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Gone, the crystal Faery sky devoid of cloud or shadow.
The Spiral forest, why…it was gone. She stood on horizontal ground, not a mass of forest and marble and reticulated roots all twined and flowing at the slightest of angles.
A squeeze of her fingers reassured her staff was to hand. The carved ribbons pressed into her palm tingled with glamour. She had not natural glamour, but over the years Faery had seeped into her being, imbuing her with a latent glamour that could be briefly utilized.
Gossamyr touched her hip belt, clasping a narrow arret string. Scanning the ground she sighted within the brushy grass bright red toadstools dotted with white warts, closing her into a complete circle. Amanita muscaria; long ago her mother had taught her the strange name for the mushroom; Latin, she’d named the identifying language.
Names possess power. A litany fed to her every day since she could remember. Use that power wisely.
The toadstool circle had risen up below the castle tower overnight. Gossamyr had marveled that the peacocks had walked a wide berth about it. She had been standing in the tower immediately above the circle—indeed, a Passage.
A copse of pendulous cypress rose to her left, shadowing the thick grasses with a silky gray lacing. Pine and earth and grass flavored the air in a pale mist. Gossamyr drew in a breath. Gone, the sweet aroma of hyacinth. Shinn did not stand beside her, his hands clasped before him. The glimmer in her father’s violet eyes was but a twinkle in the air, a breath of fée dust shimmering to naught.
She reached out, grasping at the absence of all she knew, all she had come to depend upon—Faery. Opening her palm upward, she spread her fingers. Gone.
But still there.
Faery was neither here nor there but betwixt and between. Though she could not see him Gossamyr knew Shinn could see her. I will send a fetch. She looked about, but sighted not a hovering spy.
According to what she had read in Veridienne’s bestiary, mortals did have ways of peering in to Faery.
Indeed?
A mischievous tickle enticed Gossamyr to test that theory. Tilting her head forward, she peered back through the corner of her eye. Swiftly, she jerked her head the opposite direction and narrowly stretched her gaze.
Hmm. Not a glimmer or vibration in the sky. No flutter of iridescent wings, not a single flicker as fellow fée twinclianed elsewhere.
A trickle of panic tittered in Gossamyr’s belly. She rubbed her palms up and down her bare arms—the quilted pourpoint stopped at hip and shoulder—and turned about, eyeing the ruffled canopy of treetops. Grapelike clusters of bright yellow laburnum flowers speckled the greenery. ’Twas clearly the edge of the same forest that limned her father’s castle. There! She recognized the hollowed-out yew stump—a youngling’s favorite hiding spot. But this forest edge was no Edge. There was no risk of falling to a crush of bones amidst the marsh roots should she step off the Edge, for the land beyond this forest stretched on. The Bottom. Everywhere.
Gossamyr gulped. The Bottom was a dangerous place. But where there were no marsh roots there would be no kelpies. No kelpies meant no werefrogs. Blessings.
But what situation was she in now?
She had asked for this mission. And wonder upon wonders Shinn had relented. What was once forbidden now lay before her. The Otherside was hers to explore.
But not to forget: the fate of Faery relied on her success.
A decisive nod stirred courage to her surface.
“Champions are made. I will return to Faery the victor.”
Until then—“Achoo!”
Spreading her arms to adjust her balance, Gossamyr settled a few steps from where she had landed. “Achoo!”
What tickled her senses?
Sniffling, she thought briefly her watery eyes were tears. Tears were a sign of weakness, of unfettered emotions. One could not Be amidst a fury of conflicting emotion. She had once cried enough tears for a lifetime, so it surprised now there should be any left.
Mayhap they were tears caused by the mortal atmosphere?
“It is merely the dust.” For indeed motes of dust floated, and close loomed a skein of buzzing gnats.
Turning, Gossamyr scanned the dark emerald lacework of the forest canopy and the blackened trunks of oak trees she recognized, but had known in a more spectacular image. No exposed roots twisting and trailing down the length of the Spiral forest. ’Twas her favorite activity to swing and climb amongst the network of roots, chasing night moths. And where be the canorous frog song that so twinkled from amidst the shadowed roots?
Shrugging her hands up her arms, she scanned the forest. A rabbity moan brewed in her throat. Gossamyr pressed a hand to her chest. Calm yourself.
How to return when her mission was complete? She wasn’t sure how she had entered the Otherside. Born without twinclian—the ability to twinkle in and out from a place—she could only imagine the task had been accomplished via Shinn’s glamour.
Perhaps she should have gotten the return method clear with her father before setting off on adventure. Always, Shinn had tried to crush her penchant for rushing blindly into situations. A warrior must assess and plan. But Gossamyr liked the danger, and the thrill of dashing into the fray—as much as the peaceable kingdom of Glamoursiège had allowed. There were the occasional vagrants from the Netherdred that crept into the Spiral; excellent opportunity for Gossamyr to put her training to use. Always, though, Shinn had been there to aid.
Mayhap she had leaped a bit too far this time? Who would catch her should she stumble?
The buzz of a large insect spun Gossamyr about to spy a harnessed dragon fly. Pale blue wings spanned the width of her forearm. Zip, zip here; zip, zip there. The bejeweled harness glinted in the sunlight. It hovered before her—see me, I am near—then jet-tied up into the forest canopy.
“So he did send a fetch.” A bit of Faery close by to reassure.
A breath of confidence filled Gossamyr’s lungs. “Shinn would have never sent me did he not trust I would be successful. I will find the Red Lady and put an end to her vicious reign. If more of those revenants return to Faery, my father will have a full-scale battle on his hands. I must make haste.”
Which way lay Paris? Perched high atop the Spiral in her father’s castle down was the only direction she had ever learned. To navigate horizontally instead of vertically would prove…interesting.
Gossamyr searched her memory and envisioned a finely detailed page from Veridienne’s bestiary, a map of the mortal city with the various tribes of Faery inscribed over all. Glamoursiège sat downsouth of Paris.
Lifting her foot, she remembered the Passage. A precarious position for one just arrived. Stabbing her staff outside the circle, she swung her legs up and out and landed the ground.
She stared wistfully at the empty ring of toadstools. ’Twas how the Dancers arrived in Faery. A Passage should, by rights, work both ways.
Should she? Just a test?
Gripping her staff, Gossamyr lifted her foot and pointed a toe toward the circle, then…she stepped inside. One foot firmly planted on the ground. Shallow breaths quietly exhaled. The chirring finale of the cicada’s song rattled to silence.
Nothing.
“Hmm…”
Removing her foot from the circle, she then tried the other foot, and waited, breath held.
Again, naught but the pulse beat of her heart inside her ears.
Looking about she did not spy the fetch. It saw all, she knew. Dare she jump inside with both feet? What if it did work? She would return to Faery. To Mince’s sheltering arms. And Shinn’s disapproving eyes.
Her father had granted her this opportunity. She must to it!
“I can do this,” Gossamyr said. A shrug of her shoulders and a loosening shake of her limbs summoned bravery. “I will do this. I know how to protect myself. I know how to track and defend. Oh yes—” a smile crooked her mouth “—I want some adventure.”
A few strides put her to a narrow wheel path gouged along the horizontal purlieu of the forest. The packed red dirt felt warm beneath her bare feet. She must have landed the edge of Glamoursiège territory, for the Spiral forest spun down to the border between tribes.
The Netherdreds inhabited the perilous flatlands that surrounded large mortal cities, for their kind thrived in the unstable atmosphere that separated Faery from the Otherside. (Faery simply did not exist in the large cities. Densely populated mortal lands tended to tamper with the Enchantment. As well, the mortals’ use of magic drained any Enchantment that seeped too close.) Gossamyr would have to traverse the Netherdred, albeit, she now stood on the Otherside, so there was no fear to encounter any from the nefarious tribe.
However, if she had come to the Otherside, what then, prevented a Netherdred from doing the same?
Flicking a keen eye about, Gossamyr assessed her surroundings. Alone. And keep it that way.
The fetch buzzed overhead, its wings glinting copper against the settling sunlight.
“Not alone,” she reminded. And was pleased for it.
A skip to her left and she scampered onward. A smile was unstoppable. Her high spirits lended a lightness to her steps. Gossamyr splayed her arms out to her sides. A shimmy of her hips nearly lifted her bare feet from the ground. She felt…less heavy.
“So light,” she marveled.
Always in Faery she had fought her natural awkwardness. Cumbersome in the air there, and often tripping over roots or rocks. Yet here? The air barely skimmed her being. Performing a spin, Gossamyr let out a squeal and set again to her pace.
A tilt of head took in the vast horizon. Fascinating to view the sunset from its parallel and not above.
Fragile wings skimmed the scabbed cut on her cheek, and the skitter of legs tapped at her nose and forehead. Faster than a wing-beat, Gossamyr lashed out, capturing a damselfly by the wings. She dangled the annoying insect before her face and tilted a defiant smirk at the pivoting jade eyes.
“Thought you possessed swiftness, eh? The air here is better suited to me—Achoo!”
Nearly toppled from her feet by that powerful sneeze, Gossamyr stumbled and stabbed her staff into the red dirt.
The damselfly escaped in a spiraling ascent through the crystal sky, a sleek distraction for the fetch.
A silly grin followed Gossamyr’s explosion. While the air seemed to fit her like a charm, it did not want her to get too comfortable.
Of a sudden, a strange, mournful tune touched her ear. The small clink of saddle furnishings punctuated the song with syncopated notes.
Gossamyr spun to eye a horse and rider ambling down the path. Her right hand stiffening and fingering the waxed cord of an arret, she homed in on the approaching target and crouched to strike.
Paris—downnorth
Aaee aaaa…mmm…oooo….
The melodious call beckoned him along the rough limestone garden wall, arms stretched to flatten his body and meld with the twilight shadows. Wings scraped against stone, but for the task he did not mind the pain.
Again came the sonorous call, a seductive beckoning. He closed his eyes and rode the shiver that vibrated his very bones and bubbled his blood. A strange and overwhelming desire always transpired at the call. For a moment it blocked those just-beneath-the-surface longings to flee, to mutiny.
Down the alley the door to an inn opened to emit or eject. The beat of drums, pounding to a rhythm of the Indian isles, escaped and fixed a tempo inside his breast. It synchronized with his heartbeats and played dull tympani to the succubus’s call.
His fingers curling around the corner of a darkened cobbler’s shop, he peeked to spy the nondescript black lacquered carriage across the empty market square. Red curtains of heavy plush covered the glassless windows; a thin, painted red line danced an arabesque across the gut of the carriage. The equipage, plumed in even more red, stood motionless, sleeping upon their feet. The coachman slept as well; a forced rest, that.
Aaee…aaaaa…mmm…
He dived into the shudder that swelled in his muscles and centered in his groin. Moans leaked from his tight lips, aching for her touch, to be controlled by his mistress. Though the call spoke of private pleasures and selfless devotion, he knew this one was not for him. He only received the call in the privacy of his lady’s manor.
So he watched as from out of the shadows crept a lone man, tall and armed at his left hip with a sword. They always approached with cautious steps and plumed hats pulled low. Elegantly dressed in doublet and thigh-high boots, a chain of ornamental gold hung heavily about his shoulders—rich, then.
Fée, the watcher deduced, for their kind betrayed themselves with their carriage. Ever haughty and slim, unable to sulk under the oppression Paris pressed down upon all. Regal rogues. Yet Disenchantment had melted away this one’s wings.
Not mine, the watcher thought. Puppy still has wings.
The fée ran a glove, palmed in mail, along the carriage body, inexplicably tracing the fine red line—when a lithe hand swept out from the window. Flinching as if singed, the fée’s hand recoiled, but as quickly dashed back to clasp the female’s fingers. He bent to inhale the aroma of lemon soaking the fine kidskin glove.
The watcher rubbed together his bare fingers. Dry cracks from squeezing lemons to extract the oil from the slippery rinds tormented his flesh. Good Puppy.
One final call. This melody lingered, wrapping its music about the fée’s volition and securing hold.
As the carriage door creaked open, the watcher hated her. Slipping a hand into the leather sheath at his hip he drew up a long thin needle of silver, capped with a smooth, perfect ball of winter-forged iron.
Pin man.
No. I am your puppy, yes?
Moonlight danced on the pin’s tip. Fixing to the thin shimmer of silver he mesmerized himself, falling into the moment and the singular admiration of the narrow shine. Anything to avoid thinking of her…and what absence denied him.
Moments later the carriage door again creaked open. One long leg thrust out, followed by a torso and the other leg dragging closely behind. The fée stumbled, catching himself upon the ground with his gloves. Mail clished across the cobbles. The tip of a steel-capped sabre sheath drew a metallic line in the wake of the clatter. Curious, the Parisian fée choose metal weapons over the finer stone instruments. Did the Disenchanted no longer fear the bite of iron or the burn of steel?
The watcher pressed his back to the wall and closed his eyes, clutching the pin near his thigh. Silver, yes, but a strange magic protected him from its devastating burn.
The fée managed to right himself, wobbled as if soused, then sauntered toward the shadows. Boots, spurred and jingling, trudged closer. A racket of riches announced the fée’s approach. The watcher felt the wind of movement as a gloved hand smacked the wall near his ear—steadying, grasping a moment to catch a breath that from this moment on could only be a dying cry.
The fée passed without notice. Almost.
The pin held firmly in his palm, the long needle sticking out between his first and second finger, tugged at fine silk hose and pierced. The small cry from the fée preceded his jerk to swing and eye his attacker. He stared at the pin man for but a second—memorize those strange-colored eyes and smooth silvery skin dotted with red—then staggered onward.
Drawing the pin along his torso, one deft twist tilted the point to his nose. The pin man drew in the scent of the fée’s blood, savoring it as if a bung-cork plucked from the cask of aged Bordeaux—not so much sweet as sour, and laced with an earthen origin. Scent of Faery. Had he ever lived there? Yes! But…when?
He dashed across the way, and lifting the carriage door open without making a single creak, entered the dark box. Crawling upon the carriage floor and coiling his legs up under him, he stretched an arm along the soft, sensuous damask skirts, feeling beneath all the frill and lace her thigh, the sharp curve of her hip and waist. Burying his face into her lap he sighed and snuggled into salvation.
The tips of sharpened fingernails grazed his scalp as his mistress raked a hand through his long hair. “Such a good puppy you are.”
He snuggled his face deeper into the warm thickness of bone-colored damask and lemon and the cloying aroma of woman. Always she allowed him this small moment. A reward for a task begun.
But not completed.
THREE
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?
