Gossamyr (21 page)

"You are beautiful this evening," he said. "I
don't believe I have ever seen you, my sweet, with your hair
unbound."

My sweet? Gossamyr's heart lunged up her throat.

A rush of anticipation pressed her up onto her toes. Twilight
danced in Avenall's eyes, making them liquid, a rich violet wine
Gossamyr wanted to drink until she wobbled. Close enough to kiss, to
smell, to taste.

"Brown,"he whispered. He held her face so she could
not look from him. "I have not before noticed your eyes. They
are...exotic."

She smiled at that description. "Avenall, why did you ask
to court me?"

"Isn't that apparent?"

"Tell me."

"Because I favor you."

"But why? I am half-blooded. Is it I am so different?"

"A bit. I saw the mortal passion in your heart when you
witnessed the Dance."

She bristled. That had been many years earlier. She'd snuck out
to witness the Dance, something Shinn had forbidden, for her father
forbid more than granted.

"You did?"

"You reached out and touched the Dancer's hair as he spun
past you. I know you wanted to touch the mortal."

Surprised Avenall had stepped so perfectly into her thoughts,
Gossamyr could but shrug and gaze into his delicious violet eyes.

"You don't care what others think of you," he said.
"I watch when you stride through the Glamoursiege markets. You
are strong and smart and beautiful. I admire you, Gossamyr. I always
will, even after your father marries you to another man."

"Don't say things like that." For indeed, Shinn had
only days ago forbidden Avenall from courting her. His only excuse:
he would not have a Rougethorn in the family. "Let's be in the
moment tonight, please?"

"Can you feel it?" He took her hand and placed it
over his chest.

Indeed, his heartbeats were strong and, when Gossamyr
concentrated, she thought surely they did beat in synch with hers.
But even more, the hardness of his body beneath her fingers
intrigued. She slid her hand up to the part in his sheered silk shirt
and drew a finger along his flesh.

The wind of his wings, spread wide and full, schussed her face
with a sweet breeze. Heliotrope; his distinctive scent. Gossamyr
closed her eyes and surrendered to the sensations that stormed about
her. Heartbeats increased. An urgency vibrated in her bones. She
wanted him closer, next to her, inside her...

The weight of his hand sliding down her neck and parting her
robe made her gasp.

"May I,"he whispered into her mouth "touch you?"

"Yes."

The air cooled her briefly as gentle, wide hands cupped her
breasts. The touch making her buoyant, Gossamyr rose to her tiptoes.
An unbidden mewl crossed her lips.

"They are so...large," he said with a smiling titter.

"They are?"Gossamyr laughed. "I had not thought
them overlarge."

"Fée women have nothing compared to this,"he
said as he smoothed and tickled and then bent to lave at her breast
with his tongue. "They would hinder your flight, I imagine."

"Pity, I've not that worry. So that is the only reason you
fancy me?"

"Don't be foolish, Gossamyr."

"I'm teasing."

And that was all she could say for the sensation of Avenall's
mouth and teeth and tongue working at her breasts drew a shudder to
her bones.

Gossamyr tilted back her head, lifting her breasts higher. It
was then she noticed the flutter of Avenall's wings behind him. The
pellicle wings, normally translucent, had deepened to a rich violet.
Most remarkable!

"Your wings," she said on a gasp. "They are
gorgeous. Why have they changed color?"

"That, my sweet
—
" He lifted his violet
gaze to hers. A smile could not be erased. "Is arousal."

"Oh. Oh! I've never before seen the like."

"Good. I should hate to discover you are overly familiar
with male arousal."

"Gossamyr?"

Ah! Might she not simply enjoy this moment before all crowded in
and became a battlefield?

"Ohhh... Gossamyr?"

Ulrich's voice sounded strange. Unsure.

Wading to shore, she looked for her abandoned gown. What appeared
a mushy rock was actually a tangled heap of wet wool.

"You might want to get dressed, Gossamyr!"

"You've a naked woman behind that windmill?"

She stiffened at the sound of a gruff male voice. Not Ulrich's. A
chill clamped to her spine. Instinct shot to the surface. A bravo?
More likely a vicious Armagnac. She had not been too alert. Fool!

Scrambling to untangle the wet gown, Gossamyr cursed her need to
linger in the stream. Her hair, heavy and dripping down her back,
clung like deflated eels.

"She's...my mother actually. In the name of King Charles VII,
I beg you do not go back there!"

The
shing
of steel alerted Gossamyr like an
arret
to
the gut. No staff to hand, for it sat in the windmill. Not even a dry
piece of clothing! She managed to untangle the gown and worked to
open the hem.

"This should prove interesting," another voice said. Not
the gruff voice. Nor, again, Ulrich's. But male. How many were there?
"You take him, I'll get the mother."

"I don't think so!"

One of the men let out a yelp of pain. Gossamyr cringed, hoping
upon hopes it was not Ulrich.

"Bastard!" The gruff one. Another slash of steel sliced
the air. A metal clang—armor?—and a groan akin to having
the air punched out of one's lungs.

"I'm coming!" Gossamyr yelled as she shrugged her arms
into the sodden sleeves. The water soaked into the wool and hampered
the ease of dress. "I think."

A glance to her braies found the amphi-leather merely a pile of
dust. The last raiment of Faery had left her body; the Enchantment
had gone. She spun, the gown settling about her knees, her bare legs
not finding purchase in the slick grass. The braided hip belt lay
there, reduced to fine dust in the shape of a leather strap. But the
weapons and her sigil remained solid—stone and wood traveled
easily from one world to the next. She gripped an
arret
in
each hand and began to spin them.

In her peripheral view she saw a body land the ground. The man
tumbled backward, his legs flipping over his head. Steel flashed and
a dark leather-capped head shook off the fall and glanced her way.

"Got it under control," Ulrich reassured. He dashed
forward, but his feet slipped on the rain-slick ground and he went
down as his aggressor swung. Fortunately Ulrich's head was sailing
toward the ground.

A huge barrel of a man rumbled around the water mill, sliding into
Gossamyr's view. He growled like a bear and charged. Sword down and
at his side, the bear heading toward her looked ready to pounce
rather than slash. And he did.

The
arret
connected with his forehead, bringing him down in
a soggy slap of flesh. Gossamyr marched up to him and yanked the
obsidian tip from his skull. Not much blood. He was still—

A meaty hand lashed out, catching her ankle and knocking her off
balance. The sodden wool twisted between her legs, making a quick
jump to her feet impossible. Pinned by the shoulders, Gossamyr's head
submerged in the stream. She felt massive hands grope her neck and
then—

As the bubbling of water in her ears dissipated, the sound was
replaced by a gurgle of death. A final gasp of life spewed across her
face. Gossamyr looked into the dismayed eyes of her attacker and
watched his dark eyeballs roll upward. She shoved at him but his
lifeless body remained, dead weight forcing out her own precious
breath.

"Be right back!" Ulrich called. Having taken out her
attacker, he now raced toward the mill and with a powerful grunt,
delivered a blow to an unseen assailant.

Her breath fast leaving due to the oxen that lay on top of her,
Gossamyr noticed the stream of blood ripple from his skull where the
sword had cleaved it apart. She pushed but could not lever the giant
from her body. She groped for a hold, but slick grass lined the shore
and her fingers slid and slipped. Her heavy head splashed into the
water and she gulped in water and strands of her loosed hair.

Of a sudden she could breathe and it was possible to lift to her
elbows. Leaning in to the space where the oxen had been slain was
Ulrich's dazzling smile. "Did I not remark you would need me
sooner or later? Looks like it was anon."

She couldn't prevent a smile. The man continued to surprise.

He offered a hand, and Gossamyr clamped hers into it.

"Armagnacs?" she asked, standing and shaking out the
heavy wool gown.

"Mayhap. Any man with a sword and a growl is fair game,
remember that."

"I won't forget."

Bending to grab the last few
arrets,
she thought what to do
with the applewood crest. She could not abandon it. It was her banner
on the field of battle. Clasping it to her chest she strode from the
stream, fighting the wet wool with kicks and stomps.

Ulrich followed her to the mill. "So you don't fight naked,
eh?"

She turned to deliver a scathing remark, common—but
unexpected—relief tamed her tongue. "It is not in my
repertoire, no."

"Pity, I would have given a lifetime's coin to see that."

"Ulrich, I wager a lifetime of your coin would not see a
family of peasants through one prosperous winter."

"You may have a point there." He tapped one of two dead
men on the skull with the tip of the sword he'd heisted during the
fight. "You think they were after the alicorn?"

"What else?"

"Well, you
were
naked."

"Will I ever live that down?"

"Not if I can prevent it, my Naked Faery Not. Not if I can
prevent it."

They passed a tree bare of leaf and vigor; as well, the body
hanging from a sturdy branch by a frayed stretch of olive hosen had
been drained of life and reduced to bone.

Not Faery, Gossamyr thought horribly.
Not the same.
Though
she had heard tales skulls were found in the marsh roots. She liked
to twist and twine her way through the roots spun about the upsweep
of the Spiral forest, and occasionally descended close enough to
peruse the gloomy marsh waters—but had never seen a ripple of
danger.

She followed Ulrich as he led her and Fancy past a makeshift table
of boards where three men played what Ulrich explained was called
hoca
and swilled dark beer as they waited to pass through the
gates to Paris. The men who had attacked at the water mill had not
been part of a larger raid; these people would remain, to their boon,
unaware of that trouble.

Her wool gown had dried half through. Upon Ulrich's insistence she
put up her hair so as not to draw undue attention, twisting it in a
chignon loosely at the back of her head. Ulrich had suggested the
applewood sigil as a means to secure it. Without a hip belt to secure
her
arrets,
the weapons were kept to hand in a coil. Feeling
completely without origin in the odd-fitting gown, Gossamyr drew in a
breath. This was it. The city lay just beyond those gates.

"Might as well get comfortable," Ulrich said as he
tossed the reins over Fancy's back. The mule did never wander far, so
long as a patch of clover enticed. "I think the gatekeepers take
joy in making everyone wait. Pity, for the Armagnacs take advantage
of our delay. It may have been a boon they attacked us instead of
these people. There are children here."

"Why put people in such danger? The gatekeepers are admitting
the provisions before the children!"

"One cart loaded with flour sacks be far more valuable than a
mere child. 'Tis the damned English. Think they run the town, they
do. 'Course, now I think of it...they do."

Ulrich removed his cape and, with a scruff of his hand through his
hair, gave a mighty shake of his head, then sought a comfortable nest
on the compacted grass. He lay back, tucking the saddlebag beneath
his neck for a pillow, stretched his arms over his head and yawned.
"Think I deserve some rest after our skirmish. You mind watching
Fancy?"

"Not at all."

A cursory check of the surroundings counted six men, two women—one
with babe to breast—two children no higher than Gossamyr's
elbow, and a goat rounding the batch. The cartsmen who manned the
convoy busied themselves with counting, while a reed of a man,
bespectacled and wielding quill and paper, followed and marked down
figures that were called to him.

Gossamyr did not sense danger. But when, since arriving in the
Otherside, had she actually beat danger to the notice? How these
people sat about—in wait of attack—with such calm
stunned. Had they become accustomed to the violence it seemed a mere
interruption to a game of stones?

She squatted near Ulrich's head and studied his ease. So quickly
he dismissed the danger after nearly being killed himself. He tilted
his head to see her behind him. The effect was strangely enthralling,
those celestial eyes beaming up at her.

"You intend to sit right there?" he wondered.

She shrugged. "I thought to."

"Then—" he lifted his head and gestured with his
hand "—would you mind? I could use a soft pillow."

She realized he wanted to lay his head on her lap. Gossamyr
scanned the travelers sitting about, playing stones, drinking and
dozing. None paid her or Ulrich any mind.

Ulrich still waited her decision. He ruffled his hand through his
hair. "I've not the lice if that be what you dread."

"I did not think as much." Though, now he mentioned
it... "Very well."

She seated herself against a sheep-size rock, her spine melding to
the warm curved stone, and stretched out her legs. Ulrich laid his
head on her thighs and closed his eyes. Wriggling into a comfortable
position, the saddlebag splayed across his stomach, he let out a
satisfied groan.