9. Folly

Driven by the strength of fear, Folly wrenches his arms free. His fingers catch the edge of the tree-monster's mouth. But digging in does nothing. Vines still twist around his legs, wrapping around his stomach.

Bark crumbles beneath his fingers. The arberos yanks Folly backwards, and darkness closes around him.

This is Folly's second time being inside a tree in less than a day, and it's horribly different from last time. Constant movement shoves and pulls him. Claustrophobic darkness presses against his eyes. He sucks in air through his nostrils, his mouth still blocked.

Struggling is useless. Worse than useless. The vines seem to anger, tightening with every fruitless movement. Folly struggles anyway, panic needling through his lungs. A vine pries beneath the cuff of his sleeve and climbs his wrist, his forearm. Cool wetness crawls in its wake.

Another vine, thick around as his arm, curls around his upper thigh. The unwanted caress reminds Folly of Roland. Something brushes his cheek, and the musky plant smell isn't different enough from familiar breath, reeking of ale.

Gods, the creature came out of nowhere. Like it was hunting, lurking in wait for its prey. Trees shouldn't move, and they definitely shouldn't move so fast.

The tree shudders and creaks. Folly rattles inside, cushioned absurdly by the grasping vines. The vine dislodges from his mouth, and a cry breaks from his throat.

Something nudges his lip.

Folly's teeth snap shut, and the tendril prods at the pressed corner of his mouth. Insistent, relentless, like it wants to crawl inside. It nudges his nostril, and Folly's stomach ices with terror. But the vine is too large to fit in his nose, and it returns to his lips.

The vine around his arm tickles near his shoulder, and another finds a gap between the laces of his shirt. Fuck, Folly's going to die in here, ripped apart or eaten or whatever by this fucking tree.

A muffled shout breaks through Folly's panic.

Yarrow's still out there, and the only pain Folly feels are the bruises from the vines. None of the curse-bond's pain, which means Yarrow is close. And letting Folly get eaten by an evil tree would tidily rid Yarrow the curse.

But somehow, Folly believes Yarrow doesn't want that.

Yarrow shouts again. The sound is too muffled for Folly to understand anything, or even read any emotion. But the nearness eases Folly's panic. He stops struggling, and the vines slow. Loosen. Not enough to let him move much. Just settling into a less frantic imprisonment.

The tree shudders again. Jerks sideways, then halts, as Folly rocks. He wishes he knew what was happening outside, but the darkness still overwhelms him.

Hopefully Yarrow won't just chop the tree into smithereens, or Folly's liable to become firewood too.

Slowly, Folly reaches his right hand down. Keeping his knife in his boot is the stupidest thing he's ever done. A wrist sheath would be so much better. Even carrying it at his hip would be an improvement.

He manages to straighten his arm, hand at his thigh, beneath the writhing mass of snake-like vines. There are more of them, now that they're slower and gentler.

Folly lifts his leg—and a vine yanks his ankle down, hard enough to bruise through his boot.

So, the gentleness only lasts as long as Folly behaves himself. He really hates this tree. All he can reach is the coin purse at his belt. His fingers brush the leather, and magic shimmers at the edge of his vision. Faint, yet nearly blinding in the darkness.

The vine jerks away from Folly's hip as if afraid.

Hope hammers against Folly's ribs, the twin to fear. There's power in the coin. Maybe Folly can use it. Something inside him says that if he can just grab hold of the coin, he'll know what to do.

The arberos rocks, its creaking groan echoed by a shout. With a jarring thud, it settles. All the vines tighten, then loosen. Folly gasps as the vine falls away from his lips.

Wood splinters apart. Morning light streams in, forming a halo around Yarrow's horns and long hair.

"Sorry that took so long," Yarrow says cheerfully. "I had to kill the other one first."

His axe hangs behind his shoulders. His arms are spread, muscles flexed, bracing the trunk open.

He can't have ripped the tree apart with his bare hands, right?

"It's fine," Folly says weakly. "Thank you." A limp vine flops from his shoulder, and he starts extricating himself from the rest.

Yarrow pulls another vine from Folly's arm. "No problem. You kept your mouth shut, right?"

"Right." Folly flinches, distracted. Warm liquid lingers wherever Yarrow touches. As Folly's eyes adjust and his panic subsides to a bearable level, he sees the red splashed all over Yarrow's hands and arms. Concerned, Folly says, "You're hurt."

"Never fear, my handsome form remains unscathed. This is just arberos sap." Yarrow grimaces, twisting the streak of red across his cheekbone. "Which might be worse than a dashing injury."

He pulls the heaviest vine away, incidentally brushing his hand inside Folly's thigh. A matter-of-fact movement, and his expression doesn't change. As if for all his incessant innuendo, Yarrow doesn't notice how intimate the touch is.

Clutching Yarrow's sap-slick hand, Folly staggers from the arberos's maw. His legs tremble, and he would have tumbled down the river bank without Yarrow's support.

The arberos is a hulking ruin. White hack marks litter its dark trunk, leaking blood-red sap, and one large root is entirely severed. Vines spill like an excess of intestines.

Another arberos slumps in two pieces nearby. The stump bleeds out, and the severed top has fallen down the river bank. The leaves of its topmost branches brush the water's surface as its bloody sap soaks into the earth.

"What are they?" Folly forces himself to release Yarrow's hand. "Are these things common here? Do they hunt in packs? Or groves, or copses. Do they hunt in copses?" He takes a quick breath. "Why did you ask if I kept my mouth shut?"

Yarrow reaches, as if to touch Folly's face—then pulls away, grimacing at his red-stained hand. "There are two kinds of arberos. The fun kind, and the less fun kind." He kicks the shattered trunk, and its leaves rattle. "Some people keep the tame ones in their private gardens, for recreational purposes."

Folly can't imagine wanting to climb one of these things, or putting up a swing. "Recreational?"

"How explicit can I be with your modest human sensibilities?" As Folly's face heats, Yarrow trudges down the slope towards the river. "I've never played with a tame arberos, but I can see the appeal. There's something about seeing someone all trussed up to be taken, writhing in pleasure…"

"I'll take your word for it." Glancing around for more danger, because this entire realm is horrible, Folly descends after Yarrow. "Um, what about the less fun kind?"

"You can tell them apart by their leaves. The fun kind of have normal green summer leaves, and the less fun kind are out of season. Red autumn leaves, or no leaves at all." Yarrow kneels, dipping his hands into one of the myriad shallow pools. He washes the sap from his arms. "The trouble is they can glamour themselves to look like summer arberos." Yarrow smiles over his shoulder. "Luckily, I have you along."

Folly touches beneath his left eye. "I don't feel very lucky."

Yarrow resumes washing his arms. "That would have gone a lot worse if they'd both snuck up on us. Your warning was helpful."

Fae can't lie—but apparently they can exaggerate or condescend. Folly hadn't even noticed the magic of the glamour. He'd just seen through it. Even then, he hadn't realized the danger until Yarrow reacted, because he knows too little about the fae realm. At home, Folly recognizes dangerous fae creatures because they're out of place. Unfamiliar.

Here, Folly is the one out of place.

"Less-fun arberos use people for procreation, not recreation." Yarrow straightens up, flicking the water from his hands. "They try to plant a seed inside your stomach. The good news is that it keeps you alive for a few months to incubate the seed. The bad news is that when the seed starts to sprout…"

He looks up at Folly, whose stomach twists with nausea.

"Never mind," Yarrow says. "Definitely not as fun."

Folly stares out at the river, like scattered diamonds beneath the summer sun. Blue and pink flowers sway across the far bank, adorned with golden butterflies.

Which are probably poisonous, or they crawl into your ear and lay eggs in your brain. Folly is used to imagining worst-case scenarios, but the fae realm is proving more creative than he is.

He'll have to update his mental compendium of catastrophes.

The rest of the day's travel is comparatively uneventful. They follow the river, sometimes up at the tree line, sometimes so close to the edge that water mists around their legs. The cool water is welcome in the summer heat. Folly loops his bedraggled robe around his hips, because it's too warm to wear. Despite the heat, his skin doesn't burn in the hours of light. A welcome difference from the human realm.

They stop frequently, and Folly suspects it's to let him rest, not because Yarrow feels anything so mundane as exhaustion.

Folly wishes he weren't so weak, but he's grateful for the care. Without Yarrow, Folly would be lost and helpless. Even if this were a forest in the human realm, Folly's survival skills aren't honed for a multi-day trek in the woods. Especially with nothing more than the clothes on his back, the knife in his boot, and the mysterious magical coin in his purse.

But Yarrow seems perfectly at ease in these perilous woods. The encounter with the arberos doesn't linger in his mood, like it does with Folly.

Yarrow fishes again as the sun sets. When they've finished eating and cleared the fire, he leads Folly up the river bank, into the forest. This grassy glade is wider than last night's. The trees separate enough to reveal a circle of red-purple twilight above. Summerstars gleam around the surrounding trees whenever the moon caresses their petals.

"This should do," Yarrow says, stopping before a massive tree.

And Folly's skin crawls with sudden revulsion. He hates to be a bother. He hates to say anything. But the thought of wooden walls closing around him again…

Yarrow's met every setback with such cheerful composure. He probably won't get angry about this. Hugging himself tight, Folly manages to force out, "Wait."

Yarrow turns, surprised. "Yes?"

"If it's possible, could we not sleep in a tree tonight?" Folly hugs himself tighter, wishing ironically that he could disappear into the ground now. "Of course, you can stay in the tree, if you'd rather. But if I could stay outside, that would be nice. I realize it might not be safe. I just think that sleeping in the tree would be like being inside the arberos, and I won't be able to sleep, and that would…"

"We don't have to sleep in a tree," Yarrow says simply. "I'll set up a mushroom circle, and we'll take turns on watch."

Once again, Yarrow has a solution. He says it like it's simple, like Folly isn't any bother at all. Like Folly isn't inconvenient and weird, with his strange eye and his even stranger fear of normal conversations.

"Thanks." Folly hesitates. "Sorry. I overthink things."

Yarrow beckons. "Come closer. I'm almost out of spores. I have enough for two nights, but I can't make a very big circle."

"Not like I can go far anyway," Folly mutters, obeying.

Yarrow chuckles, and Folly feels almost at ease.

As Folly watches from the center of the glade, Yarrow walks a circle fifteen feet in diameter. Smaller than the circumference of their curse-bond. With every step, Yarrow dips into a pouch at his belt. Shimmering dust trails in his wake. The magic settles into the grass, and where it falls, little mushrooms sprout. Pale blue and white, bright in the deepening shadows.

Dusting off his hands, Yarrow returns to the center. "Such an ordinary spell, yet you're enthralled."

"It isn't ordinary to me," Folly says.

"True." Yarrow gestures around the glade. "I suppose this all must be as strange and fascinating to you, as you are to me."

He touches his own horn next, grin widening.

Folly tenses. "I'm not fascinating." Except when someone wants something from him. But Yarrow wouldn't. Yarrow isn't like that.

"Even that's fascinating—the way you can lie." Yarrow steps closer, head cocked. Inspecting Folly. "Here we are stuck together, and I've been doing all the work. Putting you in a nice tree, getting you out of an evil tree. Breakfast and supper and using up the last of my magic spores." He reaches out. Doesn't touch Folly. His fingertips just hover right beside Folly's cheek. "I think it's time you started earning your keep."

Resignation mutes Folly's senses. Slows his thoughts. He barely feels the threat of Yarrow's presence.

Of course. Even after everything with Roland, even after Folly's entire life, he's still naive enough to think someone might be kind for nothing in return.

He should have expected this.

"Fine, but this is a one-time favor," Folly says blankly. He drops to his knees. "And you only get my mouth."