Yarrow’s axe trembles in his hand. Then steadies.
Moriath wheezes a laugh. “Don’t be so hasty, wild fae. I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”
His shadows writhe again. When they subside, another shape sits on the tree stump throne.
The satyr has a mane of shaggy dark hair, the same color as his goat-like haunches. His bare chest may be broader than Yarrow’s, and a loose hip cloth covers his—Yarrow isn’t looking there. Because the satyr’s bright bronze horns and bright bronze eyes are as familiar as a mirror.
It’s gut-wrenching to recognize a ghost.
“Is that my father’s shape?” Yarrow asks, in a voice so coldly calm it sounds like a stranger’s.
Moriath tilts his head, and his horns catch the light. “I took the satyr’s shape a hundred years before I met your mother.”
Yarrow’s gut wrenches again. His thoughts scatter.
With a wave of Moriath’s hand, a table of fruit and wine appears. The surface sags beneath the spread. Lounging in comfort, Moriath pours himself a wooden goblet of wine. “Sit down, son. Let’s talk.”
This is the creature Yarrow’s been hunting. The creature that’s been hunting Folly. The creature that cursed them.
Yarrow can’t help looking back at Folly’s slumped form, even though he expects a strike when he turns. But Moriath doesn’t attack.
“You can’t be my father,” Yarrow says, tense.
Moriath wipes a smear of wine with the back of his hand. “I knew the moment you said that saying of Crocus’s—teats on a fish. Funny woman. I should have recognized you sooner with those eyes and horns, and Crocus’s hair. Did you inherit anything else of mine? Any powers?”
Yarrow never missed his father. Crocus was always more than enough of a parent for Yarrow’s independent streak. His father was a story rarely told. A happy memory of Crocus’s.
An excuse for loneliness. The way Yarrow never quite fit in.
“You can’t be my father,” Yarrow repeats. “I’m supposed to kill you.”
Moriath points with his goblet, wine sloshing over the wooden rim. “It’s no surprise I didn’t recognize my own son. You’ve grown fucking tall since we last spoke.”
The words are casual, but Yarrow’s discomfort heightens. “I’ve never met my father.”
“You have,” Moriath says. “Crocus brought you to meet me once, in this very glade. That was the last time I saw her. I didn’t want a child, and I was tired of the satyr’s life.” He tosses the goblet, and the remaining wine soaks like blood into the thirsting earth. “But it seems you don’t remember.”
Moriath’s words sink into the fractures of Yarrow’s soul.
The glade is too familiar.
And Crocus’s banishment was lifted ten years ago. The same year Yarrow first visited the summer court, and the queen who collects memories.
“Haelwen,” Yarrow whispers.
Moriath’s jovial laugh fills the glade. “You’re a smart one. I’ll let Crocus take credit for that.”
“Does she know?” Yarrow demands, as dread shades his heart. “Does Haelwen know she tasked me with killing my father?”
Because he believes Moriath. He has to. Not because he trusts Moriath’s honesty, but because he trusts?—
“You know the summer queen’s trickery better than I do.” Moriath fills a second goblet. “What do you think?”
A deep breath shudders through Yarrow. He glances behind him at the prone human across the glade. “I think I’m willing to talk. But first, I need to check on Folly.”
Moriath laughs, then cuts off. “Wait, you aren’t joking. Do you genuinely care for that animal?”
Yarrow bristles. The sentiment may be common among Summer’s denizens, but Yarrow doesn’t fucking like it. “You will not call him that.”
