Gossamyr Page 9

  "She is gone, Mince."

  "She?" The matron paused by the door, turning to him with delicate fingers curled into one another. "Who, Lord Wintershinn?"

  "Gossamyr has gone to the Other side."

  "No, I—I just saw her. I'm sure she's here somewhere, swinging from the roots—I'll start there, my lord. She never disappears for overlong."

  "I sent her."

  Mince gaped, seeming to momentarily choke on her own breath. "W-why? How?" she breathed. "Did you.. .tell her everything?"

  "She seeks the Red Lady. I sent her through a Passage. You know her truth will keep her from returning to me."

  "Oh! But she needs to know! You've sent her to face the very woman— Oh, dear."

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  Forgoing the village of Aparjon for what Ulrich claimed to be another not three leagues to the east, the duo plodded through unmarked grasses and followed a low rabbit-ravaged hedgerow for some distance until a narrower, lesser traveled road attracted them. There were no trees as far as she could see. The world was very silent. Eerily so.

  Ulrich called ahead to Gossamyr. "We should seek shelter for the night, 'tis nearing matins."

  "You don't think we'll make the village?"

  "Likely not."

  Sensing the man's exhaustion, Gossamyr conceded. "Very well."

  Tugging Ulrich's cloak about her shoulders seemed to hold the crumbling pourpoint together. She hoped. She had dismounted earlier and now walked, finding the exercise more fitting than joggling along on the miserable old mule. She sensed the beast tread alongside the Infernal, and did not wish to put more of a burden on it than necessary.

  The fetch preceded her at a clever distance. She had ever thought

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  fetches only recorded noteworthy events. Mayhap Shinn missed her as much as she was beginning to miss him? To have the fetch follow her at all times?

  Miss her father? It had been but part of a day.

  The only thing she missed right now was the illumination of Faery. This mortal night clung to Gossamyr on all sides. Crickets chirped and unseen rodents scampered along the grassy borders of the rutted path. She could not see Ulrich for the gloom, but judged him less than twenty paces behind her.

  His suggestion to stop was not entirely unwarranted. She did feel the strain of her journey tug at the muscles in her calves and shoulders. Yet the struggle to stride freely while keeping the cloak wrapped—blight!

  Gossamyr dropped the ends of the cloak and let the sweeping fabric dangle. If her garments were to fall off, then so shall it be. For she wanted to skip, to revel in this atmosphere that welcomed like a warm embrace.

  "Oh, Hades, be gone."

  Gossamyr smirked at Ulrich's hissed remark. The man had babbled most of the way. He had a strange compulsion to compare things, or rather label them as either "the same" or "not the same." She could not figure what he was about. But she had to confess, having a companion eased a bit of her growing discomfort. Alone in a new land. Physically capable, but.. .her thoughts had begun to return to a place of safety.

  She missed Mince. The matron was ever there, a companion, a confidante. A willing foil when Shinn would question Gossamyr's day, and she had snuck off to tournament. And always there to bring her whatever she may request, to know before Gossamyr spoke her need.

  Spoiled? Never before had she heard that term to describe one who is given all she needs. Such as a lady who travels with a caged faery in tow?

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  Hmm.. .not like that. Nor did she smell.

  An eerie feeling of disquiet shimmied about Gossamyr's body. It wasn't as though she were frightened by the darkness. Nor could she summon worry for any beastie that might leap out from the shadows at her. In truth, a tiny niggling at encountering further outcasts from the Netherdred did bother. Unfamiliar, this world. And yet, intriguing. Horizontal and stretching for leagues that fell off the horizon as if the Edge. Mayhap it was an edge? Veridienne had detailed the stretch of France in her bestiary. It was edged by a vast ocean—tribe Mer-de-Soleil territory; merfolk and selkies and kelpies abounded there. But she had no measurement for distance in this land. Unless it was down. So she must rely on Ulrich's navigation.

  Many Faery tribes inhabited the realm the mortals called France: the Rougethorns, the Wisogoths, the Quinmarks, just a few. Yes, a huge nation, and she but an itty speck skipping toward sure danger. If she wasn't careful she might lose her grip and fall—as she had once amidst the tangle of roots that reticulated about Glam-

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  oursiege. Avenall—her Rougethorn; ever charming and chival-rous—had caught her then.

  Who would catch her now?

  "No." Ulrich's voice had receded. "Not now. A crossroads? Wicked luck. Now this is the same."

  With every step Gossamyr felt the world close about her as if the cloak wrapped tightly against her flesh. Enchantment sluiced from her pores; she could feel it as a tangible prick. An ache hummed in her heart, a central tremor that called from the shadows of mortality. Home, it whispered. Embrace it.

  No, no, no! Home was Faery. Not here.

  Gossamyr fought back the invisible enemy, but the ache did settle to a fine pulse, ever there. 'Twas the mortal passion, vying to wend into her veins.

  "Be damned with you all!"

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  Gossamyr stopped and swung about. Neither Fancy nor Ulrich were in sight. But she could hear him.. .talking to someone?

  "I beseech thee to allow me passage. No? Very well, that way. Yes, follow my direction. You there, follow the finger. Up, up and away with you. Bloody saints, I shall be here all through the night!"

  "Ulrich?" Gossamyr stepped cautiously through the sooty darkness. The whisper of a breeze through the long reeds that lined the path danced them to a crisp shimmy. Her bare feet made not a sound on the dirt road. The cloak whipped out behind her.

  She spied Fancy, unloosed and grazing over a patch of clover. Another outburst from Ulrich stirred Gossamyr to a trot, her staff held horizontal and shoulder level, ready to spear.

  "Another? Be patient; wait your turn. This way. Not so pushy!"

  "Ulrich?" Now Gossamyr could make out the gray outlines of

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  Ulrich's head, bowed and swaying as if in deep thought. She veered from her approach as he swung out a hand and pointed starward.

  "You. Yes, you next!"

  "Whom are you speaking to?" There was not another person in the vicinity. To be sure, Gossamyr turned a complete circle—staff cutting the night—scanning the circumference. Scentless, the air. Strange, she did neither smell the dirt or grass. She noted they stood at a crossroad, Ulrich exact center.

  When she turned back to him his body jerked, as if tugged from behind, and he leaped about to face the empty darkness.

  Could it be a creature from the Netherdred? One who stood yet on the Faery side of the rift, invisible yet capable of affecting the Otherside? She should be able to see anything that stood in Faery if it connected with this world. Why could she not—

  "If you cannot afford me the virtue of patience," Ulrich announced to no one, "I shall see you to Hades where you belong. Be gone!"

  "Ulrich!" She leaped forward and gripped the man by the shoulders. If he had succumbed to a glamour, perhaps her contact could

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  unloose him. Because he was rigid and jumpy and jerking in her grasp, her fingers could not maintain hold. The vexing cloak impeded her and she toppled, but caught herself with the staff. "You speak to the night. What is to you, man? Be you luna-touched?"

  "Get me free from here," he growled. A flick of his head to the left and he addressed another unseen entity. "Heaven? You who takes your own life asks very much!"

  "Is it the Netherdred?" she pleaded.

  "I know not of nether dreads—only the dreads that stand before me. Ah! I must concentrate!"

  The man had stepped into a realm that frightened even Gos-samyr. She could feel not a p
resence. No smell or sound could be pulled from the confusion of the moment. She tugged Ulrich's arm, but resistance tensed in her grasp. And yet, the man did not pull himself from her. 'Twas is if he were bestiffened.

  Banshees? she wondered. No, they were visible figments of white wailing women. Ghosts? She had not experience with the sort; ghosts aligned tiiemselves with wizards, witches and forbidden magic.

  "I have not the leisure for you all," Ulrich shouted and twisted from Gossamyr's hold. "I will die of old age to send you each in his turn. Faery Not, pull harder!"

  "I am trying," Gossamyr said. She clutched him about the waist and planted her toes in the loose dirt. It was as if he were being held to the center of the roads, fixed with nails pounded through the soles of his soft-bottomed shoes. Yet she felt not a single presence. "What is it? A spectral creature I cannot see?"

  "Hundreds," Ulrich cried. "Take my hands."

  Twisting under his outstretched arm, Gossamyr seized the man's hands. Though the darkness shadowed features, the agony on his face showed strongly. As their palms joined, Gossamyr felt cold tremor through her forearms and up her shoulders.

  Horrors! A chill greater than winter's bite trickled through her bones. "I can feel them," she uttered.

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  Pushing with all her might, she succeeded in moving Ulrich from the center of the crossed roads while he shouted and protested with the unseen forces. Together they shuffled backward. Her toes stepped onto grass. Fancy snorted and clopped from their way. Finally, Ulrich tripped and went down. Gossamyr fell forward onto his chest, collapsing with a huff. The distinctive rip of dried leaves sounded.

  Breath wheezed from Ulrich's lungs. Reaching back, Gossamyr felt over her pourpoint. A rent down the center, up to her mid-section, she determined.

  Now even the crickets silenced. Dark surrounded; the eyelash moon ignored this little crossroad. Lying atop Ulrich, Gossamyr grew awrare of his breaths, short and hot. The chill had slithered off as if it had not bitten her so sharply. The man had been assaulted in a manner she could not comprehend. But that she had rescued him from an unseen assailant seemed apparent.

  She gave a jerk of her head to swish back the heavy corner of the cloak from her face. "Are you fine and well?"

  A burst of laughter shook him beneath her.

  Gossamyr bent her legs and knelt over him, trying to assess his condition. Eyes closed, and his breathing still fast, was all she could remark. No cold—yet she had felt his flesh to be as ice when gripping his hands. She scented not blood, but when she thought to touch his face—check for wounds—she recalled the bruise. A touch would not be welcome to his tender flesh.

  Pushing up, Gossamyr stood and struggled with the cumbersome cloak. The heavy fabric twisted between her legs. "Blight!"

  Ulrich remained on his back. Short bursts of laughter continued, so she judged him safe. But sound?

  Plodding up from behind, Fancy nudged her warm nose into Gossamyr's palm. Widi contact, fear flowed out from her. A glance to the crossroads sighted only stillness. Whatever had threatened was now gone. She took a breath and expelled it in a lip-fluttering blast.

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  "The saddlebag," Ulrich asked in a gasping voice as his laughter settled. "Is it safe?"

  "Exactly where it should be." Gossamyr bent and this time stroked aside a clump of hair from Ulrich's temple. No fear in touching this mortal. Secretly, she felt daring to do so. "What happened to you?"

  "A damned crossroads,"he said in a tone that blamed her for not guessing the obvious. Moving up to prop on his elbows, he blew out a bluster of breath. "I wasn't paying attention, and walked right into the center of the infernal place. Hell would be most pleased to open a tavern right there." He gestured forcefully toward the spot he had stood. "Plenty of doomed souls for the taking."

  "What has a crossroads to do with whatever it was that tormented you?"

  "You don't know?"

  She shook her head. "When we joined hands I felt something. . .so icy, I could have frozen."

  "Ah. Yes. The chill of death. Do not faeries have their lost souls? Suicides and murders? They gather at crossroads."

  "Who?"

  "The souls! Lost and misdirected souls wandering a purgatorial nightmare. They convene at crossroads because that is where we mortals bury the forsaken."

  "Ghosts?"

  "Not exactly. Souls, Gossamyr. Souls. Disembodied and searching."

  She turned to look over the place where Ulrich had battled. Souls? The revenants cannot commence the final twinclian without an essence. "Like.. .revenants?"

  "I know not what a revenant is."

  "They are—" Skeletal flying beasts with wings. She clasped both elbows. Better to keep that information to herself. "Why could I not see them? Did you see them?"

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  "Not in a physical way. But believe me, I felt their icy, possessive bones everywhere. Had you not dragged me away I would have been trapped until dawn guiding those damned souls to Hades. So horribly the same!"

  "Guiding them? I do not understand. Be this magic?"

  "Far from it. Let's walk, shall we?"

  Ulrich stood. Bell-wavering forward a few steps, he turned and groped Fancy's flanks to steady. Had she not known him sober Gossamyr would have guessed him soused. "Distance, my lady, we need to get Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon III far from this horrific place. I can yet feel them leering at me, waiting for me to stumble back onto their domain."

  She squinted, yet sighted nothing but gray shadows upon darkness. A chirr of crickets resumed their night symphony, and a snort from Fancy drew her attention around.

  "Come, my fashionably challenged misfit." Ulrich slapped a palm to Fancy's flank and the mule stepped into motion. "Let's be away."

  They resumed the path, Fancy trotting hastily to keep pace with Ulrich's swaying strides. Gossamyr skipped alongside on the border of grass. Every third step she stabbed her staff into the ground and swung forward. "So, you are truly well?"

  "Soon enough." He noted her swinging steps and smiled. "Just a little begroggled is all. My head will clear as I move farther from Hell's stain. What of you? I heard leaves tearing."

  "Still all together," she said. "So... you were guiding those souls?"

  "Not by choice."

  "But.. .you.. .do all mortals have such an ability?"

  "Ah! You are not up on we mortals, my lady. Your disguise wears thin. Methinks I can see the glimmer on your hands."

  The night did not grant such perfect vision, so Gossamyr did not even check. He lied in an attempt to get her to reveal herself. He guessed he knew her. He did know her. And she sensed no danger from him. But she must remain wary.

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  Or must she? A scan of the sky did not sight the fetch. What horrendous danger must she encounter to bring Shinn to her side? Or was the lord of Glamour siege too busy with the revenants to leave?

  She whispered blessings for her father's safety.

  As for help, she did not need it. Champions were bold. Be bold, be bold, be not too bold. A statement Gossamyr had once read in the bestiary, written in gold text below the image of a charging knight.

  "This talent of seeing and guiding souls is not a common one," Ulrich said, drawing to a halt. A stretch of his arm to the sky and he announced with less than his usual flare, "I am.. .Shepherd to Lost Souls."

  Their closeness allowed Gossamyr to see the grin slip onto Ulrich 's face. Did he mock her? "Shepherd to Lost Souls?"

  "Another of my royal appointments. One I've tried desperately to shuck, but it is the only one that ever really sticks with me. I was born one. Will die one. Likely, I shall perish at a crossroads, inundated by the miserable hordes that seek Hades." Ulrich reached to grip Gossamyr's shoulder. A firm grasp that demanded her attention. Here in the darkness she could not see his expression. "Truth?"

  "Please."

  "I am a guide for lost souls. Families either hire me before an imminent death to ens
ure their loved one goes the direction they believe it should—Heaven or Hades—or I am called upon after a death to guide a lost soul."

  "How are they lost?"

  "Ah, you see, they either aren't sure they led a good life and deserve Heaven, or well, would you go to Hades if you knew you should?"

  "Heaven and Hades are not familiar to me. Be they in France?"

  He gasped. Clutching one of the silver talismans about the chain at his neck he displayed a cross in the ill night. A holy symbol associated with the mortal church. Veridienne had once fashioned

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  one from holly sticks for Gossamyr, but she had broken it when shoving it in a sap hole to collect a sweet treat. Ulrich's Heaven and Hell may be very similar to the fee's sacred resting places.

  "Infernal and Celestial?" she tried.

  "Yes, yes. The same."

  Be that so? She wondered if the fee twinclianed to the same place as did mortals. It seemed unlikely.

  "How do you guide them? Do you just point?"

  "If only it were so easy. I trance. Then, I communicate with the soul—"

  "Can you see it?"

  "No." He smoothed both hands over his scalp, pushing back his tousle of curls. An extravagant gesture into the air startled Gossamyr back a few steps. "But I can feel it!" Ulrich announced with such declaration she thought him preaching doctrine. "And the sensation gives me a picture of the person, most in their death state. Murders are a nasty picture. As well, suicides." A forceful exhale lowered his shoulders and he toed a crop of clover that Fancy had taken to chewing. "Must we go on about this? I want to clear the crossroads from my mind."

  "So you do not enjoy this ability?"

  Ulrich turned up a palm and twisted on the rings circling his fingers. "It is my way; I have accepted it."

  "And yet you've performed many other jobs?"

  "One of many unsuccessful attempts to replace this particularly vexing profession. At all means I try to avoid what happened back there. It drains me. Makes me grumpy. Much like a tired faery princess."

  "A what?"

  "Well, I've guessed, haven't I?"

  Gossamyr shifted, her toes hanging over the thick cleft of grass edging the path. Why was it so difficult to be forthright when she wanted to? An affection for mistruth had never been hers.