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.
