Page 91 of The Stolen Heir

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 amthestoryteller,” 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 saidleaving 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.

I remember his hands in my hair, combing out the tangles and braiding it, and feel a shiver all down my neck.

Just before dawn, the speaker arrives.

“Speaker Gorga,” Oak says, rising. He has three little braids in the back, one coming undone.

“Let me conduct you to my home, where you can rest,” she says. “Next nightfall, we will bring you safely across the snow to your destination.”

“Generous,” Oak says.

Tiernan glances around as we move through the village, alert to opportunities.

When we arrive at her house, she opens the door, beckoning us inside. A clay stove vents into the ceiling above and gives the place a cozy warmth. There’s a pile of logs by the fire, and she adds more, causing the stove’s embers to blaze up.

Then she waves us to a bed covered in furs of many sorts stitched together. I will have to hop to get up on it. “You may sleep in my bed tonight.”

“That’stoogenerous,” Oak tells her.

“It is a small thing.” She takes down a stoppered bottle and pours the contents into four little cups. “Now let us have a drink together before you rest.”

She lifts her cup and throws it back.

I pick up mine. The herbal, almost licorice scent hits my senses. Sediment shifts in the bottom. I think of my fears that first night when Oak offered me tea. And I think about how easy it would be to put the poison at the bottoms of certain cups, instead of in a bottle, to make it appear we were all drinking the same thing.