“Fascinating.” A spark of gold illuminates Nevander’s palm, and he holds it close to the coin. The light catches every delicate line of the design, as well as the interest in Nevander’s eyes. Then Nevander sighs, dimming the light. “I can’t accept this.”
“It’s not enough,” Folly says, disappointed, before remembering that he’s bargaining. He’s supposed to talk up his wares.
But Nevander shakes his head. “On the contrary, it’s too much compared to the trinkets I offer. This coin is fae magic, but not ours. It comes from another world entirely.”
“Like Spring or Autumn?” Yarrow asks.
“A far more distant world than Spring or Autumn.” Nevander straightens and peers at Folly. “Where did you get this?”
Folly glances at Yarrow, who shrugs. Fuck it. Folly’s curious, and Nevander’s already given him more than he knew about the coin. “I found it in a variety shop in the human realm. The shopkeeper didn’t even know she had it.”
“In our realm, at least, I suspect this coin can only be found when it wants to be found.” Nevander reaches out, but withdraws his hand before touching the golden dragon. “This coin holds the power of fortune itself. Whether good or ill, I cannot determine. I recommend you use it only when you most have need of luck or fate.”
That sounds risky to Folly. “How do I use it?”
“I don’t know,” Nevander says. “I have a feeling you will, when the time is right.”
Folly retrieves the coin. It’s warm to the touch, and Folly imagines it’s happy to be praised and admired. “What price do you want for the mirror and dagger, if the coin is too much?”
“An exclusive answer,” Nevander says mildly.
“Nevander,” Yarrow snaps in warning.
Folly is baffled. “What does that mean?”
“Once you answer his question, you won’t be able to give that answer to anyone else who asks.” Yarrow glares across the table. “Like if he asked your name, you wouldn’t be able to tell anyone else your name for the rest of your life.”
Huh. Maybe some people would hate that, but those people probably aren’t named Philostrate. “That wouldn’t be so bad.”
“It’s a very high price,” Yarrow says, tense.
A week ago, Folly would have acquiesced to Yarrow’s warning. He definitely would have with Roland. But the mirror and dagger would be very useful. And this isn’t Yarrow’s bargain.Folly turns to Nevander. “Can I learn what your question would be before I agree?”
Nevander hesitates. “Of course. What is the name of the village you grew up in?”
“Why the fuck do you want to know that?” Yarrow demands.
Nevander simply waits.
The question doesn’t seem bad, on the surface. Folly hasn’t been home in years, and if someone else asks him, he can always lie.
But what if he returns to the human realm, and he visits a tavern, and a man asks where he’s from? Then Folly answers Butterwillow, which is a name he makes up. But it turns out Butterwillow is a real town Folly’s never heard of. The man flies into a rage, saying he has a personal vendetta against all people from Butterwillow, and Folly’s forced to?—
“I might agree,” Folly says carefully. “But we need to limit the restrictions. I won’t tell anyfaethe name of my village. And Yarrow standing here while I tell you doesn’t count.”
Nevander considers him for a moment. He doesn’t look happy, but he says, “That is acceptable.”
“You can limit the restrictions?” Yarrow asks.
“This human is better at bargaining than you are,” Nevander says. “All right, Great Folarius. In agreement that you will never again truthfully answer this question to another fae, what is the name of the village you grew up in?
“Wymond,” Folly answers.
“Wymond,” Nevander repeats. “Thank you. The scrying glass and dagger are yours. I’d recommend using the glass outside the palace. There’s far too much ambient magic.”
As they exit the armory, Folly asks under his breath, “What was that about?”
“I have no idea,” Yarrow admits. “Fae are weird.”
