The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

“This is her house, not normally a prison, so whatever is keeping us inside has to have been moved for that purpose,” I say, standing, numbly working through the possibilities as I speak. I recall the heaviness of the door, the thickness of the wood. “It swings outward. She’s probably put something against it.”

“Does it matter?” Tiernan snaps.

I frown. “I guess not, since we should just take off the hinges.”

He stares at me for a moment and gives a panicked, despairing laugh. “I am not going to live it down, you being the one to come up with that.”

There are many things I don’t know, but I know a great deal about imprisonment.

Tiernan takes apart the hinges with a knife, making quick work of them, while I wrap Oak in a too-large woolen blanket. Giving in to temptation, I brush his bronze hair back from where it has fallen over one eye. At my touch, he gives a shiver.

See, I tell myself. Not dead.

“We won’t be able to carry him far,” I warn, although that must be obvious.

Tiernan has pried the door off to reveal a massive boulder blocking our way. It’s more round than square, though, and there are gaps along the sides.

“You’re small. Wriggle through and find something to put him on—a cart, a sleigh, anything. I’ll try to move him,” Tiernan tells me.

“I’ll be quick,” I say, and wedge myself into the gap between the boulder and the outer wall of the house. By climbing up a little and moving slowly, I manage to ease my way out.

It is strange to find the troll village so quiet as golden light spills over it. Since Gorga is the speaker, I assume that she has more than most of the others, so I figure I ought to start my search with her place. I creep around the back of her house. A small stone-and-clay outbuilding rests near the edge of the clearing. When I wedge open the door, I see a sled inside, and rope.

A sled. Exactly what we need for Oak.

He’ ll be fine, he’ ll wake in time to find his father, to be yelled at by Tiernan, and for me to . . .

The thoughts of what I will do after he wakes fade at the scent of rot in the air. The cold tamped it down, but it is definitely coming from something nearby. I move past the sled, deeper into the outbuilding. Whatever is decaying seems to be inside a chest in the back.

It’s unlatched and opens easily when I push up the lid.

Inside are clothes, armor, and other supplies. Swords. Arrows. All of them stained with gore, blackened by time. Things worn by victims who have come through this forest before. My heart thunders, imagining my own clothes among them along with Oak’s glittering golden mail. Then, gritting my teeth, I stick my hand inside and fish around until I come up with a tabard that looks like the sort worn by Madoc’s soldiers. Possibly it belonged to Lihorn, whose head we found staked out on the snowy plain. I manage to find clothing that reminds me of what the huldufólk who used to serve Lady Nore wore, some of them blood-spattered.

My heart races at the evidence of what’s happened to other travelers. I heap a few onto the sled and pull it back to the house. Tiernan is standing in the snow, Oak leaning against him as though he’s passed out after a night of too much wine.

“We need to go,” I whisper.

Using the clothes for padding, we strap him to the sled. Tiernan drags it behind us as we creep out of the troll encampment as quietly as we are able.

As we get closer to the tree line, I feel the curse try to steer me the wrong way, to make my steps turn back toward the forest’s heart. But now that I am aware, the magic has a harder time putting my feet wrong. I cut in front of Tiernan so that he can follow me. Each step feels as though I am fighting through fog until we hit the very edge of the woods.

I look behind me to see Tiernan hesitate, confused. “Are we—”

Behind him, on the sled, Oak’s body writhes against the ropes.

“It’s this way.” I reach for Tiernan’s gloved hand and force myself to take it, to pull him along with me, though my legs feel leaden. I take another step. And another. As we hit the expanse of snow, my breaths come more easily. I release Tiernan’s hand and squat, sucking in air.

On the sled, Oak has gone still again. “What was that?” he asks, shuddering. He looks back at the woods and then at me, as though he can’t quite remember the last few minutes.

“The curse,” I say. “The farther we are from the forest, the better. Come on.”

We begin moving again. We walk through the morning, the sun shining off the snow.

An hour in, Oak begins to mutter to himself. We stop and check on him, but he seems disoriented.

“My sister thinks that she’s the only one who can take poison, but I am poison,” he whispers, eyes half-closed, talking to himself. “Poison in my blood. I poison everything I touch.”

That’s such a strange thing to hear him say. Everyone adores him. And yet, I recall him running away at thirteen, sure so many things were his fault.

I frown over that as we trudge on, bits of ice catching in my hair and on my tongue.

“You’re tough, you know that?” Tiernan tells me, his breath clouding in the air. “And quick-thinking.”

Perhaps this is his way of thanking me for guiding him out of the woods.

“Not just some rabid animal, unworthy of being your companion on a quest?” I counter, still resentful over him tying my ankle to the motel bed.