Page 101 of The High Mountain Court

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?

---