bother. Unfamiliar, this world. And yet,
intriguing. Horizontal and stretching for leagues that fell off the
horizon as if the Edge. Mayhap it was an edge? Veridienne had
detailed the stretch of France in her bestiary. It was edged by a
vast ocean—tribe Mer-de-Soleil territory; merfolk and selkies
and kelpies abounded there. But she had no measurement for distance
in this land. Unless it was down. So she must rely on Ulrich's
navigation.
Many Faery tribes inhabited the realm the mortals called France:
the Rougethorns, the Wisogoths, the Quinmarks, just a few. Yes, a
huge nation, and she but an itty speck skipping toward sure danger.
If she wasn't careful she might lose her grip and fall—as she
had once amidst the tangle of roots that reticulated about
Glamoursiege. Avenall—her Rougethorn; ever charming and
chivalrous—had caught her then.
Who would catch her now?
"No." Ulrich's voice had receded. "Not now. A
crossroads? Wicked luck. Now this is the same."
With every step Gossamyr felt the world close about her as if the
cloak wrapped tightly against her flesh. Enchantment sluiced from her
pores; she could feel it as a tangible prick. An ache hummed in her
heart, a central tremor that called from the shadows of mortality. Home, it whispered. Embrace it.
No, no, no! Home was Faery. Not here.
Gossamyr fought back the invisible enemy, but the ache did settle
to a fine pulse, ever there. 'Twas the mortal passion, vying to wend
into her veins.
"Be damned with you all!"
Gossamyr stopped and swung about. Neither Fancy nor Ulrich were in
sight. But she could hear him...talking to someone?
"I beseech thee to allow me passage. No? Very well, that way. Yes, follow my direction. You there, follow the finger. Up,
up and away with you. Bloody saints, I shall be here all through the
night!"
"Ulrich?" Gossamyr stepped cautiously through the sooty
darkness. The whisper of a breeze through the long reeds that lined
the path danced them to a crisp shimmy. Her bare feet made not a
sound on the dirt road. The cloak whipped out behind her.
She spied Fancy, unloosed and grazing over a patch of clover.
Another outburst from Ulrich stirred Gossamyr to a trot, her staff
held horizontal and shoulder level, ready to spear.
"Another? Be patient; wait your turn. This way. Not so
pushy!"
"Ulrich?" Now Gossamyr could make out the gray outlines
of Ulrich's head, bowed and swaying as if in deep thought. She veered
from her approach as he swung out a hand and pointed starward.
"You. Yes, you next!"
"Whom are you speaking to?" There was not another person
in the vicinity. To be sure, Gossamyr turned a complete circle—staff
cutting the night—scanning the circumference. Scentless, the
air. Strange, she did neither smell the dirt or grass. She noted they
stood at a crossroad, Ulrich exact center.
When she turned back to him his body jerked, as if tugged from
behind, and he leaped about to face the empty darkness.
Could it be a creature from the Netherdred? One who stood yet on
the Faery side of the rift, invisible yet capable of affecting the
Otherside? She should be able to see anything that stood in Faery if
it connected with this world. Why could she not—
"If you cannot afford me the virtue of patience," Ulrich
announced to no one, "I shall see you to Hades where you belong.
Be gone!"
"Ulrich!" She leaped forward and gripped the man by the
shoulders. If he had succumbed to a glamour, perhaps her contact
could unloose him. Because he was rigid and jumpy and jerking in her
grasp, her fingers could not maintain hold. The vexing cloak impeded
her and she toppled, but caught herself with the staff. "You
speak to the night. What is to you, man? Be you luna-touched?"
"Get me free from here," he growled. A flick of his head
to the left and he addressed another unseen entity. "Heaven? You
who takes your own life asks very much!"
"Is it the Netherdred?" she pleaded.
"I know not of nether dreads—only the dreads that stand
before me. Ah!
intriguing. Horizontal and stretching for leagues that fell off the
horizon as if the Edge. Mayhap it was an edge? Veridienne had
detailed the stretch of France in her bestiary. It was edged by a
vast ocean—tribe Mer-de-Soleil territory; merfolk and selkies
and kelpies abounded there. But she had no measurement for distance
in this land. Unless it was down. So she must rely on Ulrich's
navigation.
Many Faery tribes inhabited the realm the mortals called France:
the Rougethorns, the Wisogoths, the Quinmarks, just a few. Yes, a
huge nation, and she but an itty speck skipping toward sure danger.
If she wasn't careful she might lose her grip and fall—as she
had once amidst the tangle of roots that reticulated about
Glamoursiege. Avenall—her Rougethorn; ever charming and
chivalrous—had caught her then.
Who would catch her now?
"No." Ulrich's voice had receded. "Not now. A
crossroads? Wicked luck. Now this is the same."
With every step Gossamyr felt the world close about her as if the
cloak wrapped tightly against her flesh. Enchantment sluiced from her
pores; she could feel it as a tangible prick. An ache hummed in her
heart, a central tremor that called from the shadows of mortality. Home, it whispered. Embrace it.
No, no, no! Home was Faery. Not here.
Gossamyr fought back the invisible enemy, but the ache did settle
to a fine pulse, ever there. 'Twas the mortal passion, vying to wend
into her veins.
"Be damned with you all!"
Gossamyr stopped and swung about. Neither Fancy nor Ulrich were in
sight. But she could hear him...talking to someone?
"I beseech thee to allow me passage. No? Very well, that way. Yes, follow my direction. You there, follow the finger. Up,
up and away with you. Bloody saints, I shall be here all through the
night!"
"Ulrich?" Gossamyr stepped cautiously through the sooty
darkness. The whisper of a breeze through the long reeds that lined
the path danced them to a crisp shimmy. Her bare feet made not a
sound on the dirt road. The cloak whipped out behind her.
She spied Fancy, unloosed and grazing over a patch of clover.
Another outburst from Ulrich stirred Gossamyr to a trot, her staff
held horizontal and shoulder level, ready to spear.
"Another? Be patient; wait your turn. This way. Not so
pushy!"
"Ulrich?" Now Gossamyr could make out the gray outlines
of Ulrich's head, bowed and swaying as if in deep thought. She veered
from her approach as he swung out a hand and pointed starward.
"You. Yes, you next!"
"Whom are you speaking to?" There was not another person
in the vicinity. To be sure, Gossamyr turned a complete circle—staff
cutting the night—scanning the circumference. Scentless, the
air. Strange, she did neither smell the dirt or grass. She noted they
stood at a crossroad, Ulrich exact center.
When she turned back to him his body jerked, as if tugged from
behind, and he leaped about to face the empty darkness.
Could it be a creature from the Netherdred? One who stood yet on
the Faery side of the rift, invisible yet capable of affecting the
Otherside? She should be able to see anything that stood in Faery if
it connected with this world. Why could she not—
"If you cannot afford me the virtue of patience," Ulrich
announced to no one, "I shall see you to Hades where you belong.
Be gone!"
"Ulrich!" She leaped forward and gripped the man by the
shoulders. If he had succumbed to a glamour, perhaps her contact
could unloose him. Because he was rigid and jumpy and jerking in her
grasp, her fingers could not maintain hold. The vexing cloak impeded
her and she toppled, but caught herself with the staff. "You
speak to the night. What is to you, man? Be you luna-touched?"
"Get me free from here," he growled. A flick of his head
to the left and he addressed another unseen entity. "Heaven? You
who takes your own life asks very much!"
"Is it the Netherdred?" she pleaded.
"I know not of nether dreads—only the dreads that stand
before me. Ah!
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