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Chapter Four

“Tell us a story of the red witches,” Briata called to Remy from across the campfire.

They had stopped for the night ten minutes west of the trail, in case any other travelers happened to pass while they were sleeping. The night was crisp and whorls of icy breath appeared every time they spoke.

“I don’t have any good stories.” Remy looked at the starry night sky peeking through the trees. “I have lived with brown witches most of my life.”

“Tell us the one about Baba Morganna pulling down the mountain,” Bri said.

“Were you there? Did you see it?” Talhan crouched before a pot on the fire, stirring its contents. The Twin Eagles had caught a rabbit and two squirrels to add to the pot within a minute of their arrival at the camp. Fenrin had found greens and mushrooms. Remy’s stomach rumbled at the aroma from the burbling pot. The three witches had all gaped when Talhan had produced a thick iron pot from his pack. No wonder he had legs as thick as tree trunks.

“She was six during the Siege of Yexshire. She can’t remember anything,” Heather said, wrapping her threadbare blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Remy jealously eyed the fae across the fire with their thick fur blankets.

Heather reached for Remy’s hair, readying to braid it for the night. Cheeks flushing, Remy pulled away and gave her guardian a look. She didn’t need her hair braided like she was a child anymore. Especially not in front of a bunch of fae warriors.

“Tell it to us anyway,” Bri exclaimed from her bedroll. “These idiots can barely tell one good story between them.”

Talhan and Carys laughed. Even Hale’s cheek twitched into a faint smile.

“Fine. I can’t promise it will be any good,” Remy said, chucking the stick she had been fiddling with into the flames. “There once was a red witch named Morganna Stormfrost. She lived in the Temple of Yexshire with the rest of her coven. The night was like any other winter’s night. The Castle of Yexshire sat across the valley between the mountains brimming with people as Hennen Vostemur, the Northern King, and his court visited their friends in the High Mountains.”

Remy didn’t look at anyone as she spoke, her eyes lost in the dancing flames of the campfire, thinking of the same flames that razed Yexshire.

“Nothing seemed amiss,” she continued, “but Morganna had her first-ever gift of Sight that night. She saw the palace in flames before the first blade swung. With only minutes before the carnage broke out, she rushed the red witches to the road east, but Northern soldiers blocked the passage. Sure enough, they blockaded each of the four roads out of Yexshire. Morganna knew they had to flee over the saddle of the mountains if they were to escape. They climbed the mountainside, a near-vertical slope, but the Northern soldiers were right behind them, shooting arrows. One of them struck Morganna, right through the throat.”

Carys gasped as Remy poked a finger into her neck.

“She was dying right there, trapped against the mountainside. But Baba Theodora, the High Priestess of the red witches at the time, was there. She invoked the midon brik, the most powerful magic any witch can cast, and she swapped her life with Morganna’s. Baba Theodora knew Morganna was her successor. They say it was seeing her Baba’s death that gave Morganna her own incredible power. She began catching arrows in the sky and turning them on their shooters. Morganna got the witches up and over the pass and then waited there for the Northern soldiers to reach her.”

Remy saw Bri grinning across the licking flames.

“When the soldiers were all into the saddle, Morganna cleaved the mountain above them and crushed the Northern legion under the rocks of her homeland. She brought down a mountain to save her people and earned the title Baba, new High Priestess of the red witches.”

A long silence stretched out between them until Hale spoke, looking at the fire.

“So the red witches didn’t run to the aid of the High Mountain Court?” he said.

Remy glared at the Eastern Prince. How dare he insinuate that the red witches had not done enough to save the fae. It was all that mattered to the fae, it seemed: how much they would give of their lives.

“Many did—” Remy sneered. “And they all died.”

Hale tilted his head, rubbing the stubble down his jaw. “How did you escape?”

“With others. I can’t remember.”

“You fled with your parents?” Hale asked as a log crackled and sparks danced up toward the starry sky.

Talhan pinched his nose now, Carys cringed, and Briata rolled her eyes.

“No. They’re dead.” Remy looked at Hale, daring him to say another word.

“You say you can’t remember. How do you know? Have you tried to look for them?” Hale prodded, his sharp eyes watching Remy from across the flickering flames.

“Back off,” Carys said in a quiet growl.

“I was just curious.” Hale shrugged.

“Of course you were, because our lives mean nothing to you, we just exist for your entertainment. Witches are just curiosities to the fae.” Remy’s tether to her patience had snapped.