenrin turned the laugh into a cough. Fenrin had never seemed so young compared to the warrior prince who sat across from him now.

“You are hunting for a ghost . . . Your Highness.” Fenrin added the title at the end with haste.

“Are you so certain of that?” Hale asked. “I knew Raffiel as a boy. We are the same age.”

Remy’s heart twisted at that. He had known him. She had known him too, long ago, when she was a little girl. She did the math. That would make Hale twenty-eight.

“I’m sorry you lost your friend, Your Highness.” Heather added a touch more gently.

“I do not believe he is lost,” the prince said, scanning Heather’s face. “You have heard the rumors as well as I, I’m sure. There have been whispers of Raffiel’s appearance all around this continent.”

“Whispers,” Remy said.

“Tell me, then, little witch,” the prince said, turning his gaze on her. “If all the High Mountain Court are truly gone, why can’t the Northern King wield the Immortal Blade?”

Silence stretched out between them. That was the question. With all the High Mountain Court presumed dead, the Immortal Blade was free from its blood bond with them. Any fae should be able to take control of the sword. It was a kingmaker, a death blade that, when mastered, could level entire armies in one fell swoop. The blade could kill from a distance without even coming into contact with the recipient of the blow. It was a ferocious magic. While it did not give everlasting life, like its name promised, it made the owner of the blade untouchable in battle. No sword could slay them. If the Northern King created his own blood bond with the blade, it would start a slaughter the likes of which Okrith had never known.

“The High Mountain bloodline carries on,” the prince said, confidently. “Many people have claimed to have seen Raffiel flee the flames of the Yexshire slaughter.”

Remy shuddered and tried to push the images out of her mind: the palace burning, people frantically pounding on barred doors, others leaping from windows. Some escaped only to be cut down by Northern soldiers the second their lungs breathed fresh air. Remy still smelled the smoke, still heard the screams, and still felt the weathered hands of Baba Morganna, the High Priestess of the red witches, pulling Remy away from the bloodshed.

“That was thirteen years ago,” Fenrin said. He shifted closer to Remy as he spoke. Remy realized the prince noted the movement, even though the only visible sign was his jaw clenching. “King Vostemur himself has been hunting endlessly for him, and yet he has not been found . . .” Fenrin didn’t finish his thought: what makes you think you will succeed when the most powerful man in the world has failed?

“The Northern King may be powerful,” the Eastern Prince said, “but he is also arrogant. Raffiel may be glamoured as a human or a witch for all we know.”

Carys chuckled as she sat beside her prince. Remy glanced at the two of them and wondered if they were together. She shook the thought from her head.

“We have no interest in hunting down Raffiel, and so he should have no reason to hide from us. Indeed, we want to help restore him to the throne. Why wouldn’t he reveal himself to his true allies?”

“Why would he think your words mean anything after thirteen years of waiting?” Remy said.

The blow struck true. She saw it on the prince’s face. Over a decade had passed, and the Eastern Court had done nothing to stop King Vostemur as he tracked down every last High Mountain fae and red witch.

“The wrath of the North was too great at first,” the prince hedged. Remy laughed bitterly. “Vostemur had raised the largest army the world had ever seen. He destroyed the strongest fae court in Okrith. Did you really expect us to turn that bloodthirsty army toward the East?”

Remy frowned. The Northern King would have leveled any opposition. Bowing to his power was a strategy for survival. Still, she begrudged the East, South, and West for their inaction. Even with all three of their armies combined, it would not have been enough to stop the Northern Court thirteen years ago.

Remy didn’t care. If her people were going to burn, then so should they all.

“His armies dwindle,” Carys said through the shadowed quiet. “There is not enough coin or conquest to keep an army that size. Many of Vostemur’s legions have disbanded, and he has turned his energies inward. If he cannot find Raffiel, then he seeks to undo the blood bond on the Immortal Blade.”

Heather gasped. “Can it be done?”

“The blue witches enslaved to the Northern King are trying. The King has been using the bodies from his red witch hunts to manipulate the magic.” Carys’s eyes slid to Remy as a sort of apology. She was speaking of Remy’s people. “But we know the remaining red witches are gathering.“

The prince held up his hand to cut Carys off, and she paused.

“We would tell you where they gathered if we thought it inclined you to help us.” His eyes swept over Remy. “But I fear with that knowledge you would run off to your coven and leave us behind.”

Remy’s hammering heart crept into her throat.

“The red witches are gathering?” she gasped.