"He does. But they would fall to the same fate as the Disenchanted. The Red Lady can scent another fee and strike with forces as to overwhelm an entire troop. It is an enchanting song she uses to draw them to her, much like a siren's song. As I understand, the male fee is quite powerless to resist. Besides, there are revenants to battle in Faery."

"Revenants?"

"They are like your invisible souls seeking rest-yet they are very visible. The revenant is a result of a stolen essence; it seeks an essence in order to achieve the final twinclian. An essence is similar to the mortal soul."

Both clung to the other's seeking look. Much to comprehend, Gossamyr knew. She did not completely understand, herself. Should not Shinn be able to twinclian directly to the Red Lady? She could not be more powerful than the Faery lord. One moment away from Faery-no, it must not be possible, else Gossamyr knew the Glamoursiege lord would have already risked the trip.

It was Ulrich who nodded and let out a low whistle as he leaned forward on the rock. "You speak words I have never heard-twinclian, Disenchanted, revenants-but I understand there is a great need to stop this red woman. You think I can help?"

"Can you see faery essences?"

He shrupped. "If I cannot see a mortal soul I most certainly cannot see a faery soul. Nor, likely, these revenants."

"If one charged you with its skeletal arms clawing and its maws open for blood, you would see it."

"Sounds...like it would leave a mark."

"The revenants will mark Faery with their tirade." And a new war will begin, ending the long Peace.

Not going to happen. Not if she had a say; and she did. "But you understand now, Ulrich? I am not a full-blooded faery."

"I think I understand. You, being half mortal, will not be detected until it is too late. But what of the blazon and these faery powers you speak of? Will this red lady not judge you to be a faery, as well?"

"Like I said, these remnants of Faery will soon be gone. Besides, it is the males she prefers."

"Without the glamour will you be powerless against her?"

Gossamyr gripped the staff. "I have the skills taught me by my father." She saw Ulrich's squint and knew what he was thinking. "Oh, come now, Jean Cesar Ulrich Villon-"

"The Third," he tossed at her.

"The Third. Have you no allegiance to me?"

"I have known you but a day and each moment of that day you concealed your truth from me."

"As have you!"

"Indeed." He leaped to the ground and stood before her, hands to his hips. "And in that time I have seen such remarkable skills as to believe you are certainly capable. But you say this red lady can take out an entire Faery troop? How then will but one single woman be successful against her?"

Drawing up her shoulders, Gossamyr released a huge breath. "I won't know unless I try."

"You've a h.e.l.l of a mettle."

"I like danger."

"That you do. Stick around me, my lady of the hurting stick, and I promise you your fill."

"And why is that? Has it to do with your quest?"

"Er..."

"Achoo!"

Ulrich swung a gap-toothed grin at Gossamyr. "You're going to have to work on that. I wager not a few enemies will be pleased to hear you announce your arrival with such a powerful sneeze."

Rubbing her nose, Gossamyr stood and stalked past him. "I cannot prevent it. I feel as if I sneeze out a bit of my essence with each one. It must be this mortal soil. The very air is filled with...stuff. Faery is cleaner, brighter, more...vertical."

"Will you miss it?"

Ulrich's quiet query beat back and forth in her mind. "I will return."

The village of Juvisy was of good size-two taverns, a blacksmith and a cooper occupied the market square. Gossamyr tugged at the heavy cloak. The wool made her itch and taxed her long strides. Yet still, she remained buoyant. Difficult to sulk when surrounded by lightness.

At Ulrich's beckon they quietly entered the village through a stone portcullis that bore no heavy wood door. Neither were there city walls, so protection must come from armed guards, Gossamyr a.s.sumed. Keeping a keen eye to her surroundings, she strode behind Fancy. Children's laughter startled her so thoroughly, she spun to locate the sound.

That movement proved devastating. She jumped as the entirety of her pourpoint slid over her stomach and to the ground. The heavy weight of her hip belt caught upon the waist of her braies.

"Ulrich."

The soul shepherd turned to her. Blue eyes widened as they spied the heap of dried leaves at her feet.

"Dragon p.i.s.s." Ulrich scanned the periphery. "This is not bone."

Clasping the cloak to her body as if a shroud, Gossamyr frantically searched about. The village rustled with carts and carriages and there a small herd of sheep scampered behind a rotund shepherd. Surely there must be a shop that sold premade clothing. The coin Shinn had given her yet hung at her waist, the Disenchantment had not eaten away the purse.

"Give me a moment." Spying a coach parked outside a whitewashed hovel, she decided a little investigation could prove fruitful.

"A bit too late to st.i.tch a patch here and there, my lady!" Ulrich called.

"I've a disguise to procure. I'll meet you in the market square, yes?"

"I wait with bells on. A h.e.l.l of a lot more than you're wearing, I wager." And with a smile to charm devils, Ulrich clicked his tongue and signaled Fancy to follow him.

SEVEN.

Outside and behind a smithy shop reeking of charred wood, Gossamyr tooled around behind a small carriage that sported a chest on the backboard-unlocked. Rummaging about the contents she found clothing stuffed around heavy, thick books. A scholar, likely. Though the clothing was minimal and spare-perfect.

Leaving a pile of Faery coin in her wake, she snuck behind a stack of hay to change and emerged feeling newly entered to the mortal realm. It was a good disguise, covering her from crown to ankle, most especially her neck. But it was hot and itchy. Couldn't be prevented.

Walking down the center road, Gossamyr's steps increased to a skip. Every building, cart and person remained horizontally placed. Nothing glittered or twinkled. Not a single pisky flew by. Yet, so much proved of interest. The sun played upon puddles of mud and in the glint of saddle furnishings. The metallic chirr of an iron horseshoe being shaped mixed with the bray of a goat being chased by a handful of children.

Her smiles were greeted with equal smiles. No one cast a disdainful sneer upon her. In fact, a few even crossed themselves and bowed to her. Hmm. Must be the necklace she had borrowed. Gossamyr patted the long chain of dried rosebuds that hung to her belly.

An urchin no taller than her knees bounced by and looked up to her. The goat chase momentarily forgotten, a smile cracked the boy's dirty face. Wide brown eyes glinted from the round, pink flesh.

Gossamyr had only ever seen the dark eye color on her mother's face and her own. "Like mine," she said to the child.

Child of mine, so precious, her father's favorite mantra.

When a fee woman was with child she usually stowed away for the six months of gestation. Such a delicate business, childbirth. Someday she hoped to have her own. Would there ever be another Avenall? A fee man who could love her for her exotic qualities and not turn in disgust from her brown eyes? Desideriel would not offer the kindness of interest. Alas, they two were destined to parent a child. Pray it was not born with brown eyes.

The child giggled and toddled off to cling to his mother's wool skirts. A half dozen women knelt around a central well, scrubbing clothing, their chatter frolicking with the smithy's clangs of metal. Gossamyr wondered if there was a misplaced pair of braies in the mix of laundry. She still wore her own, but couldn't guess how long the amphi-leather would hold.

The shing of steel alerted her to an armored man. He strode through the children's goat chase and past the well. Glimpsing his determined frown, Gossamyr followed his pace. She tugged at the sides of the headpiece she wore, knowing it covered her scalp and revealed but her face. He stepped into a tavern busy with shouts and general bustle.

To her right she spied a stone fountain trickling green water from the side of a building. Approaching with a thirst that did not care what color the water was, Gossamyr cupped a few gulps down her throat. Eyes peeled to her periphery, she noticed a huge shirtless man blocking view of another much smaller man wearing bold green-and-black hose. Their conversation, though she could not make out a word, did not sound friendly.

Splashing a palmful of water over her lips, she then called, "Be there a problem, Ulrich?"

"Not at all, my lady. Just a difference of opinion."

She joined the men. The shirtless brute crowding Ulrich against a wood stall wore a leather ap.r.o.n and wielded a heavy iron club. If any required a bath, this stinking specimen took the prize. Scratching an itch at the back of her right hip, Gossamyr propped a hand to the wall beside Ulrich's head and looked the two over.

At sight of her, Ulrich banged the back of his head against the wall of the tavern. He clutched his chest and babbled, "b.l.o.o.d.y saints, that's...that's..."

"A suitable disguise?" she wondered innocently, while keeping a keen eye to the confused intruder.

He stretched his gaze up and down the costume. Her heavy plaits were concealed, as were her legs, arms and any hint of feminine shape. Seeing his dismay, she lifted the hem of her gown to reveal beneath the leather-bound braies of such strange color.

Ulrich smiled. "My lady, you commit most delicious blasphemy."

"Who be you?" The man actually growled at her!

"Who be you?" she countered in equal gruffness.

"H-he thinks I resemble a man who tricked a bushel of eggs from his lady wife," Ulrich offered, a wince multiplying to a nervous blink. "You are the one," the brute spat. A meaty fist gripped Ulrich's shirt and lifted him to tiptoes.

"I have not been to Juvisy before this day."

"Two days hence! I would not forget your ugly face."

Gossamyr smirked. The smelly man lied. While she knew little of Ulrich, the man was no thief.

A swing of her staff whacked the tormentor on the back of the neck. He went down smoothly and without a sound. The iron club settled in a plume of dust at their feet. She offered a smile to the gaping soul shepherd.

"You will stop that!" Ulrich hissed.

"Why? You were in danger. That weapon must weigh two stone."

"Da-danger? Only from the return swing of your staff!" He stepped over the fallen man and tugged her past the dribbling fountain. "You should not have done such. A woman has her place."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Women, they are-" Gossamyr caught herself against his chest, and he shoved her off "-well, they are to keep behind their males. They rely on their men to protect them."

"Really?"

"Indeed! They cook and keep the home and tend the children. They do not humiliate their partners by beating on the evil ironsmith."

"I see."

"Do you?"

She shrugged. "Not particularly."

"Obvious."

"Methinks such subservience sounds perfectly silly. In Faery all are equal. Women fight alongside men. Male fee tend their children and play with them as much as their mates. And since when did we become partners?"

"We are partners of the road." Ulrich slung his saddlebag over his shoulder and wandered to the shade beneath a ma.s.sive oak stretching its gnarled limbs across the market square. The flickering white hide of the goat, tucked amongst a holly bush, revealed its hiding spot.

Gossamyr punctuated her frustration with a stab of her staff to ground.

"I thought you were in a hurry?"

"Why think you so?"

"Be there not a damsel in need of rescue?"

"Sure,"he said with a dismissive gesture. "But I also said time was no concern." "Why not? Does your damsel sit in a high tower at her tapestry gathering wrinkles in your absence?"

"She is dead."

"Dead?"

Ulrich turned his shoulder to her.

"Oh, no." She rushed him and gave a shove to make him face her. "This is not some sort of evil psychopompery?"

Beringed fingers twisted before his face. "I don't believe there is such a word as psychopompery."

"Blight! It is what you are, isn't it, soul shepherd? What do you intend to do with this dead woman?"

"I plan to bring her back to life. Unhand me. Your closeness is naught seemly. Keep back. Do you know you've a problem with standing too close?"

Gossamyr swayed back at that remark. "What do you mean?" She wrinkled her nose and looked him up and down. Too close? How to have a conversation without the rea.s.surance of a noncombative scent?

"Yes." He pressed two fingers to her shoulder and made show of carefully taking a step to measure distance between them. "See here.

About an armshot. That is the proper distance."