Читать книгу Gossamyr - Michele Hauf - Страница 10

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 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 pourpoint? 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 César 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 fêtes 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!”

Drawn prematurely from her attempt, Gossamyr twisted at the waist. There he was again. The man with the eerie blue eyes and clinking silver charms about his neck. Had he traveled a circle? This forest, dense and large, would surely require any casual traveler much time to circumnavigate—even should his journey spiral. Was mortal time so spectacular then?

Time is the enemy.

“What sort of witchery be this?” the man said as he heeled his mount beside Gossamyr.

Her fingers toyed with the carvings on the staff, and one hand flattened to her throat. “You jest with me.”

“I beg that I do not, my lady. I traveled straight; there was not a turn in the road. And yet—”

“No time passed?”

“Exactly.” Pressing a hand over his brows to shade his view from the setting sun, he peered at her. A flicker of ruby flashed in his ring. “I do not believe your sparkle is merely the sun—”

“Impossible you did not turn and cut back through the forest.”

He shrugged, and the hood of his cloak fell to his shoulders to reveal a scatter of tangled hair and a trickle of crimson running from temple to ear. Might have been scratched by a branch, so small the cut. Yet there, to the side of his right eye, a bruise the color of crushed blackberries tormented the flesh. What had the man been to? Fighting? Defense?

“Be gone with you, stranger,” Gossamyr said. She had enough to sort through without him tangling her thoughts, making her wonder when wonder was best abandoned to focused attention.

The buzz of the fetch zoomed past her face, too quick for a mortal to regard as any other than an insect. Shinn kept watch.

“Ride straight and do not look back.”

With a surrendering splay of his hands, the man huffed out a grand sigh. “As the lady wishes. I’ve my own sorrows to keep me this day.” He again heeled the mule. With a bristle of its dirty hide the beast carried its master onward.

Over the rise in the road, Gossamyr watched and listened keenly for his return, for a signal he veered from the path and into the underbrush that paralleled the pounded dirt. A bluefinch soared overhead, chirring a greeting that made her smile. Exactly as the birds in Faery. The bird verified the traveler neared the edge of the forest—

“’Tis a spell!”

Behind her, Jean César Ulrich Villon III reined the beast to a halt and jumped to the ground. Fists planted akimbo, he looked over the mule, then up the verdant wall of the surrounding forest. Gossamyr thought she heard him mutter, “The same.”

“Be you a witch?” he called.

“Most certainly not.” That would imply she dabbled with forbidden magic! She stomped over to him and jabbed her staff under his chin. “Tell me true, you traveled straight?”

He nodded, raising his spread hands to his shoulders to keep them in view. Small cuts gashed his palms and wrists. Had the man battled his way out from a prickle bush? Where then had he found such a nasty bruise?

Gossamyr scanned the forest, seeking a tear in the curtain to Faery where perhaps a sprite might be seen spying on his mischievous deed. Wide hornbeam leaves remained still as stone. Tree trunks gripped the earth, silent stately sentinels. Pale ivy twisted about the grasses and journeyed toward the toadstool circle. Not a dryad in the lot.

Gossamyr could not be sure if it was because she no longer stood in Faery, or simply, the Disenchantment befell more quickly than expected. She saw nothing out of sorts. Save that everything was horizontal.

“Pisky led,” she decided, then snapped the staff away from the man’s chin.

“What?” Ulrich followed her as she turned and stalked down the rough path away from him. “I’ve not seen a pixy.”

“Pisky,” she corrected sharply.

“Piskies, pixies, what have you!”

“They are very different. Piskies fly, pixies…they trundle. As well, pixies do not glimmer.”

“Only thing I’ve seen that glimmers of the enchanted is you, my lady. On your neck there—Oh, Hades!” He clamped a palm to his forehead. The action resulted in a yelp, for obviously his bruised face pained him. “Not again! Pray, tell you are not a damned faery.”

Gossamyr winced at the unfamiliar word. Not a favorable oath, she guessed from his tone.

“You are not? You cannot be. Dragon piss!” He pressed beringed fingers between them in an entreaty. “Have they sent someone to bring me back? Where are they? Do they lurk? No! I will not go. I refuse!” He curled his fingers and wrung the balled fist at Gossamyr. “Your kind have done enough to foul my life.”

“I am n-not a faery,” Gossamyr managed. She pressed a hand to her throat where the blazon was visible. They keep them chained in cages. “No, not faery,” she reiterated more confidently.

“You lie, trickster! Your sort never speak the truth, only in circles.” The man drew tiny frantic rings in the air before him. “Circles, circles, circles. Oh, but those damned circles! It is not the same! Changed, damn them all. It has all changed!”

“Believe me or not,” Gossamyr said over his ranting. “I am m-mortal, like you.” A quick twist of her fingers clasped the highest agraffe on her pourpoint, closing the vest to an uncomfortable tightness.

“Mortal?” He jerked a sneer at her. “My lady, we mortals do not have occasion to call ourselves mortals. We are men, women, coopers, bakers, fishermen—but never do we say mortal. Tavern keepers, tanners, magi and—”

“Enough! I am…a woman then.” Yes, he must see that! She managed an awkward curtsy—a quick bend of one knee—and forced a smile. “Are you well pleased?”

“Pleased? To stand in the presence of a faery?”

“I am not!”

“What of your clothing?”

“What of it?”

He peered closely at her. Gossamyr controlled the urge to reach for the discoloration on his cheek. Did it feel hot? Tender? What did a mortal feel like? His face was such a display of movement and lines and sighs and outburst. So emotional!

Oblivious to Gossamyr’s curiosity, Ulrich eyed the sleeveless pourpoint, slid over the applewood sigil propped on her hip, then stretched his gaze back up her neck. Stuffed with arachnagoss and sown in a fine quilting, the garment protected from sharp or slashing weapons.

He finally said, “Are those leaves sewn together?”

Clutching the rugged fabric fitted snugly to her body, Gossamyr lifted her chin. “Mayhap,” she offered stubbornly, thinking a lie would be just that—so obvious. Lies served nothing but to prolong the inevitable bane. But the truth of her was a necessary misappropriation, lest she find herself in a cage rotting in a market square.

“Leaves! Marvelous!” A brilliant smile revealed white teeth and he clapped his hands together—but the smile straightened sharply, as did his mood. “Well, I am not going with you.”

“I did not ask your accompaniment, mort—er, Ulrich.”

“So be off then.” He shooed her with a flip of his fingers. “Back to Faery where you belong.”

“Do you not hear well?”

“Perfectly.”

“Mayhap you are daft? I said I am n-not a faery. It is ridiculous of you to assume as much.” Gossamyr crossed her arms over her chest and assumed a defiant stance.

“What then places you here in my path, charming my mule to return at your bidding? If that is not faery glamour, I don’t know what is. Have not your kind toyed with me enough?”

“What torments have you suffered at the hands of Faery?”

“You don’t know?” A skip to his right, his feet nimble and sure, twirled him around once and ended with a mock bow. The man changed moods so quickly he was either barmy or a lackwit.

He blew forcefully from his mouth, which fluttered his lips into a slobbery sound. “Is not a dance of the decades damage enough? Oh!” He thrust up his arms, then as quickly, snapped into a wary crouch and scanned the dense forest. “Am I in Faery now? If you mean me no harm then get me gone from here. I command it of you, wicked faery!”

Gossamyr rolled her eyes at his dramatics—then narrowed her gaze on him. The remarkable thing about the man was not the bruises and blood but that contour of hair above and below his mouth. Fée men did not sport facial hair. It wasn’t necessary, for, unlike dwarves, they did not require body hair to protect from the elements. And those eyes. Blue, a color Gossamyr had never before looked into. Her mother’s brown eyes were the only anomaly from the fée violet. And her own. So much color twinned on the man’s face, and yet, that color drowned in a sea of white.

“We stand in the mortal realm, Jean César, er—”

“Ulrich Villon. The third—hell, what am I doing? I have just given my name complete to a faery!”

If he only knew how little glamour she could wield with that information.

A poke of her staff into the ground spoke her impatience. “Not a single faery taunts you this day.” Or so he must believe. But he seemed to know about her kind. And the forest, it seemed not to want him to leave her side.

Hmm…An enchanted bane or boon? She must…test. If he could leave her, then it was mere coincidence. If he again returned to her side, then they were meant—for reasons beyond her grasp—to travel together. It is all she could figure with so little experience of this realm.

“Get back on your mule and ride off. I will follow you over that ridge in the path to ensure your success.”

“She is not a mule,” the man offered as he mounted. His shoes, strapped and circled in thin leather ties, grazed the grass tops. “Fancy is a rare breed, yet while lacking in height makes up for it in endurance.”

Fancy? A miserable waste of horseflesh. But Gossamyr did not speak her annoyance. Surely the only reason for the man’s return to her twice over was that someone or thing in Faery saw to make mischief with her. But to speak to Faery—the trees, as the man would view it—would not put her to advantage. And where was the fetch when she needed to communicate?

Gesturing the mortal and his mule follow, Gossamyr walked up the path. At the rise, she saw the forest stretched ahead for endless lengths. Not a visible root or marsh kelpie in sight. Impossible he had traveled the distance and returned to her side in so little time.

Could Shinn be behind this? What reason had her father to place this man in her path? He had wanted her to accept a guide…

“You are a faery,” Ulrich muttered, the mule ambling to make pace with Gossamyr’s light-footed strides. “I know it. I am not going with you, foul one.”

“Suits me fine and well. I have no need of such misery to accompany me on my travels, you barmy bit of breath. Go. Once more,” she said as the man passed her by. And then he was gone.

Assuming a defiant stance, shoulders back and one knee slightly bent, Gossamyr counted her breaths, waiting, wondering. A strum of her fingers across the dangling arrets produced a multitude of obsidian clicks. Deadly aim, Shinn had once remarked of her skill. She’d taken the prize in tournament three years consecutive.

With a sigh, she shook away the sudden rise of apprehension created by her encounter with the mortal. Time threatened. Her father and his troops must battle more revenants even as she stood here.

She felt a familiar presence first at the base of her skull, the prinkles of warning, of sure knowing.

Gossamyr reluctantly turned to face where she had started her adventures in the Otherside. There lumbered her pisky-led mule and rider. It was too ridiculous to wonder. And so she loosed a chuckle and splayed her arms out in surrender.

“It appears I am destined to remain at your side,” Ulrich called. “Oh, to tap into the source of such magic!” Then he narrowed his blue gaze on her and muttered, “Mayhap I will, luck be with me.”

“I possess no magic.” And that was truth. Magic was a mortal device, forbidden in Faery. (Though there were those who dabbled.) For every use of magic, be it good or for evil, tapped Enchantment. Mortals literally stole Enchantment (most unknowing) to conjure their spells and charms and bewitchments. Should a fée be accused of dabbling, banishment was immediate.

“I do not know why you lie, faery, but I will allow you are a lone woman who must protect herself. Of course, lies be the way of the faery.”

“Faeries do not appeal to you?”

“Faery circles, my lady. And we are far from—Yei-ih!” He flicked his gaze back and forth between Gossamyr and the ground. “What is that? It’s…that’s it. A toadstool circle?” Ulrich heeled the mule, but it remained stubbornly stationed beside the Passage from which Gossamyr had disembarked. “Move, beast! Get thee gone!”

Gossamyr reached out. A tweetering whistle enticed the mule to wander toward her as she walked widdershins down the path. “They are merely toadstools. No harm will come to thee.”

“Speaks one who has not danced!”

A Dancer? Gossamyr peered at the mortal, seeing him newly. Much as she loved her parents and her home, she had ever been curious about the mortal realm. A curiosity that had flowered since the day she’d witnessed a Dancer. So very much like herself. Wingless and clumsy, with a lumbering body that had made his dance steps wobble—almost as if the air was too heavy for him to acclimate.

Had this man really Danced? Or did he merely babble nonsensities? To make a determination proved yet difficult. Too new this mortal realm, and this man but her first mortal. Nothing to compare him to. He could be luna-touched for all she knew.

But he had returned to her side, thrice over.

“You have been placed in my path for a reason. I must accept and move on, for urgency is fore. Come!” The mule followed as she walked onward. “Do you ride to the nearest village?” she asked, her pace slowing to mirror the mule’s laborious trudge.

“Mayhap I do.”

“I’ve great need to know how far away it lies. What is the time from here to the next village? How many suns will rise before I arrive?”

The horizon held his attention. Young, he appeared, though the gashed flesh on his hands lended to hard labor, or struggle. Definitely struggle, to gauge from the condition of his face. He could well be her peer.

“Aparjon,” he offered, without looking her way. “That be the next village. And following…who knows.” His heavy sigh intrigued Gossamyr. “I go where I am led. Tell me true, you have not been sent to retrieve me to Faery?”

“You continue to assume I am from Faery when I tell you I am not.” She winced at the lie. And she fooled herself to believe the blazon was not visible even with the highest agraffe secured. “I am on a mission.”

“Ah. A woman on a mission. And she wields a big stick, so watch out world!”

Ulrich scruffed a hand through his tangles of dark hair and offered a genuine grin. A missing tooth to the side of his front teeth spoke of certain battle. “You are not like most women.”

“Why say you such?”

“You are confidant and commanding.”

She bristled proudly at his expert observations.

“And…well, you do twinkle.”

“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 prickle bush?”

“Would that it had been so. I hate bloody 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 fashion such a garment and make it strong and so flexible.”

Gossamyr smirked. The remarkable color was utterly average. Fashioned 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 Shinn? Of course, male and female were equals in Faery. Though Veridienne’s bestiary had detailed the misbalance between the sexes in the Otherside. For all Shinn’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 Glamoursiège arms were carved in fire-forged applewood—faery wings upon a sword and shield; 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 illustrated mortal women wearing dresses sewn from ells of elaborate fabric trimmed with furs and jewels. Gossamyr wore gowns when it suited her—for balls and celebrations. Rarely though did such cumbersome 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 fée 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 space in his teeth. “I believe you, my lady. I believe you.”

She stepped through the grass 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 masses 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 fée.”

“Fée, faery, banshee, witch! For all my troubles are caused by the like.” He kicked the dirt path and dust rose up about his parti-colored 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 fée garnered much control over the mortal with his complete name. Jean César 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 space in his teeth. “What sort of name be that? Gaelic? Irish? Not a bloody 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 succumb to a man’s charm so easily—”

“Bloody hell!”

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 César 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.