The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

We both go still. Tiernan, close to the fire, turns in his sleep.

In the firelight, the prince’s amber eyes are molten gold.

I am aware of my skin in a way I have never been before, of the slight movements of my limbs, of the rise and fall of my chest. I can hear the beat of his heart against my cheek. I feel as though I am shouting kiss me with every restless shift of my body. But his does not, and I am too much of a coward to do more than lie there and yearn until my eyes drift closed at last.



When I wake in the afternoon, it is to Tiernan dragging in the body of a deer. He butchers it quickly, and he and I eat charred venison for breakfast.

Oak washes the heart clean of blood and puts it into the reliquary while still warm. Once it’s secured, the prince fiddles with the lock, setting it carefully shut and adjusting something inside to keep it that way.

Then we set off again, the prince and Tiernan wrapping bear fur over their cloaks for greater warmth. The Stone Forest is ahead of us, light shining off the trees where ice encases their branches.

“We can’t go in there,” I say. “The trolls must be working with Lady Nore.”

“Given what we saw yesterday, I must admit you were right to suggest we circle around this stretch of woods,” Oak says, staring into the trees and frowning.

Tiernan gives a half smile. “I congratulate you on this wise decision.”

We veer off to the east, skirting the edge of the forest. Even from this distance, it appears remarkable. Trees of ice grow blue fruits the size of peaches, encased in a frozen crust. Some have fallen and split open like candy apples. Their scent is that of honey and spice and sap. The leaves of the trees give off a haunting sound not unlike wind chimes when the air blows through the branches.

The longer we walk, the more we realize we cannot get away from the Stone Forest. Sometimes it seems as though the woods itself moves. Twice, I looked up and found myself surrounded by trees. The drag of the magic reminds me of the undertow on a beach: a strip of calm, dark water that seems innocuous but, once it has you, pulls you far from land.

We walk throughout the day, fighting to stay beyond the edges of the forest. We do not stop to eat but, fearing to be caught by the woods, walk while chewing supplies from our packs. At nightfall, our march is interrupted by something moving toward us through the snow.

Stick creatures, enormous and terrible, huge spiders made of brambles and branches. Monstrous things with gaping mouths, their bodies of burned and blackened bark, their teeth of stone and ice. Mortal body parts visibly part of them, as though someone took apart people like they were dolls and glued them back together in awful shapes.

“Make for the forest,” Tiernan says, resignation in his voice. His gaze goes to me and then to Oak. “Now.”

“But—” the prince begins.

“We’re not mounted,” Tiernan reminds him. “We have no chance on foot, unless we can get to someplace with cover. Let’s hope your mad plan was the right one after all.”

And then we stop fighting the forest and plunge into it.

We race past an enormous black boulder, then beneath a tree that makes a tinkling sound as the icicles threaten to fall. When I look over my shoulder, I am horrified to see the stick creatures lumbering toward us, faster than I expected.

“Here,” Oak says, beside a fallen tree half-covered in snow. “We hide. Wren, get as far underneath as you can. If they don’t see us, perhaps we can trick them into passing us by.”

Tiernan kneels, putting his sword in the snow beside him and motions for me to come. I crouch in the hollow beneath the tree, looking up at the spangled sky and the bright scythe of a moon.

And the falcon, soaring across it.

“They have eyes in the air,” I say.

Puzzled, Oak follows my gaze, then he understands. “Tiernan,” he whispers, voice harsh.

Tiernan rolls to his feet and takes off running in the direction of the creatures, just as the bird screeches. “Get her away from here,” he calls back to the prince.

A moment later, a rain of ice arrows flies from the trees.

The shaft of one slams into the earth beside my feet, tripping me. I stop so short that I fall in the snow.

Oak hauls me up. He’s swearing, a streak of filthy words and phrases running into one another, some in mortal languages and some not.

The monstrous creatures are closing in. The nearer they get, the more clearly I can see the roots writhing through their bodies, the bits of skin and unblinking eyes, the great fang-like stone teeth.

“Keep going,” he tells me, and whirls around, drawing his blade. “We’re almost to the Citadel. If anyone can stop her, it’s you.”

“I can’t—” I start.

His eyes meet mine. “Go!”

I run, but not far before I draw my borrowed knife and duck behind a tree. If I do not have Oak’s skill, at least I have ferocity on my side. I will stab anything I can, and if something gets close enough, I will bite out whatever seems most like a throat.

My plan is immediately cut short. When I step out, an arrow skims over my leg, taking skin with it. A twisted creature with a bow lumbers toward me, notching another arrow. Aiming for my head.

Only to have its weapon cut in half as Oak strikes from the side, slashing through the bow and into the stick thing’s stomach. Its mouth opens once, but no sound comes out as Oak pivots and beheads it. The creature goes down in a shower of dirt, berries, and blood that scatter across the snow.