The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

“Very well,” he says. “When Lady Nore took Madoc, she sent a message to the High Court, asking for something in return for the old general’s freedom. I don’t know what she wanted, only that the king and queen refused her.”

I nod. Oak spoke to me of desiring Lady Nore’s defeat, though an exchange of messages suggests he might be willing to appease her instead. For a moment, I wonder if it is me that she wants. But if so, he hardly needs to go to the Thistlewitch. He knows exactly where I am. And the High Court would give me up immediately.

“What about being a gancanagh?” I ask.

Hyacinthe huffs out a frustrated sigh, clearly wishing to be away from here. “I will tell you what I know as quickly as I am able. He inherited some of Liriope’s power, and she was able to kindle strong emotions in the people who got close to her, feelings of loyalty and desire and adoration. I am not certain how much of it was conscious and how much of it was just a tide all around her, sweeping people who got too close onto the shoals. Oak will use you until you’re all used up. He will manipulate you until you don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.”

I remember what Tiernan said about Hyacinthe’s father.

“Forget this quest. You will never know what the prince is thinking behind his smiles,” Hyacinthe says. “You are a coin to be spent, and he is a royal, used to throwing around gold.”

My gaze goes to the riddle above Gwen’s door again, which suddenly seems easier to solve than any of my other problems.

What eats but doesn’t drink? My gaze drifts to the water, to the verdigris. Then to gorging. To hungry mouths.

Mouths like the one that the bars represent, ready to devour Gwen if I get the answer wrong. The cell that Hyacinthe was in gave me three tries, but I note that the ceiling of Gwen’s is lower. I might have only two guesses before she’s crushed.

And since the guards may come in at any moment, it’s possible I have less time than that.

I am terrified of coming up with the wrong answer and yet equally worried we will be caught. Both thoughts are distracting, creating a loop of nerves.

Give it a draught and you give it death.

I think of splashing the merrow with water. I think of the sea.

I think of the answer to the other door, a candle. It gorges, and giving it a drink would put out its flame. Could both riddles have the same answer? Could all the cells be opened the same way?

I open my mouth to speak, but caution stops me. Well-fed, it grows swift and strong. Candles do not grow. I almost spoke the wrong word again.

No, not a candle, but something like one. A candle might not grow, but its flame could.

“Fire,” I whisper, and Gwen’s cell opens, disgorging her.

She stumbles out, looking around the room as though this might be a trick. She studies Hyacinthe warily, perhaps worried he might use a knife on her after all.

“You’re going to take her with you,” I inform him. “Instead of me.”

He looks at me as if I have lost my mind. “And why would I do that?”

“Because I am asking you to, and I got you out of prison,” I say, fixing him with what I hope is a firm look.

He is not intimidated by me, however. “Nowhere in your price was helping a foolish mortal.”

Panic churns in my gut. “What if I take the curse off you?”

“Impossible,” he says. “Even Oak couldn’t permanently remove it, and he is from the High Court.”

The prince hasn’t had the practice I have in removing curses, though. And perhaps he hadn’t wanted it completely gone.

“But if I could . . . ,” I ask in my rough voice.

Grudgingly he nods.

I turn to Gwen and show her my teeth, pleased when she flinches. “You solve the riddle to release the merrow. Do not get it wrong.”

Then I reach for Hyacinthe’s wing.

I feel the feathers in my hands, the softness and lightness of the bones underneath. And I sense the curse reknitting itself inside Hyacinthe, as though it were a living thing.

I reach into the magic and am surprised by the stickiness of the threads. It’s like tugging at a spiderweb. The harder I pull, the more the curse seems to attach itself to me, trying to transform me, too. I feel the draw of the enchantment, the shimmer and burn of it, tugging at something inside me.

“What are you doing?” Hyacinthe asks. His wing pulls free of my fingers.

I open my eyes, only then realizing I’d closed them. “Did it hurt?”

“No—I don’t know,” he says. “It felt like you were touching—under my skin.”

I take a breath and return to the work of pulling apart the curse. But each time I attempt to break it, the strands of the spell slip through my fingers. And each time I am drawn further in, until I feel as though I am choking on feathers. Until I am drowning. The knot inside me, at the center of my magic, is coming undone.

“Stop,” Hyacinthe says, shaking my shoulder. “Enough.”

I find myself on the ground with him kneeling beside me. I can’t seem to get my breath back.

The glaistig’s spells were simple compared with this webbing of enchantment. I grit my teeth. I might be good enough among the solitary fey of the mortal world, but it was sheer arrogance to think that meant I could unstitch the magic of the High Court.

A few feet away, I see Gwen and the merrow looking over at me. He blinks, his nictating membrane following a moment later.