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.”
