by AK Mulford
“Oh.” Remy nodded. “I’ve always wondered what the Southern Court looked like.”
Of all the courts, the Southern Court was the one she had heard the most outlandish tales about. Stories had reached her of wild jungles, brightly-colored birds, and revels that lasted until sunrise.
A long silence passed between them before Hale spoke.
“Listen, what happened yesterday, I—”
“I think I am tired after all,” Remy cut him off.
There was nothing good that could come of what he was about to say. She went back to her bedroll wedged between her two protectors and lay there, unsleeping, thinking about what would have come out if she had allowed him to finish his sentence.
Chapter Eight
The day was heavy with rain. The darkness of the early morning had yet to lift off the land. Remy felt the little clouds in her head. She always felt sleepy when there was no sun. She wasn’t designed for this gray, humid climate. It burdened her soul. She knew more sunshine lay ahead as they traveled further South. They headed toward the capital city of Saxbridge, at the very bottom of the Southern Court where it was rumored to be warm all year round.
Remy preferred when they made camp in the woods. The cold stone ruins were uncomfortable to sleep on and haunting to look at in the night. The taverns were noisy, overcrowded, and full of prying eyes. She wished, however, that they had slept in a place with a roof last night. Even with the shelter of the overhanging trees, she had still felt pinpricks of rain. The wetness of the ground sank into her bedroll in the night too. The weather was warmer than in the West, but wetter too, it seemed. They laid their soggy hiking clothes on a makeshift frame over the fire.
Briata had bought a new maplewood bow and a quiver of arrows for Remy during their unfortunate stopover in Guilford. Remy had taken over hunting duties on their trek. It made her feel good that she could offer something to the group. She knew the others could catch a rabbit or squirrel just as quickly, but it still made her feel useful and they seemed happy to have someone else take over for a change.
Briata’s boot in her back woke Remy.
“Get up,” the golden-eyed female said, tossing Remy her traveling attire from the clothing frame. “Let’s go.”
Remy had dressed quickly and followed Briata away from the fire and the rest of their sleeping companions. The sun strained to peep through the heavy clouds on the horizon as Bri led her to a small clearing in the forest, freshly opened to the sky from a fallen redwood tree.
When they reached the center of the clearing, Briata turned to Remy and crossed her arms.
“Why do you want to train?” The Eagle’s jaw jutted to the side as she looked at Remy. Chewing on her lip, Remy considered her answer.
She did not want to cast her mind back to the witch hunter attack, so she simply said, “I want to be able to defend myself. I don’t want to be rescued again.”
“Good.” Briata nodded. She pulled the dagger from her left hip and gave it to Remy, adjusting her grip on the weapon. “This way,” she said so that the knuckle of Remy’s pointer finger aligned with the top of the blade.
Briata instructed Remy where to put her feet, how to hold her body, and how to move her arms. It felt awkward and strange, unlike how she thought it would feel. Her body didn’t move the way the others did. Briata taught her three different foot positions: a strike, a block, and a series of hits. It was a simple combination, and yet Remy couldn’t seem to get her feet to move at the same time as her arms. She felt all twisted up in her mind. She would freeze for several seconds after Briata called out a combination before her body would move. It felt ridiculous. Briata was going so easy on her, and yet she still wasn’t moving right.
“You’re still holding it wrong,” Briata corrected Remy for the 200th time in ten minutes.
“Why does it matter how I hold it?” Remy dropped her arms in frustration.
Briata unsheathed the sword from her right hip and swung it before Remy could blink. The dagger went flying out of her hand.
“That’s why,” Briata said. “Now pick it up and hold it the way I showed you.”
“Why can’t I just use a sword like you?” Remy felt like a child holding the smaller weapon.
“Because your scrawny human arms won’t be able to lift a fae sword,” Briata said. Remy looked to the warrior’s considerable biceps and frowned.
“I’m not a human, I’m a witch.” Remy tucked a sweaty ringlet of hair that had escaped her bun behind her rounded ear. Her breathing was already so heavy, and she had barely moved.
“Well, you all look the same.” Briata shrugged. “Were it not for the smell of magic on you, you’d be human to me.”
“My arms aren’t scrawny—I’ve been lifting trays of ale since I was seven.” Remy frowned.
“Your arms are shaking just from holding up that dagger for the last ten minutes.” Briata smirked.
Remy cursed. She didn’t think the shaking was so noticeable. The fae missed nothing.
Briata darted a glance to Remy’s feet and looked back at her, cocking her eyebrow. Remy rolled her eyes. Without saying a word, she swapped her feet back into the fighting stance that Briata had shown her. The whole thing was demoralizing. If anything, she felt less able to fight in this position.
“This is hopeless, Briata.” Remy clenched her teeth.
“Call me Bri,” the fae warrior said. Remy’s lips pulled up a bit at that. She had earned the right to call the fae by her nickname. That was at least one victory.
“It’s not that bad,” Carys’s voice came from the forest. The female appeared and perched herself on a thick branch of the fallen redwood. “You should have seen some of the people we trained in Falhampton and they were fae. You’ve got to remember fighting is like a dance . . .”
“It is not like a dance,” Bri said, annoyed.
“Yes it is.” Carys grinned at her.
“It is nothing like dancing,” Bri growled. This was clearly something the fae had argued about before.
“I don’t care what it’s like—I just want to be good at it,” Remy said. The two of them fought like sisters. It was the same way she and Fenrin bickered. Remy once had a little sister, but she had died at five years old during the Siege of Yexshire. She wondered if they would have squabbled the same way.
“No amount of talent will make up for time and perseverance, Rem,” Bri said, pulling her focus back. There was not a single drop of sweat on the female Eagle. “Eventually, we’ll add in your red witch magic to your fight training too. You need to be able to fight with your hands and magic at the same time. Now that we’re in the Southern Court, it shouldn’t be as big of a problem for you to be casting spells.”
The Western Court was rife with red witch hunters. The Western Court queen did nothing to curtail their hunting. Even if Hale had declared himself the Eastern Prince, those hunters back in Guilford would have tried to snatch Remy anyway. But in the Southern Court there was more vigilante justice. The Southerners didn’t like their green witches being mistakenly snatched or killed. They had already passed two towns with gruesome gnarled heads on spikes, a warning about what would happen if they caught a fae hunting witches. There was not much King Vostemur could do about it other than voice his discontent. To do anything more would be declaring war on the Southern Court. The threat of war loomed over Okrith. Vostemur had already slaughtered the High Mountain Court—would he do it again?
They fell into a steady rhythm once more. Bri would call out a combination, and Remy would fumble to execute it. Carys watched in serene silence. Over the next half hour, the movements became easier. Remy didn’t have to pause as often to think about where to step. Her body moved without so much conscious direction. Breathing ragged, she was covered in sweat. Her right arm was so sore she could barely lift it, but she felt good. Fantastic. It felt like she was reclaiming something, taking back control. She had always been passive. Life had happened to her. She was ready for that to change.
“That’s good for today. We’ve got to break camp,” Bri said. She was still immaculate. Not a single strand of her short, brown hair was out of place.
“It’s been less than an hour—let’s keep going.” Remy held up the dagger again even as her arm barked to be lowered.
“So eager for punishment.” Carys laughed.
“You’ll be plenty sore already, even though you’re a fast healer,” Bri said, her eyes darting down to Remy’s new boots. The blisters from her old pair had already disappeared. The mottled bruising on her face was beginning to yellow and fade. “We can pick this up tomorrow.”
“No, let’s keep going,” Remy pushed.
“Why?” Bri cocked her head at Remy.
Swallowing a lump in her throat, the thoughts of that day in Guilford bubbled up again. Fear still gripped her chest, making her breathless. She didn’t want to be that afraid ever again.
“They almost killed me,” she whispered. The pain of that admission opened the wound afresh. Remy thought to the limp, lifeless face of the witch hunter whose life she had taken. “I killed someone.”
“I know.” In a split second, Bri was a single step in front of her, peering at Remy with the full intensity of those golden eyes. “Those ghosts will always be there—that part will never change—but at some point you’ll stop resisting their presence, and that will help. The choice gets easier too.”
“What choice?” Remy asked.
“The one you make every time you pick up a blade: that if it comes to your life or theirs, you’ll take theirs every time, no question.” Bri’s deep, warm voice swirled around her.
Remy hung her head. It should be a simple choice, but it wasn’t . . . not yet, anyway.
“We will do this every morning before we break camp,” Bri said, sheathing her sword and taking the dagger from Remy. There would be blisters on Remy’s hands by nightfall. “You’re already strong and impressive with the bow—we just need that same skill with a dagger and you’ll be sorted.”
Carys hopped off the tree branch and passed Remy a skin of water.
“That simple,” Remy said.
“Simple, yes. Easy, no.” Bri gave Remy a strong clap on the shoulder, toppling her to the side. “We’ll make a warrior of you yet.”
They trekked through the heady perfume of garnet wildflowers, a trail of pollen strewn down the track, sparkling like gold dust. The air was so thick it felt hard to breathe. However grueling the trek through the Western Court had been, this was worse.
The leather straps dug into Remy’s shoulders, her wet tunic chaffing against the pack with each step. Heather’s face was tomato red, a thick sheen of sweat covering her skin. A sweat mark stamped Fenrin’s chest.
When Remy saw Carys and Hale’s packs on the ground up ahead, she thanked the Gods. They were getting a break at long last.
Her eyes followed the trail branching out from the main path up ahead, and she gasped. The path led to a clearing and, towering in the middle, was a gnarly ancient tree. Its twisting bare branches reached up in supplication. But it was not its size or its haunted bare limbs that made Remy gasp: it was the red ribbons tied to it. From each branch flowed long, waving scarlet ribbons, some of them bleached pink by the sun. They waved on the light breeze like strands of hair.
“What is this place?” Remy whispered, dropping her pack and stepping slowly forward. Her body felt lighter and lighter the closer she moved into the clearing.
“It’s a prayer tree,” Heather said from behind her. “A ribbon is hung with a prayer for the fallen.”
“I have never seen anything like it,” Remy said in awe.
“It is a practice of the Southern Court,” Heather said, releasing a heavy sigh as her pack hit the ground.
Remy’s gaze tore away from the towering tree at the sight of Hale kneeling in front of the trunk. His hand skimmed over something before him, and Remy stepped closer to see a small fountain. The copper basin had greened over time, water spilling over its sides only to be sucked up again into five arching jets of water. The five jets, Remy mused, symbolized the five witch covens or perhaps the five Kingdoms of Okrith.
Hale’s fingers traced symbols carved into a stone beside the fountain.
“What does this say?” he asked.
“It’s Mhenbic,” Fenrin said, panting as he walked over. “It says: ‘In memory of our fallen family.’”
Remy stared at the fountain. It was the red witch magic that kept those streams of water moving. Red witches created this memorial. Only red witches and the High Mountain royal fae could cast the red magic that animated objects.
Remy felt the emotional punch to her chest as she looked back at those ribbons. There were hundreds of them, each one a memory. Someone had hung each ribbon as a prayer to a fallen loved one . . . and there were hundreds.
It reminded Remy of the Temple of Yexshire. The Temple had a flagpole on its highest spire, and every season the witches would add a red ribbon as a symbol of the city’s prayers. The ribbons blowing in the wind were once a symbol of hope for the future; now they were symbols of mourning. Remy was certain whoever made this memorial was giving a nod to their homeland’s landmark, the Temple of Yexshire.
Seeing those red ribbons flapping made Remy’s throat constrict. The numbers of fallen were unfathomable, but seeing these ribbons waving along the branches made her clench her hands by her sides. This was the impact of the Siege of Yexshire. King Vostemur’s shadow was seen even in the Southern Court.
Carys walked over to Remy, holding a long bundle of ribbon. The ball of red fabric was leaching of color. The heavy rains of the warm region aged the fabric. How long was this bundle of ribbon here? How many times had it needed to be replaced?
The fae warrior unwound a length of ribbon, pulling her dagger from her hip. She sliced through the fabric, passing the first stretch of ribbon to Remy. Carys passed out ribbons until each of their group held one.
Remy felt no weight to her body as she moved, like her soul was trying to flee the haunted setting. The group fanned out around the wide, knobby tree, each finding a branch.
Remy stood there, rubbing the fraying ribbon between her fingers. Heather and Fenrin muttered Mhenbic prayers to the witches’ mother goddess in the moon. The witches prayed only to the goddess, but the fae were praying to their many gods as they hung ribbons. It seemed that they called upon every god to mourn the fallen witches and whispered promises to avenge them.
Remy had spoken those Mhenbic prayers so many times over the years with Heather and Fenrin. So many red witches had died to keep Remy and her secrets safe. At least Baba Morganna lived. Remy felt the pull behind her navel, tugging her back toward the High Mountains. She needed to find the High Priestess, needed to beg her forgiveness for all the witches who had sacrificed themselves for her.
Remy thought to their faces, to the handful of red witches who protected her for a year following the Siege of Yexshire. It had been the bloodiest year of her life. The horror of it all imprinted on her mind, never to be forgotten. And when the last witch fell, Heather was there, and she took Remy in. Remy was a terrified seven-year-old then. Heather had been strict but doting, pulling back together the parts of Remy that frayed like the ribbon between her fingers. There would not be enough red fabric to hang one for each of the witches she lost.
Remy opened her mouth to speak the Mhenbic words, but a different prayer came out. It was an ancient Yexshiri prayer, spoken only in the capital city of the High Mountain Court. Remy did not know how she remembered it, but the muscles in her throat seemed to recall.
“Immortal creators, guardians of the afterlife, wombs of this world, hear my prayer,” she whispered. She could not roll the Yexshiri Rs as well as she once could, the chanted prayer in her head not matching with the sounds that escaped her mouth. “Guide these spirits into the afterlife. May they know your grace. May they feel your peace. Fill them with your eternal light.”
Remy’s fingers trembled as she knotted the
ribbon to the tree. Invoking those ancient words felt like a hot poker to the chest, and it made her ache for her fallen family. She stared for a long time at that knotted ribbon, waving as though the spirits of her people blew them on an unfelt wind.
How many more ribbons would they add if Vostemur was not stopped? Would time forget the High Mountain Court? Would all the courts fall to the poisonous North?
A cool hand on the nape of Remy’s neck made the tingling in her hands ebb. She looked over into Heather’s hazel eyes, brimming with tears. Remy crumpled at that, throwing her arms around her guardian. She knew the same horrific memories flooded the brown witch at that moment. Heather’s arms wrapped her tightly in a warm embrace. Remy clung to her guardian, burying her head into the brown witch’s copper hair, breathing her soft lavender scent. Heather stroked a gentle hand up and down Remy’s back. Even as the tiny insects of the humid jungle buzzed around her ears, Remy did not let go.
Fenrin approached in long strides. The young brown witch wrapped them both in his long arms, pulling them into his lean torso. He rested his chin on Heather’s head. Remy wondered if Fenrin had hung a ribbon in honor of his parents. Fae slew his father in the witch hunts, the bloodlust of Northern soldiers driving them to murder more than only the red witches. Remy suspected she knew how his mother went, too, by her own hand, though they never spoke of it. They were both casualties of war in their own ways. Remy had never seen Fenrin mourn his parents, but she knew that broken heart of an orphan all too well.
The fae said nothing as the witches held each other. No one hastened them along. This moment was thirteen years in the making.
Remy clasped her trembling hands together behind Heather’s back. It was not enough to hang ribbons anymore. Something had to be done. She felt the anger rising in her chest, the warm pull of her magic following. She knew then that she would do whatever it takes to find the High Mountain talismans, to use them to hack away at the Northern power, until she was certain that not another single ribbon was added to this tree.