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7. Folly

Of course, Folly's luck hasn't been bad enough. Darkness presses around him, as if they've traded one endless nothingness for another. He shrinks closer to Yarrow, unable to let go of the fae's hand. His skin crawls with the proximity. Yarrow is fae. That means he's dangerous. But he hasn't hurt Folly yet, and he's the one familiar thing in the darkness.

"Are we lost?" Folly asks, voice high with barely suppressed hysteria. Even the air smells wrong, thick and dizzyingly floral.

"I wouldn't say we're lost," Yarrow hedges. "I just don't know where we are. Why do forests all look the same at night?"

So the nothingness is a forest. Folly's eyes adjust slowly to the gloom. The faint light above might be a moon, muted by clouds. The surrounding shapes might be looming trees. That's a more comforting thought than a pack of giant boarbears or arberos. Whatever boarbears and arberos are.

A branch cracks far away.

Folly jumps, knocking into Yarrow. "Oh, gods, gods, gods, what is that?"

"Sounded like a branch," Yarrow says unhelpfully. He tugs Folly a few steps along, dirt scraping beneath his boots. "Let me see if the trees are more forthcoming closer up—ah."

Clouds part, and moonlight spills. The light reveals trees tall as cathedrals, wreathed in flowering vines. Folly gasps in the fragrant air, awestruck through his fear. The flowers shine bright as mirrors, hundreds of them, like a galaxy of delicate stars caught in the trees.

"That's better." Yarrow releases Folly's hand. "We're in Brightwood."

Folly hugs himself, his hand cold without Yarrow's touch. He should have let go earlier. "Are we still lost? Is Brightwood dangerous? We still don't know what broke that branch."

"Sure, Brightwood's dangerous. But so am I." Yarrow winks. "We're south of Elladar—that's the summer court—which is better than being north of it. We can walk either direction down the road until we hit a river or village. Then I'll know exactly where we are."

Each direction of the moonlit road looks the same, a corridor of trees and mirrored flowers. Curves cut off Folly's view with yet more trees.

"Come on," Yarrow says, and takes off without waiting for an answer.

Smart man. Folly's suddenly far too exhausted to say anything. Even thinking is difficult enough. All his energy goes towards trudging in Yarrow's wake, one leaden limb at a time.

Just this morning, Folly was steeling his nerve to enter the variety shop. His biggest worries were whether the shopkeeper would think him horribly strange, and whether Roland would be angry or handsy or both tonight. Running from the shapestealer in the alley was frightening, but Folly's lived with that precise fear since childhood.

He's been running since his eye changed. He's just never been caught before.

Now, he's in another world, bound within twenty feet of a fae. Yarrow seems nicer than most fae, but that's only more suspicious. Humans are untrustworthy enough. Fae can only be worse.

Yarrow either has some fae reason he can't kill Folly, or he's planning something Folly hasn't even thought of. Moriath the shapestealer wanted the power in Folly's eye. Maybe Yarrow has some use for it too.

Folly misses his eyepatch.

But that doesn't matter as Folly stumbles down the path. Clouds drift overhead, obscuring and revealing the moon in long, silent breaths. Yarrow is Folly's only hope of survival. He doesn't have a choice.

And surely if Yarrow was tricking him, he'd come up with something more enticing than a fae queen who might help them. If they make it worth her while.

Folly fingers his coin pouch. The magic still shimmers faintly through leather and cotton. Not as bright as it shone in the shop—as if it doesn't need to call out to him anymore. Hopefully the fae queen will want it. Folly doesn't have much else to trade.

The night is far warmer than the summer nights Folly's used to. He hugs his robe closer anyway. Donning his performance robe, smudging his eyes, holding court in his grand little tent—he usually feels so powerful on show nights. Like he's really the Great Folarius. Now, the bedraggled robe just feels pathetic. He's never been so tired before.

When the clouds cover the moon again, Folly's toe catches on something. He stumbles, nearly rights himself—but falls hard to his hands and knees.

Pain blooms, and a tiny whine escapes Folly's throat. Unfairness burns beneath his eyes, nearly spilling out in tears. It's such an ordinary, stupid pain, on top of everything else that's happened today.

"Don't move," Yarrow barks, whirling around. In a swirl of gold, his axe appears in his hand. Then he pauses, and in another swirl, his axe returns to his back. "Are we under attack, or did you just trip over that tree root?"

He sounds curious, not mocking. The question still stings.

Folly's fingertips flex against the path. He sits carefully back, touching the dirt ground into his palms. "I'm sorry. I didn't see the root."

Yarrow approaches, a looming figure in the darkness. "How did you not…" Yarrow hisses through his teeth. "Fuck. You can't see in the dark."

"And you can?" Folly demands.

"Of course." Yarrow crouches in front of him. He's barely more than a shadow in the darkness, except for his long hair, so white it gleams with the faintest light. "I forgot humans can't." Gentle fingertips graze Folly's cheekbone. "And you're exhausted."

Folly barely breathes beneath the touch. Terror. Tenderness. Both. "I'm sorry."

"The fault is mine," Yarrow says easily. "I've never had a pet human before."

Stunned out of his misery, Folly jerks away. "I'm not a pet!"

Yarrow laughs. The sound is musical, piercing, heard from heart and ears alike. "I suppose we're both wearing the leash." Yarrow stands, then bends down. Without asking, he grasps Folly by the forearms and helps him upright.

Folly can't help a pathetic little whimper as his knee straightens out. Not broken, he's sure when he puts weight on it. His trousers haven't even torn. He'll just have a hideous bruise by morning.

"Can you walk?" Yarrow asks.

Folly shouldn't bristle at the question. It's not an insult. But his heart feels even more bruised than his knee. "I'm fine."

If Yarrow hears the tension, he doesn't show it. "We'll camp nearby," he says, and lets go of Folly's arms.

Folly hobbles after him, the pain easing with movement. He misses his rented wagon. He misses cities. He misses the jarring potholes. Even Roland, in a twisted way. Roland may be awful, but at least he thinks of Folly as a person.

Not just a pet human.

Yarrow pauses on the side of the road. Moonlight reflects from a flowering vine to catch in his hair. His hand curves beneath a delicate blossom as large as his palm.

"May I have a flower?" Yarrow asks, as if talking to vines is normal. After a moment of stillness, the blossom loosens from the vine and falls into Yarrow's hand. Its light brightens between his fingers, and he offers it to Folly. "Since you can't see in the dark."

Folly carefully takes the flower. Its myriad narrow petals are cool, slightly damp. Reflection shines brighter around the edges, even though Folly's shadow should block the moonlight.

"Thank you," Folly manages quietly.

"Stay right behind me," Yarrow warns, and heads into the forest.

The soft glow illuminates the forest floor as Folly trudges after him. Trees rise hundreds of feet, crowding out the stars but leaving plenty of space between their massive trunks. The forest debris is soft. Folly's clumsy human feet make so much more noise, while Yarrow moves like a leaf on the breeze. He belongs here in the dark of the woods.

Folly doesn't.

The flower's fragrance is cloyingly sweet. Folly wishes he could drop it, but he needs the light, and it was a kind gesture. Or a practical one. Yarrow must not want Folly to slow him down. Either way, Folly should be grateful. Not resentful for the reminder that he's powerless, completely dependent on this fae.

He should be grateful, as long as the kindness lasts. Sooner or later, Yarrow will tire of granting favors, and require compensation.

Yarrow stops. Not suddenly, but Folly's reflexes are so exhausted that he nearly stumbles into him anyway. Before them stands the biggest tree Folly has ever seen. Wider around than his traveling wagon, and its leaves are too thick to see the top. The bark is smooth and dark without moonlight, paler gray where Folly's flower reflects against the roots.

"This will do." Yarrow steps between the hulking roots and lays his hand flat on the trunk. "Would you mind letting us in for the night?" He pauses. Leaves rustle. "You also have to let us out in the morning."

Leaves rustle again. Yarrow steps back and reaches out. Something thuds against his palm, and he closes his fist. "Thanks."

The tree yawns open.

Folly startles back, nearly dropping his flower. The soft light wavers over the tree's gaping maw and the vast hollow inside.

There's no glimmer of magic as the tree moves. Which means it's not fae magic, but something Folly can't see. Perhaps something inherent to the living tree itself. The thought heightens Folly's nerves as Yarrow steps into the hollow.

"Is it safe?" Folly asks nervously. He moves closer, because he has to stay next to Yarrow, but remains outside the threshold.

Yarrow leans his forearm against the opening. The inside of the hollow is lower than the soft earth outside, but Yarrow is still several inches taller. "Safest place to sleep in Brightwood."

"That didn't answer my question," Folly accuses.

Yarrow's grin widens, lit by the soft glow. "No, but it's true."

Fae can't tell lies—but Folly's used to misleading truths. "Will it really let us out in the morning?"

"Unless something goes terribly wrong." Yarrow holds an acorn up to the light. "We made a bargain. In exchange for the nights' shelter, I'll sow its seed by the next river we cross."

The way he says sow its seed makes Folly's ears heat.

Yarrow steps back from the entrance. "You can't run, so you may as well come in."

True. Folly's situation will be no worse trapped inside a tree than trapped outside it. He steps carefully over the threshold. The blossom illuminates a round chamber, ceiling curving ten feet overhead. The floor is flat, if uneven, and all of it ringed in pale wooden striations. The space is larger than the wagon Folly sleeps in, but there are no windows, no bedding, no small comforts.

Folly exhales, trying not to panic, as the opening creaks closed. "Do the plants listen to just anyone, or only to fae?"

"It helps to be carrying a giant fucking axe." With a sly wink, Yarrow stretches out his hand. This time, Folly hardly flinches as the axe materializes in his grip. "I got that summerstar for free, as a gesture of goodwill."

"Smart vine," Folly murmurs.

Yarrow sits down against the curved wall, setting his axe beside him. He stretches out his legs. "I can tell you more about plants in the morning, but you should probably lie down before you fall over."

He sounds cheerful. Folly's too tired to hear any underlying derision.

So, Folly sets the summerstar in the center of the hollow. Its light remains as bright as the moment it left the vine, even though there's no moonlight in here. There's no visible opening either, but there's faint movement in the warm air. As if they rest in the tree's lungs.

Yarrow probably wouldn't have brought them here to suffocate to death.

Folly shrugs off his robe and bundles it up as a pillow. Then he unfastens his hoop earrings and tucks them into his coin purse. They look shabby, the metal obviously fake. Just like Folly.

Curling up on the hard wood isn't comfortable, but Folly's so tired it doesn't matter. His limbs are sluggish, his eyelids heavy.

Across the hollow, Yarrow's bright bronze gaze never wavers. The last thing Folly sees before falling asleep is the fae, staring at him.

When Folly wakes, Yarrow is still staring.

Brightness fills the hollow tree. The crooked seam has split once again, allowing morning to soften the pale interior. In the center of the hollow, the summerstar no longer glows. Its wilting petals are plain white.

Blinking, Folly pushes himself from his lumpy pillow. Every movement is a reminder of yesterday's bruises. Tripping on the trail. Running from the shapestealer. Falling to the ground in Elsewhere, Yarrow's hands firm around his wrists.

Folly rubs his eyes. "Do fae sleep?"

Rising to his feet, Yarrow looks as rakishly perfect as he did the night before. "Not as much as humans, apparently."

"Did you stare at me all night?"

Yarrow shrugs, unabashed. "There wasn't anything else to look at." He plucks up the summerstar, then leaves the hollow.

Folly could have used another ten minutes to gather himself up, but the sight of Yarrow leaving spurs him into action. His bruised knee complains, joined by most other joints in his body, as he follows Yarrow out of the tree.

Daytime transforms the clearing. Sunlight filters gold and green from the leaves above. The trees are armored in glossy brown, and the bark's jagged edges are pale as if gilded. Like veins of gold surround every tree. The scent of the forest isn't as overwhelming, and a bird sings not far away.

Brightwood is an apt name. It's so beautiful that for a moment, Folly forgets to be afraid.

"I have some provisions in my carryhold, but we should catch breakfast at the next river." Yarrow leans against the tree as the crevice creaks closed beside him. "Don't worry, there's always a nearby river."

"What's a carryhold?" Folly asks.

Yarrow waves his left hand. "This ring is a carryhold. It lets you store things in another space. Like a haven, but just for things. Fresh food doesn't keep, though, and I'm low on water. Are you ready to go?

Any other day, Folly would be astounded by this magical item. But Yarrow's words bring Folly's awareness back to his own body. The night's rest only deepens his aches and pains, the growing hunger. And other biological needs.

Folly hates to mention it, but the situation will only grow more uncomfortable and awkward if he waits. "I need to relieve myself."

"All right," Yarrow says, twisting the wilted summerstar between his fingers.

Folly waits, but Yarrow doesn't move, until Folly forces himself to ask, "Could you, um, not look?"

"Is modesty a human cultural practice, or is that a personal preference?" Yarrow turns without waiting for an answer. "Don't stray too far."

Chewing his lip, Folly regards the golden glade with trepidation. He doesn't want to stray into the fae woods, even without the curse binding him to Yarrow.

How far is twenty feet, anyway? Folly takes each step expecting agony at the other end. Leaves and earth compress quietly beneath his feet. He must be nearly at the end of his invisible tether when he stops, but he can't feel anything.

Or maybe he's already gone twenty-five feet, and he's just terrible at distances. What if the curse isn't real? What if it's worn off?

The idea is strangely frightening. Yarrow hasn't killed Folly—so far—but if they aren't bound together, will Yarrow simply abandon him in the fae realm?

"A few more feet should do it," Yarrow says.

Folly whirls to find Yarrow still near the tree, but glancing over his shoulder.

"I said not to look!" Folly protests.

Yarrow just waves and turns away. "Just move until you feel the first twinge. There's a bit of discomfort before it really hurts."

Sure enough. Two more steps, and pain twists through Folly's stomach. Different, deeper than hunger. He rocks back, gasping, and turns.

Yarrow's still looking away, without any sign that the pain affects him the same way. Maybe Folly imagines the tension in his broad shoulders.

Maybe he doesn't.

Folly sighs and faces the empty woods before him. Unlaces his trousers. Then pauses again.

Gods. This shouldn't be a problem. He works in a traveling carnival, for fuck's sake. Everyone pisses on the roadside.

Never mind that Folly's anxious at the best of times, and tries to find as much privacy as he can on the road too. And this isn't a road between villages. This is Brightwood. Part of the fae realm.

"Are you taking a shit?" Yarrow asks from twenty feet away.

Folly hates everything, from himself to the gilded trees. "Will the plants... get angry about this?"

Instead of laughing like Folly expects, Yarrow says seriously, "That's a great question. No, these ones won't."

The specification is not reassuring.

"Awesome," Folly mutters, and musters his nerve.

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