The High Mountain Court by A.K. Mulford

Chapter Twenty-Six

Remy opened her eyes. The pounding in her head was unbearable. Her mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. She tasted the metallic tang of blood. She tenderly touched her eye, now swollen shut. Her left arm throbbed at the slightest movement of her fingers. The wounds where the arrows had struck were clotted and scabbing. How long had she been out to have healed this much?

When had that happened? She felt as though she had been punched many more times than she could remember.

She looked around the darkened room of gray, damp stone. It was a dungeon. A stench fouler than that of the Rotted Peak assaulted her nostrils. It smelled of urine, feces, and decaying flesh. Remy retched, but there was nothing to come up. How long had she been out?

Her thirst tempted her to stick her tongue out and catch the drips falling along the mossy stones in the corner.

Manacles hung from the far wall, but Remy remained unshackled in the small cell. Muck covered the dirty stone floor in bat droppings and pieces of chicken bone . . . Gods, she hoped it was only chicken bone.

Remy’s cloak was missing, stripped off her along with her boots and dagger. She still wore her blood-stained tunic and trousers, though filth soiled them.

Patting her hip, she felt that hidden pocket sewn into her tunic. Tracing the small lump of her totem bag, she still felt the Shil-de ring’s power vibrating out from beneath her palm.

Remy thought for a moment of putting it on her finger. It would protect her from any death that loomed imminent if she remained in this cell, but . . . what about Hale?

She wanted to save that talisman for him or Ruadora. There were people she loved who needed protecting. It was still a possibility she could find them. She would wait until she confirmed where they were . . . if they were alive.

She shook away that thought.

A gloomy corridor was beyond the wrought iron door, one flickering torch mounted to the wall.

Remy peered into the darkness but could see no one beyond it. She wanted to call out, to hear if Hale was nearby, but she thought twice about calling attention to herself. She knew from her heightened sense of smell and how far she could see down the darkened hall that she was still in her fae form. Did they know who she was? And Hale? Had they captured him for helping her?

She reached out with her senses, searching for him. She smelled his scent, but she realized it was coming from her. His heady aroma still clung to her from their impassioned lovemaking. Gods, she needed to find him.

Reaching out with her witch magic, she focused on turning the lock on the dungeon door.

Nothing.

It didn’t even budge. Remy looked closer at the iron bars etched in Mhenbic symbols. They had warded the dungeon against magic. It should not have surprised Remy. The Northern Court had been capturing and torturing witches for thirteen years—they must have learned how to contain them.

Remy’s witch magic would give her no advantage . . . but Remy had pretended to be a human woman for most of her life. She had other skills than just her magic and knew there must be another way out of this cell. She could pick the lock.

She looked to the discarded bones on the floor. Grabbing the thickest one, she swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

The courtesans who worked the taverns had taught her more than how to put on makeup. They had Remy picking locks for them at eight years old. She only prayed the chicken bone wouldn’t snap as she inserted it into the lock. She jiggled it. Not needing to press her ear to the door the way she had in her witch form, in her fae form she could hear from where she crouched. She twisted the bone a little more.

Listening, listening. There.

She turned the bone with just enough force, producing a loud click as the door unlocked.

Remy paused, waiting to see if anyone responded to the sound. After a minute, she was certain no one was coming.

She opened the door with deliberate slowness, but even still the rusty iron screeched. She paused, listening again. No sounds of footsteps down the hall. She opened the door enough to squeeze through. Closing it behind her, she reached through the bars to grab the chicken bone out of the lock.

She would need the bone to unlock the next door.

She crept down the hallway. Cell after cell lined the wall to her left. She paused at each one. Many were empty, but a few . . . a few had occupants. Some she was sure were dead. Others were so broken they didn’t even look up as she passed. Who were they? What had happened to them?

Remy thought to the Temple of Yexshire. Had they found the red witches? Were they still safe in the woods beyond the temple? Where was Ruadora? She had been so close to wrapping her arms around her sister, only to be ripped away again.

As Remy walked past another corpse, a burning anger coursed through her veins. This is what the Northern King did. He destroyed lives. Seeing the abandoned city of Yexshire, the burned-down castle, and now the dark belly of the dungeon, Remy was more determined than ever to slice her dagger across the King’s throat. He would pay for what he did to her family.

Remy neared the end of the hallway and the last cell before the giant wooden door. Even above the overwhelming foul stenches, she smelled that summer ocean scent again. Hale, her Fated, was in the cell beyond.

Remy had to choke down her gasp as she looked into the cell. Hale sat there, stripped down to nothing but his trousers. Purple bruises mottled his chest, but it was his face . . . His face was so swollen she could barely make out the location of his eyes. Lip split open, one of his slender fae ears torn and bleeding down his neck. What had they done to him?

She wasn’t sure if he scented her or if he felt the sorrow and furious rage burning off of her skin at the sight of him. If she had resolved to kill the King before, the sight of her beaten Fated was his death sentence.

“Remy,” Hale whispered. His voice was scratchy and raw.

Remy lifted the chicken bone clenched in her hands. She jiggled it in the lock.

“Remy, what are you doing?” Hale’s voice slurred as he spoke. She wondered if he had a concussion. “You need to run, Remy. Now. Before someone comes.”

“I told you,” Remy said, wiggling the bone some more. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

Pain filled his voice. “Remy.”

The lock shuddered and gave a little, and she wrenched the bone harder. It snapped beneath her fingers.

“No!” She cursed. She shoved the door, but it remained locked. She tried twisting the fragment, but the sharp splintered bone only sliced into her hand and clattered to the floor.

“Leave me, Remy,” Hale pleaded.

“No,” Remy snarled, forcing back her tears. “I only just found you. Do not ask me to leave you.” She looked around his cell. There was nothing there she could try on the lock. “There’s more bones back in my cell . . .”

She heard the stomping of feet to her right.

“Run, Remy,” Hale hissed.

Remy turned to run just as the door to her right banged open.

* * *

Remy wasn’t sure if she had blacked out or not; she was somewhere in between. One of the two burly guards had hit her with enough force to knock her to the ground. She wasn’t sure if it was the past injuries or the lack of food, but her eyes went black. Ears still ringing, she heard the faint faraway echoes of Hale screaming her name.

She could not feel her limbs as they hauled her back to her cell. Her limp feet dragged across the floor.

When her body hurtled back into her cell, the putrid smell revived her a bit. Her vision came back, spotted with black patches. She was not sure if it was a blessing or a curse as she felt more in her body again.

Two guards stood in the cell between her and the open door. The Northern guards wore suits of armor, different from the ones she had grown up seeing in other fae courts. They wore much more metal and fewer leathers. Remy assessed her opponents. She could not let one of these towering monsters use their weight against her in a fight—with all that metal, they must weigh a ton.

They had flat-top helmets with a half faceguard shaped like the letter M, a thin shaft of metal protecting their noses. Metal spikes on their rounded shoulders curved towards their backs. The Northern crest was almost unrecognizable. Someone had etched it poorly into the metal of their breastplates. There were enough dents in their armor to let Remy know battle had tested them.

Remy was already eyeing the spaces left unprotected: cheeks, slivers of thighs and calves, and gaps in their armpits. It seemed they didn’t wear thick leathers under the suits but a lighter fabric, so if Remy could find an opening she could slice a dagger into them.

It would be her first goal: find a weapon. The guard’s swords were her full height. There would be no taking their own weapons to use against them. Still, she wondered if she lured them in close enough if she could stab a piece of chicken bone in one’s eye. But then there would be another one coming at her.

No, that wouldn’t be a good plan.

The guard who had knocked her to the ground grinned. The color of his icy blue eyes was barely visible under the shadows of his helmet. One eyebrow stung and her eye was already swelling shut again on her left side. When she blinked warm liquid out of her left eye, she knew her eyelid was bleeding.

Remy glared at the sentries, wondering why they stood in her cell and why the door was still open. Her answer came a moment later with the sound of footsteps on the stone.

Turning the corner, holding a plate of food, was Renwick.

He looked so out of place in the filth and gloom of the dungeon. Regal as ever, not a single speck dusting his clothing. He wore a burgundy jacket, the sleeves wide, reaching down well below his fingertips. The rectangular neckline revealed part of his refined bone-white shirt, tied at his throat in an intricate knot. He tied his long, ash-blond hair back with a matching burgundy cord.

He chucked the skin of water in his hand to Remy by way of greeting. She tried to catch it, but with a bruised arm and one swollen eye only beginning to open, she missed and it fell into her lap.

“Look at the state of you,” he said. His features seemed even sharper in the flickering torchlight.

Remy sneered as she twisted the top off the waterskin. As she sniffed the water, Renwick laughed.

“You think I’d poison you now?” He chuckled, his cruel smile not meeting his eyes. Remy did not miss that he said now, implying that he may very well poison her later.

Deciding it was worth the risk, she took a long swig. Cool liquid soothed her scratchy throat. She swished more around her mouth before swallowing it, grateful to get the tang of blood out.

Renwick picked a small apple off the silver plate he held. He took a bite of it, proof he had not poisoned it either, before chucking it to Remy. She managed to catch it this time.

“What do you want from me?” Remy asked around a mouthful of apple.

“Forgive me—where are my manners?” Renwick smirked. He sketched an elegant, mocking bow. “Your Highness.”

Remy straightened. How had he known?

As if reading the question on her face, Renwick answered, “You look much more beautiful in your fae form, Princess Remini, even in your current sorry state. Even in your witch form, though, you have quite a unique birthmark on your wrist.”

He nodded to Remy’s hand. She turned it over, looking at the inside of her wrist. A collection of five small freckles dotted the inside of her arm.

“It is nothing. I have freckles all over my body,” Remy said.

“You said that to us when you were a child too.” Renwick laughed.

Us—him and his father.

Remy remembered that encounter on the high road with the King of the Northern Court. He had brushed Remy’s sleeve up when he talked to her and looked at her wrist. She had thought it was strange but didn’t understand why.

“Gavialis Minor,” Renwick said, snapping her from her spinning thoughts.

“What?”

“It is the name of a constellation. We can see it brightest in the far north. You may have noticed the constellation on the Northern crest?” Renwick said.

She hadn’t.

She looked to the Northern crest etched into the guards’ breastplates. The prominent part of the crest was a sword crossed with three arrows, a snake coiled around their intersection. She had never given much thought to the five stars scattered in the crest’s background.

Remy looked at her wrist. Sure enough, there were two parallel freckles, then another below to the far left, and then the last two sat vertically together on the bottom right. It was the exact same order. How strange for the King to notice all those years ago and still remember such a little detail. That conversation had happened before, and she didn’t remember it.

“My father considered taking you that day on the road, but he was more eager to see where you would go. Your actions after weren’t particularly illuminating . . . though very entertaining,” Renwick said, emerald eyes gleaming as his lips pulled up.

Remy’s cheeks burned as she thought about that day on the road to Yexshire. Had there been spies in those woods?

“My father thought your markings were a sign you belonged in the North to the Northern Court,” Renwick said. “He tried to arrange a marriage between the two of us because of those constellations alone. He believed it was a sign.”

Remy scowled up at Renwick.

“I’d rather die than marry you,” she snarled.

“That can be arranged.” Renwick laughed, rubbing his finger around his temple. “Besides, the blue oracles had Seen you mated to the Bastard Prince of East . . . though that didn’t seem to deter my father’s efforts.”

“Hale is not a part of this, Witchslayer,” Remy hissed. “Release him at once.”

“You’re still blessed with the ability to make demands like a royal, I see.” Renwick smiled. “Your mate,” his voice dripped with disgust, “has been hiding you from us. He lied to the Northern King’s face. That will not go unpunished. He may still have some information worth bleeding out of him too.”

His face twisted into a cruel smile as Remy’s eyes widened. He was going to torture information out of Hale.

“He knows nothing that you don’t already know yourself,” Remy insisted, pleading.

Renwick gave her an assessing look.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “But you do, Remini. And keeping your Fated on hand might be the exact right motivation to keep you talking.”

“What do you want to know?”

Renwick smiled, gliding over to her. He set the tray of food down beside her and she greedily shoved a whole bread roll into her mouth in one bite.

“Who knew the Dammacus children were so cunning?” Renwick sneered. “Since at least two of you escaped.”

Remy looked at Renwick, eyes widening. He knew Rua was alive then? Had they captured her too? She said nothing for fear of giving it away.

“Now tell me, Remini, where is that brother of yours?”

Remy tried to hold in her sigh of relief.

“He’s dead,” she said. “I am the only one left.”

“Now, we both know that’s not true.” Renwick grinned again. “A blue witch confirmed it for my father only days ago . . . there is more than one Dammacus child alive.”

Shit.

Remy shook her head. So that’s why they kept her alive. They wanted her to tell them where her brother was. They knew if they killed her, the Dammacus bloodline would still bind the Immortal Blade to the High Mountain Court.

She scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Are you sure about that?” Renwick asked. He eyed the empty plate of food. “Why don’t I give you a few days in this place to think on it. If you’d like another meal, I will expect an answer from you.”

“I don’t have any answers!” Remy hated the pleading sound in her tone.

Renwick looked her up and down. “Perhaps not. But we will make sure word gets out that we are holding Princess Remini alive, and when Raffiel hears about it, he will come for you, I’m certain of it. And we will be waiting.”

With that, Renwick turned and walked out the door. He threw her one last look over his shoulder.

“Try to stay alive down here, Princess,” he said and then disappeared down the hallway, the guards locking her cell and following him.

* * *

The keening rumble of her stomach was her only companion. The darkened dungeon provided no indication of the time. How much time had passed? The cold seeped into her bones. Exhaustion weighed her heavy eyelids, but the silence from the other end of the hall was the worst of all her pain. She didn’t know if Hale remained in his cell or if he was even still alive. Kneading her fist into her gnawing, hungry gut, she silently reprimanded herself. She couldn’t think like that.

A far door creaked open. Heavy boots and the clanking of armor echoed down the hall. The two knights entered her cell, standing on either side of the open door. When Renwick entered, Remy had to wring her hands together to keep from lurching toward the plate of food in his hands. She did not care if it was poisoned—at least she would die with a full belly.

“You seem much more willing to talk, Princess,” Renwick said, pursing his lips as he cocked his head at her.

She would not meet his gaze, her attention devoted wholly to the dish in his hands.

Renwick huffed. “You are worse than the palace dogs.”

Armor rattled as the monstrous soldiers laughed. Renwick stepped with a sneer across the muck-covered stones. The dish didn’t meet the floor before Remy snatched a chunk of stale bread. She chomped ravenously on the bread as she shoved a wedge of cheese into her mouth. Swallowing the half-chewed food, she shoveled the slices of chicken meat into her mouth, the greasy salt taste sending bolts of relief through her body.

Renwick stood over her, chuckling softly. He watched with his lip curled while she devoured the entire plate.

When she finished, he crouched, careful to not let his clothing touch the filthy floor. His emerald-green eyes bored into her. They seemed to glow in the shadowed light.

“Are you ready to answer my questions?” He narrowed his eyes at her as she licked the salt from her lips.

“I don’t know anything about Raffiel,” she breathed, wincing as a muscle cramped in her gut. She had eaten too quickly after too many days without food.

“That is not my question.”

Remy's pulse hammered in her neck as she looked up to the sentries standing beside the open doorway. If she did not have any answers this time, how many more days could she go without food?

“Where is the Shil-de ring, Remini?” His voice was a rough whisper. “We found the amulet of Aelusien in your horses’ saddlebag. Not a very clever hiding place for a priceless item, I must say.”

“I don’t have the ring, Witchslayer,” Remy said. She held her chin higher, forcing herself to meet Renwick’s violent gaze.

“We both know that’s not true.” He viciously grinned. “The ring I won in Ruttmore was a fake. You and that Bastard Prince left with the genuine ring. You will not tell me where it is?”

Remy clenched her jaw, staring at him.

“Fine,” he said, reaching out and sliding his hand up the hem of her tunic.

Remy moved to pull away, but Renwick gripped her injured forearm. Biting back a cry, she spat in his face. Renwick gaped at her. He yanked his hand out of her tunic to backhand her across the face. Her face stung, the wound opening again from the blow.

“I guess I’ll need to check more thoroughly,” he snarled, pinning her against the wall with his forearm.

The leering guards at the door chuckled as Remy scrambled to push Renwick back off her. But despite his tall, elegant stature, the Northern Prince was surprisingly strong.

He dipped his free hand down the front of Remy’s top, his hand brushing over her breast as she barked out a cry. And then that hand landed on her hip, on that lump in the fabric of the inner pocket.

They both stilled for a moment, Renwick’s glowing eyes holding Remy’s own as she felt something drop out of his large, belled sleeve. It landed on her belly, inside her tunic. She felt the cool metal against her skin. It was a dagger. Renwick held her eyes for one more fleeting moment and gave her a wink.

Her eyes widened, but she remained unmoving as the Northern Prince stood and straightened his jacket.

He had left a dagger in her clothing for her. Why?

Painting back on that face of disgust, Renwick spat at her feet.

“Stupid bitch,” he said as the guards chuckled again. “We will find that ring one way or another, believe you me.”

Remy watched, blinking at the incredible act. For a split-second Remy wondered if he did not know she had the ring. But he did. He had felt it there in her hidden totem bag and pretended to ignore it.

“Do you know what tomorrow is, Princess Remini?” Remy hated the sound of her name coming out of him. “It will be fourteen years since that night.”

That night. Remy shuddered, the burnt-down ruins of the Castle of Yexshire flashing in her mind. Riv’s broken glasses. She tapped her pockets. They must have fallen out during her capture.

“Why did he do it, your father?” Remy asked, drawing her knees up and cradling the hidden dagger against her cramping stomach. “Why did he hate my family so much?”

“The Dammacus King and Queen thought they were the rulers of this land—the favored children of Okrith with their red witch talismans and their fortress of mountain peaks,” Renwick snarled. “But they learned.” The sentries puffed their chests out as Renwick spoke, but Remy could hear the hollowness in his words. He had probably heard that line spoken most of his life judging by the dull, practiced way it rolled off his tongue. “We took your Immortal Blade, and we dispatched the red witches who could make you another.”

Remy’s chest seized, a lump hardening in her throat. “You did not dispatch them all, Witchslayer.”

She clasped her hands together around her knees, fighting the urge to unsheathe the hidden dagger and ram the smug prince straight through. She eyed the looming knights. It would be her death sentence, but Gods would it feel good to twist her blade into the Witchslayer’s chest.

His white teeth glinted in the dim light as if reading her train of thought. “The North has more wealth, more ancient talismans, and more powerful witches. If anyone should rule Okrith, it should be us.”

“Your father would destroy the world just to claim he was King of the ruins,” Remy murmured, watching those green eyes widen.

Renwick held her gaze one more moment, a silent acknowledgement, before turning to the open doorway.

“Where is Hale?” she called after him, causing Renwick to halt. “Is he all right?”

Renwick looked over his shoulder, his sharp features flickering in the torchlight. “The prince lives . . . for now.”

Tears sprang to Remy’s eyes as she let out a jagged sigh. He was still alive.

The guard grinned at her tear-stained face as he locked the door behind him, Renwick’s footsteps already clicking down the hallway.

Remy waited until she could no longer hear their steps and then removed the dagger from her tunic. It was her dagger, the one gifted to her by Bri. As she unsheathed the blade, a small scrap of parchment fell out of the scabbard.

Remy’s pulse pounded in her ears as she picked it up. A brief note was scrolled on it that brought more pinpricks to her eyes: Wait until you have eyes on me to use this. Don’t die.—B