Part 25 (1/2)

All pain ceased. He collapsed at her feet, still clutching the cold white ankle. Whimpers, humiliating and unstoppable, leaked from his throat.

”What was it this time? An angry mob?” She tapped the foot he did not hold. ”You disappoint me, pin man.”

He cringed, hating it when she used that hideous moniker. Not an affectionate t.i.tle.

Rolling to his back, he fixed his eyes to the one yellow light pinned higher than them all. Mine. Escape. A bittersweet end to the end he lived forever more.

”'Twas a woman,” he murmured, ”and a man. She was strong, mistress. So strong!”

Where before had he seen that exotic brown stare?

”She kept me away while the Disenchanted one expired. I tried. I scrambled, I fought, I-I kicked!”

”But she defeated you?”

Keenly aware of his mistress's annoyance, he realized he had not come away without a prize. Scrambling to his knees, he shuffled in his pin sheath and produced the one tipped with glistening blood. Displaying it for his mistress to inspect, he smiled greedily. ”Her blood.”

The Red Lady strode closer, her alabaster skin supple and dancing with the colors of the undulating essences. Bending, she sniffed the pin, but made no expression of remark. And yet, she lingered over the point of silver, wondering perhaps?

”You can scent her?”

”Most definitely.” He smiled up, waiting approval.

The Red Lady drew a finger along the length of the bloodstain, not touching, just discerning. ”Good, Puppy.”

Swinging around, she strode to the bed and stretched out across it. Patting the mattress beside her, she beckoned.

He needed no further encouragement. Scampering onto the bed, he tucked his head against her stomach and lifted his face to kiss the underside of her breast. ”A woman?” she said, threading her fingers through his hair. With a jerk, she directed his attention up to her eyes. ”Mortal?”

”You would know if she were not.”

”Indeed. Certainly it is a female's blood. You said there was a man?”

”Yes. He let the woman fight for him.”

”Hmm... Handsome?”

Nettled at that question, he lapped at her nipple, producing a delightful s.h.i.+ver from her. ”Not so very. He is ugly and pale.”

As she pushed his head down to her loins, she cooed and stretched languorously across the satin bedding. ”But...a man. Perhaps he will soon answer my call.”

SIXTEEN.

Gossamyr startled awake, to feel a tug at her jaw and a hand gently press her p.r.o.ne.

”Settle,” Ulrich said. ”Don't move your head. I wanted to put a few st.i.tches to the cut on your jaw. You were out for some time.”

Scanning overhead, she saw heavy oak beams, black with soot. Wide, rough ceiling boards seeped hardened plaster from above. Ulrich's face obstructed half her view. Inside, somewhere. Sliding her hands down the strange fabric-ah, the tight brown wool- her palms smoothed over the surface of the bench she lay upon. Sweet ash burned close by, fire crackles snapping.

”I don't need st.i.tches.”

”You do unless you want a scar.” He smiled. ”Such a warrior, my fine faery lady.”

”I don't have time.” She pushed up and straddled the bench. A glance to Ulrich's leg spied crusted blood below his knee. The hose were cut just above the knee to reveal a bare, hairy leg.

”I st.i.tched myself,” he rea.s.sured. ”While you were out.”

”Healer is another to your list of talents?”

He shrugged. ”A man like myself can never be satisfied unless he is constantly learning.” She shoved away his hand, needle and thread ready. He set the needle on the table beside a lit candle. ”Very well, but you will need a poultice to that cut.”

”If it is not too smelly.” Testing the cut, Gossamyr touched it but felt no blood. It stretched from beneath her jaw to midcheek. ”Healers are a rarity in Faery.”

”A difficult profession?” He sorted through an array of brown gla.s.s bottles gathered at the edge of the trestle table, deciding on one with a smeared label and dark, clumpy contents.

”No. There are not many injuries, nor is there plague or common sickness.”

”What of battle wounds?”

”The fee heal rapidly. Rarely are a poultice or surgical methods required.”

Now she noticed the old man who sat across the well-swept room, his hands crossed in his lap and head bowed. Plain clothing, torn but neatly patched, and white hosen, with a hole in the largest toe. Thick white hair curled about his ears and brown spots littered his nose and cheeks. ”Sleeping?”

”Indeed. My uncle Armand. Sleeping is a hobby of his-of course, it is late.”

”What are those spots on his face?”

”Age, Faery Not. It is common for the elderly to display their trials and wisdoms upon their hands and face.”

Tilting a curious eye upon the snoozing old man, Gossamyr wondered what the spots would feel like. That wisdom was revealed so clearly? Impressive.

”He gets around fairly well for his blindness,” Ulrich said. ”And he stews up a mean ale berry with sops.”

”That is the smell? It is sweet like berries.”

”Ale and spices and some such.” Ulrich touched her jaw with a cool substance that smelled like mint. ”I'll just smooth a thin layer on. There. It'll make the skin contract and knit together swiftly.”

Did s.h.i.+nn witness their companions.h.i.+p through the fetch? Her father would surely rage to see this mortal man touch her so often.

Let him watch, Gossamyr thought. If she were to serve Glamoursiege in any form, surely knowledge gained from this mission, and her introduction to mortal interactions, would prove a boon.

”Thank you, Ulrich.”

”I did my best, but I still think it'll leave a mark.”

”No worry.” Her fee blood would not aid the healing. She bore a scar on her elbow to prove that. ”Where are we?”