Gossamyr (13 page)

"I've a blanket in my saddlebag."

A nest of thick moss at the base of an ax-tormented oak tempted
for but a moment. Gossamyr settled down and tucked her feet under her
legs. "The evening is warm. I am not accustomed to night
coverings." Actually she often slept nude. And wouldn't bare
skin feel much better right now than this itchy cloak? "I will
keep the cloak if you would grant it."

"Please do. I shouldn't wish your virtue compromised."

"My—" She snapped her jaw shut. Virtue. Yes, the
mortals were not so accepting of bared flesh.

"Sweet dreams." Fabric snapped. Ulrich laid out the
blanket on the opposite side of the trunk. "I wonder, do you
dream of mortals?"

With her staff clutched near to ready, Gossamyr closed her eyes.
"Cease, Ulrich."

But her thoughts remained busy.

This information about Ulrich and his skill with souls intrigued.
Gossamyr sought a woman who stole essences, which were similar to the
mortal soul. Could the soul shepherd see a fée essence? And if
he could, would it serve her a boon or merely a belated warning to an
already stolen life?

Either way, he may prove valuable to her quest.

Now, to dreams of...Paris and mortals.

The decimated ruins of what had once been a great castle lured
Gossamyr from the red dirt pathway. She had woken this morning to
find the midportion of her pourpoint crumbled, where she'd bent her
gut to curl into a comfortable position. The bottom half had fallen
away as she stood. Ulrich's whistle had prompted her to tie the
corners of his cloak about her waist in a wrapped manner that didn't
so much conceal her bared belly as keep the cloak to hand should the
remainder of her clothing sift away to dust.

Disenchantment attacked her Faery vestments. Yet, the braies
remained complete. Her staff, the
arrets
and the Glamoursiege
sigil were also whole. A curiosity. How soon before all fell from her
body in a glimmer of dust?

The fetch darted ahead of her, veering back and skimming overhead,
then turning to bank tightly toward her. Fancy wandered the border of
the castle wall, picking amongst the fallen stones and charred
ramparts for a choice blossom of her favorite, clover.

"Hasn't been abandoned overlong!" Ulrich called. He
remained a good distance from the ruins. What he determined a "safe
zone" from the lost dead.

Again the nuisance fetch darted at her. Wings flicked the crown of
her head. Gossamyr batted at the insistent insect. "Be gone!"
It was as if the dragon fly did not want her to go up to the castle.

Which only made Gossamyr all the more determined to do so. Dodging
the fetch's incoming flight, she bent and ducked under the insect and
ran up and over a pile of fallen limestone blocks.

Her feet melding to the moss-frosted stone, she stood at the
entrance to what might have once been the bailey. Rusted iron spikes
stuck in a charred length of wood. The clawed bottom of a portcullis?
Gossamyr stilled and closed her eyes. The caw of a raven soared
overhead. She could scent but the grass and a patch of nearby clover.
Nothing unseen brushed her flesh. (Not even the fetch. Wise
creature.) Which merely proved she could not sense what Ulrich had
been born to see. Intriguing, his skill, though it be a vexing burden
to bear.

No more vexing than the burden of half blood.

Desideriel has agreed to the marriage.
Be that the reason
for Shinn's need to pair her so quickly? Did he not want a half blood
ruling Glamoursiege? It was a startling thought. One Gossamyr had not
before considered. It made sense. But that Shinn had not expressed
such concern to her hurt.

The gentle hum of wind softened as she entered the destruction.
Ignoring her conscience's dreadsome notions, Gossamyr poked through
the rubble with her staff. Ulrich's guess might be correct; this
castle had not been abandoned for more than a few years of mortal
seasons.

A tattered tapestry, lifted with the end of her staff, displayed
vibrant indigo and amber threading in the crease where the sun had
not found purchase. A pod of bronze beetles were shook to the ground.
She watched their haphazard scurry to find a shadow; pretty how the
sun reflected on their hard iridescent shells like animated jewels.

A deep breath drew in the lightness of the world. Stretching out
her arms, Gossamyr teetered playfully as she jumped from one stone to
the next. Flight was hers in this lightness of being. No need for
wings, merely a breath lifted her high from the usual.

She kicked aside a dented steel bascinet and squatted beside what
looked to be human remains—a skull, the jaw cleaved in two to
separate the teeth with a perfect line. Only a heavy slicing weapon
could have done such. Much as she craved danger, Gossamyr said
blessings she had not been raised when Glamoursiege had been a
warring tribe. Shinn had intimated to his violent history in his
attention to her training. Strife was far and rare in Faery, for the
mortals thrived on opposition.

But tendrils of strife had now seeped into her home. What may
become a full-scale battle of revenants versus her people must be
stopped.

"What do you suppose happened?" she called as she marked
what might have been the length of the keep. Wood beams spanning a
thickness to match her torso bracketed the fieldstone hearth, the
remaining rib-work that had supported what must have once been a
formidable fortress.

"War." Ulrich's voice echoed easily across their
distance. "Indifference. Greed. It is a common thing."

"Yes, the mortal war," she murmured, knowing from
Veridienne's bestiary that near to a century had ensnared the
Other-side in war. How many years formed a century? Had Shinn lived
so long?

"Shall we be off? There is nothing of value to be had from
the remains of another man's suffering."

"Anon," she called, disinterested in leaving just yet.

Gossamyr approached a burnt wood piling that might have once
supported a ceiling beam. Thick as a man's body and charred at an
angle on both ends, it stood upright, rooted in the rubble of stone
and defeated pride. Faint smoke and coal tinged the air. A damaged
shield had been fixed to the beam, literally pinned there with a
rusted sword.

The fetch landed on the blade of the weapon, tucking its
translucent wings against its streamlined body and eyeing her with
wide golden orbs.

"You are not Shinn's conscience," she warned. "I
will not be dissuaded. Merely record and be gone with you."

A flicker of wings glinted in the sunlight.

She touched the leather hilt of the sword; it bounced against her
palm, setting the fetch to an abbreviated flight—up, then back
to settle upon the blade. A fine, heavy sword—had it served a
warrior? A tug proved it was fixed into the wood. Fine and well, she
had no desire to touch mortal steel.

Gossamyr stepped up and traced her fingertips along the jagged
edge of the shield, not touching, but close. The dexter corner had
been torn away but did not destroy the faded white lettering
mastering the shield. She had learned the mortal language from
Veridienne in her youth; it was very similar to her own. Painted
across the top were two words written in mortal script. Valor. Truth.
An "r" preceded
valor;
mayhap the end of the first
word.

"Valor," she whispered, feeling the need—verily, a
compulsion—to trace above the letters.

To the side where the shield had been torn, the stone hearth had
been marred with charcoal. Someone had written a word to replace the
one that had apparently been ripped off the shield. Vengeance.

Gossamyr pressed her spread palm over the word but did not touch
it. She verily felt the anger emanating from that vile word. Glancing
up to the crumbled walls that were now crenellated from damage, she
sighed. Great suffering had befallen
this
castle and its inhabitants. Vengeance, indeed.

A glance to the fetch. Did it wink at her?

Drawing in a breath, Gossamyr suddenly struggled with insistent
thoughts of worry. Her heart felt heavy. She mourned for...
something. Something lost.

A tilt of her head studied the shield, but her eyes unfocused and
she merely listened to her heartbeats. So vigorous.

Vengeance, valor, truth.

All were not lost.

Stretching out a finger, she tapped the middle word—no sting
from the steel. She would claim valor as her own battle standard.

As for the truth, she had it. 'Twas buried in her name
complete—Gossamyr Verity de Wintershinn.

Ah, but she dallied and Ulrich waited. One day, her journey thus
far. Paris was close. She felt the loss of strength, of Enchantment,
as one might feel a layer of clothing peeled from their back. Time
would not prove her boon. Even now Shinn must battle more of the
relentless revenants.

She turned and strode out from the ruins. "I must be to it."

Ulrich hustled after her. "You are most urgent, my lady!"

"And you are not? I thought there was a damsel in need of
rescue?"

"There is, but timing is not of import."

"What is?" she called as she reined in Fancy and tugged
the mule back onto the path.

"Luck. I seek an elusive end."

"Care to elaborate?"

"No."

"Has it to do with lost souls?"

"I pray the damsel is not lost. But you may help my quest."

Quirking a brow and swinging a look over her shoulder, Gossamyr
maintained pace. "How?"

"You are a faery," he called.

"I have only denied that claim."

"Not very effectively, Faery Not."

As she plodded forward, the mule slowing her pace, Gossamyr
struggled between confession and keeping her secret. What was the
harm? At the least, the truth would defeat that vicious name Faery
Not. The man could not think it any more than a silly nickname, but
oh, did it cut deep into Gossamyr's soul. A mortal soul? Or
half-mortal soul half-fée essence? All her life she had been
Faery Not, something lesser, not equal to any other.

"What think you to wed my daughter?"

Desideriel Raine sneered at Gossamyr. "Oh?"

That sneer could not be put from her memory.

'Twas time to accept and move on. Had not a good portion of her
desire to come to the Otherside been to learn about that part of
herself she did not know?

"Very well," she said, more to herself. Ulrich shuffled
to catch her pace. A man she could trust, for he held more than
enough trouble in his heart to make any more for her. "If you
must know, I
have
come from Faery."

Ulrich punched the air with a triumphant fist. He skipped around
in front of her, the talismans about his neck chinking. "I knew
it! You are
not
the same!"

Grinning at his delight, Gossamyr left the road and trod through
tall, cool blades to stop beside a massive stone. She squatted before
the jagged granite lump and twisted a long ribbon of grass about her
finger, then plucked it, pressing the wide blade upon her upper lip.
Planting a foot upon the stone, she then offered, "But I am
nearly so mortal as you."

"I don't understand." Ulrich dropped Fancy's reins,
leaving the mule to graze. The man seated himself upon the rock,
crossing his legs and pressing the heels of his palms behind him.
"How can you come from Faery and not
be
a faery? You look
like one."

"Have you ever seen a fée?"

"Hell yes! I danced, remember?"

Indeed. And something about his Dance seemed familiar to her. She
had witnessed but the one...

"As well, I've the sight now, much as I'd rather trade it for
a fortnight standing dead center at a crossroads." He entreated
the skies with a grand gesture of arms. "How to get Faery from
my eyes?"

"I do not know of a way."

"You sparkle—"

"Merely remnants of Faery." Gossamyr slid a finger over
her wrist, noting the residual glamour was only visible when she
tilted her arm and the sun glanced upon her skin.

"What of there on your neck. It looks a pattern."

And so she would confess all. "My blazon. It is the mark of
the fée."

"So all faeries wear similar markings?"

"Yes, but not in the same places on their body. It is a
tribal marking. Though some elders are marked overall with the
blazon. Glamoursiege blazons the neck and upper chest. My father's
chest, shoulders and back are entirely marked. One can determine
which tribe the fée hails from merely by locating his blazon.
But as you've said, it fades on me?"

He gestured she tilt her chin up and studied. Lost in thought, his
lips parted and she noted the bulge of pink tongue pressing through
the gape in his teeth. "Yes, it is difficult to see unless—oh!
Do not stand in the sunlight, my lady."

"That bright?"

"The cloak will serve if you tug it closed." He reached
to pull the cloak close about her neck. His finger brushed under her
chin. The two met eyes and held.

Utter awareness crowded out all other sensory litter. Blue, so
deep as the sea in which the merfolk swam, she wondered of the eyes
so intent upon her. Gossamyr watched the heavy bob of Ulrich's throat
as he swallowed. Different, in a manner that enticed. Yet again,
mortal touched. And yet again, pleased for it.

"That is bone." She touched her chin, and at the same
time Ulrich pulled away. Whatever they two had just shared in the
silence of their eyes she wanted it kept silent. "The
Disenchantment sets in slowly. Any fée glamour I have gained
through shared blood with my father will be shed from me until I
appear merely mortal."

"Don't knock mortality until you've tried it."

"I am trying it right now, Ulrich." She sighed and
settled upon the rock next to him. "It is different. Yet the
same."

"Much remains the same."

"Will you explain to me your need to label things the same
and not?"