Page 62 of The High Mountain Court

Chapter Sixteen

Acrowd of onlookers and royal guards met Hale, Bri, and Talhan. Remy watched from the boat as that crafted mask fell over the Eastern Prince’s expression. He seemed cocky, with a lazy royal air as he waved and winked at the crowd. He thumbed a few gold coins at children and laughed like he basked in their cheers. That laugh grated against Remy’s ears. Remy hated seeing the performance but didn’t have to watch for long. The landing party had brought horses for Hale and the Eagles. They rode off into the city before Carys and Remy departed the barge along with the rest of the crowd.

Beautiful seafaring ships filled the port of Wynreach. One was hoisting its sails, readying to head down the Crushwold and out to sea. The Eastern Court was known for its merchant vessels. They traded all manner of Eastern goods from wool to perfumes throughout Okrith.

The Eastern Court had built the city of Wynreach between dense pine forests and rolling pastoral hills, leading out as far as the eye could see. Remy knew beyond that was the ocean. The majority of the buildings were crafted with intricate wood detailing, mirroring the history of logging and woodwork throughout the city. The capital had a mix of smells from chicory smoke fires to freshly baked bread and the crisp air that promised winter was nearing.

Towering in the center of the city was the castle of Wynreach. The castle’s twelve narrow towers connected with giant walls of gray stone, dominating the skyline. The outer walls had small windows for archers, while the inner walls had towering windows of stained glass. All the way from the river, the windows glowed. The castle was a combination of lovely and lethal, its delicate towers and glass windows in strange juxtaposition with the dark gray stone ramparts and battle armaments.

Hale and the Twin Eagles had disappeared toward that castle on the hilltop, lost among the crowds and winding roads. That castle was the prince’s home. How fitting, Remy thought, that the prince seemed a strange combination of lovely and lethal too. She looked at her hands, thinking about what he had told her moments before. He did not want her coming to the castle because his father would know Hale’s affections for Remy were real.

His affections for her were real. He cared for her.

Remy shook her head. She could not imagine any happy path forward, even if they stamped out the war with King Vostemur. There was no peace. They would never live happily ever after in that castle before her. That wasn’t who she was. She knew the consequences of the path she was taking and didn’t care, not nearly enough. Wanting to be in Hale’s life was going to get her killed. That was what Heather had warned her about.

Carys’s arm on Remy’s elbow pulled her out of her worried, cycling thoughts. The blonde fae steered Remy into the throng.

Carys navigated the city with ease. Remy couldn’t believe how densely packed it all was. Even as they turned away from the major thoroughfare, people filled the roads. Carts, boxes, tents filled with various trade goods sat stacked along the narrow roads. The smell of too many bodies pushed in on Remy, the same smell the taverns would get by the wee hours of the morning when too many revelers had danced for too many hours.

“This way,” Carys said, tugging on Remy’s arm again.

Remy readjusted her pack on her back. Carys led them down a quieter back street filled with densely packed three-story dwellings. It was a residential part of the city, one step up from a slum. Clotheslines hung high above their heads, drying servants’ attire and children’s clothing. This is where the humans who served the fae lived.

“You live with the humans?” Remy asked, eyeing the clothing above them.

“I don’t really dwell in the city, but my sister does, so we’ll stay with her while we’re here,” Carys said, ducking down another unnamed alley.

Even in this part of town, the houses had intricately carved doors and windowsills, detailed patterns shaped and painted into each of them. They were beautiful, even here. The entire city seemed to carry with it a sense of artistry, of vibrancy and color, that belied the image of King Norwood that Hale and his warriors had painted.

“Your sister lives with the humans?” Remy asked. The fae kept to themselves. They ruled every kingdom in the land and had done so with the help of the witches, but the humans were always treated as the servant class. Now the witches existed even below them, with very few allowed to exist freely without a fae master. Remy knew what it felt like to be treated like she was beneath everyone else. She would never forget it. She couldn’t imagine the humans enjoyed living with a fae.

“She’s not my full sister,” Carys said. Her long blonde braid swished across her back as she walked. “She’s my half-sister, and she’s half-fae.”

That statement made Remy pull up short. She stood there blinking for a moment before she carried on after Carys.

“I have never heard of a half-fae before,” Remy said, bewildered. She hadn’t even realized it was possible. Why had she never considered it before? She knew the High Mountain fae had witch blood, but . . . she’d never heard of fae mixing with humans.

“They exist,” Carys said. “Though many of the fae wish they did not. They get rid of most halflings.”

Her words bit into Remy. She said them so casually—too casually—for what it meant. The fae didn’t want any halflings because it complicated their vigilantly constructed hierarchy of the world, a world where the fae sat on the top.

“Do you share the same father or mother?” Remy asked, though she already suspected she knew.

“Father,” Carys confirmed bitterly. “When Morgan’s mother found out she was with child, she fled the Southern Court, afraid of what my father might do.”

“How did you find her?” Remy asked. She gripped her bow tighter in her left hand. She had left it strapped to her pack during their travels, but walking through a foreign city she felt safer holding it.

“My father confessed it on his deathbed,” Carys said, still with that cool detachment, that steely warrior exterior that Remy knew was merely a well-built facade. “My father knew of Morgan. He would arrange for good patronage for her mother, made sure that they were housed and cared for, all without Morgan’s mother knowing . . . but he kept Morgan a secret from everyone in my life until his dying breath . . . everyone except Ersan, that is.”

Remy had never heard the name Ersan before, but she suspected she knew who it was. Carys had admitted to her before that she left the Southern Court because she got her heart broken. Her not explaining who Ersan was any further told Remy enough.

“I’m sorry,” Remy said, trying and failing to be delicate with her words. “It sounds like he tried to do the right thing.”

“No. He didn’t.” Carys bit out. Remy wasn’t sure whether she was referring to her father or Ersan now. “She is my only sibling, and I didn’t know about her until a year ago. My mother died when I was a child, and my father was absent most of the time.” Carys ducked under a low-hanging blanket. “I didn’t know I had a family.”

Remy knew the pain of those words all too well. All her family was gone too. But she had Heather and Fenrin. She had been with Heather since she was seven, a year after the Siege of Yexshire, and Fenrin had come along when she was twelve, and they had swiftly become best friends. The thought of them made Remy ache. She regretted the way they parted, how easily she dismissed Heather’s concerns as she discarded them like a loaf of too-stale bread. They were her family, and she hadn’t appreciated them enough. Memories of the Southern Court flitted through her mind on the wind. The lush gardens, the rich foods, the beautiful clothing . . . she wondered how Fenrin was faring, if he was much better this day. She wondered if they would head west again and then carry on northward to meet her in Yexshire, or if they would remain in the South with their bag of gold. She knew it was a hopeful thought that they would come to Yexshire. Traveling into the North was dangerous enough, let alone traveling in the North as a witch. She hoped they wouldn’t follow her.

“Here we are,” Carys said, more to herself than to Remy. She had stopped in front of a small wooden door in an alley. Whorls of turquoise, violet, and gold were carved into the wood, though the paint was chipping away. The swept stoop had a few modest pots of flowering herbs dotted around the doorway. Carys stepped up off the street and knocked.

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