The High Mountain Court (The Five Crowns of Okrith Book 1)

by AK Mulford

  Remy reached for that flicker of fae magic, straining as if lifting with a phantom muscle, but she was pulling against nothing. The memory of her fae form was as fogged and distant as the images of her fallen family. She was a ghost even to herself. Her eyes searched desolately, scanning for that feeling inside her.

  “It takes time to face it,” Hale said, as if reading her mind. “Permit yourself that kindness.” He idly stroked her back again. “And when you are ready, I will be there.”

  Her heart clenched again at that. He would be there. He wanted to be there. She felt the tears welling again. Every time she thought she had cried herself dry, a fresh wave would rise.

  “It’s too much,” Remy said, choking on her words. “I am the only person between the Northern King and the Immortal Blade.” She thought of her elder brothers, Raffiel and Rivitus, and of her little sister, Ruadora, and the weight her sister must also feel on top of her. Remy would do anything to keep her sister from feeling that same way.

  “I had held out hope for so long of finding Raffiel,” Hale said. A tear slid down Remy’s cheek as she heard his name. He was twelve during the Siege. The memory of his face had faded, like looking through a fogged mirror. “Raffiel was a good person,” Hale said. “So unlike the other firstborns in the courts. He was the only one who treated me as an equal.”

  More tears slid down Remy’s cheeks as she asked, “Do you remember my mother?”

  Hale put his arm around her. “She could command an entire room with just one look, yet she was kind, gracious. She was the sort of leader any kingdom would want. She was hard but fair. She took up every space when she walked into it . . . just like her daughter.”

  Remy allowed the sobs to come. She cried until there was nothing left in her to give to it. And then the voice of Baba Morganna came back into her mind, “Make enough ripples to last centuries.”

  That was what she must do. If she wanted to protect her Fated, if she wanted to protect this love that now existed in her life, she would have to fight for it. And if she lost, at least it would be at the tip of her dagger and not hiding in some broken tavern. The world would keep coming for her, keep taking from her, either way. So she would take from the world, she would fight for her right to this happiness.

  The sky was already darkening even though it was before dinnertime. They were almost there. Remy looked forward to the warmth of the inn Hale promised was up ahead. She wanted a greasy meal, a warm bath, and a soft bed with Hale in it.

  Horse hooves clopping on the thin blanket of snow sounded from up ahead. Remy turned to the noise. It revealed itself to be four armored soldiers wearing the Northern Court crest.

  “Curse the Gods,” Remy whispered, ducking her head so her black cloak fell further across her face.

  Hale put a gentle hand on her back.

  “Just keep moving,” he murmured.

  Another horse and rider appeared in forest-green finery. Remy could tell who it was from a mile away based on that arrogant riding posture alone. Ash-blond hair and green eyes, tall and lithe, sitting stiffly upright on his sorrel steed was Renwick, Crown Prince of the Northern Court.

  “Damn,” Hale echoed, clenching his hand in a fist. “Just play along.”

  Remy adjusted the neckline of her cloak, making sure that her missing witch’s collar was not visible. Hale was the first to acknowledge the Northern Prince as though it were a pleasant surprise to run into him.

  “Renwick!” he called with a wave.

  The Northern Prince halted his horse in front of them. A cruel smile spread across his face. His eyes seemed to bore into Hale and then settled on Remy. Without the drinks and that red dress, she thought she may buckle under the weight of his stare.

  “Hello again,” Renwick said unhurriedly. His eyes scanned Remy’s cloak as though he could see the missing witch’s collar. She feared in the cold light of day he could see her for who she really was.

  “I didn’t know you’d be in Andover,” Renwick said with that casual politeness that courtiers were so well versed in—neither enthusiastic nor indifferent, but somewhere in between.

  “What’s wrong with your witch?” Renwick asked, his eyes staring daggers into Remy. She realized how faint she felt then. Her face must have drained of blood.

  Remy straightened herself a bit, summoning that stubbornness and said, “Too much moonshine last night.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Hale said dismissively. Renwick laughed.

  Good, Remy thought.

  Let him think Hale didn’t care for her. Let him think she was merely another disposable toy.

  “What brings you this far south?” Hale asked, wondering why Renwick would be so close to the road to Yexshire and the Northern Court border.

  “It was a sudden trip,” Renwick said with bored detachment. “We have some people to deal with a few towns over.”

  Remy’s stomach clenched as he said deal with.

  “We?” Hale asked, rubbing his thumb down his pointer finger.

  Renwick smiled at Remy, his emerald eyes glistening, as he said, “Ah yes, my father accompanies me.”

  As if on cue, another four Northern guards came galloping around the bend, followed by four shining black horses pulling an ornate carriage with blue and silver filigree. Another four riders took up the rear.

  Remy’s mind went completely blank as Hale took one step closer to her. Every heartbeat was a hammer to her chest. She sensed Renwick’s assessing gaze, missing nothing in the move.

  It means nothing. They don’t know who I am. They just think I’m a red witch.

  But to be mistaken for a red witch was bad enough. The man in that carriage collected the heads of red witches. He enslaved a whole harem of blue witches and tortured them into using magic for his benefit. Remy wanted to vomit.

  She counted again. Twelve soldiers accompanied the King and Prince. Too many. There would be no way to fight off that many swords, and on horses they would be impossible to outrun. They trapped her.

  The riding party halted in front of them. The carriage window shot open. “What is this delay?” came a booming shout.

  Somewhere in her most distant memories Remy remembered his face: Hennen Vostemur, King of the Northern Court. He had a shock of graying red hair and a fading red beard to match. He had watery, bloodshot green eyes that matched his son’s. His skin was ruddy and marked with broken blood vessels either from too much drink or too much shouting. He had large cheeks and a portly figure that told her he no longer lifted his sword. He spent his days ordering men to kill for him while he sat back and ate rich food and drank wine. But despite having the body of a jolly drunkard, his green snake-like eyes gave him a predatory countenance. He was too still, too assessing. His eyes had swept over Hale and hitched on Remy.

  She could not bear it. It felt like a thousand spiders crawling over her skin as he watched her. A hot poker twisted in her gut. This was the man who had ruined her life. He had slaughtered her entire city out of jealousy and a lust for power. She knew it did not haunt him the way it haunted her: the blood, the smoke, the screaming. He had taken away everything she ever cared about just because he could, just because he wanted it. This man was the reason she had to glamour herself for thirteen years, to live in contemptible backcountry taverns, to never talk to strangers, to never draw the eyes of admirers, to be unremarkable and unnoticed by anyone. It was because of this man.

  She wondered for a moment if she were fast enough to kill him. Could she use her magic to impale him on his own sword somehow or throw him under his own carriage? Her magic was still recharging, but she might be able to pull it off . . . and then what? It would spend her magic again, and they’d be facing down a dozen fae guards and Renwick, who would delight in occupying the vacant position that his father had left. Then she noticed the wardings on the carriage. They were so subtle, painted over in the same black hue, getting lost in the intricate metal detailing. A witch had warded the inside of the carriage against magic, like that c
ard room in Ruttmore. She could not use her magic to get to the King. Remy couldn’t do it to Hale either way, she realized. She couldn’t let him die for her vengeance. Now that she had found him, her Fated mate, she wouldn’t be able to sacrifice herself or him for anything. Their fates indelibly tied together as one.

  “Look who I ran into, Father,” Renwick’s voice cut through Remy’s murderous plots. “It’s Prince Hale of the East.”

  Remy sent out a silent prayer that Renwick had not acknowledged her.

  “Ah yes, Gedwin’s bastard,” Vostemur said, and Remy had to suppress a snarl. “The Lord of Andover is hosting us this night. Join us.”

  It was not a request, but Hale said, “It would have been my pleasure, Your Majesty, if only I had come a day sooner. I fear we are making our way west this day.”

  The King paused, looking at Hale with that predatory stillness, a cobra waiting to strike. Remy felt as though any moment a soldier might draw his sword and ram it through them.

  “Pity,” he said with a slow cock of his head. He turned his snake eyes to Remy. “Do you have the gift of Sight, witch?”

  Remy’s entire body went numb with fear as she said, “No, Your Majesty.”

  Vostemur held out a chubby hand to her and said, “Come, let’s see if you can tell the King’s fortune.”

  Remy noted how he said the king as though he were the only one, as though he were their king. It was his true plan, and they all knew it. He would not stop until he was the only king in Okrith.

  Hale went as rigid as a marble statue at the King’s request. Remy knew she could not decline. She took a wobbly step forward as Renwick watched her with a barbarous smile. Placing her sweaty palm in the King’s hand, she tried not to tremble.

  “What do you see?” Vostemur asked in a slow staccato.

  “Nothing,” Remy whispered. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

  Vostemur paused, turning her hand over in his and swiping his thumb across the inside of her wrist. His smooth thumb traced each of her freckles.

  “No matter,” Vostemur said, more to himself than to her. He released her hand with a twisted smile, and Remy retreated to Hale’s side.

  If Vostemur chose to strike, Remy knew there would be no repercussions to their deaths. No one would avenge them—Vostemur left a bloody trail of such unpredictable violence. No one ever held him in check.

  Hale bowed then to the Northern King, and Remy followed. Hale put a guiding hand on her back and moved her down the road.

  “Don’t run,” he whispered as they walked, his warm hand a shining beacon to her in the darkness of her fear.

  “Oh, and boy,” boy the King had called after them, “take good care of that pretty witch of yours.”

  Remy’s entire body seized up at his words, but Hale pushed her to keep moving, one foot after another. The clattering of the carriage and pounding hooves sounded again as the convoy took off, leaving a devastating silence in its wake.

  “Keep moving,” Hale said softly, continuing to guide her forward. “Just to the bend.”

  The sound of the horses faded away as they reached the corner. She kept willing her shaky legs to keep moving, even though she couldn’t feel her feet anymore. Her whole trembling body chilled as though a sudden snowstorm swirled around them.

  “Breathe, Remy,” Hale said, his voice so gentle. She had not realized until he said it. She was panting, unable to take a deep breath. They passed the line of sight off the long road to Andover, and Hale guided her to a tree. “Here, sit.”

  He had to hold on to her arms as she collapsed onto the ground. Her breathing was frantic now, her muscles seizing as her teeth chattered.

  “That man,” she said as her diaphragm spasmed.

  Hale cupped her cold cheek.

  “I know.” He pulled her in, his arms enveloping her stiff body. “I’ve got you.”

  That was all the permission Remy needed before the gasping tears came in a deluge, her body wringing her fear dry as Hale tugged her closer.

  “You are not alone, Remy. I’m here,” he whispered. “I can take it.”

  She could pour out every ounce of pain, and he would take it. She knew it wasn’t a burden to him, that he welcomed it all, her Fated mate. This is what he did for her, what she did for him. They held all the things together that were impossible to hold alone.

  Remy sobbed for a long time until her muscles were fatigued from the straining and shaking. She went limp in Hale’s arms. She rested her cheek against his chest and listened to his slow, steady breaths. The sounds of the air filling his lungs, this beating heart, the heart of her Fated, anchored her here in this life. Without it she was sure she would have drifted away from the storms she now faced.

  Screwing her eyes shut, she clenched her fists, demanding her body change back into her fae form.

  “What are you doing?” Hale murmured into her hair.

  Remy scowled down at the snow. “I’m trying to take this bloody glamour off.”

  She pulled away from him and looked up into those shining pewter eyes. “What does it feel like when you do it?”

  Hale rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking for a moment before he said, “It feels like a relief when I take my glamour off. It feels like releasing a tight muscle.”

  Remy huffed. She was trying to battle her glamour off instead of releasing it. It was just another one of her failings—just another way she was a hiding coward.

  “You will find the right lever to pull. Give it time.”

  “I don’t have time!” she growled.

  A snow-laden branch cracked behind them, and Remy jolted. She ran her trembling hands down her face, every sound grating against her jittery nerves. It was just a branch.

  “It’s over,” Hale whispered, enfolding Remy’s hands with the warmth of his own.

  “It’s not over,” Remy bit out. “It won’t be over until he is dead.”

  She choked on the words. They filled her with such dread.

  She had barely survived the briefest run-in with the Northern King. One look from him had reduced her to a sobbing, shaking puddle. How was she going to kill him?

  What that man had done to destroy her life had all flooded back when that carriage window opened. Her secret was a boulder crushing the center of her chest. If Vostemur had known that she was the one standing in the way of his desire to wield the Immortal Blade, he would have sliced her head off. Those snake eyes could stare into her soul.

  “You will kill him one day, Remy, and I will be there to watch you do it,” Hale said, brushing his lips to hers. “Now, let’s get to the inn.”

  Hale’s trick seemed to work all too well, with that kiss taking pride of place in her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They had stopped at an elegant little inn. They were careful not to pick the fanciest one they feared the Northern fae might stay in. But a human woman ran this inn, and it was still a fine accommodation.

  Only one thought stayed lodged in Remy’s mind: Ruadora was alive. Rua was through the northern mountain pass, and it was less than a day’s ride into Yexshire. Remy’s body still buzzed from the excitement of what Baba Morganna had told her.

  Remy had lived her entire life thinking she was the last of her family, that she was the only Dammacus sibling to survive the Siege of Yexshire. She wished she had lit that red candle a long time ago, wished she had contacted Baba Morganna as a child. She would have known that Rua was still alive and that there was a safe place in the world for red witches. Remy would have gone to them straight away. She would have saved herself years of working in taverns, hiding.

  Hiding, it was all she knew how to do.

  As she stood in her nightgown facing the bathroom mirror, her long black hair spilling down her chest, a human woman stared back. She had been hiding in her human form for thirteen years, mistaken for a witch because of her magic. Yes, she would let slip a trickle of her fae power so she could run faster or see more clearly in the dark, but that small
step into her fae self was as far as she ever let herself go.

  Remy had wanted to ride through the night to see Rua, but she let Hale convince her to rest in the town of Andover. He had given her that pleading look that begged her to take it easy, if only for a day. Watching her die only yesterday, he refused to let her push herself. Remy knew she could say no, she could push Hale harder to relent . . . but she had agreed to stop because of the very reason she stood in front of the bathroom mirror now.

  Hale had been right—a fae form would be so much safer in the North. If she changed, she would have the protection of her fae form . . . but she couldn’t find that strand of magic that controlled her glamour anymore.

  Remy didn’t know her true face. This glamour had become who she was. She watched that human reflection, focusing, clenching every muscle in her body so tight and willing the change.

  Nothing.

  She tried harder, screwing her eyes shut.

  “Work, damn it!” she cursed.

  Nothing.

  Remy couldn’t do it. She pictured herself riding into Yexshire in her human body. Riding through the ruins of a castle, the site of her parents’ murder, while she was still hiding. She was such a coward. How was she meant to claim her place on the High Mountain throne? How was she meant to lead the resurrection of her people when she hid from her own reflection? How could she face her sister only to see that disappointment on her face? She would let everyone down.

  Remy took a deep frustrated breath and clenched her fists, trying again. The buzzing she felt behind her eyes and in her hands was her red witch magic, though, not her fae magic. The entire room was shaking with her effort.

  Hale knocked at the bathroom door. “Remy?”

  She said nothing. She couldn’t face him either. She couldn’t let her Fated mate see how broken she was.

  Broken. That’s what she was—a broken, foolish coward. Her parents would be so disappointed in her too. Her parents were brave and courageous. They had faced the world with all that they were.