Gossamyr (5 page)

Fée, the watcher deduced, for their kind betrayed
themselves with their carriage. Ever haughty and slim, unable to sulk
under the oppression Paris pressed down upon all. Regal rogues. Yet
Disenchantment had melted away this one's wings.

Not mine,
the watcher thought.
Puppy still has wings.

The fée ran a glove, palmed in mail, along the carriage
body, inexplicably tracing the fine red line—when a lithe hand
swept out from the window. Flinching as if singed, the fée's
hand recoiled, but as quickly dashed back to clasp the female's
fingers. He bent to inhale the aroma of lemon soaking the fine
kidskin glove.

The watcher rubbed together his bare fingers. Dry cracks from
squeezing lemons to extract the oil from the slippery rinds tormented
his flesh.
Good Puppy.

One final call. This melody lingered, wrapping its music about the
fée's volition and securing hold.

As the carriage door creaked open, the watcher hated her. Slipping
a hand into the leather sheath at his hip he drew up a long thin
needle of silver, capped with a smooth, perfect ball of winter-forged
iron.

Pin
man.

No.
I
am your puppy, yes?

Moonlight danced on the pin's tip. Fixing to the thin shimmer of
silver he mesmerized himself, falling into the moment and the
singular admiration of the narrow shine. Anything to avoid thinking
of her...and what absence denied him.

Moments later the carriage door again creaked open. One long leg
thrust out, followed by a torso and the other leg dragging closely
behind. The fée stumbled, catching himself upon the ground
with his gloves. Mail
dashed
across the cobbles. The tip of a
steel-capped sabre sheath drew a metallic line in the wake of the
clatter. Curious, the Parisian fée choose metal weapons over
the finer stone instruments. Did the Disenchanted no longer fear the
bite of iron or the burn of steel?

The watcher pressed his back to the wall and closed his eyes,
clutching the pin near his thigh. Silver, yes, but a strange magic
protected him from its devastating burn.

The fée managed to right himself, wobbled as if soused,
then sauntered toward the shadows. Boots, spurred and jingling,
trudged closer. A racket of riches announced the fée's
approach. The watcher felt the wind of movement as a gloved hand
smacked the wall near his ear—steadying, grasping a moment to
catch a breath that from this moment on could only be a dying cry.

The fée passed without notice. Almost.

The pin held firmly in his palm, the long needle sticking out
between his first and second finger, tugged at fine silk hose and
pierced. The small cry from the fée preceded his jerk to swing
and eye his attacker. He stared at the pin man for but a
second—memorize those strange-colored eyes and smooth silvery
skin dotted with red—then staggered onward.

Drawing the pin along his torso, one deft twist tilted the point
to his nose. The pin man drew in the scent of the fée's blood,
savoring it as if a bung-cork plucked from the cask of aged
Bordeaux—not so much sweet as sour, and laced with an earthen
origin. Scent of Faery. Had he ever lived there?
Yes!
But...
when?

He dashed across the way, and lifting the carriage door open
without making a single creak, entered the dark box. Crawling upon
the carriage floor and coiling his legs up under him, he stretched an
arm along the soft, sensuous damask skirts, feeling beneath all the
frill and lace her thigh, the sharp curve of her hip and waist.
Burying his face into her lap he sighed and snuggled into salvation.

The tips of sharpened fingernails grazed his scalp as his mistress
raked a hand through his long hair. "Such a good puppy you are."

He snuggled his face deeper into the warm thickness of
bone-colored damask and lemon and the cloying aroma of woman. Always
she allowed him this small moment. A reward for a task begun.

But not completed.

The horse seemed more a mule for it did not span half so high as
the eighteen-hand destriers Shinn's troops had once ridden into
battle. Gossamyr loved to ride the stallions across a flower-dappled
meadow, her arms stretched wide to catch the wind—it was as
close as she ever came to flying. But never too close to the Edge.

The careless tune suddenly ceased and a dark-hooded head looked up
at the block in the road.

"Well met?" called Gossamyr, waving to appear
unthreatening. She had no intention of attacking until she determined
a menace. "Be you friend or foe?"

The male snorted. "You shall have to divine that for
yourself."

Taken aback, Gossamyr straightened and unhooked an
arret.
It
wasn't so much the rude reply but the tone of it. Harsh and deep, and
not at all friendly.

The man heeled the mule toward Gossamyr until they stood but two
leaps from her. Truly a mutant, the beast. For what purpose did so
small a horse serve when its master's feet toed the grass tops?

The rider remained astride, unconcerned that the proper greeting
should see him bowing before her. Green-and-black horizontal-striped
hosen, tight as spriggan-skin, emphasized his long legs; a shock of
pattern weeping from the blur of black wool cloak and hood. His pale
face was severely scored by a thin beard and mustache the color of
burnt chestnuts. Following the length of his blade nose, Gossamyr
focused on his blue eyes filled with more white than color. Eerie.
She had not before looked into eyes of such color.

"I...offer you no bane," she tried. How to address a
mortal? "Er...kind mortal."

"Oh?" He leaned forward, balancing his palms on the
saddle pommel. "And do all ladies fair welcome a weary traveler
with such a big stick? And wielded in a manner as to appear
threatening?"

Gossamyr stabbed the staff into the moss at foot and shrugged.
"You offered no answer to my query, so I cannot be sure if I
face friend or foe."

"I am neither,"he said and stroked a hand over his
bearded chin.

Those eerie eyes assessed her from head to bare toes, a gaze that
boldly brushed her being. The sensory assault unnerved her for she
was still startled by the tone of the man's voice. So rough. Not at
all melodious. The urge to step forward and scent him was strong, but
she remained. Caution, her instincts whispered.

"What is that dangling from your hand?"

She gave the
arret
a twirl; the sharpened obsidian tip cut
the air with a hiss. A simple weapon she fashioned herself. Not
fire-forged, but deadly in its swift and accurate flight.

"Looks like that device would hurt," the man bellowed in
notes that knocked at the insides of Gossamyr's skull. "At the
least, leave a mark, should a man find it lodged in any portion of
his anatomy."

Amused by his jesting tone, Gossamyr agreed with a smirk. She had
never placed an
arret
to any part of a man's anatomy—mortal
or fée—but there was always a first time. She lowered
the weapon but kept it in hand.

She hadn't expected to encounter a mortal so quickly. She had just
been getting her bearings! Nor was she prepared in any way to
converse with him. Did all mortals emit such raw and echoing sounds
when they spoke? Gossamyr was accustomed to the musical lilt of fée
speak; she had never guessed that mortals would not sound the same.

Well! Her first mortal. (If she did not tally Veridienne—whom
she did not—for she, too, had worn a blazon of glamour). The
fascination with standing so close to one did stir her blood. She had
only ever dreamed to meet another mortal besides her mother. There
wasn't much physical difference between mortal and fée in body
height or appendages, save the fée's defining swish of wings,
horns, scales and the occasional spiked spine. And the telling
blazon.

Gossamyr gripped her throat. Was it noticeable? Is that why
curious blue eyes fixed to her?

"You are alone, fair lady of the strange costume?" Not
so grating as the initial tones.

"I am," she replied. Strange costume? Her arachnagoss
pour-point? It was certainly very average. Mayhap he did not notice
the sheen of glamour on her flesh. Better even, mayhap her blazon was
concealed?

Two steps took her right up to the mule's side. She gazed up into
the mortal's hooded visage. Musk and earth and a curious scent of
sweetness intrigued.

"Remarkable," the rumble-toned man said. "And most
bewildering."

"Why so?"

"My lady, do you not fear attack?"

A short burst of laughter preceded Gossamyr's cocky grin. A spin
of the longstaff cut the air in a swift gulp and she stabbed the tip
to ground near her foot. "As you have remarked, I carry a big
stick."

"Indeed. As well you could take a man's eye out with that
spinny thing."

"It is an
arret,"
she
explained, then tucked it away on her braided amphi-leather belt.
"Achoo!"

"Bless yo—my lady? Did—did you just...twinkle?"

"What?"
Twinclian?
She hadn't moved. Well, the
sneeze had shaken her fiercely—

"You just glimmered!"

Impossible—ah! So her blazon was visible!

A step back was necessary. A tug of her pourpoint did not lift the
soft fabric any higher than her collarbone. The blazon started under
her chin and flowed to the bottom of her collarbone, wrapping around
her neck to under her ears.

The fée did not reveal themselves to mortals. Nothing but
ill could come from discovery. Another step placed her in the shade
of a fat-leaved mulberry.

Yet another startling thought unsettled: this mortal
could
see
her. Mortals were not capable of seeing the fée. Not unless
they possessed the sight. Hmm... Unless—no, she knew the fée
visited the Otherside completely unseen.

Mayhap a half blood was visible to mortals?

So long as he did see her, she had better distract attention from
her blazon, the only telling sign of Faery.

She summed up the man's attire, long dark cloak, striped hose and
an open white shirt with blue peacocks embroidered around the neck.
About his fingers danced colors of ruby, sapphire and gold. Various
silver symbols hung from a leather cord about his neck. Alchemical
symbols, she surmised. A sure sign of the sight. And that she must
beware, for surely he dabbled with magic. "You are... a wizard?"

"Far from it."

"A mage?"

"Are they not two of the same?"

"What are you?"
That you can see me!

"Why, I am a man." Still sitting upon his mule he bowed
to her and introduced himself. "Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon III."
Casting a wink at her, he said, "But you may call me Ulrich."

Ulrich. Who saw her. And whose voice blasted inside her skull and
rippled through her body like tiny sparkles of sunlight heating her
flesh. Everything about him called to her attention.

Was it the same for him? Did she sound so different? How soon
before her blazon faded? Surely the Disenchantment would wipe it
away?

And until it did, and she could walk undetected by mortal eyes?

"I shall call you gone." Gossamyr nodded over her
shoulder and made show of spinning the staff in a twirl of defiance.

"The lady is not a conversationalist. And I must heed she is
well armed." The man heeled his mule and ambled past her. "Very
well. This forest remains the same. The trees are the same. All...is
well." His hood did not conceal the curious eyes drinking her in
from crown to toe. Bare toes, Gossamyr realized as she turned her
toes inward. "Fair fall you, my lady. Good...day." He
paused, blatantly staring at her, then, snapping his attention away,
nodded. He muttered to himself, his parting words low but audible,
"Could she be?"

Gossamyr watched until the man disappeared beyond a rise on the
red clay path and the whistles of his renewed dirge became but a
figment. Only then did she release her held breath. And only then did
she realize she had been holding her breath.

What sort of skittish maid am I? He presented no threat. He was
but a man. A mortal man. I should have...asked him things. Questioned
him!" She kicked a tuft of grass.

For all her frustration she had not been trained on mortal
relations. Shinn had ever made it clear a trip to the Otherside would
never occur. Martial skills served well against the spriggans, hobs
and werefrogs of Faery. One did not have to converse with the rabble,
merely lay them out.

So what hindrance had befallen her tongue? 'Twas not as if she had
never before stood so close to a male. So close as to once kiss, she
thought wistfully.

You are exotic...
A Rougethorn's wondrous declaration to
love.

Yes, I
can
love. It is the mortal half of me who loves,
I know it!

My lady, did you glimmer?

Ah! 'Twas the man's notice of her blazon that had thrown her off!
That is why she had sent him away so hurriedly. She had not expected
to be seen. And if so, she required time to plot how she would move
about in this new and alien world.

Yet, for as strange as she suspected her surroundings, the man had
made an odd remark about the sameness of the forest. Verily, in a
stretched-out, horizontal manner. And yet, far removed from all she
had ever called home.

Fact remained, the mortal had seen her. Mayhap they all could? Her
half blood had never before been tested by unEnchanted eyes. And if
all could see her then all would remark the blazon.

A disguise must be summoned to cloak her fée shimmer. Shinn
had told her of those mortals who would keep fée as pets. A
caged spectacle to be presented at fetes and in market squares,
forced to wallow in the Disenchantment until they literally shriveled
to bone.

She had not true glamour, though by merely living in Faery she had
absorbed a bit of the skill. With a decisive nod, Gossamyr closed her
eyes and began to concentrate, to summon her latent power of glamour.
If she simply thought
plain
that would mask the blazon. Ho!