Gossamyr (4 page)

Shinn stepped back and nodded.

"Very well, but I've no
twinclian.
How shall I enter—"

France
—
1436

"—the Otherside?"

The droning alarm of a cicada announced her arrival. Wobbling off
balance, Gossamyr swiftly recovered. She bent her knees and, hands
spread, scanned her surroundings.

Every pore on her body sensed the world had changed. The air
smelled verdant. Tightly sown moss, plush in density, cushed beneath
her bare toes as they curled into the thickness. The musty vapor of
earth rose about her. 'Twas a muted aroma of decaying wood and fetid
bracken, similar to Faery but...different.

Gone, the Glamoursiege castle of blue marble.

Gone, the crystal Faery sky devoid of cloud or shadow.

The Spiral forest, why...it was gone. She stood on horizontal
ground, not a mass of forest and marble and reticulated roots all
twined and flowing at the slightest of angles.

A squeeze of her fingers reassured her staff was to hand. The
carved ribbons pressed into her palm tingled with glamour. She had
not natural glamour, but over the years Faery had seeped into her
being, imbuing her with a latent glamour that could be briefly
utilized.

Gossamyr touched her hip belt, clasping a narrow
arret
string.
Scanning the ground she sighted within the brushy grass bright red
toadstools dotted with white warts, closing her into a complete
circle.
Amanita muscaria;
long ago her mother had taught her
the strange name for the mushroom; Latin, she'd named the identifying
language.

Names possess power. A
litany fed to her every day since
she could remember.
Use that power wisely.

The toadstool circle had risen up below the castle tower
overnight. Gossamyr had marveled that the peacocks had walked a wide
berth about it. She had been standing in the tower immediately above
the circle—indeed, a Passage.

A copse of pendulous cypress rose to her left, shadowing the thick
grasses with a silky gray lacing. Pine and earth and grass flavored
the air in a pale mist. Gossamyr drew in a breath. Gone, the sweet
aroma of hyacinth. Shinn did not stand beside her, his hands clasped
before him. The glimmer in her father's violet eyes was but a twinkle
in the air, a breath of fée dust shimmering to naught.

She reached out, grasping at the absence of all she knew, all she
had come to depend upon—Faery. Opening her palm upward, she
spread her fingers. Gone.

But still there.

Faery was neither here nor there but betwixt and between. Though
she could not see him Gossamyr knew Shinn could see her.
I
will send a fetch.
She looked about, but sighted not a
hovering spy.

According to what she had read in Veridienne's bestiary, mortals
did have ways of peering in to Faery.

Indeed?

A mischievous tickle enticed Gossamyr to test that theory. Tilting
her head forward, she peered back through the corner of her eye.
Swiftly, she jerked her head the opposite direction and narrowly
stretched her gaze.

Hmm. Not a glimmer or vibration in the sky. No flutter of
iridescent wings, not a single flicker as fellow fée
twinclianed
elsewhere.

A trickle of panic tittered in Gossamyr's belly. She rubbed her
palms up and down her bare arms—the quilted pourpoint stopped
at hip and shoulder—and turned about, eyeing the ruffled canopy
of treetops. Grapelike clusters of bright yellow laburnum flowers
speckled the greenery. 'Twas clearly the edge of the same forest that
limned her father's castle. There! She recognized the hollowed-out
yew stump—a youngling's favorite hiding spot. But this forest
edge was no Edge. There was no risk of falling to a crush of bones
amidst the marsh roots should she step off the Edge, for the land
beyond this forest stretched on. The Bottom. Everywhere.

Gossamyr gulped. The Bottom was a dangerous place. But where there
were no marsh roots there would be no kelpies. No kelpies meant no
werefrogs. Blessings.

But what situation was she in now?

She had asked for this mission. And wonder upon wonders Shinn had
relented. What was once forbidden now lay before her. The Otherside
was hers to explore.

But not to forget: the fate of Faery relied on her success.

A decisive nod stirred courage to her surface.

"Champions are made. I will return to Faery the victor."

Until then—"Achoo!"

Spreading her arms to adjust her balance, Gossamyr settled a few
steps from where she had landed. "Achoo!"

What tickled her senses?

Sniffling, she thought briefly her watery eyes were tears. Tears
were a sign of weakness, of unfettered emotions. One could not Be
amidst a fury of conflicting emotion. She had once cried enough tears
for a lifetime, so it surprised now there should be any left.

Mayhap they were tears caused by the mortal atmosphere?

"It is merely the dust." For indeed motes of dust
floated, and close loomed a skein of buzzing gnats.

Turning, Gossamyr scanned the dark emerald lacework of the forest
canopy and the blackened trunks of oak trees she recognized, but had
known in a more spectacular image. No exposed roots twisting and
trailing down the length of the Spiral forest. 'Twas her favorite
activity to swing and climb amongst the network of roots, chasing
night moths. And where be the canorous frog song that so twinkled
from amidst the shadowed roots?

Shrugging her hands up her arms, she scanned the forest. A rabbity
moan brewed in her throat. Gossamyr pressed a hand to her chest.
Calm
yourself.

How to return when her mission was complete? She wasn't sure how
she had entered the Otherside. Born without
twinclian
—the
ability to twinkle in and out from a place—she could only
imagine the task had been accomplished via Shinn's glamour.

Perhaps she should have gotten the return method clear with her
father before setting off on adventure. Always, Shinn had tried to
crush her penchant for rushing blindly into situations. A warrior
must assess and plan. But Gossamyr liked the danger, and the thrill
of dashing into the fray—as much as the peaceable kingdom of
Glamoursiege had allowed. There were the occasional vagrants from the
Netherdred that crept into the Spiral; excellent opportunity for
Gossamyr to put her training to use. Always, though, Shinn had been
there to aid.

Mayhap she had leaped a bit too far this time? Who would catch her
should she stumble?

The buzz of a large insect spun Gossamyr about to spy a harnessed
dragon fly. Pale blue wings spanned the width of her forearm. Zip,
zip here; zip, zip there. The bejeweled harness glinted in the
sunlight. It hovered before her—
see me, I am near
—then
jettied up into the forest canopy.

"So he did send a fetch." A bit of Faery close by to
reassure.

A breath of confidence filled Gossamyr's lungs. "Shinn would
have never sent me did he not trust I would be successful. I will
find the Red Lady and put an end to her vicious reign. If more of
those revenants return to Faery, my father will have a full-scale
battle on his hands. I must make haste."

Which way lay Paris? Perched high atop the Spiral in her father's
castle
down
was the only direction she had ever learned. To
navigate horizontally instead of vertically would
prove...interesting.

Gossamyr searched her memory and envisioned a finely detailed page
from Veridienne's bestiary, a map of the mortal city with the various
tribes of Faery inscribed over all. Glamoursiege sat down-south of
Paris.

Lifting her foot, she remembered the Passage. A precarious
position for one just arrived. Stabbing her staff outside the circle,
she swung her legs up and out and landed the ground.

She stared wistfully at the empty ring of toadstools. 'Twas how
the Dancers arrived in Faery. A Passage should, by rights, work both
ways.

Should she? Just a test?

Gripping her staff, Gossamyr lifted her foot and pointed a toe
toward the circle, then...she stepped inside. One foot firmly planted
on the ground. Shallow breaths quietly exhaled. The chirring finale
of the cicada's song rattled to silence.

Nothing.

"Hmm..."

Removing her foot from the circle, she then tried the other foot,
and waited, breath held.

Again, naught but the pulse beat of her heart inside her ears.

Looking about she did not spy the fetch. It saw all, she knew.
Dare she jump inside with both feet? What if it did work? She would
return to Faery. To Mince's sheltering arms. And Shinn's disapproving
eyes.

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 assessed 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 shimmy 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. Cumbersome
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 furnishings 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 scraped 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 shiver 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 glassless 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.