Gossamyr (25 page)

As quickly as it began, the heavens suddenly rumbled. Dust sifted
down from the roof upon the heads of the men. Women screamed.
Gossamyr ducked to avoid the swing of a kris dagger. While down, she
beat a fist into the saggy-hosed crease of a knee, bringing down
another man.

A soot-blackened beam creaked and fell into the center of the
crowd—
thunk
—dispersing her attackers. Thatching
and heavy field stones from the chimney began to shower the tavern.
Not caring what was happening, Gossamyr used the distraction to
escape.

Slipping through the melee, she reached the door. Ulrich gripped
her hand and pulled her outside.

"What was that?"

"A rotting beam and a length of rope."

"Well timed, Ulrich." She leaped to embrace him, closing
her eyes and squeezing him dearly.

"Someone has to look out for you, Sister." He pushed her
from him. Wonder brightened his eyes. "How often is it the
English are served a treat like a nun? You would have been ripped to
shreds by those licentious beasts—and their women would have
cheered them on."

"You did not try to heed my entrance."

"I was busy doing your bidding, hobbling the horse."

A sneeze erupted and Gossamyr blindly followed her rescuer to the
mule. He shoved her onto the saddle and mounted behind her. "Where
are we—
achoo
—headed?"

"Someplace new mortals won't stand out so conspicuously."

"I cannot."

"You must." Ulrich pointed to a line of laundry strung
between two buildings. "What of that one? It is brown, simple
yet stylish."

"I require braies and a shirt or doublet."

"Nay, my lady. There is not time for the spoiled princess to
be choosy. A gown it must be. I see no light in the house. Let's to
it."

She reached to pull Ulrich back, but he scampered to the laundry
line just ahead.

Searching the darkness, Gossamyr leaped from Fancy's side and
joined him. Tall buildings leaned in on one another, blocking the sky
and, pray, their antics.

Ulrich pulled a chemise and gown from the laundry line and offered
it to her. "Take it. It is less conspicuous than the underthings
and rosary." He shoved the gown into her arms and turned to pick
over the other items on the line. "So, a spoiled faery princess
convinces her father to let her go off and save the world."

"Faery."

"Sorry,
Faery.
What
was
daddy thinking?"

"My appreciation for your rescue declines. Rapidly." She
studied the gown. More itchy, heavy wool. But the white chemise he
tossed on top of the gown was a soft thin fabric.

"That goes on beneath," he explained.

"I know that." She almost made a snide face, but
prevented it. The man did not deserve such treatment after saving her
hide. And that hug. He'd made no comment. Best to leave that slip in
propriety unmentioned. "I could wear it alone—"

"Oh, no, it is an undergarment, Gossamyr."

"To wear both would prove cumbersome. Just the ugly piece
then?"

"Very well. Go there, in the shadows behind that horse cart,
and change."

Momentary indecision held Gossamyr beneath the laundry line,
holding the clothing to her chest. She could just tug on the clothes
right here. Before the eyes of this man. Who she suspected desired
her as much as she desired him.

"I know what you're thinking."

She tilted her head. "I wager you do not."

"You think I don't know that women turn and gaze when I pass
them by?" He smiled, revealing brilliance. "It's the teeth,
yes? Difficult for any sane female to overlook. You cannot decide
whether to tease me with a display or to follow orders."

"Tease you? You think very highly of yourself. Are all mortal
men so..."

"Cocksure?"

"I don't think that is the word." Now he'd completely
gone and decided for her. No way would she display anything for this
lusty mortal. Not when he expected it. She turned and sauntered into
the shadows. Sure of anonymity in the darkness, Gossamyr quickly
pulled off the habit and tugged the brown fabric over her head.

Itchy and short. Gossamyr lifted a foot; her ankle was bared well
above the knobby bone. Should serve, until she spied a line with
braies. Tugging at the snug fit about her arms, she skipped out from
the shadows. A tug to the shoulders worked at the tight seams. Too
small by far, this gown.

"Lovely," Ulrich declared with a nod.

"Think you?"

"Why, yes."

A stroke of the back of his finger across her cheek stirred a
sudden shiver to her spine. Mortal touched! Gossamyr jerked away.

"Sorry. I forget you are touchy."

"And I cannot forget you have a wife."

"Just so. Let's be off, then."

"Ulrich, this is stealing."

"Not if you sprinkle some faery coin in our wake."

She dug for the purse she'd placed in the saddlebag. Crystal coins
tinkling on cobbles, Gossamyr tugged Fancy along, into a walk. They
would keep to the narrow streets, Ulrich had instructed. Easier to
avoid a patrolling guardsman, or a ruckus.

"My wife wanted to come to Paris," Ulrich offered in the
quiet of their walk. "I promised her the trip when Rhiana was
old enough to manage the travel."

"How young was your daughter when you...disappeared?"

"Two years. That was a little over a week ago. And twenty
years ago. She was this high to my knees and used to wobble when she
walked."

"Did the other man—the real father—ever visit?"

"He was never found." Gossamyr looked to him for
explanation but he merely shrugged. "Lydia is a strong woman.
She does what she must to survive."

"Like marry again when her husband goes missing?"

"Indeed. I must concede it was good for them both to have a
man in the home. A female needs a man—well, unless she be a
faery warrior. I cannot get the enormity of what has occurred into my
skull. It yet aches."

"You have had but a week to grieve. Your wife has had twenty
years." Gossamyr used the measurement with growing knowledge.
She was little older than twenty years. So odd that Ulrich had lost
the length of her lifetime, and yet, they were peers.

They walked onward through the dark streets, Fancy's hooves a
singular echo in the night. But close, the whisper of liquid called
to Gossamyr's senses. "What is that sound?"

"Hmm... The Seine! Filthy and muddied, the river is the
lifeline of Paris."

Yes, but where there was water... "Might we step down to the
river? I'm in need of a splash. I hadn't chance to quench my thirst
in that tavern."

"Sounds perfect." Ulrich skipped ahead and pointed out a
stone staircase at river's edge. "Though I wouldn't swim in this
brew,"he called as he descended the wide limestone steps. "It's
an awful mix. 'Course, I could endure a splash myself."

Gossamyr paused on the top step as she watched Ulrich skip down
the wide stone stairs and bend over the brown waters to dip in his
hands. Twenty years. Stolen. Unthinkable that any fée could be
so cruel to one who had merely stumbled by accident into Faery—even
Shinn.

"We are a mischievous lot," she muttered.

Tying Fancy to a post near the stairway, Gossamyr then descended
the steps, taking each wide level in a skip.

The saddlebag abandoned behind his feet, Ulrich poured handfuls of
water over his face. Kneeling forward, he had to check his balance.
He didn't want to take a dip in waters rumored to receive the king's
privy, the Greve's victims, and any other waste the city dumped in
it. It did not smell bad. But neither did the taste rimming his
tightly closed lips entice.

But bone, it felt refreshing to wash away the day. Too much had
happened, and his confession to Gossamyr had only dredged up misery.
He regretted his life for the family he had lost. If only there were
some way to take back control, to return it to how it should be.

Only a fool entertains foolish thoughts. He must accept—
Yeow—

The snarling beast that leaped for Ulrich's head had not in mind
for mental suffering. Jaws wide and long fangs bared, it spat drool
and slimy water as it neared Ulrich's face.

Gossamyr spied the kelpie as its oval nostrils emerged on the calm
surface of the river. It approached with stealth; kelpies were not
known to attack. It was the werefrog clinging to the kelpie's head
that set Gossamyr sprinting down the wide steps to Ulrich.

She reached the soul shepherd as his upper body submerged.
Lunging, she managed to grab an ankle. Struggling fiercely, Ulrich
fought the werefrog underwater while Gossamyr strained to keep hold
of his ankle. If he was pulled completely underwater, the kelpie
would swim over him and weight him down, drowning a fine feast for
the werefrog.

There was nothing on shore to anchor her foot to. Gossamyr leaned
back and managed to pull Ulrich with her. An arm slashed out of the
water, spraying the sky and her with water and frog slime. An
abbreviated yelp was instantly drowned.

The werefrog sprang up from the surface. Jaws dripping blood, it
twisted its fat slug body and dived. In the next moment two arms
slapped the surface.

Gossamyr gripped Ulrich's hands. He grasped hold—good, he
was still conscious. She tugged and struggled with his weight and the
slippery limestone that was more intent on serving as a slide than
good purchase.

"Help!" Ulrich clung to the limestone, fighting against
the unseen werefrog, which most likely clamped on a leg with fangs as
long as a man's finger.

"I've got you!" Gossamyr called. "Do not thrash
about!"

"It's chewing off my leg!"

Her grasp slipped from his left wrist. Ulrich slid back,
submerging to his chest.

The werefrog sprang into the air.

Using her free hand, Gossamyr grabbed her staff and swung. Bits of
violet frog splat the walls of the riverbank and her face and the
water surface.

The kelpie's nostrils sank. Ripples undulated away from the
river's edge.

Ulrich, gasping and moaning, clung to the limestone.

Gossamyr levered him up and out to lay like a drowned rat upon the
stone. She went immediately to his leg. Below the knee, exposed bits
of flesh and blood revealed a neat bite, but small, considering the
width of the werefrog's jaw.

"I think you'll live," she commented, but went to
ripping off the shredded part of his sodden hose to tie about the
wound.

"What..."He coughed and choked and spat out drool of
vicious brown water. "Hades!"

"A werefrog," Gossamyr answered. "Just rest."
She swiped a hand over her forehead, dislodging a chunk of frog. "It
is dead."

"Werefr—" And he fainted.

Fine and well— Gossamyr swung, smashing her staff upon the
chattering fangs that inched toward the saddlebag. The action sent
the leather bag flying against the wall. It opened and out spilled
the alicorn.

"No!" Gossamyr lunged for the horn and tipped it back
inside the bag with her fingers.

A scan of her surroundings sighted frog bits, but none moving.
Tucking the saddlebag to her stomach, she looked over the river's
surface. Be the werefrog as irascible as a revenant?

Deep in the lush wilds of the Valois woods, in the exact center of
the dense forest, sat a circular wattle-and-daub cottage with a low
door to protect the inhabitants from charging marauders. A meadow
thick with dandelion kites, the buzz of pollen-laden humble bees and
gold coltsfoot blooms flourished twenty strides from the cottage.

In the center of the meadow stood a brilliant white stallion, its
moonlit mane carefully twisted into witch braids and its tail
protected from ill deeds with the same.

The beast lifted its head, pricking its ears. The very fabric of
the universe had suddenly...sighed. And following that sigh fluttered
a keening cry only the beast recognized. It snorted in recognition
and twisted its head toward the sound. South. Toward the village with
so many dwellings and many more people.

No Enchantment there. Save the one fragment of the beast for which
it had been longing.

Soft white dandelion kites stirred into a fury as the stallion
stepped into a cantor, and then a gallop. It sped toward the cottage
where the fée man who had cared for him over the years stood
with his arms about his mortal wife, both taking in the warmth from
an evening bonfire.

Dominique San Juste startled out of the embrace at the pounding
arrival of his equine companion. "What is it, Tor? Did a humble
bee sting you on the flank?"

Tor bowed before the man, beckoning he mount his back.

"Looks like he wants to take you for a ride," the female
said.

"Very well." Dominique slid onto Tor's back, his long
black cape slipping across the stallion's hindquarters. "I—yeow!"

Tor took off. The faery's parting words to his wife were but bumpy
gasps.

"I will return to you anon! Easy, Tor. What be the hurry?"
And then the sensation of recognition was abruptly cut off. But the
unicorn did not cease. He knew the direction he must journey to
become whole.

Ulrich claimed an uncle, Armand LaLoux, who lived behind les
Augustins in a dark little corner of the right bank that sported a
baker's shop and a plume dyer. Monsieur LaLoux would offer bed and
some fine cooking, for he worked in the baker's shop stoking the
fires, and was always bringing home new creations.

Gossamyr wondered how fine the cooking could be after Ulrich
explained that the constant warring between the Burgundians, the
Armagnacs and the English kept food scarce and the prices high. To
Parisians bread was precious, for the milled flour was imported from
outside the city. Often the flour was ransacked before a brave seller
could even broach the massive gates. Leeks and field roots made up
the diet.

Appreciation for having grown up during a peaceful time in Faery
grew as they navigated the inner walls of the city. Alms beggars
rushed in throngs, grabbing at her tight wool sleeve and tugging her
staff. Gossamyr shoved gently at an elder man with a face so black
with dirt she first guessed him one of the Moors Veridienne had
sketched in the bestiary.