Gossamyr (8 page)

"I killed the beast!"

"Yes, and with great savor, I note. The thing is dead as a
doornail." Ulrich strode to the mule and, flipping open a
tattered saddlebag, poked about inside. Drawing out a small horn, he
uncapped what Gossamyr guessed to be cleaning oil for the weapon.

The fetch fluttered down from the sky. She offered it a smart bow.
Danger annihilated. Shinn would be pleased. Circling the beast to
take in the carnage, the fetch then alighted into the crystal sky to
twinclian
in a shimmer of dust.

Unaware of the exchange, Ulrich tucked the oil horn inside the
saddlebag and strapped the crossbow across Fancy's back. So he had
assisted. Next time she would not allow him such opportunity.

"I cannot promise to stand idly by should such need again
arise." Ulrich strode by Gossamyr, finger to lips in thought.
"It is my manner, fair lady, to help when a damsel requires
saving."

Damsel? Gossamyr slid a look to the left then the right. Where be
this damsel? She was the only— Ah. So he thought...?

She spread her shoulders back, lifting her chest. Fisting her
fingers before her, she hissed, "Do I look like I need saving?"

Dancing blue eyes took in her obstinate pose in a quick
cap-a-pie
flight. "Actually...no."

"Just so. In the future keep your mortal weapons to
yourself."

"Indeed?
Mortal
weapons. Ahum." He assumed a
haughty pose, thumbs hooked at the waist of his striped hose, one
foot stretched forward and his body cocked at an angle. "So says
the damsel with the sparkly throat."

"I—" Gossamyr slapped a palm to her throat.

"I suppose I must thank you," he added.

"For saving thee?"

He chuckled. "No, for reminding me of which I forget. There
is a damsel in need of rescue. And she will not argue my help. I must
be off."

"Saving damsels? What sort of pitiful, unoriginal quest—"
She stabbed a proud thumb into her pourpoint. "I've a mission to
save the—"

"The what?" Mirth tickled Ulrich's lips into a slippery
smile and now his tone danced teasingly. "The world? Is not such
a quest reserved for armored knights and champions wearing their
lady's favor on their sleeves?"

"I am not here to save
your
world. It is my world
I...must save." Bogies and blight! Very sly, Gossamyr. Really
blending well. Why did she not simply reveal her fée origins
and hold out her wrists for the chains?

"Ah! I see. There is a separation between our worlds. But
since you claim
not
to be a faery, I can only then assume you
speak of the minuscule world that populates the inside of your
skull."

Ulrich approached and made show of tilting his head this way and
that as he looked into her eyes. A vicious preening. The look was so
familiar, like that of a fellow fée who deemed Gossamyr lesser
because of her half blood, and yet, the rank of her father elevated
her above all. Fluttering beringed fingers near her head, he insulted
with silent menace. "My master once treated a victim of
psychomachia."

"Psycho-what?"

"It is one who lives within their own mind. Entire worlds are
invented. An extraordinary life is led walking through the imaginary
world, while the victim's very feet tread the earth of reality."

Gossamyr stepped right up to the man to meet his mocking stare.
The embroidered trim of his cape brushed her knees. Must and earth
surrounded his air. No longer did anything about him appeal, not even
his fine white teeth. "You. Are rude."

"And you are most snappish. And much too close. Have you no
sense of propriety? Back off, warrior woman."

She hooked her hands at her hips and fixed him with the mongoose
eye.

"Not at all the same," Ulrich muttered as he stepped
away and drew a glance down her form. A sorry shake of his head shook
his loose curls. "In twenty years women have truly lost all
their graces. Pity."

"What do you mumble about now?"

"Nothing that concerns you, Faery Not."

That moniker, most cruel, set Gossamyr to a stomp.

"Very well." Ulrich slapped his arms across his chest
and faced her again with that preening expression. "I promise to
stand back and allow you all the glory next time we are set upon by
supernatural beasties."

"It was a bogie."

"If you say so."

"I do."

Next time? Hmm... Very possible, considering they walked the edge
of the Netherdred, and would soon have to cross through it to reach
the mortal city of Paris.

A scan of the horizon sighted a line of lindens and a wispy ghost
of smoke, likely a fire roasting a family's evening meal. The distant
yowl from a night creature gave her wonder to the rampant wolves her
mother had documented in the bestiary. Not so vicious as a Netherdog,
frequently found wandering the sandy borders of the marsh roots, but
certainly ferocious. She'd had no time to gather expectations of her
journey, but already it proved more perilous than she might have
imagined.

Adventure? Yes, please. She could stand down any threat that
challenged.

I
hope,
a small voice deep inside whispered.

"I wonder what it was doing here?" she said with a
glance to the block of bogie lying in a growing puddle of brown ooze.
"Is it common for bogies to charge from out of nowhere? Such
creatures generally keep to cinder caves and the night. For all the
rage it possessed, one would think we'd done it a grievance."

"Do you wish me to answer according to
my
world?"
Ulrich tugged at the saddlebag, secured to Fancy's flank. "As
opposed to your skull world?"

With a glance to the battleground, peppered with brown bogie
blood, Ulrich let out a heavy exhalation. He squeezed an eye shut at
the blast of setting sun that beamed him in the face. "Never, in
my extremely pitiful life, have I seen one of those things. Said life
being much too short of late. Or be it too long?" A tilt of his
head revealed the modena on his cheek. "But I trust you have
encountered such? You knew exactly how to take the thing out."

"Training."

"Oh? Did I miss something in my schooling? Attack and conquer
abecedarian?"

She delivered him a sneer to match—nay, defy—his
mockery. "Just answer me this: are we close to a village? I
tire, and have worked up a hunger."

"One would never guess from the brilliant sparkle you put
out."

His constant reminder she glimmered troubled. A touch to her
throat discovered the highest agraffe was open. The carved bone clasp
had broken, most likely during the fight.

"A village? Indeed, Aparjon lies just ahead. But tell me, why
do you not simply fly there? Ah!" He made show of bending and
peering around to study her shoulders. Gossamyr twisted her back away
from his view. "No wings!"

"We have already discussed this."

"Indeed. Not a faery." Now his jesting tone returned and
that brilliant smile flashed like a beam of sunlight. "But
plenty faeries do not have wings."

"How know you such?"

"Every child learns the facts before they are out of infant
skirts." He made a merry skip and danced around Gossamyr.
"Faeries come in all manner of shape, size and wing. Some walk
amongst the mortals undiscovered, some flitter up to a man's ear to
stand inside it. But one thing they all have in common is a glimmer—"
he drew his palm between them in a curtain of fluttering fingers
"—that sheen of the unnatural."

The blazon.

"Though, I must say, you do appear a trifle...faded."

"What mean you by that?"

Ulrich pointed to the hem of Gossamyr's pourpoint. "Your
clothing. The leaves look as though they are fading. More so than
when we first met."

Gossamyr touched a curve of supple hornbeam at her waist. Indeed,
the leaf had lost some of its glossy resilience. The arachnagoss
threading was strong, but no more so than the outer layers it
stitched together. She smoothed a hand over her braies. They felt
secure; amphi-leather was virtually indestructible, even a
fire-forged blade must draw a precise line to cut through.

A bend of her arm tugged a crack in the leaves at her shoulder.

"I must make haste," she said and picked up her pace
along the dirt path.

"And so I shall hurry alongside you, Faery Not."

They walked onward, Ulrich leading Fancy as he ventured first. His
strides were light, jumping to kick a stone in the path, as free as
the air made Gossamyr feel. When he finally spoke, though, he sounded
suspicious. "You are quite skilled in defense and attack."

She smirked. "And you are adept at getting in the way."

"Why, thank you, fair lady. It is a skill. Pity 'twas my last
quarrel. Though, rest assured, I can hold steel to the enemy should
the need arise. That is...if I had steel." He patted his hips
and scanned the ground. "I seem to have misplaced my dagger a
few leagues back."

"Would that be when you won the prize dripping down your
forehead?"

"Do you think it will leave a mark?" He touched the
wound.

Ever changing, the man's moods. From suspicion, to anger, to a
teasing charm. Despite the danger his learning of her origins could
pose, Gossamyr found it difficult to dislike the man. For he tread
the earth as if he had wings. To have him accompany her even a short
distance could prove a boon. She would study him, prepare for future
contact with mortals. They weren't so different from the fée.
Even his deep voice she had grown accustomed to.

"So, Gossamyr who isn't from Faery, I did notice you were
particularly surprised at your success over the beast."

Gossamyr tripped ahead, enjoying the warm air skim her bared
flesh.
Right,
was the only feeling she could summon. She spun
in a dancer's twirl and rejoined Ulrich's side, "It is the first
time I have engaged in hand-to-hand combat."

"Ah. Well then, good show, Faery Not."

"Don't name me that—achoo!" Halted in her tracks,
Gossamyr grasped her head.

"Touche!" Turning to walk backward Ulrich smiled at her.
The gap in his teeth distorted his mirth. "So you like to
dance?"

Skipping, Gossamyr shrugged and offered an unexpected "I
think so!"

"You take marvel at your own wonder."

"It is just, the air...I feel light."

"Pray tell what the air is like whence you hail?"

"Not like here," she called out and jumped to the grass
to skip through the cool blades.

Flight had ever alluded her, no matter how often she had attempted
it. Which had been often in the rose garden behind the castle
buttery. Mince had once witnessed her fruitless attempts and had
laughingly joined in. The matron's small wings, attached to a
generously rounded body, had served little more than to lift her
shoulders. She could not leave the ground, either. It had bonded them
in laughter, and a smirking confession from Gossamyr, which revealed
her jealousy of the winged ones.

"You are the daughter of Lord de Wintershinn," Mince had
stated simply. "You needn't envy; you are envied."

Mayhap. But Gossamyr had not missed a single averted gaze or cruel
stare in her lifetime. Envy hurt. And the only way to overcome was to
prove herself. She needn't the Wintershinn name to stand proud; to
defeat the Red Lady would prove her worth and perhaps put to rest the
suspicious whispers.

She spun now, and leaped into the path immediately before Ulrich.
He had no wings, and yet, he took to the air in his strides. And that
made him all the more appealing.

"The dirt from the fight," Ulrich commented as he angled
forward to study her. "It covers your face."

Gossamyr wiggled her nose. Another sneeze tormented.

"It is bone,"he said of her dirty covering. "It
hides your glimmer."

"Bone?"

"That means good."

"Then why not say good?"

"For the same reason you say mortal. We have our own slangs,
do we not?" A click of his tongue beckoned Fancy onward.

Gossamyr paralleled him but a leap to his left. He suspected; she
knew that he did.

"I wager you are safe from wonder so long as you do not favor
bathing. Though your clothing—"

"Will be changed anon. I need only locate a seamstress.
Mayhap something bright, like yours." She glanced over Ulrich's
attire. The cloak swung merrily with his strides, intermittently
revealing the tight striped hose he wore.

"I'm afraid a change of costume won't be so easy in Aparjon,"
he said. "'Tis a very small village, as most villages are. It is
not fortified, which will prove bone. Our entry will not be
questioned. If I recall from my travels there is a stable behind the
one lone tavern that rents out to riders. Plead to Luck to find a
horse for purchase, especially a swift one. As well, it may be
difficult to get a room for the night." He turned and scanned
back down the road.

"Dead as a doornail," Gossamyr reassured. And who
decided when a doornail was dead? "What lends you to believe I
wish to stay the night in the next village?"

"You said you were tired?"

"Yes, but a rest and some hearty fare will serve. I am off to
Paris."

"Indeed?"

Ulrich handed Gossamyr Fancy's reins and skipped ahead, turning to
walk widdershins in front of her. His cloak billowed as he gestured
and filled the air with the rumbling tones Gossamyr found she favored
more and more.

"I cannot resist questioning when there is so much of
interest about you, fair lady. Whence do you hail? And, skill aside,
what finds a lone woman trekking to Paris with so little fear of
danger?"

"I am in search of a...woman. She goes by the moniker of the
Red Lady."

She picked up her pace in hopes of the man stumbling, but he tread
backward with ease. His arms pumping, his robe splayed open with each
stride, to reveal long legs and ankle-high suede boots with pointed
toes.