The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

“When did you provision all of that?” I ask.

“When I came here for Hyacinthe,” Tiernan says. “Although we weren’t the first to use it. There were already some old supplies, from the time when the Court of Teeth and Madoc’s falcons made camp nearby.”

As we trudge on, I consider Tiernan’s answer.

I hadn’t really thought about the timing of Hyacinthe’s abduction before. I’d known that he was in Elfhame for long enough to try to murder Cardan and get put in the bridle. That had to have predated Madoc being kidnapped.

But Hyacinthe being in Elfhame when the general was taken seems odd, coincidental. Had he helped Lady Nore? Had he known it would happen and said nothing? Has Tiernan more reason to feel betrayed than I knew?

The third head we pass is one of the Gentry. His eyes are black drops, his skin bleached by blood loss. The same message about the Kings of Stone that was on the troll’s stake is written on this one.

Oak reaches out to touch the frozen cheek of the faerie. He closes the eyes.

“Did you know him?” I ask.

He hesitates. “He was a general. Lihorn. One of the cursed falcons. He used to come to my father’s house when I was young, to drink and talk strategy.”

Mercifully, this head does not speak.

Oak shivers beneath his cloak. Tiernan is doing little better. The heavy wool of their wrappings offers them some protection from the freezing temperatures, but not enough.

The sun turns the ice scarlet and gold as we begin making our way up the side of a mountain. It’s a craggy climb. We heave ourselves over rocks, trying not to slip. I find it hard going, difficult enough that I am silent with concentration. Oak clambers behind me, his hooves slippery on the ice. Tiernan’s training keeps his steps light, but his labored breathing gives away the effort of it. The air grows colder the darker the sky becomes. Oak’s breath steams as Tiernan shivers. The cold burns through the fabric of their gloves to stiffen their fingers, making them clumsy. I am unaffected, except perhaps a bit more alive, a bit more awake.

Gusts of wind whip sharp needles of ice against our cheeks. We edge along, barely able to see the path forward among the scrubby trees, rocky outcrops, and icicles.

The thought comes to me, unbidden, that I am looking at what I was made from. Snow and sticks. Sticks and snow. Not a real girl. A paper doll of a child, to play with, then rip up and throw away.

I was meant for the purpose of betraying the High Court. Never to survive past that. If I am the cause of Lady Nore’s fall, it will give me all the more pleasure for her never having anticipated it.

The cave entrance is wide and low, its ceiling a pocked sheet of ice. I duck my head as I enter. The owl-faced hob darts from the prince’s cowl, flying into the darkness.

Oak digs out a stub of candle from his bag. He places four around the room and lights them. Their leaping flames send shadows in every direction.

A confusion of supplies is piled in the back: shaggy bear pelts, boxes, a small chest, and stacks of wood that have been here long enough to be covered in a thin layer of frost.

“Interesting stuff,” Oak says, walking over to the chest and knocking the side lightly with his hoof. “Did you open any of it when last you were here?”

Tiernan shakes his head. “I was in a bit of a rush.”

He would have been with Hyacinthe—still a bird, before Oak removed the curse. Had he been caught then, caged? Had he ridden on Tiernan’s shoulder, sure he was being saved? Or had he gone, knowing he would help Lady Nore abduct Madoc? I frown over that, since I recall him telling me how loyal he’d been.

Oak is peering at the lock on the chest. “Once, the Bomb told me a story about poisonous spiders kept inside a trunk. When the thief opened it, he was bitten all over. Died badly. I believe she was trying to dissuade me from stealing sweets.”

Tiernan kicks the stack of wood with one snow-covered boot. The logs tumble out of formation. “I am going to make a fire.”

I lift a fur and turn it inside out, brushing my hand over the lining to check for rot or bugs. There’s nothing. No discoloration, either, as there might be from poison. The only odor it contains is the faint smell of the smoke used to tan the hide.

A few uniforms from the long-disbanded army are in a gray woolen heap. I shake them out and assess them while Oak tries to pry apart the rusty chest. “There probably aren’t any spiders,” he says when I look in his direction.

Inside is a waxed wheel of cheese and ancient rolls, along with a skin of slushy wine. He appears disappointed.

Again, I find myself studying his face. The curve of his smiling mouth and the hard line of his jaw. What he wants me to see and what he wants to hide. After a moment, I turn away, heading to the front of the cave, where Tiernan is striking an ancient flint against the side of his sword, hoping to get a spark.

I wonder how much it bothers him to be back here, alone.

“How long were you with Hyacinthe?” I ask, pulling out my twicesoaked matchbook and handing it over, though it might be useless.

Tiernan sighs. “We met the summer before King Eldred abdicated, at a late-night revel—not a Court one, the informal kind. I was still hoping to be chosen for a knight.”

I frown, not sure what he means. “Aren’t you a knight?”

Tiernan grins, as amused as I’ve ever seen him. “Me? No. I was trained for it but never got the chance.”