and the shiver never leaves, eventually it eats away a faery’s wings.
But Ulrich’s hands were not cold, rather warm. Instead of a shiver, Gossamyr smiled as a relaxing loosen of her shoulders chased back her fears.
“Where do you journey?” the lady asked.
“The next village,” Gossamyr replied.
“It is dangerous.”
“I crave danger.”
“Do you?” A chuckle again revealed those vicious little teeth. “But there are Armagnacs.”
“You saw them?” Ulrich asked.
Sensing his sudden tension by a squeeze of his hand to her shoulder, Gossamyr peered cautiously out of the corner of her eye toward the direction they traveled.
“Indeed,” the leader said from his mount. “We exited the city as a score of mounted Armagnacs, wearied and hungry, crept in.”
“Mayhap we shall pass around the village,” Ulrich said.
“It would be wise.”
“Do you journey for a convent?” the lady asked.
“Oh, indeed,” Ulrich spoke in Gossamyr’s stead. “The best place for my sister, you understand. She is marveled too easily. ’Tis why she became so excited to see you, my lady. If I may be so bold, your beauty rivals quite any woman my sister has yet to lay eyes upon. Mine, as well.”
Oh, but he was laying it on thick. It took all her strength not to swing about and knock him silent with a club of her staff.
“You like marvels, do you?” the woman asked Gossamyr. “Mayhap you wish to see what I’ve in my cage?”
Gossamyr followed the slender finger that pointed out from the carriage and behind. Lace threaded through with glinting strands of silver fell over her narrow wrist. Gorgeous, the mortal vestments.
“Yes, please,” Gossamyr cooed. And then she found herself shaking her head. Snapping out from a strange fog. Almost as if a faery erie. Blight, what was this? ’Twas as if she was mesmerized by the woman. The mortal passion?
No! Concentrate. She was merely tired and hungry.
“What is behind the tapestries?”
“Look at me,” the lady beckoned.
Spots of brilliant gold dotted her deep brown eyes. Gossamyr found herself leaning forward, to better scent. An indefinable odor, not like any flower or even the must of mortal earth, surrounded her. Almost cold, like the depths of a dark cave oozing with dribbles of ice water.
“Your eyes are brown,” the woman commented. As if it were uncommon. “Have you ever…” She leaned forward, clasping the rim of the carriage door with long fingers painted with rust-colored designs that swirled across her entire hand.
Gossamyr swayed closer.
“…looked into violet eyes?”
Struck by an unseen force, Gossamyr pressed a hand over the agraffe at her neck.
“Do you believe in faeries?”
“Wh-what?” A step back found her tumbling into Ulrich’s arms.
“We should leave you to your travels,” Ulrich said as he righted Gossamyr. “My sister tires. We need seek shelter.”
Ignoring Ulrich entirely, the woman announced in spectacular breaths, “I’ve a faery in my cage. Do you wish to see it?”
“A f-faery?” Finding herself quite unable to stand upright, Gossamyr clung to her staff. They keep them caged to display in market squares. This woman had captured a fée?
Teetering her gaze between the covered cart and the woman’s sharp smirking mouth, Gossamyr fought a sudden rise of fear. “I—I don’t think I believe in faeries. No, of course not.” She stiffened, locking her knees to remain upright. “This is the mortal realm. So many…mortals. Faeries are nonsense and so much blather. We are off, brother?”
“First you must look!” The woman’s head withdrew from the window and moments later Gossamyr heard her call from the rear of the carriage, “Draw back the curtains!”
Utterly gasping for breath, Gossamyr fought to settle her racing pulse. Intuitive caution could not dispel the hard compulsion to seek the truth.
Using Ulrich to steady her on the left side, Gossamyr, much against her better judgment, but compelled by her curiosity, walked toward the cage. The armored men cautiously parted to allow her access. Mortal steel clinked; horses snorted. She ran a palm over the heavy tapestry; the weave was tight and heavy. The fabric pushed in through two thick poles—two of many dozens that caged whatever it was inside.
Fear dried her throat. Horror stilled her heart. Not a faery. It cannot be!
“Are you ready?” the lady whispered so loudly Gossamyr heard it as a scream.
“My sister—” Ulrich started.
“I am!” Gossamyr declared.
With little fanfare the tapestry curtain was drawn back and flipped over the corner of the cage. The contents were not initially visible, for a sheer curtain that glimmered like faery dust hung from top to the floor of the cage. The rear lanterns, while boldly kissing the woman’s cruel grimace, barely lit the fore of the cage.
Steel glinted and one of the men poked his sword through the curtain and bars. A cry of pain pierced Gossamyr’s breast. A female voice. Something within the cage shuffled into the torch glow. A frail, thin figure…indeed, a woman, clad in tattered brown cloth. And there!
Gossamyr let out a cry.
“Quite remarkable, yes?”
Gossamyr swung a look to the heartless woman peering out from the rear window. She kept a faery chained inside this foul cage!
Gripping the wood poles, Gossamyr scanned the poor creature. Bones were visible through her pale flesh. Arms clasped about her legs, the creature shivered. Not a creature, but your own kind! She would not meet Gossamyr’s eyes. Just as well. Sure Ulrich’s cloak concealed her blazon, Gossamyr could not know if another fée would recognize her. The cage floor was littered with crushed hay and the glimmer of faery dust. One wing swept a lazy trail across the poles Gossamyr held. The wing was limp, colorless, and a tear rent through the upper section. Unable to divine a scent, beyond the rotting straw, Gossamyr swallowed. Lifeless, or almost so.
“I usually charge admission to look upon my pretty faery,” the lady announced. “But I won’t ask one so troubled to sacrifice.”
“Troubled?” Gossamyr swung around. Ulrich’s arm barred her from approaching the rear of the carriage. “The only troubled one I can see is you, my lady! How dare you? She is not yours to own or display or to destroy!”
“Gossamyr,” Ulrich cautioned.
“Your name is Gossamyr?” The lady’s fox teeth parted and her tongue ran along them. “Unusual. Not a French name. Will you turn about for me?”
“I will not move another footstep until you release this poor creature!”
The clomps of heavy hooves rounded behind Gossamyr and Ulrich. The caravan leader marched his horse warningly close. Sword drawn and eyes keen to her, with a flick of his weapon he bid her turn.
“We thank you for revealing your prize, my lady.” Ulrich tugged Gossamyr’s shoulder. “Best we leave you to your path.”
“You cannot own this faery,” Gossamyr hissed, “nor treat it as a beast!”
“I cannot see,” the woman directed the man on the horse. “Her cape must be lifted.”
Caught up in Ulrich’s arms, Gossamyr struggled against his firm grip. She swung out her staff, clipping the shoulder armor of one of the men.