Page 73 of The High Mountain Court

The smells of the barn made Remy’s stomach roil. She was sure her face had gone green.

“How are you acting so normal?” Remy groaned as Hale tightened the saddle’s buckles. He had drunk an entire bottle of wine by himself last night, and yet he seemed clear-eyed and light-spirited.

“Not too partial to the wine, are you?” Hale laughed while keeping his eyes on his task.

Remy was not much of a drinker, and when she did she made a point of never imbibing too much. She had spent too many tavern shifts kicking out hungover patrons to think getting drunk was a good idea. But she had newfound empathy for what they must have been feeling. She tried not to think too hard on it. The thought of the wine alone would turn her stomach to acid and it would all come spilling back up. How in the Gods’ names was she going to ride a horse?

Remy went to the packhorse, pilfering through the outer pocket of her bag as the horse shifted. She knew each of the glass vials in her pack from feel alone, each one wrapped in thin strips of scrap linen, no two vials identical in size or shape. Her fingers encircled the one she wanted. She lifted it out, unraveling the linen to reveal a thumb-sized vial of light-brown glass. The paint of a five-point star and a mint leaf had rubbed off long ago, but Remy knew this was the right elixir. Heather had made most of her druni from bottles of this very magic: a hangover tonic. In backcountry taverns, this stuff was gold. Remy had never needed it herself before, but she kept one vial in her potions bag just in case. It sat along with two dozen other vials that were also for “just in cases” she hoped she would never need to use.

Remy uncorked it and gulped the contents in one foul swig. It made her want to retch, but she forced it down. If she could keep it in her stomach for any amount of time, it would be helpful. She scrunched her face, her nostrils flaring with the effort to not gag. She took another breath and her stomach settled, the pounding in her head already lightening a bit.

Thank the Gods for brown witches, she whispered a silent prayer to Heather. Her guardian was protecting her even still.

By the time they mounted their horse and headed north through the city, the sun was cresting above the pine trees ahead. More and more people emerged from their homes for the day.

The smell of freshly baked bread swirled around them as a baker pushed his cart loaded with loaves and cakes down the cobbled road. He must have awoken in the middle of the night for them all to be baked and ready to sell this early.

Hale flagged him down with a hand. Some sort of silent request flowed between them. The baker stopped, lifting the fine netting over his baking, and produced two round loaves of bread the size of dinner plates. The prince passed him a gold coin and the baker’s eyes widened at it. It was far too much payment for two loaves of bread, but the baker simply bowed and mumbled, “Your Highness” and kept on his way. It was neither adoring nor fearful, merely appreciative.

Hale passed Remy a brown loaf of warm bread dotted with dried fruits and swirls of cinnamon. The buttery fruit and spice scent eddied in currents of steam emanating from cracks in the crispy crust. The aroma made her stomach gurgle.

Hale laughed at the sound. Her back pressed so tightly into his front that it wouldn’t surprise her if he felt the rumbling.

Remy tore off a piece of bread with her fingers, a whorl of steam lifting into the brisk morning air. With the entire piece in her mouth, the spiced, rich flavors lit up her tongue. An indecent sound groaned out of her. Hale straightened behind her, coughing.

Remy bit her lip to keep from laughing. She was grateful he couldn’t see her face. She delighted in what that little sound had done to him. It was hard to turn her mind away from wondering about all the other sounds he might elicit from her.

“I take it you like the bread,” Hale said, as Remy devoured the first half of her loaf.

“It’s delicious,” she replied, cheeks so stuffed with bread her words were barely intelligible. “I’ve never had anything like it.”

“It is my favorite too.” She sensed Hale smiling without turning to look at him. “The Northside Baker is famous in Wynreach. I had to make a detour on our way out of the city for you to try it.”

That made Remy pause before she continued chewing. Hale had wanted to share this with her. It was something small and simple, yet special enough to him that he had thought to include her in it.

“Thank you,” Remy said, ripping into the bread again. “I think as your red witch I should advise you to hire that man as your personal baker and make him ride out into battlefields after you with this raisin bread.”

Hale laughed, not a princely laugh but an honest witch’s laugh. It would be a sight to behold: a baker riding into battle to deliver his prince his bread. Remy chuckled too. They rode and ate in companionable silence to the far reaches of the city.

Most on the street were humans, heading in the opposite direction, toward the heart of the city to work for the day. Most fae and witches would have the day off after their equinox celebrations, but there were some jobs that were always needed. They were the most under-appreciated ones too. Some humans stole quick glances at Remy and the Eastern Prince. A few others stopped and bowed, but most carried on ignoring them. It wasn’t the reception Remy expected for their crown prince.

Ahead of them, three human men stumbled out of a doorway and into the early morning light. They swayed and laughed with the same joviality Remy saw in her taverns. She knew this type: the ones who wanted the festivities to never end, who would drink and dance and sing and laugh until the sun rose. The sun was well into the sky now, climbing above the tree line of the forest slopes ahead. The stumbling men looked barely of age. They still hadn’t grown into their height or bodies yet. The prince slowed their horses in case one of the drunk men stumbled forward.

They looked at Remy and then Hale, recognition lighting their faces as they scowled. Remy was used to this too. The sun worked its powerful magic, turning the nightlong merriment into vicious spite come morning.

“Ignore them,” Hale said, bracing for them to say something. Remy hated it, that he knew how these men were about to treat him because he had experienced it so many times throughout his life.

Humans had called Remy all sorts of brutal things in her life, some clever and cutting, others predictable, and she had learned to let the drunken jibes roll over her like water off a duck’s back. But for some reason, directed to the male whose warmth bled into her back and whose breath was hot on her hair . . . this felt different.

The tallest and boldest of the humans waited until their horse reached them and spat onto the ground.

“Bastard,” he cursed.

Bastard.

It was the simplest yet most cutting word of all. Remy knew deep down Hale felt everything that word meant was true. Not only that his mother had borne him out of wedlock, but also that he was unworthy of everything he had, that he somehow deserved these barbs and razor-sharp words. Remy had done it to him too, called him bastard more than once. She was as much to blame as these drunken fools.

The two men behind the tall human laughed. That cruel, taunting laughter snapped something in Remy. Before she knew what she was doing, her foot was flying, swinging over the horse’s black mane and dropping to the ground. She couldn’t feel the impact or the heaviness of a whole loaf in her stomach. She couldn’t feel her feet running or her hand grabbing the dagger on her belt.

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