The tickle of a sword tip lifting her gown at her ankle alerted.
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But not to action. She could yet leave this establishment as peacefully as she had entered. Her peripheral view took in the whispers of two wenches who sat upon a nearby rough-hewn wood table, their heads pressed together in shared whispers and their bosoms exposed in jiggling display.
"The lady wears no shoes," a man behind her commented.
"Indeed, hard times." The man with the mace tilted his head in question. "Doesn't seem right, a nun all alone, without protection."
Gripping the wood cross dangling about her neck, Gossamyr thought to seek out Ulrich, but did not. Unnecessary to endanger him. If he were lost in the crowd then more the better. Someone had to guard the alicorn.
"I can protect myself, monsieur. Now, if you please, I will be leaving."
She turned, ultra-aware the man with the mace stepped closer behind her. Before her loomed yet another wall of man. A scar cleaved his cheek into a crater and his right eye was but a white marble.
Danger. How she did enjoy the prinkle it rippled up her spine. But she would not smile, no, that would only provoke.
"Step aside," she said firmly.
"The woman demands Sir John Casson, lieutenant of His High-ness's royal army, step aside?"
Giggles from the women sprinkled over the silence like mischievously spread faery dust.
What Gossamyr wouldn't give to conjure a trace of glamour. Blight! Half a dozen mortal men should not prove any more difficult than a few large trolls.
Slapping an ax in the meat of his palm, the man cracked a brown grin. "Two coins," he said, and looked beyond her to the mace man.
"Three," she heard from behind.
"I will give you ease, my lady!"
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"Four, and you can hold her down," called out from the crowd.
They were.. .bidding for her debauchery?
And the melee began. Shouts for five and six were matched by the man with the mace by ten sous. One promised a corn-fed fowl along with his coin.
What manner of vile creature were these people? Did they not revere their holy sisters? Was she not worth at least twenty gold pieces?
A glint of silver captured her notice. One of the women had handed a dagger to another liveried man and nodded. Do the deed.
A hand grasped her around the waist. Gossamyr lunged forward and spun out of the clench, grabbing the handle of an ax as the heel of the blade hit the man's palm. Using the wooden handle to steady herself, she kicked up and behind and caught the mace man in the jaw with her heel. Using surprise to her defense, she easily plucked away the ax and spun it in her fingers, landing the heavy heel of the steel blade in her palm. The metal did not burn. Bone. A twist of her wrist slapped the handle between the eyes of the scarred man.
Then, as if the floodgates had cleaved wide, all men poured in upon her. She feared no man in combat. It was the many, many blades and assorted weapons that would hamper her. Had Shinn known she would encounter such opposition? The fetch had been strangely absent since passing through the gates to Paris.
As quickly as it began, the heavens suddenly rumbled. Dust sifted down from the roof upon the heads of the men. Women screamed. Gossamyr ducked to avoid the swing of a kris dagger. While down, she beat a fist into the saggy-hosed crease of a knee, bringing down another man.
A soot-blackened beam creaked and fell into the center of the crowd—thunk—dispersing her attackers. Thatching and heavy field stones from the chimney began to shower the tavern. Not caring what was happening, Gossamyr used the distraction to escape.
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Slipping through the melee, she reached the door. Ulrich gripped her hand and pulled her outside.
"What was that?"
"A rotting beam and a length of rope."
"Well timed, Ulrich." She leaped to embrace him, closing her eyes and squeezing him dearly.
"Someone has to look out for you, Sister." He pushed her from him. Wonder brightened his eyes. "How often is it the English are served a treat like a nun? You would have been ripped to shreds by those licentious beasts—and their women would have cheered them on."
"You did not try to heed my entrance."
"I was busy doing your bidding, hobbling the horse."
A sneeze erupted and Gossamyr blindly followed her rescuer to the mule. He shoved her onto the saddle and mounted behind her. "Where are we—achoo—headed?"
"Someplace new mortals won't stand out so conspicuously."
"I cannot."
"You must." Ulrich pointed to a line of laundry strung between two buildings. "What of that one? It is brown, simple yet stylish."
"I require braies and a shirt or doublet."
"Nay, my lady. There is not time for the spoiled princess to be choosy. A gown it must be. I see no light in the house. Let's to it."
She reached to pull Ulrich back, but he scampered to the laundry line just ahead.
Searching the darkness, Gossamyr leaped from Fancy's side and joined him. Tall buildings leaned in on one another, blocking the sky and, pray, their antics.
Ulrich pulled a chemise and gown from the laundry line and offered it to her. "Take it. It is less conspicuous than the underthings
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and rosary." He shoved the gown into her arms and turned to pick over the other items on the line. "So, a spoiled faery princess convinces her father to let her go off and save the world."
"Faery."
"Sorry, Faery. What was daddy thinking?"
"My appreciation for your rescue declines. Rapidly." She studied the gown. More itchy, heavy wool. But the white chemise he tossed on top of the gown was a soft thin fabric.
"That goes on beneath," he explained.
"I know that." She almost made a snide face, but prevented it. The man did not deserve such treatment after saving her hide. And that hug. He'd made no comment. Best to leave that slip in propriety unmentioned. "I could wear it alone—"
"Oh, no, it is an undergarment, Gossamyr."
"To wear both would prove cumbersome. Just the ugly piece then?"
"Very well. Go there, in the shadows behind that horse cart, and change."
Momentary indecision held Gossamyr beneath the laundry line, holding the clothing to her chest. She could just tug on the clothes right here. Before the eyes of this man. Who she suspected desired her as much as she desired him.
"I know what you're thinking."
She tilted her head. "I wager you do not."
"You think I don't know that women turn and gaze when I pass them by?" He smiled, revealing brilliance. "It's the teeth, yes? Difficult for any sane female to overlook. You cannot decide whether to tease me with a display or to follow orders."
"Tease you? You think very highly of yourself. Are all mortal men so..."
"Cocksure?"
"I don't think that is the word." Now he'd completely gone and decided for her. No way would she display anything for this lusty
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mortal. Not when he expected it. She turned and sauntered into the shadows. Sure of anonymity in the darkness, Gossamyr quickly pulled off the habit and tugged the brown fabric over her head.
Itchy and short. Gossamyr lifted a foot; her ankle was bared well above the knobby bone. Should serve, until she spied a line with braies. Tugging at the snug fit about her arms, she skipped out from the shadows. A tug to the shoulders worked at the tight seams. Too small by far, this gown.
"Lovely," Ulrich declared with a nod.
"Think you?"
"Why, yes."
A stroke of the back of his finger across her cheek stirred a sudden shiver to her spine. Mortal touched! Gossamyr jerked away.
"Sorry. I forget you are touchy."
"And I cannot forget you have a wife."
"Just so. Let's be off, then."
"Ulrich, this is stealing."
"Not if you sprinkle some faer
y coin in our wake."
She dug for the purse she'd placed in the saddlebag. Crystal coins tinkling on cobbles, Gossamyr tugged Fancy along, into a walk. They would keep to the narrow streets, Ulrich had instructed. Easier to avoid a patrolling guardsman, or a ruckus.
"My wife wanted to come to Paris," Ulrich offered in the quiet of their walk. "I promised her the trip when Rhiana was old enough to manage the travel."
"How young was your daughter when you.. .disappeared?"
"Two years. That was a little over a week ago. And twenty years ago. She was this high to my knees and used to wobble when she
o by
walked."
"Did the other man—the real father—ever visit?"
"He was never found." Gossamyr looked to him for explanation
but he merely shrugged. "Lydia is a strong woman. She does what
she must to survive."
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"Like marry again when her husband goes missing?"
"Indeed. I must concede it was good for them both to have a man in the home. A female needs a man—well, unless she be a faery warrior. I cannot get the enormity of what has occurred into my skull. It yet aches."
"You have had but a week to grieve. Your wife has had twenty years." Gossamyr used the measurement with growing knowledge. She was little older than twenty years. So odd that Ulrich had lost the length of her lifetime, and yet, they were peers.
They walked onward through the dark streets, Fancy's hooves a singular echo in the night. But close, the whisper of liquid called to Gossamyr's senses. "What is that sound?"
"Hmm... The Seine! Filthy and muddied, the river is the lifeline of Paris."
Yes, but where there was water... "Might we step down to the river? I'm in need of a splash. I hadn't chance to quench my thirst in that tavern."
"Sounds perfect." Ulrich skipped ahead and pointed out a stone staircase at river's edge. "Though I wouldn't swim in this brew,"he called as he descended the wide limestone steps. "It's an awful mix. 'Course, I could endure a splash myself."
Gossamyr paused on the top step as she watched Ulrich skip down the wide stone stairs and bend over the brown waters to dip in his hands. Twenty years. Stolen. Unthinkable that any fee could be so cruel to one who had merely stumbled by accident into Faery—even Shinn.
"We are a mischievous lot," she muttered.
Tying Fancy to a post near the stairway, Gossamyr then descended the steps, taking each wide level in a skip.
The saddlebag abandoned behind his feet, Ulrich poured hand-fuls of water over his face. Kneeling forward, he had to check his balance. He didn't want to take a dip in waters rumored to receive the king's privy, the Greve's victims, and any other waste the city
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dumped in it. It did not smell bad. But neither did the taste rimming his tightly closed lips entice.
But bone, it felt refreshing to wash away the day. Too much had happened, and his confession to Gossamyr had only dredged up misery. He regretted his life for the family he had lost. If only there were some way to take back control, to return it to how it should be.
Only a fool entertains foolish thoughts. He must accept— Yeow—
The snarling beast that leaped for Ulrich's head had not in mind for mental suffering. Jaws wide and long fangs bared, it spat drool and slimy water as it neared Ulrich's face.
FOURTEEN
Gossamyr spied the kelpie as its oval nostrils emerged on the calm surface of the river. It approached with stealth; kelpies were not known to attack. It was the werefrog clinging to the kelpie's head that set Gossamyr sprinting down the wide steps to Ulrich.
She reached the soul shepherd as his upper body submerged. Lunging, she managed to grab an ankle. Struggling fiercely, Ulrich fought the werefrog underwater while Gossamyr strained to keep hold of his ankle. If he was pulled completely underwater, the kelpie would swim over him and weight him down, drowning a fine feast for the werefrog.
There was nothing on shore to anchor her foot to. Gossamyr leaned back and managed to pull Ulrich with her. An arm slashed out of the water, spraying the sky and her with water and frog slime. An abbreviated yelp was instantly drowned.
The werefrog sprang up from the surface. Jaws dripping blood, it twisted its fat slug body and dived. In the next moment two arms slapped the surface.
Gossamyr gripped Ulrich's hands. He grasped hold—good, he
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was still conscious. She tugged and struggled with his weight and the slippery limestone that was more intent on serving as a slide than good purchase.
"Help!" Ulrich clung to the limestone, fighting against the unseen werefrog, which most likely clamped on a leg with fangs as long as a man's finger.
"I've got you!" Gossamyr called. "Do not thrash about!"
"It's chewing off my leg!"
Her grasp slipped from his left wrist. Ulrich slid back, submerging to his chest.
The werefrog sprang into the air.
Using her free hand, Gossamyr grabbed her staff and swung. Bits of violet frog splat the walls of the riverbank and her face and the water surface.
The kelpie's nostrils sank. Ripples undulated away from the river's edge.
Ulrich, gasping and moaning, clung to the limestone.
Gossamyr levered him up and out to lay like a drowned rat upon the stone. She went immediately to his leg. Below the knee, exposed bits of flesh and blood revealed a neat bite, but small, considering the width of the werefrog's jaw.
"I think you'll live," she commented, but went to ripping off the shredded part of his sodden hose to tie about the wound.
"What.. ."He coughed and choked and spat out drool of vicious brown water. "Hades!"
"A werefrog," Gossamyr answered. "Just rest." She swiped a hand over her forehead, dislodging a chunk of frog. "It is dead."
"Werefr—" And he fainted.
Fine and well— Gossamyr swung, smashing her staff upon the chattering fangs that inched toward the saddlebag. The action sent the leather bag flying against the wall. It opened and out spilled the alicorn.
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"No!" Gossamyr lunged for the horn and tipped it back inside the bag with her fingers.
A scan of her surroundings sighted frog bits, but none moving. Tucking the saddlebag to her stomach, she looked over the river's surface. Be the werefrog as irascible as a revenant?
Deep in the lush wilds of the Valois woods, in the exact center of the dense forest, sat a circular wattle-and-daub cottage with a low door to protect the inhabitants from charging marauders. A meadow thick with dandelion kites, the buzz of pollen-laden humble bees and gold coltsfoot blooms flourished twenty strides from the cottage.
In the center of the meadow stood a brilliant white stallion, its moonlit mane carefully twisted into witch braids and its tail protected from ill deeds with the same.
The beast lifted its head, pricking its ears. The very fabric of the universe had suddenly.. .sighed. And following that sigh fluttered a keening cry only the beast recognized. It snorted in recognition and twisted its head toward the sound. South. Toward the village with so many dwellings and many more people.
No Enchantment there. Save the one fragment of the beast for which it had been longing.
Soft white dandelion kites stirred into a fury as the stallion stepped into a cantor, and then a gallop. It sped toward the cottage where the fee man who had cared for him over the years stood with his arms about his mortal wife, both taking in the warmth from an evening bonfire.
Dominique San Juste startled out of the embrace at the pounding arrival of his equine companion. "What is it, Tor? Did a humble bee sting you on the flank?"
Tor bowed before the man, beckoning he mount his back.
"Looks like he wants to take you for a ride," the female said.
"Very well." Dominique slid onto Tor's back, his long black cape slipping across the stallion's hindquarters. "I—yeow!"
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Tor took off. The faery's parting words to his wife were but
bumpy gasps.
"I will return to you anon! Easy, Tor. What be the hurry?" And then the sensation of recognition was abruptly cut off. But
the unicorn did not cease. He knew the direction he must journey
to become whole.
Ulrich claimed an uncle, Armand LaLoux, who lived behind les Augustins in a dark little corner of the right bank that sported a baker's shop and a plume dyer. Monsieur LaLoux would offer bed and some fine cooking, for he worked in the baker's shop stoking the fires, and was always bringing home new creations.
Gossamyr wondered how fine the cooking could be after Ulrich explained that the constant warring between the Burgundians, the Armagnacs and the English kept food scarce and the prices high. To Parisians bread was precious, for the milled flour was imported from outside the city. Often the flour was ransacked before a brave seller could even broach the massive gates. Leeks and field roots made up the diet.
Appreciation for having grown up during a peaceful time in Faery grew as they navigated the inner walls of the city. Alms beggars rushed in throngs, grabbing at her tight wool sleeve and tugging her staff. Gossamyr shoved gently at an elder man with a face so black with dirt she first guessed him one of the Moors Veridi-enne had sketched in the bestiary.
"Keep your head up and walk swiftly," Ulrich muttered. He slid a hand into Gossamyr's free hand and directed her steps. He limped, but had not complained since they'd left the shore of the Seine. Likely putting the incident with the werefrog far from thought.
Overhead, the flutter of the fetch's wings occasionally captured a glint of moonlight. So it had returned. Not soon enough to catch Ulrich's attack; good thing. Shinn would question her inability to protect her travelmate from danger.
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"I should give them coin." Gossamyr dodged to avoid stepping on a child, a dirty adult-size shirt hanging from its thin shoulders. "Ulrich, you cannot turn from their need."
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