“Or even better, I’ll have shed one mule and its jabbering passenger.”
Jabbery? Indeed! Why the nerve of the…the…well, Ulrich wasn’t exactly sure what Gossamyr was.
Feisty, fine and female. Mayhap a faery?
The woman who strode in skipping steps ahead of him by ten paces was like no woman he had ever before known. Or seen. Or dreamed of. Well, mayhap he had dreamed a tempting siren once or twice—hell, dozens of times. But never had she been so skilled in the martial arts. Killing bogies? She had moved without thought, swinging that beautiful carved stick of hers and taking out the bogie with but one stroke. Masterful.
His rusted crossbow had been less than splendid when matched against the woman’s mettle. Made him feel a bit lacking.
On the other hand, with a traveling mate of such skill, he could pay heed to that which required attention. Ulrich patted Fancy’s withers and slid his hand back to smooth over the saddlebag. A certain hum, much like the throat of a purring cat, vibrated against his palm. Safe. But for how long? Would his quest be ended most violently before he had opportunity to save the damsel?
Or was it already too late? So little remained the same. It had all changed. Everything. Twenty years had been stolen!
He should have been there to save her, his sweet Rhiana. Instead, he had been…dancing. That hellacious toadstool ring!
Ah, but he would have Rhiana back. And he would die trying.
But he mustn’t think overmuch of his quest. For one brief thought—just back the road a ways—had called up the bogie. Myriad strange and malevolent evils could sense him, even—he suspected—hear his thoughts.
What should happen if he were to dip into the saddlebag and draw the thing out into view? He’d barely avoided death last eve when the wailing white ladies had followed him through the mist-fogged swamp. Not being corporeal they could not touch him, but such hadn’t prevented them from flinging sticks and stones and the like at him. And finding target with each attack. Recall prickled the hairs all over his body to alert. And the realization this quest was insane.
How to locate what he sought? Was this feeling—a calling that led him toward Paris—sure?
What a task, what a task.
An ally from Faery would make all the difference.
Ulrich eyed the sure, muscular form striding ahead of Fancy. She was as a man in strength and prowess but with the curves and beauty of a siren. Those double plaits of summer-wheat hair tipped in delicate bone clasps beat at her back with each lilting stride. And the clothing! Braies and pourpoint? Leaves? No mortal man or woman could fashion such. And that glimmer, it almost seemed to form a pattern under her jaw and down her neck. Did it spread across her chest?
She was a faery; he sensed it. For he could lately see the damned things. A gift of the dance. How to give it back?
A man should like to have a confident fighter at his side if he had set to an insane quest that would surely bring about many more a challenge.
As well, a faery would attract the one thing he most needed to find.
FIVE
The iridescent fetch was not to be seen against the dull flatness of night. Must have twinclianed to Faery. The quiet warmth of protection Gossamyr felt whenever she sighted the dragon fly tremored for reignition. Sure, she could stand off a bogie, but…
But…she wondered now if Mince was asking for her absence. What must her maid think? Did she fear for Gossamyr, all alone in a strange land? Mayhap Shinn had not mentioned her departure. And if he had, only the facts—details were unnecessary. Surely, Mince worried.
Something so insignificant as a sigh now felt a heavy burden as Gossamyr marched along the rutted path alongside her mortal traveling companion. She kept turning to look back, thinking to spy the marble castle from the corner of her eye. She didn’t like feeling this way. Uncomfortable. At a loss. For all purposes she should charge ahead, thinking only of the task. All of Faery relied upon her defeat of the Red Lady.
“All,” she murmured. “That is…quite many.”
So many, she wondered now if Shinn had made a wise choice.
It was not a choice! You begged.
Yes.
I hope you discover the solace to the ache that has been your nemesis.
He knew. It had been time to set her free. If only to fulfill the personal quest she sought before settling upon the Glamoursiège throne. To experience the Otherside, and to claim victory.
Ahead, torches flickered and wobbled along the path. Night had settled, completely blacking the sky save for spots of starlight.
Gossamyr skipped ahead. About a shout down the road an equipage with two armored destriers in the lead pondered slowly forth. Both carried torches. Following, a carriage and a large covered wagon behind, trailed by yet more mounted riders. Every corner of the carriage was hung with yet another torch.
“What is that?” She turned to Ulrich. “Royalty?”
“Unlikely.” A bounce on his toes scanned the coming caravan. “No banners or coats of arms that I can see. It is likely a traveling merchant who has just passed through Aparjon. We should move from the road.”
Gossamyr stabbed her staff into the red clay. “Why?”
A chuffing breath preceded Ulrich’s sharp retort, “Do you wish to be trampled?”
Gossamyr held her tongue. She held no position here in the Otherside. While normally her equipage would command the road, she was supposed to be lying low. Waylaying suspicion. Besides, a mule and a dancing fool could hardly be considered an equipage. A touch to her neck; she spread her fingers down over her collarbones. Darkness hid her blazon.
Leaping from the path, she landed Fancy’s side and gave the mule’s neck a smooth of her palm. “Will they be dangerous?”
“Not unless provoked.” Ulrich eyed her suspiciously. “You, er…won’t provoke them?”
Did he think her so unhinged? “Not unless they give reason for such.”
“Of course. I should expect nothing less from a bogie-killer. Just…do not speak,” he muttered in low tones as the equipage neared. Iron-bound wheels creaked under the load and armor clanked with the pace of the horses.
The mounted men leading the band were attired in black armor with black leather straps and polished silver buckles that glinted with torchlight. Black leather braies and boots blended with the velvet-black hide of the horses.
“Perhaps not a merchant,” Ulrich whispered over Gossamyr’s shoulder. “Not with an armored escort. Stand back and allow them passage. It is safest.”
Solemn in expression, the men’s eyes turned to Gossamyr and Ulrich as they slowed to pass by. The lead rider wore a bascinet helmet sporting a brilliant red plume. Gossamyr looked boldly into the dark eyes of the man. A chill touched her breast. Malevolence
