dust floated, and close loomed a skein of buzzing gnats.
Turning, Gossamyr scanned the dark emerald lacework of the forest canopy and the blackened trunks of oak trees she recognized, but had known in a more spectacular image. No exposed roots twisting and trailing down the length of the Spiral forest. ’Twas her favorite activity to swing and climb amongst the network of roots, chasing night moths. And where be the canorous frog song that so twinkled from amidst the shadowed roots?
Shrugging her hands up her arms, she scanned the forest. A rabbity moan brewed in her throat. Gossamyr pressed a hand to her chest. Calm yourself.
How to return when her mission was complete? She wasn’t sure how she had entered the Otherside. Born without twinclian—the ability to twinkle in and out from a place—she could only imagine the task had been accomplished via Shinn’s glamour.
Perhaps she should have gotten the return method clear with her father before setting off on adventure. Always, Shinn had tried to crush her penchant for rushing blindly into situations. A warrior must assess and plan. But Gossamyr liked the danger, and the thrill of dashing into the fray—as much as the peaceable kingdom of Glamoursiège had allowed. There were the occasional vagrants from the Netherdred that crept into the Spiral; excellent opportunity for Gossamyr to put her training to use. Always, though, Shinn had been there to aid.
Mayhap she had leaped a bit too far this time? Who would catch her should she stumble?
The buzz of a large insect spun Gossamyr about to spy a harnessed dragon fly. Pale blue wings spanned the width of her forearm. Zip, zip here; zip, zip there. The bejeweled harness glinted in the sunlight. It hovered before her—see me, I am near—then jet-tied up into the forest canopy.
“So he did send a fetch.” A bit of Faery close by to reassure.
A breath of confidence filled Gossamyr’s lungs. “Shinn would have never sent me did he not trust I would be successful. I will find the Red Lady and put an end to her vicious reign. If more of those revenants return to Faery, my father will have a full-scale battle on his hands. I must make haste.”
Which way lay Paris? Perched high atop the Spiral in her father’s castle down was the only direction she had ever learned. To navigate horizontally instead of vertically would prove…interesting.
Gossamyr searched her memory and envisioned a finely detailed page from Veridienne’s bestiary, a map of the mortal city with the various tribes of Faery inscribed over all. Glamoursiège sat downsouth of Paris.
Lifting her foot, she remembered the Passage. A precarious position for one just arrived. Stabbing her staff outside the circle, she swung her legs up and out and landed the ground.
She stared wistfully at the empty ring of toadstools. ’Twas how the Dancers arrived in Faery. A Passage should, by rights, work both ways.
Should she? Just a test?
Gripping her staff, Gossamyr lifted her foot and pointed a toe toward the circle, then…she stepped inside. One foot firmly planted on the ground. Shallow breaths quietly exhaled. The chirring finale of the cicada’s song rattled to silence.
Nothing.
“Hmm…”
Removing her foot from the circle, she then tried the other foot, and waited, breath held.
Again, naught but the pulse beat of her heart inside her ears.
Looking about she did not spy the fetch. It saw all, she knew. Dare she jump inside with both feet? What if it did work? She would return to Faery. To Mince’s sheltering arms. And Shinn’s disapproving eyes.
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 the edge of Glamoursiège 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 assessed 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 shimmy 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. Cumbersome 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 furnishings 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…oooo….
The melodious call beckoned him along the rough limestone garden wall, arms stretched to flatten his body and meld with the twilight shadows. Wings scraped against stone, but for the task
