“You sure it was not a tangle with a prickle bush?”
“Would that it had been so. I hate bloody banshees.” He narrowed a suspicious gaze at her. “You’re not a banshee, are you?”
“No. Merely mort—like you. What of that bruise?”
Trembling fingers smoothed over the modena on the man’s face. He grimaced and shook his head. “If I told you a woman gave it to me, would you believe such foolery?”
Gossamyr shrugged. “A woman like myself?”
“I see your point.”
“Your insistence you see faeries and banshees leads me to wonder if you’ve the sight?”
“That dance changed everything. I’m still a bit dansey-headed from the whole event. I want Faery from my eyes!”
So he did see. Yet obviously it was not a gift he enjoyed.
Striding lightly, Gossamyr clicked her tongue to encourage the mule to pick up pace. It did not, and so she slowed.
“Now, explain to me why, if you are not a faery, your dress is so strange. Leaves for clothing? And those braies, they appear to be leather, but never have I seen so remarkable a color. Only the fair folk could fashion such a garment and make it strong and so flexible.”
Gossamyr smirked. The remarkable color was utterly average. Fashioned from frog skin, the amphi-leather was strong but flexible and comfortable.
“It would not be wise to be seen by any in a village or otherwise dressed in such a manner,” he stated. “Women conceal their forms with dresses and silly pointed hats. And sleeves. And shoes. Braies and hose are for men. As are weapons.”
She had not considered as much. Why had not Shinn? Of course, male and female were equals in Faery. Though Veridienne’s bestiary had detailed the misbalance between the sexes in the Otherside. For all Shinn’s visits to the Otherside, he should have known.
Gossamyr glanced over her attire. The fitted pourpoint stopped at her thighs. The weapon belt hung snugly across her hips. The Glamoursiège arms were carved in fire-forged applewood—faery wings upon a sword and shield; a holly vine wrapped about the sword signified the peaceable times. Amphi-leather braies wrapped her legs, and secured about her ankles a thin strip of leather kept the loose braies from catching on brambles or sticks.
The bestiary had illustrated mortal women wearing dresses sewn from ells of elaborate fabric trimmed with furs and jewels. Gossamyr wore gowns when it suited her—for balls and celebrations. Rarely though did such cumbersome garb suit her.
Had Veridienne insinuated herself to the Otherside with ease? But of course, her mother had known the ways of this world, for she had been born here. Gossamyr sensed now it would require much more than mere study of pictures and text for a rogue half-blood fée to find equal success.
Keep the blazon concealed.
“As well—” Ulrich leaned forward “—you travel alone, and are far too lovely to put off a man’s advances.”
“Let no man test my mettle unless he wishes to pull back a nub. Or, lose another tooth.”
Ulrich whistled through the space in his teeth. “I believe you, my lady. I believe you.”
She stepped through the grass and leaned in close to him. “Stop smiling.”
“Can’t.”
“Try.”
He spread his arms wide to exclaim, “Tis the bane of my existence, this smile.” He paced a grand circle about her, as if announcing to the masses an exciting performance. “For all the tragedy I have endured it did little to remove this false glee. For it is false. I feel only sadness in my heart.”
“Be that the reason for your mournful tune when first you approached?”
He stilled in his circle of footsteps. “You heard?”
“Your world is filled with echoes—er, this world.” She grimaced and punctuated her frustration by stabbing her staff into the ground with each word. “My world. The continent.”
“France?”
“Indeed.”
She caught his bemused grin. Far more appealing than his frown or shouted oaths. The sudden thought that this mortal appealed to her only vexed. You’ve no luxury to dally!
“As for my smile, women drop like flies in a swoon when they see my pearly chompers.”
“Are you sure it is not your smell?” Peering through the corner of her eye at him, Gossamyr teased, “Flies dropping in manure?”
He puffed out a protesting huff.
“Well, I am still standing,” she offered, unable to hide a playful grin.
“You, my lady—” he stabbed the air before her with a finger “—are not a woman.”
“I am so!”
“You are a faery.”
“The correct term is fée.”
“Fée, faery, banshee, witch! For all my troubles are caused by the like.” He kicked the dirt path and dust rose up about his parti-colored ankles.
Swoon? More like clap him with the tip of her staff. A banshee? Truly? Gossamyr knew of no root swamps—the banshees’ usual haunt—but the rift had increased the likelihood of mortals in Faery, as well it let out more from Faery to torment the Otherside.
This moment she likely stood near Netherdred territory.
“Have you a name, faery? Or would that be encroaching upon your person to inquire such? I do know should a faery give his name complete he would hand over his power.”
As well, a fée garnered much control over the mortal with his complete name. Jean César Ulrich Villon III. Quite the mouthful. Were she full-blooded, Gossamyr could work an erie upon his tongue to silence him.
“I am not afraid of your taunts.”
“Prove it with the gift of your name.”
A challenge? Such daring stirred her blood. She was beginning to like this man, despite his barmy nature.
“It is…” Gossamyr paused.
Never give your name to a mortal. They use magic, and can command your compliance by repeating it thrice. You will be beholden to their cruel wishes.
Caged and taunted, kept as a pet…
“My lady?”
A schusch of wind danced the leaves overhead into a rising cheer. Nearby, Fancy snuffled over a patch of clover.
“Twas only her name complete which would give away her power. The mortal had no means to discover that. “You may call me Gossamyr.”
“Gossamyr.” He whistled through the space in his teeth. “What sort of name be that? Gaelic? Irish? Not a bloody Scot, are you?”
“You talk too much.”
“And you are far too impudent for a woman.” He danced with his speech, as if it a natural extension of his thoughts. Into a circle about her, but too far for her to touch or even scent. “What be your destination? And whom have you left behind? Surely there is a father or husband who mourns your absence. And so alone.”
“I am not alone—achoo!—I am with you.”
He eyed her staff, held at shoulder level like a pike ready for launch. “Mayhap not. But there is something about me you should know.”
“What be that?”
A splay of his beringed fingers before him caught the fading sunlight in a rainbow of glints.