Gossamyr (27 page)

Ahead, a crowd of clothing hung low over the street. Leading Fancy
through the rippling fabric he acquired a man's pair of braies. Faery
Not would be pleased.

Pins jangling and his left leg dragging behind him, the pin man
entered the lair of his red mistress. Cowering already, he feared her
wrath. He had returned without the essence. Fury would design her
rage deliriously.

Stopping beneath Malchius, he wheezed out huffing breaths.
Something oozed down his back. No matter how he wriggled his
shoulders the becursed boned plate continued to inflame. But pain
cried louder from elsewhere. He'd taken that blighted staff right
across the thigh. Mayhap the leg was broken. His mistress could heal
him—but for his bare pin, she would not.

That cruel warrior bitch! She had looked at him so strangely.
Peered deep into his eyes, as if gazing into his very essence. She
had commanded him as if they were familiar. Something about her
had...compelled.

Ah! But he had not an essence to see into now. Least not inside of
him.

He stroked a finger around his left eye, tracing the indented
impressions of red, the mark of the banished. He could barely claim
the name of his tormentor—Shinn—but for the pain he would
never lose that memory, as he had lost so many other memories.

Shinn, a great lord of...somewhere...had banished him for...
something.

Faery, 'tis whence you hailed.

Yes, of course, Faery. An obvious deduction, for the wings that
endured the scratch of bone on his back. But difficult to recall the
reason why he'd been banished. He did rack his memory at times. Just,
placed here,
was all he could summon. And he was changing.
Daily. Becoming something he knew. Comfort in his servitude. Red
capped his head and moved down past his shoulders now; but a
hand's-width of black hair remained.

He blinked a few times. A flicker of a different world—a
different time—birthed in his vision. So beautiful, shimmering
with a fine mist of iridescence and coiled about by a massive and
intricate system of...roots? Spectacular.

As she had been.
She?

Banging his head against the marble wall, he fought to touch that
elusive sliver of memory. It lived there inside his brain, he knew,
but all thoughts were focused exclusively upon the task. And upon his
mistress.

Catching his palm against the cool white marble, he paused outside
the door to the Collection. Flame held by Dionysius flickered and
seeped into his nostrils. The naked pin burned cold against his
cheek. No possible way around it; he was puppy toast.

The scent of his mistress's perfume, a heady mix of myrrh and
lemon, with a trace of dusty blood, swirled out from the crack
between the door and the wall. She knew he had returned. No beckoning
call for him. He had once already been led to the kiss. Remarkable,
she had commented that first time. They shared the mark of the
banished. However, she knew the reason for her banishment—had
detailed the tragedy many times over.

Why could he not recall his?

Threading his fingers through the crack between the door and
frame, the pin man crept closer, easing the heavy door open with his
shoulder until the brightness of the room hurt his eyes. Never did
she light candles. He could not explain the supernatural illumination
that followed the Red Lady about, but she lighted every room she
entered. Faery glamour, to be sure. A glamour only possible thanks to
the many essences that kept his mistress alive— staving off the
Disenchantment.

How he prayed for freedom. Perhaps a return of his memories?

As the pin man wandered out from the hall seven marble heads
turned to follow. One stony watcher grimaced to reveal sharp teeth. A
snort set the claw-held candle flame to a shiver.

"Come, Puppy."

The tone of her voice set his pulse racing and his mutinous
desires to an expectant simmer. Excitement shivered through his
being. She would expect him to stride in and prick the wall with a
pin. Could he mime the motion? Mayhap she would not notice, for
already there were so many pins.

"You've been a naughty puppy."

Clinging to the wall, his palms attached like barnacles, he slid
inside the room.

Violet eyes surrounded by the snaking pattern of red dots locked
to his. Not a smile on those cherry lips. Nor a frown. Oh, but he
preferred some sign of emotion! Sprawled on all fours, creeping
across the massive bed, her robe slid open to reveal the bone-white
flesh and those delicious breasts he could suckle at for centuries.
Too pretty to fear and too evil to love.

But oh, did he venerate her.

"Where is it?" She slid to the end of the bed, her legs
flowing over the edge and her bare toes dangling. Twinkle twinkle,
her toes tapped expectantly at the air.
Plunge forward, and suck
them into your mouth. Love me, serve me.

Resisting the urge to prostrate himself, the pin man remained at
the wall, eyeing the glimmer of essences to his left. Wincing, he
cringed, waiting the pain. Sure punishment.

"There were in-tru-truders," he muttered. Of a curious
sort.
Did
he know that woman? Sweat purled down the side of
his face. So intent she had been. Like she
needed
him to know
her.

"What?"

"Intruders, my sweetness. Two mortals." 'Twas difficult
to make himself any smaller. "They...kept me from the essence."

And then it struck. Flayed by invisible needles, the pin man
screamed at the agony, feeling his flesh open and pour out his ichor.
His muscles tightened then released. The floor caught his writhing
limbs. Spasms bent and doubled, and then stretched him full-length.
Palms slid through seeping—

Never any ichor.

Not even an open wound. He dripped out pain through his brain. It
hurt there in his thoughts. She made him feel the torments without
the physical wounds.

Bloody red bitch.

Strangled by the agony, the sudden creep of softness across his
cheek stirred him to look up. She stared down at him, a sneer the
closest thing to disapproval. He gripped her ankle, forcing his mouth
to soften from the painful clench to kiss her foot.

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 title.

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 shiver 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."

Gossamyr startled awake, to feel a tug at her jaw and a hand
gently press her prone.

"Settle," Ulrich said. "Don't move your head. I
wanted to put a few stitches 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 stitches."

"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 stitched myself," he reassured. "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 glass 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 fée 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 Shinn witness their companionship 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 fée blood would not aid the
healing. She bore a scar on her elbow to prove that. "Where are
we?"

"At my uncle's."

"Yes, I've been introduced. But where?" Sight of the
open saddlebag redirected her concern. Gossamyr shot across the
table, slapping her palms to either side of the alicorn, which lay
exposed across the black cloth. Bits of the horn lay in the folds of
the cloth. "It is disintegrating?" She looked to Ulrich.

The man swiped a hand over his chin and winced. He looked off
toward the fire. As if he had not heard her. There by the alicorn lay
a knife.

"You cannot!"

"Just a few bits." Hurriedly, he rolled up the black
cloth and clutched the alicorn to his chest. "It is required to
help you locate the Red Lady."

"Required? You have damaged a sacred—"

"Gossamyr." He clamped a hand on her knee. So stern his
face became, she ceased protest. "Do you wish to carry it?"

She shook her head.

"Then it is mine to own until I locate the unicorn. I shall
do with it as I please."

"But—"

"Worry about your own troubles, woman." He shoved the
alicorn into the saddlebag. "You could have been murdered had I
not been there after you fainted."

"I did not faint. I've never fainted. I just...don't faint."

"Of course not. You are a warrior, a champion on a great and
mighty quest—"

"Ulrich."

"Very well, but you were exhausted."

"No, I—" When last she remembered, she had to let
the pin man go—without the essence.

Avenall? Her bruised heart had pulsed when she had looked into his
eyes. Eyes that did not see the woman Avenall had once courted
against Shinn's wishes.

Why did he not remember her? Did banishment erase a fée's
memory?

The warmth of Ulrich's touch to her chin, to direct her gaze up to
his, startled. "There is no harm in admitting you needed a bit
of rest, Gossamyr. You've forged onward relentlessly since we met in
that enchanted woods."