Gossamyr Part 3

Her father had granted her this opportunity. She must to it!

"I can do this," Gossamyr said. A shrug of her shoulders and a loosening shake of her limbs summoned bravery. "I will do this. I know how to protect myself. I know how to track and defend. Oh yes-" a smile crooked her mouth "-I want some adventure."

A few strides put her to a narrow wheel path gouged along the horizontal purlieu of the forest. The packed red dirt felt warm beneath her bare feet. She must have landed on the edge of Glamoursiege territory, for the Spiral forest spun down to the border between tribes.

The Netherdreds inhabited the perilous flatlands that surrounded large mortal cities, for their kind thrived in the unstable atmosphere that separated Faery from the Otherside. (Faery simply did not exist in the large cities. Densely populated mortal lands tended to tamper with the Enchantment. As well, the mortals' use of magic drained any Enchantment that seeped too close.) Gossamyr would have to traverse the Netherdred, albeit, she now stood on the Otherside, so there was no fear to encounter any from the nefarious tribe.

However, if she had come to the Otherside, what then, prevented a Netherdred from doing the same?

Flicking a keen eye about, Gossamyr a.s.sessed her surroundings. Alone. And keep it that way.

The fetch buzzed overhead, its wings glinting copper against the settling sunlight.

"Not alone," she reminded. And was pleased for it.

A skip to her left and she scampered onward. A smile was unstoppable. Her high spirits lended a lightness to her steps. Gossamyr splayed her arms out to her sides. A s.h.i.+mmy of her hips nearly lifted her bare feet from the ground. She felt...less heavy.

"So light," she marveled.

Always in Faery she had fought her natural awkwardness. c.u.mbersome in the air there, and often tripping over roots or rocks. Yet here? The air barely skimmed her being. Performing a spin, Gossamyr let out a squeal and set again to her pace.

A tilt of head took in the vast horizon. Fascinating to view the sunset from its parallel and not above.

Fragile wings skimmed the scabbed cut on her cheek, and the skitter of legs tapped at her nose and forehead. Faster than a wing-beat, Gossamyr lashed out, capturing a damselfly by the wings. She dangled the annoying insect before her face and tilted a defiant smirk at the pivoting jade eyes.

"Thought you possessed swiftness, eh? The air here is better suited to me- Achoo!"

Nearly toppled from her feet by that powerful sneeze, Gossamyr stumbled and stabbed her staff into the red dirt.

The damselfly escaped in a spiraling ascent through the crystal sky, a sleek distraction for the fetch.

A silly grin followed Gossamyr's explosion. While the air seemed to fit her like a charm, it did not want her to get too comfortable.

Of a sudden, a strange, mournful tune touched her ear. The small clink of saddle furnis.h.i.+ngs punctuated the song with syncopated notes.

Gossamyr spun to eye a horse and rider ambling down the path. Her right hand stiffening and fingering the waxed cord of an arret, she homed in on the approaching target and crouched to strike.

Paris-downnorth Aaee aaaa...mmm...0000....

The melodious call beckoned him along the rough limestone garden wall, arms stretched to flatten his body and meld with the twilight shadows. Wings sc.r.a.ped against stone, but for the task he did not mind the pain.

Again came the sonorous call, a seductive beckoning. He closed his eyes and rode the s.h.i.+ver that vibrated his very bones and bubbled his blood. A strange and overwhelming desire always transpired at the call. For a moment it blocked those just-beneath-the-surface longings to flee, to mutiny.

Down the alley the door to an inn opened to emit or eject. The beat of drums, pounding to a rhythm of the Indian isles, escaped and fixed a tempo inside his breast. It synchronized with his heartbeats and played dull tympani to the succubus's call.

His fingers curling around the corner of a darkened cobbler's shop, he peeked to spy the nondescript black lacquered carriage across the empty market square. Red curtains of heavy plush covered the gla.s.sless windows; a thin, painted red line danced an arabesque across the gut of the carriage. The equipage, plumed in even more red, stood motionless, sleeping upon their feet. The coachman slept as well; a forced rest, that.

Aaee...aaaaa...mmm...

He dived into the shudder that swelled in his muscles and centered in his groin. Moans leaked from his tight lips, aching for her touch, to be controlled by his mistress. Though the call spoke of private pleasures and selfless devotion, he knew this one was not for him. He only received the call in the privacy of his lady's manor.

So he watched as from out of the shadows crept a lone man, tall and armed at his left hip with a sword. They always approached with cautious steps and plumed hats pulled low. Elegantly dressed in doublet and thigh-high boots, a chain of ornamental gold hung heavily about his shoulders-rich, then.

Fee, the watcher deduced, for their kind betrayed themselves with their carriage. Ever haughty and slim, unable to sulk under the oppression Paris pressed down upon all. Regal rogues. Yet Disenchantment had melted away this one's wings.

Not mine, the watcher thought. Puppy still has wings.

The fee ran a glove, palmed in mail, along the carriage body, inexplicably tracing the fine red line-when a lithe hand swept out from the window. Flinching as if singed, the fee's hand recoiled, but as quickly dashed back to clasp the female's fingers. He bent to inhale the aroma of lemon soaking the fine kidskin glove.

The watcher rubbed together his bare fingers. Dry cracks from squeezing lemons to extract the oil from the slippery rinds tormented his flesh. Good Puppy.

One final call. This melody lingered, wrapping its music about the fee's volition and securing hold.

As the carriage door creaked open, the watcher hated her. Slipping a hand into the leather sheath at his hip he drew up a long thin needle of silver, capped with a smooth, perfect ball of winter-forged iron.

Pin man.

No. I am your puppy, yes?

Moonlight danced on the pin's tip. Fixing to the thin s.h.i.+mmer of silver he mesmerized himself, falling into the moment and the singular admiration of the narrow s.h.i.+ne. Anything to avoid thinking of her...and what absence denied him.

Moments later the carriage door again creaked open. One long leg thrust out, followed by a torso and the other leg dragging closely behind. The fee stumbled, catching himself upon the ground with his gloves. Mail dashed across the cobbles. The tip of a steel-capped sabre sheath drew a metallic line in the wake of the clatter. Curious, the Parisian fee choose metal weapons over the finer stone instruments. Did the Disenchanted no longer fear the bite of iron or the burn of steel?

The watcher pressed his back to the wall and closed his eyes, clutching the pin near his thigh. Silver, yes, but a strange magic protected him from its devastating burn.

The fee managed to right himself, wobbled as if soused, then sauntered toward the shadows. Boots, spurred and jingling, trudged closer. A racket of riches announced the fee's approach. The watcher felt the wind of movement as a gloved hand smacked the wall near his ear-steadying, grasping a moment to catch a breath that from this moment on could only be a dying cry.

The fee pa.s.sed without notice. Almost.

The pin held firmly in his palm, the long needle sticking out between his first and second finger, tugged at fine silk hose and pierced. The small cry from the fee preceded his jerk to swing and eye his attacker. He stared at the pin man for but a second-memorize those strange-colored eyes and smooth silvery skin dotted with red-then staggered onward.

Drawing the pin along his torso, one deft twist tilted the point to his nose. The pin man drew in the scent of the fee's blood, savoring it as if a bung-cork plucked from the cask of aged Bordeaux-not so much sweet as sour, and laced with an earthen origin. Scent of Faery. Had he ever lived there? Yes! But... when?

He dashed across the way, and lifting the carriage door open without making a single creak, entered the dark box. Crawling upon the carriage floor and coiling his legs up under him, he stretched an arm along the soft, sensuous damask skirts, feeling beneath all the frill and lace her thigh, the sharp curve of her hip and waist. Burying his face into her lap he sighed and snuggled into salvation.

The tips of sharpened fingernails grazed his scalp as his mistress raked a hand through his long hair. "Such a good puppy you are."

He snuggled his face deeper into the warm thickness of bone-colored damask and lemon and the cloying aroma of woman. Always she allowed him this small moment. A reward for a task begun.

But not completed.

THREE.

The horse seemed more a mule for it did not span half so high as the eighteen-hand destriers s.h.i.+nn's troops had once ridden into battle. Gossamyr loved to ride the stallions across a flower-dappled meadow, her arms stretched wide to catch the wind-it was as close as she ever came to flying. But never too close to the Edge.

The careless tune suddenly ceased and a dark-hooded head looked up at the block in the road.

"Well met?" called Gossamyr, waving to appear unthreatening. She had no intention of attacking until she determined a menace. "Be you friend or foe?"

The male snorted. "You shall have to divine that for yourself."

Taken aback, Gossamyr straightened and unhooked an arret. It wasn't so much the rude reply but the tone of it. Harsh and deep, and not at all friendly.

The man heeled the mule toward Gossamyr until they stood but two leaps from her. Truly a mutant, the beast. For what purpose did so small a horse serve when its master's feet toed the gra.s.s tops?

The rider remained astride, unconcerned that the proper greeting should see him bowing before her. Green-and-black horizontal-striped hosen, tight as spriggan-skin, emphasized his long legs; a shock of pattern weeping from the blur of black wool cloak and hood. His pale face was severely scored by a thin beard and mustache the color of burnt chestnuts. Following the length of his blade nose, Gossamyr focused on his blue eyes filled with more white than color. Eerie. She had not before looked into eyes of such color.

"I...offer you no bane," she tried. How to address a mortal? "Er...kind mortal."

"Oh?" He leaned forward, balancing his palms on the saddle pommel. "And do all ladies fair welcome a weary traveler with such a big stick? And wielded in a manner as to appear threatening?"

Gossamyr stabbed the staff into the moss at foot and shrugged. "You offered no answer to my query, so I cannot be sure if I face friend or foe."

"I am neither,"he said and stroked a hand over his bearded chin.

Those eerie eyes a.s.sessed her from head to bare toes, a gaze that boldly brushed her being. The sensory a.s.sault unnerved her for she was still startled by the tone of the man's voice. So rough. Not at all melodious. The urge to step forward and scent him was strong, but she remained. Caution, her instincts whispered.

"What is that dangling from your hand?"

She gave the arret a twirl; the sharpened obsidian tip cut the air with a hiss. A simple weapon she fas.h.i.+oned herself. Not fire-forged, but deadly in its swift and accurate flight.

"Looks like that device would hurt," the man bellowed in notes that knocked at the insides of Gossamyr's skull. "At the least, leave a mark, should a man find it lodged in any portion of his anatomy."

Amused by his jesting tone, Gossamyr agreed with a smirk. She had never placed an arret to any part of a man's anatomy-mortal or fee-but there was always a first time. She lowered the weapon but kept it in hand.

She hadn't expected to encounter a mortal so quickly. She had just been getting her bearings! Nor was she prepared in any way to converse with him. Did all mortals emit such raw and echoing sounds when they spoke? Gossamyr was accustomed to the musical lilt of fee speak; she had never guessed that mortals would not sound the same.

Well! Her first mortal. (If she did not tally Veridienne-whom she did not-for she, too, had worn a blazon of glamour). The fascination with standing so close to one did stir her blood. She had only ever dreamed to meet another mortal besides her mother. There wasn't much physical difference between mortal and fee in body height or appendages, save the fee's defining swish of wings, horns, scales and the occasional spiked spine. And the telling blazon.

Gossamyr gripped her throat. Was it noticeable? Is that why curious blue eyes fixed to her?

"You are alone, fair lady of the strange costume?" Not so grating as the initial tones.

"I am," she replied. Strange costume? Her arachnagoss pour-point? It was certainly very average. Mayhap he did not notice the sheen of glamour on her flesh. Better even, mayhap her blazon was concealed?

Two steps took her right up to the mule's side. She gazed up into the mortal's hooded visage. Musk and earth and a curious scent of sweetness intrigued.

"Remarkable," the rumble-toned man said. "And most bewildering."

"Why so?"

"My lady, do you not fear attack?"

A short burst of laughter preceded Gossamyr's c.o.c.ky grin. A spin of the longstaff cut the air in a swift gulp and she stabbed the tip to ground near her foot. "As you have remarked, I carry a big stick."

"Indeed. As well you could take a man's eye out with that spinny thing."

"It is an arret," she explained, then tucked it away on her braided amphi-leather belt. "Achoo!"

"Bless yo-my lady? Did-did you just...twinkle?"

"What?" Twinclian? She hadn't moved. Well, the sneeze had shaken her fiercely- "You just glimmered!"

Impossible-ah! So her blazon was visible!

A step back was necessary. A tug of her pourpoint did not lift the soft fabric any higher than her collarbone. The blazon started under her chin and flowed to the bottom of her collarbone, wrapping around her neck to under her ears.

The fee did not reveal themselves to mortals. Nothing but ill could come from discovery. Another step placed her in the shade of a fat-leaved mulberry.

Yet another startling thought unsettled: this mortal could see her. Mortals were not capable of seeing the fee. Not unless they possessed the sight. Hmm... Unless-no, she knew the fee visited the Otherside completely unseen.

Mayhap a half blood was visible to mortals?

So long as he did see her, she had better distract attention from her blazon, the only telling sign of Faery.

She summed up the man's attire, long dark cloak, striped hose and an open white s.h.i.+rt with blue peac.o.c.ks embroidered around the neck. About his fingers danced colors of ruby, sapphire and gold. Various silver symbols hung from a leather cord about his neck. Alchemical symbols, she surmised. A sure sign of the sight. And that she must beware, for surely he dabbled with magic. "You are... a wizard?"

"Far from it."

"A mage?"

"Are they not two of the same?"

"What are you?" That you can see me!

"Why, I am a man." Still sitting upon his mule he bowed to her and introduced himself. "Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon III." Casting a wink at her, he said, "But you may call me Ulrich."

Ulrich. Who saw her. And whose voice blasted inside her skull and rippled through her body like tiny sparkles of sunlight heating her flesh. Everything about him called to her attention.

Was it the same for him? Did she sound so different? How soon before her blazon faded? Surely the Disenchantment would wipe it away?

And until it did, and she could walk undetected by mortal eyes?

"I shall call you gone." Gossamyr nodded over her shoulder and made show of spinning the staff in a twirl of defiance.

"The lady is not a conversationalist. And I must heed she is well armed." The man heeled his mule and ambled past her. "Very well. This forest remains the same. The trees are the same. All...is well." His hood did not conceal the curious eyes drinking her in from crown to toe. Bare toes, Gossamyr realized as she turned her toes inward. "Fair fall you, my lady. Good...day." He paused, blatantly staring at her, then, snapping his attention away, nodded. He muttered to himself, his parting words low but audible, "Could she be?"

Gossamyr watched until the man disappeared beyond a rise on the red clay path and the whistles of his renewed dirge became but a figment. Only then did she release her held breath. And only then did she realize she had been holding her breath.

What sort of skittish maid am I? He presented no threat. He was but a man. A mortal man. I should have...asked him things. Questioned him!" She kicked a tuft of gra.s.s.

For all her frustration she had not been trained on mortal relations. s.h.i.+nn had ever made it clear a trip to the Otherside would never occur. Martial skills served well against the spriggans, hobs and werefrogs of Faery. One did not have to converse with the rabble, merely lay them out.