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Hale’s fingers traced symbols carved into a stone beside the fountain.

“What does this say?” he asked.

“It’s Mhenbic,” Fenrin said, panting as he walked over. “It says: ‘In memory of our fallen family.’”

Remy stared at the fountain. It was the red witch magic that kept those streams of water moving. Red witches created this memorial. Only red witches and the High Mountain royal fae could cast the red magic that animated objects.

Remy felt the emotional punch to her chest as she looked back at those ribbons. There were hundreds of them, each one a memory. Someone had hung each ribbon as a prayer to a fallen loved one . . . and there were hundreds.

It reminded Remy of the Temple of Yexshire. The Temple had a flagpole on its highest spire, and every season the witches would add a red ribbon as a symbol of the city’s prayers. The ribbons blowing in the wind were once a symbol of hope for the future; now they were symbols of mourning. Remy was certain whoever made this memorial was giving a nod to their homeland’s landmark, the Temple of Yexshire.

Seeing those red ribbons flapping made Remy’s throat constrict. The numbers of fallen were unfathomable, but seeing these ribbons waving along the branches made her clench her hands by her sides. This was the impact of the Siege of Yexshire. King Vostemur’s shadow was seen even in the Southern Court.

Carys walked over to Remy, holding a long bundle of ribbon. The ball of red fabric was leaching of color. The heavy rains of the warm region aged the fabric. How long was this bundle of ribbon here? How many times had it needed to be replaced?

The fae warrior unwound a length of ribbon, pulling her dagger from her hip. She sliced through the fabric, passing the first stretch of ribbon to Remy. Carys passed out ribbons until each of their group held one.

Remy felt no weight to her body as she moved, like her soul was trying to flee the haunted setting. The group fanned out around the wide, knobby tree, each finding a branch.

Remy stood there, rubbing the fraying ribbon between her fingers. Heather and Fenrin muttered Mhenbic prayers to the witches’ mother goddess in the moon. The witches prayed only to the goddess, but the fae were praying to their many gods as they hung ribbons. It seemed that they called upon every god to mourn the fallen witches and whispered promises to avenge them.

Remy had spoken those Mhenbic prayers so many times over the years with Heather and Fenrin. So many red witches had died to keep Remy and her secrets safe. At least Baba Morganna lived. Remy felt the pull behind her navel, tugging her back toward the High Mountains. She needed to find the High Priestess, needed to beg her forgiveness for all the witches who had sacrificed themselves for her.

Remy thought to their faces, to the handful of red witches who protected her for a year following the Siege of Yexshire. It had been the bloodiest year of her life. The horror of it all imprinted on her mind, never to be forgotten. And when the last witch fell, Heather was there, and she took Remy in. Remy was a terrified seven-year-old then. Heather had been strict but doting, pulling back together the parts of Remy that frayed like the ribbon between her fingers. There would not be enough red fabric to hang one for each of the witches she lost.

Remy opened her mouth to speak the Mhenbic words, but a different prayer came out. It was an ancient Yexshiri prayer, spoken only in the capital city of the High Mountain Court. Remy did not know how she remembered it, but the muscles in her throat seemed to recall.

“Immortal creators, guardians of the afterlife, wombs of this world, hear my prayer,” she whispered. She could not roll the Yexshiri Rs as well as she once could, the chanted prayer in her head not matching with the sounds that escaped her mouth. “Guide these spirits into the afterlife. May they know your grace. May they feel your peace. Fill them with your eternal light.”

Remy’s fingers trembled as she knotted the ribbon to the tree. Invoking those ancient words felt like a hot poker to the chest, and it made her ache for her fallen family. She stared for a long time at that knotted ribbon, waving as though the spirits of her people blew them on an unfelt wind.

How many more ribbons would they add if Vostemur was not stopped? Would time forget the High Mountain Court? Would all the courts fall to the poisonous North?

A cool hand on the nape of Remy’s neck made the tingling in her hands ebb. She looked over into Heather’s hazel eyes, brimming with tears. Remy crumpled at that, throwing her arms around her guardian. She knew the same horrific memories flooded the brown witch at that moment. Heather’s arms wrapped her tightly in a warm embrace. Remy clung to her guardian, burying her head into the brown witch’s copper hair, breathing her soft lavender scent. Heather stroked a gentle hand up and down Remy’s back. Even as the tiny insects of the humid jungle buzzed around her ears, Remy did not let go.

Fenrin approached in long strides. The young brown witch wrapped them both in his long arms, pulling them into his lean torso. He rested his chin on Heather’s head. Remy wondered if Fenrin had hung a ribbon in honor of his parents. Fae slew his father in the witch hunts, the bloodlust of Northern soldiers driving them to murder more than only the red witches. Remy suspected she knew how his mother went, too, by her own hand, though they never spoke of it. They were both casualties of war in their own ways. Remy had never seen Fenrin mourn his parents, but she knew that broken heart of an orphan all too well.

The fae said nothing as the witches held each other. No one hastened them along. This moment was thirteen years in the making.

Remy clasped her trembling hands together behind Heather’s back. It was not enough to hang ribbons anymore. Something had to be done. She felt the anger rising in her chest, the warm pull of her magic following. She knew then that she would do whatever it takes to find the High Mountain talismans, to use them to hack away at the Northern power, until she was certain that not another single ribbon was added to this tree.

* * *

“The Heir of Saxbridge is holding a game in Ruttmore in six nights’ time,” Hale said, tossing another stick onto the evening’s fire. “The prize, it is rumored, is a very special ring.”

Fenrin rolled his eyes at the title. Remy leaned her shoulder into him in a silent reprimand.

“The heir is in possession of the ring?” Heather narrowed her eyes at Hale from across the campfire. How had the heir to the Southern throne come into ownership of the long-lost High Mountain ring?

“What kind of game are we talking about? I can’t imagine it being a gentleman’s game if it is happening in the South.” Talhan snorted.

The Southern Queen had buried her sorrows over the past thirteen years in bottles of wine and lavish parties. Her child was neither male nor female and preferred the title Heir of Saxbridge, rather than prince or princess.

“It’s a poker game,” Hale said.

“Of course it is,” Carys sighed, swiping her braid over her shoulder.

The South ran rampant with drinking halls and pleasure houses. Something already predisposed the Southern fae to merriment. Their green witches, too, were renowned for enhancing pleasures: love potions, magic ales, and the most decadent and delicious of foods. Remy looked forward to heading into the heart of it. Only half a day’s ride from the Queen’s castle in Saxbridge, Ruttmore was equal parts decadent and seedy. It was where the rich fae went for their debauchery.