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, intothe 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.”
