24. Yarrow

After the thirteenth hour, the doorway appears between two arching trees. The price of passage is paid, but Yarrow hesitates. Perhaps he should have offered a day, or two, or three, to keep his human in this world built only for them.

Except the curse has shrunk again. Twelve feet, two inches. "Are you ready?"

Folly's hand tightens in his. "Will all this just vanish when we're gone?"

The trees and their cloudlike boughs. The silken grasses. The wildflowers. The places they stood and sat and lay together.

"When we visit again, it will build anew." Yarrow squeezes his hand. "Let's go."

Sharing a deep breath, they step into Summer.

Everything is warm and bright. Birds chorus in greeting, hidden among dense leaves. Early morning light slants past sparse clouds. Cerulean Glade stretches lazily before them, a small sea of long grasses. Brambles and trees crowd around its edges. A brook chatters across the southern end.

Folly huddles close, but peers out curiously. "I expected it to be blue."

"Deceptive, I know." Uneasiness prickles the back of Yarrow's neck. He should have expected the glade to be blue too, but the expanse of green hadn't surprised him. There's something familiar about this place, though Yarrow's never been here before. "Now, we're looking for the biggest, oldest tree in sight…"

Releasing Folly's hand is a dreadful necessity. Yarrow needs his hands free to react to anything unexpected. He's distracted enough. Folly's presence has torn Yarrow's mind in two.

He doesn't want Folly out of his sight. But he also wants Folly anywhere but here.

Yarrow still hates this plan.

The largest tree sits along the northern perimeter. An ancient, gnarled chestnut, its branches beckon like clawed fingers. Its leaves are vibrant but thin. Yarrow has to step over the hulking roots to approach the trunk.

"Greetings, Lord Chestnut," Yarrow says. "I've been looking for a handsome tree like you."

Leaves rustle overhead. An answer creaks into Yarrow's mind: That's nice, but you're not my type.

Yarrow chokes on his next breath.

So does Folly. "Did I just hear the tree?"

"Apparently." Yarrow regains his composure with a grin. "Which means Lord Chestnut here is very old and powerful. That's just a compliment, mind, I'm not coming onto you."

Sure you aren't. Satyrs are all the same.

Clear communication makes bargaining easier, at least. "No need for stereotypes. I wanted to ask a favor." Yarrow pauses, his grin steady even as he cringes. "I mean this in the least sexual way possible—could I hide inside you?"

Unfortunately, while I believe in the chasteness of your wish, I must decline.

"Do trees usually talk like this?" Folly whispers. He's shaking—with what on closer inspection appears to be stifled laughter.

Ignoring the question, Yarrow asks, "Why do you have to decline? Can you recommend any of your neighbors?"

They cannot agree either, the tree says. We've already made bargains with the man behind you.

Shit.

Shoving Folly behind him, Yarrow whirls around. His axe thuds into his palm as he faces his opponent. But there's no blow to counter.

Moriath sits thirty feet away, atop a tree stump throne that wasn't there a moment ago. Shadows swirl between the throne's roots, and the bark changes with every blink. Oak, birch, cedar, pine. Wearing the guise of the copper-eyed fae, Moriath leans on one elbow and smiles.

"Stay close behind me," Yarrow warns Folly, gathering his magical essence into the blade of his axe. He's lost the element of surprise, but he's still a better fighter than this shapestealer. If Moriath would stop fucking running away. Yarrow hasn't had a chance to set up a binding circle with Crocus's mushroom spores. He'll need to get close enough for skin contact instead.

The only problem is keeping Folly safe. Maybe if Folly uses the invisibility powder?—

Moriath gestures.

Pardon the inconvenience, the ancient chestnut tree says. Just fulfilling a bargain.

The ground convulses, and Folly's yelp pierces Yarrow's heart.

Stumbling, Yarrow reaches for Folly. He only gets one glimpse of wide, mismatched eyes before a mass of earth and roots surges between them. Yarrow dodges one heaving tree root. The next sweeps his feet from under him. He lands hard on his hip, rolls up in the spray of wet earth.

Pain whites out Yarrow's vision. The binding curse sears his nerves, as if ripping his heart from between his shattered ribs.

Folly's twenty feet away, slumped against a ridge of dislodged dirt. The ground between them is broken with deep, treacherous crevices Yarrow can't see the bottom of.

The ground between Yarrow and Moriath is clear. Yarrow moves, his decision instant. A snarl of agony curdles his throat. He can't save Folly if Moriath lives.

Even though this is going to hurt them both.

Moriath's copper eyes widen. His shadows spiral up, twisting in and out of his form. Then he's the grizzled human witch.

"If you're going to be like that," Moriath rasps. He reaches into a spell-pouch, then traces a shape in midair with dark-stained fingers.

The pain vanishes.

Yarrow staggers, just ten feet from the stump throne. The lack of pain is like a splash of ice water. Numbing, shocking. Yarrow braces himself for the next wave of torment, but it doesn't come. This isn't a new curse.

The binding is gone.

"Folly!" Yarrow calls out. But across the broken glade, Folly doesn't respond. All Yarrow sees is his small body, slumped beneath his beautiful midnight robe.

"He's just unconscious," Moriath says. "I need him alive before I take his shape."

The binding is gone. Exactly what Yarrow and Folly wanted. Of all the possible solutions, Yarrow never imagined Moriath might lift the curse willingly.

Nothing else has changed, though. Moriath is a murderer. He threatened Folly.

Yarrow's axe trembles in his hand. Then steadies.

Moriath wheezes a laugh. "Don't be so hasty, wild fae. I've been wanting to speak with you."

His shadows writhe again. When they subside, another shape sits on the tree stump throne.

The satyr has a mane of shaggy dark hair, the same color as his goat-like haunches. His bare chest may be broader than Yarrow's, and a loose hip cloth covers his—Yarrow isn't looking there. Because the satyr's bright bronze horns and bright bronze eyes are as familiar as a mirror.

It's gut-wrenching to recognize a ghost.

"Is that my father's shape?" Yarrow asks, in a voice so coldly calm it sounds like a stranger's.

Moriath tilts his head, and his horns catch the light. "I took the satyr's shape a hundred years before I met your mother."

Yarrow's gut wrenches again. His thoughts scatter.

With a wave of Moriath's hand, a table of fruit and wine appears. The surface sags beneath the spread. Lounging in comfort, Moriath pours himself a wooden goblet of wine. "Sit down, son. Let's talk."

This is the creature Yarrow's been hunting. The creature that's been hunting Folly. The creature that cursed them.

Yarrow can't help looking back at Folly's slumped form, even though he expects a strike when he turns. But Moriath doesn't attack.

"You can't be my father," Yarrow says, tense.

Moriath wipes a smear of wine with the back of his hand. "I knew the moment you said that saying of Crocus's—teats on a fish. Funny woman. I should have recognized you sooner with those eyes and horns, and Crocus's hair. Did you inherit anything else of mine? Any powers?"

Yarrow never missed his father. Crocus was always more than enough of a parent for Yarrow's independent streak. His father was a story rarely told. A happy memory of Crocus's.

An excuse for loneliness. The way Yarrow never quite fit in.

"You can't be my father," Yarrow repeats. "I'm supposed to kill you."

Moriath points with his goblet, wine sloshing over the wooden rim. "It's no surprise I didn't recognize my own son. You've grown fucking tall since we last spoke."

The words are casual, but Yarrow's discomfort heightens. "I've never met my father."

"You have," Moriath says. "Crocus brought you to meet me once, in this very glade. That was the last time I saw her. I didn't want a child, and I was tired of the satyr's life." He tosses the goblet, and the remaining wine soaks like blood into the thirsting earth. "But it seems you don't remember."

Moriath's words sink into the fractures of Yarrow's soul.

The glade is too familiar.

And Crocus's banishment was lifted ten years ago. The same year Yarrow first visited the summer court, and the queen who collects memories.

"Haelwen," Yarrow whispers.

Moriath's jovial laugh fills the glade. "You're a smart one. I'll let Crocus take credit for that."

"Does she know?" Yarrow demands, as dread shades his heart. "Does Haelwen know she tasked me with killing my father?"

Because he believes Moriath. He has to. Not because he trusts Moriath's honesty, but because he trusts?—

"You know the summer queen's trickery better than I do." Moriath fills a second goblet. "What do you think?"

A deep breath shudders through Yarrow. He glances behind him at the prone human across the glade. "I think I'm willing to talk. But first, I need to check on Folly."

Moriath laughs, then cuts off. "Wait, you aren't joking. Do you genuinely care for that animal?"

Yarrow bristles. The sentiment may be common among Summer's denizens, but Yarrow doesn't fucking like it. "You will not call him that."

"I assumed you simply wanted his eye for your own," Moriath muses. "That you were grooming him into a more useful shape."

"I didn't inherit your powers," Yarrow says, cold with nausea. "Even if I did, I would never use them."

"You didn't?" Moriath tosses the second goblet aside, contemplating Yarrow. "No, you can't lie, and you would have discovered them by now. What a pity." He snaps his fingers, and the feast and table vanish. "That means I have no use for you."

Moriath flashes into the copper-eyed fae form. Killing intent blurs the edges of the longsword in his hand.

But instead of lunging forward, Moriath jerks on his throne. Something dark flashes across his throat.

Blood sprays from the jagged gash.