Part 3 (1/2)
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 on the edge of Glamoursiege 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 a.s.sessed 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 s.h.i.+mmy 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. c.u.mbersome 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 furnis.h.i.+ngs 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...0000....
The melodious call beckoned him along the rough limestone garden wall, arms stretched to flatten his body and meld with the twilight shadows. Wings sc.r.a.ped 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 s.h.i.+ver 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 gla.s.sless 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.
Fee, 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 fee 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 fee'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 fee'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 s.h.i.+mmer of silver he mesmerized himself, falling into the moment and the singular admiration of the narrow s.h.i.+ne. 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 fee stumbled, catching himself upon the ground with his gloves. Mail dashed across the cobbles. The tip of a steel-capped sabre sheath drew a metallic line in the wake of the clatter. Curious, the Parisian fee 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 fee 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 fee'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 fee pa.s.sed 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 fee 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 fee'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 s.h.i.+nn'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.