Gossamyr

by Michelle Hauf

  "I was not harmed physically. But here!" He tapped his skull and swung around in a circle of outrage. "My thoughts, my memories, my very life has been altered." He wrung his fist in a useless gesture before his face then punched the air. "It is as if a chunk has been cleaved out from me—right here." He thumped his chest. "A chunk of time, of love and life that should have been mine."

  Gossamyr pressed a palm over her chest. Not missing, but.. .slowly falling away?

  "Lydia remarried!" Ulrich again checked his volume, and then hissed, "Upon my return to St. Renan a strange man stood in the doorway to my home. Just stood there! Protecting it from my entrance. Lydia's new husband had taken over my home!"

  Swallowing, he caught his forehead with shaky fingers. The ruby ring flashed like the glossy eye of a succubus's victim. "And my Lydia.. .she had aged. Still lovely, you understand. But lines had creased into her forehead. And her eyes—those glass-blue eyes— they had dulled. She recognized me immediately, but.. .such hor-

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  ror in that pretty blue gaze that had before looked upon me with love. Most likely she thought me a spirit, one of the very souls I have all my life shepherded onward. Can you imagine?"

  "No." Gossamyr crossed her arms over her chest, the nubby wool gown still moist under her stroking fingers 'Twould be as if her mother returned to her, but aged beyond comprehension.

  Gossamyr had been aware of a few of Shinn's brief visits to the Otherside. He never changed physically. Yet, the fee lord always reminded, to visit the mortal realm too often taxed all fee. Time would have its due.

  Propping her shoulder against the corner of the cart, Gossamyr observed the soul shepherd pace before her. Remembering. Reliving.

  "To Lydia I had been absent two decades, and yet I looked the same. But the worst of all?" Ulrich looked to her for permission to continue. "Rhiana was gone. Lydia screamed at me, 'She has been sacrificed to the dragon this day!' This day!"

  Dragons were as unfamiliar to Gossamyr as mortals were. She did know the creatures usually ate mortals offered as a sacrifice. They were creatures of such old and enduring Enchantment they did not rely upon Faery for survival.

  "I was that close to saving my daughter. And I will have her back! I will."

  "What cruel fate your Dance has granted," Gossamyr whispered as the man paced off toward the woods. "It is not right." And now, far from Faery, she could not summon argument in favor of the fee. Tricksy, be her kind. But to the detriment of one who had only-shown her kindness? "I will help you to make it right, Ulrich."

  The gates were pulled wide to admit what had now become dozens. The final cart of provisions had been counted and covered and rolled on into Paris. Gossamyr had let Ulrich wander off, sensing his need to grieve. But soon the gates would again close.

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  She tromped through the fallen twigs and tall grasses edging the forest, making no effort at stealth. If the soul shepherd still be in a sad mood her noise would alert him, give him opportunity to adjust his demeanor.

  Where had he got to? Mayhap he was off with the alicorn to serve himself. Or had he been set on by brigands? The alicorn was a beacon.

  "When I find him, I am going to track the nearest toadstool Passage and shove him in."

  Ulrich swung around a wide oak trunk. He flicked an acorn at her, missing by an armshot. "Shove me in? That, my lady, is positively evil. You should be nicer to me. I am grieving."

  Yet his smile compelled her to wonder might his thoughts be more flirtatious.

  "You shouldn't.. .disappear."

  "I was answering nature's call."

  "For so very long?"

  "My thoughts were dark." He tossed another acorn at her. Gos-samyr caught it and clutched it to fist. "I needed to be by myself."

  "Sorry."

  "No worry. I won't let this out of my sight." Ulrich patted the saddlebag. "I can feel it draw in power. The unicorn must be in Paris."

  "You understand you cannot bring back the dead. Well, you can, but in exchange, Faery will lose something. It is like when magic drains the Enchantment."

  "I care naught. Rhiana should be alive as we speak. She is an innocent, Gossamyr, a little child simply needing me, for her mother had not really loved her."

  That statement peaked Gossamyr's attention.

  "Nor had she opportunity to get to know me or her real father."

  "Her real father?"

  Shuffling a handful of acorns in his palm, Ulrich turned and slid

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  a shoulder against the tree trunk. A sigh and he tossed the acorns to the ground. "I am not Rhiana's blood father. The child was... queer-gotten. Unsure parentage. Doesn't matter; I loved her as my own.

  "You have embarked on a harrowing quest, rife with evil that wishes you dead, for a child not of your blood?"

  "Yes!"

  Flinching at his emphatic outburst, Gossamyr twisted the tip of her staff in the ground. The acorn dug into her palm. "Impressive."

  "Think you?"

  "I don't know I could risk my life for something not my own. My father, Faery—they mean so much to me. That is because they are a part of me, my very blood."

  "It may surprise you the things a man will do for someone he loves."

  "Will you tell me who your daughter's father is?"

  Ulrich stared off toward the gate where the tired travelers filed through. "When I lived in St. Renan, there was rumor a madman stalked the forest that edged the sea. He wandered the night naked, moaning and shouting insanities. All were cautious when passing through the wood, and never would any broach the forest after nightfall. Lydia was late from market one eve—but a se'nnight after we had wed. She arrived home well after moonrise, frantic and shaking. The madman had violated her."

  Gossamyr sucked in a breath.

  "Rhiana could be mine, but she is—was—pale of hair. Dragon piss, it was stark red sprouting unnaturally wild like a witch's broom from her scalp." Ulrich tilted his head to look at Gossamyr. "Lydia never did take to the child. So distant she kept, almost as if she feared to touch the poor thing. I could not fault her; she had suffered for that child. Mayhap that was why I was drawn immediately to her. I fell madly for her wide green eyes. Such a gem, she was, and so innocent of her coming to

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  this wicked world. Do you believe a man can love a child not his own?"

  "Such a man would have to be selfless, honed of impeccable integrity. If you say that you can, then 1 suppose I believe you."

  "Such trust I've gained in so little time from you, Faery Not." Hooking an arm about the tree trunk, he swung forward, dipping his head to peer up into her face. "Not so quick to brush me off now. Must be the Disenchantment. It has made you more susceptible to we mortals."

  Gossamyr touched her throat. She had abandoned the wimple somewhere along the way. "Do I yet sparkle?"

  He stroked two fingers across her brow and pushed back a loose strand of hair over her shoulder. "Not so much. Actually..." He tilted up her chin. "I don't see the pattern at all. That bath in the stream must have washed it away. Nice."

  His breath swept her cheek and Gossamyr blinked open her eyes to look upon his face. He smiled. "You are difficult to resist, you know that?"

  "Resist how?"

  "From kissing."

  "But, your wife..."

  "Never again to be mine. Condemn me naught, I still love her. Or maybe it was but the child I truly loved. Indeed, it was difficult atimes to withstand Lydia's blatant refusal to love Rhiana. Ah! Mon Dieu, it has been but a week! And yet, already I look to my fancies. You can steal the marriage from the man, but you cannot take away his desire."

  Desire, Gossamyr knew. Desire, she had felt under Ulrich's scrutiny. But to know now that he was married and had a child...

  "What will you do if you can bring back your daughter? It has been very long; she will not remember you."

  He twisted, resting his back against the flaking birch trunk
near where she stood. "I had not thought of that. Rhiana will have

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  forgotten the father a two-year-old once knew. As Lydia forgot when she took another husband. But I have not had the years to forget. No one deserves to die so cruel a death. Dragon fire." He shuddered.

  Gossamyr slid her hand into his. They stood there, looking into one another's eyes—close, but for the mortal propriety.

  Yes, you do forget, she thought. You forget a promise to never love again, the feel of your lover's embrace and the power of his kiss. You forget. And you desire.

  THIRTEEN

  The twosome stood twenty paces from the large wooden doors. Great cuts hewn into the weathered pine gave Gossamyr to wonder who had tried to hack their way inside. The road, rutted and muddied from the procession, sucked at Fancy's hooves. An ominous calm fell over her. Mere wood and mud to welcome her to so great a city? This mortal kingdom be not so frightening!

  "As much as I know I am being led to Paris—and must proceed—I don't particularly care to pass through these gates."

  "Why your reluctance?" she asked Ulrich.

  "Do you know how many people die in this city? Every day?"

  Gossamyr shrugged. She pressed the staff to her cheek. Smoke littered the air with a heavy odor.

  "How many die in Faery a day?" Ulrich asked.

  "Not many. One or two every season."

  "Well, it is many here in Paris. Plaguelike proportions."

  "Ah."

  "So you understand?"

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  "No." So there were dead people—oh. "Sorry, Ulrich. Do the souls assault you from all angles?"

  He tugged his cloak up over his face and gave a yank to bring Fancy around.

  "Will that help?" she wondered.

  "Pray that it will, but likely not. Now, mount Fancy."

  Gossamyr bristled as Ulrich shoved her up onto the mule's back. "What are you—unhand me!"

  "Time to follow my plan, Faery Not. We will find safe passage through the gates if we appear a couple. You must humble yourself and give me that staff."

  She gripped the staff as Ulrich struggled with it. "This is mine, soul shepherd."

  "Please, fair lady, step down from your proud pedestal for but the time it takes us to pass through the gates."

  Two guards stood at either side of the gate, fully armed, pikes longer than her staff in hand. They did not question but she could feel their eyes behind the metal bourquinettes taking in all. "Very well." She released the staff. "But you guard that—"

  "Yes, yes, with my life. As if I've not already a life-threatening task with this bedeviled horn riding my back. You've the wimple?"

  "I think I left it by the stream."

  "And your hair is all ascatter."

  "The sigil is too heavy to hold."

  "Not bone. Here, take my cloak."

  "But your protection?"

  "Cloak, or no, if there is a lost soul about, it will find me. Tuck back your hair into the hood. You should have twisted it into plaits."

  'I don't know how." Catching Ulrich's bestartled gape, she merely shrugged. "Lady's maid."

  And though Ulrich muttered something like "spoiled fairy princess," she ignored him.

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  "One must be ever alert for thieves, brigands or worse—your fellow countrymen," he instructed. "You are far too pretty not to draw attention." He clicked a sound to Fancy and they were off.

  Pretty? The compliment lit a sizzle in Gossamyr's breast. He thought her pretty? Proved almost as favorable as exotic.

  They were allowed entrance through the gates at the Porte St. Jacques with little more than a question of their intentions. Come to visit relatives was Ulrich's cool reply. His sister was to cook for his ailing uncle. (Much better than the excuse of luna-touched, Gossamyr thought.) And not a moment too soon, for the sun had fallen behind the horizon and the pale scythe moon was beginning to glow in the gray sky. Heavy chains were laced across the iron-studded pine gate, keeping out all until morn.

  Leading Fancy away from the gate and toward a tavern that bustled with shouts and feminine calls, Ulrich made to hand the staff over to Gossamyr, but she passed him by.

  "There be a postern gate to pass through before the Sorbonne," he said.

  "How many gates?"

  "Just the next one. It may already be closed for the night. I wager there are no rooms between here and there,"he called ahead, sensing she did not care. He had decided Gossamyr would curl up and sleep at the base of a tree should it be necessary. She was a woman of the earth, forged of the land. He wondered how she would fare in the big city of Paris. She did carry no sword or dagger. Though this big stick served her well, and those spinny things did lodge quite neatly into a man's skull.

  So he had revealed himself complete to the half faery. She had not condemned, nor had she commiserated. Yet they had stood there holding hands. A simple act swollen with promise.

  Did she fancy him as he had begun to fancy her?

  Had he no fealty to Lydia? The bruise on his cheek yet ached. He could not fault his wife's fears. Had he loved Lydia? Or was it

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  as he'd explained to Gossamyr—the first time he'd witnessed Lydia's indifference to Rhiana his love had only grown for the child. So much he'd given to love a woman who no longer appealed to him. Lydia's refusal to see the joy and innocence of her own child had troubled him. He did not know her suffering, but indeed, it had cooled his ardor for her.

  And now he had found another who stirred his desires. He was old enough to be Gossamyr's sire. Or should be. He still felt a man of six and twenty. The Dance had not aged his body or his mind. Should not his desires remain young?

  Or did he simply replace his innate need for the feminine with whatever was to hand? He had never denied himself the simple pleasures, nor his love for sparkly things. Pity, the rogue faery did no longer twinkle.

  "Be you hungry?" she called as she tripped ahead along the cobblestones. "I could consume an entire rabbit, and the ears to boot. Do hobble the horse, Ulrich."

  "Do hobble the horse, Ulrich," he mimicked at her retreating back. Attractive, yet bossy. She sauntered off in search of said rabbit. "What am I, a servant?"

  Ulrich quickly hobbled Fancy to a hitching post and rushed after the half faery into the smoky ill-lit darkness of a rousing tavern. The place was round in shape and filled to the curves with all sorts of men, wench and even a child or two. He choked at the haze of humanity and soot clouding the air. But it did smell delicious— lamb, no mistaking.

  Rubbing his palms together in hopes of some fine belly-timber, he picked out a flash of pale hair. Faery hair.

  A lone woman in rumpled undergarment parted the crowd to lift a tankard of ale would startle more than a few, yet Gossamyr mastered the room within minutes. Shouts settled to grunts and soon the entire tavern stood around the rumpled and uncoiffed visitor.

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  Feeling the air verily harden about him, Ulrich sensed this was not a good silence. He also knew Gossamyr had as little clue she was the item of interest as she had known what she was doing earlier when she'd stroked her fingers through his hair. Pity she had the instincts of a faery, swift and deadly, but mute to human intention.

  Looking about, Ulrich noted he was relatively ignored. All eyes were on Gossamyr, pale strands of her hair hanging messily over her shoulders. So pretty. So.. .naive.

  King Henry's coat of arms, bearing the Tudor rose, was displayed on more than a few tabards. Englishmen.

  "Not bone."

  Now, to grab the girl and run, or figure a way out? Ulrich scanned the room, his eyes falling on the beams overhead.

  Warm ale served in a dirty cup. Oh, but this was splendid. Refreshing after their evening lingering outside the gates to Paris, her nerves heightened for fear of the unknown mortal forces that savored a dangerous match more deadly than a herd of bogies. Behind her, meat sizzled on
a spit, and her mouth watered to test such fare for it smelled delicious. Not rabbit, but her hollow belly would not protest.

  Drawing away the pewter tankard from her lips, Gossamyr looked up to the circle of dark and weary eyes. The room had silenced and all looked upon her. What? Was she dribbling?

  "Sister." A man a full head taller than she stepped forth from the line of gawkers, his meaty hands at his hips where she assessed a dagger on one side, and at the other, a leather-wrapped mace. "We don't often see a woman of your calling in our humble inn. And drinking so heartily."

  Gossamyr peered into the tankard of piss-warm dregs. Did not nuns consume ale? Surely mead was hard to come by in this mortal realm.

  A thick scar gashed her inquirer's cheek. A gouge of flesh had

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  long been removed from the curve of his right ear. Both wounds looked recent, for remnants of dried blood crusted his flesh. Straight black hair cut in a bowl shape exposed pale skin where the sun had not touched. The arms on his tabard were dirty and streaked with brown blood. A rose decorated the sinister half of his coat of arms.

  Do not travel the sinister curve! Always Mince had preached against Gossamyr traveling the sinister to the Spiral marketplace. And the one time she had taken it? Carriage door flying open, and her body springing free, she'd almost fallen to her death.

  Feeling a prinkle of discomfort ride her spine—an imminent fall?—Gossamyr straightened her shoulders. Thick trails of her hair clumped upon her shoulders; the cloak hood had slipped from her head. Not bone. Ulrich had fastened her staff to Fancy's flank. Outside. So eager had she been to quench her thirst, she'd merely strolled right in, blind to defense. Disenchantment had softened her prowess.

  Not bone at all.

  Now the glint of all manner of weapon, from sword to dagger to the ugly mace and even a deadly curved scimitar, appeared from sheath and in hand. Shinn would remand her for her half wits. Were these the bloodthirsty Armagnacs or the English?

  "Bit of hard times come to you, Sister?" Her tormentor lifted her loose hair with the tip of his grease-shined dagger.

  "Er.. .God grant you a good eve," she said, and bowing shortly, backed up. Only to discover the half curve of men's faces was, in reality, a circle that surrounded her. Torchlight flickered in admonishing licks. She scanned the crowd, finding no gentility in the dark, greedy eyes, only a hard curiosity. Mayhap even lust. A foul look that had not a morsel of love in the glinting pupils. "Er, may your God look upon you with faith?"