Page 97 of The High Mountain Court

The High Mountain fae had the least grand and most practical home, designed for the cold Yexshiri winters. Remy remembered the enormous roaring fireplaces, heavy curtains, and thick rugs. She wondered if it was actually that size or if her childhood imagination had made it bigger.

Heavy metal doors lay discarded on the road, blocking their ride any further into the ruins.

“Do you want to go in?” Hale’s voice was a reverent whisper. It felt wrong to speak louder in this place.

“Yes,” Remy breathed as though the mountains were listening. “You stay with the horses I won’t be a minute.”

Hale nodded, knowing this was something she needed to do alone.

Remy dismounted their horse and stalked up the steep hill into the wreckage. She climbed over half-fallen walls and piles of crumbling stone. When the cobblestones beneath her boots gave way to flat gray paving stones, she knew she was standing where the great hall once lay. They had taken everything. Every rug, every flagpole, every golden sconce. There was no chandelier anymore, no tables or chairs. The High Mountain throne was missing from the raised dais before her. The dais, once covered in white marble, was stripped down to the pavers beneath, but she knew that’s where it once was. A tall window had once existed in the now-missing far wall. It had cast the perfect beam of light down onto that dais, illuminating the whole royal family. They had timed all of their gatherings for that perfect sunlight, different times in each season so that the light would always shine on the royals. Remy remembered standing in that light, her posture so tall, her chin so high, so proud of her name and her family even at six.

Remy’s feet crunched on glass as she walked toward the dais, rubble slipping under her feet, but she continued across the long space and up to where the throne once was. She stood there in the same spot where she had stood as a child, looking out over a grand hall that was no longer there. The road was too steep for her to see Hale, but she knew he was beyond the hill, waiting.

Remy looked over the abandoned city. Flat plains to her right, where lush fields of crops had stretched out to the forest beyond, had provided the Yexshiri with enough food to last them all year round. Now those fields grew over with tall grasses and shrubs and were being reclaimed into the woodland’s edge. She looked down at the forested saddle between the city and the mountains beyond.

On the mountainside, parallel with the castle and sitting equal pride of place, was the Temple of Yexshire. Though the castle was in ruins, the temple still stood. Built over 500 years ago, the monolith erupting from the thick forest was a reminder of the alliance between the High Mountain Court and the red witch coven. The placement of the castle and temple signified they were equals, neither looking down upon the other. The seed of the Yexshiri power lay in the union between fae and witch magic.

The Temple of Yexshire was a wide, white stone spire. Crafted and created with lavish materials, it was built from a local quarry’s white rock, the color a direct juxtaposition to the black stone castle across the valley.

The massive flagpole still rose from the highest turret, but no red ribbons blew on the wind anymore. The witches had added ribbons each season, a symbol of the prayers of the community. Watching those ribbons flap in the breeze was like watching the beating heart of the people, their dreams and aspirations for the future. But not even a scrap of fabric remained thirteen years later.

Remy swore her eyes snagged on a flash of red from the temple window. She squinted her eyes, narrowing them to thin slits.

She gasped. A hooded red figure stood there: a red witch priestess. Had they moved back into the temple? Baba Morganna had said the red witches gathered in the hills beyond Yexshire. But had they moved into the temple proper? Were there enough of them to reclaim the temple and protect it against any Northern soldiers? Remy blinked again and the red cloak disappeared, the window a black hole once more. She shook her head. Maybe she was seeing ghosts. But Baba Morganna had promised they were there, not far into the woods beyond the temple. Who would think to look there if they didn’t know?

Remy was ready. She needed to go find them. She needed to see her sister.

Stepping forward, she snagged her foot on a weed growing through the cracks in the rock. She threw her arms out to catch herself but regained her balance, staying upright. She glanced at the vine, a thick, thorny plant that wound through the stones. Remy was about to look away when the glint of something beneath the stone caught her eye. She reached down, careful to avoid the thorny vine, and lifted the heavy black stone to the side, freeing what lay underneath. There, beneath the stone, was a crushed pair of golden spectacles. Snapped in two, the metal bent and twisted. Too small, they were half the size of an adult’s glasses.

A sob escaped Remy. She knew who these glasses had belonged to.

Her eldest brother, Raffiel, got all the attention for being strong and handsome, and their next eldest sibling quite often got overlooked.

Rivitus. Riv, they called him.

Riv would have been nine on the day of the Siege of Yexshire. He was the smartest person Remy had ever known. Her parents had bragged about his intelligence endlessly, even as the rest of the court all praised Raffiel. Her parents knew Riv would always be there by Raffiel’s side when he one day took his place on the High Mountain throne.

Riv had been training with the king’s council his whole life. Of his own volition, he would sit in on council meetings and prod their father’s advisors with constant questions. He had lived in the library, poring himself into every history and policy book he could get his hands on. His courtly duties, balls, feasts, and entertaining other courts had been the bane of his existence. Her parents had scolded him more times than Remy could count for bringing books into the great hall during ceremonies.

Remy sniffed as she picked up the glasses. Tears spilled down her cheeks. He had probably been frowning and miserable on the night of his death, forced to stand beside their parents while entertaining the Northern King’s court. Remy wondered what he saw before he died. She blinked out more tears. She hoped that they had cut him down quickly, judging by his glasses still being on the dais. She prayed he had not suffered.

Remy’s breath shuddered. She would never get to hug her brothers again. She would never again get to follow them around like an annoying puppy, peppering them with questions that they were loath to answer. She would never again see their smiles or hear their laughs or know their love. There would be a vast empty hole in her where her siblings had been . . . not all her siblings, though, Remy remembered. Ruadora was still alive, and she was in those woods before Remy.

Remy brushed tears off her cheeks and took a steadying breath. She tucked Riv’s glasses into her pocket and left that haunted place. Walking back down the steep road from the palace ruins, she saw Hale waiting beside the horses. Hurt and concern drew his face thin. He held a bouquet of white wildflowers that had been growing along the alpine road in his hands.

He separated the flowers into two bunches and passed half to Remy.

“I believe it’s Yexshiri tradition to lay white flowers on the graves of the fallen,” he said as Remy took the flowers from his outstretched hand. “These were all I could find.”

The tears slipped down Remy’s cheeks again, and she nodded. She wanted to tell him it was perfect but couldn’t summon the words. She turned back toward the rubble, all that was left of her family’s legacy. In the mountains beyond the castle, up a narrow rocky path, were her ancestors, all laid to rest in simple earthen tombs. She remembered laying flowers on the graves of her grandparents, trekking up that hallowed path every Day of the Spirits to honor their ancestors. Their spirits watched over the castle and the city of Yexshire. Eyes scanning the forested summit, she was certain they were looking down on them even now. It steeled her resolve for the obstacles she knew lay ahead. This would not be the end of their legacy.

Hale stepped forward first, dropping to one knee, as he laid the bunch of small white flowers onto the road.

“May their spirits blow freely through the wind. May we see them in the waving grasses and the falling leaves and the mighty ocean waves. Rest in eternal peace.”

He stood and took his place at Remy’s side.

She had never heard that prayer before. She wondered if it was an Eastern Court prayer.

They stood for a long time. Hale didn’t speak or rush her. He stood stoically beside her, an anchor in the storm. She knew he would stand there all night if she needed. He would weather any sorrow beside her, her Fated.

Finally, Remy stepped forward, crouching to the road. She laid the flowers down, touching the earth with her fingertips and then touched her forehead.

She tried to remember the language of her people.

“Immortal creators, guardians of the afterlife, wombs of this world, hear my prayer,” she whispered, the Yexshiri words feeling foreign on her tongue, “Guide these spirits into the afterlife. May they know your grace. May they feel your peace. Fill them with your eternal light. Amen.”

---