Goodfellow’s Marvelous Magic Troupe is open from evening to midnight. Folly’s foot traffic slows an hour before the carnival closes. Most lingering townsfolk are preoccupied with the flashier acrobatics show—and the ale.
During a lull, Folly rises to stretch his legs. Tonight’s been busy, and Roland should be happy with the take. Maybe Folly can sneak away to a tavern tomorrow, to ask other travelers about mysterious foreign coins. Talking to strangers is awful, but Folly’s so curious. It might be worth the anxiety.
From outside, the cashier guard calls, “One more coming your way, O Great Folarius.”
Folly bats a scarf out of his face. Last customer of the night, probably, he should make this a good performance. He spreads his robes out as he sits—then freezes.
The man is so tall he has to duck beneath the entrance. His face glitters like a golden moon among the lanterns. Copper eyes and long brown hair, and silk clothes far too fine for this grubby carnival.
A sword hangs at his hip. The guard shouldn’t have let him pass. But the man’s entire being shimmers with the telltale magic of a fae glamour.
The guard doesn’t see what Folly sees.
“So, this is the great Folarius,” the creature says. His voice is jarringly ordinary.
“The one and only. If you’ve seen any others, no you didn’t.” Folly’s response is rote as his mind races. “How should I address you, good sir?”
His hands itch for the knife in his boot and the nails in his pockets. As if Folly would win in a fight. But the fae is disguised, which means he doesn’t want to be discovered. If Folly just plays along, maybe the fae will just leave.
Please, just leave.
“Call me Moriath.” Long fingers brush the red tablecloth. The fae’s head tilts. “That’s a pretty trick with the water bowl.”
“Um. Thank you.” Folly needs to regain control of the performance. No matter how wrong the intrusion into his safe space feels. “Now, Moriath, you look like a man who wants your fortune told.”
“No, let’s not talk about me.” Moriath’s teeth are too sharp. “I’d rather learn about you, O Great Folarius, and your lovely golden eye.”
Folly swallows. He flourishes one hand above the bowl as the other creeps into his pocket. “All my eye sees are the great mysteries of, um, times yet to come. I foresee…”
The stock platitudes stick in his throat, along with his unvoiced cry for help. Danger whispers in Folly’s ear. The guard is no match for this creature.
“You have talent, but not skill.” Moriath taps the edge of the bowl, and his eyes glint when Folly flinches. “Nobody ever taught you to lookatthe glamour, not just through it.”
Folly’s hand closes around a palmful of cold iron. “I think you should leave.”
“My glamour disguises me as a human, six inches shorter than this form.” Moriath’s sharp smile widens. “You’ve been meeting my eyes this entire time.”
Panic spurring him into motion, Folly flings the nails.
Moriath jerks back with an inhuman hiss as Folly crashes to his feet. The falling chair drags the tablecloth, and light veers wildly through the rocking bowl. Folly staggers backwards for the gap in the tent.
Amidst the hanging scarves and swinging lights, Moriath touches a red mark on his pale face. His icy glare seems to pause time. Then light pulses around him, a sick, greenish glow. The glamour drops, and Moriath’s true formripples.
Folly pushes through the back flap. Canvas clings like vines, slowing him down. Then he’s out, heedless of the shouts rising around him. Calls for the water buckets, because usually a downed tent means fire. Not fae.
Folly’s desperate to reach his wagon. He’ll be safe with a horseshoe above his door. Just a hundred-foot sprint to the wagon circle. Folly shoves past a pair of drunks, then there’s a wide open stretch of scrubby field between him and the camp fence. The gate’s farther down—does he run for the gate, or climb the fence? Which is faster?
A tall shadow darkens in front of him, with iridescent eyes.
Folly yelps and jerks away. His feet catch in the hem of his robe, and he stumbles back—then down to the ground.
“No need to run,” says the shadow—Moriath. The voice is different, but this is definitely the same creature. “I don’t intend to hurt you, yet.”
Folly flings the second handful of nails.
This time, Moriath only laughs. His form ripples again. Shadows melt to reveal an elderly man, eerily human, with stringy dark hair and witch runes tattooed on his face. Even his clothing has changed, rough leather and cotton, pouches and herb bundles hanging from his vest.
“Iron only hurts the fae, and I’m not fae right now.” Moriath tugs a pouch from his vest. “Let’s stop you from running. That will get tedious.”
