19. Folly

The armory walls bristle with shields and swords, maces and spears, and all manner of weaponry Folly can't even name. Everything is mirror-bright and sharp-looking, and none of it can combat Folly's giddiness.

Even the dwindling curse can't dampen his mood.

Do people normally feel this elated after sex? Folly's used to more fleeting experiences. Mornings after are usually spent in his own bed, alone. Far preferable to humiliating himself with awkward breakfast conversation.

Breakfast with Yarrow this morning was anything but awkward. Especially when Yarrow pulled Folly into his lap and?—

"Her Majesty has forbidden me from helping the wild fae," Nevander says, laying an array of items on a stone table. "She said nothing about helping the human."

"That's convenient," Yarrow says, sounding pleased.

Stifling his sordid reminiscence, Folly frowns. "Will you get in trouble for this, Lord Nevander?"

"That's my concern." Nevander taps the table. "Choose what you want, Great Folarius. Then we can decide the price."

Polite of Nevander to stick with the name Folly gave. Maybe Folly should say he can stop, though. "What is everything?"

Nevander smiles. "I'll tell you once you've chosen."

"Don't be an asshole," Yarrow growls.

"It's fine," Folly says, and means it. Just like browsing variety shops for Roland, except Yarrow won't yell if Folly gets it wrong. "This is the only thing I'm good at."

"You're good at plenty of things," Yarrow says immediately—his voice low and filthy.

Nevander clears his throat.

Doing his best to ignore Yarrow's insinuations, Folly inspects the arrayed items. Unlike the variety shops Folly's used to, almost everything on the table glints with magic. Three bright feathers, as long as Folly's hand. A golden compact, something like a locket or compass. Four sheathed daggers in varied design—the most ornate is encrusted with emeralds and sapphires, and the simplest is wrapped in plain black leather.

A key on a chain, missing a lock. A thick book, bound in autumn leaves. A round, yellow flower, preserved in glass.

Two items in particular catch Folly's eye. Chewing his lip leads him no closer to a decision. One he's sure will be useful. He can guess what it is. The other is a mystery. If he picks the first, Nevander will never tell him what the other was.

Wait. Nevander never said Folly had to pick just one.

"I want this and this," Folly says, pointing. While he's tempted to ask for more, he doubts he'll be able to afford it.

Nevander smiles—which is when Folly realizes there's a correct answer, and he's picked it. "Very good." With a sweep of Nevander's hand and a flurry of gold sparks, the unchosen items vanish. Nevander picks up the first—the compact. Opening it reveals a small mirror. "This is a scrying glass. With your fae-touched eye, you can use it to spy on any living creature you're familiar with, as long as they're in the same realm. I'd recommend using it only once a day, to avoid exhaustion."

Folly glances at Yarrow. They'll be able to find Moriath with this.

Nevander unsheathes the dagger next—and Yarrow flinches back. Which proves Folly's guess even before Nevander explains.

"This is an iron dagger," Nevander says. "The edges are as sharp as the finest steel. The scabbard is enchanted to deaden the iron's effects once sheathed. Other than that, it has no special properties."

Perfect. Folly's only advantages in this realm—besides the wild fae at his side—are his abilities to lie and wield iron.

Yarrow gives a low whistle. "All right, those are both exactly what we need. How did you pick?"

Folly shrugs. "The mirror was the most magical item on the table. The dagger was the least. As for price…" Folly fumbles with his coin purse. "Before we bargain, Lord Nevander, could you tell me what this is?"

He sets the strange coin on the table, raven side up. Its magic sits dormant, but flares as Nevander leans closer.

Surprise crosses Nevander's face. "May I see the other side?"

Folly turns the coin over, revealing the dragon's sinuous form.

"Fascinating." A spark of gold illuminates Nevander's palm, and he holds it close to the coin. The light catches every delicate line of the design, as well as the interest in Nevander's eyes. Then Nevander sighs, dimming the light. "I can't accept this."

"It's not enough," Folly says, disappointed, before remembering that he's bargaining. He's supposed to talk up his wares.

But Nevander shakes his head. "On the contrary, it's too much compared to the trinkets I offer. This coin is fae magic, but not ours. It comes from another world entirely."

"Like Spring or Autumn?" Yarrow asks.

"A far more distant world than Spring or Autumn." Nevander straightens and peers at Folly. "Where did you get this?"

Folly glances at Yarrow, who shrugs. Fuck it. Folly's curious, and Nevander's already given him more than he knew about the coin. "I found it in a variety shop in the human realm. The shopkeeper didn't even know she had it."

"In our realm, at least, I suspect this coin can only be found when it wants to be found." Nevander reaches out, but withdraws his hand before touching the golden dragon. "This coin holds the power of fortune itself. Whether good or ill, I cannot determine. I recommend you use it only when you most have need of luck or fate."

That sounds risky to Folly. "How do I use it?"

"I don't know," Nevander says. "I have a feeling you will, when the time is right."

Folly retrieves the coin. It's warm to the touch, and Folly imagines it's happy to be praised and admired. "What price do you want for the mirror and dagger, if the coin is too much?"

"An exclusive answer," Nevander says mildly.

"Nevander," Yarrow snaps in warning.

Folly is baffled. "What does that mean?"

"Once you answer his question, you won't be able to give that answer to anyone else who asks." Yarrow glares across the table. "Like if he asked your name, you wouldn't be able to tell anyone else your name for the rest of your life."

Huh. Maybe some people would hate that, but those people probably aren't named Philostrate. "That wouldn't be so bad."

"It's a very high price," Yarrow says, tense.

A week ago, Folly would have acquiesced to Yarrow's warning. He definitely would have with Roland. But the mirror and dagger would be very useful. And this isn't Yarrow's bargain. Folly turns to Nevander. "Can I learn what your question would be before I agree?"

Nevander hesitates. "Of course. What is the name of the village you grew up in?"

"Why the fuck do you want to know that?" Yarrow demands.

Nevander simply waits.

The question doesn't seem bad, on the surface. Folly hasn't been home in years, and if someone else asks him, he can always lie.

But what if he returns to the human realm, and he visits a tavern, and a man asks where he's from? Then Folly answers Butterwillow, which is a name he makes up. But it turns out Butterwillow is a real town Folly's never heard of. The man flies into a rage, saying he has a personal vendetta against all people from Butterwillow, and Folly's forced to?—

"I might agree," Folly says carefully. "But we need to limit the restrictions. I won't tell any fae the name of my village. And Yarrow standing here while I tell you doesn't count."

Nevander considers him for a moment. He doesn't look happy, but he says, "That is acceptable."

"You can limit the restrictions?" Yarrow asks.

"This human is better at bargaining than you are," Nevander says. "All right, Great Folarius. In agreement that you will never again truthfully answer this question to another fae, what is the name of the village you grew up in?

"Wymond," Folly answers.

"Wymond," Nevander repeats. "Thank you. The scrying glass and dagger are yours. I'd recommend using the glass outside the palace. There's far too much ambient magic."

As they exit the armory, Folly asks under his breath, "What was that about?"

"I have no idea," Yarrow admits. "Fae are weird."

There he goes again, talking as if he isn't one of them. More and more, Folly can't imagine a man like Yarrow living in a place like Elladar. He's far too sincere. But that's not the matter at hand. "We know how to find the shapestealer now."

"We do, thanks to someone very clever." Yarrow tugs him into a kiss—exhilarating for its shallow brevity. "Let's get out of the palace, Lord Bargainer."

Preening, Folly follows.

All the bubbly good feelings still linger when they disembark the royal ferry. The goldwood wharf and its empty stalls seem especially charming.

"No time like the present," Folly says, pulling out the scrying glass.

Yarrow leans over Folly's shoulder. "Do you know how to use it?"

Folly pauses. "I have no idea. I assume I just look at it?"

"That sounds sensible," Yarrow says. He doesn't sound concerned.

Praying he won't get trapped inside the mirror, or summon a hungry monster, or just find an unexpected pimple right on the tip of his nose?—

Folly opens the golden case. The mirror catches sunlight, then dims as Folly peers closer.

Nothing happens. But Yarrow gets things from trees and rivers by talking to them. So that's worth a try.

"Show me Moriath," Folly says.

The mirror ripples, and an image takes shape.

The figure is tiny, but unnaturally clear. Moriath wears his fae shape, visible right down to his copper eyes. He walks with purpose along a forest path.

"He's alone," Folly says, watching intently. "He's in a forest. The trees are all pale gray, with these weird, wispy leaves. There's mist swirling everywhere. It's kind of creepy. Um. Oh!"

The vision cuts off.

"Wow." Folly peers close again, but all he sees is his own magnified eye. "All right, I hope you're good at identifying forests, because there weren't any good landmarks. Have you ever..."

Folly looks up, expecting to be praised. But Yarrow's face is ashen.

"That's Spiritwood," Yarrow says. "Where my mother lives."