Part 15 (1/2)
”Yes.”
A match to Ulrich's mule, what might have once been a fine riding horse, now looked to be ready for pasture. With little choice, Gossamyr had paid the stable owner for the palfrey, glamourizing the coin by suggesting he spend it quickly. Better luck that way, for Faery coin lasted only so long as it desired. A mortal who h.o.a.rded the precious coin might return one day to find nothing but a whisper of dust.
Leading the tired gelding toward where Ulrich waited on his mule, she saw him laugh and shook her head. ”I saved him from becoming horse stew!”
”A most n.o.ble effort, my lady.”
Mounting the horse bareback, she tucked the c.u.mbersome wool gown up around her waist. Her leather-bound braies and bare feet received a lifted brow from Ulrich.
”Paris will offer the comfort of dress you seek.” He handed up her staff.
The horse groaned as she heeled its flanks, but in its defense, it took off in a feisty gallop, leaving Ulrich and the mule in a cloud of dust.
Hours later the distance between windmills shortened and spirals of smoke from the grand city could just be seen coiling on the horizon. Eerie tendrils of the unknown s.h.i.+vered through Gossamyr's system. She felt traces of residual glamour coil away with every ponderous clod of the palfrey's hooves. 'Twas a heavy fall of something unnatural coated her flesh, invisible, but knowingly mortal. The air had become less light, but she could not determine if it was a foreboding to danger or a physical change.
A rub of the cut on her arm made her wince. You don't bleed ichor.
Once she had asked her mother to twinclian for her, and when Veridienne had lifted a refusing chin, Gossamyr learned that day how different they truly were from the common fee.
Do you not wonder?-she recalled Veridienne's mad query but days before her disappearance-What we mortals are like?
We mortals? Of course, her mother often forgot her daughter bore half-fee blood in her veins, so focused had she been on herself. Mortals must imagine loving a Faery lord as a grand vision. Yet, Gossamyr had never once dreamed to love a mortal man. Only, she did spend much time perusing the bestiary.
Had she savored the thought of meeting a mortal man? Mortal touched as she had become, she favored the sensation of Ulrich's flesh to hers. It did not spread a chill through her. Would a kiss be as favorable?
A shake of her head sorted her thoughts. What is this? Thinking to kiss the man? Truly, these delusions were not her own. Gossamyr would not allow the mortal pa.s.sion to trounce this mission. Nor must she succ.u.mb to wistful dreams of stolen kisses.
Now she could not press her mount to more than a walk. Nudging her toes into the palfrey's side served little more than to make the beast whicker at her. A fat, pollen-loaded humble bee buzzing from one clover patch to the next marked a swifter pace than she did.
With thoughts to abandon the beast to a peaceful death in the meadow, she suddenly jerked up her head. p.r.i.c.king her ears, Gossamyr homed in onto the minute thunder of hooves. Nowhere in sight, but the pace of their approach verily pounded in her veins.
”Ulrich” she whispered. Staff spinning, she tucked it under her arm, at the ready.
The man pulled rein beside her. ”What?”
”Listen.”
He shrugged. ”A stream babbles nearby. We parallel the Seine by less than half a league-”
”No. Two of them. At a good pace. Heading this way.”
”Travelers?” He shrugged again, but Gossamyr saw his move to slide a hand across his ever-coveted saddlebag. ”Where? Behind or ahead?”
”Ahead. There!”
Two black chargers gained the horizon, their hooves beating the road to a fury in their wake. Could merely be an equipage with an urgent message. But Gossamyr suspected otherwise. They yet roamed Netherdred territory. And the oncomers charged lick-for-leather.
”Armagnacs!” Ulrich yelled.
The same they had avoided by traveling around Aparjon. ”What beast be they?”
”Frenchmen! But fear them, my lady, for they only have mind to annihilate.”
Leaping from the horse and giving it a slap to flee toward the meadow, Gossamyr slid her staff along her arm and a.s.sumed a defensive pose in the center of the road. Drawing up straight, she nodded. ”Have at me!”
”Gossamyr, I don't think you should-”
”Follow the nag,” she hissed at Ulrich.
”I don't think so!”
If he had intention to start that again. ”There are but two of them. I can manage!” ”Come, my lady, toss the poor man a bone. At least let me appear I can defend myself.”
”You cannot fight clutching that saddlebag as if a favorite child.”
Gossamyr heard the oncoming shout, ”He's got it!”
She lifted a brow. Who? The soul shepherd? Got what?
She hadn't time to consider what the Armagnacs wanted from Ulrich. Aligning the staff along her forearm, she flung her arm around, landing one of the riders across the chest and successfully unseating him.
Spinning to the left, she planted the point of her staff in the ground and swung up her legs toward the rider tormenting Ulrich with a wickedly curved falchion. She succeeded in kicking the horse's flank, bringing the angry beast around. Landing her feet, she swung up the staff and clocked the rider between the eyes. The horse, angered at her a.s.sault, tried to stomp her. Seeing the obsidian-glossed hooves rise over her head, Gossamyr dropped to a roll and spun under the horse's belly. A s.h.i.+mmer of glamour snuck beneath the horse, spiraling it on its hind legs to land away from Gossamyr.
Steel cut the tension. Equine snorts misted the air. Gossamyr stood, spat out a mouthful of road dust, and faced both men clad in black leathers and s.h.i.+ning mail, their falchions swinging in tandem as they approached. Gold fleur-de-lis decorated their gray tabards. The symbol of Paris; Gossamyr recalled it from the bestiary. Indeed, Frenchmen. So why should they attack?
Thrusting up her staff before her, she blocked both weapons. The applewood had been forged of an ancient tree and of dragon fire. Hard as steel, it would not be thwarted. Nor would she.
”Achoo!” Wavering off balance, Gossamyr sensed the sweep of sharp steel and followed her equilibrium to the ground. She landed palms first. A curved blade cut into the dirt but a breath from her littlest finger. As quickly, it was cleaved from the earth in a spatter of fine dirt that again tickled her nose.
The shrill of another blade alerted Gossamyr. She rolled, twisting her staff to catch the bravo between the legs. His slicing attack abruptly veered from her and he collapsed in a groaning tumble.
”What do you want?” she said, jumping up and spinning to strike the other across the knees, and bringing him down with a yelp.
”We want what he gots!”
”The prize,” the other grunted. ”Ouff!” Gossamyr connected to his throat. b.l.o.o.d.y spittle sprayed the air.
”What does he gots-er, have?” she asked.
The two exchanged vacant looks. ”Don't know. But it has power!”
”Have at me!” Ulrich shouted. Bravado splashed the air with an abbreviated punch of his fist. Yet he had moved safely to his mule's side.
Ulrich? A prize?
Gossamyr felt steel slice her shoulder. She brushed a hand over the wool undergarment, touching blood. A s.h.i.+ver drew up a mist of faery dust. Not completely Disenchanted then. The flitter of the fetch's wings hovered high above.