Gossamyr (37 page)

There in the center of the toadstool ring, his hands swaying in
the air, a mortal danced. A male, for he was hearty and dressed in
striped hosen and doublet. His head tilted back and mouth open, he
laughed and giggled and shouted out in joy.

Gossamyr tilted her head, studying the mortal's movements.
Almost as if commanded by the mistress of the Dance, a puppet dancing
for the twisted pleasure of the masses. "Poor thing."

Gossamyr worked her way to the edge of the ring where the grass
had been trampled to an emerald mat and stood, her barefoot propped
on the head of a wide loamy toadstool. No one paid her mind. Even the
piskies soared by without so much as a teasing thrust of their
lavender tongues.

Splash of mead sprayed her cheek and she swept out her tongue
to lick away the sweet liquor from the corner of her lips. Dozens of
fée danced a tribal rhythm about the mortal, a circle of
violet eyes. His own eyes were closed, oblivious to a danger Gossamyr
could not know. But she sensed it.

Dancers spun past her in increasing speed, stomping and
twirling and lifting skirts high to expose moonlight-pale thighs and
bronze ankle chains. Fluttering wings swept the air in heady perfume
of heliotrope, rosemary and rose.

She spied the mortal dance closer. For all matters he looked as
all fée did, having two legs, two arms, a torso, head and
hair
—
rusty hair. Wingless, as was she
—
not
uncommon in Faery. But the eyes, when they flashed wide to take in
the merriment, were not violet. A pale noncolor. From where she
stood, Gossamyr could not determine what shade or tint.

The wind of the Dancers' reel stirred Gossamyr's hair as the
mortal passed her by, oblivious to all but the music. "An
endless moment,"she recalled Shinn once saying as he'd explained
in few words her frequent questions.

Closing her eyes, Gossamyr drew in the heavy green scent of
moist meadow grass. A musty aroma drifted up from the frilled
underside of the toadstools. Blackberries crushed, spiced, and brewed
to summer mead spilled down throats and from bronze goblets.

Drawing deeply, she sensed another aroma, a scent she had not
before smelled. Earthy and tainted with the ripe lush dregs of
crushed grapes. Mortal scent? She leaned forward. Delicious.
Beguiling.

Stretching out a hand, she wished with all her might
—
and
it happened.

The skim of hair across her fingers. Swift, but the moment
slowed, so she could sense every individual strand and memorize the
texture as if she had studied it for centuries.

Clasping her fingers to her chest, she closed her eyes and
stood on tiptoe. The canorous swing of the revelers faded into the
background as her wishes, her passion was born.

The Otherside. She would journey there someday, to explore and
discover and learn all that she could of the beguiling creature
called mortal, for she was part of the realm, as well
—
by
half.

Staring at her fingers now, Gossamyr perused the lines of life.
There, mayhap the trail of the Dancer's hair deepened that line.
Reaching out, she touched Ulrich's hair. Overwhelming tears rushed to
her eyes.

"Gossamyr?"

It was him. This mortal had Danced for her unknowing. Not so long
ago, he would remark. Many dozens of moons, she knew.
An endless
moment.
Tricksy, this time difference between Faery and the
Otherside, moving neither forward in synch, but twisting in and upon
itself. Avenall had spoken the truth of Time.

Truly, this man was the mortal who had unearthed her passion for
the Otherside.

And yet, be it only because she was mortal? Her passion for all
things not Faery stirred up from the depths of her being? Had the
mortal passion led her here after all? Why hadn't Veridienne told
her?

Do you already subscribe to a truth you cannot trust?

Believe and you Belong.

Believe in what?

She did not want to belong—not here!

"Am I mortal, Ulrich?" She gripped his shirt, fingering
the needlework dragonflies. "Do you think I am mortal? Not of
Faery?"

"What are you babbling about?"

"Avenall—the pin man. He...he told me things."

"Bizarre things surely."

"You've said yourself, I am more mortal than fée."

"Yes, but you've told me you are half-blooded."

"You never believed me. And the spell in the cathedral tower,
it did not locate me!"

"The spell—but I am not a mage, precious one. 'Twas
merely a trick that may or may not have succeeded. Why are you so
upset? You take the word of some minion who tries to make you believe
such nonsense? Gossamyr, I saw you the moment you left Faery. I saw
the blazon."

Conscious of her lost glamour, she smoothed a palm across the base
of her throat and over her collarbones. "Any mortal who spends
time in Faery develops a blazon. It is the glamour fixing to one's
essence. Have I an essence? Or but a mortal soul? Oh, Ulrich, you
must help me!"

"You need rest, Gossamyr. You have not rested properly since
we have joined up. Your mind, it plays cruel tricks upon your brain."

"But the Red Lady told him about her banishment. Ulrich, the
succubus was banished from Faery by Shinn. The very man who would
call me daughter was betrothed to marry the Red Lady. Why would he
not tell me? Why the lie?"

"You would believe a succubus's minion over your own flesh
and blood?"

"I—I am not Shinn's blood," she whispered.

"What?"

"Avenall claims I am but a mortal exchange for Shinn's
changeling child."

Ulrich sat back, his legs bent, forearms propped on his knees. The
single candle's flame, set on the floor before the window, shadowed
long lashes across his forehead.

"You have no answer for that."

"I don't know what to think. You have a relationship with
this pin man that you call him by name? You know him well enough to
trust his word?"

"I did once. We were...in love."

"Oh?"

"Mv father would not allow him to court me because he was not
Glamoursiege but rather a Rougethorn, I told you that. The two tribes
have warred against one another. And yet, they were to wed..."
Impossible to imagine that Shinn might have once agreed to marry the
Red Lady. And yet, she knew so little, mayhap it had been an easy
agreement.

"But he did not marry her. Instead, he took a mortal wife.
This mortal passion makes one do crazy things."

"Indeed. It will set a man on a deadly quest to find a
hornless beast of myth."

Gossamyr sniffed and, only now realizing she cried, pressed the
heels of her palms to her eyes. "You see I have emotion. Mortal
emotions that run afoul with the merest of problems. Don't look at
me."

"Be you mortal or be you fée you are still the same,
Gossamyr. A beautiful warrior—"

"Sent by lies to exterminate my father's banished lover!"

Ulrich gave a low whistle.

"Bloody elves, does Shinn banish every fée who gets
close to him and his own? Mayhap Veridienne was banished, too!"

"You don't believe that."

"I don't know what is truth anymore."

"You know your mother was mortal."

"Yes, but is Veridienne my birth mother or merely a foster
mother?"

The clank of an iron pot below silenced them both. Armand must be
to the evening meal. Counting her heartbeats, Gossamyr squeezed her
eyes tightly shut to avoid the steady blue gaze bent before her.

"There is a way to know for sure," Ulrich said. She
looked up at him. "Call out your father."

"To Paris? The Red Lady would scent him in a moment. Shinn
would not be so foolhardy."

"Can you send the fetch to him?"

"I haven't seen Shinn's fetch for a time. But you!" She
lunged and clamped her hands upon Ulrich's shoulders. "You can
work a spell to see my truth? Yes?"

"I am but a mere shepherd of—"

"You can! You studied with a mage. Your spell in the
cathedral was successful."

Vacillating with a noncommittal shrug and then a defeated sigh,
Ulrich offered, "You are quick to use magic now."

"If I be mortal, it is my right."

"I would have to check my leech book."

"Then do it! Where is it? Here!" She dived for the
saddlebag and upended its contents. The mortar and her sigil
scattered. A small book of folded parchment slid out beside the
candle and she paged through the stitched sheets. Black lines of
flowing text darted from side to side of each page in a tilted manner
that made it difficult to decipher the words. She knew the mortal
script, yet this was erratic. Why did everything have to be so
complicated?

From behind her, she felt Ulrich's arms embrace her and his hands
move over hers, closing the book in her lap.

"Does it truly matter, faery princess?"

Do you know the truth of yourself?

"I am not fée. It was...is, and always has been, a
mortal love."

"I understand now, the mortal passion you speak of."

"What of it?"

"It is love, Gossamyr. Love is the mortal passion!"

"I—" But it made sense, so much sense. Shinn's
mortal passion for Veridienne. Her mother's love for her home. And
she, she had always known that she could love, but had pressed it
back as the mortal passion. "I think you are right, Ulrich."

Silence pounded in her ears. Her mortal soul beating within,
seeking escape?
Your truth will be your end.
"But I must
learn the truth. Help me, Ulrich."

"Very well." He drew her onto his lap and, looking over
her shoulder, the two paged through the leech book. "There must
be something in here."

"We must hurry. The pin man will tell his mistress who I am."

"Think you?"

"Yes. Though I did leave him with the truth of us, I wager he
shall not remember. If only I could recall his name complete I might
break the
erie.
Ulrich, as Faery slips from me, so too do my
memories."

"You remember your father."

"How could I forget Shinn?"

"It is akin to asking how he could not love a child he has
raised as his daughter."

Turning in Ulrich's lap, Gossamyr looked into his truth. Her
Dancer. His presence in Faery had forged her curiosity for the
Otherside. Had he not danced, she might never have attempted to
convince her father to allow her this mission. It could not be
coincidence that had placed them together on this path to change
their futures. Or be it the mortal passion that held her in its
thrall?

She waited in the attic, twilight shimmering a thin silver line
across the window. Cross-legged, she sat, and closed her eyes. Those
three words from the dilapidated castle returned to her.
Vengeance,
valor, truth.

What word had vengeance replaced? Charity? No, there had been a
single "r." Honor? And why had she claimed valor when all
along the truth had dodged her like a fetch's flight?

She had not succumbed to the dreaded fée curse called the
mortal passion. She was the antithesis of the malady. For in her
heart, she already loved. A mortal who could love. So many
unexplained things from her childhood could be answered with the
simple statement: You are mortal.

She did never heal as did the fée; scars abounded on her
legs and arms. Glamour had to be learned, 'twas not innate. No wings.
Unable to
twinclian.
Not so tall as the lithe fée and
not slender. Muscular and well formed, and as Avenall had remarked,
breasts far too large to accomplish flight. Brown eyes. And how she
had lumbered in the Faery air, not like here, where she positively
fit.

Could Avenall's claim that her truth would be her end have some
bearing on Shinn's silence? It made little sense a man who had
claimed to love her for so long could so easily dispose of her. Was
Shinn capable of wearing such a mask? Had he been plotting the Red
Lady's demise, with Gossamyr as the weapon of destruction, since her
birth? Why, if they had been affianced, had he not initially refused
the betrothal? Rougethorns had always been known to dabble. Surely
their union had taken that into account? Mayhap it had something to
do with the rift? To combine magic with Enchantment to induce it to
heal?

No, it did not seem like her father.

Every day she learned more of the lord of Glamoursiege's quick and
bitter temper. What twisted reign did Shinn walk? He had no right to
toy with love and desire. Had his own tragic love affair pushed him
to be so protective of her? To jealously cast away her lover?

The soft footfalls of Ulrich's boots landed the attic floor.
Gossamyr heard him shuffle a jumble of items in his hands as he laid
them on the floor behind her. Pages flipped in his leech book. A
heavy sigh weighed down his breath. He had gathered the required
supplies to work the spell—one gray mouse tail, sleep dust
(from Armand's eyes), fresh thyme and six strands of Gossamyr's hair.

"You can do this," she offered, turning to catch his
reluctant, yet agreeing, nod. "What betroubles you, Ulrich?"

"Of course I can work the spell. Thing is, I don't know if I
want
to do this."

"You would refuse me help?"

"Never."

"Then what is the problem?"

Seriousness stilled his eyes. "There is a requirement to work
the spell. You must present yourself to me bared of propriety and
vestments."

"I come to you open and prepared for the truth."

"As well—" another sigh and a riffle of his
fingers through his hair "—vou must be naked."

Gossamyr slid down her borrowed braies. She hooked her fingers at
the knife-ravaged hem of the silk gown and caught the stunned look on
the man's face. "What?"

"I don't know if I can do this, Gossamyr. Don't. You... I
can't—