The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

I glance at Oak, more confused than ever. I don’t know a lot about the process, but I was fairly sure it involved some member of a royal family tapping you on the shoulder with a sword. Surely, this mission alone was cause for that.

“I joined the Court of Shadows,” he says, answering the question I don’t ask.

“You’re a spy?” I think my mouth might be hanging open.

“Who else would my sister choose for a guard?” Oak interjects from the back. “She has a great fondness for spies who wanted to be knights, since she was one herself.”

“I wasn’t then, though. I was young and hopeful and a little drunk.” He smiles at the memory. “Hyacinthe was standing half in shadow, and he asked me if I knew anything about prophecies. I think he was very drunk.

“We got lost together in a hedge maze and spoke of the great deeds we planned on doing, like the knights of old. I thought his quest for revenge was impossibly romantic.” His mouth twists, as though it hurts for him to remember that version of himself, or a Hyacinthe who hadn’t yet chosen vengeance over him.

The fire catches.

“And here you are, doing great deeds,” I say.

He half smiles. “Sometimes life gives us the terrible gift of our own wishes come true.”

Oak has peeled the wax from the cheese in the chest. He sits beside us, chewing a piece of it and grimacing.

“It’s aged,” the prince says, as though that might be cause to recommend it despite the taste.

I rifle through his bag for a granola bar and eat that instead.

“Tell her the rest,” Oak says.

At Tiernan’s frown, the prince grins. “Yes, I’ve heard the tale before. Many times. But Wren has not.”

“What Oak wants me to tell you, I suppose, is that Hyacinthe and I spent the better part of two years together, before he left with Madoc’s army. We made the sorts of promises lovers make.” There’s a stiffness to his speech. Tiernan seems to be the sort of person who, the more deeply he feels a thing, the harder it is for him to talk about—although apparently he’s told plenty to Oak. “But when Hyacinthe wanted me to commit treason with him, I couldn’t.

“His revenge ought to be done, I thought. Prince Dain was dead. The High King did seem a bit of a fop, but no worse than Eldred. He disagreed. We had a big row, Sin declared me a coward, and I didn’t see him for another year.”

Sin? I force myself not to grin at the nickname he’d managed to keep quiet until now.

“Yeah, when he came back to kill you,” Oak says, then turns to me. “Hyacinthe would have been traveling with the Court of Teeth, like the rest of Madoc’s army. And would have fought in the Battle of the Serpent. Against Tiernan.”

“We didn’t see each other,” Tiernan clarifies. “No less fight. Not until after.”

I think about myself, under Oak’s bed. I wonder if that’s what he’s thinking about, too.

Tiernan goes on. “In the prisons. I was part of the Court of Shadows by then, and they let me visit him. We talked, and I thought—well, I didn’t know what would happen, or whether there would be any mercy, but I promised that if he was going to be put to death, I would save him. Even if it meant betraying Elfhame after all.

“In the end, though, all he had to do was repent. And he wouldn’t so much as do that.” Tiernan puts his head in his hands.

“He was proud,” Oak says. “And angry.”

“Was I supposed to be less proud?” Tiernan demands.

Oak turns to me. “So here’s where falcon Hyacinthe goes to Tiernan, who could have fed him and in a year had him back, but . . .”

He refused him.

“I regretted it,” Tiernan said. “So, when I heard he’d gone to the Citadel, I came here and retrieved Hyacinthe. Brought him to Elfhame. Persuaded Oak to break his curse. Whereupon I got my thanks when he tried to kill the High King.”

“No good deed goes unpunished, isn’t that what they say?” Oak breaks off another piece of the horrible cheese and attempts to spear it onto something to melt over the fire.

“He worried about you,” I tell Tiernan. “Hyacinthe, I mean.”

He looks over warily. “In what way?”

“He believes you’ve been ensorcelled by Oak.”

Tiernan sniffs, annoyed.

Oak laughs, but it sounds more forced than delighted. After a moment, he speaks again. “You know, until this trip, I thought I liked the cold. One can dress extravagantly when there’s no risk of sweating— brocades, gold trims, hats. But I am reevaluating.”

I can tell that Tiernan is grateful to have the attention off him. Oak’s silly words, his smile, all dare me to play along.

I roll my eyes.

He grins. “You have an understated elegance, so no need to worry about weather.”

When it is time to sleep, Tiernan and Oak wrap themselves in bearskins. Oak drapes one over my shoulders. I say nothing to indicate that I don’t need it, that I am never too cold. When we lie down by the fire, he watches me. The light dances in his eyes.

“Come here,” he says, beckoning with a hand.

I am not sure I know the me who moves, who shifts so that I am resting my head against his shoulder. The me who feels his breath against my hair and the pressure of his splayed fingers at the small of my back. His feet tangle with mine, my toes brushing against the fur just above his hooves. My fingers are resting against his stomach, and I cannot help feeling the hard planes of him, the muscles and the scars. When I move my hand, his breath catches.