The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

“Grandfather,” one of them says in a high, childish voice that belies his size. “Will you tell the prince a story?”

I was almost certain they knew who Oak was, but the confirmation does nothing to quiet my nerves.

“You want a story to pass the time, princeling?” the old troll man asks.

“I do love a tale,” Oak says.

“Perhaps the story of the kings trapped in stone,” I put in. “And the curse.”

The troll man looks toward me, narrowing his eyes, then back toward the prince. “Is that truly what you want?”

He nods. The children’s giggling has ceased, and I worry I have broken some taboo by asking.

He begins with no hesitation, however. “There are two versions of this story. In the first, the kings are fools. That’s the story featured in songs we sang and plays we put on when I was a young man and given to laughter. When leaving the forest for longer than a handful of days seemed unimportant.

“They were supposed to be brothers, these troll kings. They shared power and riches peaceably for many years. Decked out in gold mined from deep in the earth, they had everything they wanted. That is, until they met a mortal boy, a goatherd, lithe of limb and with a face that ought to have been carved in marble. So comely that both the troll kings desired him above all others.

“He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but the pretty goatherd had a wise mother, and she told him that if he chose one of the brothers, the other would surely prefer him dead rather than see his brother have what he wanted. If the goatherd wanted to live, he had to be sure never to choose.

“And so, the goatherd and his mother came up with a clever plan. He offered his love to the troll king who could hurl the largest boulder. First one and then the other threw larger and larger rocks until they were exhausted and no one could tell who had won.

“Then the goatherd told them that whosoever could defeat the other in a game of wrestling would have his heart. And so the brothers fought each other all through the night, and when the sun came up, both were turned to stone, and the goatherd was free to give his love where he pleased.”

I can imagine the funny play that might make, and how much it must annoy the cursed kings if they know about it. “What’s the serious version?”

The old troll clears his throat, and there is a pride in his face that makes it clear that however he laughed over the first story in his youth, this is the tale he prefers. “It is similar in many respects. It still concerns two troll kings, but in this case, they were never brothers. They had always been enemies, engaged in a war that spanned many decades. After so much slaughter on both sides, they decided they would wager the war on a contest between the two of them. And so, they met on the field of battle and threw themselves at each other. They crashed back and forth, so evenly matched that as soon as one got a good blow in, the other would get the next. As morning came closer, there were cries from both sides to abandon the contest. But each troll knew that if he cried off, defeat would be his reward. And so, they held on to the last and became stone, locked in the embrace of battle.

“There is still one more variation. It is said that before they declared war on each other, they had been lovers whose passion for each other had turned to hatred, until their desire to best and possess the other was all-consuming.” He smiles at me with crooked teeth.

I look over at Tiernan. He’s staring at the fire as though he cannot help thinking of his own lover, now his enemy.

“You’re a good storyteller,” Oak says.

“I am the storyteller,” says the old troll, as though the prince’s praise is immensely inadequate. At that, he gets up and wanders off, taking most of the children with him.

“This forest is cursed,” I whisper to Oak.

He frowns at me, probably thinking I mean it in the same vague way that everyone else has when they refer to the Stone Forest.

Tiernan rises, walking off. The story seems to have bothered him.

I hurry on speaking, words tripping over one another in my haste to get them out. “That’s what the troll meant when he said leaving the forest for longer than a day or two seemed unimportant. Because there’s something keeping them here.”

“Then where’s Hurclaw?” he asks.

I shake my head. “All I know is that if he isn’t in the woods, then he must have found a way to stave off the consequences, at least temporarily. But I think that’s why he wants to wake the old kings. Not because he’s mad. Because it’s the only way to end the curse.”

Tiernan returns with bread and a soup of barley and onions. I see a few trolls skinning fallen reindeer and smell the cooking of freshly butchered meat. Music starts up, a rowdy tune.

There’s a raucousness in the air that wasn’t there before, the wild edge of revelry. The smiles of the trolls who look in our direction have a sharpness in them.

“We’ve been offered pallets for the night inside the speaker’s home,” says Oak carefully.

“That seems kind,” I say.

“A fine way to put it,” he says.

Tiernan is eating some of the reindeer meat, chewing on the bone. “We sneak out of here at first light,” he says, his voice low. “That’s when they can’t follow lest they turn to stone.”

We are interrupted by a handsome troll woman who comes over to the prince, laughing at how small he is and offering to braid his hair. Though it is not particularly long, he lets her, with a grin at me.