Gossamyr (14 page)

"If you will tell me how you did come to live in Faery? It
makes little sense. Unless you stepped into a toadstool circle and
danced the endless dance of joy? Oh, poor thing. Have you lost all
your family and friends then? Are they old or dead?"

"I did no such thing. I was born in Faery! But you did visit,
yes?"

"Danced twenty years, Faery Not."

"If you do not stop calling me such I promise to push you
into the next circle of toadstools we pass."

"Touchy, touchy. Very well." He held up his hands. "So
explain your life, lady Gossamyr. Faery or not?"

"Both. I am half-blooded. My mother was completely mortal, my
father a fée. Though birth granted me more mortal attributes
than fée. I've no genuine glamour."

"So your blazon is... ?"

"Attribute it to years spent in Faery. Should a mortal spend
a length of time there, they would eventually develop the same. As
did my mother."

"Interesting. How did your mother come to live in Faery?"

"Shinn—my father—" Had he ever truly loved?
Had lust been the origin of Veridienne's coming? How to judge the
difference between lust and love?
It forges deep into your heart,
fixes there and never relents.
Indeed. Love. Devastating.
"Veridienne went to live as his wife in Faery."

"I have heard tales of mortals who fall in love with faeries.
One cannot leave Faery without first bargaining for their very life."

"That...is not right." Gossamyr had not heard such. "My
mother left Faery. The mortal passion led her home—here—to
the Otherside. There were no bargains made."

"Ah, so that be your mission? You seek your mother?"

Gossamyr twisted her gaze to the man. Seek her mother? No.
Well...no. She'd never considered such. Shinn had always told her
Veridienne was dead; there was no sense in seeking a trail that would
lead to nothing. "No."

"So why are you here? Is not Faery a far better place to be?"

"You say so? When you were so disturbed by the possibility
you might be taken back by me?"

He shrugged. "I just thought, for you, one who has always
lived there, it would be better. Such as this land, my home, is
better for me."

Indeed. And yet Faery had never felt so right on her body as did
this Otherside.

Tracing a finger along the carved ribbons on her staff, Gossamyr
stared off toward the flock of crows that swooped overhead. Better in
Faery? When her return would bring marriage? It disturbed her that
Shinn was so eager to see her married. Did he suspect he was not long
for this world? Gossamyr's heart double-stepped. "Shinn?"
she murmured.

"What is that?"

"Hmm?"

"You were telling me why you are here. Then of a sudden you
went all panicky."

"I am...well." But was Shinn? The fée did not
suffer maladies. They died in battle or of long life, or...from the
mortal passion.

"Gossamyr?"

"Hmm? I am...on a mission only I can achieve."

"Why is that?"

Dragging her thoughts from images of her father, limping, gasping
for breath—no, not dying—Gossamyr focused on the
conversation. "I possess mortal blood. The enemy seeks the
Disenchanted. They are of true fée blood—ichor,
actually—but have lost most all of their glamour including the
ability to return to Faery. She will not see me coming for I will
blend easily with those mortals who populate Paris."

"And this enemy—she?—why is she an enemy?"

"The Red Lady's actions threaten to destroy Faery."

"All of Faery?" Ulrich whistled. "A tremendous lot
riding on your success."

"Yes." Gossamyr checked herself with a touch to her
chest. That answer had been but a whisper. Not so sure of herself?

Vengeance. Valor. Truth. Gossamyr peered back down the path they
had traveled. The sadness she had felt lingered as a tangible hollow
in her belly. What had she lost in that castle?

"Why do faeries live in Paris?"

So many questions. Yet, Ulrich seemed genuinely interested. And
she did take comfort in talking with him. "It is a passion for
the unknown, the mortal, that attracts them."

"And this red lady is doing what with them?"

"She is a succubus who decimates the male population of
Disenchanted fée with her evil killing kiss. I've been sent to
stop her."

"Why not your father? Surely he commands troops?"

"He does. But they would fall to the same fate as the
Disenchanted. The Red Lady can scent another fée and strike
with forces as to overwhelm an entire troop. It is an enchanting song
she uses to draw them to her, much like a siren's song. As I
understand, the male fée is quite powerless to resist.
Besides, there are revenants to battle in Faery."

"Revenants?"

"They are like your invisible souls seeking rest—yet
they are very visible. The revenant is a result of a stolen essence;
it seeks an essence in order to achieve the final
twinclian.
An
essence is similar to the mortal soul."

Both clung to the other's seeking look. Much to comprehend,
Gossamyr knew. She did not completely understand, herself. Should not
Shinn be able to
twinclian
directly to the Red Lady? She could
not be more powerful than the Faery lord. One moment away from
Faery—no, it must not be possible, else Gossamyr knew the
Glamoursiege lord would have already risked the trip.

It was Ulrich who nodded and let out a low whistle as he leaned
forward on the rock. "You speak words I have never
heard—
twinclian,
Disenchanted, revenants—but I
understand there is a great need to stop this red woman. You think I
can help?"

"Can you see faery essences?"

He shrupped. "If I cannot see a mortal soul I most certainly
cannot see a faery soul. Nor, likely, these revenants."

"If one charged you with its skeletal arms clawing and its
maws open for blood, you would see it."

"Sounds...like it would leave a mark."

"The revenants will mark Faery with their tirade." And a
new war will begin, ending the long Peace.

Not going to happen. Not if she had a say; and she did. "But
you understand now, Ulrich? I am not a full-blooded faery."

"I think I understand. You, being half mortal, will not be
detected until it is too late. But what of the blazon and these faery
powers you speak of? Will this red lady not judge you to be a faery,
as well?"

"Like I said, these remnants of Faery will soon be gone.
Besides, it is the males she prefers."

"Without the glamour will you be powerless against her?"

Gossamyr gripped the staff. "I have the skills taught me by
my father." She saw Ulrich's squint and knew what he was
thinking. "Oh, come now, Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon—"

"The Third," he tossed at her.

"The Third. Have you no allegiance to me?"

"I have known you but a day and each moment of that day you
concealed your truth from me."

"As have you!"

"Indeed." He leaped to the ground and stood before her,
hands to his hips. "And in that time I have seen such remarkable
skills as to believe you are certainly capable. But you say this red
lady can take out an entire Faery troop? How then will but one single
woman be successful against her?"

Drawing up her shoulders, Gossamyr released a huge breath. "I
won't know unless I try."

"You've a hell of a mettle."

"I like danger."

"That you do. Stick around me, my lady of the hurting stick,
and I promise you your fill."

"And why is that? Has it to do with your quest?"

"Er..."

"Achoo!"

Ulrich swung a gap-toothed grin at Gossamyr. "You're going to
have to work on that. I wager not a few enemies will be pleased to
hear you announce your arrival with such a powerful sneeze."

Rubbing her nose, Gossamyr stood and stalked past him. "I
cannot prevent it. I feel as if I sneeze out a bit of my essence with
each one. It must be this mortal soil. The very air is filled
with...stuff. Faery is cleaner, brighter, more...vertical."

"Will you miss it?"

Ulrich's quiet query beat back and forth in her mind. "I will
return."

The village of Juvisy was of good size—two taverns, a
blacksmith and a cooper occupied the market square. Gossamyr tugged
at the heavy cloak. The wool made her itch and taxed her long
strides. Yet still, she remained buoyant. Difficult to sulk when
surrounded by lightness.

At Ulrich's beckon they quietly entered the village through a
stone portcullis that bore no heavy wood door. Neither were there
city walls, so protection must come from armed guards, Gossamyr
assumed. Keeping a keen eye to her surroundings, she strode behind
Fancy. Children's laughter startled her so thoroughly, she spun to
locate the sound.

That movement proved devastating. She jumped as the entirety of
her pourpoint slid over her stomach and to the ground. The heavy
weight of her hip belt caught upon the waist of her braies.

"Ulrich."

The soul shepherd turned to her. Blue eyes widened as they spied
the heap of dried leaves at her feet.

"Dragon piss." Ulrich scanned the periphery. "This
is not bone."

Clasping the cloak to her body as if a shroud, Gossamyr
frantically searched about. The village rustled with carts and
carriages and there a small herd of sheep scampered behind a rotund
shepherd. Surely there must be a shop that sold premade clothing. The
coin Shinn had given her yet hung at her waist, the Disenchantment
had not eaten away the purse.

"Give me a moment." Spying a coach parked outside a
whitewashed hovel, she decided a little investigation could prove
fruitful.

"A bit too late to stitch a patch here and there, my lady!"
Ulrich called.

"I've a disguise to procure. I'll meet you in the market
square, yes?"

"I wait with bells on. A hell of a lot more than you're
wearing, I wager." And with a smile to charm devils, Ulrich
clicked his tongue and signaled Fancy to follow him.

Outside and behind a smithy shop reeking of charred wood, Gossamyr
tooled around behind a small carriage that sported a chest on the
backboard—unlocked. Rummaging about the contents she found
clothing stuffed around heavy, thick books. A scholar, likely. Though
the clothing was minimal and spare—perfect.

Leaving a pile of Faery coin in her wake, she snuck behind a stack
of hay to change and emerged feeling newly entered to the mortal
realm. It was a good disguise, covering her from crown to ankle, most
especially her neck. But it was hot and itchy. Couldn't be prevented.

Walking down the center road, Gossamyr's steps increased to a
skip. Every building, cart and person remained horizontally placed.
Nothing glittered or twinkled. Not a single pisky flew by. Yet, so
much proved of interest. The sun played upon puddles of mud and in
the glint of saddle furnishings. The metallic chirr of an iron
horseshoe being shaped mixed with the bray of a goat being chased by
a handful of children.

Her smiles were greeted with equal smiles. No one cast a
disdainful sneer upon her. In fact, a few even crossed themselves and
bowed to her. Hmm. Must be the necklace she had borrowed. Gossamyr
patted the long chain of dried rosebuds that hung to her belly.

An urchin no taller than her knees bounced by and looked up to
her. The goat chase momentarily forgotten, a smile cracked the boy's
dirty face. Wide brown eyes glinted from the round, pink flesh.

Gossamyr had only ever seen the dark eye color on her mother's
face and her own. "Like mine," she said to the child.

Child of mine, so precious,
her father's favorite mantra.

When a fée woman was with child she usually stowed away for
the six months of gestation. Such a delicate business, childbirth.
Someday she hoped to have her own. Would there ever be another
Avenall? A fée man who could love her for her exotic qualities
and not turn in disgust from her brown eyes? Desideriel would not
offer the kindness of interest. Alas, they two were destined to
parent a child. Pray it was not born with brown eyes.

The child giggled and toddled off to cling to his mother's wool
skirts. A half dozen women knelt around a central well, scrubbing
clothing, their chatter frolicking with the smithy's clangs of metal.
Gossamyr wondered if there was a misplaced pair of braies in the mix
of laundry. She still wore her own, but couldn't guess how long the
amphi-leather would hold.

The
shing
of steel alerted her to an armored man. He strode
through the children's goat chase and past the well. Glimpsing his
determined frown, Gossamyr followed his pace. She tugged at the sides
of the headpiece she wore, knowing it covered her scalp and revealed
but her face. He stepped into a tavern busy with shouts and general
bustle.

To her right she spied a stone fountain trickling green water from
the side of a building. Approaching with a thirst that did not care
what color the water was, Gossamyr cupped a few gulps down her
throat. Eyes peeled to her periphery, she noticed a huge shirtless
man blocking view of another much smaller man wearing bold
green-and-black hose. Their conversation, though she could not make
out a word, did not sound friendly.

Splashing a palmful of water over her lips, she then called, "Be
there a problem, Ulrich?"

"Not at all, my lady. Just a difference of opinion."

She joined the men. The shirtless brute crowding Ulrich against a
wood stall wore a leather apron and wielded a heavy iron club. If any
required a bath, this stinking specimen took the prize. Scratching an
itch at the back of her right hip, Gossamyr propped a hand to the
wall beside Ulrich's head and looked the two over.

At sight of her, Ulrich banged the back of his head against the
wall of the tavern. He clutched his chest and babbled, "Bloody
saints, that's...that's..."