Page 90 of The High Mountain Court

“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 card 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.

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