Part 8 (2/2)
Teetering her gaze between the covered cart and the woman's sharp smirking mouth, Gossamyr fought a sudden rise of fear. ”I- I don't think I believe in faeries. No, of course not.” She stiffened, locking her knees to remain upright. ”This is the mortal realm. So many...mortals. Faeries are nonsense and so much blather. We are off, brother?”
”First you must look!” The woman's head withdrew from the window and moments later Gossamyr heard her call from the rear of the carriage, ”Draw back the curtains!”
Utterly gasping for breath, Gossamyr fought to settle her racing pulse. Intuitive caution could not dispel the hard compulsion to seek the truth.
Using Ulrich to steady her on the left side, Gossamyr, much against her better judgment, but compelled by her curiosity, walked toward the cage. The armored men cautiously parted to allow her access. Mortal steel clinked; horses snorted. She ran a palm over the heavy tapestry; the weave was tight and heavy. The fabric pushed in through two thick poles-two of many dozens that caged whatever it was inside.
Fear dried her throat. Horror stilled her heart. Not a faery. It cannot be!
”Are you ready?” the lady whispered so loudly Gossamyr heard it as a scream.
”My sister-” Ulrich started.
”I am!” Gossamyr declared.
With little fanfare the tapestry curtain was drawn back and flipped over the corner of the cage. The contents were not initially visible, for a sheer curtain that glimmered like faery dust hung from top to the floor of the cage. The rear lanterns, while boldly kissing the woman's cruel grimace, barely lit the fore of the cage.
Steel glinted and one of the men poked his sword through the curtain and bars. A cry of pain pierced Gossamyr's breast. A female voice. Something within the cage shuffled into the torch glow. A frail, thin figure...indeed, a woman, clad in tattered brown cloth. And there!
Gossamyr let out a cry.
”Quite remarkable, yes?”
Gossamyr swung a look to the heartless woman peering out from the rear window. She kept a faery chained inside this foul cage!
Gripping the wood poles, Gossamyr scanned the poor creature. Bones were visible through her pale flesh. Arms clasped about her legs, the creature s.h.i.+vered. Not a creature, but your own kind! She would not meet Gossamyr's eyes. Just as well. Sure Ulrich's cloak concealed her blazon, Gossamyr could not know if another fee would recognize her. The cage floor was littered with crushed hay and the glimmer of faery dust.
One wing swept a lazy trail across the poles Gossamyr held. The wing was limp, colorless, and a tear rent through the upper section. Unable to divine a scent, beyond the rotting straw, Gossamyr swallowed. Lifeless, or almost so.
”I usually charge admission to look upon my pretty faery,” the lady announced. ”But I won't ask one so troubled to sacrifice.”
”Troubled?” Gossamyr swung around. Ulrich's arm barred her from approaching the rear of the carriage. ”The only troubled one I can see is you, my lady! How dare you? She is not yours to own or display or to destroy!”
”Gossamyr,” Ulrich cautioned.
”Your name is Gossamyr?” The lady's fox teeth parted and her tongue ran along them. ”Unusual. Not a French name. Will you turn about for me?”
”I will not move another footstep until you release this poor creature!”
The clomps of heavy hooves rounded behind Gossamyr and Ulrich. The caravan leader marched his horse warningly close. Sword drawn and eyes keen to her, with a flick of his weapon he bid her turn.
”We thank you for revealing your prize, my lady.” Ulrich tugged Gossamyr's shoulder. ”Best we leave you to your path.”
”You cannot own this faery,” Gossamyr hissed, ”nor treat it as a beast!”
”I cannot see,” the woman directed the man on the horse. ”Her cape must be lifted.”
Caught up in Ulrich's arms, Gossamyr struggled against his firm grip. She swung out her staff, clipping the shoulder armor of one of the men. Forced backward by a line of drawn swords, she held her staff to the ready.
”Let us pa.s.s, my lady,” Ulrich called. ”It is the moonlight; she is so troubled.”
”Indeed.”
Gossamyr clenched her teeth. Ulrich tugged her backward, away from the carriage. She followed, but held a hard eye to any who would challenge her. Indeed, she knew it foolish to have reacted so, but in that moment her heart had led her.
The armored men, forming a s.h.i.+eld before the carriage and cart stood with weapons aimed for Gossamyr's retreat. Ulrich turned and, dragging her along by the clutched ends of the cloak, began to jog across the gra.s.ses.
”Release me!” She kicked at him and managed to free herself.
He landed her body, a foot to her shoulder and bent over her face. ”Cease!” he hissed. ”You wish to lose your head?”
Twenty paces away the caravan began to move.
”She has no right,” Gossamyr growled. Unmoving, she found she had no desire to leap up and run attack upon the carriage. For much as she wanted to believe she could win any challenge, the threat of so many mortal weapons becalmed her bravado. ”The fee are not animals. Did you see her? She was close to death. Her wings... oh...”
”Stand up.” With Ulrich's offer, Gossamyr clasped his hand and stood. ”I know naught what you are about, my lady. But I can wager a guess.”
She lifted a defiant chin. In the darkness it was difficult to determine whether he jested or spoke a challenge.
”We shall be off, without further mention-”
She jerked from his touch.
Beneath the wool cloak, she felt the hem of her pourpoint fall away from her waist. ”Oh!” She clutched the fabric, hearing the dried leaves crumble.
”You are falling apart at the seams,”he said. ”Tough bit of luck.”
Blight! Her father had not been jesting when he'd said the Disenchantment takes quickly.
Apprehensions brewing, Gossamyr eyed the caravan that wobbled off down the road. Oh, but she had looked upon Disenchantment. Pale and s.h.i.+vering and in chains. Let it not be so cruel to her!
A testing bend of knee determined her leathers still held. The tough material should hold. But who knew what the Disenchantment could do? Had s.h.i.+nn known she would literally lose the clothing from her body?
Gossamyr jerked as Ulrich moved aside the cloak to look her over. The sweeping movement of the wool ripped the back of her pourpoint. Quickly, she pressed a hand to her chest.
A low whistle punctuated his astonishment. Ulrich tugged the cloak tightly over her groping arms and secured the perimeter with a scanning eve, though the night could not allow him distance. ”You need proper attire, fair lady. Most urgently.”
”There may be a seamstress in the next village.”
”You heard the knight; Armagnacs have entered Aparjon. We will do well to pa.s.s around the city.”
”But-”
”You are too quick to fight, my lady. I will not risk my neck standing aside you as we enter an embattled city.”
He removed the saddlebag from his shoulder and carefully placed it across the mule's flanks. ”We must make haste. I would let you ride behind me.”
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