Gossamyr (19 page)

"I know little more than you do, Ulrich."

"Fair enough."

He lifted his head. Their contact, so brief, quieted the deep hum
of worry.

"So no more lies," he murmured.

"All truths are out."

"They are? So say you?"

"Yes, all truth."'

"Well then! Obviously we both need each other."

"I don't
need
you."

"Oh, yes you do. You just don't know it yet. You watch, you
will need me, Faery—"

"Gossamyr, please," she entreated.

He could be right. She may need him. She may not. Right now the
alicorn needed her. Since she was headed the Red Lady's direction
anyway...

"So we continue on together?"

"I'd say I was delighted," Ulrich said, "but for
some reason I can only feel foreboding. Onward then. Mayhem awaits."

Paris looked a pincushion for the fleched stone church spires
piercing the gray afternoon. Dozens of windmills dotted the periphery
outside the stone ramparts, the creak of sun-dried wood competing
with the chirp of hidden crickets. Not a frog song to be heard;
Gossamyr missed the evening concerts. What a perfect ending to a day
to find oneself dangling upside down, knees hooked over a root, and
whistling to the tune of a frog symphony.

A strange croaky rumble, unfamiliar to Gossamyr, wavered somewhere
off by the stream. That be not a frog.

A fine mist fell upon her head, raindrops bejeweling the
interlocked ropes of her plaited tresses. Fancy's mane, dressed in
round droplets, rendered the beast Enchanted. A storm brewed in the
heady miasma crowding her nostrils. Gossamyr could not judge when it
would fall. She had not learned to portend the weather. But here in
the Otherside the heavy future of rain tingled her to an anticipatory
expectation. So familiar this air. Yet she had not skipped since
yestereve. Far too occupied by threats. And happy to do so.

The click of a wood beetle brought her to alert.

Standing upon a hill, Gossamyr observed the distant crowd hovering
about the gates to the city. Not a quiet bunch. Shouts of declaration
and good-natured tussle spiked the sky. Eyes, some alert, most tired,
darted here and there. Mules broke rein and kicked up the dirt.
Children wailed from their aching bellies, and dogs barked at
everything that moved.

"We must be cautious," Ulrich said. He waited at Fancy's
side for Gossamyr to venture onward. "The Armagnacs stalk
travelers to the city."

That curious word again. "You said they were Frenchmen? Be
they enemy or ally?"

"I'd like to call them enemy but they appear to side with our
dethroned king. Yet they kill their own to gain control over the
Burgundians."

"And what is a Burgundian?"

"Northerners; vulgar, stupid beasts—Frenchmen, as well.
And then there are the English—" he reached around behind
his thigh and waggled a finger in display "—drunks with
tails, they are. Hell, this war is a farce. Methinks it is every man
for himself. A woman must be most cautious."

"I will be."

"Your pretty stick will serve little against a gang of
bloodthirsty Frenchmen. Best to now consider every man our enemy.
These are impossible times." He scanned the horizon. "But
you mustn't judge by what you have seen. There is goodness.
Somewhere, surely."

"Yes, in the eyes of a child," she answered rotely. For
she remembered yet the dirty grin of the village child who had smiled
upon her earlier.

"Come." Ulrich slapped Fancy's flank to stir the mule to
a walk. "We will stop at the water mill at the base of the hill
before moving to the gates. See there, a convoy of carts approaches.
Likely they carry provisions such as flour and weapons—open
game to marauders. Be on your guard."

"I will."

The decimated water mill had seen better days. Planks had been
torn from the wall frame, rendering it a skeleton with a massive
grindstone for a heart. The water wheel looked to be lodged in
hardened mud. Faint scent of milled flour hung in the air, and the
surrounding trampled grass was matted with gray powder. View of the
Porte St. Jacques was sheltered by a line of stacked hay piled so
high Gossamyr guessed a spry goat must have laid the last bits to the
top.

"Refreshment?" Ulrich winked at Gossamyr and tramped
around behind the mill.

A crystal stream but four strides in width beckoned both travelers
and their mule. Marching ahead, Ulrich noted the fetch, which
fluttered overhead. It dodged and swooped, teasing the last rays of
sun with iridescent wings. "That dragonfly is huge!"

"It is my father's fetch."

He followed the fetch's flight, hand to his eyes to block the sun.
"A means to keep an eye on you?"

"Indeed. You mustn't heed it. It comes and goes as needed."

"So long as it has no intention of attacking."

"Worry not. The fetch is merely an instrument."

Squatting near the massive wood wheel that once moved with the
water to grind flour, Ulrich cupped water to drink and splashed his
face and hair, though his eyes took in the surroundings, ever
vigilant. Content, he swiped the moisture from his chin and smiled
over at Gossamyr. The road dust and grime had been washed from his
face. 'Twas the first time she had seen him looking so clean.

Keeping her own vigilant scan of their surroundings, Gossamyr
pricked her ears, but could not hear any brigands who waited before
the gate to Paris. Assuming such an attack would first stir a warning
noise, Gossamyr relaxed.

Kneeling to stir her fingers in the cool water, she cupped a few
palmfuls to drink. Sweet, finer than honey wine.

"So what—" A croak like she had heard previous
would not go unnoticed. Gossamyr turned her head to seek the noise.
"What, by an elf's twelve toes, is that horrible noise?"

"Frogs." Ulrich leaned back and spewed out a spray of
water, misting their heads.

"Frogs?" Gossamyr searched the sky and the darkening
shadows of a nearby apple tree for a fat amphibian. "Where?"

"Why do you look up there?"

"I cannot see a frog." She made a shape with her hands
to demonstrate the girth of the creature. "They are usually big
enough to spy."

With a laughing grin, Ulrich said, "I know naught what manner
of frog accustoms your dreams, fair lady—ah, so frogs are
unique in Faery?"

"Not really. They are usual. About this big." She
caressed the air in a circle about the size of her head. "They
usually fly during the night. But their song is more melodious than
that bleating racket."

"Frogs do not fly. Trust me."

"They do."

"Do." Ulrich bat an admonishing finger at her. "Not."

"Where are you off to?"

Cape abandoned in a lump, Ulrich wandered to and fro along the
stream, his head down and searching. Skinny legs blocked by brilliant
green stripes bent and twisted. A comical sight, his dance at
stream's edge. After a few moments he returned and squatted before
Gossamyr.

"That—" he placed a small slimy creature in her
cupped palms "—be a frog."

Gossamyr tilted the brown, warty creature this way and that.
Slime-glossed eyes filmed over. Its viscous body heaved in breaths.
And the smell, like dirt, was the furthest from the sweet scent Faery
frogs emitted.

She held the creature out on her splayed palm. "Looks like a
toad to me."

A heavy sigh preceded Ulrich's inspection of the amphibian. His
eyes crossing as he peered closely, he smirked and gave a defeated
nod. "So it is."

Smiling not too large, Gossamyr set the toad on the grass at
water's edge.

"So Faery frogs be so big as a man's head?"

"And winged. They make excellent leathers."

"Don't tell me. Your braies?"

She slid a palm along the still-intact leather braies. "They
are thin and soft but strong."

"And violet. I suppose they are not dyed, but the actual
color of the beast?"

"Do you find that strange?"

"As a mortal, yes, I find that most unusual."

"Then I suppose wee frogs may seem even more strange. They
are a deep violet with yellow toes."

"Wee frogs?"

"Yes. Nasty bit of wings. They've a tendency to fly up a
fée's nose should they be unfortunate enough to stumble into a
pod flying head level."

"Up one's— I don't even want to know. I can only be
thankful the time I spent in Faery was brief. And yet...here in my
own world..." He clammed up quickly. Too quickly.

Thinking of his lost years, Gossamyr guessed. Time had stolen an
entire chunk of his life—because of her own. She should be
thankful he had not attempted malice against her in retaliation. He
had every right. Twenty years stolen was hardly fitting punishment
for but an afternoon of dance.

Bowing her head and wincing at the horrible creaking frog song,
Gossamyr studied the shore stones, smoothened and slick. Her thoughts
skipped over to the mule's saddlebag. Just her luck she had taken as
her partner on this journey the one man who roamed the earth with a
contraband alicorn in hand. She could hardly cut him loose to wander
about on his own, most likely, to fall victim to evil.

But she could not simply take the alicorn from him. He was the
rightful owner. Should she touch the sacred object, well—she
wasn't sure what would happen.

It was a wonder the man had gotten this far with it. Only the pure
of heart could actually handle the alicorn without protection.
Remarkable, merely wrapping it in cloth shielded it from harm. And to
even approach the unicorn to return it? Should not the man be an
innocent? Pure and strong of heart. A virginal maiden or a valorous
knight—those were but the choices.

What of a champion?

Gossamyr lifted a brow. She had yet to do anything worthy.
Fighting off beasties had merely proven distraction. But soon.
Somewhere in Paris the Red Lady lurked.

Now, to keep Ulrich and his prize safe from the succubus.

"It would fetch a mighty fortune."

Gossamyr looked to Ulrich, who now stood over her, shadowing her
troubled silence.

He nodded toward the mule and the tattered leather saddlebag.
"You're thinking about it, I know."

"Is mind reading another of your skills?"

"Not at all."

"Obviously, because you are wrong. I should never barter a
sacred object."

He squatted beside her. Suddenly aware of the man's size, Gossamyr
took him in on the sly. Wider and more muscled than she, he smelled
sweet from the stream and a fresh scrubbing. Earthy, as she had
before noticed. And...hmm, what else made her close her eyes and
sniff the air? Almost as if to breathe him in. To put him into her
senses like a new flower she wanted to memorize and catalog under the
heading "favorable."

'Twas not a sensual attraction—but certainly she wanted to
know this man. Mortal, so grounded. A man like one of those Armagnacs
who would kill their own? Far from it. Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon III
somehow gentled her uncertainties. How, she could not determine. He
be not a man of fine words or chivalrous actions. He cursed her and
complained endlessly. Mayhap it was simply because he accepted her
and treated her as an equal.

Mayhap they two were more alike in ways she had yet to learn.

Ulrich toyed with the thick grass tops. A cast of his gaze over
the horizon snagged sun glints in his eyes. "What is it like to
leave a place that must be truly magical and come to this...mortal
hell?"

Gossamyr shook out of her reverie. "Faery is not magical."

"It is to a person who can only imagine it."

"Magic does not exist in Faery. Magic is evil."

"You say so?"

His curiosity fixed sparkling blue eyes to her. What they searched
for on her face Gossamyr could not know. But he looked, and took
great leisure in doing so.

"For every act of magic practiced on the Otherside," she
said, "a bit of Enchantment is sluiced away through the rift. It
is outlawed."

"Really? Yet, it is quite common in my world."

"Oh, of that we are aware. Magic be a mortal device, yet it
cannot exist without Enchantment. Every act of magic, be it good or
for evil, is felt by Faery. Makes me wonder if the fine lady in the
caravan practiced. To wield such control over one of my kind?"

"But if the caged faery was disenchanted?"

"Yes, but one touch from a mortal has made her weaker."

"Merely by a mortal's touch?" Ulrich rubbed his palms
together and peered over his paired hands at her. "I have
touched you."

"Yes."

"Am I...making you weak?"

"No. In fact, I feel no chill when you touch me. That is what
happens when a fée is mortal touched."

"I see. What do you feel?"

"Splendid," Gossamyr said. She clapped her mouth shut.
The man cocked a brow at her. "I didn't mean to say that."

"Oh no?"

"No, I...blight." She
had
meant to say such. This
conversation tread an intimacy that made her uncertain. "This
Otherside is..." She splayed out a hand. "Different from my
expectations. Not so vibrant. And dirty and slow. The sky here is
sluiced with dull and the grass and trees are but a shade of the
vibrance of Faery."

"But it makes you dance."

"Yes. I feel light. There are children in abundance here."

"Not so in Faery?"

"Newlings are rare. Faeries generally mate for life; a
pairing that sees but a single child."

"Sounds like we mortals—though we do tend to have
hordes of children. So you marry and have children and settle long
and happy lives?"

"Marriage is not common. It is reserved for royals and the
upper caste. Commoners merely...I don't know...join and have
children. I believe it is called honeymooning. But a faery's fickle
heart affords much time to discover a life mate."

Desideriel was rumored to romance a new woman every new moon. A
rogue who might never be tamed following their vows? She hoped he
would turn true to her, but did not expect something so untouchable
as love.