The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

Oak frowns at the dirt. “Has the High King inherited some of her power? Is that why he can—”

“Patience, boy,” says the Thistlewitch. “Prince or not, I will tell you in full or not at all.”

The prince puts on an imp’s grin of apology. “If I seem eager, it is only because the tale is so compelling and the teller so skilled.”

At this, she smiles, showing a cracked tooth. “Flatterer.”

Tiernan looks amused. He has his elbow propped on the arm of his chair and rests his head on his hand. When he isn’t concentrating on keeping his guard up, he looks like another person entirely. Someone who isn’t as old as he wants the people around him to believe, someone vulnerable. Someone who might have feelings that are deeper and more desperate than he lets on.

The Thistlewitch clears her throat and begins to speak again. “Mab called the child Mellith, which means ‘mother’s curse.’ Not an auspicious beginning. And yet, it was only when her own daughter was born that she began to think of ways to weasel out of the bargain.”

“Clovis,” Oak says. “Who ruled before my grandfather, Eldred.”

The Thistlewitch inclines her head. “Indeed. In the end, it was a simple trick. Mab boasted again and again that she had discovered a means for Clovis to rule until the rumors finally found their way to the hag. Enraged, she swore to kill Clovis. And so, the hag crept up on where the child slept in the night and fell upon the girl she found there, only to discover that she had murdered her own daughter. Mab had bested her.”

I shudder. The poor kid. Both kids, really. After all, if the hag had been a bit more clever, the other girl could have just as easily died. Just because a pawn is better treated doesn’t make it safer on the board.

The Thistlewitch goes on. “But the hag was able to put a final enchantment on her daughter’s heart as it beat its last, for her daughter was a hag, too, and magic sang through her blood. The hag imbued the heart with the power of annihilation, of destruction, of unmaking. And she cursed Mab, so that piece of her child would be forever tied to the queen’s power. She would have to keep the heart by her side for her magic to work. And should she not, its power would unmake all that Mab created.

“It is said that Mab put a curse on the hag, too, although that part of the story is vague. Perhaps she did; perhaps she didn’t. We are not easy to curse.”

The Thistlewitch shrugs and pokes the rat with a stick. “As for Mab, you know the rest. She made an alliance with one of the solitary fey and founded the Greenbriar line. A trickle of her power passed down to her grandson, Eldred, granting him fecundity when so much of Faerie is barren, and to the current High King, Cardan, who pulled a fourth isle from the deep. But a large amount of Mab’s power stayed trapped with her remains, confined to that reliquary.”

Oak frowns. “So Lady Nore needs this thing. The heart.”

The Thistlewitch picks off a piece of rat and puts it into her mouth, chews. “I suppose.”

“What can she do without it?” Tiernan says.

“Mab’s bones can be ground to powder, and that powder used to do great and mighty spells,” says the Thistlewitch. “But when the bones are used up, that will be the end of their power, and without Mellith’s heart, all that’s done will eventually unravel ”

She lets the moment dramatically linger, but Oak, rebuked once, does not hurry her on.

“Of course,” the Thistlewitch intones, “that unraveling could take a long time.”

“So Lady Nore doesn’t need Mellith’s heart?” I ask.

The witch fixes me with a look. “The power of those bones is great. Elfhame shouldn’t have been so careless with them. But they would be far more useful accompanied by the heart. And no one is quite sure what the heart can do alone. It has great power, too, power that is the opposite of Mab’s—and if it could be extracted, then your Lady Nore could style herself as both Oak Queen and Yew Queen.”

A horrifying thought. Lady Nore would desire power of annihilation above all else. And if she could have both, she’d be more dangerous than Mab herself. Lady Nore would unmake everyone who had ever wronged her, including the High Court. Including me. “Is that really possible?”

“How should I know?” asks the Thistlewitch. “Open the wine.”

Oak takes out a knife, using it to pry off the foil, then sticks the point of the blade into the cork and turns. “Have you a glass?”

I half-expect her to swig from the neck of the bottle, but instead, she gets to her feet and trundles off. When she returns, she’s carrying four dirty jars, a chipped platter, and a basket with two melons in it, one green and the other brown.

Oak pours while the Thistlewitch removes the rat from the spit and sets it out on the platter. She begins cutting up the melon.

“Mellith’s heart was supposed to be buried with Mab’s bones beneath the castle of Elfhame,” the prince says. “But it isn’t there. Can you tell me where it is?”

When the hag is done arranging things to her liking, she pushes the platter toward us and picks up her jar of wine. She takes a long slug, then smacks her lips together. “You want me to discover its location with my dowsing rod? You want me to send eggshells spinning down the river and tell you your fate? But what then?”