Gossamyr (7 page)

"Mayhap I do."

"I've great need to know how far away it lies. What is the
time from here to the next village? How many suns will rise before I
arrive?"

The horizon held his attention. Young, he appeared, though the
gashed flesh on his hands lended to hard labor, or struggle.
Definitely struggle, to gauge from the condition of his face. He
could well be her peer.

"Aparjon," he offered, without looking her way. "That
be the next village. And following...who knows." His heavy sigh
intrigued Gossamyr. "I go where I am led. Tell me true, you have
not been sent to retrieve me to Faery?"

"You continue to assume I am from Faery when I tell you I am
not." She winced at the lie. And she fooled herself to believe
the blazon was not visible even with the highest agraffe secured. "I
am on a mission."

"Ah. A woman on a mission. And she wields a big stick, so
watch out world!"

Ulrich scruffed a hand through his tangles of dark hair and
offered a genuine grin. A missing tooth to the side of his front
teeth spoke of certain battle. "You are not like most women."

"Why say you such?"

"You are confidant and commanding."

She bristled proudly at his expert observations.

"And...well, you do twinkle."

"And you bleed."

He touched the cut on his forehead and studied the minute flakes
of blood on his fingers before dismissing it with a shrug. "A
mere scuffle, which found the opponent most unfortunate."

"You sure it was not a tangle with a prickle bush?"

"Would that it had been so. I hate bloody banshees." He
narrowed a suspicious gaze at her. "You're not a banshee, are
you?"

"No. Merely mort—like you. What of that bruise?"

Trembling fingers smoothed over the modena on the man's face. He
grimaced and shook his head. "If I told you a woman gave it to
me, would you believe such foolery?"

Gossamyr shrugged. "A woman like myself?"

"I see your point."

"Your insistence you see faeries and banshees leads me to
wonder if you've the sight?"

"That dance changed everything. I'm still a bit dansey-headed
from the whole event. I want Faery from my eyes!"

So he did see. Yet obviously it was not a gift he enjoyed.

Striding lightly, Gossamyr clicked her tongue to encourage the
mule to pick up pace. It did not, and so she slowed.

"Now, explain to me why, if you are not a faery, your dress
is so strange. Leaves for clothing? And those braies, they appear to
be leather, but never have I seen so remarkable a color. Only the
fair folk could fashion such a garment and make it strong and so
flexible."

Gossamyr smirked. The remarkable color was utterly average.
Fashioned from frog skin, the amphi-leather was strong but flexible
and comfortable.

"It would not be wise to be seen by any in a village or
otherwise dressed in such a manner," he stated. "Women
conceal their forms with dresses and silly pointed hats. And sleeves.
And shoes. Braies and hose are for men. As are weapons."

She had not considered as much. Why had not Shinn? Of course, male
and female were equals in Faery. Though Veridienne's bestiary had
detailed the misbalance between the sexes in the Otherside. For all
Shinn's visits to the Otherside, he should have known.

Gossamyr glanced over her attire. The fitted pourpoint stopped at
her thighs. The weapon belt hung snugly across her hips. The
Glamoursiege arms were carved in fire-forged applewood—faery
wings upon a sword and shield; a holly vine wrapped about the sword
signified the peaceable times. Amphi-leather braies wrapped her legs,
and secured about her ankles a thin strip of leather kept the loose
braies from catching on brambles or sticks.

The bestiary had illustrated mortal women wearing dresses sewn
from ells of elaborate fabric trimmed with furs and jewels. Gossamyr
wore gowns when it suited her—for balls and celebrations.
Rarely though did such cumbersome garb suit her.

Had Veridienne insinuated herself to the Otherside with ease? But
of course, her mother had known the ways of this world, for she had
been born here. Gossamyr sensed now it would require much more than
mere study of pictures and text for a rogue half-blood fée to
find equal success.

Keep the blazon concealed.

"As well—" Ulrich leaned forward "—you
travel alone, and are far too lovely to put off a man's advances."

"Let no man test my mettle unless he wishes to pull back a
nub. Or, lose another tooth."

Ulrich whistled through the space in his teeth. "I believe
you, my lady. I believe you."

She stepped through the grass and leaned in close to him. "Stop
smiling."

"Can't."

"Try."

He spread his arms wide to exclaim, '"Tis the bane of my
existence, this smile." He paced a grand circle about her, as if
announcing to the masses an exciting performance. "For all the
tragedy I have endured it did little to remove this false glee. For
it is false. I feel only sadness in my heart."

"Be that the reason for your mournful tune when first you
approached?"

He stilled in his circle of footsteps. "You heard?"

"Your world is filled with echoes—er,
this
world."
She grimaced and punctuated her frustration by stabbing her staff
into the ground with each word.
"My
world. The
continent."

"France?"

"Indeed."

She caught his bemused grin. Far more appealing than his frown or
shouted oaths. The sudden thought that this mortal appealed to her
only vexed.
You've no luxury to dally!

"As for my smile, women drop like flies in a swoon when they
see my pearly chompers."

"Are you sure it is not your smell?" Peering through the
corner of her eye at him, Gossamyr teased, "Flies dropping in
manure?"

He puffed out a protesting huff.

"Well,
I
am still standing,"she offered, unable
to hide a playful grin.

"You, my lady—" he stabbed the air before her with
a finger "—are not a woman."

"I am so!"

"You are a faery."

"The correct term is fée."

"Fée, faery, banshee, witch! For all my troubles are
caused by the like." He kicked the dirt path and dust rose up
about his particolored ankles.

Swoon? More like clap him with the tip of her staff. A banshee?
Truly? Gossamyr knew of no root swamps—the banshees' usual
haunt—but the rift had increased the likelihood of mortals in
Faery, as well it let out more from Faery to torment the Otherside.

This moment she likely stood near Netherdred territory.

"Have you a name, faery? Or would that be encroaching upon
your person to inquire such? I do know should a faery give his name
complete he would hand over his power."

As well, a fée garnered much control over the mortal with
his complete name. Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon III. Quite the mouthful.
Were she full-blooded, Gossamyr could work an
erie
upon his
tongue to silence him.

"I am not afraid of your taunts."

"Prove it with the gift of your name."

A challenge? Such daring stirred her blood. She was beginning to
like this man, despite his barmy nature.

"It is..." Gossamyr paused.

Never give your name to a mortal. They use magic, and can
command your compliance by repeating it thrice. You will be beholden
to their cruel wishes.

Caged and taunted, kept as a pet...

"My lady?"

A
schusch
of wind danced the leaves overhead into a rising
cheer. Nearby, Fancy snuffled over a patch of clover.

'Twas only her name complete which would give away her power. The
mortal had no means to discover that. "You may call me
Gossamyr."

"Gossamyr." He whistled through the space in his teeth.
"What sort of name be that? Gaelic? Irish? Not a bloody Scot,
are you?"

"You talk too much."

"And you are far too impudent for a woman." He danced
with his speech, as if it a natural extension of his thoughts. Into a
circle about her, but too far for her to touch or even scent. "What
be your destination? And whom have you left behind? Surely there is a
father or husband who mourns your absence. And so alone."

"I am not alone—
achoo!
—I am with you."

He eyed her staff, held at shoulder level like a pike ready for
launch. "Mayhap not. But there is something about me you should
know."

"What be that?"

A splay of his beringed fingers before him caught the fading
sunlight in a rainbow of glints. Moving his hands like snakes
slinking through the air, he bemused with his extravagant motions. "I
have always had a weakness for sparkly things." Another wink
seemed to please him immensely.

Sparkly things? Gossamyr felt a strange warmth rise in her face.
She lowered her staff and looked away so he could not see her
discomfort. The blazon must be shed. Soon.

"I merely require direction to the next village," she
said. "Is it very large? I must purchase a swift horse and, as
you suggest, some clothing."

"Yes, I favor a fine dress of damask for you. And long red
ribbons for the plaits in your hair."

Gossamyr snorted and flipped the silver-tipped end of one of her
thick plaits back over her shoulder. "Ribbons? Do you romance
me, then? I'll have you know I do not succumb to a man's charm so
easily—

"Bloody hell!"

Gossamyr froze, the tone of Ulrich's voice alerting her to the
vibrations now obvious in the ground. Vibrations increasing in
strength and moving toward them. She'd been so busy chaffering she
hadn't been paying attention.

"Don't look now, Gossamyr, but you are soon to discover
consorting with Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon III is not for the faint of
heart."

Gossamyr did look. And what she saw loosed her demon-take -me
smile.

The silhouette of a wide, squat figure barreled toward them. Dust
plumed about it in a furious cloud. It wasn't a man. It wasn't even
mortal.

Danger had arrived.

Gossamyr swung her staff, bending into a defensive stance. She
hooked the applewood parallel beneath her outstretched right arm.
Peripheral vision sighted Ulrich, stalking up beside her, his fists
bared and swinging for fight. "If you've not a bigger or
pointier weapon, then stand back!"

"I've the will to survive, my lady, so you stand back."

"I know what I'm doing!"

"As do I!"

"Do stay out of my way!"

She spun to catch the bogie in the gut with the steel-hard staff.
Impact shook her feet from the ground. Tottering two steps to the
left, she found her balance.

Ulrich yelped. She spied him shaking a fist that obviously had
more impact on himself than the bogie's hindquarters.

The beast let out a yowl and gripped her staff. The span of that
grip covered a third of the longstaff. Gossamyr leaned backward to
counter the attack. Landing her on derriere shocked stinging prinkles
up and down her spine. Shaking the vibrations from her skull she
leaped to her feet, drawing the staff before her in a half arc of
warning.

Bogies were dumb as wood, but when enraged were difficult to
contend. Usually they were more breath than roar—and oh, did
their foul breath wield a malodorous bite. Their square bulky bodies
were solid as stone, save, their bald, flat heads; the skull proved
thinner than parchment. Only problem was climbing the mountain of
bogie to reach the prize.

A vicious wind of foul breath and gnashing incisors rose up behind
Gossamyr. She spun, prepared to defend. The bogie shrieked and
tumbled midair, soaring over her head, and landed on the ground
behind her.

Gossamyr pierced Ulrich with a dagger of a look.

The man countered with his own cocky wink and a tilt of the
crossbow he wielded. "I'm keeping my distance!"

Rolling and shrieking, the squat brown bogie stirred up the dirt
from the ground in a billowing cloud. The crossbow quarrel—
wedged in the bogie's gut—splintered and was crushed to pulp.
Now the beast lay prone, its skull level with Gossamyr's shoulder.

"Leave him for me!" Gossamyr yelled. Levering her leg
back to force momentum through her body, she swung hard, meeting wood
to skull. The definite dull crunch of shattering skullbone thundered
in her ears.

A deft twist of her staff placed it like a spear in Gossamyr's
palm. Stabbing it into the bogie's eye, the applewood met with little
resistance. The body shuddered, jittering the staff in her sure grip.
The ground shook. The mule brayed. Yowls to stir up a slumbering
swamp beast from a bed of muck assaulted the air. With a final
shudder of stout hairy limbs, the bogie gave up the ghost. The stench
of such finality coiled into the air, wilting the freshness with a
heavy veil.

Brown matter oozed from the skull. Gossamyr tugged out her staff
and tamped it on the ground to clean it off. The ooze clung.

"Nasty bit of business that," Ulrich commented.

Heavy breaths panted over her lips, but a smile stole Gossamyr's
disgust. She had done it. Her first challenge—alone, without
Shinn looking over her shoulder—and she had been successful.
The thought to retreat hadn't even occurred. Danger had approached
and she had stood at the ready.

"Yes!" Gossamyr said in an elated whisper.

Crossbow tilted against his shoulder, Ulrich stomped over and
studied the oozing carnage. "Now
that
shall leave a
mark."

Spinning on the insolent, Gossamyr landed her staff with a
click
aside the crossbow. "I am going to leave a mark on you
should you persist in interfering."

"My lady." He pressed out a placating hand. "There
was a challenge to be met!"

"Expertly mastered by me!"

"You? Ha!"

"You laugh? I—"

"It was
my
quarrel brought down the thing."