Glaring at the trees, Yarrow asks, “Where the fuck are we?”
Chapter 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 whomighthelp 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.
