The Brave Apprentice by P. W. Catanese

crackling sparks into the air. “So I didn’t save anyone. I didn’t accomplish anything. That’s why … that’s why Iwanted to help, with the trolls. I wanted to do something right, without something going wrong.”
    Cecilia sat beside him on the floor, crossing her legs and smoothing her long dress around them. “Look at me, Patch,” she said.
    Patch met her gaze, staring into eyes that were both green and brown, both compassionate and wise. “It seems to me you accomplished much on that bridge,” she said. “You saved Osbert from a far worse fate than the one that took him. You stayed and fought for him, so he knew he was loved. How proud he must have been. What more could someone offer a friend?”
    Patch drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “But I’ve messed things up badly now. You should let me go home, Your Highness. Before anyone else gets killed because of me.”
    “You can go home if you want, Patch. But know this: That
was
a good plan you had. You couldn’t have known what would happen, what would go wrong.”
    Patch groaned, remembering the awful turn of events that began as the fool was led out of the troll’s cave. Then he sensed something, a quiet thought that until then had been drowned out by his head-splitting despair. “Hold on,” he said. “Isn’t it strange that the trolls would think to have someone taste the wine? And just a day after they killed Constancius and drank all the wine without a second thought? They’re supposed to be stupid creatures. It’s almost as if …”
    “As if someone warned them?”
    “I know, it doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone do that?” Patch prodded the logs again with the poker. “You know what I think? I think it’s that Hurgoth.”
    “Hurgoth?” the queen said, crinkling her nose.
    “The leader of the trolls. He’s smarter than the others. You should hear him talk.”
    “But is he clever enough to suspect a trap?”
    Patch shrugged. “Maybe we were too obvious. Sending another wagon right down the same road. Maybe Hurgoth is that smart. Maybe he’s behind all of this, leading the trolls so far from the Barren Gray. I just wish that we knew more about them—that we could get close to them, spy on them.” He dropped the poker suddenly and clapped his hands to the side of his face.
    “What, Patch?”
    “Simon!”
    “Simon?”
    “The fool—the troll’s wine-taster! He was their captive, for a day at least. And he got away somehow when the trolls attacked us. Maybe he heard something, saw something. We have to find him!”
    The queen stood. “Stay here and keep my old friend company—perhaps he will speak to you again.” She went to the door and opened it, and the girl who had led Patch to the room stepped inside.
    “Emilie, go find the constable, dear. Patch, there is something else I must do now. When the constablearrives, tell him how he might find this Simon of yours.”
    Patch sat in the chair next to Sweeting and gazed at the fire. After a while he called the old man’s name, but there was no response. “The queen says you’re always listening, so let me tell you what I think,” Patch told Sweeting. “You said you heard clues. Well, I’ve been remembering what Griswold told us about the trolls. I have this strange feeling, like the answer is right in front of us, but I just can’t figure it out. It’s all so confusing. The trolls are so strong—why do they stay in the Barren Gray? I always heard they don’t like the sun, but we’ve seen them in the sun. Is it the warmth they hate? No—fire doesn’t hurt them; it only sends them into a rage, so it can’t just be the warmth. And what about the troll that Griswold said started beating itself on the head, then dropped dead? Or the troll that chased the little girl toward the meadow, then turned around and ran, terrified of something? What does it mean? I don’t understand—”
    There was a knock on the door, and the constable came