Dance of the Dead

by Christie Golden

  The giant mink, luxurious fur glistening with moisture, cocked her head and considered. At last, she nodded. A last bite and the frog had been devoured. With a final glance at Larissa, the mink scurried across the dry land and dived into the murky depths of the river. Larissa stared after her.

  “She doesn’t seem like a very reliable person,” the dancer commented after a moment.

  “She isn’t,” the Maiden confirmed. “No minx is. They are clever, selfish, and have a large streak of cruelty in them. But Deniri seems to be in love with Kaedrin, and Kaedrin I trust. He is one of the swamp’s hermits.”

  “Like Willen’s mother,” said Larissa.

  The Maiden looked at her curiously. “Yes,” she said slowly, “that’s right. Kaedrin once lived in the land of Dorvinia, but he did not call it home. Some thought that he had Vistani blood, he had so great a wanderlust. He studied soldiering, and he was good at his trade, but it was not what his heart yearned for. He was drawn to the forest, and to the wild things that dwell therein. When at last his wanderings brought him here, he turned his back on towns and people. There could be no better mate for Kaedrin than Deniri.

  “I respect Kaedrin’s desire for solitude,” the Maiden continued. “But we may benefit from his tactical skill. Lond and Dumont are canny foes. We must use every scrap of knowledge available to us if we are to defeat them.”

  The deep sorrow that Larissa had heard in the Maiden’s voice returned when she spoke of Lond. Shyly, not wanting to pry, the dancer asked, “What is it that makes Lond so horrible? How do you know of him?”

  The Maiden remained silent for a while. Larissa winced inwardly, afraid she had gone too far. At last the Maiden spoke.

  “It is a lasting pain to me. Lond was my greatest failure, and many have suffered from his deeds. It is a dark tale, Larissa, and one which I would not have told you quite yet. But you have asked, so you shall know. Come. Dress, and follow me.”

  Larissa did so and sat quietly at the Maiden’s feet while the plant-woman gazed intently into the scrying pool. The reflections of the green-skinned Maiden and the watching young dancer faded, and Larissa was once again seeing the edge of the forest where she had played with the feu follets.

  It was winter now, and the long grasses were coated with frost. The sun shone brightly on the chilly afternoon. A young man approached from the village.

  Larissa thought him breathtakingly handsome. Graceful and slim he was, with jet-black hair that fell past his shoulders and eyes that were so blue they were almost violet. He moved with the grace of a big cat. A beautiful robe, gaily colored, draped his trim frame, and he carried an intricately carved staff. A necklace of feathers, bits of bone, and pieces of roots hung about his throat. The man walked with the air of one used to being obeyed, though he seemed younger than Willen.

  “His name is Alondrin,” the Maiden explained, “and he is bocoru of Port d’Elhour.”

  “Bocoru?”

  “Shaman,” the Maiden said, “or priest. Every town had one, once. The bocoru tends to his people’s spiritual needs, and the swamp accepts him.”

  “I never heard of Port d’Elhour having a bo—a bocoru,” Larissa murmured, watching the young man.

  “He no longer serves his people in that capacity,” said the Maiden sorrowfully.

  In the scrying pool, the Maiden emerged from the shadows of the cypress trees to greet Alondrin. They kissed eagerly as the scene dissolved.

  “Alondrin and I were lovers, at first. He was the brightest among his people, the cleverest, the most inquisitive. He was a perfect bocoru.”

  Larissa watched as the scene reformed. Alondrin, a few years older but still handsome, had exchanged his colorful robe for a somber black cloak. He wore more necklaces about his throat now and had grown a beard. The necklaces were ornamented not with roots and feathers, but with other items that appeared sinister to Larissa. Many bones were on that necklace, and strange-colored stones. The protective roots were gone. Alondrin’s staff sported the skull of some small carnivore on its top.

  The bocoru’s face, too, had changed. The earlier self-confidence had rotted into arrogance, and his once-beautiful face was now dark and twisted with anger.

  “What good is power if you never use it?” Alondrin spat. “Why do you persist in thwarting me thus? I only want to learn, to increase my skills. Where is the danger in that?”

  The Maiden’s leafy green eyes shone with tears. “Oh, my love,” she said in a voice that sounded like the wind in the reeds, “there is more danger than you can know. Fruit and flower magic is a gift, to be used for the betterment of others, not for one’s own greed. The knowledge I have taught you cannot be twisted to gain the things you desire.”

  “Then I will learn other magic,” retorted Alondrin, growing even angrier, “magic that will obey me.”

  “No! Beloved, it will not serve you, it will destroy you! Bone and blood lore is exactly that—and it will take from you much more than it can possibly give. Blood demands more blood!”

  “I care not, so long as it is I who spill it!” cried Alondrin. In his fury, he swung his staff at her with all his strength. The Maiden was swift, however. Like grass bending before the wind, she avoided the blow with supple grace. The Maiden made a few motions with her hands, and suddenly the rod began to twist in Alondrin’s grasp.

  The skull fell to the earth, and the astonished bocoru discovered that he was looking at a huge snake. With a cry, he dropped the hissing creature. Alondrin fled toward the town, his dark robes fluttering behind him.

  The Maiden bent to pick up the serpent and began to weep. She rubbed her cheek against its head, and its tongue flickered gently on her green skin. The Maiden hung the creature about her neck, caressing it. Almost tenderly, the snake wrapped its length about her as she turned and disappeared into the forest.

  The scene dissolved. The scrying pool once again showed only the faces of those who gazed into it and the blue skies above them.

  “Alondrin turned against the way of the swamp, against all that had gone before to keep the balance. He abandoned his post as bocoru, leaving his people to fend for themselves. Many sickened and died. Still others braved the swamp unprepared for its dangers and were destroyed. Alondrin cared not at all. His only desire, the desire that consumed him, was to learn more and more dark magic.

  “He learned what the will-o’-the-wisps and feu follets know, that emotions are powerful, and he sought to feed on them. But Alondrin is not such a being, and he only succeeded in perverting his own pleasure into others’ pain. He trod the path of blood and bone magic, which never gives enough to satisfy but always creates greater and greater cravings.”

  She paused, turning her gentle, sorrow-filled eyes upon Larissa. “What I have been teaching you is fruit and flower magic. It works with nature, not against it. Alondrin chose the darker path and now has learned how to command the dead. This is the man to whom your Captain Dumont has given his hospitality, and even now the results of Lond’s labor tread the deck of La Demoiselle du Musarde.”

  “Zombies,” Larissa whispered. She had heard of such things, and the thought filled her with loathing. Animated corpses, rotting where they stood, unable to think for themselves at all.

  “Yes—and no,” the Maiden continued, reading Larissa’s thoughts. “Alondrin now works over water, and this lends him power. He has learned how to make intelligent zombies. Zombies who can think and speak, yet who remain completely subject to their maker’s whims. Zombies,” she said sadly, sympathetic eyes on Larissa, “who can even sing.”

  Larissa’s gut clenched in horror. Casilda. “No. Oh, gods, no, not Cas …”

  “Yes, my child,” said the Maiden softly. “Alondrin hides his face and body, for the mark of evil is upon him and would reveal his hideous nature. They have struck a fell bargain, the slaver and the zombie-maker. Lond wishes to escape Souragne. In exchange for passage, he has given Dumont a crew that never wearies and never complains.”

  Laris
sa forced her pain away and turned hard eyes upon the Maiden. “When will we be ready to attack?”

  “When I deem you ready, child, and not before. Even then, there is one last obstacle.” The Maiden paused. “But there is time enough for that. There will have to be. You have been through a great deal. Eat now, and sleep. In the morning, we will begin again.”

  FOURTEEN

  Gelaar’s step was rapid and determined as he strode along the deck, and the zombie at his side who served as guard did little to diminish the elf’s eagerness.

  They hastened purposefully toward Dumont’s cabin, which Dragoneyes unlocked with a slow deliberateness. Anxiously Gelaar shouldered Dragoneyes aside and pushed his way into the room. With the same lack of emotion, Dragoneyes closed and bolted the door.

  The elf turned his attention to the mirror mounted on the large wardrobe. He stepped up to it hesitantly and husked a few words in a rough melody. His song was not as pure as Sardan’s tenor, or even Dumont’s deep baritone, but it sufficed.

  The surface of the mirror grew dark, the reflection of the opulent room and the watching Dragoneyes fading like twilight into night. Then, as if from a great distance away, Gelaar could glimpse a faint patch of whiteness. It drew closer and revealed itself to be a patch of swirling mists.

  Gelaar clenched his fists. Hints of color began to peek through the white fog: blue, gold, flesh tones, and at last the remaining wisps of fog released their grasp on the slender form of Gelaar’s daughter Aradnia. Long blond hair hung loosely about her oval face as she gazed at him lovingly from the mirror.

  Eagerly the young elfmaid put her hands up to her side of the glass. “Hello, Papa,” she whispered, smiling bravely even though her large eyes were filled with crystal tears.

  Gelaar’s own eyes were wet also. He placed his hands on the mirror, which was as close as he could come to touching Aradnia.

  “Hello, child.”

  For the last year, the girl had been trapped in a certain segment of the mists known only to Dumont. When Dumont or Gelaar wished to see her, the mirror manifested, and vision and communication was possible. Aradnia was not mistreated, only horribly alone and in a constant state of mind-dulling fear.

  Selfishly, Gelaar wanted to spend the half-hour Dumont had allotted him merely gazing at his beautiful child. He put his feelings aside. This time was for her, more than for him. “Where to, my dear?”

  “A forest, I think,” Aradnia said, her voice catching a little with longing. “At twilight. With beautiful creatures.”

  Before he began, Gelaar glanced once more at Dragoneyes. The half-elf sat quietly in his chair, watching Gelaar with the patience of the dead.

  For an instant, something like pity touched Gelaar. Dragoneyes’ catlike grace had hardened into wooden efficiency. The slitted amber eyes held no malicious humor anymore, and the sharp-featured face registered no emotions whatsoever. Then Gelaar remembered the years he’d spent enduring the half-elf’s taunts.

  Gelaar’s pity evaporated like mist under a bright noon sun. Whatever had happened to him, Dragoneyes had earned it—unlike some of the other walking dead aboard La Demoiselle.

  The illusionist spread his arms and began to murmur an incantation.

  The yellow light of Dragoneyes’ lantern faded into the cool purples and blues of twilight. The faint twittering of birds could be heard, and the barely audible rustle of a playful breeze. A scene began to take shape before Aradnia’s eager eyes.

  Pine trees appeared, dark green against a lavender sky. The wooden beams of the ceiling faded away, to be replaced by twinkling stars. Directly in front of the mirror was a clearing of soft green grass encircled by a ring of mushrooms. The birdsong died away, and the pure, heart-rending sound of a single flute trembled through the air. Its player, a beautiful young elven woman, entered the circle.

  Other beings joined her—faeries, nymphs, sylphs, and a unicorn—and began to dance joyfully in the glade. Other music, performed by unseen musicians, merged with the elfmaid’s song.

  The mage fluttered his right hand slightly, conjuring an illusionary fire in the center of the faerie ring, and allowed a whooping satyr to join in. Shouts of laughter, unheard by anyone outside the room, rang through the fictitious glade as Gelaar did what pathetically little he could to ease his daughter’s pain.

  * * * * *

  The sultry, early summer night closed in about the land, wrapping it in a steamy blanket. The air was cooler than during the day, but still moist and thick. Dumont, standing alone on the starboard side of La Demoiselle, did not like the feel of the humid air in his lungs, but he breathed deeply of it anyway, to clear and calm his thoughts. Above him, the wooden griffin hovered perennially in midflight.

  The night was eerily silent. Dumont had ordered the boat stopped until the immediate area could be searched for Larissa, and the rhythmic splash of the paddlewheel had not been heard since she disappeared.

  “It can’t be true,” he muttered to himself. “Larissa has no magic. I’d have known, dammit!” Lond’s tale about “whitemanes” and “swamp magic” seemed too preposterous for words. On the other hand, the mage had proven himself a force to be reckoned with. The zombies who walked on Dumont’s own boat were testimony to that.

  Only one thing shone like a beacon through Dumont’s haze of confusion: Larissa had to be found.

  A glimmer of light on the bank caught his eye, and he motioned to the four zombies on deck to lower the ramp. Willen, Tane, and Jahedrin trudged wearily on deck. They had been gone for nearly a full day.

  “Any sign of her?” Dumont asked, his voice taut.

  Willen and the others shook their heads. “Nothing,” Jahedrin said. Even in the torchlight, Dumont could see that his eyes were strained and his face haggard. “Lot of dangerous things out there, Captain, any one of which—”

  “No,” snapped Dumont, “she’s alive. I know it. Will, get a few hours of sleep. Around midnight, I want you to start taking her downriver.”

  “Aye, sir,” Willen replied.

  “At dawn, we’ll stop and start looking again. She probably stayed by the river, and if we follow that …” His voice trailed off. Abruptly he turned on his heel and stormed away from his men to his cabin.

  He sang the command word in a hard voice and shoved the door open. Gelaar stared at him angrily, interrupted in midgesture. Dumont caught a glimpse of the complex illusion Gelaar had created before the images vanished. Behind the mage, Aradnia, trapped in the mists, cowered from the captain’s anger.

  “Out,” he roared, gesturing toward the door. He stepped up to the mirror and shoved his florid face toward Aradnia. Her lower lip quivered, and her eyes pleaded with him.

  “Please, Captain, just a few more minutes with my father,” she begged, her sweet voice thick and little more than a timid whisper.

  Dumont narrowed his green eyes and took a malicious pleasure in singing the four notes. Aradnia’s beautiful face vanished into the enveloping mists. Then even the mists were gone, and the mirror placidly reflected the room.

  The captain felt Gelaar’s angry gaze boring into his back. Slowly he turned around.

  “You hate me, don’t you?” he purred. The mage did not rise to the bait, but a muscle near his eye twitched. “You’d like nothing better than to see my head on a pike, wouldn’t you? Well, elf, you’re not the first, and by the rats of Richemulot you won’t be the last, either.”

  Casually, Dumont reached for a small statue on the top of the wardrobe. At first appearances, it was a beautiful wood nymph, but closer inspection revealed that it had long, sharp fangs. Dumont grasped the small but heavy marble object threateningly.

  “One blow with this to that mirror, elf, and your darling child is stranded forever in the mists. I don’t think you want that. No one gets the better of Raoul Dumont. Now, get out of my sight, both of you.”

  Dragoneyes grasped Gelaar by the wrist and twisted. The illusionist cried out once, then left, massaging his wrist. Dragoneyes followed,
closing the door behind him.

  Dumont watched Dragoneyes leave with a twitch of pain in his gut. He doubted he would ever get used to seeing emptiness in his friend’s amber eyes. Angry at his emotion, he opened the wardrobe and grabbed a half-full bottle of whiskey. He opened it and took a strong gulp, feeling it burn as it slid down his throat and settled in his belly.

  He eased himself down on the canopied bed and took another swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was all Liza’s fault, he mused angrily. Everything. If she hadn’t meddled, they would still be in Darkon, Dragoneyes would still be alive, and Larissa would be dancing happily for him every night. The memories of that fateful encounter flooded back as Dumont took another long swallow of whiskey. It had all started with a sharp rap at the door.…

  “Come,” Dumont had called absently, his eyes on the account book in front of him. The ship was making a great deal of money in Darkon, so much that Dumont was finding the accounting a chore.

  Liza blew in like a hurricane. Her face was pale, but her green eyes blazed and her red hair streamed down her back like flame.

  “You bastard,” she snapped.

  Dumont was surprised, but only a little. Quickly he rose and went to the door, closing it before anyone could hear her. What on earth had he done now? His leading lady had thrown tantrums before, about everything from her costume to the musicians to the food, but this time she seemed to be in earnest.

  “Liza, my dear,” he began consolingly. Liza would have none of it, however, and thrust her face up to his.

  “It’s over, Raoul,” she said coldly. “All of it. Tonight was my last performance.”

  “What do you mean?” Dumont’s brows drew together as a horrible suspicion began to take shape in his mind.

  Liza smirked. Enjoying every moment, she held out one long-fingered hand. On the fourth finger sat one of the biggest diamonds Dumont had ever seen.

  “Tahlyn gave it to me tonight. We’re to be wed within the week.”