8. Yarrow

"Slow down." Yarrow pulls a sliver of fish from his own makeshift skewer. "You're going to choke yourself."

Folly flinches as if he'd forgotten Yarrow was there. Moisture glistens at the corner of his lip, and he swallows his mouthful. "Sorry. Um. Thank you. I meant to thank you for breakfast."

"No need to thank me." Yarrow licks his fingers. "Just tell my mother what a great cook I am, if you ever meet her."

Folly blinks. Whatever thought crosses behind those mismatched eyes is unreadable. "All right."

They sit on the riverbank, high enough that the sandy earth is dry beneath them. Faint smoke drifts from the already-extinguished fire, disappearing before it reaches the sky. The Pyran River ripples below on its leisurely journey south. The river runs shallow through Brightwood, and parts of it are more a collection of rippling pools than the deep crevasses it cuts downstream.

Most importantly, the Pyran is familiar. Yarrow knows exactly where they are, now.

To Yarrow's relief, they reached the Pyran merely an hour after leaving the hollow tree. He could have reached it faster, were he not shortening his stride to match Folly's pace—subtly, by necessity, or Folly would try struggling to keep up. Not out of pride, Yarrow thinks, but fear. As if Yarrow might leave him behind despite the curse-bond, or get angry.

Nervous little human.

For Yarrow's part, it's rather nice having someone else around.

Folly picks at his fish more carefully. There's no immediate change now that he's eaten. He's still bedraggled, the dark powder around his eyes smudging into genuine exhausted shadows.

From the left, with only his gifted eye visible, and the tip of his ear hidden in that tangle of dark hair, he looks almost like a high fae lordling, worn out from a week of revels. Yarrow's seen the look on tired men crawling out of his bed the next morning.

A fae as cute as Folly, Yarrow would be luring him back into bed for another round. But Folly isn't fae, and he isn't worn out from revelry. He's worn out from being attacked, cursed, and yanked between realms, and he's human. Helpless and innocent in the ways of the fae realm. He probably isn't even…

Yarrow glances sidelong at Folly. How do humans age, precisely?

They barely live any time at all. Maybe a hundred years, unless a fae gives them a lifemark. But do they reach adulthood early or late? Fae reach maturity around twenty, then age very slowly for the next several centuries. Folly looks like he could be anywhere from twenty to a hundred, if he were fae… but what if he's only sixteen?

Or twelve?

Between bites, Folly asks, "How far away is the summer land?"

Yarrow steals a wary glance. Folly probably isn't twelve. "All of this belongs to the summer queen, but her court is about three days away. Or three weeks away."

Folly nearly drops his fish. "Three weeks?"

"Depending on how we travel." Yarrow sucks the flesh from a narrow bone. Swallows. Worry creases his brow.

Maybe Folly isn't particularly young—it could be the opposite. How long do humans take to get wrinkly? Folly could be ninety-three, tottering around on elderly bones. What if the little human dies of old age before Yarrow can get him to Elladar?

"We'll try for the shorter end of that range," Yarrow says, which is the most he's willing to commit to. Planning journeys is just asking for those plans to get interrupted.

Folly exhales. Nods. He looks resigned.

Yarrow isn't happy about the time frame either. Each day he's stuck with Folly is another day Moriath is out there, hiding or causing havoc. Queen Haelwen didn't give Yarrow a deadline, but killing the shapestealer quickly will be far better proof of Yarrow's worth. Even worse, if he takes too long, she might assign someone else to the quest.

If someone else kills Moriath first, Yarrow's gateway to the summer court slams shut.

Hopefully he'll be able to gather information on the way. "We'll reach a village the day after tomorrow if we follow the river north. Just two more nights sleeping in trees." Yarrow slides the remainder of his fish carcass from the skewer. He already tossed the guts back into the river when he cleaned the fish—now he tosses the remains back too. "I'd use my haven if I had one, but I don't. And at least you don't have to worry about realm-sickness."

"What's a haven? What's realm-sickness?" Folly asks, then shrinks in on himself. "Sorry. I don't mean to be annoying."

Someone's clearly done a number on this human's confidence. He's still nervous, even after Yarrow's been so nice. Food, shelter, guidance, light. Sure, Yarrow did all that after absconding with Folly's unconscious body to another realm. But he had very good reasons for abducting Folly.

"Are you this nervous with everyone, or just extremely handsome fae like me?" Yarrow gives a calculated wink. "Don't worry, I may be a wild fae, but I only bite on invitation."

Folly drops a fishbone on his knee. "Um," he says, brushing his trousers with the clean side of his hand. His hair falls into his eyes. "Yes. I'm always nervous. Um. Please don't bite me."

Pity. He looks delicious, for a human?—

Fuck. Yarrow stares out at the bright river. No more flirting until he confirms whether Folly is twelve or ninety-three.

Somewhere in between would be nice.

"Havens are high fae magic," Yarrow explains, because feeding Folly's curiosity is safe conversation. "Regular fae don't have them. They're a safe place, like a tiny personal realm you can hide in. Think of it like a carryhold, but for yourself. Everyone's haven looks different, supposedly. High fae can bring other people into their havens, but I've never been in one."

Plenty of high fae beds, yes. Sex is cheap for most of the fae. A haven is another level of trust, like entering a hollow inside someone's spirit.

Folly seems fascinated, if still nervous. That makes sense. Folly probably has as little experience with fae as Yarrow has with humans.

"As for realm-sickness," Yarrow continues. "That's what happens when someone stays too long in the wrong realm. It might take half a year or longer, but eventually, your spirit starts to reject the essence of the realm. You're fine as long as we're cursed, though, because the curse ties you to me."

"Fine except for the curse part," Folly points out.

"Except for that," Yarrow agrees. "Any other questions?"

"What's the difference between all the fae?" Folly bites his lip, but doesn't apologize this time. He glances at Yarrow's horns. "High fae, regular fae, and you're a wild fae?"

"Your turn to answer a question, first." Yarrow tilts his head, pretending to think. "Let's start easy. How old are you?"

"Twenty-four," Folly says.

Yarrow stretches his legs out, trying not to show his relief. Twenty-four is good. Young, but twice as old as twelve, and unlikely to die of old age before they reach Elladar.

Not that Yarrow has designs on Folly. He may be attractive and interesting and eligible, with soft limbs that beg to be bound in silk, but he's still human and fragile. And morning afters are awkward enough when Yarrow isn't curse-bound to his partners.

"Regular fae are just fae," Yarrow continues, pleased with his findings. "There's forest fae living in the forest and river fae living by the river and village fae living in the village. But they're all fae. High fae are royalty, or close to royalty. They have more magic, and they aren't afraid to let you know about it." Yarrow strokes his left horn, grinning. "And I'm wild fae, which means I'm part fae, part other."

Folly is flatteringly attentive, and even opens his mouth for what must be a follow-up question. Then he freezes, brown and gold eyes staring over Yarrow's shoulder.

"Um, are the trees supposed to move?" Folly asks quietly.

The rustling leaves suddenly sound sinister. This could either be a fun educational opportunity or a disaster.

"Plenty of trees move." Yarrow shifts, readying himself for movement. "This is an important question. What color are its leaves?"

"Red and orange."

Yarrow spins as he surges upward. Magic swirls with him, and he raises his arms to parry. His axe thuds into his empty hands just in time to slice into the whipping branches.

His opponent is ten feet away. The arberos is a squat, gnarled tree, short enough to travel beneath the larger lords of the forest. Autumn-red leaves rustle along its twisting branches, which are annoying enough.

The real problems are the flexible, leafless vines hiding behind them. Easier to chop off, but faster. Harder to avoid.

There's a scrambling sound behind him. Folly.

"Too slow," Yarrow taunts, though the arberos can't understand him. It's a mindless, instinctive entity. Yarrow leaps over the slope of the bank, assessing his surroundings. He can't let the arberos have the high ground, but he can't leave the curse-bond's periphery either. "Folly, this is an arberos. Not the nice kind of walking tree. Stay about fifteen feet behind me, so I have room to?—"

The arberos's trunk gapes open in a silent, vine-choked roar. Laughing with the delight of battle, Yarrow dodges one branch and slices off another. If he can just get to the trunk without getting trapped?—

A yelp echoes above the rustling and the river. Yarrow skids around just in time to see vines twisting around Folly's limbs.

Folly's mismatched eyes are wide with terror. Another vine slaps over mouth before the second arberos swallows him whole.