Gossamyr (9 page)

"And where in Paris does she reside?"

"I know naught."

"Paris is a big city. Mayhap I can help you locate her?"

"How might you discover a woman you've never met?"

"I found you."

"But you weren't—"

"I've a location spell that may be of use."

A spell? Caution fired. "You said you are not a wizard."

"That I am not."

The last thing Gossamyr needed was to align herself with a
practicer of magic. She had come to stop the damaging effects done to
Enchantment, not contribute.

"But I did pay attention when His Most Magical—er, my
former patron—needed to locate a lost dream or dragon."

"You practice magic?"

"Not enough to make it real."

But did his attempts tap Enchantment? And with the rift, the
damage caused was increased immeasurably. Mayhap choosing to share
the road with this man had been a mistake. Where was the fetch? If
Ulrich proved a threat, would Shinn intervene?

Quickening her footsteps, she commented, "I fear the woman I
seek be more dangerous than a fire-breathing dragon."

"You say so?"

"I've said enough. We must keep to ourselves. We've only to
accompany one another to the next village."

"You're not keen on friendship, eh?"

Gossamyr shrugged. Not with a man who practiced magic.

Mince was the only friend she had ever known. Not even a good
friend if one considered Shinn paid her as nursemaid. Gossamyr had
been schooled and trained exclusively by her father, and kept from
most situations that would see her surrounded by vindictive fée.
The few times she went to market or escaped to participate in a
tournament were such wonders. There were food stands offering honeyed
petals and toadstools carved like miniature castles, pavender creams
and smoky beetles enticed. Children were rare, put few ran about
laughing and playing challenging games. Women dressed gaily and men
ogled them with soused grins. Brownies socialized with hobs and the
curiously tall dryad would draw a lingering stare. Who could be
bothered to look for a friend?

Besides, Gossamyr was ever studied from afar—like a curious
bug—but rarely approached with a smile.

You are half-blooded, and that is fine. You are the daughter of
Lord de Wintershinn. They know you will ascend to the throne one day,
and they respect you, for you are of Shinn's bloodline. Still, the
fée will never completely accept you. It is best you avoid the
central markets in Glamoursiege. Half bloods, while rare, are cruelly
teased.

Unless a fée was attracted to her
because
of her
mixed blood.

You are exotic, Gossamyr.

He is a Rougethorn. They dabble in magic...

"I say—" Ulrich turned and rejoined her at her
side "—that a man can never have too many friends."

"I am not a man."

"You fight like one."

"Bespell your tongue to silence," she hissed and then
under her breath murmured, "Or I shall do it for you."

"I've rudimentary knowledge of magic. Would that I could
bespell myself!"he called out grandly. '"Twould be akin to
smiling myself into a swoon!"

But Gossamyr wasn't listening. Evening traced the atmosphere with
an orange line on the horizon. Surrounding gray illumination loomed.
An eyelash moon slit; the sky. Soon the countryside would be black. A
unique experience, for the light bugs that populated the Spiral
forest produced such illumination Gossamyr had never found herself to
fright because of darkness. She sensed mortals viewed the world in a
darker shade. Were there light bugs in this realm? The compulsion to
cling to this final moment of sparse light, to see all—and
remember—overwhelmed. For soon she would see that darker shade,
as well.

That is why you must be of haste! No time to rest this night.
Leave the mortal to his foul magic and be off.

A line of fire-ravaged treetops frosted the western horizon with a
macabre lace. To the right, a creaking windmill chomped on the
silence, wood bearing against wood, commanded by the wind. Crickets
chirred and long grasses
schussed.
Evening sounded much the
same, and that was, as Ulrich might say, bone.

"Achoo!"

"Sneeze on Tuesday—"

"—clobber a stranger," Gossamyr finished the
childhood rhyme.

"So touchy, my lady. I'd fare to wager we are strangers no
longer."

"What happens when one sneezes on the morrow?"

"Sneeze for a letter. And Thursday sneeze for something
better. Mayhap by Thursday you'll have shed your sparkle?"

"Or even better, I'll have shed one mule and its jabbering
passenger."

Jabbery? Indeed! Why the nerve of the...the...well, Ulrich wasn't
exactly sure
what
Gossamyr was.

Feisty, fine and female. Mayhap a faery?

The woman who strode in skipping steps ahead of him by ten paces
was like no woman he had ever before known. Or seen. Or dreamed of.
Well, mayhap he had dreamed a tempting siren once or twice—hell,
dozens of times. But never had she been so skilled in the martial
arts. Killing bogies? She had moved without thought, swinging that
beautiful carved stick of hers and taking out the bogie with but one
stroke. Masterful.

His rusted crossbow had been less than splendid when matched
against the woman's mettle. Made him feel a bit lacking.

On the other hand, with a traveling mate of such skill, he could
pay heed to that which required attention. Ulrich patted Fancy's
withers and slid his hand back to smooth over the saddlebag. A
certain hum, much like the throat of a purring cat, vibrated against
his palm. Safe. But for how long? Would his quest be ended most
violently before he had opportunity to save the damsel?

Or was it already too late? So little remained the same. It had
all changed. Everything. Twenty years had been stolen!

He should have been there to save her, his sweet Rhiana. Instead,
he had been...dancing. That hellacious toadstool ring!

Ah, but he would have Rhiana back. And he would die trying.

But he mustn't think overmuch of his quest. For one brief
thought—just back the road a ways—had called up the
bogie. Myriad strange and malevolent evils could sense him, even—he
suspected—hear his thoughts.

What should happen if he were to dip into the saddlebag and draw
the thing out into view? He'd barely avoided death last eve when the
wailing white ladies had followed him through the mist-fogged swamp.
Not being corporeal they could not touch him, but such hadn't
prevented them from flinging sticks and stones and the like at him.
And finding target with each attack. Recall prickled the hairs all
over his body to alert. And the realization this quest was insane.

How to locate what he sought? Was this feeling—a calling
that led him toward Paris—sure?

What a task, what a task.

An ally from Faery would make all the difference.

Ulrich eyed the sure, muscular form striding ahead of Fancy. She
was as a man in strength and prowess but with the curves and beauty
of a siren. Those double plaits of summer-wheat hair tipped in
delicate bone clasps beat at her back with each lilting stride. And
the clothing! Braies and pourpoint? Leaves? No mortal man or woman
could fashion such. And that glimmer, it almost seemed to form a
pattern under her jaw and down her neck. Did it spread across her
chest?

She was a faery; he sensed it. For he could lately
see
the
damned things. A gift of the dance. How to give it back?

A man should like to have a confident fighter at his side if he
had set to an insane quest that would surely bring about many more a
challenge.

As well, a faery would attract the one thing he most needed to
find.

The iridescent fetch was not to be seen against the dull flatness
of night. Must have twinclianed to Faery. The quiet warmth of
protection Gossamyr felt whenever she sighted the dragon fly tremored
for reignition. Sure, she could stand off a bogie, but...

But...she wondered now if Mince was asking for her absence. What
must her maid think? Did she fear for Gossamyr, all alone in a
strange land? Mayhap Shinn had not mentioned her departure. And if he
had, only the facts—details were unnecessary. Surely, Mince
worried.

Something so insignificant as a sigh now felt a heavy burden as
Gossamyr marched along the rutted path alongside her mortal traveling
companion. She kept turning to look back, thinking to spy the marble
castle from the corner of her eye. She didn't like feeling this way.
Uncomfortable. At a loss. For all purposes she should charge ahead,
thinking only of the task. All of Faery relied upon her defeat of the
Red Lady.

"All," she murmured. "That is...quite many."

So many, she wondered now if Shinn had made a wise choice.

It was not a choice! You begged.

Yes.

I hope you discover the solace to the ache that has been your
nemesis.

He knew. It had been time to set her free. If only to fulfill the
personal quest she sought before settling upon the Glamoursiege
throne. To experience the Otherside, and to claim victory.

Ahead, torches flickered and wobbled along the path. Night had
settled, completely blacking the sky save for spots of starlight.

Gossamyr skipped ahead. About a shout down the road an equipage
with two armored destriers in the lead pondered slowly forth. Both
carried torches. Following, a carriage and a large covered wagon
behind, trailed by yet more mounted riders. Every corner of the
carriage was hung with yet another torch.

"What is that?" She turned to Ulrich. "Royalty?"

"Unlikely." A bounce on his toes scanned the coming
caravan. "No banners or coats of arms that I can see. It is
likely a traveling merchant who has just passed through Aparjon. We
should move from the road."

Gossamyr stabbed her staff into the red clay. "Why?"

A chuffing breath preceded Ulrich's sharp retort, "Do you
wish to be trampled?"

Gossamyr held her tongue. She held no position here in the
Otherside. While normally her equipage would command the road, she
was supposed to be lying low. Waylaying suspicion. Besides, a mule
and a dancing fool could hardly be considered an equipage. A touch to
her neck; she spread her fingers down over her collarbones. Darkness
hid her blazon.

Leaping from the path, she landed Fancy's side and gave the mule's
neck a smooth of her palm. "Will they be dangerous?"

"Not unless provoked." Ulrich eyed her suspiciously.
"You, er...won't provoke them?"

Did he think her so unhinged? "Not unless they give reason
for such."

"Of course. I should expect nothing less from a bogie-killer.
Just...do not speak," he muttered in low tones as the equipage
neared. Iron-bound wheels creaked under the load and armor clanked
with the pace of the horses.

The mounted men leading the band were attired in black armor with
black leather straps and polished silver buckles that glinted with
torchlight. Black leather braies and boots blended with the
velvet-black hide of the horses.

"Perhaps not a merchant," Ulrich whispered over
Gossamyr's shoulder. "Not with an armored escort. Stand back and
allow them passage. It is safest."

Solemn in expression, the men's eyes turned to Gossamyr and Ulrich
as they slowed to pass by. The lead rider wore a bascinet helmet
sporting a brilliant red plume. Gossamyr looked boldly into the dark
eyes of the man. A chill touched her breast. Malevolence followed her
gaze, but offered not a word. Only when he had to turn away or force
himself to twist in the saddle did their contact break. Not friendly,
but neither did she feel threatened. They would offer no challenge so
long as they were not pressed.

An entire band of mortals!

Eager to take it all in, she propped her chin on the hand she
fisted about her staff and watched as the carriage approached.
Filigreed iron lanterns dangling at the four corners of the boxy
vehicle glittered across the highly polished wood body. Simple narrow
red flags hung limp in the lacking breeze; the fabric ends were
frayed and dirtied from the road. The carriage rumbled slowly, the
uneven path likely joggling the passengers inside to a jaw-jarring
clatter.

Light from inside the carriage box set the heavy window hangings
to an eerie glow. As a hand pulled back a curtain, Gossamyr's
heartbeats quickened. A female peered out—her eyes were rimmed
in thick kohl and bejeweled at the corners with glittering red
stones.

"The Red—" Gossamyr choked on her declaration as
she rushed the carriage.

"No!" Ulrich shouted.

A call from one of the leaders brought the equipage to a halt.
Hoofbeats pounded up from the rear, drawing a half-dozen mounted men
to defense.

Gossamyr gasped in the dust of the sudden upheaval as she slapped
a hand to the carriage window and clung. The woman inside, not at all
frightened by Gossamyr's hasty approach, stared curiously down at
her. Long red hair slipped around her neck and dangled upon exposed
upper curves of her pale breasts.

"It is she!" Gossamyr cried. "The succubus!"
She stretched to touch, to grope, but her reach was shortened.
Someone grabbed her about the waist and jerked her away, legs
flailing and staff swiping the air.

"Settle." Ulrich held her. Gossamyr struggled, but the
sudden dismount of the rear guards, and the barricade they formed
before the carriage—crossbows to the ready—halted her in
Ulrich's arms. "What do you think to do?" Ulrich hissed in
her ear. "We are outnumbered with long pointy, sharp weapons.
The woman is but a bit of damask and lace."

The woman in the carriage now leaned out the window. Gossamyr saw
there was not a mark of the banished on her face. A very obvious mark
that no one should miss. And her hair was but a rusty shade of red,
not brilliant as a ruby or the blood of a slaughtered hare.