Gossamyr Part 5

"And you bleed."

He touched the cut on his forehead and studied the minute flakes of blood on his fingers before dismissing it with a shrug. "A mere scuffle, which found the opponent most unfortunate."

"You sure it was not a tangle with a p.r.i.c.kle bush?"

"Would that it had been so. I hate b.l.o.o.d.y banshees." He narrowed a suspicious gaze at her. "You're not a banshee, are you?"

"No. Merely mort-like you. What of that bruise?"

Trembling fingers smoothed over the modena on the man's face. He grimaced and shook his head. "If I told you a woman gave it to me, would you believe such foolery?"

Gossamyr shrugged. "A woman like myself?"

"I see your point."

"Your insistence you see faeries and banshees leads me to wonder if you've the sight?"

"That dance changed everything. I'm still a bit dansey-headed from the whole event. I want Faery from my eyes!"

So he did see. Yet obviously it was not a gift he enjoyed.

Striding lightly, Gossamyr clicked her tongue to encourage the mule to pick up pace. It did not, and so she slowed.

"Now, explain to me why, if you are not a faery, your dress is so strange. Leaves for clothing? And those braies, they appear to be leather, but never have I seen so remarkable a color. Only the fair folk could fas.h.i.+on such a garment and make it strong and so flexible."

Gossamyr smirked. The remarkable color was utterly average. Fas.h.i.+oned from frog skin, the amphi-leather was strong but flexible and comfortable.

"It would not be wise to be seen by any in a village or otherwise dressed in such a manner," he stated. "Women conceal their forms with dresses and silly pointed hats. And sleeves. And shoes. Braies and hose are for men. As are weapons."

She had not considered as much. Why had not s.h.i.+nn? Of course, male and female were equals in Faery. Though Veridienne's bestiary had detailed the misbalance between the s.e.xes in the Otherside. For all s.h.i.+nn's visits to the Otherside, he should have known.

Gossamyr glanced over her attire. The fitted pourpoint stopped at her thighs. The weapon belt hung snugly across her hips. The Glamoursiege arms were carved in fire-forged applewood-faery wings upon a sword and s.h.i.+eld; a holly vine wrapped about the sword signified the peaceable times. Amphi-leather braies wrapped her legs, and secured about her ankles a thin strip of leather kept the loose braies from catching on brambles or sticks.

The bestiary had ill.u.s.trated mortal women wearing dresses sewn from ells of elaborate fabric trimmed with furs and jewels. Gossamyr wore gowns when it suited her-for b.a.l.l.s and celebrations. Rarely though did such c.u.mbersome garb suit her.

Had Veridienne insinuated herself to the Otherside with ease? But of course, her mother had known the ways of this world, for she had been born here. Gossamyr sensed now it would require much more than mere study of pictures and text for a rogue half-blood fee to find equal success.

Keep the blazon concealed.

"As well-" Ulrich leaned forward "-you travel alone, and are far too lovely to put off a man's advances."

"Let no man test my mettle unless he wishes to pull back a nub. Or, lose another tooth."

Ulrich whistled through the s.p.a.ce in his teeth. "I believe you, my lady. I believe you."

She stepped through the gra.s.s and leaned in close to him. "Stop smiling."

"Can't."

"Try."

He spread his arms wide to exclaim, '"Tis the bane of my existence, this smile." He paced a grand circle about her, as if announcing to the ma.s.ses an exciting performance. "For all the tragedy I have endured it did little to remove this false glee. For it is false. I feel only sadness in my heart."

"Be that the reason for your mournful tune when first you approached?"

He stilled in his circle of footsteps. "You heard?"

"Your world is filled with echoes-er, this world." She grimaced and punctuated her frustration by stabbing her staff into the ground with each word. "My world. The continent."

"France?"

"Indeed."

She caught his bemused grin. Far more appealing than his frown or shouted oaths. The sudden thought that this mortal appealed to her only vexed. You've no luxury to dally!

"As for my smile, women drop like flies in a swoon when they see my pearly chompers."

"Are you sure it is not your smell?" Peering through the corner of her eye at him, Gossamyr teased, "Flies dropping in manure?"

He puffed out a protesting huff.

"Well, I am still standing,"she offered, unable to hide a playful grin.

"You, my lady-" he stabbed the air before her with a finger "-are not a woman."

"I am so!"

"You are a faery."

"The correct term is fee."

"Fee, faery, banshee, witch! For all my troubles are caused by the like."

He kicked the dirt path and dust rose up about his particolored ankles.

Swoon? More like clap him with the tip of her staff. A banshee? Truly? Gossamyr knew of no root swamps-the banshees' usual haunt-but the rift had increased the likelihood of mortals in Faery, as well it let out more from Faery to torment the Otherside.

This moment she likely stood near Netherdred territory.

"Have you a name, faery? Or would that be encroaching upon your person to inquire such? I do know should a faery give his name complete he would hand over his power."

As well, a fee garnered much control over the mortal with his complete name. Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon III. Quite the mouthful. Were she full-blooded, Gossamyr could work an erie upon his tongue to silence him.

"I am not afraid of your taunts."

"Prove it with the gift of your name."

A challenge? Such daring stirred her blood. She was beginning to like this man, despite his barmy nature. "It is..." Gossamyr paused.

Never give your name to a mortal. They use magic, and can command your compliance by repeating it thrice. You will be beholden to their cruel wishes.

Caged and taunted, kept as a pet...

"My lady?"

A schusch of wind danced the leaves overhead into a rising cheer. Nearby, Fancy snuffled over a patch of clover.

'Twas only her name complete which would give away her power. The mortal had no means to discover that. "You may call me Gossamyr."

"Gossamyr." He whistled through the s.p.a.ce in his teeth. "What sort of name be that? Gaelic? Irish? Not a b.l.o.o.d.y Scot, are you?"

"You talk too much."

"And you are far too impudent for a woman." He danced with his speech, as if it a natural extension of his thoughts. Into a circle about her, but too far for her to touch or even scent. "What be your destination? And whom have you left behind? Surely there is a father or husband who mourns your absence. And so alone."

"I am not alone-achoo!-I am with you."

He eyed her staff, held at shoulder level like a pike ready for launch. "Mayhap not. But there is something about me you should know."

"What be that?"

A splay of his beringed fingers before him caught the fading sunlight in a rainbow of glints. Moving his hands like snakes slinking through the air, he bemused with his extravagant motions. "I have always had a weakness for sparkly things." Another wink seemed to please him immensely.

Sparkly things? Gossamyr felt a strange warmth rise in her face. She lowered her staff and looked away so he could not see her discomfort. The blazon must be shed. Soon.

"I merely require direction to the next village," she said. "Is it very large? I must purchase a swift horse and, as you suggest, some clothing."

"Yes, I favor a fine dress of damask for you. And long red ribbons for the plaits in your hair."

Gossamyr snorted and flipped the silver-tipped end of one of her thick plaits back over her shoulder. "Ribbons? Do you romance me, then? I'll have you know I do not succ.u.mb to a man's charm so easily- "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!"

Gossamyr froze, the tone of Ulrich's voice alerting her to the vibrations now obvious in the ground. Vibrations increasing in strength and moving toward them. She'd been so busy chaffering she hadn't been paying attention.

"Don't look now, Gossamyr, but you are soon to discover consorting with Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon III is not for the faint of heart."

Gossamyr did look. And what she saw loosed her demon-take -me smile.

The silhouette of a wide, squat figure barreled toward them. Dust plumed about it in a furious cloud. It wasn't a man. It wasn't even mortal. Danger had arrived.

FOUR.

Gossamyr swung her staff, bending into a defensive stance. She hooked the applewood parallel beneath her outstretched right arm. Peripheral vision sighted Ulrich, stalking up beside her, his fists bared and swinging for fight. "If you've not a bigger or pointier weapon, then stand back!"

"I've the will to survive, my lady, so you stand back."

"I know what I'm doing!"

"As do I!"

"Do stay out of my way!"

She spun to catch the bogie in the gut with the steel-hard staff. Impact shook her feet from the ground. Tottering two steps to the left, she found her balance.

Ulrich yelped. She spied him shaking a fist that obviously had more impact on himself than the bogie's hindquarters.

The beast let out a yowl and gripped her staff. The span of that grip covered a third of the longstaff. Gossamyr leaned backward to counter the attack. Landing her on derriere shocked stinging prinkles up and down her spine. Shaking the vibrations from her skull she leaped to her feet, drawing the staff before her in a half arc of warning.

Bogies were dumb as wood, but when enraged were difficult to contend. Usually they were more breath than roar-and oh, did their foul breath wield a malodorous bite. Their square bulky bodies were solid as stone, save, their bald, flat heads; the skull proved thinner than parchment. Only problem was climbing the mountain of bogie to reach the prize.

A vicious wind of foul breath and gnas.h.i.+ng incisors rose up behind Gossamyr. She spun, prepared to defend. The bogie shrieked and tumbled midair, soaring over her head, and landed on the ground behind her.

Gossamyr pierced Ulrich with a dagger of a look.

The man countered with his own c.o.c.ky wink and a tilt of the crossbow he wielded. "I'm keeping my distance!"

Rolling and shrieking, the squat brown bogie stirred up the dirt from the ground in a billowing cloud. The crossbow quarrel- wedged in the bogie's gut-splintered and was crushed to pulp. Now the beast lay p.r.o.ne, its skull level with Gossamyr's shoulder.

"Leave him for me!" Gossamyr yelled. Levering her leg back to force momentum through her body, she swung hard, meeting wood to skull. The definite dull crunch of shattering skullbone thundered in her ears.

A deft twist of her staff placed it like a spear in Gossamyr's palm. Stabbing it into the bogie's eye, the applewood met with little resistance. The body shuddered, jittering the staff in her sure grip. The ground shook. The mule brayed. Yowls to stir up a slumbering swamp beast from a bed of muck a.s.saulted the air. With a final shudder of stout hairy limbs, the bogie gave up the ghost. The stench of such finality coiled into the air, wilting the freshness with a heavy veil.

Brown matter oozed from the skull. Gossamyr tugged out her staff and tamped it on the ground to clean it off. The ooze clung.

"Nasty bit of business that," Ulrich commented.

Heavy breaths panted over her lips, but a smile stole Gossamyr's disgust. She had done it. Her first challenge-alone, without s.h.i.+nn looking over her shoulder-and she had been successful. The thought to retreat hadn't even occurred. Danger had approached and she had stood at the ready.

"Yes!" Gossamyr said in an elated whisper.

Crossbow tilted against his shoulder, Ulrich stomped over and studied the oozing carnage. "Now that shall leave a mark."

Spinning on the insolent, Gossamyr landed her staff with a click aside the crossbow. "I am going to leave a mark on you should you persist in interfering."

"My lady." He pressed out a placating hand. "There was a challenge to be met!"

"Expertly mastered by me!"

"You? Ha!"

"You laugh? I-"