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“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.
