


"Liza's brilliant tonight, isn't she?" Sardan whispered
to Larissa as he watched the star of the show perform.

The white-haired young woman glanced up at Sardan
with a happy smile and nodded enthusiastically.

Liza Penelope, the star of The Pirate's Pleasure, was
alone on the stage of the showboat La Demoiselle du
Musarde. in the midst of a set created by a mage skilled
in illusion. Liza's bare feet'were dug into white sand,
and swaying palm trees arched over her. There was
even the distant lullaby of the waves to be heard, if one
cared to ignore Liza's soaring voice. Such attention to
detail—and Liza's vocal skill—had made La Demoiselle
extremely popular with the port cities it visited.

The beautiful soprano flung back her head and sang
with full-throated enthusiasm. Her red hair flamed in
the glow of an illusionary tropical sun. To Larissa, every
note seemed to be even more pure, more powerful than
usual.

The young dancer and Sardan, the male lead, were
watching Liza from behind the curtains. Larissa's part in
the play was finished, but she lingered to listen to this
last duet. Handsome Sardan adjusted his costume,
brushed distractedly at his blond hair one last time,
then strode onstage, arms outstretched to Liza.

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"May, fear not, beioued Rose,
Thy loue's returned to thee,
By forgiving hand and broken heart
Of the Lady of the Sea"

"Rose" turned, joy flooding her face as she ran to her
beloved "Florian." Their voices, soprano and tenor,
twined together.

They kissed passionately, and the audience whooped
and applauded its approval. Larissa grinned in the dark-
ness, safely hidden from view by a curtain that ap-
peared to be a palm tree. Here was acting indeed, she
thought wryly. She herself was fond of the rakish tenor,
but it was well-known that Liza couldn't stand Sardan.
As a result, Sardan made it a point to turn every on-
stage kiss into a passionate one, taking a devilish glee
in the fact that Liza had to pretend to enjoy it. High-
tempered Liza was always furious afterward.

The stage went dark, and the audience saw the tropi-
cal stars appear in the night sky. Then, suddenly, the il-
lusion vanished, and all that could be seen was a bare
hull and the smiling performers of The Pirate's Pleasure.
As Larissa, who portrayed the evil Lady of the Sea, took
her bow. her bright blue eyes scanned the audience.
She found who she was looking for—Raoul Dumont,
captain of La Demoiselle du Musarde. He smiled and
nodded slightly.

Raoul Dumont was a big man, six foot three and solid
with muscle, if his blond hair was starting to gray at the
temples and the tines on his sunburned face had deep-
ened over the last forty-three years, he had lost none of
his strength and quickness. Many captains grew fat and
lazy once they no longer had to do physical labor, con-
tent with commanding in name only. Mot Dumont.

He was big in more than merely a physical sense. The
well-formed frame and booming voice were matched by
a domineering personality. With the players—-


DANCE OF THE DEAD         3

especially his twenty-year-old ward. Larissa—and wtth
customers, he was smooth and pleasant, and his force*
fulness came across as assured competence. The crew-
men knew better. Seldom did the captain of La
Demoiselle du Musarde have to resort to physical vio-
lence, however. The flash of his sea-green eyes, the
tightening of his sensual mouth, the clenching of the
powerful, callused hands—these were warning signals
enough for most.

"Uncle Raoul" had reared Larissa since she was
twelve and had given her the role of the Lady of the Sea.
The young dancer was always anxious to please him
with her performance. Larissa was certain that the de-
manding captain was satisfied with the way things had
gone tonight. Still, she tugged on Sardan's sleeve as he
passed and whispered, "You think he liked it?"

The tenor looked down at her for a few seconds be-
fore replying. Larissa was a true beauty, even more so
than Liza; unlike the singer, the young dancer didn't
quite realize her gift. Her blue eyes gazed up at him with
trust, and her long white hair, braided with seashells,
tumbled down her back. She was in excellent shape
from years of dancing, and her body curved invitingly
under the clinging garb of the Lady of the Sea. A smile
tugged at a corner of Sardan's mouth. "As long as you
dance, the captain will like the show."

A few hours later, Larissa sat at Dumont's side, a
guest of the local baron. The revealing costume she
wore as the Lady of the Sea had been replaced by a
chaste, high-necked dress. The cream hue of the yards
of rustling fabric set off Larissa's clear skin to rosy per-
fection and reinforced the whiteness of her long, thick
hair. She had taken the stage name "Snowmane" be-
cause of her oddly hued tresses, which were now braid-

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

ed neatly about her head. A cameo was fastened at her
throat.

Their port for the next few months was a friendly one.
Nevuchar Springs in the land of Darkon. Populated
largely by elves, the small port town was as eaget for
entertainment as other places La Demoiselle had sailed
and even more gracious in expressing their thanks. Bar-
on Tahlyn Redtree himself had come to the perform-
ance tonight. The baron had insisted that the cast and
Dumont Join him for a late supper at his home.

Larissa, raised on the roughness of the boat, sat fid-
geting with her napkin while others carried the conver-
sation. She desperately wished her friend Casilda were
here; then she might not feel so out of place,

The hall in which they were dining tonight managed
to be both warm and impressive. The mahogany table,
draped with the finest linen tabtecloth, seated twenty.
Carved wooden panels inserted into the marble walls
depicted scenes from a nobleman's life—hunting,
hawking, and jousting. The fireplace was so huge that
Larissa thought she could stand upright in it, and its red
glow both illuminated and warmed the large room. Two
delicate crystal chandeliers, crowded with candles, pro-
vided even more light. The result was that a largely
somber-colored room was bright and cheerful.

Baron Tahlyn rose. His long, purple-and sapphire-
hued robes swayed slightly with the graceful move-
ment. The light from the chandeliers glinted off his belt
and a pendant of silver and crystal. With a gesture that
was almost boyish despite his many decades, the elf
brushed a wayward lock of black hair out of startlingly
violet eyes. Tahlyn's angular face eased into a smile as
he lifted his jeweled goblet.

"I should like to propose a toast," the baron began.
"To La Demoiselle, a great and gallant vessel. To her
captain, Raoul Dumont, whose foresight gave birth to
the boat's magic and marvels. To my brother elf, Gelaar,

DANCE OF THE DEAD

whose illusions charm audiences night after night. To
the showboat's wonderful cast, which has brought such
happiness to my people.

"And finally, if she will permit me—" here Tahlyn
turned the power of his deep purple gaze upon a
pleased Liza "—to Miss Liza Penelope. My dear, in this
bouquet of talent, you are, in truth, the rose." He in-
clined his head slightly, never breaking eye contact with
the soprano, and drank from the golden cup.

Choruses of approval filled the room as the flattered
guests drained their own goblets. Larissa hid her smile
as she watched her fellow performers' reactions to the
toast. Sardan glowered, but drank. Dumont raised one
golden eyebrow, but otherwise revealed nothing of
what he was thinking. The elven illusionist, Qelaar,
seemed flustered by the compliment.

Larissa regarded the illusionist sympathetically for a
moment. If La Demoiselle was Dumont's creation, from
the specially designed paddlewheel to the magical
wards the wizard captain had placed on the boat, then
the show she was host to belonged to Gelaar. The small
elf was directly responsible for the success of The Pi-
rate's Pleasure. He conjured the sets, lighting effects,
and "monsters" that appeared onstage.

All this, despite the tragedy he had suffered a year
ago. Qelaar's daughter, a lovely, sunny-haired girl
named Aradnia, had run off with a roguish sell-sword
one night. Gelaar had never quite recovered. Now the
dark-haired, pale-skinned elf seldom smiled, but his
quiet dignity and thinly concealed sorrow engendered
immediate, if somber, respect from all who came in
contact with him.

Liza, on the other hand, looked like a lioness in the
sunlight, a queen at last being paid proper homage. Yet
the flame-tressed soprano was gracious in her accept-
ance, smiling enough to encourage, but not more than
was necessary. Larissa couldn't wait to get back to La

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Demoiselle and tell Casilda all about it.

A few moments later, Sardan, who was seated on
Larissa's left, leaned over and whispered, "We may have
a new patron."

Larissa's delicate white eyebrows drew together in a
frown. "What do you mean?" she hissed back.

"Look at those two," the singer continued quietly, in-
clining his head in the direction of Liza and the baron.
"A certain redhead I know is probably going to start
wearing some expensive Jewelry in the next day or so."

Larissa rolled her eyes. "Sardan, not everybody has
ulterior motives! Besides, the baron seems very nice."

"My naive little girl, he is nice. That's why he'll proba-
bly give her the jewelry ... afterward!"

When Sardan teased her like this aboard the boat,
Larissa knew what to do: hit him. Sardan himself had
taught her some protective moves against overeager
admirers, and Larissa had no compunction about turn-
ing them against her tutor. Here, in Baron Tahlyn's fine
hall, however, she could only give him a sidelong glare
and clench her linen napkin into a crumpled ball.

Dumont noticed the gesture- His shrewd green eyes
traveled from the sadly mangled napkin to Larissa's
glare to Sardan's grin. The tenor felt the captain's gaze.
and his mirth faded-

"Something amuse you, Sardan?" Dumont inquired
mildly, tearing off a slice of still-warm bread. "Some-
thing about my ward, perhaps?"

"(Jh. no, sir, nothing at all," Sardan stammered and
hastily turned his attention to the food on his plate.

Dumont kept his gaze on the young man a moment
longer, then glanced at Larissa. Gently Dumont rested a
big brown hand on her gloved one and squeezed. When
she met his gaze, he smiled reassuringly, the gesture
emphasizing the crow's-feet around his eyes.

"Don't let Sardan bother you like that," he said. his
voice gentle. "You ought to come to me when he does."

DANCE OF THE DEAD

"He's just joking, Uncle." Larissa answered. Dumont
narrowed his eyes, the smile fading.

"That kind of humor is inappropriate for a young
lady," he snapped.

"Aye, sir," Larissa replied, taking care to keep the ex-
asperation from her voice. Her guardian's overprotec-
tiveness occasionally grated, but she always held her
tongue. Dumont returned his attention to the baron.

Throughout the rest of the meal, Larissa watched the
baron and Liza. Although they were seated at opposite
ends of the large table, there was definitely something
going on. Their eyes met often; mysterious smiles and
gestures were shared. Larissa still clung to her first im-
pression of Tahlyn, though. There was a longing in his
violet eyes that spoke of something gentler, steadier,
than the kind of carnal craving Sardan had hinted at.

it wasn't until the early hours of the morning that the
dinner was finished and the guests returned to the boat.
As she and Dumont waited in the courtyard for the car-
riages to be brought around from the stable, Larissa
shivered in the moist, cool anr. Fog moved slowly about
her knees, hiding the stones from view at times. She
had seldom been off the boat at night and wasn't at all
sure she liked it. Everything, from the quiet servants to
the magnificent building, seemed more sinister to her
when draped in darkness.

Dumont wrapped his cape about her. "Thank you,
Uncle." She smiled as she gratefully bundled up in its
warmth. The carriage, a lovely vehicle with a red-
cushioned interior, clattered up. Dumont opened the
door, which bore the heraldic red tree of Tahlyn's tine,
helped Larissa in, then climbed inside himself. Smooth-
ly, the carriage resumed movement down the winding
lane that led from Tahlyn's mansion to the wharf.

"The baron seemed to be enjoying himself," Larissa
remarked cautiously, waiting for Dumont's reaction.

"Ah, the lovely Liza," mused the captain, with only a

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

hint of sarcasm- "She and 1 may not always see eye to
eye, but, bless her high-strung tittle heart, she does
bring in the customers."

He settled back on the velvet cushions, folded his
brawny arms across his chest, and closed his eyes.* A
faint rumbling sound issued forth after a moment, and
Larissa sighed. When Dumont didn't feel like talking,
he curled up wherever he was and went to sleep. It was
an effective way of avoiding conversation.

The young dancer surprised herself with a huge
yawn. Well, they were in port, so there were no re-
hearsals. She could sleep in tomorrow, she told herself.
Telling Casilda about the evening's affairs could wait.

A few moments later, the carriage halted near the
dock. Bracing herself for the cold, Larissa smiled at the
coachman as he opened the door and helped her down.
She glanced down toward the Vuchar River, and her
heart rose as always at the sight of La Demoisefie.

The steamboat was a proud and beautiful lady, all
right, from the mammoth red paddlewheei at the stern
to the carved wooden figure of a golden griffin at the
bow. Its wedding-cake frame had four levels, and the
stem sported a calliope that blew magical, colored
steam when it was played. La Demoiselle was large—
two hundred feet long and fifty feet wide—but not os-
tentatious. It glowed whitely in the moonlight, and
Larissa could just make out the name written in flowing
letters on the starboard side. The paddlewheei was mo-
tionless, though it could propel the boat at speeds that
no other riverboat could touch.

Dumont had named the boat for the Musarde, the riv-
er on which he'd grown up. La Demoiselle had not been
the only paddleboat on the river, but it had been the
best. Twenty-two years had passed since Dumont had
begun its construction. He'd given the boat a special
theater room and rehearsal halls, made storage areas,
and seen to it that most of the cast members had their

DANCE OF THE DEAD          9

own cabins—no small feat on so contained a space.

The fog moved slowly about Larissa, hiding and re-
vealing the flickering light of gas lamps, and the moon-
light turned the water of the river a silver hue. Larissa
forgot the menacing press of the swirling mist and the
bone-chilling damp that wafted to her from the river.
She saw only the beauty of La Demoiselle. Home, she
thought to herself.

Dumont had walked down the road a few paces be-
fore he realized she was not at his side. "Larissa?" His
voice was gentle and concerned. He extended a hand to
her.

The dancer smiled wearily, scurrying to catch up to
her guardian and taking the proffered hand. "She's just
so beautiful in the moonlight."

Dumont squeezed her hand. "Aye, she is," he agreed.

As she knew she would, Larissa slept late. It was past
noon when she finally woke and, as usual, knocked
loudly on Liza's door to awaken her for lunch.

"Larissa!" yelped Casilda, coming up behind the
dancer. "I heard that Liza and the baron ..." She glared
meaningfully at her friend.

Larissa went crimson. What if Sardan had been right
and Liza had been giving a "special performance" for
Tahlyn last night?

Casilda Bannek, a tall, dark-haired young woman
who was Liza's understudy, planted her hands on her
hips. Then her red lips twisted into a grin and her hazel
eyes sparkled. "Well, too late now!"

Giggling, the young women knocked on the door
again. There was still no answer. Larissa hesitated, then
reached for the knob. Somewhat to her surprise, the
door was unlocked. She glanced at Casilda and raised
an eyebrow. For her part. Cas was fighting back taugh-

10 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

ter so hard that her face was quite red.

"One, two, three," whispered Larissa. She and Casilda
pushed open the door and yelled "Surprise!"

Casilda screamed and turned her face away, sobbing.
Larissa, her eyes huge, clutched her friend's shoulder.

Liza was inside, and alone. Her face was as white as
the sheet upon which she lay. She was stiti in the same
formal clothing she had worn to the dinner last night.
though her long hair was unbound and spilled about her
face in a riot of color. There was a ring of purple and
blue about her white throat.

She had been strangled.

Ten minutes later, Dumont had called an all-hands
emergency meeting. In the theater, deck hands and cast
members sat nervously in their seats while Dumont
paced before them in the stage area.

Dragoneyes, the golden-eyed half-elf who was Du-
mont's closest friend, as welt as his first mate, leaned
against the hull of the boat. Concentrating on whittling
a small piece of wood, he appeared totally unconcerned
by the goings-on. Soft silver hair fell into his strange-
hued eyes as he worked. Larissa knew that Dragoneyes
was not ignoring the situation. The half-elf was shrewd
and calculating. As much as the young dancer loved her
guardian, she had never grown very fond of Dumont's
first mate.

"For those of you who haven't yet heard," Dumont be-
gan as soon as the crowd had quieted, "Liza Penelope
was found strangled in her cabin this morning."

He paused, and many of those assembled gasped
with astonishment. A few sobs broke out. Dumont wait-
ed for quiet, then continued. "Baron Tahlyn and the lo-
cal authorities have been notified, and they assure me
they'll have this . . . matter solved swiftly. Apparently

DANCE OF THE DEAD         11

the constables in this country are not people one would
wish to cross."

Dumont smiled thinly, pleased to see a few answer-
ing, if halfhearted, smiles in return. Most people, even
strangers such as the cast and crew of La Demoiselle,
had heard chilling tales of the Kargat, Darkon's secret
police. They answered only to Azalin, the lord of the
land, and were, indeed, not to be crossed.

"Needless to say, we'll be closing down for a while...
out of respect for poor Miss Penelope's memory. When
we do open again. Miss Bannek will be singing the role
of Rose. I ask you to give her your full support."

Casilda glanced down and bit her lower lip. A tear
crept down her cheek, and Larissa squeezed her friend's
hand reassuringly.

"I feel like it's my fault somehow," Casilda whispered.
"1 wanted the part of Rose so badly . . . but never like
this, Larissa, never like ..." She couldn't go on.

Larissa was miserable but could do nothing to com-
fort her friend. She remained dry-eyed, not because she
didn't care about Liza, but because she never wept. She
had cried all her tears long ago.

"Are there any suspects?" asked Sardan.

Dumont shook his head. "I can't think why anyone
would want to do this. But," he hastened to add, his gaze
sweeping the crowd, "I'm certain that it was someone
from the town. We're like family here on La Demoiselle. 1
hope everybody knows that.

"We have been asked to remain on board until the in-
vestigation has been completed. 1 hope that'll only be a
few days, but we'll have to wait and see. Representatives
of the law will be coming aboard this afternoon and
questioning everybody in turn. Please give them your
full cooperation. Remember, even in this time of grief
and shock, we have a reputation to maintain. People
knew the name of La Demoiselle du Musarde before Liza
came aboard. They'll remember it when this unpleas-

12 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

antness has been forgotten. That's all. Dismissed."

Soberly, silently, people rose and left- Hushed mutter-
ing began as they ascended the wide, carpeted stair-
case. Casilda wiped at her face, muttered, " 'Scuse me,
Larissa." and hurried out.

Larissa rose and went to her guardian, wordlessly
holding out her arms for a hug. Dragoneyes and the sin-
gutarly ugly chief pilot. Handsome Jack, respectfully
stepped away. Dumont embraced her tightly.

"What do you think, Uncle?" she asked, her face
pressed against his crisp white shirt. Beneath her cheek
she felt his chest heave with a sigh.

"I think." he said, "that our host, the baron, might not
be the kindly figure he wants us to think he is."

Shocked, Larissa pulled away and looked up at the
captain. "No! 1 don't believe it. He seemed—"

"He came to visit Liza last night," Dragoneyes inter-
jected smoothly. "I was on guard duty on the dock. No
one else came aboard." Larissa gazed into the half-elf s
strangely slitted golden eyes, searching for a hint of
truth or lie. then returned her troubled gaze to Du-
mont's.

"Think about it for a moment," Dumont continued.
"You saw how enamored he was of Liza. Maybe he
asked her to stay, become his paramour, perhaps even
his wife. 1 don't know" He shrugged and shook his gold
head sadly. "She refused. After all, she's got a career. He
grew angry, and ..."

A dull horror began to seep through Larissa. It did
make a frightening sense, but she could not shake the
memory of the tender look in Tahlyn's eyes when he had
gazed at Liza.

Dumont turned his attention to Dragoneyes. "When
the authorities come aboard, see if you can't get per-
mission to go into town and purchase some livestock. If
we're going to be confined on the boat for a while. I'd
just as soon not starve." His voice dripped with resent-

DANCE OF THE DEAD

13

ment, and Larissa could imagine how he chafed under
the official restrictions.

Dragoneyes nodded. "Aye, sir. If I may make a sug-
gestion?" The courtesy was for Larissa's sake; Dragon-
eyes never asked permission to speak frankly when he
and Dumont were in private. Dumont nodded. "Take a
few moments and visit everyone personally. We're go-
ing to start getting the curious coming around to look
at the murder boat, and everyone ought to be pre-
pared."

Dumont nodded again. It was a sound idea. He patted
Larissa's back and eased her away from him. "You'd
best go to your cabin and get ready," he told her. She
nodded, and slowly made her way toward the stairs. Du-
mont's green eyes followed her.

A touch from Dragoneyes brought the captain back
to the present, and he banished thoughts of his alluring
young ward. There were more urgent matters that need-
ed his attention.

It was a difficult day for everyone aboard La De-
moiselle. Nerves were strained, and arguments broke
out readily. Larissa sat in her cabin, trying not to think
about Liza, but failing. She lay on her bed, hands
clasped behind her head, and stared at the ceiling.

Her cabin, like all except for Dumont's comparatively
lavish quarters, was tiny. There was enough room for a
bunk, a small wooden chest of drawers, and a table and
chair. She did not have many personal belongings, only
a trinket or two that had caught her fancy in some port
or other. The dancer retained only one item from her
past. Hidden in one of the drawers was a silver locket- It
contained a wisp of blond hair, the locks of a child—her
own hair before it had turned white.

The room was spartan, but that suited Larissa. It was
all that she needed. Her joy lay in her dancing.

A sharp knock on the door broke her reverie, and she
opened it to admit a tall human woman in her early for-

14 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

ties. The woman's raven hair was streaked with gray
and tied back in a ponytail. She was clad in a well-worn
leather tunic, underneath which she wore a mail shirt. A
bright purple sash at her waist proclaimed her to be in
the local militia. She wore a sheathed sword, and her
face and gray eyes were as hard as her steel.

"Miss Snowmane. I'm Captain Erina. i've come to
question you about the murder of Miss Liza Penelope."

Dumont had noticed that Baron Tahlyn had sent
high-ranking members of his militia to interview the
crew, and he didn't like it one bit. Alt day he was on
edge and busied himself with ordering repairs and such
to keep the nervous crew occupied. Erina had agreed to
let Dragoneyes and another crewman, Brynn, go ashore
and load up with supplies, on the condition that it would
be the last time anyone would leave La Demoiselle until
the case was closed. Dumont agreed- Dragoneyes and
Brynn came back with eight sheep, four pigs, two
calves, and several chickens, as well as a great deal of
fruit, vegetables, and grain. It looked as though they
planned for a long stay.

Or a long journey.

That night, Dumont made his way silently to the bow
of the main deck. He whistled four clear notes, and a
tiny flame appeared on the index finger of his right
hand. The blue fire danced without burning the finger.
and he brought it to his pipe and lit it, puffing gently.

The crowd of gawkers that had thronged the wharf
earlier had gone. Dumont had yet to visit a port city
where decent folk willingly ventured out after nightfall,
and Nevuchar Springs was no exception. Wait... there
was a movement over near the road. He narrowed his
jade eyes. "Dragoneyes," he called-

"Aye?"

DANCE OF THE DEAD

15

"Come here. Tell me what you see over there."

The half-elf squinted in the direction that Dumont
had subtly indicated. "Man. Not elven. Tall. Caped.
Pale. He's watching us."

"No sash?"

"No, but he's obviously here on somebody's busi-
ness."

Dumont swore softly and took a deep pull on his
pipe. "Kargat?"

"Could be." The moon cleared a cloud and, for a brief
instant, flooded the cobblestone road with milky light-
The watching man stepped out of the light quickly, ca-
sually, but not before Dragoneyes had noticed some-
thing that made him tense.

"Raoul?"

Dumont frowned at the strain in his first mate's usu-
ally laconic voice. "Yes?"

"That man casts no shadow."

Dumont went cold inside. Only one being that he
knew of failed to cast a shadow in full moonlight, and
that creature was something he'd never tangled with be-
fore and prayed he never would—a vampire.

"Well," said Dumont after a long moment, "at least
the cursed creature can't cross water. Get Gelaar. Both
of you meet me in my cabin in five minutes. We've got
to get out of this trap. I think perhaps the Kargat have
been ordered to detain us for good."

Larissa was asleep when the boat's engines surged to
life. Sensitive to changes in La Demoiselle's status, she
awoke at once. Her bunk was vibrating, enough so that
she realized they were moving at peak speed. She
grabbed a robe, struggled into it, and hastened outside.

She was running barefoot along the deck when the
night exploded with sounds. The escape attempt had
not gone unnoticed by those on shore. Larissa went to
the railing and glanced toward the wharf, which was fall-
ing to stern with astonishing speed. The militia had

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

16

piled into the small boats docked near the shore.

Shouting, directly below her, caught Larissa's atten-
tion, and she looked down to discover that Dumont
hadn't even hauled in the ramp. Six crewmen were
straining at the ropes, struggling to free the wooden
ramp from the waters and pull it back onto the deck.

"Larissa. what's going on?" came Casilda's cry.

"1 think we're trying to escape." Larissa answered,
confused. "But 1 don't know where Uncle thinks he can
take us. We're fast, but we're in their country. Look,"
She pointed at the small boats that were trying to catch
up. "We'll have to refuel sometime and—*'

"Larissa, we're not going inland," Casilda said in a
strangled tone of voice. She was looking toward the
bow. Larissa followed her gaze, and her heart sank,

Ahead lay a bank of thick, swirling white fog. Du-
mont was steering La Demoiselle du Musarde directly in-
to it. "He can't be doing this," Larissa murmured, horror
slowly filling her beautiful face.

No captain with any sense ever willingly sailed in
thick fog. Navigation was impossible. But Dumont was
doing even worse—he was taking La Demoiselle into
the deadly, unnatural mists where few ships had ever

traveled.

The dancer could only stare in shocked silence as the
whiteness closed about them and Nevuchar Springs
disappeared from sight.




TU)0

"Are you mad?"

"You'll kill us all!"

"Captain Dumont, what is going on?"

Questions flooded the theater as the captain entered.
He looked tired, his green eyes rimmed with red and the
lines around his mouth more prominent than usual.
Dragoneyes followed him like a silent shadow.

Brynn, a crewman with red hair and emotionless
brown eyes, leaned on the door to the stairs and closed
it heavily. The ominous sound caused some of the cast
members to look around fearfully; the gesture had
quite efficiently silenced them.

"I am not mad," Dumont began, pacing back and
forth and keeping his keen eyes on his audience. "I am
taking a calculated risk in steering La Demoiseile into
the mists. Behind us we leave a constabulary that's after
my boat and, therefore, your livelihood."

He paused and drew himself up to his full height.
"Sardan!" he barked. The tenor's head whipped up, his
face pale. "You think they'll want you chasing those
pretty etfmaids in Nevuchar Springs? And you, Pa-
kris?" The juggler's fear-filled gaze met Dumont's.
"How many jugglers could that small place handle? You
want to try wandering around Darken at night when

18 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

you're from the murder boat? Hmmm?"

Dumont paused to let his words sink in, then contin-
ued. "It is my belief that Baron Tahlyn murdered Liza
and tried to shift the blame to someone aboard La De-
moiselle. It could be any one of us, just as long as some-
one hangs for it." He shook his head slowly. "I'm not
going to let anyone aboard this boat pay that kind of a
price. We're family, remember?"

"So you're taking us into the mists instead," one of
the chorus girls snapped,

Dumont's eyes went cold, and the impetuous young
dancer visibly quailed before that icy green stare. "They
won't follow us into the mists. Both Gelaar and 1 have
magical skills, and I have complete faith in my crew.
We'll reach land soon—and safely. Then all this un-
pleasantness will fade into memory."

Or into nightmares, Larissa thought unhappily. No
one had ever navigated the dreaded border mists and
returned to tell about the adventure.

She felt Dumont's eyes upon her and looked up into
his face. A ghost of a smile touched her full lips. Then
again, Uncle Raoul had never let her down before.

La Demoiselle turned its great paddlewheel on the
shore—and its dead—then steamed into the mists. The
fog closed around the boat and swallowed it up.

Larissa found it disturbing to go out on deck and be
able to see nothing but the thick fog. She couldn't even
glimpse the water from any deck but the main one, and
nowhere could her vision penetrate more than a yard
into the shroud of white.

More alarming still were the strange sounds—yowls,
shrieks, and groaning noises that rent the air with no
warning and abruptly died into silence. It seemed as
though unspeakable creatures lurked just beyond

DANCE OF THE DEAD

19

sight, that only luck and mutual blindness kept the ship
from being assailed by unnamed horrors. People took
to speaking in whispers and venturing outside as little
as possible. Only necessity took anyone anywhere near
the rails. They were too close to whatever was out there.

The least popular job was suddenly that of the leads-
man. Drawing that duty now caused even the staunch-
est of crewmen to blanch. "Sounding" consisted of a
crewman sitting alone for four hours on a yawl several
feet to either port or starboard, testing the water's
depth with a weighted measuring rope. Each depth was
marked differently, for ease in identification during
dark nights—or thick fog. Four feet was marked by a
piece of white flannel woven into the rope; six feet by a
piece of leather; nine feet by a piece of red cloth; mark
twain, or twelve feet—the ideal depth for a steamboat—
by a piece of leather split into two thongs. At mark
three, the leather was split into three thongs, and mark
four was a single leather strip with a round hole
punched into it.

During the entire nerve-wracking trip, each leadsman
sang out: "No bottom."

Dumont encouraged rehearsals for the cast and drills
for the crew. At first it seemed that the ship was under a
spell, perhaps muffled by the terrible fog. The crew
hugged the inside decks and the leadsman called his
casts in a harsh, croaking parody of his usual bold, mu-
sical tones. The players, even within the sheltered re-
hearsal areas, seemed afraid to raise their voices-
But Dumont had little patience for their fears. Merci-
lessly he chided the singers back into full voice, urged
the dancers and musicians to a more energetic per-
formance. The crew he shamed with his own boldness,
spurring them with his contempt and the unspoken
threat of his anger.

As the days passed and nothing came from the mist
save the same frightening cries and groans, the folk of

20 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

La Demoiselle began to return to normal. Everyone
threw themselves into their work, eager to take their
minds off the unnatural mists and the eerie noises that
haunted them.

On the ninth day, Casilda rose early, planning to
spend an hour or so before breakfast rehearsing her fi-
nal solo. She stepped outside of her cabin, frowned at
the ever-present, ghostly mist, and continued down the
damp deck toward the stairs.

Dragoneyes too was awake and about, sitting on the
outer stairs that led up to the next deck. He alone of the
crewmen seemed not to be distressed by the eerie
mists. Casilda nodded a cool greeting and made as if to
pass by.

"Handsome Jack said he'd spotted land," Dragon-
eyes offered, concentrating on the piece of wood he was
whittling. "Off our port side, if you care to take a look
and see what you think."

Casilda paused. Larissa would be furious if she didn't
wake her up for something as important as sighting
land. Sighing, she turned back to Larissa's cabin and
pounded on the dancer's door. "Larissa! Wake up!"

A muffled curse sounded from within, then, "What
time is it, Cas?"

"A little past dawn, Dragoneyes says there's land
ahead. Don't you want to come see?"

Casilda rubbed her own sleep-bleared eyes. There
was no further sound from the cabin, and again she
banged mercilessly on the door. Larissa swore, a trait
she'd picked up through eight years aboard La De-
moiselle du Musarde, and Casilda laughed outright.
"Come on, sleepy!"

A few seconds later the door swung open and Larissa
emerged. Her eyes were still half-closed and her
clothing—a voluminous red shirt and black trousers—
had obviously been thrown on. She stamped her left
foot a few times to get the short leather boot com-

DANCE OF THE DEAD

21

pletely on and fumbled with a broad black belt that was
too big for her trim waist. Larissa's long white hair was a
total mess. She clutched a brush in one hand. For a mo-
ment Casilda wondered if the dancer was going to hit
her with it.

"This better be good." Larissa muttered.

Together the two young women went up to the bow.
The promise of land and an end to this horrible journey
overcame any lingering dread of what might lurk in the
mists, and for the first time the women noticed that the
frightful chorus of howls and moans was muffled and
distant, less loud than the soft creak of the ship's tim-
bers and the rhythmic chuff-and-gurgle of her great
paddlewheel. They leaned against the railing, staring
into the grayness, hazel eyes and blue searching for a
lightening of the claustrophobic mist.

The early morning air was moist and chilly. Fog
clutched wetly at Larissa's long white hair like the fin-
gers of a drowned man. Unconsciously, the girl reached
a slim hand to touch her tangled mat, as if to reassure
herself that her locks were coated merely with mist and
not something more foul. She set to work brushing her
hair, her eyes still peering into the fog, a frown of con-
centration on her face.

"Here, let me. You can't get all those snarls out by
yourself," Casilda offered. She held out her hand for the
brush. There was no point in both of them straining
their eyes peering through the mists.

"Thanks," Larissa said, handing her friend the brush
and presenting her tangled white locks. "How's that so-
lo of yours coming along?" she asked. Casilda dragged
the brush through the snarls, and Larissa winced under
her friend's less than tender ministrations.

Casilda grimaced at Larissa's query. "Not well at all,"
she confessed. "That last high note always terrifies me.
I know it's in my range, but I get nervous and don't trust
my voice on it. Now, Liza's voice—" Casilda stopped,

22 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

her voice going thick, and continued brushing Larissa's
hair with unnecessary vigor.

Larissa did not urge her to continue. They stood qui-
etly together, remembering the vivacious soprano. The
silence was broken only by the rhythmic cry of 4he
leadsman, calling out "N-o-o-o-o Botto-o-o-m!" A
strained note in the clear calls betrayed the crewman's
terror of working blindly in the mist.

At last Casilda had finished with Larissa's white hair
and stroked its silkiness enviously before starting to tie
it up with a ribbon that had been wound around the
brush handle. Suddenly Larissa jerked away from Ca-
silda, making the other girl drop brush and ribbon.

"Therel" shrieked Larissa, leaning over the railing
and pointing excitedly. "It's clearing over there!"

Larissa stepped up on the lowest rung and leaned
out, her unbound hair whipping back in the sudden
breeze. Casilda bent down and retrieved the dropped
brush and ribbon.

Traveling through the unnatural mists had bothered
Larissa more than she cared to admit. Even dancing
had not completely alleviated her tension as her lively
imagination populated the mists with horrors to match
each shriek and groan. With land in sight, though, she
had to admit that it looked as if Dumont's wild foray in-
to the unknown had been successful.

Perhaps the tales of what lurked in the border mists
were just that—tales, legends. It certainly seemed that
way, except for the strange sounds. The mist was start-
ing to thin, and Larissa could make out the large, dark
shape of hilly terrain up ahead.

Casilda stepped to the rail beside her friend. Without
warning, she shuddered violently. It suddenly felt very
cold here on deck, and the mist was more clammy than
usual. The singer frowned to herself, and glanced out at
the spot in the fog where Larissa had glimpsed land.

Larissa had noticed the shudder. "Cas?" she said,

DANCE OF THE DEAD         23

concerned. Casilda ignored her, keeping her eyes on
the dark shape ahead.

It still looked like hilly terrain, but with heart-
stopping suddenness the whistle in the pilothouse
shrilled loudly. The sound was repeated twice more,
and Casilda and Larissa looked at one another in horror.
Like everyone else aboard La Demoiselle da Musarde,
they were well aware of what three blasts on the whistle
meant—danger ahead.

As they watched, the hill shuddered and began to
move in their direction with a steady, awful sense of pur-
pose.

Casilda lurched backward so abruptly that she al-
most lost her balance and went toppling to the deck
floor. She caught herself by grabbing at the railing and
clinging to it as if it were a weapon or shield. "Kraken!"
she yelled. Her eyes had grown huge and full of animal
terror.

The cry was taken up by the crewmen, who sprinted
for the spears kept on deck. Casilda, still flooded with
fear, began to breathe faster and faster. Larissa grabbed
her friend and tried to pull her away from the railing,
but Casilda's fingers clung stubbornly.

"Look at it, Larissa, look at iti" Casilda babbled hys-
terically. "That thing's huge, gigantic, the size of a
mountain at least!"

"Casitda, come on!" The dancer seized her friend
around her waist and tugged with all her strength, but
Casilda remained rooted to the spot, unblinking hazel
eyes focused on the mountain of flesh that was drawing
near the boat.

The leadsman's musical, steady cry had ceased. Now
Larissa and Casilda heard it rise in a shriek. "Pull me
in!" the unfortunate crewman screamed. "It's coming!
Please, please pull me—"

There was a violent splash, then nothing more.

A pulsating gray tentacle materialized out of the

24 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

white mist and groped along the deck- It squirmed like
some gargantuan slug, slapping wetly near Larissa's
feet. Closing about a chair left on the deck from more
pleasant times, it clutched hard enough to shatter the
wood and pulled what was left off into the greedy white-
ness.

Casilda screamed, a high, piercingly pure sound that
reminded Larissa of her friend's singing. The dancer,
though, had had enough. She struck Casiida's wrists
upward, knocking her hands away from the rail. Cas
whimpered and cowered back, and Larissa seized her
hand, yanking her away from the danger. "Come on!"

Together they ran toward the stairs and the safety of
the theater, deep within the boat. Casilda flew down the
stairs, her feet clattering noisily. Larissa started to fol-
low, but the kraken had no desire to lose so tender a
morsel.

The white-haired dancer gasped as a slimy limb
brushed one of her long, muscled legs. Her heart
pounding, she leaped upward before the horrid thing
could close on her. The water that dripped from the
creature's tentacle made the deck slippery, and the nor-
mally sure-footed young woman lost her balance as she
landed. One hand shot out and seized the wooden ban-
ister before she fell down the stairs.

The rubbery tentacle struck noisily on the deck,
groping for her. Larissa scrambled the rest of the way
down the water-slick stairs, with the kraken closing in
on her. She hit the next deck running and dived for one
of the spears. She heaved the heavy weapon at the
questing limb with all her might and pinned the gray,
pulsating flesh to the deck.

The creature bellowed in pain. With a mammoth
wrench, it pulled the harpoon free and retracted its in-
jured member, dragging the weapon along with it. With-
out thinking, Larissa dived after the rapidly
disappearing spear, her hands closing on the shaft. To

DANCE OF THE DEAD         25

her distress, it stayed firmly in the grasp of the mon-
ster's moist flesh. For a fear-fraught instant she thought
the kraken would drag her and the spear with it into the
unseen waters below.

Then strong hands closed about her, pulling her
back, away from the railing. Larissa stubbornly clung to
the spear, managing to tug it free. The tentacle was
swallowed up by the fog, but not before Larissa noticed
that the spear didn't appear to have harmed it at all. She
glanced back to determine who her savior might be and
encountered the furious face of her guardian.

Before either could speak, four crewmen ran past,
armed with spears, grim determination on their fea-
tures. They appeared to have recovered from their ini-
tial fear and swore with a new earnestness as they
battled the creature. Dumont opened the door to the
theater lounge, shoved Larissa inside, and pulled the
door shut again.

Larissa peered out the door's window, watching the
struggle and wishing desperately that she could help. A
few yards away, a tentacle closed around a hapless deck
hand and lifted the squirming figure into the air. The
gray limb tightened, and there was an awful popping
sound that Larissa heard even from inside the boat. The
sailor's struggles ceased. The corpse was flung to the
deck, knocking down two other men.

A small, slight figure hastened to join the battle, and
Larissa's white eyebrows rose in astonishment. What
could Gelaar hope to do against a kraken? He was just
an illusionisti As she watched, the elf began to cast a
spell, waving his thin arms and closing his eyes in con-
centration.

All at once the fearful kraken was gone. A swirling
shape of mist, a slightly darker shade of gray than the
surrounding fog, appeared in its place- "An illusion,"
Larissa breathed. "Its form was just an illusion!"

Yet the dark cloud of mist did not dissipate. The kra-

26 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

ken form had been an illusion, but only to hide their at-
tacker's true form.

Dumont, pushing Gelaar away from the entity, whis-
tled a few clear, sharp notes that sliced through the ca-
cophony of battle. A huge wave welled up beside,La
Demoiselle. For an instant, Larissa felt sure that the wall
of water was going to come crashing down on the river-
boat. Instead, it smacked the mist creature with a re-
sounding clap. The creature, startled, dissolved
completely into mist and rapidly blended with the eerie
but harmless fog. There was a pause, but nothing fur-
ther happened. The crew, relieved, began to cheer.

Larissa, also relieved, opened the door and stepped
onto the deck. She felt a strong grip on her arm and
looked up to meet Dumont's fury-darkened face.

"Damn you to the bottom of the Sea of Sorrows,
girl!" Dumont spat angrily, fear and apprehension stain-
ing his rage. "I've told you what to do if ever this boat
was in danger, haven't I? Haven't I?" He Jerked on her
arm for emphasis, and the girl winced-

"Aye. Uncle, but there wasn't time for me to get be-
low deck, and the spear was right there—"

"Don't talk back." Dumont relaxed his grip and glow-
ered down at his ward. "I saw that you had time to get
Casiope out of the way."

"Casilda." she corrected.

Dumont exploded again. "Don't interrupt me!" Laris-
sa towered her blue eyes, but amusement quirked one
corner of her mouth. The crew might ali run from his
bluster, but Larissa knew that Uncle Raoul would never
do a thing to hurt her.

"Now then," Dumont continued, his tone softening.
"You might have been hurt, child, and you know I
couldn't bear that. So next time, just you get your pretty
little self below deck and let the crew handle it, ail
right?"

"Yes, Captain. Sorry, sir."

DANCE OF THE DEAD         27

He slipped a strong, tanned hand underneath her
chin and tilted her face up to him. "And besides," he
said Jokingly, his handsome features crinkling into a
smile, "who would play the Lady of the Sea? No one
else has your sea-foam hair."

Larissa smiled, and amusement lit up her face until
she glowed.

Dumont inhaled swiftly. Gods. but the child had
grown up, hadn't she? Into such a beauty, too. Momen-
tarily lost in his ward's loveliness, the captain found
himself staring into her blue eyes.

"Is it gone, Captain?"

The young crewman who had dared interrupt gazed
earnestly at his commander. Abruptly Dumont remem-
bered the mist horror, gone for the moment but no
doubt reforming itself for a second attack. Without a
word he left Larissa and went below deck. A few mo-
ments later. La Demoiselle surged ahead with a sudden
burst of speed.

To Larissa's delight, the true landscape began to take
shape in the distance. Dragorreyes had been right about
sighting land, and Dumont's gamble had paid off.

Larissa leaned against a pile of rope, conscientiously
staying out of the way of the scurrying crew members,
and watched the new territory emerge. It seemed to be
rather flat country, and as they drew nearer she saw that
there was a fairly large town located near the shore. It
had a long wharf that was home to several small boats
and a few larger vessels. Some of them were out going
about their business, closer to the steamboat than to
the shore.

Larissa caught glimpses of the sailors and waved at
them in a friendly fashion. Normally, the arrival of La
Demoiselle was a happy occasion, and the cry "Steam-
boat a-comin'l" preceded the boat's docking. Here,
however, no one was expecting the magnificent, magi-
cal showboat, and judging by the frightened, suspicious

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

28

looks on the faces turned toward Larissa, no one wel-
comed her arrival. Larissa's grin faded as the boats
made haste to turn their sails and flee from La De-
moiselle du Musarde.

Discouraged, the dancer turned her attention back to
the approaching town. She could see more of it now,
and something about it seemed curiously familiar to
her. The dancer frowned and leaned against the railing.
Surely she was just confusing the port with another she
had seen in her eight years aboard the boat.

Something else caught her eye, drawing her atten-
tion away from the dock area. The citizens of this place
had only partly succeeded in keeping nature at bay. To
the right of the town, a verdant forest dominated the
landscape- Yet it was unlike most forests the girl had
seen. The trees were huge and grew right up to—and
in—the marshy water. Qnarled roots broke the tea-
colored surface, looking for all the world like an old
man's knees. A strange substance that looked almost
like gray-green hair was snarled in the tops of the trees.
Plants clotted the water at first, but Larissa could see
the river opened up as it wound inland.

Larissa frowned to herself. How could this landscape
be so strange and yet so familiar? The dancer did not
like to think about the years before she had become
Captain Dumont's ward, before she had found her
home aboard La Demoiselle. Now, however, a memory
surged to the forefront.

She shook her head in vain denial, her hands clutch-
ing the railings for support as her legs suddenly went
weak. She recognized this coastline, knew the name of
this island, that town. As Larissa fled to her uncle's
cabin, more frightened by the innocent-looking coast-
line than the horrid monster in the mist, she heard the
heartbeat sounds of drums in the distance.

Dumont's cabin was located directly beneath the pi-
lothouse. Larissa pounded on the door with both fists,

DANCE OF THE DEAD         29

fully aware that she was behaving like a child, but too
terrified to care. "Uncle!" she cried, her voice a sharp
cry.

Dumont opened the door at once. His face changed
from brusque to concerned when he realized who his
visitor was. "Larissa, sweetheart, what is it?"

Larissa merely stared at him, cheeks ashen. "1—1—
the island—"

Dumont frowned, extending a hand to gently pull her
inside. "Come on in and tell me," he soothed.

Dumont's room was the largest private cabin on the
boat and was furnished lavishly. There was an ornate
wardrobe that had an expensive mirror mounted on it,
two plush chairs, a large, canopied bed, and a carved
mahogany table. Wares from over a dozen lands clut-
tered the room, from tapestries to carvings to strange
items that no one who visited even dared to identify.

The captain steered his distraught young ward to the
bed and sat her down. "Take a deep breath," he told her
in a comforting tone, "and when you're a bit calmer, tell
me what has upset you so much."

The dancer obeyed, her breath coming in short
gasps. "I know this place," she said thickly.

Dumont quirked an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

She nodded, her tangled white hair falling into her
flushed face. "1 was here once, long ago, with my father.
It's an island called Souragne. My—my hair turned
white here. My father said something bad almost hap-
pened to me in the swamp." She looked up at Dumont
with an imploring gaze that nearly broke his heart. "I'm
frightened, Uncle. 1 know it's silly, but..."

Tenderly, Dumont placed an arm about her, drawing
her head down to his chest and resting his cheek on her
white hair. "There, ma petite',' he soothed, "I'm taking
care of you now, not your father. I won't leave you like
he did. You know that, Larissa."

He felt her nod against his chest. "And anything out

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

30

there that tries to hurt you is going to have me to deal

with."

She laughed, albeit shakily, then drew away. "I know
it's foolish of me," she repeated, "but seeing that coast-
line ... Uncle, I can't remember a thing, but somehow I
recognized the place. And those drums!" She shud-
dered. "They're eerie,"

Dumont frowned- "Drums? I heard nothing."

Larissa went pale. "I thought 1 heard ... well, it must
have been my imagination, I suppose. I can't hear them
now."

Her guardian laughed, a deep, rumbling sound-
"What an odd little thing you are! You tackle creatures
from the mist without so much as a by-your-leave and
yet a marshy little island frightens you. There's nothing
here that's going to hurt you, child. 1 promise. You don't
even have to leave the boat if you don't want to."

His voice had changed, taken on the slightest tinge of
condescension. Larissa's pride, which had fled before
the island's appearance, surged back on a hot wave of
embarrassment. It was more important to her that Du-
mont think well of her than that she be comforted.

"No, Uncle, that won't be necessary," she replied
crisply. She rose, steadying herself. "I'm fine now. I'm
going to my cabin for a bit. Thank you."

Dumont watched her as she let herself out of his
cabin, closing the door firmly behind her. There was
grace and an innocent power in her movements- Slowly,
a smile twisted the captain's lips. Larissa's frantic visit
had given him a marvelous idea.




THREE

To Handsome Jack, the amazingly ugly chief pilot of
La Demoiselle du Musarde, the coastline was anything
but a nightmare. There was plenty of room for the
boat's docking, and already a crowd was gathering on
the pier. Because of the attack of the mist monster and
the subsequent excitement of sighting the real coast-
line, he was alone in the pilothouse for the moment.

The pilothouse was larger.and more habitable than
most. The pilots—Handsome Jack, Tane, and
Jahedrin—rotated six-hour shifts. Generally, two pilots,
or a pilot and a first or second mate, were in the pilot-
house during a shift. The wheel was huge, bigger than
any of the men who maneuvered it, and hard to turn.
Often a pilot would find himself standing on one of the
spokes, using his own weight to help turn the wheel.
This physical requirement of piloting eliminated the
clever but slender Dragoneyes from the post, though
few of the true pilots could navigate quite as well as the
sharp-sighted half-elf.

There was a comfortable chaise for those who were in
the pilothouse merely to keep the pilot company. The
whistle was within easy reach of the wheel, as was the
voice tube and ship's telegraph, by which the pilot com-
municated with the engine room in the stern. Large win-

32 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

dows provided a full view of the river directly in front
and to port and starboard. Behind the pitot, a narrow
stairway led directly to Dumont's cabin.

Jack reached over and pulled the lever on the boat
telegraph to "siow." He grinned to himself. The thcee
livid white scars, running the length and breadth of his
face from right temple to left ear, wrinkled grotesquely
with the gesture.

The tall, beefy Handsome Jack was quite proud of
those scars. He bragged that he had gotten them in a
hand-to-jaw struggle with a wolf back in Arkandale.
When he was drunk, which was often, the tale grew in
the telling until his opponent was a werewolf—"An'
very highly placed in society he was, too, 1 tells you.
Hoo, I could tell tales of the riverboats in that country!"
he'd slur.

Those within hearing who were sober enough to wor-
ry about such things would exchange glances. Hand-
some Jack might well be telling the truth, they'd mutter
to themselves; gods knew he'd shown up one night on
La Demoiselle, shaking and begging for a Job that would
take him out of Arkandale....

"Ah, she's a pretty maiden, aye,
A pretty maiden she,
But my poor heart's already bound
To the Lady of the Sea!

The Lady of the Sea, hey, bey,
Has put her spelf on me,
I'm doomed to loue no other than
The Lady of the Sea."

What Handsome Jack's voice lacked in musical
quality—and it was a great deal—was more than made
up for in enthusiasm and sheer volume. This was his fa-
vorite number from The Pirate's Pleasure, and, in his

DANCE OF THE DEAD         33

own pleasure at finally sighting land after floundering
in the fog, he belted out the number with gusto.

"Damn you, Jack, you know you're not supposed to
sing on my boat!" exploded Dumont as he climbed up
the stairs from his cabin.

Jack cringed like a whipped dog. Every captain had
his superstitions, and one of Dumont's was singing on
the boat. Only cast members were permitted to sing,
and even they had to restrict themselves to songs from
the show.

"Sorry, Cap'n. I just forgot, that's all. You know I'm
not meanin' no harm, sir."

Dumont's displeasure did not fade. Handsome Jack's
statement was true enough, as far as it went. He never
did "mean no harm." Not when he was drunk and came
perilously close to grounding the boat. Not when he
leered at some of the more attractive patrons, causing
them to bridle and complain and swear never to set foot
on La Demoiselle again. Not when he sang contrary to
direct orders.

Jack had his uses. When sober, he was the finest pilot
aboard the boat. Not even Dragoneyes possessed
Jack's instinct for negotiating unknown territory. He'd
been loyal and worked hard, almost pathetically grate-
ful for the job Dumont had given him.

"Yes," Dumont sighed at last, "I know you meant no
harm, Jacky my lad."

Handsome Jack grinned with relief. "You're a gentle-
man, sir, through and through, that's what! always said.
Here, Cap'n." Stepping aside, he offered the bigger man
the wheel. It was Dumont's custom to always bring La
Demoiselle into port himself, though the rest of the time
he left the piloting to Jack or the other pilots.

Dumont took the huge wheel, which was taller even
than he. His strong hands closed about it possessively
as he gazed at the approaching dock. He reached up af-
ter a moment and pulled on the whistle, causing it to

34 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

shrill loudly.

"Jacky," mused Dumont, his eyes on the dock as he
turned the wheel gently to starboard, "did you see the
battle with the mist creature?"

"Aye, sir, that I did. What a brilliant move, to use the
waves against the—"

"Yes, yes. But did you see Miss Snowmane risking her
life down there?"

Jack gulped. It was obvious that Dumont wanted to
hear something specific, but the pilot wasn't sure what.
"Oh . . . aye, sir, I did." He hazarded a guess. "Mighty
brave for a girl, don't you think, sir?"

Dumont turned his hard gaze upon his pilot, and
Jack shrank back even farther. "Gods, man, she's my
ward and my leading dancer. Brave or not, she
shouldn't be on deck when there's danger!" He took a
deep breath to calm himself. "I need to teach Miss
Snowmane a lesson, and I'd like you to help."

Jack's eyes bugged. "Me, sir? 'Course, sir!"

Dumont suppressed a smile. He kept his voice calm
and friendly.

"I'm glad you're willing, Jack. We'll be docking in a
few moments, and I'll be going ashore to meet with the
leader of the town. Then, tomorrow, we'll have our—"

"Parade!" Jack answered happily. "Cap'n, you're
goin' to let me see the parade?"

The thought of actually seeing the performances
Jack heard each night through the walls of the sailors'
quarters thrilled the pilot. It was customary for the river-
boat's cast to parade down the main avenue in costume,
and then perform a scene or two from the show. Many
of the towns they came to were so starved for entertain-
ment that a glimpse of the magic and music they could
experience aboard La Demoiselle was generally more
than enough to ensure a packed house.

Dumont had always been careful to segregate the
players and the crew, and he had never permitted crew-

DANCE OF THE DEAD         35

men to watch the parade. Apparently, and to Jack's dis-
appointment, this time was to be no different.

"No, Jacky, I'm afraid I can't do that. You know the
rules." Jack's face fell, the remorse on his homely fea-
tures causing him to appear even less attractive. "As 1
was saying, we'll have the traditional parade. Afterward,
when the cast and the townsfolk are milling about, Miss
Snowmane will be accosted by a, shall we say, rather
shady character." He looked meaningfully at Jack.

Jack's thick brows knotted together ponderously.
"Me?"

"You. Jacky lad. Disguised, of course. You shall
threaten poor Miss Snowmane, and I'll hurry to her res-
cue. Then you'll run away into the darkness and back to
the boat while I tell Miss Snowmane how dangerous it is
to take foolish risks." He intensified his gaze. "I can
count on you, can't I, Jack?"

Handsome Jack nodded vigorously,

"1 thought so. Why don't you go to the dining room
and let Brock cook you up something? Tell him I said it
was all right."

"Thank you, sir." Handsome Jack touched his greasy
forelock and left, licking his lips at the thought of
Brock's fine food.

Dumont watched him go, a sneer of contempt twist-
ing his strong features- He had had enough of Jack and
his lapses, and what he had planned after the parade
would finally free him of the fool.

The captain returned his attention to the dock. There
was a good-sized crowd on the pier now. The boat was
close enough for Dumont to see faces that registered
understandable suspicion. He'd lay their fears to rest
soon enough, he and the dazzling performers of La De-
moiselle. Reaching up, he pulled a rope and the river-
boat's whistle blasted forth again. The captain smiled
as some of the people on the dock jumped, startled.

Some of the denizens of this place—what was it Laris-

36 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

sa had called it? Souragne, that was the name—were
extremely well-dressed. One young, dark-haired dandy
sported what appeared to be a silk tunic and fine leather
boots. The youth turned to get a better view of the
steamboat, and something glinted in the sunlight. Jew-
elry, Dumont noted with a sharp eye. The dandy's com-
panion, a comely dark-skinned lass, was equally well
attired. Earrings dripped from her ears, matching the
sparkle of the jewels about her long, slim throat.

Standing right next to the wealthy couple was a thin,
tall man in shabby clothes. The pair maneuvered away
from him, distaste on their aristocratic features. Here
and there were the haunted, grimy faces of street chil-
dren, peeking out carefully and curiously. The dazzling
sight of La Demoiselle du Musarde had distracted the ur-
chins from their usual job of picking pockets and had
apparently caught the attention of the whole town.

Dumont sounded the whistle once more and pulled
the riverboat to the dock with a smoothness born of
years of practice. From his vantage point, he could see
his crewmen scurrying to place down the ramp. The
people on the dock drew back, fear replacing curiosity.

Dumont's mind was not on the activities of his crew,
but on the people and place he was about to encounter.
The town appeared to promise diversity- Dumont could
see stately manors in the distance that contrasted
sharply with the shabby buildings that huddled along
the dock. It appeared that the agricultural community
fared better here than the fishermen did. Probably that
soft-looking young dandy hailed from one of those lav-
ish mansions, bred to a life of ease by his great-
grandfather's labor, or perhaps the unsavory sweat of
slaves. The dock area's run-down appearance spoke
of shadier doings and more immediate wealth—and
danger.

Such a lovely jumble of things from which to choose.
Dumont mused to himself with a slow smite. There

DANCE OF THE DEAD         37

would be many new and exciting things here for him to
experience—new customs, new ideas, new creatures.
Many an attractive woman had wondered why the hand-
some, wealthy Dumont hadn't settled down in one
land—or at least confined himself to one waterway.

But variety called with a siren song that drowned out
any other call: variety in people, place, terrain, knowl-
edge. adventures. That keen pleasure forbade Dumont
from making any one place his home. The tall, strong
captain was too much in love with diversity.

As for business, the dandies and their mansions
boded well for the financial success of The Pirate's Plea-
sure, while the seamy underbelly of the town promised
evenings rife with less wholesome entertainment.

Dumont's smile widened into a predatory grin. The
crewmen secured the boat to the dock, and the captain
hastened down the ramp.

The first thing Dumont noticed when he stepped out-
side the pilothouse was the humidity and heat. It was
still early in the day, but already the air was warm and
thick. It had been chilly in Darken, but here summer
was well on its way. A thin layer of perspiration began to
coat his face before he had even set foot on land.

A small, spidery man, clad in a splendidly embroi-
dered blue tunic that seemed a bit too large for him,
moved toward the front of the throng. An ornate silver
chain was draped about his scrawny throat. The crowd
parted to allow him passage. When he reached Du-
mont, the man craned his neck to look up at him,
hooked his thumbs in his well-tooled leather belt, and
cleared his throat-

"My name is Bernard Foquelaine," he said in a thin,
high-pitched voice. "I am the mayor of Port d'Elhour,
here on the island of Souragne. We do not often have
strangers in our land, as you might imagine. What is
your purpose in visiting our isle?"

So, Larissa had been right about the place's name,

38 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

the captain thought to himself. Dumont put on his best
smile, the one that showed off his white teeth to advan-
tage. He stuck out a big hand. Tentatively, Foquelaine
took it in his own moist palm.

"Mayor Foquelaine, I am very pleased to visit your
lovely town. I am Captain Raout Dumont, and this is my
vessel, La Demoiselle du. Musarde. She's a showboat, sir,
with the finest entertainment available in any land. We
come as visitors, friends, and honest performers."

Foquelaine's watery blue eyes brightened a bit, but
he remained tense. Behind him, the crowd began mur-
muring excitedly. "What kind of entertainment?" he
queried.

Sensing the shift in attention. Dumont began to ad-
dress the crowd. "Why, all kinds, ladies and gentlemen.
We have a musical, The Pirate's Pleasure, that features
dancing, singing, and the best in thespian skill. There's
always an honest game of cards to be had, and—"

"Ye got any fire-eaters?" called the man who had
stood next to the wealthy couple. He was every bit as
grubby as Dumont had suspected, and smelled as if he
hadn't bathed in far too long.

Without missing a beat or losing his smile. Dumont
turned and pointed at the man. "Indeed, sir, we do, and
a host of fine magicians who will perform acts that will
amaze and astonish you. Mayor Foquetaine, may I have
your permission to dock here in your fair port and en-
tertain your populace for the most modest of fees?"

Foquelaine hesitated, blinking rapidly. "Well. -."

"Let me give you—all of you—an opportunity to ex-
perience a taste of what an evening aboard La De-
moiselle will be like. Tomorrow at twilight, my cast will
perform a few scenes from our show. And good sir," Du-
mont added, turning and addressing the filthy man as if
he were royalty, "the fire-eaters and jugglers and illu-
sionists will be out in full force for your entertainment."

"Hmmm," mused Foquelaine, still not completely

DANCE OF THE DEAD         39

convinced. "How much is this going to cost?"

Dumont let himself beam in an avuncular fashion.
"Not a copper, Mayor. This is my gift. And if you don't
like what you see, my cast and 1 will just go right back
on our boat and steam away. Do we have a deal?"

Mayor Foquelaine was obviously not comfortable
with the idea, but he could sense his people's excite-
ment. There was little in their lives as bright or beautiful
as the showboat. Few traveled out of the mists to visit
Souragne, and most who did were haunted, broken
souls or evil, greedy wanderers.

"Very well," Foquelaine yielded. "Your crew may
come ashore as well."

Dumont smiled the smile of a hungry tiger. All was
going according to plan.

The minute that he returned to La Demoiselle. Du-
mont rounded up seven of his crewmen and took them
into his cabin. The men stood at attention as Dumont
ushered them inside, glanced around quickly, then
closed the door quietly behind him.

"Gentlemen," the captain began, sitting down in one
of the large, comfortable chairs and staring up at the
standing men, "you know what I want."

The seven men nodded. Only Dragoneyes dared
lounge casually against the door. His knife was out, and
a shape was beginning to form in the lump of wood he
was carving. Wood shavings floated down to form a pile
at his feet. Dumont didn't care.

"Dragoneyes, Tane, and Jahedrin, I want you to go in-
to the town. Mix with the populace as much as you can.
Go into their bars, their brothels, their homes if you can
manage it without arousing suspicion."

The three men grinned, exchanging pleased glances.
They'd drawn the soft duty this time.

"But don't get careless," Dumont warned. "I don't
want to hear about a mistreated whore or a drunken
brawl or even one stolen piece of silver. I'll condemn it

40 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

publicly and leave you for the folks of Port d'Elhour to
handle. They may not be the Kargat, but I'll bet they
have some unpleasant ways of punishing criminals
nonetheless."

His eyes contained no hint of teasing, and the men
knew that he was as good as his word. None of them
resented it. Working aboard La Demoiselle had an outra-
geous set of advantages with a balancing chance of
danger, and they had long ago agreed to Dumont's
terms.

"Astyn, Philippe, Brynn, and Kandrix, you take the
yawl and scout out the swamp," Dumont continued,
reaching for his pipe and beginning to pack it with a
fruity-smelling tobacco. "You all know what I'm looking
for. If you see anything 1 might like, get it."

The men nodded again.

"Excellent. You're a fine bunch of lads. Report back
to me before the parade tomorrow night. As always, the
first of you who brings back something that strikes my
fancy gets a night on the town at my expense." He whis-
tled, then lit his pipe from the blue flame that flickered
on the tip of his index finger. "Dismissed."

The men saluted and filed out of the cabin, using the
main doorway rather than the small stairs that led up to
the pilothouse. Dumont rose, puffing on his fragrant
pipe, and gazed out the porthole.

The morning was fast becoming afternoon. The trees
were still, and the moss that covered them dripped
down unmolested by a cooling breeze. Dumont's green
eyes roved the swamp, then traveled back to the dock
area and the proud mansions to the south. He began to
smile. This was new, unexplored territory for him and
his boat. He could hardly wait until tomorrow.

"What do you hold for me?" he whispered to the trees
and waters, to the slums and the mansions- "What will I
find?"




FOUR

"Come in," Larissa called, putting the cork back on
the small jar of blue paint.

Casilda, clad in her costume of Rose for the parade,
entered. Her garb was a stunning example of the fash-
ions of Richemuiot, Dumont's homeland. A low-cut
pink gown of softly rustling silk clung to her full,
shapely figure and revealed it to the best advantage-
Her raven hair was up and tied with embroidered bows,
and her hazel eyes sparkled underneath the heavy layer
of eye coloring. Her mouth and cheeks had been pink-
ened to the same shade as her garb,

Larissa glanced up at her in the mirror and smiled as
she finished applying her own makeup. "Oh, Cas, you
always look so lovely in that outfit. Rose suits you."

Casilda rolled her eyes and made a face, and both
girls erupted with laughter. In The Pirate's Pleasure,
Rose was the nauseatingly sweet maiden who won the
love of the tormented Florian, freeing him from the
grasp of the evil Lady of the Sea—Larissa's role.

Casilda smiled at her friend. "If I didn't move like a
cow, I'd rather have your part. It's much more fun."

Larissa laughed. "Yes, but the only reason 1 got it is
because I have all the singing talent of a crow with a
sore throat." it was not a modest statement. She

42 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

squawked when she sang and so did very little of it.

"The Lady of the Sea" rose and finished putting on
her costume. Casilda shook her head admiringly. She
had seen Larissa in this outfit hundreds of times by
now, but the sight never failed to send a shiver down her
spine. Larissa was a lovely young woman even in the
plainest attire. In her guise as the Lady of the Sea, how-
ever, she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Her slim body was covered with a tight-fitting, shim-
mering blue material that encased her from her neck
down. leaving little to the imagination. Wisps of flutter-
ing blue-green, gauzy fabric did little to disguise her
slim figure. Tiny seashells were fastened to her gar-
ments and braided into her hair. The dancer's uncanny
white mane, as Dumont had noted so often, looked like
sea-foam. The overall impression was of a powerful
woman who appeared slightly unreal, and the audi-
ences never failed to inhale swiftly at her first appear-
ance.

Casilda's thoughts turned suddenly sober. "Are you
going to be all right out there? You were pretty upset
last night."

Larissa hesitated, then nodded. Her bold words to
Dumont after their conversation had been false brava-
do. As soon as she had left her guardian's cabin, the
dancer had spent the rest of the day and all of the night
huddled in her bed. Casilda had come to check on her
after dinner, and Larissa had explained the situation.
Casilda sympathized, of course, but couldn't com-
pletely understand. No one could.

After Casilda had left, Larissa had tried to sleep. The
distant pounding of the drums had started again, this
time refusing to be silenced—even when she put a pil-
low over her ears. Thankfully, they had stopped some
time during the night.

Now Larissa rose, opened one of the drawers, and
pulled out the silver locket, gently fingering the downy

DANCE OF THE DEAD         43

hair, and remembered Aubrey Helson. As always when
she thought of her father, a wave of mingled sorrow and
resentment rolled through the young woman. Larissa's
father had been a good man, but a weak one, and her
last memories of him were tainted with recollections of
his drunkenness and penchant for gambling. Eight
years ago, he had abandoned Larissa and Raou) Du-
mont had stepped in to raise her. Eight years ago, Laris-
sa Snowmane had been born.

The whistle blew, interrupting her morose reflec-
tions. "Already?" moaned Larissa, grabbing the cloak
she wore to disguise her outfit during the parade.

Casilda opened the door and mockingly bowed her
friend through.

"Well?" queried Dumont. "The parade's about to
start, so give me your report quickly."

Dragoneyes shook his head. "Nothing of any interest.
Captain. If there's anything worthwhile here at all, they
do a damn good job of hiding both it and any knowl-
edge of it."

"They're an awful superstitious tot," Jahedrin volun-
teered. "There's lots of talk about nature gods, every-
thing from animals to spirits, and things in the swamp.
The folks're really afraid of that swamp," he empha-
sized.

Dragoneyes nodded. "They say it's the home of the
Lord of the Dead. Most of the time, he leaves well
enough alone. If you don't go into the swamp, you're
pretty safe. But sometimes, the swamp comes after
them."

Dumont frowned. The yawl he had sent into the
swamp was overdue. He hoped nothing had gone
wrong. "It sounds like the swamp might be where we
should concentrate our efforts." he mused.

44 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

There was an uncomfortable silence. "There's good
beer at the Two Hares Inn," Tane volunteered. Dumont
laughed, breaking the tension.

"Well, that is important information," he chuckled.
"Fine job, lads. Go get your grub." Dumont wasn't an-
gry with the men. If they had found nothing, he knew it
was not from the lack of looking.

As the crewmen left, the captain climbed up the stair-
way to the pilothouse. From this vantage point, Du-
mont watched with satisfaction as his cast paraded into
the town. The crowd was so thick, he wondered if the
entire population of the island had turned out for the
event.

The jugglers, fire-eaters, and other traditional per-
formers went first, followed by Sardan and his mando-
lin. Dumont noted with amusement that the fastidious
ladies who were unimpressed by the feats of manual
dexterity were enchanted by the bard's sweet voice and
youthful good looks. Sardan was the swashbuckling
Florian, and Dumont suspected that in Port d'Elhour, as
always, the boyishly pretty actor would not lack for fe-
male companionship.

Next was Gelaar, striding purposefully into the
crowd, which parted readily for him. Amazement and
not a little fear was on the faces of the townsfolk as they
watched him pass. An illusionary griffin, phoenix, and
unicorn pranced at his side, eliciting gasps and ap-
plause. The paved road under his feet suddenly shim-
mered and changed into a flower-strewn country road,
and the crowd applauded madly.

Whooping and laughing, the tumblers were next, fol-
lowed by the chorus, clad in garb similar to but not as
dramatic as Larissa's. Larissa and Casilda had gone on
ahead earlier to prepare for the performance in the
town square. They would be performing a scene from
the second act, in which the Lady of the Sea imprisons
virtuous Rose.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         45

Dumont had turned to descend the stairs when he
caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. The
yawl, a raft that was little more than a few planks tied
together, was returning. Only one man appeared to be
on it, using the paddle to propel himself along. It was
too far away for the captain to make out which of the
crewmen it was.

Dumont swore angrily. The fool! He could hardly
have picked a worse time to arrive than during the pa-
rade, Dumont looked back anxiously at the crowd lin-
ing the road. To his relief, he saw that the parade was
leaving the dock area and the throng was happily fol-
lowing.

Dumont went down to the main deck, shielding his
eyes from the last rays of the dying sun. The lone crew-
man on the yawl was Brynn. The red-haired sailor pad-
dled the yawl along steadily, almost mechanically. He
was close enough now that Dumont could see that his
clothing was torn and stained with blood.

Silent as a shadow, Dragoneyes stepped beside Du-
mont. Captain and half-elf mate both stared down, star-
tled, at the crewman as the yawl drew alongside La
Demoiselle.

Brynn was a native of Invidia, a land whose inhabit-
ants were not known for their gentleness or trusting na-
tures. Fear was second-nature to the Invidians. Brynn
was the exception, being possessed of an icy calm. He
had joined the crew when the showboat had stopped in
the port city of Karina. A hard man with more than one
murder on his hands, the sailor had gone on many "ex-
plorations" for Dumont in the past. The captain knew
there was very little that could shake the redhead's cool
composure.

Something obviously had done just that. Brynn hud-
dled on the wooden floor of the yawl, his clothing torn
and covered with blood from innumerable scratches.
He shook uncontrollably, and his normally icy eyes

46 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

were bloodshot and filled with terror. He made no at-
tempt to secure the yaw! to the showboat.

Dragoneyes climbed down and began to tie the
wooden raft securely to the larger boat. Brynn didn't
even appear to notice him, and Dumont had to cal! his
name twice before he looked up and blinked dazedly.

"Captain?"

"Brynn, what happened to you? Where are the oth-
ers?"

Brynn didn't answer, only licked dry lips. Dumont
and Dragoneyes exchanged glances, then the captain
frowned.

"Damn you, 1 order you to report or I'll throw you to
whatever creatures live in that swamp!"

The threat seemed to penetrate Brynn's trance, and
his eyes refocused. "They got them, sir," he answered in
a frail voice. "Philippe went first, when the—" he shud-
dered and looked away. "And then Kandrix . - . But he
was the one who found them for you. Captain, and he
and Astyn caught them and brought them back to the
yawl."

Brynn paused, and his brown eyes went vacant again.
Dragoneyes shook him roughly. With a start, the sailor
continued.

"But in the water, it—it got them, both of them, and it
tried to get me, too. but I got in and poled like a mad-
man. So I got 'em for you, sir, right here, I got 'em." To
Dumont's consternation, tears welled up in the haunted
brown eyes and spilled in rivulets down Brynn's freck-
led face.

Dumont shook his head, then extended a hand and
helped Brynn clamber out of the yawl. Once on the
dock, the sailor simply stood there, trembling and
blinking stupidly. His captain sighed. There'd be no get-
ting anything useful out of the man for a while.

"Go to the tub room, Brynn," Dumont ordered.
"Dragoneyes will draw you a bath, and I'll have Brock

DANCE OF THE DEAD         47

send you up something for dinner—including a stiff
drink or two. Don't leave that room until 1 come,
though, you understand?" Softly he said to Dragon-
eyes, "Don't let him out—or anyone but Brock in."
Dragoneyes nodded.

"Come on," the half-elf said in an uncharacteristically
gentle voice, taking Brynn's arm. "A hot bath will do
you a world of good."

As Brynn shuffled off with Dragoneyes, he muttered
to himself. "Things tike that . . . man to do ...
terrible..."

The captain listened, watching the broken man hob-
bling away, then turned his attention to the box that re-
mained in the bottom of the yawl. Carefully he stepped
onto the yawl. He prodded the box gingerly with a
booted foot. There was no reaction. The captain
reached out a hand to touch the seemingly ordinary
box. The wood felt warm, warmer than being in the set-
ting sun would warrant. Dumont frowned to himself,
picked the box up. and returned to the deck. He tucked
it under his arm and hastened up the nearby stairs to
the empty pilothouse and then into the safety of his
cabin.

Dumont placed the box on the table and examined it
for a moment. It still retained its curious heat. Carefully,
he sat down, peering at the box. He closed his eyes and
began to sing softly. The incantation would have baffled
most listeners, but the tune was from The Pirate's Plea-
sure. Dumont's cabin had been heavily warded many
times, as had the ship itself. There was little that could
harm him here. but Dumont was in no mood to take a
chance. Whatever was in that box had some connection
with Brynn's breakdown.

The spell finished, Dumont opened his eyes. The box
looked just the same. The captain flexed his hands,
then cautiously eased the box open Just a crack.

White light spilled out, caressing his hands softly.

48 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

The sensation was extremely pleasurable, but Dumont
was disconcerted and let the lid drop. The pleasure
ceased. His heart starting to beat faster, the captain
opened the box again and peered inside.

Dozens of tiny white lights blinked rapidly and milled
about inside the box. Their radiance stroked his face.
Suddenly Dumont was filled with long-forgotten mem-
ories of his childhood, when he and his father would
ride through green fields together, when his younger
sister Jeanne-Marie was still alive, when the shadows
hadn't begun to lengthen on his energetic life.

Unconsciously, filled with the joy of it, he raised the
lid higher... higher ...

And slammed it down again when the little lights,
having nearly lulled him into carelessness, tried to es-
cape. Dumont began to laugh uproariously. What a
find! He had no idea what the tiny creatures were, but he
already knew how to harness the pleasurable sensa-
tions they caused.

"Well done, Brynn!" he said to himself, thinking that
such a prize was well worth the lives of three crewmen
and the sanity of a fourth. If Brynn recovered sufficient-
ly, he would find himself treated to a night on the town
he would never forget.

Carefully cradling the precious box in his arms, Du-
mont went to the wardrobe. He placed his treasure on
the floor, then closed and magically locked the door. He
hesitated. His curiosity about the lights urged him to
stay and find out more about them, but the sun was
sinking low on the horizon. Dumont would have to hur-
ry if he wished to get to the performance on time.

The market square in Port d'Elhour was unremarka-
ble. It was a literal square, flanked by sad little store-
fronts and dingy alleys. Uneven stones made for

DANCE OF THE DEAD         49

difficult walking, and most people kept to the sides,
where the shops were. There was a large basinlike ob-
ject in the center, used to catch rain, and every roof had
gutters and ample rain barrels. Everything seemed
functional, but little more.

This shabby scene was what the inhabitants of
Souragne had seen for years. Not tonight. Gelaar had
given them a little taste of paradise. Gone were the un-
even gray stones, replaced by silken white sands. The
cypresses were palm trees, the storefronts the open
ocean. One woman, clutching her children, wept open-
ly at the beauty.

Florian's apparently dead body lay on the shore. Sar-
dan had taken care to sprawl in a fashion that accentu-
ated his broad chest and strong thighs. Rose wept
prettily above his corpse, then launched into her solo,
"Alas! My Love Is No More."

Larissa watched the performance, her hand closed
firmly about the pendant draped about her neck- An
emerald with a small jet stone embedded in it was set in
an oval of silver. The overall affect was that of an open
eye. When held so that the eye was "covered," the wear-
er of the pendant was invisible, as Larissa was now.

Dumont had spent years collecting various magical
items, using them to further the appeal of La De-
moiselle. The Eye, as Dumont called it, was one of the
most valuable, and also produced an excited reaction
when the wearer uncovered it and magically appeared
onstage. The dancer listened to Casilda and held her
breath as the song drew near its conclusion. Concen-
trate, Cas, Larissa thought. I know you can hit that note!

"Alas, my hopes have faded
Like the light in my loue's eyes;

Like a dream at morning,
Like swnmertime, he dies!"

50 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Casilda's sweet voice swelled, reached for the high
note—and went flat, as she always did. Mot badly so,
but enough that Larissa knew she'd be consoling her
friend after the performance. She shook her head in
sympathy, assumed her position, and uncovered the
Eye.

The crowd gasped and drew back a tittle as the beau-
tiful, white-haired Lady of the Sea materialized. She
leaped onto the sand, a fey water sprite of beauty and
danger. Larissa closed her eyes and surrendered to the
music and the role.

From the crowd, Raoul Dumont watched her, a hot
light smoldering in his eyes. Watching his star dancer
perform always awakened the banked fires that lurked
inside of him. This role in particular showcased her
young body's beauty and grace, and Dumont grinned a
tigerish grin. Tonight, he would have her—provided, of
course, that idiot Handsome Jack remembered to play
his role properly.

Larissa leaped upward and kicked, arching her back
and letting her seashell-braided white mane toss like a
wave, then twirled about the prone body of Florian. who
magically awoke. Part of the young woman exulted in
the fact that she was performing well; this was a good
night. She felt the music flowing in her as if it were her
lifeblood. The other part of her did not care that she was
executing her role well. It just reveled in the movement-

Suddenly, the drums that had haunted Larissa the
day before began to beat again. Their deep, ominous
rhythm clashed with the music of the dance. Startled by
the unexpected sound booming out of the darkness.
Larissa stumbled, and her blue eyes flew open in horror
at the error.

The dancer recovered quickly, and the audience no-
ticed nothing. Her fellow performers, however, caught
the brief misstep, and they were as stunned as she was.
Larissa was little short of magical in her dancing—no

DANCE OF THE DEAD         51

one had ever known her to make a mistake. Larissa fin-
ished, assumed a dramatic pose, and closed her hand
about the Eye.

The minute she was safely invisible, Larissa ran to the
fringes of the crowd and leaned against one of the big
cypress trees, breathing heavily. She was furious with
herself. Nothing in the world was as important to her as
her dancing. Certainly the drums were a distraction, es-
pecially as she knew nothing about their origins, but
she was a professional. She shouldn't have let the new
rhythm interfere with her performing,

She struck the cypress with her fist in impotent an-
ger. It hurt, and she was even more annoyed with her-
self-

"The trees don't like that. And I don't think it does
much good for your hand, either," came a voice from
behind her.

Startled, Larissa whirled around. She came face-to-
face with a young man who was looking directly at her
and smiling. For an instant she thought she had loos-
ened her grasp on the magical pendant, but her hand
was securely closed around it. She gasped in surprise.

"Can you see me?" she asked.

" 'Course 1 can," the young man replied, his grin wid-
ening. "How else would I know that you were hitting a
tree?" He leaned up against the cypress and folded his
hands, his eyes bright with amusement. He seemed to
be enjoying her discomfiture, but there was no sense of
malice in his mirth.

Larissa was utterly confused and continued staring at
the stranger. Admittedly, he was worth staring at. His
clothes were plain but functional: a voluminous white
shirt, plain vest, breeches, and short leather boots. The
youth was tall, topping six feet, and well-built, though
not laden with muscles. Thick, wavy brown hair
matched dancing brown eyes- His face was well-
chiseled and strong, but there were laugh lines around

52 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

his eyes and mouth that suggested he didn't take him-
self too seriously.

Larissa found herself smiling as well. She opened her
mouth to ask him how he could see through the magic
when she realized the music had stopped. Larissa
groaned. For the second time in the same evening,
she'd done something wrong. Now she was late for the
final bow.

The dancer fled the company of the charming young
man and hastened to take her place beside Casilda and
Sardan. The applause was tremendous, and the faces
above the clapping hands were alight with pleasure.
Their people in the audience had clearly had the time of
their lives.

Curtsying, Larissa searched about the crowd until she
found Dumont, and she felt a sudden chill. He was not
smiling, and his green eyes were as hard as jade.

He'd noticed the misstep too, she realized. And the
fact that she was late for the final bow. Larissa felt her-
self shrinking inside. It would seem that it wasn't going
to be such a good night after all.

She stole a furtive glance in the direction of the
young man, but he had gone. The dancer felt curiously
disappointed. The crowd came up to congratulate the
players, and idle conversation replaced songs and mu-
sic.

Wordlessly Dumont held out his hand. Larissa re-
moved the Eye and dropped it into the callused palm.
The captain was extremely protective of his treasures.

"What happened to you?" Dumont demanded, put-
ting the pendant safely away in a pouch around his
neck.

Larissa towered her eyes. "I'm sorry. Uncle. The
drums distracted me."

Dumont's face was like stone. "What drums? The
drums that got you so upset the other day?" he de-
manded.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         53

Larissa stared up at him, dumfounded. They were
still going on, their pounding rhythm weaving through
the night sounds of cicadas and human voices. Was it
possible he couldn't hear them? "Tlhose drums," she
said, gesturing in the direction of the swamp.

Dumont's expression didn't soften. "Everyone makes
mistakes," he said in a voice that was carefully patient.
"But you can't learn from them if you pretend they're
not there. Don't blame your bad step on nonexistent
drumming! This is the second time you say you've
heard them, and! simply cannot- I've had about enough
of that particular excuse."

Larissa couldn't believe it. There the drums were,
pounding away in a rhythm that pulled at her soul, and
the captain claimed he couldn't hear them. She tried to
continue the argument, but was abruptly interrupted.

"Ah, Captain Dumont!" exclaimed Foquelaine, strid-
ing up to them with a huge smile on his face. "What a
performance! What talent you have aboard your show-
boat!"

"Thank you, Mayor Foquetaine," said Dumont. "May-
or, this is my ward, Larissa Snowmane. Larissa, my
dear, may 1 present Mayor Bernard Foquelaine."

Foquelaine, delighted, took the dancer's hand and
planted an unpleasantly moist kiss on it,

"Such a pleasure, mademoiselle," he enthused. "Your
Lady of the Sea was stunning! Never have I seen such
graceful movement! Captain, you and your marvelous
boat must stay for a little while here at Port d'Elhour."

Dumont's smile returned. "It would be an honor to
perform for your people. They do seem to have enjoyed
themselves."

He looked out on the sea of smiling faces, illumi-
nated by the many torches in the square. The illusion of
the island paradise had gone, but its memory lingered.
The market square somehow didn't seem as bleak as it
had before. The cast and entertainers were mingling;

54 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

the folk of Souragne seemed to have forgotten their ini-
tial suspicion and were now chatting animatedly.

"There is, of course, the question of cost," said Fo-
quelaine. "The people of this land do not have much
money."

Dumont allowed himself a laugh. "I see fine clothes,
beautiful jewelry, lovely homes. No money, sir?"

"We barter here. Services, goods, so on. I would think
that a copper or two ..."

Larissa allowed herself to ignore the conversation as
it floated off into a bargaining contest. She returned her
attention to the drums and looked around. Nobody else
seemed to be bothered by the steady pounding- She
could understand that perhaps the Souragniens were
used to the sound, but what of the cast of The Pirate's
Pleasure?

Casilda was chatting with a handsome young fellow,
and Sardan was the center of a group of giggling young
girls. Neither of them seemed the least bit discomfited.
To her disappointment, Larissa did not glimpse the
handsome face of the strange young man in the happy
throng. She allowed herself to remember his broad grin
and the laughing light in his eyes. Where could he have
gone?

A gentle touch on Larissa's arm brought her back.
Foquelaine had departed, and Dumont was now gazing
at her intently. "Where were you a moment ago, che-
ric?" he asked, his normally robust voice velvet soft.

She-blushed and wasn't sure why- "Nowhere, just go-
ing over that bad step," she lied. "What kind of a deal
did you strike with the mayor?"

"One silver piece per person, plus all our supplies for
the duration of our stay. But you don't care about that.
Come, it is too hot a night to be pressed so close to the
crowd. Will you join me on a little walk?" He proffered
his arm.

Larissa smiled back, relieved to see the more familiar

DANCE OF THE DEAD         55

guardian reappear. She took the arm and squeezed it
affectionately as the captain of La Demoiselle led her
away from the babbling of the market square and down
a cobblestone lane.

They walked for a while in silence. The road took
them out of the main town and into the countryside,
winding past some of the beautiful houses they had
glimpsed from the boat. The mansions were located
back from the cobblestone road, each having its own
pathway, often guarded by fences. Larissa gazed up at
one of the rich homes, a dream of luxury made of cy-
press wood and stone. It was too dark for her to see
much detail of the manor itself, but she could tell there
were large windows—an expensive luxury in an isolated
community. Carved dragons holding flickering torches
guarded a wrought-iron gate that blocked the path to
the house. The broad road wound on, but Dumont
paused and took Larissa's hands in his. She gazed up at
him inquiringly.

"1 didn't mean to snap at you yesterday," Dumont said
sincerely. "You were very, very brave, the way you han-
dled that mist horror. Just understand, 1 was afraid for
your safety."

"I know that. Uncle," Larissa said affectionately,
squeezing his hands. "And I promise I—oh!"

A large, hunched shape had suddenly darted out in
front of them. The man wore a black hood and gripped
a sword, which he swiftly pointed at Larissa's throat. He
stood calmly, quite certain of his armed advantage on
the dark, deserted road.

"One wrong move, and the girl dies," he hissed men-
acingly.




Larissa was not about to make one wrong move. In
fact, she didn't move a muscle. Sardan's teachings had
taught her how to handle drunken, leering men and
lovestruck young pups. Ruffians with swords at her
neck were another matter indeed, and she held very still
while her mind went over various courses of action.

"That's right," said the hooded man. "Now, sir, if you
would be so good as to hand over ail the money on your
person?"

Larissa blinked. There was something familiar about
that voice, about the whole situation. She prayed Du-
mont would cooperate and the thug would retreat, but
to her dismay she heard the snick of a sword being un-
sheathed.

"Get away from her, you pathetic excuse for a man,"
Dumont growled, his expression switching from sur-
prised to brutal in a heartbeat. "I'm loathe to spilt blood
in a hosting town, but f will."

"Choose you death, then. you dog? So be it! Have at
you!" The hooded man darted away from Larissa, mak-
ing a clumsy swipe at Dumont that the captain effort-
lessly parried. Larissa didn't waste a moment. She
dived for cover, getting one of the stone dragons be-
tween her and the thug.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         57

The man grunted and struck again. Dumont blocked
the blow and heaved the man backward. He stumbled
but didn't lose his balance. He stood for a moment,
panting. Dumont hadn't even broken into a sweat. The
captain balanced, ready to block whatever blow his ene-
my might make.

"A brave, brave fight, yet my sword shall taste your
blood ere long. See how it thirsts!" The robber waved
the sword in the air before charging Dumont again.

Larissa gasped. Now she knew why this was so famil-
iar. The words the man had been uttering were stolen
directly from the third act of The Pirate's Pleasure.

"No!" cried Larissa, stepping out from behind the
stone dragon. "Uncle, stop it! He's not a killer! Some-
one's playing a joke on you—" But her words were lost
in the singing of steel.

The thug landed a lucky blow, and Dumont gasped
with pain. The faint torchlight illuminated a bloody
gash across his bicep, making the red liquid seem
black. He turned his angry gaze upon the robber, who
looked as startled as he.

"The game's over," Dumont growled and began to at-
tack in earnest. The robber didn't stand a chance. Des-
perately, the man tried to fend off blows that came with
staggering speed. He succeeded for a few seconds, but
Dumont's skill was by far the superior. With the efficien-
cy of a panther slaying a rabbit, Dumont slid his blade
home. The false robber gazed down at his midsection.
He stared at the blood that was beginning to turn his
shirt front a wet black.

"Scum like you deserve to die," Dumont said coldly.

The man staggered, collapsing to his knees with a
grunt. He looked up at Larissa who, frozen with horror,
could only return his stare. "Liza . - ." he said. then
pitched forward to sprawl on the stone. An inky puddle
began to seep out from under his body.

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the

58 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

steady rhythm of the distant drums that apparently only
Larissa could hear. Slowly the dancer dragged her gaze
from the dead man. "Uncle," she said in a steady voice,
"what about Liza?"

Dumont had fished out a handkerchief and was fas-
tidiously cleaning the blood off his blade, but he froze
at her words. Carefully, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"That man said—"

"He said 'lies,' Larissa dear, not Liza. I called him
scum, he claimed my insults were lies. Poor child, this
has upset you dreadfully, I can see that." He sheathed
his sword and went to the fallen man. "Let's see who
you are, my good—Jack!"

Dumont's voice was filled with feigned shock. Larissa
turned her head away after she recognized the face of
the chief pilot. Pity for the pilot's idiocy surged through
her. What had possessed him to play such a trick on Du-
mont? He should have known how the captain would re-
act. The dead man's eyes were wide open, filled with
pained surprise.

"Oh, Jacky lad," Dumont sighed, kneeling beside the
corpse. "Why'd you do such a crazy thing?" He bent his
head in mock sorrow, then rose. He turned, arms ex-
tended, to Larissa. She backed up a step, and he
paused. "Larissa!"

The name was infused with genuine pain. Dumont
had entertained happy thoughts of Larissa embracing
him gratefully after he had slain the wretch on her be-
half. He had decided to eliminate Handsome Jack even
before he invited the man to participate in the incident.
The pilot, stupid though he was, knew enough about
Dumont to make him dangerous, and his drinking was
getting worse, not better. There was no telling what he'd
say if his tongue was loose enough.

But it had been a bad gamble for the captain of La
Demoiselle. Dumont apparently had lost not only his pi-
lot but also Larissa's trust. "Larissa!" he said again.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         59

The pain in her guardian's voice softened Larissa's
mistrust, and she felt ashamed of herself. Even if it was
a crewman Dumont had slain, he'd been disguised and
he'd been pointing a sword at her throat. Dumont could
have done no less than attack him.

"I'm sorry, Uncle, it's just - - ."

"There, there, ma chen'e," Dumont soothed, stepping
to her quickly and embracing her. "You were just fright-
ened, that's all."

She hugged him, nestling her head against his broad
chest as she had done so often over the last eight years.
Dumont caressed her long white hair and slid an arm
about her waist, pressing her against him. Desire began
to blend with the excitement of the kill.

"Larissa . . ." His voice was deeper, huskier, and he
turned her face up to his.

Larissa had heard that note in men's voices before
and had learned to mistrust it. Hearing it from Dumont
filled her with shock and a sense of betrayal. She
pushed him away and stared up at him, anger, fear, and
disbelief mingled in her face.-Displeasure darkened his
own as he stepped forward.

Larissa panicked and dived for the sword the unfortu-
nate Handsome Jack had dropped. It was far heavier
than the prop swords she had handled from time to
time, and her wrist hurt as she picked it up. Neverthe-
less, she grasped it with both hands and grimly aimed
its point at Dumont's stomach.

"Keep away," she warned in a voice that shook.

Through his rising rage, Dumont laughed, a harsh,
cruel sound. "You haven't the slightest idea how to use
that," he reminded her. He was right, of course, and
Larissa knew it full well. Still, she kept her grip on the
weapon and set her jaw to indicate a confidence she
didn't feel.

"Maybe not," she admitted, "but it's still a sword, and
I can still swing it."

60 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Dumont had had enough. Everything seemed to be
going wrong on this island, from the attack of the mist
horror to Brynn's unexpected gibbering to this present
disagreeable turn of events. He had no patience left to
squander arguing with Larissa. He straightened, and the
flickering of the torchlight over his face gave it a de-
monic cast.

"You are such a child." he snapped. "And I am in no
mood to play games. It's time to grow up." Larissa held
her position, glaring at him defiantly to mask her fear.
Dumont frowned. "You will give me that sword!" He
strode toward her, appearing to the confused young
woman far more menacing than Handsome Jack had
been.

"Take it, then!" she cried, hurling the heavy weapon
at him with all her strength. The sword tripped him, cut-
ting with a grating pain across his left shin, and he hit
the ground heavily.

Larissa didn't linger to see the results of her efforts.
She had turned away the minute the sword left her
hands and fled back toward the town as fast as her iegs
would carry her. The angry bellow behind her told her
that Dumont was giving chase.

She hadn't realized just how far away from the center
of Port d'Eihour—and the safety of lights and people—
they had wandered. As she sped past the stately man-
sions, she wondered briefly if she should seek
sanctuary from their inhabitants. A quick glance up at
the menacing gargoyles that guarded the gates made
her decide against such action.

She heard Dumont calling her name, then narrowed
her eyes in determination. Her legs pumped rapidly
and. in her costume, she was unencumbered by long
skirts, but she didn't know how long she could keep
ahead of the longer-legged captain.

Larissa had never felt so frightened or so alone in her
life. The moonlight illuminated her way only enough to

DANCE OF THE DEAD         61

emphasize the shadows on the sides of the cobblestone
path. Ground fog began to swirl about her ankles, hid-
ing the road, and she nearly fell more than once. The
sounds of the drums increased in volume, and she said
a silent prayer. The town was near.

"Larissa!"

Her heart, already pounding, leaped painfully. With-
out breaking stride, the young dancer swerved to the
left and climbed like a squirrel over a rusty iron fence.
She hit the ground running, smiling grimly at the
knowledge that Dumont would not be able to negotiate
the fence as easily as she. It would buy her a few pre-
cious seconds.

She bolted down a dark alleyway and rounded a cor-
ner, realizing that she had nearly made it back to the
market square. It was only a few streets away- Larissa
didn't stop to think that she was safe now. Her world
was in shambles around her. She was a hunted beast
and wanted only to escape.

The small wooden building on her right was an inn.
Its sign proclaimed it to be the Scolding Jay and depict-
ed a riled bird shrieking away at a meddlesome squirrel.
Off-key music and voices drifted to her ears, almost
drowned out by the pounding of the drums from the
swamp,

Larissa leaped upward without even stopping to
think, grabbed onto the sturdy beam from which the
sign hung and shinnied up until she was sitting on it.
She edged backward onto the shingled roof, bracing
her feet against the gutters that ran alongside the inn's
roof. Larissa moved cautiously down the other side.
She winced as a splinter dug its way into her thigh, but
kept utterly silent.

When Dumont rounded the corner, his shin was
bleeding and he ran with a limp. The captain's rugged
face was contorted with rage, and he looked around an-
grily, furious that she had apparently vanished. The sign

62 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

of the Scolding Jay was still swinging, but he didn't
seem to notice. He went inside. The door slammed shut
behind him, and Larissa heard him talking to the inn-
keeper. She let her breath out in a quavering sigh and
closed her eyes, permitting relief to wash over her. She
was safe.

"Well, well, what kind of pretty bird are you, up there
on the roof?"

Larissa was so startled she nearly tost her precarious
grip. She craned her neck to see who had spoken and
recognized the dark-haired youth she had talked to ear-
lier. He was standing directly below her, his arms folded
and a grin on his face. The girl put a finger to her lips
and shook her head.

Grinning broadly, the young man nodded and disap-
peared from her view. Larissa's heart sank when she
heard him fling open the door and cry, "Milord, I've seen
that girl you were chasingi"

"Where?" came Dumont's cold voice.

"She took off down Old Cypress Way. She might try
to hide in one of the, uh, houses."

Larissa's head came up in pleased surprise. Her first
instinct about this curious youth had been right after
all.

Dumont swore, and Larissa heard his heavy stride
fade away. She waited a few moments, then cautiously
peered over the crest of the roof. The young man was
beneath the sign again, still grinning up at her.

"You ... you didn't give me away," Larissa managed.

" 'Course I didn't. He looked like he might be mean-
ing you harm. Are you coming down, or do 1 have to
climb up there?"

Larissa laughed. "1 can manage. You've rescued me
once already tonight." She edged down the roof and
then dropped to the earth, landing lightly and grace-
fully. "Might the former damsel in distress inquire as to
her savior's name?"

DANCE OF THE DEAD         63

He looked totally surprised, and Larissa raised an
eyebrow. "Urn ..." he said, glancing around. "It's... it's
Willen."

She arched an eyebrow, not believing it for a minute.
Larissa suspected that this was a young man not much
given to lying, and he had just told a whopper of a false-
hood. His manner and the way he averted his eyes rein-
forced her hunch.

"Well, Willen, I'm Larissa Snowmane, and 1 am—"

"The Lady of the Sea in The Pirate's Pleasure. I was at
the performance, remember?" His genuinely friendly
smile took any sting out of the teasing. "It's nice to
properly meet you, Miss Snowmane. Although," he add-
ed, glancing around and dropping his voice, "we may
want to continue this conversation elsewhere."

The young woman felt a stab of apprehension mixed
with a generous portion of annoyance. She didn't want
to spend the entire evening fleeing from unwanted
male attention. A quick glance at her surroundings,
however, soon set her mind at rest regarding his inten-
tions.

The poorly kept street stank of refuse. A woman
wearing altogether too much makeup and too tittle
clothing stumbled out of a nearby building. When she
saw Willen, she leered and preened. Two men rounded a
corner and paused, also eyeing the young pair.

"You're right." she told her mysterious rescuer, "let's
go someplace else."

"Shall I take you back to La Demoiselle du Mu-
sarde?" Larissa nodded slowly. "Yes, but not right
away. Is there a better part of town? I need some time to
think."

"Whatever you like," he said. touching her shoulder
gently. A thoughtful expression crossed his face.
"There's a nice place a few streets down, where you can
get something to eat- If you're hungry, that is."

Larissa had just been thinking how nice it would be to

64 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

silence the rumbling in her stomach. The dancer inevi-
tably developed a terrible case of stage fright and
couldn't keep food down before a performance. After-
ward, however, she was ravenous. When one danced as
often and as intently as Larissa did, one didn't have tp
eat lightly,

"I'm hungry enough to eat an entire horse," she told
Willen.

He frowned. "I don't think anybody here serves horse
meat, but we can ask."

Larissa exploded with laughter, feeling happier than
she had since Liza had been murdered. Willen seemed
confused for a moment, then grinned. He proffered his
arm with exaggerated gallantry. She took it in the same
manner, curling her slim fingers over his arm.

They kept to the center of the cobblestone street,
avoiding alleyways and dark entrances. Larissa didn't
like the area one bit and was relieved when the run-
down buildings gave way to private homes and better-
tended taverns and shops. At one point. Larissa
suddenly became aware that the drums had stopped.
She wondered how long it had taken her to notice that
they had fallen silent.

As they walked, Larissa asked, "What if Captain Du-
mont finds us?"

Wilten shook his head and tried to suppress a laugh.
He failed, and it burst forth, a merry music on the hot
summer's night. "He won't. I sent him down Old Cy-
press Way." At Larissa's blank look, he explained,
"That's where all the brothels are."

His dancing brown glances met hers, inviting her to
Join in on the joke he had played on the captain. Larissa
did. By the time they reached the comparatively cozy
little inn called the Two Hares, Larissa's stomach hurt,
and not Just from hunger pangs.

She glanced up and almost started laughing again at
the comical sign, which depicted two rabbits with their

DANCE OF THE DEAD         65

forelegs on each other's shoulders and goblets of wine
in their paws. One still looked sharp and somewhat so-
ber, while the other was so intoxicated even his ears
drooped.

Larissa's pleasant mood faded when they entered.
The room was dark, with only a few smoky lanterns and
a fire for illumination. Conversation stopped, and the
three musicians who had been playing halted in a jum-
ble of discordant notes. There were not many patrons at
this time of night, but the few lingering over their pints
of ale stared openly at the young dancer. Suspicious
eyes roamed over her shapely figure, and Larissa be-
came acutely aware that she was still in her revealing
costume from the play.

She was about to suggest leaving, but Willen strode
forward into the heart of the room, marching directly
up to the enormously fat innkeeper behind the bar. The
man paused in his task of cleaning glasses and glared at
Willen with small, hostile black eyes.

"Jean—it is Jean, isn't it?—you are to be honored to-
night!" Willen enthused. "We have one of the leading
ladies from the showboat here, and she's hungry for
some of your wonderful food. I told her it was the best in
Port d'Elhour."

Jean stared at Wiilen for a long moment, then his
black beard parted to reveal stained yellow teeth. "Best
in Port d'Elhour?" he scoffed. "The best in all of
Souragnel So, my lady, you are from the showboat,
eh?"

Larissa was stunned at the change in atmosphere. Al-
most before Jean had finished speaking, normalcy re-
turned. The musicians began to play again, and the
patrons returned to their mugs, taking no further inter-
est in her. "Yes, I am," she answered the innkeeper.

"Ah, yes, now 1 recall—the Lady of the Sea! By all
means, sit, and I shall bring you a glass of our best
wine." Moving with more speed than Larissa had

66 CHRISTIE GOLDHN

thought a man of his girth could manage, he cleaned off
a small wooden table near the fire and motioned them
to the hard chairs.

"There's a word for men like you," Larissa whispered
to her companion as they sat.

Willen looked suddenly suspicious. "What?"

"Charming!" Larissa announced.

Willen smiled, relieved.

"So, what's good to eat here?" she asked.

The young man looked perplexed. *'l don't know."

"Willen, you told me this was a good place to eat, and
you don't even know what they serve?"

He shrugged. "1 said this was a nice little place. I
didn't say I ate here."

Jean returned with their wine, fortunately too late to
overhear Willen's comment. "Our specialty, per the
sign, is rabbit sauteed in a wine sauce, served with
stewed mafcshee and cushaw"

Larissa recognized the words "rabbit" and "wine" and
that was enough for her. "Mmm, that sounds wonder-
ful," she said. The innkeeper bowed and left them alone.
The dancer critically surveyed her new friend.

Willen was the strangest person she had ever met. He
hadn't yet bothered to explain how it was that he could
see her when she was invisible. His reaction when she
asked him his name was also peculiar. Why did he want
to hide his name? In anybody else, such behavior would
have warned her to be on her guard. Willen, however,
had already proven himself a friend, someone she
could trust.

"Tell me about yourself," she said impulsively.

Willen smiled his easy grin. "There's not all that
much to tell. I'm sure your life's been much more inter-
esting than mine."

"I don't know about that. Somebody who can see me
when I'm invisible is someone I'd like to know more
about." Larissa replied, taking a sip of the wine and try-

DANCEOFTHEDEAD         67

ing to hide a grimace, it was not a vintage year, appar-
ently.

Willen looked sheepish at her comment. "Point well
taken. Well, let me see." He leaned back in his chair and
folded his hands behind his head. screwing his face up
in concentration. The contrast between the almost
childlike expression and his handsome young man's
body was extremely appealing.

"1 was born on this island, and I've lived here all my
life. My mother was from Port d'Elhour, but she didn't
much like city life and the people in town didn't much
like her. So. we went into the swamp when I was just a
baby."

Larissa went cold inside, though outwardly she re-
mained calm, Willen's mother had taken him into the
swamp. She had a fleeting impression of cypress trees
dripping airmoss, of misty darkness and strange illumi-
nation that didn't come from a torch. Annoyed with her-
self, she banished the image.

"I can't imagine what it would be like to grow up
there," she said, keeping her-voice neutral.

Willen shrugged. "I didn't think it was so bad."

"Did you have any playmates?"

He smiled strangely. "Well. yes, but they were... very
different from the children of the town. The only draw-
back is, now that I'm here in Port d'Elhour, I sometimes
say and do things that seem a little odd to most people."

"But how did you see through the pendant's magic?"
Larissa persisted.

Witlen started to reply, but fell silent as Jean present-
ed their meal. Larissa sniffed appreciatively. The vege-
tables served alongside the juicy-looking meat were
alien to her, but she attacked them with vigor and found
them delicious. Willen watched her for a moment, then
picked up his own knife and fork and began to eat.

Larissa closed her eyes, savoring the tender rabbit
flavored with wine. Willen had been right after all. "The

68 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

pendant?" she reminded him, chewing.

The youth countered with a question of his own.
"How do you do magic? Or recognize it. or know how to
combat it?"

"Well, you study it, I sup—oh." She stared, suddenly
comprehending. The townsfolk had driven his mother
away.... "She used magic—your mother, I—"

"I memorized spells the way some children do sto-
ries," he confirmed with a slight smile. "I sometimes for-
get myself."

"Like tonight."

He nodded with mock ruefulness. "Like tonight."

For a time they were silent, devoting themselves to
Jean's good food with the attention it deserved. Larissa
felt better about Willen. His upbringing explained most
of his strangeness. It did not, however, explain why she
felt so comfortable around him.

She glanced up, wondering how to articulate that
question, and he met her look straight on. Larissa fell
into his bright, clear gaze. That was the only way she
could describe it: she simply fell into his eyes. The feel-
ings with which she was inundated gladdened her, ex-
cited her, and frightened her to death. He was nothing
like the men she had met before—smitten youths who
wanted only to get her alone in some dark corner. There
was respect and admiration in those brown eyes, and a
marvelously compelling sense of... play.

"I have to go," she stammered. She automatically
reached for the pouch she normally carried when she
went ashore, then realized to her chagrin that she was
still in costume.

"Willen, do you have any . . ." Larissa's voice trailed
off as Willen sheepishly turned his own pockets out.
Jean, seeing the gesture, appeared at their table.

"I have money in my cabin," Larissa began. "You can
come with me, or come find me tomorrow, or I can
come back here—"

DANCE OF THE DEAD         69

Willen turned the power of his radiant smile fully
upon the innkeeper. "Yes, Jean, come by the boat to-
morrow, and not only will you be paid in full but you'll
receive a tour as well. Isn't that right, Miss Snowmane?"
Willen almost turned his charismatic eyes upon her, but
she kept her attention on the innkeeper and nodded ea-
gerly,

The big man smiled, revealing several missing teeth.
"To walk on such a vessel! Yes, dear lady, 1 will come see
you tomorrow—you and the magnificent showboat!"

Larissa smiled, relieved. "Thank you, Jean, I'll be
sure to send everyone to the Two Hares when they come
ashore."

At that moment, a distant rumbling noise was heard.
Larissa tensed, thinking that the drums had begun
again, then realized the sound was only thunder. She let
her breath out in a quiet sigh of relief. Everyone else,
though, put their mugs down, tossed money on the ta-
ble, and began to hasten out the door. Even Jean turned
a little pale and left without a word to start closing his
tavern.

Larissa was thoroughly confused. "What's going on?"

The youth looked solemn. "There's a saying in
Souragne that Death rides in the rain. Souragniens
both long for and fear storms. There are no wells, be-
cause the water is tainted. And, of course, you can't
drink swamp water. So the rain replenishes the fresh
water supply, but. . ." His voice trailed off. "It's just as
well that you're leaving now, that's all."

Larissa shivered, though she wasn't sure why. She,
too, was glad that they were heading back to the safety
and familiarity of the boat. She thought that Willen
would question her abrupt decision to leave, but he said
nothing about it as they made their way back through
the now-deserted market square.

The thunder rumbled again as they walked, and the
air smelled sharp and clean. They had almost reached

70 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

the port when the heavens opened. Rain poured down
with a vengeance, drenching the two almost immedi-
ately. Larissa gasped, shivering in the sudden, wet cold.
Willen put an arm around her and shielded her with his
body, ushering them into what little cover a closed
storefront could afford.

"Shouldn't take long," Willen said. "These things
blow over pretty quick."

His body was warm, and, in spite of everything she'd
been taught, Larissa felt it was safe to accept his
warmth. His arms were protective and sheltering, noth-
ing more. That only caused the dancer to start violently
when Willen tensed.

"What is it?"

"Oh, no," he said in a soft voice. He pulled her back as
far as he could, then stepped in front of her. Panic
sounded as sharply as La Demoiselle's horn, and Larissa
struggled. "Don't look out there," Willen said, fear
t'ngeing his voice.

Larissa ceased struggling, but couldn't help gazing
past Willen into the street. She heard through the
pounding of the rain and the occasional sullen bouts of
thunder another noise: a swift, clopping sound that
drew closer and closer.

A black shadow was silhouetted against the gray of
the market square. A huge horse, black as a nightmare,
galloped past, its hooves devouring the cobblestones.
Of its rider Larissa saw nothing, save the swirl of an
equally black cape. Then it was gone, the clatter of fran-
tic hooves swallowed by the sounds of the storm. She
wasn't sure why, but the young dancer was extremely
glad that she had been permitted only a brief look at the
sinister, dark rider.

"He's gone," said Willen gently, stepping politely
away from her.

"Who . . . what?"

Willen shook his head. "Don't ask," he pleaded in a

DANCE OF THE DEAD         71

low voice. "Just be thankful he did not choose to stop."

Larissa desperately wanted to be back aboard the
boat, where it was safe. "I've frightened you, haven't I?"
Willen said unexpectedly. "Not just with . . . with the
rider, but me. I've frightened you."

The quick, polite denial was on her lips, but Larissa
found that she couldn't lie to that open, honest face and
those troubled brown eyes-

"Yes," she admitted slowly, "but I honestly can't tell
you why. Maybe I'm just jittery tonight. Let's go back."

They left the shelter of the storefront. The rain had
died somewhat, and they reached the harbor in just a
few moments. Larissa paused. The rain had now faded
to a faint drizzle, and she wanted to say something be-
fore she left, but words escaped her.

Willen looked at her for a long moment but made no
move to touch her, respecting her confusion. Then, as if
he had reached a decision, he tugged at a string around
his neck and produced a crude-looking necklace of
tightly woven threads- The necklace was strung
through what appeared to be'a root of some sort. Before
she could protest, he had slipped it over her head.

"It's for protection," Willen said quickly. "Keep it on
you at all times. Please."

One slim hand reached up to finger the curious neck-
lace as Larissa considered Willen's actions. Dumont
had always warned her about accepting gifts from
strangers. Larissa's full mouth went hard. Tonight,
though, it had been Dumont she had feared, not this
kind young man. She knew with a sudden inner certain-
ty that, magical or not, the necklace could not harm her
if it had come from Willen-

"Thank you," she said simply, flashed a fleeting
smile, then scurried up the ramp. She did not glance
back.

Larissa went to her cabin, bolted the door, and pre-
pared for sleep. Still sitting up, propped against the

72 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

down pillows, she pulled the coverlet up to her chin.

The young dancer didn't fall asleep until dawn began
to lighten the room. Neither did she remove the neck-
lace the strange young man who called himself Wiilen
had given her.

Marcel cursed to himself as he left the Two Hares. It
had looked iike rain earlier today, and he should have
been prepared. Now, here he was, clear on the wrong
side of town when ...

Angrily the musician wrapped his cloak around him-
self and his precious flute. The thin fabric of his cloak
did little to keep out the oppressive wetness, and he was
soon soaked. Marcel hugged the flute case to his chest,
shielding it as best he could.

He hurried, glancing about nervously and stepping
into ankle-deep puddles. Soon he was partway across
the market square. His home, such as it was, was just
down the road from the Scolding Jay, and his heart be-
gan to lighten as he glimpsed the sign creaking in the
sudden whipping breeze. He almost laughed to himself.
By Bouki's whiskers, he was going to make it.

It was then that he heard the hoofbeats.

His heart spasmed, and he almost dropped his flute
case. Marcel broke into a quick trot, then into a dead
run, his cloak flying behind him. He tried unsuccessful-
ly to calm himself- Other people in the town have
horses besides h('m ... and maybe they're simply hurry-
ing home, just like I am.

It was a melodious clopping sound now, the sound of
a horse in ful! gallop on a cobblestone street. There was
another sound, too, a sort of cracking noise that his
mind couldn't place.

The flute case clattered to the shiny wet stones as a
big hand reached down and closed on Marcel's throat.




It had been a very bad evening for Captain Dumont.

The young man might not have been lying when he
said he had seen Larissa run down Old Cypress Way.
Still, Dumont had failed to locate his young ward. He
spent about an hour going in and out of the brothels
that lined the street, asking questions and receiving no
information. Some of the young women were attractive
enough, but Dumont had no-inclination to sample their
charms tonight. After assuring himself that the fright-
ened girl hadn't sought shelter in one of the houses, he
assumed that Larissa had returned to the safety of the
boat.

He strode angrily up the ramp around midnight,
thoughts on Larissa, but was distracted by the curious
message that Caleb, the crewman standing watch, gave
him.

"Someone came to see you, sir. Said his name was
Lond and that he had urgent business to discuss."

Dumont fixed the hapless Caleb, a young man barely
old enough to shave, with a sharp look.

"Did he say when he'd be back?"

Caleb looked frightened. "He—he didn't leave, Cap-
tain. He insisted on waiting for you in your cabin." The
boy shuddered. "1 didn't iike him, sir. All wrapped up,

74 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

he was, and I never did get a look at his face."

Dumont frowned. "Very welt, Caleb. I'll deal with him
shortly."

Before he spoke to the stranger waiting for him, Du-
mont wanted to check on Brynn. He hoped that a hot,
bath and some of Brock's fine cooking had settled the
crewman's wits somewhat. Brynn had information
locked up in that terrified brain, and Dumont wanted it.

He hastened up the deck stairs to the tub room and
found Dragoneyes leaning against the door, whittling.
A twisted shape with batlike wings was starting to
emerge from the half-carved wood, and there was a pile
of shavings at the mate's feet.

"No problems?" Dumont asked.

"None, sir," Dragoneyes replied- "Brock sent up some
dinner a few hours ago, and I took it in. Brynn seemed a
little calmer. He asked for some paper and pen and ink."

"That's odd. Brynn's barely literate."

The half-elfs thin lips twisted in a smile. "Well, he
seemed pretty insistent, so I got the stuff for him. It's
been quiet in there since. 1 thought he needed some pri-
vacy."

"Be just my luck if he fell asleep and drowned in the
tub. Well, let's see what we can coax from him now." He
rapped on the door. "Brynn, it's Captain Dumont. I've
come to see how you're doing, son." There was no an-
swer. Dumont gestured to Dragoneyes. The first mate
pocketed his unsettling carving and stepped forward to
unlock the door with the master key. The door swung
open, and Dumont peered into the darkness.

The tub room was unique to the showboat. While
most of the costumes in The Pirate's Pleasure were stur-
dy enough, there were a few delicate items of clothing,
mostly belonging to Larissa and Casilda, that needed to
be gently washed by hand in pure water. There were two
tubs, one for washing and one for rinsing. Other than
that, there was no decoration: the room was not even

DANCE OF THE DEAD

75

painted. The captain bathed here and occasionally
granted similar privileges to the cast. The crew mem-
bers had to content themselves with swimming in the
river.

Costumes drying in the rafters brushed their faces as
Dumont and Dragoneyes entered. There were lanterns,
but Brynn had apparently not noticed they had guttered
out. Dumont whistled a simple series of notes, and the
keys Dragoneyes held began to glow brightly, illuminat-
ing the bare room. The magical radiance revealed a
sight that filfed Dumont with angry frustration and faint
nausea.

Brynn was stil! in the tub, but he hadn't drowned. The
water in which his fish-white corpse floated was a dark
crimson. The knife he had used to open his veins lay on
the floor beside the tub. One hand rested on the side,
the ragged flesh of the wrist a pate reddish gray.

Dumont strode up to the tub and glared down at the
body accusingly, as if his displeasure would be enough
to animate the bloodless corpse.

"Here's what he wanted to write so badly," the half-elf
mate told his captain, handing Dumont a crumpled
piece of paper. Scrawled in Brynn's messy, childish
hand was a message; FOR MERCYS SAKE BURN MY
BODDY DONT BERY IT Dumont read Brynn's last mes-
sage and shook his head. He wondered briefly what had
so terrified the rough crewman that he had taken his
own life.

"Ah, Brynn, you never could spelt worth a damn." An-
grily, he crumpled the note- "Why'd you go and cut
yourself before you told me what was in that swamp?"

"I know what is in the swamp," came a raspy voice.

Startled, the captain wheeled to encounter a slender,
cloaked figure of medium height. The stranger had
pulled the hood down so no part of his face could be
seen. The cloak was ebony, and matching gloves cov-
ered the man's hands.

76 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Dragoneyes had already unsheathed his dagger. He
stood tensely, awaiting his captain's command. Du-
mont recognized the intruder from the crewman's de-
scription.

"You are Lond, I assume," he stated coolly. The onh/
hint of his anger was the fire in his jade-green eyes.

The stranger bowed in acknowledgment. "You have a
magnificent boat. Captain Dumont. I congratulate you
on it."

"You should know. You've trespassed through
enough of it tonight."

The dark shape in the doorway shrugged. "It was a
long wait." Nonchalantly Lond moved forward, closing
the door behind him.

Dumont had been startled by Lond's strange and si-
lent appearance, but he had recovered. He flicked his
right wrist and a knife slid into his hand from his sleeve.
"I'm extremely protective of my boat," he said conversa-
tionally. "Men have died for lesser infractions than tres-
passing aboard her."

Because of the hood, Dumont was unable to see
Lond's reaction, but his slim figure revealed no appre-
hension. "I have not come to spy or to threaten you,
Captain, I have a business proposition for you. which I
think you will find most agreeable."

"I'm always willing to talk business." Dumont admit-
ted, "but I like to know my partners first."

Lond's slim shoulders began to shake, and a scratchy,
gurgling laugh issued forth from inside the hood. The
captain frowned.

"Ah, good Captain Dumont, you wish my credentials,
is that it? I am happy to prove myself to you. But per-
haps you wish to dismiss your mate?"

Dumont glanced at the half-elf. He had not moved
from his position of armed alertness. "Dragoneyes
stays."

"What I have to say is for your ears, Captain, not

DANCE OF THE DEAD          77

those of a crewman."

"Dragoneyes is my most trusted man. He stays," Du-
mont repeated. Dragoneyes quirked an eyebrow, and
the captain nodded slightly. Keeping his slit-pupiled
eyes on Lond, the half-elf lowered his weapon. Dumont
sheathed his own dagger and spread his hands. "So. Let
us talk."

"Here?" queried Lond, somewhat surprised.

"Here. Now."

The black figure shrugged. "As you wish-! was at the
performance tonight in the market square. You have
quite a cadre of talent here—both magical and mun-
dane. It must have taken years to find such talent and to
master such magic.

"I am a wizard, like you," the mysterious hooded man
continued, moving about the room as he spoke, occa-
sionally reaching out a gloved hand to touch the wood-
en walls or a dangling costume. "I appreciate such
things. However, I may have certain advantages over
you, Captain. I have not had to burden myself with the
running of a showboat. I know a great deal about
Souragne, and that knowledge coupled with my magic
could prove very useful to someone like you."

"What do you mean, someone like me?"

"A wizard," repeated Lond, his voice mild and placat-
ing. "A connoisseur of the finer things... a collector, as
it were, of rare and interesting items." Lond paused to
let his words sink in.

Dumont kept his face expressionless. "Go on."

"I know where to find the sorts of things you are seek-
ing. I know how to put them to excellent use. I can get
you a crew that will work hard and cost little to main-
tain. I offer you my service, skill, and wisdom."

Dumont let his handsome face crinkle into a sneer.
"Of course, you want something in return."

"1 want to get out of this watery hole." The voice was
cold and flat. "Eventually, you will be leaving Souragne.

78 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

1 want you to take me with you. 1 have learned all I can
learn here. This place is too trifling for my talents, and I
yearn to stretch my skills. Surely, what I offer is worth
what I ask."

"I don't know." answered the captain. "I'm not about
to take someone on faith—especially not someone who
creeps up on me as you do. How do I know you are what
you say?"

Again the raspy laugh. "Allow me a chance to prove it
to you."

The caped figure brushed past Dumont and Dragon-
eyes as if they weren't there and stood gazing down at
the marble-fleshed form of the dead Brynn. "What did
that last note say?"

A bit nonplussed, Dumont replied, "He wanted to be
cremated, not buried."

"That will not be possible here. No one is cremated."

"Why not?"

Lond did not reply at once, then said, "It's a local cus-
tom. The Souragniens, as you will no doubt discover,
are extremely superstitious. They believe burning the
dead offends... the higher powers that rule this place."
He turned toward Dumont, still keeping his face hid-
den. "I will take care of the body. You will allow me to
empty the tub first?"

A bucket, used for filling the tub, rested nearby. Lond
grasped it with his gloved hands. He dipped the bucket
into the blood-tinted water and partially filled it. For a
moment, he swirled it about, gazing into its maroon
depths as if scrying. Dragoneyes and Dumont ex-
changed glances, but did not interrupt the wizard.
Then, to the horror of the watching men, Lond lifted the
liquid to his hidden mouth and drank a noisy gulp.

As one, Dumont and Dragoneyes tackled the cloaked
mage. The bucket went flying, its crimson contents
spattering then soaking into the wooden beams of the
floor.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         79

"You are the sickest—" began Dumont, but the words
turned into a grunt of pain as icy coldness numbed his
hands. The chill spread up his arms, as if he had
plunged his hands into a snowdrift. He heard Dragon-
eyes gasp softly and guessed the half-eif was feeling the
strange sensation as well. Dumont released his hold
and warmth flooded painfully into his icy hands.

Lond scrambled to his feet. "You fools!" he hissed an-
grily. "This is part of my magic! Your nerves are those of
children! Would you see my demonstration, Captain
Raoul Dumont, or will your weak stomach not tolerate
it?"

Dumont was stung by the insult, and his own anger
stirred. "You startled me, nothing more- I have seen—
and done—far worse. The dead are the dead. Brynn is
yours to do with as you will, now that I know what to
expect from your kind of magic."

Lond appeared mollified. "Have your men drain the
tub, but keep the water. Then lay out the crewman's
body. I will return with proof of my power."

Without another word, Londdipped up another buck-
etful of the bloody water and left. Dragoneyes tensed to
spring after him, but Dumont laid a warning hand on his
friend's arm and shook his head. "Let him go."

"He's carrying a bucket of blood!" the mate pro-
tested.

"Young Caleb already knows of Lond. He's not likely
to go out of his way to question our guest's departure."

The haif-elf narrowed his eyes, and his voice was
deep with misgiving. "1 think you're making a mistake.
There's something about that man ... i don't trust him,
Raoul."

"Neither do I," Dumont replied. "Not for a moment.
But 1 want to see what he can do that would be so impor-
tant to me. We'll watch him, old friend." He smiled
coldly. "We'll watch him like a pair of wolves in winter."

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

80

Caleb shuddered as Lend strode past him, walking
briskly down the ramp onto the dock. As Dumont had
predicted, the young crewman was too glad to see the
sinister figure leaving to question him. Lond's dark
shape was soon swallowed up by the surrounding dark-
ness.

The market square was as quiet as a cemetery at this
time of night. The torches had been permitted to burn
out and would not be relit until the following nightfall.
Lond was midway across the square when he heard the
drums start up again, an urgent counterpoint to the dis-
tant rumble of thunder. He frowned underneath his
hood. He knew what creatures dwelt in the swamp of
Souragne, and he disliked the interest they were taking
in the strangers from the boat.

His rapid stride soon carried him beyond the market
square into the less savory portion of town referred to
as Past-the-Port. Few walked here even in daylight
hours without a weapon and a readiness to use it. After
night fell on Past-the-Port, one didn't walk at all, unless
one was going about business as foul as that practiced
by the other inhabitants. Even murderous intentions
were no guarantee against things darker—and
deadlier—than a pure soul could conceive. Fear
dwelled in the slum of Past-the-Port, along with her
companion, Death.

Lond knew Past-the-Port intimately, and his slender,
black-cloaked frame was recognized and given a wide
berth by most ne'er-do-wells. The cloaked man laughed
to himself as he caught the big, burly would-be kilters
blanching and turning away. He knew that with a few
well-spoken words and the right ingredients he could
shatter their tiny minds and warp their souls. They
knew it, too.

There was only one person in Past-the-Port who wel-

DANCE OF THE DEAD         81

corned Lond's arrival. Murduc lived in a shabby, gloomy
little house with boarded-up windows in the worst part
of the slum. He'd have been murdered long ago, his
throat slit or his neck broken in some dark side street,
had it not been for Lond's protection. Everyone knew
that the skinny old madman who played with poisons
was somehow in the cloaked man's favor, and thus the
pathetic hovel hadn't been torched or ransacked.

The street was dark and deserted. Most of the build-
ings were abandoned or were homes only to rats. The
notable exception was the one across from Murduc's
shack. It looked like a tavern, and indeed even had a
sign that proclaimed It the Cat and Mouse. Lond, how-
ever, knew it to be a meeting place of the most unsavory
of a bad group of men. Light crept out of the cracks in
the wall and from under the door.

Lond knocked on Murduc's door, feeling the rotting
timbers shudder beneath his gloved knuckles. A good
wind would collapse the entire building, he thought to
himself. He heard scuffling sounds from within.

"Who's there?" came the old man's thin voice.

"Why, who but your master?" answered Lond, smil-
ing to himself. He heard the sound of several bolts be-
ing drawn back. Then Murduc peered out cautiously, a
lantern clutched in one grimy hand. His toothless
mouth widened in a grin, and he opened the door to the
only guest who ever visited.

"My laird, my laird!" he enthused in his thin, high
voice. "Come in at once! How kin yer humble servant
help ye?"

"Good evening, Murduc." Lond's sharp eyes flitted
disinterestedly about the place as he entered. Murduc
set the lantern on a precarious table, then scurried to
bolt the door behind his guest.

The little man did not keep a tidy shop. Herbs were
scattered carelessly in piles in the corners, their fra-
grances both pleasant and noxious. More hung drying

82 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

from the wooden rafters. Murduc's bed, a pile of filthy
rags, occupied one corner. As Lond watched, a rat scur-
ried from under the pile and hastened out through a
large hole in the wall.

"1 will need large quantities of the usual items—and
take care that you don't confuse them like you did last
time," the wizard added. The last time he had employed
Murduc's services, the senile old fool had accidentally
switched an aphrodisiac with a deadly poison. Lond had
ended up with a corpse instead of a passionate lover,
and had been mightily displeased.

Murduc cringed visibly at the memory. Lond's anger
was a terrible thing, and he had no wish to incur it
again. "Aye, my laird," he said, ducking his head re-
spectfully. "That'll no happen again, I assure ye."

He scurried about like a scrawny spider, scooping up
various herbs and placing them in small pouches.
Shelves filled with bottles of potions, some of them
thick with dust, lined all four walls- Lond helped himself
to several, carefully checking the crudely written labels.
Occasionally he would open a bottle to examine and
sniff the contents.

At last, Murduc turned to him, grinning. "All collect-
ed. sair. Shall I put 'em in a sack for ye?"

"Yes, that would be helpful," Lond answered absently.
He took several more Jars and bottles from the shelf.

"Oh, sair, ye've practically bought me out!" Murduc
exclaimed happily, peering at the bottles in Lond's
arms. These, too, were placed in the sack. The wizard
fished out ten gold coins from the pouch at his side and
handed them to the stunned poisoner.

Murduc's eyes grew enormous. "My laird!" he whis-
pered. "I'll ne'er have to sell another thing!" His hand
trembled as his thin fingers closed about the gold.

"True enough, Murduc. True enough. Farewell." He
swept out of the room like a shadow, closing the door
behind him, then went to the Cat and Mouse Tavern.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         83

He opened the door without a pause. Several men
with scarred and angry visages clustered around a ta-
ble. The dim light threw their unhandsome features into
sharp relief as they turned to look at the intruder. They
averted their eyes, however, when they saw who it was.

"The little poisoner has ten gold pieces in his hands
right now," Lond told them. "Kill him and bum his filthy
shop, and the money *s yours."

He had scarcely gone five paces when he heard the
door burst open behind him. Ten minutes later, the
night grew orange, and smoke spiraled up into the over-
cast skies. Lond smiled to himself. He was leaving
Souragne, and had no more use for the little man.

The cloaked man paused a few yards out of the city
limits and fished an agate out of his pouch. He pulled
down his black hood and, murmuring an incantation,
gently rubbed the stone on his eyelids. When he opened
them a few moments later, he could see as well as a
night creature. Replacing the agate in his pocket, he
carefully pulled his hood back on.

The wizard continued on down the main road, called
Tristepas, toward a place seldom visited by people dur-
ing the daylight and avoided after nightfall: the grave-
yard.

A light mist swirled a few feet off the ground as he left
the road, the gravel of a wide but ill-kept path gritting
under his feet. Moonlight brightened the scene, flicker-
ing amid the branches of live oak and elm and cedar,
giving ghostly illumination to the stone sarcophagi.
Souragne was too marshy, even this far away from the
swamp, for corpses to be buried. Diggers struck water
three feet down. As a result, even thieves and murder-
ers rotted in large, elaborate sepulchers instead of
moldering in the soil.

Lond walked to the wrought-iron gate, spoke a few
abrupt words, and made fluttering gestures with his
gloved hands. Like a snake uncoiling, the chain

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

84

wrapped securely about the iron bars unwound itself
and fell with a dull thud to the soft soil. With a slow
creak, the doors reluctantly yielded to the wizard's
touch and permitted him entrance.

The black-cloaked man strode through the cemetery
with absolute familiarity. He headed straight for a cer-
tain unadorned tomb far from the main gate, striding
briskly past the last resting places of warriors, noble-
men, and the base-born rich. The fog swirled damply
around his knees, but he paid it no heed. There was
nothing in this cemetery that could harm Lond.

He came to the tomb he wanted. "Rogue's Rest" was
its nickname, where the nameless dead were carelessly
tossed. Again the wizard reached in his pocket, emerg-
ing with a small length of leather string. Chanting soft-
ly, he tied it into a loop and tossed it onto the tomb's lid.
Lond raised his hands, and the enormously heavy stone
slab trembled and began to rise. it floated upward until
it was six feet over the tomb, then hovered in the air.

A horrible stench wafted from the tomb, but it did not
bother Lond. He smiled to himself as he peered inside.

The bones of many dead were piled high in the grave,
Atop them was a comparatively fresh corpse. Lond
looked closer and began to smile as he recognized the
dead man's features-

"Well, good fellow," he said. "You'll do splendidly.
You'll impress the good captain no end, I daresay."

He tugged off the glove from his left hand and draped
it carefully on the tomb wall. Then he roiled up his
black sleeve to the elbow and drew his knife. The finely
honed blade glinted in the moonlight as Lond, biting
back a cry of painful pleasure, drew the dagger across
his own forearm.




SEUEN

Larissa stood alone on the main deck of La De-
moiselle. The mists pressed in thickly on three sides,
but before her loomed the gray-green swamp and tea-
colored water. The young dancer gazed down at the wa-
ter, and a stow smile spread across her face. She felt
strong, and her body began to move to an inner music-

As she danced, reveling in her new confidence, there
came a disturbance in the muddy water. It roiled an-
grily, and slowly, steadily, a serpentine monster rose
from the depths. Larissa felt no fear, Just as she was no
longer worried by either the mists or the swamp. She
was surprised but not alarmed when the snake began to
speak to her in Willen's friendly voice. She couldn't un-
derstand its garbled words, but the tones were so gentle
and concerned that she listened anyway.

In the middle of speaking, the creature began to
bleed. Wounds spontaneously erupted on its scaly
body, spewing crimson streams. Redness spattered
Larissa, staining her clothes and white hair.

The dancer's unnatural peace was shattered. She
screamed, but the creature kept right on talking. It was
then that she realized that it wasn't even alive. It was
only the corpse of a snakelike creature, and suddenly
the voice wasn't Willen's, but Dumont's. The undead

86 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

snake-thing began to slither toward her. She tried to
flee but her feet wouldn't obey her.

The girl had heard stories of how snakes hypnotized
their victims, and Larissa knew that she had been
caught. Somehow she knew that if she could move,
could dance, she could escape, but it was too late, too
late....

A sharp rap on the door caused Larissa to bolt up-
right, wide awake though completely disoriented. "Y-
yes?" she called, her voice cracking.

"Are you going to stay in bed all day?" came Ca-
silda's voice.

It was a welcome intrusion of normalcy after Larissa's
dream and the confusing incidents of last night. The
dancer hurried to the door to admit her friend.

"Did you hear me last night? Oh, gods, I sounded like
a calf at slaughtering time, bellowing away—" Casilda
stopped abruptly when she saw her friend's pale visage.
"What's wrong?"

Larissa shook her head. "Nothing. 1 just didn't sleep
very welL" Casilda looked skeptical. Larissa squeezed
her friend's arm reassuringly. "Really."

"Poor Larissa. You don't tike this place at all, do
you?" Casilda gave the dancer an impulsive hug.
"Come on. Some breakfast will make you feel better."

Larissa thought quickly. The dining hall at breakfast
was a likely place to run into Dumont. The dancer real-
ized that it would be impossible to avoid her guardian
for very long on a space as enclosed as La Demoiselle.
but after last night she wanted to postpone that meet-
ing as long as possible.

"No, 1 think I'll go practice first." The thought calmed
her. Yes, Larissa decided, I need to dance.

Without Gelaar's illusions to enliven the stage, it was
a bare, wooden floor. The chairs were pushed back to
the far end of the room, thus permitting the actors to
rehearse on the stage area while the dancers went over

DANCE OF THE DEAD         87

their numbers where the audience would normally be.
Larissa, wearing the short, bare-armed cotton chemise
that was her practice outfit, smiled to herself as she en-
tered. She began to warm up her sleep-stiff body by do-
ing gentle stretches.

A wolf whistle caused her to look up. hoping it wasn't
Dumont. However, it was only Sardan, and she glow-
ered at him.

"If you're going to spy on my dancing, at least you
can play for me."

Sardan bowed. "Delighted to be of service to so
lovely a lady." he replied gallantly.

Larissa snorted. "Save it for the paying customers,"
she retorted, but a hint of a smite touched her face. Af-
ter fleeing from Dumont, Sardan's blatant yet harmless
flirting was refreshing.

He plucked on his ever-present mandolin, cocking
his head to listen for the pitch, then adjusting the
strings. Larissa sighed inwardly. When it came to his
music, Sardan was a perfectionist, even when it was just
for rehearsal. At last the bardlooked up at her and nod-
ded, satisfied with the instrument's tone.

"What song do you want?" he asked, strumming ab-
sently.

" "And So Floweth Love,' " the dancer replied, refer-
ring to the Lady of the Sea's final number, where she
relinquishes her hold on Florian. Sardan began to play.

Larissa had been growing increasingly dissatisfied
with the choreography of this dance. The older she
grew and the more she performed, the more demands
she made on herself and her art. It was time to experi-
ment with some new steps for this number. She began
to move. Her fingers traced patterns in the air, and her
feet were as light as foam on the ocean's waves. She
half-closed her eyes and allowed her body to sway more
freely,

Even though the Lady of the Sea was ostensibly the

88 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

villain, you have to pity her a bit, she thought to herself
as her fingers mimed tears flowing down her face. All
coldness and lack of feeling, until this sailor entered her
heart. Larissa's feet brushed lightly, rhythmically, on
the boards of the stage. She wrapped her long arms
about her body, weaving back and forth with the Lady of
the Sea's anguish. And she must let him leave, return to
the world of air and sunlight, to the woman he loves.

Larissa's chest contracted with emotion. Her move-
ments became more powerful and yet more graceful.
The young woman was no longer aware of the wooden
boards beneath her feet, or of the rivulets of sweat be-
ginning to trickle down her flushed face. Her unbound
white hair floated freely, and it felt to her as if she were
submerged in water. She breathed, but did not notice
the air she gasped in; danced, but knew not what move-
ments she made.

She felt herself growing, as if she and her gestures
filled every corner of the suddenly confining room.
Heat flooded her body. Movement was effortless and
undirected, and she leaped and swirled about the stage
with utter oblivion, surrendering to that inner heat, to
the power that suddenly swelled within her and—

"Larissa!"

There was a painful pressure about her wrists, and
her movement, her glorious, wild movement was
abruptly halted. Larissa's blue eyes flew open, but she
saw nothing as she struggled against her captor. She
heard herself cry out, a sharp, high wail. He was not let-
ting her dance, and she would die if he did not—

"Larissa, look at me! Stop it and look at me!"

It was Sardan's voice, coming as though from a great
distance. With an effort that drained her, Larissa fo-
cused her eyes and met his frantic gaze.

Sardan was pale and his eyes were enormous with
fright. He gripped each of her wrists in a strong hand.
The singer waited until he was sure that she was fully

DANCE OF THE DEAD

89

aware of her surroundings before he let his grip relax.
"Are you all right?"

Larissa discovered that her heart was pounding furi-
ously. She licked dry lips and nodded slowly. She felt
very tired all of a sudden. As if he sensed this, Sardan
helped her to the back of the room and eased her into a
chair. He waited until she had caught her breath before
asking slowly, "What happened when you were danc-
ing?"

"Nothing. Just—just going over some new ideas."

Sardan shook his head, his eyes still concerned. "I've
watched you dance for the last four years- You've never
looked like that. That was—" he floundered for words.
"Larissa, your dancing is flawless."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a
hand and continued. "No, f mean that. You're perfect.
Almost too perfect- A few minutes ago you were wild.
You looked like—like some kind of monster, or fairy, or
something not human." He paused, not meeting her
eyes for a moment. When he did, his look was wary.
"You really frightened me. It was almost as though you
weren't there anymore."

Larissa tried to reassure him. "Really, Sardan, it was
just a dance. You're imagining—"

He arched an eyebrow. "You look exhausted, and
don't tell me you're not. You try doing something like
that every night and you'll be dead inside of a week."

"I'm fine . . . just a little thirsty. Could you get me
some water?" she suggested, hoping to buy a few mo-
ments of time to collect herself. The young man sprint-
ed off.

Larissa exhaled and rested her head in her hands,
witling her heart to slow its erratic beating. She had got-
ten carried away with the music before, but never like
this. For a few moments she had tasted ecstasy, and her
body had flamed with energy. It had been a terrifying
sensation, yet oddly compelling. If she had been able to

90 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

use that energy, harness it somehow, what might she
have done?

"Here," said Sardan, handing her a goblet of cold wa-
ter. She drank gratefulty.

"I didn't have anything to eat this morning." said
Larissa. "Maybe that might have something to do with
it."

Sardan looked dubious. "Maybe. Get something to
eat and then go back to sleep. You've got a performance
tonight." He helped her up, and she gave him a tired
smite.

"One might think you actually cared," she joked.

Sardan feigned offense. "I'm only protecting my
chances of seducing you."

Larissa had experienced many opening nights with
The Pirate's Pleasure, but none like this. The
entertainment-hungry folk of Port d'Elhour had turned
out in force, and the show was sold out.

Safely invisible, Larissa looked at the delighted faces
in the audience and grinned. No one had missed a cue.
The dancers had performed magnificently. It seemed to
her that the tired, cliched musical suddenly sparkled
with, if not exactly wit, then warmth. The love story was
a sweet one, and she, the Lady of the Sea, full of beauti-
ful, alluring peril.

Larissa listened to Casilda sing "AlasI My Love Is No
More" with anticipation. She hoped the luck of the eve-
ning would rub off on her friend- Casilda, too, was
caught up in the excitement and joy of performing be-
fore so receptive an audience and was doing her finest
job yet. But she still couldn't hit that last note.

Larissa was glad the audience appeared oblivious.
The applause for each number was deafening, and the
cast received a thunderous standing ovation. When

DANCE OF THE DEAD         91

they left the stage, the sweaty, elated performers
hugged each other and laughed with sheer pleasure. It
was nights like this, nights when everything came to-
gether almost as magically as one of Gelaar's illusions,
that made everything worthwhile.

Still walking on air, Larissa literally danced back to
her cabin. Crewman, cast member, or patron alike who
crossed her path was treated to a radiant smile. She re-
moved her makeup and changed swiftly, then went to
the main deck to meet the patrons as all the cast did
after each show. When she arrived, she had another
pleasant surprise.

The boat was glowing with dozens of small lights, fas-
tened to the railings at regular intervals. They twinkled
softly, like stars that had wandered down from the heav-
ens and decided to stay for a while. They blinked and
shimmered, shedding their cool, pleasant light on the
laughing cast members, their guests from the town,
and the wine-bearing crewmen. As Larissa watched, a
young man trying to impress a giggling chorus girt at-
tempted to touch one of the lights. It immediately went
dark, but resumed glowing when the man withdrew his
hand.

Larissa assumed the effect was another one of Ge-
laar's illusions. She looked around for the elf and spot-
ted him standing alone down near the paddlewheel.
Smiling to herself, she hastened down the deck toward
him. He glanced over at her briefly, then returned his
attention to the small glowing lights. His slim, tong-
fingered hand stretched out to one of them, but didn't
touch it. It glowed brightly.

"They're beautiful, Gelaar," Larissa said warmly. "One
of the nicest illusions I've ever seen. Everyone loves
them."

Gelaar looked at her oddly. "I can't take credit for
them, Miss Snowmane," he said in a cold voice. "They
are something the captain has provided for the ship."

92 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"And a fine job, too," came Dragoneyes' silky voice.
Gelaar turned to the first mate, and his expression hard-
ened even further.

Larissa felt a vague stirring of discomfort penetrate
her euphoria. The half-elf mate and the elven mage-had
a tenuous truce at best. Like a wolf and a tiger, they
were natural enemies.

"You might want to take better care of yourself, Ge-
laar," Dragoneyes continued in a mock-concerned tone.
"You're seeming pretty tired these days. Looked in a
mirror lately?" He laughed harshly, and Larissa cringed
from the hate-filled expression on Gelaar's gaunt face.

"Excuse me. Miss Snowmane," the mage said, his
voice emotionless. "The night has suddenly grown un-
pleasant." He nodded courteously, then swept past
Dragoneyes with a dignity that would have embar-
rassed anyone but the half-elf. Dragoneyes merely
watched the illusionist leave. He looked over at Larissa,
touched his forelock in a casual salute, and left.

Larissa watched him go, discontent stirring within
her. She shook her head, trying to forget the unpleasant
incident she'd just been witness to, and leaned over the
rail so she could get a better look at the twinkling lights.

Their brightness fluctuated, and they sometimes
even blinked rapidly. The young dancer watched, fasci-
nated, and, to her pleasure, saw that the colors even
changed, going from yellow to green to blue to purple
and myriad other shades in between. Like a child, she
laughed aloud.

"Aren't they gorgeous?" said Casilda.

Larissa beamed. "More than anything I've ever seen. I
feel like—like I've just walked into a fairy tale or some-
thing."

The two women stood quietly, watching the display of
uncanny, lovely lights that festooned La Demoiselle.

"The crowd was so good, I wish I'd been able to hit
that damned note," Casilda sighed at last.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         93

Larissa squeezed her arm. "You were so good, the
crowd didn't even care."

"Mademoiselle Snowmane?" came a tentative voice,
and Larissa glanced up to see the innkeeper of the Two
Hares gazing sheepishly at her. He removed his hat and
played with it nervously, rendering it into a shapeless
mass. "1 have come for my tour. You remember?"

"Of course!" Larissa smiled, and Jean felt as if he had
Just seen the sun rise- "Casilda, this is Jean. He owns an
inn in Port d'Elhour with the funniest sign I've ever
seen." Quickly she described the drunken rabbits, and
Casilda chuckled.

"The rabbits are from an old folk story," said Jean. He
was delighted to be so well received by two lovely
young ladies. "There are two heroes, Longears and
Bouki. Longears is the clever one. Poor Bouki, he is al-
ways finding a way to get into trouble and Longears
must always get him out of it."

"If your sign was any indication, Bouki is going to
have one terrible headache in the morning," laughed
Casilda. "Larissa, what's this about a tour?

When Larissa explained, carefully leaving out any
mention of Willen, Casilda brightened. "Well," the sing-
er said, "we can't take you everywhere, but we will give
you a quick tour of La Demoiselle's decks."

Jean couldn't believe his good fortune. He knew that
these were ladies, and that nothing untoward was going
to happen. Still, it would make a great taproom tale, of
the night when Jean the innkeeper was escorted about
a magical boat with a stunning woman on either arm.
He laughed, a warm, booming sound that mixed pleas-
antly with the animated chatter from the other guests.

"Larissa, my dear," came Dumont's voice, "1 don't be-
lieve you have introduced me to your friend."

The young dancer had been apprehensive about run-
ning into her guardian, but the effervescent mood of
the evening apparently lingered on. She turned, smil-

94 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

ing, to Dumont.

"Uncle Raoul, this is Jean, the innkeeper at the Two
Hares- Last night, I had no money with me because I was
in costume, and he was good enough to forgive me for
it. I promised him a tour."

There was a bit of quiet defiance in her attitude, and
she knew it. Larissa's message was clear: she would ig-
nore what had happened last night if Dumont would.
The captain's green-eyed gaze met hers evenly.

"Good Jean," he said at last, "you are kind. My ward
is right to treat you as hospitably as you have treated
her. EnJoy your tour."

The three walked toward the bow of the ship, Larissa
chatting enthusiastically about La Demoiselle. Dumont
watched them with narrowed eyes. Larissa was not an-
gry with him, but neither was she cowed. He deliber-
ately loosened his shoulders and puffed on his pipe,
forcing his thoughts to take a happier turn.

The boat had been packed. Both performers and au-
dience had apparently had the time of their lives. The
little lights that had cost the lives of four men twinkled
gaily. They had the ability to manipulate emotions, for
they had made Dumont feel happy when he'd looked at
them yesterday. Now he had harnessed their energy,
and they were making everyone on the whole damned
boat feel happy. This ebullience was a boon to business,
but Dumont wondered if his crew would stilt be as effi-
cient when they were giddy with magically induced
pleasure. He'd have to wait and see. Or else, he mused
to himself, he'd just pack the glowing creatures away
during work times.

The captain leaned up against the railing, his eyes on
the shimmer of the tights reflected in the water. A
movement on the shore caught his eye, and he drew
deeply on his pipe, suddenly alert.

As the newcomers drew closer, Dumont recognized
one of them as Lond. The mage's companion was clad

DANCE OF THE DEAD         95

in a dark cloak that hid his face completely. The two
men came on board. The throng of happy, chattering
people parted for them unconsciously, their pleasure
not abating a bit. Lond and his comrade walked up the
ramp onto the main deck, heading directly for Dumont.
As they drew closer, the wind shifted and the captain
grimaced. A terrible stench was emanating from the
two, borne on the hot, muggy breeze.

"I have completed the first part of my own perform-
ance. May we retire to your cabin. Captain?" came
Lond's raspy whisper.

Dumont frowned, clenching his pipe between his
teeth- He tried to concentrate on its fruity fragrance.

"Who is your friend?" he demanded. The stranger
kept his head down and his face turned away.

"You shall meet him momentarily. Captain. Let us go
to your room."

"You will not toy with me. If you won't introduce me,
you and your stinking friend can leave right now."

Lond sighed. "Very well. Captain. Although there is in
truth no need, for you know this man."

Lond stepped in front of the stranger and rearranged
the hood so that Dumont could see the newcomer's
face clearly. The captain stepped back, eyes wide.

it was Handsome Jack.

The corpse's ugly face was still recognizable, but the
first stages of decay had begun to set in on its two-day-
dead body. Its skin was a sickly gray, and its milky eyes
were unfocused. Dumont's startled gaze dropped to the
dead man's stomach, and he pulled aside the cloak
enough to see dried blood encrusted on the white shirt.

"No," he whispered. "You're deadi"

"Yes, Captain Dumont, he is," Lond agreed, "Now,
may we retire to your cabin?"




EIOHT

"You're goin' to go where?" The man's face grew pale.

"Through the swamp," Dumont repeated with
strained patience. "How familiar are you with its water-
ways?"

The would-be sailor shook his head rapidly. "Sorry,
Captain Dumont. I'd love to join you, but I'll not be goin'
nowhere near that place. There's bad magic in there,
there is. Ain't nobody told you? That's the home of the
Lord of the Dead!"

It was the fourteenth time this morning Dumont had
heard the "advice," and it took every ounce of control
he possessed not to stand up and throttle the man.

"I have heard that, yes," the captain replied. "If you do
not wish to sign up, you may go."

The man opened his mouth as if to say more, but a
good look at the anger in Dumont's eyes apparently
changed his mind. He bowed clumsily and hastened
back down to the ramp.

Dumont, seated at a small table on the bow of the
main deck, frowned to himself. He had thought it would
be easy to hire a few new crew members after last
night's opening performance had been so well received-
Dumont had not bargained on how terrified these peo-
ple were of the swamp,

DANCE OF THE DEAD         97

"They were turned out thicker than wolves in Arkan-
dale earlier," he growled to Dragoneyes, who was loung-
ing against the railing.

"Not to worry. There'll be a couple willing to face the
swamp, I'm sure," the mate replied, concentrating on
his whittling. The breeze stirred his silver hair. He
seemed to take no interest in the proceedings, though
he was discreetly observing everything with his slitted,
amber eyes. Only his pose and dress were casual.

Dumont, in sharp contrast, was dressed in full uni-
form. The sun glinted brightly on the shiny gold but-
tons and braids of the blue outfit, and his green eyes
raked the potential crewmen more obviously than did
Dragoneyes. The next applicant stepped up to the ta-
ble.

Dumont glanced up. There was something familiar
about this one. "Do I know you, son?" he inquired po-
litely.

The youth smiled. "No, Captain."

"Name?" Dumont asked briskly.

"Willen."

The captain duly inscribed the youth's name on the
parchment. "Present occupation?"

"None."

"Residence?"

"The swamp, until about—oh, three, four days ago."

Dumont glanced up from the parchment. "I must," he
drawled sarcastically, "hear the explanation for this"

Wilten met Dumont's gaze and smiled disarmingly.
"Well, Captain, I grew up in the swamp. My mother was
a hermit, and she took me with her when I was a baby."

The captain didn't avert his gaze from Wilten's, but he
noticed that Dragoneyes had stopped whittling. That
was a clear sign that the crewman was interested in a
candidate. Dumont continued.

"What are your qualifications for working aboard my
vessel? Have you ever served on a boat before?"

98 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Willen looked a bit abashed, and his grin turned
slightly sheepish. "Well, truth be told, no, sir. Unless
you count the canoes we use in the swamp. We call
them pirogues, and I know those very well. Even know
how to make them out of cypress logs, I know the
swamp well, too."

He leaned forward slightly and placed his hands on
the table. All hint of shamefacedness was gone. re-
placed by a quiet competence. Willen continued.

"I know every turn, where the currents flow fast and at
what time of year, what's underneath every foot of the
water's surface. I know what's dangerous and what isn't,
how to avoid trouble and how to treat it when it comes
looking for you.

"The rest of the folk around these parts, they're
scared of the swamp. They don't know a thing about it
except the superstitions, and they don't want to get
close enough to it to learn anything more than that. You
ask them. They won't want to go. If you've a mind to
head on down there, well, you won't find anyone better
suited than I am to take you through it."

There was nothing in Willen's manner that bespoke a
braggart. Dumont decided that the young man was tell-
ing the truth. He narrowed his jade eyes.

Brynn's discovery of the light creatures was the only
thing of interest his men had discovered in Souragne
thus far. The little port town, though delightfully cor-
rupt in some places, was disappointingly normal. Few
here knew any magic at alt, apparently. Certainly no
one—other than Lond, of course—had any knowledge
or item worthy of Dumont's attention.

It would be foolish to traverse the swamp without a
guide. Dumont was also in desperate need of another
pilot. Handsome Jack was first drunk, then dead, and
now a mindless, walking corpse. The enthusiastic youth
before him seemed to be a gift from the heavens.

The captain turned his gaze back to the piece of

DANCE OF THE DEAD         99

parchment and circled Willen's name.

"Where can 1 reach you if 1 need you, Will?" He delib-
erately changed the youth's name. If the boy had an
ego...

"I'm here and there. I won't go far, though. You'll be
able to find me easily enough if you want to."

"Well, then. I'll be talking to you more later."

Willen's face split into a big grin. "Thank you. Cap-
tain Dumont!" He glanced over at the watching Dragon-
eyes and gave him the same friendly smile, then
sauntered down the ramp. whistling.

Dumont turned his attention to his first mate, and to
his surprise found the half-elf watching Willen's retreat.
There was a slight smile on Dragoneyes' lips. He turned
his amber gaze on his captain.

"I like that man, Captain. You could do a lot worse
than hire him" He resumed his whittling.

Dragoneyes' attitude was curious. The crewman
didn't much like anyone except Dumont, and the cap-
tain made a mental note of the half-elf's comment.

"What do you mean, you are going through the
swamp?" Lond demanded.

The mage and the captain were in Dumont's cabin, a
few hours after the last crew candidate had left the ship.
The Pirate's Pleasure was in performance on the deck
below them. and strains of the music floated in occa-
sionally. Its sweet, innocent melodies were a vivid con-
trast with the scene of darkness and death that was
playing itself out around Dumont.

For his part, the captain did not permit himself to be-
come angry. He stood, towering over Lond's slight
frame. Even the two dead men who stood at the mage's
side didn't worry Dumont.

"1 mean exactly what I said. You want to get out of

100 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Souragne? Fine- You have passage aboard my boat, but
La Demoiselle du Musarde is leaving via the swamp. The
only thing of interest in this boring little hole has come
from there, and I want to find more. I've told you how
my boat works, what—and who—we use to make her
what she is. My goat is to make La Demoiselle legend-
ary."

"if you travel through that darkness, you will pass in-
to legend!" the mage protested.

"Just what is in there that has everybody so terri-
fied?" Dumont stepped closer, and Lond averted his
shadowed face. "You said when we first met that you
knew what was in the swamp. Tell me."

The black-ctoaked figure did not reply at once. Then,
he chuckled throatily.

"Death, Captain Dumont. Death dwells in the swamp.
But Death dwells aboard your lovely showboat, too ...
death under my control." He walked behind Brynn,
stroking the crewman's back almost affectionately as
he passed.

Both corpses stared ahead impassively. Brynn, in Du-
mont's mind, was the real triumph of Lond's obviously
powerful magic. The riverboat captain had seen zom-
bies before. One tended to run into many horrible
things if one traveled enough, and Dumont had been
steaming up and down dark waterways for over twenty
years. Handsome Jack's appearance had startled him
badly, but had not horrified or surprised him.

Brynn, however, was something else again. He was
capable of passing for a living being. Dumont had con-
cocted a story about Brynn having contracted swamp
fever, an illness that left the red-haired crewman listless
and smelling rather foul. The zombie was lifelike
enough that no one had questioned the explanation.
Lond had promised more such crewmen—crewmen
who never ate or complained and who could work tire-
lessly.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         101

"I am an ambitious man myself. Captain," Lond re-
sumed. "I appreciate your desires, but a wise man rec-
ognizes the value of discretion. You already have the feu
foltets. They are unique to this place. Are they not
enough for you?"

"Oh, so that's what the little lights are called. Feu fol-
tets, you say? Like witl-o'-the-wisps, are they?"

Lond's cloaked body radiated tension. "You can't se-
riously be thinking about navigating this huge boat
down those tiny waterways."

Dumont reached for his pipe and leisurely began to
pack it. "That is precisely what I'm going to do."

"Handsome Jack is in no condition to pilot a boat."

Dumont glanced at the corpse and uttered a harsh,
quick laugh. "That's for certain. I've hired a new pilot
today, a young man who grew up in the swamp. He'll get
us through safely."

The captain had not, in fact, actually hired Willen.
However, Lond's reluctance only whet his appetite to
explore the swamp, and it would be foolish not to hire
the only man who knew the area—and who was willing
to travel through the swamp.

Lond fell silent. "You leave me no choice. I wish to
leave this island, and 1 must travel by the route you
choose." He exited without another word. Brynn fol-
lowed, as did Handsome Jack. Dumont opened the win-
dow to let the stench of death escape, lit his pipe, then
went to the theater to enjoy the rest of the evening's
show.

The performance went beautifully, and Dumont al-
most wished that he could linger in Port d'Elhour. Al-
most. After the show, he asked the cast to remain in the
theater while the patrons went up to the main deck to
partake of refreshments.

Larissa had no idea what Dumont wished to talk with
the cast about, but she was mistrustful. Casilda, how-
ever, was excited.

102 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"Maybe we'll dock here for a long time. The audi-
ences seem to be enjoying themselves, and I know f
am," she gushed.

The dancer shook her head slowly. "I hope so, but 1
doubt it somehow. Uncle never likes to stay in one
place very long."

Their chatter was cut short as Brynn shuffled toward
the back of the room, passing them without sparing a
glance. Larissa shuddered to herself. She had never
much cared for Brynn, with his icy eyes and aura of
tightly leashed violence. After he had recovered from
the swamp fever, though, she found him even less ap-
pealing. He looked paler than usual, as though the brief
illness had sapped his vigor, and moved with a deliber-
ateness that he had never before exhibited. It was obvi-
ous he hadn't bathed in days, too. He seemed polite
enough, though of few words. But it was his gaze that
really unsettled the young woman. It was a dull stare,
quite unlike his customary, piercing scrutiny, as if there
was no life behind the brown orbs.

Casilda, too, felt uncomfortable around him. "He
gives me the shudders," she told Larissa in a low voice.
Her friend nodded.

Dumont walked onto the stage and faced his cast and
crew. "Ladies and gentlemen, I know we've enjoyed our
time in Port d'Elhour, but there are too few patrons here
to make it worth our while. We'll be in port a few more
days, then we'll be leaving."

The jovial mood dissipated somewhat. "Into the
mists again," someone muttered.

Dumont heard the comment. "Yes, into the mists. We
have traveled them safely before, haven't we? Before
we leave Souragne altogether, I'd like to take a look at
what's on the other side of the island. We'll be traveling
through the swamp to reach the southern parts."

Low murmuring began to ripple through the room.
Some had heard rumors about the swamp, and even

DANCE OF THE DEAD         103

those who hadn't felt little desire to enter the forbid-
ding, muddy waters.

Larissa grew pale, her eyes wide. Airmoss dripping
from the trees... snafces twined around trunks of brood-
ing cypress... dark waters, broken only by some hidden
creature dwelling in the depths . . . dancing lights that
cailedtoher... Angrily, she shook her head to ciear the
eerie images from her mind.

Dumont ignored the reaction of his cast. "We have
someone who'll take us safely through. Will, come up
here. I'd like to introduce you to my cast and crew,"
Beaming paternally, he motioned the young man for-
ward.

Smiling sheepishly, Willen joined Dumont on the
stage. His eyes found Larissa's, and the smile widened.
He gave her a wink.

"Well, he's quite handsome," Casilda whispered,
"even if he is a bit bold. Did you see that wink?"

Larissa nodded, feeling a blush creep to her cheeks.

The dancer hadn't ever really expected to see the
strange young man again, arid at this moment wasn't
sure that it was fortuitous. Handsome? Yes, she sup-
posed he was that, especially with the light catching the
glimmer of mirth in his brown eyes. But he aroused in
her more than admiration with that smile and those
deep eyes, and the feeling was disconcerting. He threat-
ened to thoroughly disrupt the comfortable routine into
which Larissa had fallen over the last eight years.
Through her doubt and strange attraction, one emotion
welled to the surface: she was suddenly quite glad that
he was on La Demoiselle.

She came back to herself with a start and realized
that Dumont had been introducing Willen. Larissa
frowned to herself. Dumont never introduced a new
crewman to the cast, much less encouraged him to min-
gle with them, as the young man was now doing. She
raised a white eyebrow, watching the youth chatting an-

104 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

imatedly with everyone from Gelaar to Sardan.

"Well. I'm going to say hello," announced Casilda,
smoothing her raven curls. Larissa grinned, but hung
back a bit. She suspected that Dumont wouldn't be
nearly as fond of his newest crewman if he guessed that
Willen and Larissa had already met—and under what
circumstances.

"And this is Dragoneyes," continued Dumont. Willen
stuck out a big hand. The half-etf hesitated, then shook
it. A slow, tentative smile spread across his sharp fea-
tures.

"Welcome aboard," he said in tones that sounded like
he truly meant the words.

Willen stared openly at the feature that had given
Dragoneyes his nickname. "Your pupils are slitted, just
like a snake's!" he exclaimed. "How interesting! Why
are they like that?"

Larissa shuddered in distaste. The analogy she'd
used, when she thought about it, was a cat. Cats were
much more pleasant than snakes.

There was a sudden silence. Dumont's righthand
man was almost as much feared and avoided as the cap-
tain himself. No one had ever dared ask Dragoneyes
about his curious eyes before. For a moment, no one
moved. Dumont himself waited for the half-elf s reply.

Then Dragoneyes smiled again. "My mother always
said my father was a snake. 'Course, there are some that
said he was a monster, but never to her face. Glad I got
my mother's teeth, though. Kind of hard to chew with
fangs."

Out of profound relief, everyone laughed much
harder than the joke warranted—everyone except for
Willen. who squeezed Dragoneyes' hand one last time
and gave him a look of tremendous pity. Only the first
mate and the observant Larissa noticed. A shadow of
pain brushed across the half-elfs face for a moment,
then was replaced by the emotionless mask.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         105

"Dragoneyes, I'm going to take Will downstairs and
teach him how to handle the supplies."

Dragoneyes raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure. Cap-
tain?"

Dumont frowned. He didn't like his judgment ques-
tioned, not even by Dragoneyes, and certainly not in
front of the cast and crew.

"Of course I'm sure. And tell Jahedrin that! want Will
instructed in piloting. He's big enough to manage the
wheel, and he's going to be our guide. He ought to know
how to handle the boat. The rest of you." he said, ad-
dressing the cast and crew who still pressed about Wil-
len, "on deck. We've patrons waiting."

Larissa turned to leave with the others, but a hand
closed on her arm. "Miss Snowmane," said Wiilen as
she turned to face him, "I just wanted to say how nice it
is to finally meet you after watching you perform."

His face and voice revealed nothing but courteous
sincerity, and a surge of relief at his discretion went
through Larissa.

"Thank you," she replied in a like tone. At the last
minute, she remembered to use the nickname the cap-
tain had given him, not the name he had used to intro-
duce himself. "Welcome aboard La Demoiselle du
Musarde, Wilt." She smiled politely at Dumont, then
went up to the main deck.

Willen and Dumont watched her go. "Of all the many
treasures on my boat, she is the brightest. Do you find
her beautiful, Will?"

"Anyone would, sir."

Dumont laughed. "A perfect answer, both compli-
mentary and cautious. I'll tell you what I tell all my
men—keep your hands off her and you'll keep your
hands. Now, as to our present business," He turned to
face the youth, his arms folded across his chest. "La De-
moiselle's a showboat. We entertain. And the better we
can make our entertainment, the more profit we turn.

106 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Simple enough. You've seen the show. The etf Gelaar is
responsible for some of the wonderful effects. But that's
not all there is to this boat, not by any means."

He strode to a door at the back of the theater. It was
fairly well concealed, painted to blend in with the rest of
the wall, but certainty not hidden. Dumont fished out a
large ring of keys and located the appropriate one. He
inserted it into the lock and whistled a series of notes.
The key started to glow faintly, and the door unlocked.
Willen raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"It's a key, certainly, but it's also magical," Dumont
explained, pulling the door open and descending a
small, dark stairway. Willen followed. "There are certain
notes you have to whistle, which I'll teach you later. The
door can't be opened without both the key and the
song."

As they descended into the darkness, Dumont whis-
tled again and the key ring began to glow, illuminating
their way with a gentle blue tight. Dumont glanced back
at Willen.

"I know all this magic must be disconcerting to you,
but you'll get used to it. La Demoiselle practically teems
with magic, and she damn well ought to, after all the
years of effort I've put into her."

The stairs ended, and Willen looked around. The
large room contained boxes, pieces of equipment, ex-
tra chairs, tools, sacks of flour, and other items.

"We often have to travel for long periods of time be-
tween towns," Dumont said. "and I don't like to be
caught short. This is the main storage area. Back here's
where we keep the livestock." Dumont turned to an-
other door and opened it with a magical key, motioning
for Willen to enter.

Without warning the young man found himself
sprawled facedown on a pile of hay. He heard the door
slam behind him and hastened to get up, but Dumont
planted a heavy boot on his neck.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         107

"You'll get up slowly, my lad, and take a good look
around. If I'm not satisfied with your reaction, you don't
leave this room alive."

The captain removed his boot. Hardly breathing, Wil-
len rose, easing himself into a sitting position. Only
then did he look around the room.

It was about the same size as the first storage room.
The only illumination came from Dumont's keys,
though there were a few empty sconces on the walls.
The floor was covered with dirty hay, and Willen saw the
livestock that Dumont had mentioned—two calves,
several chickens, a few sheep, and pigs. They stared
back at him without curiosity, it was not the ordinary
livestock that stunned the young man, however. The
startling thing was the other creatures also kept in the
dark, close room.

La Demoiselle was obviously a showboat. It was also a
slave galley.

A small, slight, dark-haired human woman was
shackled to the walls. She might have been pretty once,
but now she was emaciated arid dirty, and only dull fear
burned in her large, unusually round eyes as she regard-
ed Willen. Her clothes hung in tattered rags about her
bony frame.

A gigantic fox, the size of one of the calves, lay in one
corner. As he glared at Dumont, a tow rumble began in
his throat. He. too, was securely chained, and a harness
of sorts crisscrossed his white breast.

In a golden cage hung from the ceiling a raven hud-
dled. Nearby, a black cat with a leather collar was busy
grooming itself. Its chain was just short enough to pre-
vent it attacking the raven. It tried to studiously ignore
Dumont and Willen. At one point, though, it paused in
its cleaning and fixed the two intruding humans with a
gaze that radiated hatred.

As Willen watched, the animal's fur began to change
color. A bright blue began at its tail and bled across its

108 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

body, and the creature hissed, flattening its ears. Wilten
saw that its incisors were twice as long as those of a nor-
mal cat. The sound awakened a reptile that looked like
a miniature dragon. Confined to a small, barred cage.
the creature raised its red, scaly head and narrowed its
gold eyes as it looked at Dumont.

"You see before you my collection," Dumont drawled.
"Each of these creatures contributes something of val-
ue to the boat or to me personally. I've harvested them
from all over. Let me introduce you. This pretty thing,"
he said, kneeling by the brunette woman, "is an owl
maid from Falkovnia. When I permit her, she becomes a
night bird and scouts ahead for me. Isn't that right, Yelu-
sa, my sweet?" He reached out and stroked her grimy
cheek possessively. She stayed quiet and unresisting,
her eyes lowered.

Dumont rose and continued. "The fox is from Riche-
mulot. The fellow has staggering speed. I can tap it for
the boat when 1 need to make a hasty exit. Bushtail, are
you hungry? Hmmm?" The fox regarded him with glit-
tering eyes. "We haven't fed him for two days now. He's
been uncooperative recently. Bet you'd love one of
those chickens right now, wouldn't you?"

Bushtail bared his teeth. "You bastard." he growled. "I
would sink my teeth into you, except you are so wicked
you would make me sick. Bah!" The fox shook his head
as if to get a bad taste from his mouth.

The captain only laughed and went on. "The ravenkin
hails from Barovia, and he knows more about the histo-
ry of every land hereabouts than any other creature I've
run across. He knows better than to lie to me, don't you,
Skreesha?"

The bird cawed, but no noise issued forth. Dumont
chuckled. "The cage keeps him silent. His knowledge is
only for me, not his fellow prisoners.

"Colorcats," he continued, "are extremely rare-
Tney're found only in Q'Henna. Their fur is invaluable

DANCE OF THE DEAD         109

to Gelaar's illusion spells- The pseudodragon, whom I
picked up in Mordent, will occasionally cooperate in my
spell casting—when he's been hurt enough."

The captain turned his gaze toward his newest crew-
man. "So, Will, are you impressed with my collection?"

The youth searched Dumont's eyes, then looked
around at the prisoners. "Impressed is hardly the word,"
he said slowly. He stuck out his hand, and Dumont
hauled him to his feet. "What you've done is truly
amazing, Captain Dumont. And I see that you've al-
ready found the feu follets"

Dumont's eyes narrowed. "What do you know about
them?"

Willen smiled. "A lot. I'm from the swamp, remem-
ber? Feu follets are related to will-o'-the-wisps, except
instead of feeding on pain and unhappiness, they live
on good feelings. Perfect for your showboat."

Dumont grinned avariciously. He had made the right
choice in hiring this young man. Willen couldn'i have
reacted better if he had read the captain's mind.

"Are there other creatures in the swamp that you
think we could use?"

The youth's smile widened. "Hundreds," he said.
"And I can take you right to them."

"Will, you almost make me believe in the gods
again."

"There are those in the swamp, too."

Dumont threw back his head and laughed.

An hour later, Willen bade good night to his new em-
ployer and retired to his cabin. Alone, he closed the
door, locked it, then pressed his flushed face up against
the cool wood. He let down the barrier he had erected
for the evening, and a tidal wave of emotions flooded
him, causing him to gasp and then sob with pain. Un-

110 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

caring, he slid down the door, shaking as tears poured
down his face.

During the time he had been in Dumont's livestock
area, he had been buffeted with the prisoners' emo-
tions. Some of them had been chained down there for
years. He felt their physical pain and emotional an-
guish, their despair, their hatred. The young man let
himself weep until he had regained a finger hold on
control, then rose shakily. He poured some water into a
basin and splashed his face, forcing himself to calm
down.

A few minutes later, Willen left the cabin and went
down to the main deck. The guests had returned to
their homes on shore, and the cast and crew had retired
for the night. Only a watchman or two patrolled a lazy
route about the boat. As nonchalantly as possible, Wil-
len strolled up to the railing and leaned over, ostensibly
gazing at the waxing moon's reflection in the gently
rolling water.

As soon as they felt his presence, the little lights held
in magical chains to the boat began to shine more
brightly. Their colors changed swiftly, and they crowded
as close to Wilten as their magical bonds would let
them. Again, Willen felt tears sting his eyes and hastily
blinked them back. He glanced around. Fortunately, he
was alone for the moment.

Willen extended his big hand toward one of the
lights. Its radiance increased, and it blinked quickly- An
answering light began to glow softly from the ring on
the youth's right hand. He accepted the creature's com-
fort and felt the ice in his chest begin to melt.

"Oh, my brothers, I am so sorry," he whispered.




NINE

" 'Morning, Miss Snowmane," Willen chirped.

Larissa, hastening up the stairs on her way back from
breakfast, smiled briefly at him and stepped aside to let
him pass. Instead, Willen appeared to miss a step and
bumped into her heavily. She stumbled, barely catching
her balance, then felt his boot slide along her ankle.
The dancer crashed to the stairs in a graceless heap,
staring up at the new crewman with a startled and irri-
tated expression. He had deliberately tripped heri

"Oh, Miss Snowmane!" Willen exclaimed as he
grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet, "I am so
sorry! That was very clumsy of me! Are you all right?"

His expression was concerned and chagrined, but not
overly so. Something crinkled against Larissa's palm,
and her hand closed over a small piece of paper. Sud-
denly Willen's eyes were not casually polite, but leaping
with an intense light.

Larissa found her tongue. "Why, yes. Will, I'm fine.
Thank you- If you'll excuse me?" She swept coolly past
him, her hand clutching the scrap of paper he had
slipped her. Larissa waited until she was safely in her
cabin with the door locked before unfolding Willen's
note with trembling hands.

112 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Miss Snoirmane,

/ haue to speak to you on a matter of the utmost
importance. My shift ends soon, and I witi be wait-
ing for you at the Two Hares in an hour.

Please come.

Larissa sat on her bed, thinking and chewing her
lower lip. She read the message twice, then set the pa-
per in a smalt dish and touched a candle flame to it. The
paper twisted as it burned, smoking and turning black.
Larissa watched, but her mind was not on the burning
paper.

She knew she ought to just leave welt enough alone,
that to get any more involved with the handsome young
crewman simply meant trouble.

Nevertheless, an hour later she was waiting outside
the Two Hares.

Despite the sultriness of the day, she had pulled on a
lightweight cloak and tugged the hood low over her
head. Her white hair was unmistakable, and she wanted
no word of her whereabouts to drift back to Dumont's
eager ears.

"I'm so glad you came," said Willen's warm, sweet
voice. She turned, a bit startled. She had not heard him
approach. He extended a hand and Larissa hesitated,
then took it.

"Your hand," she gasped as she felt its roughness on
her palm. She glanced down and saw that his palm was
crusted with scabs from recent and present blisters.
Where the skin was not lacerated it was as soft and pink
as her own. Quickly Willen clenched his fist.

"Come," he said softly- "It wouldn't do for any of the
captain's men to see me with you."

"Where are we going?"

Willen hesitated, then said, "Someplace where I can
be sure we'll be safe."

Larissa narrowed her eyes, slightly suspicious, but

DANCE OF THE DEAD

113

Willen was already walking swiftly away from the inn.
Questions tumbled in her mind like an avalanche, but
she held her tongue.

They walked in silence for a time, striding down the
road. As on the night she and Dumont had left the mar-
ket square, the business area of the town fell away. How-
ever. Willen was not taking them to mansions or
plantations, but into a much wilder area.

Larissa began to grow apprehensive. The earth was
becoming increasingly soggy. She kept her voice
steady when she asked "Willen. are you taking me to
the swamp?"

He nodded. "It's safe there. We—"

Larissa stopped, anger flashing in her blue eyes. "i
am going nowhere near that horrible place." She turned
on her heel and marched back along the road. her back
rigid and her stride swift.

He was beside her in an instant, his hands warm and
strong on her shoulders. "Because of what happened
there when you were a child. I'm sorry. 1 didn't think."

She twisted, pulling free and turning to face him.
"Who told you about that?"

He seemed uncomfortable. "No one." She threw him
a disgusted look and walked on. "Larissa, wait. You're in
danger!"

"Spin me another tale."

He grew agitated, almost frantic. "You have to believe
me. You could be killed. or—You have to trust me on
this. Did I let you down before?"

Her steps slowed, halted. He was right. He had never
given her any cause to doubt him, up to this very mo-
ment. She turned to face him, still skeptical.

"Let me prove that you can trust me. Give me your
hand."

Slowly, reluctantly, Larissa did so. Swiftly he covered
it with his and gazed into her eyes, penetrating, it
seemed, to her very soul. She stared back, hardly

114 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

breathing, transfixed.

"Your hair wasn't always this color. It turned white
when you were a child, here in Souragne."

She nodded, and he continued. "You didn't grow up
in a real home, because your father was always travel-
ing. When you were twelve, he ran off and left you, and
since then, the showboat has been your home. The only
thing you've kept from your childhood is a silver locket,
with a scrap of your own blond hair in it.

"You hear drums from the swamp at night, but you
don't tell anyone about it because no one else seems to
hear them." He paused, his hands tightening about
hers, his dark eyes gazing into her soul. "/ hear them,
Larissa."

Her mouth went suddenly dry.

"You haven't wept since you were twelve. You're
afraid of tears, afraid of being weak, scared to death
that weakness will be your downfall."

The dancer gasped. It was her dark, hard, proud se-
cret, that terror of tears. There was no way Willen could
have known about this, not unless—

"You said I'm in danger," Larissa whispered. "Go on,
then. I'm listening."

It was a glorious sunset, and Casilda lingered a few
minutes longer than usual to enjoy the spectacle. She
propped her elbows up on the railing and rested her
slightly round cheek on her hands.

Here in Souragne, it seemed that the sun was closer
than it was in some of the other lands that La Demoiselle
had visited- The island was the warmest place Casilda
had ever traveled, certainly, and as the sun neared the
horizon it appeared enormous to the young woman.
Slowly, in its orange and yellow glory, the orb began to
sink below the horizon. The sky's hues cooled, taking

DANCE OF THE DEAD         115

on twilight shades. The water turned a darker color, too.
Casilda enjoyed the sight, but her thoughts started
drifting toward Larissa.

Casilda and Larissa had been the closest of friends
for the last two years, ever since the singer had joined
La Oemotselie in Valachan. Larissa was easy company.
She never seemed to have any problems, and Casilda
envied her that. She, on the other hand, had wept on the
dancer's shoulder many a time, but had never had to
return the favor. This morning, when Larissa had left for
a stroll in town, she seemed uneasy. She hadn't re-
turned yet, either. Casilda hoped her friend was all
right. She probably was; Larissa knew how to take care
of herself.

The sun was almost gone. With a sigh, she turned
away, ready to go to her cabin and prepare for the eve-
ning's performance.

"Hey, Casilda!" came Sardan's voice. "Can you do me
a favor?" His cabin door was partially open, and he
peered out at her as he fiddled with the ties on his volu-
minous shirt. "I left my mandolin in the pilothouse. Can
you get it for me?"

Sardan often played for the pilots. It kept them awake
and alert during what could often be a rather dull shift,
and the hardworking crewmen appreciated it-

Casilda frowned. "Sardan, my dear, I have to make
the same curtain time as you, and I haven't even started
dressing,"

His boyish face grew pleading. "Oh. come on.
Please? I don't have my trousers on."

"You know cast members aren't allowed in the pilot-
house. You're the only exception. The captain will be fu-
rious."

"It's an off shift right now. Nobody'1! be there. It's
right by the—"

"Oh, all right."

"Casilda, beloved, my heart is yours."

116 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"Mine and every other woman's," the singer retorted.
She was annoyed, but she hastened to the task and
scurried up to the sun deck. She glanced around to
make sure there was no one about, then quickly as-
cended the stairs to the pilothouse.

There, on the chaise, lay Sardan's mandolin, and she
picked it up carefully. The curious singer couldn't help
glancing around a bit. She was amazed at the size of the
wheel. She had never imagined it would be that big.

Suddenly she tensed.

"Be right with you, Caleb," came Jahedrin's voice.

His footsteps were coming up to the pilothouse. Ca-
silda was sure of it. She bit her lip, then saw the stairway
that led toward the captain's cabin. She could hurry
down there and leave Dumont's cabin through the other
door. Casilda had heard the captain was in town, and it
was better than getting caught in the pilothouse. As
quietly as possible, she descended the narrow stairs
and closed the door behind her.

She hadn't been seen. Casflda closed her eyes in re-
lief. Grasping the mandolin firmly, she turned toward
the door. She had just reached for the knob when it
started to turn.

For a second, fear flooded her. Then she looked fran-
tically around the room, searching for someplace, any-
place, to hide. Her eyes fell on the partially opened
wardrobe, and she ducked inside, pulling the trouble-
some mandolin close to her chest. She left the door
open a crack, so that she wouldn't be trapped.

Dumont entered just as she pulled the door nearly
closed. He strode over to one of the chairs and eased
himself down, apparently waiting for someone or some-
thing. A few seconds later, there came a loud knock.
Dumont rose and went to the center of the room. He
pulled aside the rug and revealed a trap door. He tugged
it open while Tane, a big, swarthy man, pushed from be-
low.

DANCE OF THE DEAD        117

"Can you manage?" Dumont asked.

"Aye, sir," Tane replied. He disappeared from view for
an instant, than reappeared carrying one end of a box
about four feet long. Something appeared to be alive
inside of it, for Casiida heard rustling and thumping
noises.

Dragoneyes emerged carrying the other end of the
box. They heaved it up onto the floor, then sat down for
a moment to catch their breath. Dragoneyes rubbed his
sore arms and glared at the box.

"Boy, you sure cause a lot of trouble, don't you?" the
hatf-elf said, kicking the box viciously.

A muffled cry came from within. It sounded like a
child's voice. From her hiding place, Casilda gasped.
Were they kidnapping someone? Who? And why?

Dumont stood staring down at the box. "Well.
Dragoneyes," he boomed, "what have you found?"

Tane began to pry off the top of the box with a crow-
bar while Dragoneyes explained. "Easiest catch yet,
Captain. We saw him hopping around and set a trap.
Bang, we got him. Had to tie him up- Noisy fellow, but
mighty stupid."

Tane had removed the top, and for a moment, noth-
ing happened. Casilda, so curious it was almost painful,
held her breath.

Slowly, two long brown ears appeared over the top. A
pair of whiskers next to a quivering nose tentatively
thrust out, followed by a smooth head and large, liquid,
fear-filled brown eyes. ft was the biggest rabbit Casilda
had ever seen, about the size of a large dog.

Dumont frowned. "Well, gentlemen, it's interesting, I
grant you, but I've seen big rabbits before. What can it
do for me and my boat?"

Dragoneyes grinned, his gold eyes crinkling with
knowing amusement. "Watch this," he said. The hatf-elf
leaned into the box, and the frightened rabbit cringed.

"Hey," barked Dragoneyes. "Say something, rabbit."

118 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"No," replied the rabbit. Its voice was clear and un-
mistakable, the high treble of a child. "I'm not going to
let him know I can—oops." The brown eyes looked very
contrite, and the ears lowered in shame.

Dragoneyes laughed aloud. "Like I said, Captain.
He's mighty stupid."

Dumont's expression had changed, and he rubbed
his hands together happily. "Stupid, yes, but unique!
Tres bien, Dragoneyes! Who did you say found him?"

"I did," said the half-elf, adding loyalty, "but Tane was
with me,"

"You are both relieved of tonight's duties. Visit the
purser, tell him I said to give you a week's wages, and
enjoy yourselves, boys." The two men grinned happily.
"But first, take our new friend down and put him with
the others- Oh, wait just one moment." Dumont peered
at the rabbit. "What do you eat. little fellow?"

The rabbit remained stubbornly silent, its nose
twitching nervously.

Dumont heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Why, then, we
won't feed you anything."

"Oh!" gasped the rabbit. "Don't do that!"

"So what do you eat? Grass and carrots like other rab-
bits?"

The rabbit shuddered in apparent distaste. "No! I
can't eat that! I have to have meat."

Dumont raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Meat?"

"Yes, preferably the insides of things. I love livers and
kidneys—and hearts. Hearts are my favorite- Do you
have a heart I can eat, please? I am a little hungry." It
bared its teeth, but judging by the way it cringed, the
gesture was meant to be placating. Its teeth were as
sharp as any fox's.

Dumont shook his head. "Well. my friend, we'll see
what we can do. You'll find things go easier if you coop-
erate. Tane, give the rabbit a heart or something before
you and Dragoneyes leave, will you?"

DANCE OF THE DEAD         119

"Sure thing, Captain," Tane replied, putting the top
on the box again and nailing it shut. The rabbit resumed
its crying. Tane and Dragoneyes picked up the box and
carried it back down the secret passageway. Once they
had disappeared from view, Dumont carefully covered
the door and left his cabin. At last the door slammed
shut, and the room fell silent.

For a long time, Casilda didn't move. She huddled on
the floor of the wardrobe, trembling- She had obviously
just been witness to something she wasn't supposed to
have seen, and it was terrifying. What if Dumont had de-
cided to change clothes for the performance and had
caught her spying on him? What might he have done?
And the rabbit—dear gods, a flesh-eating rabbit—and
they were going to put it with the others? What others?

Come on, Cas, she told herself, you got away with it.
And that. . . animal ... is none of your business. She
took a deep breath, took a last quick took to make sure
there was no one in the room, then pushed open the
wardrobe door.

And gasped. Just out of her sight, a shadow moved.
The singer recognized it as Lond, the new passenger. He
advanced toward her slowly, pulling his hood off. Her
eyes widened in terror.

"I think," said Lond menacingly, pouring some pow-
der from a small vial into his gloved right palm, "that
your understudy wilt be performing tonight."

"Dumont a slaver?" Larissa echoed incredulously.
Her eyes went hard. "Willen, that just isn't possible. 1
know him. I've grown up on that boat."

Willen looked at her with sympathy, but continued to
press his case. "Would the man you know kill one of his
own deck hands? Would he chase you through the
square after pressing his advances on you?"

120 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Larissa didn't want to remember, but she had to. She
recalled Handsome Jack's dying word—"Liza"—and
the sinister, unexpected change in Dumont from tender
guardian to predator.

She fe!t a sinking sensation in her stomach as the-re-
atity of her guardian's duplicity began to take hold. The
creatures Willen had described were sentient beings,
not zoo curiosities. Imprisoning them to use their mag-
ic for the boat was slavery. She did not doubt for a min-
ute that he had indeed seen the creatures; her faith in
her new friend was absolute.

"When 1 was younger—i think fifteen or so," she be-
gan in a low voice, "Uncle Raoul let me travel in town by
myself for the first time." She smiled a little in remem-
brance. "1 was so proud of myself—a little bit too proud.
I ended up getting the pouch that had alt my spending
money in it stolen.

"Well, Uncle found out about it and he was livid. He
found out who had stolen the money. He even tried to
be polite about it at first. 'I don't like to quarrel in a host-
ing town,' he always says. But, of course, the robbers
weren't about to give back the money, big old Captain
Dumont or no. So Uncle stormed back up to the boat
and put the crew to work. They dragged out this enor-
mous cable and hitched it to the house where the rob-
bers were making their stand. Then Uncle cried out, 'If 1
don't see my ward's money by the time this cable pulls
tight, you and your house'l! be bathing in the river!' "

Larissa was laughing at the memory despite the pain
of the awful news Willen had imparted, and he was glad
of it. She continued. "I never saw anyone move so fast. I
got my money back, every last copper. See, folks knew
Uncle, and they knew he'd do exactly what he said he
would."

Her smile faded, and there was pain in her blue eyes
as she lifted them to Willen. "That is the only Raout Du-
mont 1 ever knew. Hearing that he's a slaver ..."

DANCE OF THE DEAD        121

A thought occurred to her, and the pain on her face
deepened. "He wants to use me," she said softly. "He
has been using me, just as he's using those creatures.
I'm a slave, too."

They were sitting by the road, which was not well
traveled this far out of town. Larissa unconsciously
drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them- Filled
with sympathy, Willen reached to brush back a curt of
his companion's milk-white hair.

"I'm sorry."

She looked up at him, and there was determination
on her face. "Don't be," she said in a voice suddenly
strong. "I know the truth now. I can defend myself."

"Don't trust Lond for a moment, either," Willen con-
tinued. "He's at least as strong as Dumont, and maybe
even more dangerous."

She smiled a hard smile at that. "Don't worry. I would
never trust that man. When he first signed on board 1
wondered why Dumont would tolerate him. We've never
taken passengers before, and Lond seems so ... arro-
gant and sinister."

"We'd better be getting back," Willen noted sadly. "If
you're late for the show, it would make Dumont suspi-
cious. I've got more 1 need to tell you, but I'm not sure
when we'll have time. I don't want to speak to you on the
boat, but..."

"We'll find someplace," Larissa reassured him. Her
own heart was heavy with the bitter information Willen
had given her, but she was glad he had spoken. Now she
could take precautions against whatever dark forces
were at work aboard La Demoiselle du Musarde. She
slipped her hand in his as they walked back toward Port
d'Elhour.

They boarded separately, to arouse no suspicion, and
Larissa flew to her cabin. She dressed swiftly, then real-
ized that she still had to get the Eye from Durnont. A
shiver of fear rippled through her, but she ruthlessly

122 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

quelled it. If she behaved normally but kept her wits
about her, she should come to no danger.

She went to Dumont's cabin, took a deep breath, and
knocked on the door. Silence. Larissa knocked again,
then tried the door. It was locked, of course. Well, some-
one in the pilothouse would know where Dumont was.

"What did you need, my dear?" Dumont purred in her
ear.

She jumped, startled. He was smiling, but there was a
hardness about his eyes that indicated suspicion.

"Cinclel I... didn't see you come up. 1 need my amu-
let." Larissa kept her voice even and casual, and held
out her hand expectantly. Her heart was thumping
wildly.

Dumont frowned, and for a moment Larissa thought
he had seen her with Willen. "Your amulet?"

Relief swept through her. "Sorry, Uncle. I meant your
amulet, of course."

He nodded, satisfied. "Of course. Come in. my dear."

He unlocked the door and ushered her in. She de-
clined his offer of a chair and stood while he retrieved
the Eye. Dumont kept his treasures hidden in various
parts of the room, not all in one place. The amulet was
in a chest he kept in the wardrobe. As he swung the
door open, Larissa noticed the mandolin.

"Wait a minute," she said as he started to close the
door, "Isn't that Sardan's?" She stepped beside Dumont
and bent to pick up the instrument. "What's it doing in
here?"

"He often plays in the pilothouse. No doubt Tane or
Jahedrin put it here for me to give back to him." The
explanation didn't sound convincing, but Larissa nod-
ded as if she believed it.

"I'll take it to him," she volunteered. Dumont hesi-
tated, then handed it and the pendant to her. "See you
after the performance, Uncle." She smiled brightly and
left, heading for the theater.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         123

The audience was already seated. Larissa slipped the
pendant over her neck and heid the Eye shut. Invisible,
she easily slipped backstage. Sardan was pacing back
and forth nervously when she let go of the pendant and
appeared with the mandolin.

"Larissa, marry me," he exclaimed, gathering his in-
strument to him like a long-lost child. "Casitda was sup-
posed to fetch it for me but 1 guess it slipped her mind."

"That's not like Cas. She's usually—"

At that moment, Dumont stepped in front of the
crowd. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I regret to
inform you that Casilda Bannek will not be able to p!ay
the part of Rose in tonight's performance. Elann Kalidra
will be taking up the role, and we hope to have Miss
Bannek back with us soon. Thank you."

As the crowd murmured unhappily, Larissa felt a chill
creep through her. Sardan had not seen Casilda since
he had asked her to fetch the mandolin. Now she was ill,
yet she had been fine earlier that morning.

"Do you know what happened?" the dancer asked
Sardan, a creeping fear slowly spreading over her heart.

The handsome young actor shrugged. "The captain
says it's swamp fever."




The prisoners aboard the showboat were located di-
rectly beneath the theater, and as Willen unlocked the
door he could hear strains of "Alas! My Love Is No
More."

His feigned pleasure in the slaves had won Dumont
over completely, and the captain had given word to the
crew that Willen was now to be in charge of feeding the
creatures. The young crewman carried a large sack of
meat, freshly butchered. Alt the prisoners were carni-
vores.

He whistled the tune Dumont had taught him, and the
key turned easily. It was dark inside, but he had brought
a torch and reached to insert it in one of the sconces. He
yelped suddenly and nearly dropped the torch onto the
dry hay as he felt a sharp stinging in his ankle.

He looked down at the hissing pseudodragon. its
long tail, thin enough to stick through the bars of its
cage, had a large stinger on the end. Willen assumed
this was what the creature had attacked him with.

The animal glared up at him. Although it was stiil se-
curely confined in its cage, Willen had foolishly stepped
within reach. The other creatures were watching him si-
lently, their eyes flickering in the uncertain light.

The young man frowned. He secured the torch,

DANCE OF THE DEAD         125

dropped his sack and knelt near the pseudodragon,
though he was careful to stay far enough away to avoid
a second attack.

Little dragon, I mean you no harm. I am here to set you
free.

The pseudodragon's eyes narrowed, then Willen felt
it cautiously probing his thoughts. He did not attempt
to shield himself from the probe and after a moment
reached his fingers through the bars to the reptile. My
sting is dangerous, it told him, but I am glad the poison
has no affect on you.

"You have convinced the dragon, but for myself, I
trust you not," said the fox.

"Me neither," came a small, sad voice, "i don't trust
anybody anymore." Willen looked in the speaker's di-
rection and his eyes widened in horror.

"Bou/ci!" He sprinted over and fell to his knees beside
the trembling rabbit. All four of Bouki's feet were
bound with shackles. In addition, a thin wire noose was
strung about the creature's neck. The bonds forced
Bouki to sit upright; if he relaxed, the noose would
tighten.

Willen reached to hold the trapped animal, and the
rabbit squirmed in his arms. "Who're you?" he demand-
ed, his voice high and frightened,

"Don't you—oh, you wouldn't recognize me like this,
would you? The Maiden sent me."

Bouki's eyes widened. "You're here to rescue usi" he
exclaimed. The other occupants of the room tensed,
daring to allow a sliver of hope to brighten their eyes.
"Better hurry," the rabbit said, glancing at the fox.
"Bushtail keeps threatening to eat me."

Willen threw the fox a reproving glance. The animal
shrugged. "What can one do? 1 am a fox, he is a rabbit,
no?"

"This rabbit could eat you if he wanted to. What kind
of creature are you, anyway?"

126 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

The fox bridled and sat up straighten "My name is
Bushtaii, and I am the loah of the foxes."

Willen nodded respectfully. A loah was an animal
spirit, a magical hero to the creature's people- Loans
had a close link with the land in which they dwelt. Tak-
ing Bushtaii from Richemulot probably weakened the
fox's powers and caused him a great deal of pain.

"Then my friend here is your equal. Bouki is also his
people's hero."

"That, a hero?" Bushtail's tone dripped contempt.

Willen smiled. "Bouki has strengths, but not of the
mind- I thought foxes were clever. How did Dumont
manage to trick you, good Bushtaii?"

The fox growled, then suddenly chuckled. "Tbuche,
mon ami. I am put in my place."

"What is your plan? If, indeed, you really are here to
rescue us," interrupted Yelusa. Willen glanced at the owl
maid, who was shackled near the ravenkin. Her body
was slight and small, almost boyish. Her round face
housed sunken eyes, which gazed at him dully, and her
tangled, light brown hair fell just to her shoulders.

Willen glanced from her to the noble bird trapped in
the cage. He felt a pang of special sympathy for those
two. imprisonment such as this must be twice as tortur-
ous for avian creatures. He rose and went to Yelusa,
kneeling beside her.

"Lady, I have signed on to the boat to spy. The men,
including Dumont, have complete trust in me- I mean
them no harm, but I also mean to put an end to this." He
gestured to her chains. "I don't have a plan at the mo-
ment, but I won't abandon you."

He rose and began to distribute the creatures' food.
Every one of them pounced on the raw meat and began
to eat hungrily, "How often are you fed?" Witlen in-
quired.

With her mouth full of flesh and a trickle of blood run-
ning down her chin, Yelusa answered, "Only once in

DANCE OF THE DEAD         127

every three days. Dumont says he doesn't want to pam-
per us."

Jaws busy with his own meal, the pseudodragon
thought an image to Willen, of Dumont being tortured
to death in a variety of painful ways. Willen grinned. At
least the little dragon's spirit wasn't completely shat-
tered.

He sat back and watched the creatures eat. "Have any
of you tried to escape?" he asked.

Bushtaii shook his head and swallowed a chunk of
meat. "Escape without assistance is not possible- Sev-
eral times have 1 tried to call my people, but Dumont
somehow prevents it. I believe that these—" he pawed
at his harness scornfully "—negate our magic. We are
as simple creatures of the woods in this place."

Willen looked to Yelusa. "You say Dumont uses you
to scout ahead. Why can't you leave?"

She still regarded him with a trace of mistrust- "He
has my cloak of feathers. When I put it on, 1 become an
owl. But Dumont also has plucked one of my feathers,
and as long as he has that, I must return to the boat be-
fore dawn." Her eyes were haunted. "So, yes, I'm free,
but not really. It's almost worse this way."

Willen touched her hand sympathetically, but she
jerked it away. He wanted to linger, but could not afford
to arouse suspicion. He had already been gone longer
than was necessary to simply deliver the creatures'
food- He rose reluctantly.

"ill be back as soon as I can. Bouki, don't give up. I'll
get you out of here." He looked around the room, meet-
ing the eyes of every prisoner evenly. "All of you. 1
promise."

Three days passed before Dumont deemed Casilda
well enough to see people. When Larissa went to see

128 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

her friend, Cas was still in bed. She looked up at Larissa
with dull hazel eyes.

"How are you feeling?" Larissa asked, sitting at the
foot of the bed-

"Fine, thank you," replied Casilda in a monotone. Her
skin was pale, and she lay completely motionless.

Seeing the normally lively Casilda so still was unnerv-
ing, and Larissa sought to fill the silence with chatter.

"Your slender little understudy did a fine job singing,
but she couldn't do justice to your costume," she said
jokingly. "Nobody fills out that dress the way you dol"

Casilda did not smile in return, but regarded Larissa
steadily. Larissa continued, a bit thrown by the singer's
lack of reaction.

"I wish we didn't have to leave tomorrow. I'm not
looking forward to traveling through the swamp. There
will be far too many insects and snakes for my liking."

There was no response from Casilda.

"Will you be singing tonight?" Larissa's voice was
starting to grow taut with tension.

"Yes," replied Casilda in that same awful, dull voice.

"Well, I'd better let you get dressed then."

"Yes."

As she left Casilda's cabin, Larissa took the long way
around the sun deck to her own cabin. She passed by
the pilothouse and glanced up at it. Jahedrin was in-
structing Willen in navigation, pointing at things and
talking steadily, though Larissa was too far away to
hear.

She fixed Willen with an intent gaze, willing him to
glance in her direction. When he did, she let concern
flash in her eyes. His expression didn't change, but he
nodded ever so slightly- Larissa knew he had gotten the
message that something was wrong.

On this, their final performance in Port d'Elhour, Ca-
silda performed well, but there was something missing.
Larissa watched her intently from backstage, chewing

DANCE OF THE DEAD         129

her lower tip nervously. The notes were right on pitch,
the lines spoken correctly. Larissa's alarm increased
with every scene and reached a new level when it came
time for Casilda's solo.

As Rose, Cas knelt by Ftorian's "dead" body. Her
voice was pure, and Larissa tensed as she reached the
final line- Unaware of what she was doing, she mouthed
the lines along with Casitda.

"Like a dream at morning.
Like summertime, he dies!"

Casilda hit the high C perfectly, her voice sweet and
pure—and empty. The audience applauded spontane-
ously.

Nameless terror shuddered through Larissa. She had
always known the note was in Casilda's range, but how
had the singer conquered her fear of it? Willen, I have to
talk with you! she thought desperately to herself. The
music changed, and Larissa took a deep breath, took
control of her own fear, and leaped on stage as the Lady
of the Sea.

After the performance, Larissa changed clothes and
went onto the main deck to mix with the audience as
usual. Dumont waylaid her before she had a chance to
speak with anyone else.

"My dear, you've been avoiding me," he chided in a
friendly tone as he gently took her arm and propelled
her to the railing.

Larissa smiled tightly. "I'm glad Casilda was able to
perform on our last night in Port d'Elhour."

Dumont's eyes narrowed. "Yes, I'm glad she's feeling
better. But let us not talk of others."

Larissa's heart sank, and she averted her gaze from
his, looking out over the water. It was a clear night,
though steamy, as apparently all nights were in the ear-
ly summer in this land. The moon, which appeared

130 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

huge, was full and yellow. Larissa felt that she could see
every tiny wave on the calm gray surface of the water.
Out beyond the harbor, the mists roiled, waiting, eter-
nally patient.

"We used to be so close, you and I," Dumont mur-
mured. Larissa felt Dumont's hand sliding up her back,
felt it playing with her long, moon-silvered hair. "We
could be close again, my sweet. There are delights you
have not yet sampled, and—"

Larissa jerked away and fixed him with an angry
stare.

"Uncle, stop. This isn't going to work. Not now, not
tomorrow—not ever." Her mind wailed. Slaver! Betray-
er! But she kept the pain from showing.

The captain froze. "1 would not distress you, my dear,
though 1 wish I still had your trust."

He bowed slightly and left, but Larissa caught a
glimpse of black fury on his face before he turned it
away from her. Fear began to penetrate her outrage.

Willen had watched the interchange, had caught a
few of the words. Now he followed Dumont like a
shadow. In those he touched as he passed, Wilten plant-
ed the thought: forget. They returned to their conversa-
tion, and the next morning would have no recollection
of the handsome young man making his way through
the crowd.

As Willen had feared, the captain went to Lond's
cabin. Willen glanced around, but most of the crew was
either in town for a final celebration before departure or
else tending to the patrons on the main deck. The crew-
man pressed an ear to the door.

". . . know why my own magic doesn't work, but it
doesn't," Dumont was saying. He was raging, and his
voice came through quite clearly. "I'm running out—
damn it, haue run out—of patience with the wench. I
want her, and I want her now."

Willen had to strain to hear Lond's raspy voice. "Well,

DANCE OF THE DEAD        131

it will not be tonight. Captain. 1 must tax that faded pa-
tience of yours a little longer."

"But soon?"

"Soon."

The youth backed away in horror then hastened
down the stairs to the main deck and Larissa's side.
Flashing a grin to the mayor, who was chatting with the
dancer, he interrupted them graciously. Then he and
Larissa stepped away from the throng.

"I've been trying to—" began Larissa.

"I know. I'm sorry. They've been keeping me awfully
busy." He took a deep breath and sorted through the
thoughts careening around in his brain. "Larissa, you're
in danger."

"I know, you told me—"

Willen shook his head. "No. Immediate danger from
Dumont. Within the next day or so. You've got to get off
the boat once we're safely into the swamp."

Larissa was shocked. "Dumont's going to kill me?"

"He's made some kind of bargain with Lond. Some-
how Lond is going to use his magic to make you fall in
love with Dumont."

"Can he do that? I mean, I would think that if Uncle—
Dumont—wanted that, he'd have tried on his own."
Larissa felt horribly alone and trapped.

Wilien's face went hard. "Larissa, you don't know
Lond. I don't think Dumont even realizes what he's in-
volving himself with."

"Wait a minute. Isn't leaving the boat to go into the
swamp like crawling out of a cauldron into a cook-fire?"

Again, Willen shook his head. "The swamp won't hurt
you, not if you go on an errand for me. At least, 1 hope
not."

"Very reassuring." Her tone was flippant, but her
heart had started to beat rapidly. She had been dread-
ing the voyage into that steamy, dark marsh. The
thought of fleeing La Demoiselle and wandering around

132 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

in the swamp—

Willen took her hand, and suddenly she was calm
again. She saw the swamp through his eyes: a place of
death to the unwary, fraught with dangers and watching
eyes. Certainty, darkness and malevolence dwelled in
sunless pockets, but it was also a home to many inno-
cent creatures, a place where growth and death were
part of a cycle, not in conflict.

"I wish 1 could go with you," Willen was saying as
Larissa came back to herself, "but that's just not possi-
ble." Despite the reassuring vision Wilien had sent her,
Larissa remained hesitant.

"Yes, you do have the courage," he said in answer to
her unspoken words. "Your life, perhaps even your soul,
hinges on this. And the lives of others. Will you go,
Larissa?"

She licked dry lips, then looked into his concerned
brown eyes with what she hoped was confidence.

"Yes, 1 will. Tell me what I have to do."

The guests had departed, and the cast members had
retired to their cabins. Only Brynn. standing tireless
guard duty, saw Dumont emerge from his cabin and go
to the bow of the vessel.

The captain unwrapped a scarf from his neck. He
shook the white piece of fabric over the side, causing it
to snap, then carefully rewound it about his throat.

With a little ripple, a slim, beautiful young woman ap-
peared on the surface of the water. Her golden hair was
plastered to her head, and her emerald eyes were shiny
with tears. She gazed up at Dumont, rosebud lips trem-
bling as she treaded water.

"Good evening, Flowswift," Dumont addressed the
woman. She stayed sulkily silent. "You've been trying to
trick me again, haven't you?"

DANCE OF THE DEAD         133

She shook her head. "No, Captain Dumont. I'd not do
that."

Dumont's voice was full of patronizing affection.
"Oh, you little liar. I saw you with Caleb last night. You
were trying to persuade him to steal your shawl back
from me. Well, it didn't work."

He gestured, and the boat's youngest crewman ap-
proached. The zombie was newly made and easily
passed for living. But the nereid saw that there was no
light in Caleb's eyes, and she whimpered at having been
discovered. Dumont pursed his lips and a series of
notes issued forth. Along the bottom edge, the shawl
began to burn smokily.

The nereid arched her back in pain, cramming the
heels of her hands into her mouth to stifle her scream.
Even in her agony, she knew that Dumont would torture
her worse if she cried out.

Then the fire was gone. "Now, perhaps, you'll behave
for a little while. I wish to go into the swamp. Swim
ahead and let me know if there's any problem. You
know what I'll do to this if you ground us."

Flowswift winced and nodded. She sank beneath the
surface, vanishing at once without a ripple. Dumont
smiled and went below. Between the nereid scouting
ahead in the water, the owl maid exploring the land
from above, and Willen's navigational skills, the trip
should be a smooth and uneventful one.

At dawn. they pulled away from the dock. It was a de-
ceptively merry parting. The populace of Port d'Elhour
had turned out despite the early hour, and they were de-
termined to give the great boat a proper farewell. Sev-
eral musicians played, and Mayor Foquelaine gave a
speech in honor of the showboat and its cast. Larissa
noticed that a few pretty young ladies were struggling

134 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

to control tears and suspected that, even in this brief
time, Sardan had managed to break his share of hearts.

As the boat steamed away, it saluted the port with
music of its own from the huge calliope that adorned
the stern. Everyone on board was on the main deck,
waving farewell to the hosting town. Slowly but surely,
the dock fell away.

Larissa always used to enjoy it when the big boat was
on the move. The splashing of the paddlewheel, the
gentle hum that continually vibrated through the
boat—these things had always marked new beginnings
for her. Now they heralded only fear. She had only one
day left on the elegant vessel; she planned to escape to-
night.

The trees seemed to hunch over La Demoiselle as the
boat steamed its way into the swamp. The sky was soon
shut out by the gray-green, mossy canopy of cypress
trees. Long streamers of airmoss and strands of creeper
actually trailed against the vessel, catching in the rail-
ings and leaving La Demoiselle festooned as if with
dirty, tattered ribbons.

Larissa was on the main deck at the stern, watching
the red paddlewheel churn steadily. The backwash from
the wheel climbed up the myriad rootlets of the cypress
trees and ebbed back out again, rising and falling like
miniature tides. As she watched, she could have sworn
the trees closed in behind them to seal them off from
the harbor area. But surely, she told herself, that's only
my imagination. Trees can't move.

"Goodness, what a lovely sight," Sardan drawled sar-
castically, stepping up beside her and following her
gaze. He crunched an apple and offered her a bite.

An idea occurred to Larissa. She beamed up at the
singer.

"Yes," she said flirtatiously, keeping her eyes on his
face. "It is a lovely sight." She accepted the proffered
apple and took a small bite. if she were constantly in

DANCE OF THE DEAD         135

Sardan's company until the time came to leave, she'd
be less likely to be threatened by either Lond or Du-
mont.

Startled out of his normal insouciance, Sardan stared
down at Larissa, pleased with the unexpected attention.
He stood a few inches taller, and his already broad chest
swelled with self-importance. They chatted for a time,
and Sardan pointed out items of interest. Most of the
information he had to impart Larissa already knew, but
she feigned wide-eyed interest- Once, to show off, Sar-
dan pointed out a gnarled log floating in the water.

"See that?" he said to her. "Looks just like a harmless
log, doesn't it? Well, watch this." He tossed the apple
core toward it. The water suddenly came to a frothy life
as the creature, revealed now as a crocodile, snapped
up the morsel greedily.

Larissa gasped, startled. An instant later, though, the
waters were frothing again. A tentacle had wrapped
around the crocodile with astonishing speed and was
dragging the frantically flailing reptile below the sur-
face. Bubbles broke the surface for a few more heart-
beats, then the water was calm again.

Larissa glanced over at Sardan. He was deathly pale,
and he gripped the railing so hard that his knuckles
were white. Aware of her gaze upon him, the actor delib-
erately pried loose his clenched fingers.

'1 think," he said in an admirably calm voice, "that I
won't be throwing any more food to the crocodiles."

All too soon for an apprehensive Larissa, the
shadows began to lengthen. The swamp banks, forbid-
ding even during the daylight hours, took on a new
menace at night. As they had every night since she had
arrived, the drums began as soon as darkness had set-
tled upon the water. They were louder, harder to ignore
now, as if they came from only a few yards away. Per-
haps they did. Still, only the dancer seemed to hear
their primal beat.

136 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Larissa forced herself to eat at dinner—who knew
when she would have a real meat again—and stayed out
as late as she could with the attentive Sardan. Finally,
reluctantly, she went to her cabin.

She had seldom removed the root necklace that Wil-
len had given her on the night they met. Last night he
had given her more of the magical, protective plant, as
well as other herbs and pouches he called "conjure
bags." Per his instructions, Larissa had placed them in
every corner of her small room. She knew that she was
safer in her cabin than anywhere else on the beautiful
boat, which was now starting to feel like a prison.

She picked up one of the conjure bags. Kneeling by
her closed door, she untied the bag and poured out a
thin line of crumbled earth along the wooden floor of
the cabin.

"Nothing evil will cross the line, nor any of evil's crea-
tures," Willen had told her. She prayed he was right.

She rose and began to pack a few items in a sack, in-
cluding the remaining conjure bags. As she was rum-
maging through her chest of drawers, she came upon
the locket. Larissa sat on the bed, looking at it for a long
moment. Dumont had proved that his word couldn't be
trusted, and his word was all Larissa had regarding her
father. What had really happened between her father
and Dumont?

She started at a knock on the door. Heart hammer-
ing. she called in a voice that shook. "Who is it?"

"It's Casilda," came the answer.

Relief flooded through the dancer, leaving her mo-
mentarily so weak that her legs wouldn't support her.
She got her limbs under control and went to open the
door. Casilda stared at her with that same dull gaze.

"Come on in, Cas," Larissa invited, returning to her
bed and sitting down on it wearily. "1 don't think—"
Larissa broke off, horrified-

Casilda could not cross the threshold. The singer

DANCE OF THE DEAD        137

raised her hands, trying to push them into the room,
but she kept hitting some invisible wall. Her expression
didn't change, but she continued to try to enter. Willen's
earth-magic thwarted her every attempt.

Larissa stared at the ghastly spectacle. Casiida hadn't
been ill. Something had been done to her, to her mind.
WiHen's words came rushing back: Nothing euil will
cross the line, nor any ofeuit's creatures.

After about five minutes, Casilda stopped and gazed
at Larissa with an unblinking stare. Hardly breathing,
Larissa couldn't take her eyes away from that horrible,
empty gaze. Then Casilda turned and walked away
slowly.

Larissa sprang up and closed the door, leaning
against it for a few minutes, then grabbed her sack of
clothes. She and Willen had decided to wait until short-
ly before dawn, but after seeing what Casilda had be-
come, Larissa was not about to waste another moment
aboard La Demoiselle. All at once, the swamp seemed
far more benign than the boat.

As quietly as she could, Larissa opened her door and
peered outside. No one was around. She took a deep
breath, then slipped outside, smudging the line of pro-
tective earth as she did so. Her footsteps seemed terri-
bly loud as she descended the two flights of stairs to the
main deck, but no one crossed her path.

Her plan was to take one of the scout yawls. Although
she had had no actual practice with manning the small,
poled boats, she'd seen it done enough times that she
thought she could manage.

Hurry, hurry, the dancer told herself as she lowered
the sack onto the yawl. Larissa eased herself over the
side, feet first. The yawl bobbed a little as her weight
unsettled on it, then righted itself. She reached up and
began to untie the rope that bound the yawl to the boat.
It was securely knotted, and the water the rope had ab-
sorbed served only to swell the knot tighter. Her nails

138 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

tore, and the ends of her fingers felt raw.

Then Larissa heard footsteps on the deck above her.
She mouthed a curse, her fingers scrabbling frantically
at the knot. It was loosening.

"Come on, come on." Larissa whispered. Then-.it
came. The rope was free.

She shrieked as a strong hand closed on her right
wrist. Larissa cast a terrified gaze upward to see her
guardian, his face contorted in fury. She struggled, but
his grip was unbreakable. He began to haul her up, her
light frame no challenge to his anger-driven strength.
Her feet kicking wildiy, Larissa flailed with her left hand,
caught the rope of the yawl, and held on tightly.

A sudden blow on her left wrist caused her to cry out
and let go of the rope. The current greedily snatched
the yawl. speeding it downstream. Larissa's hand was
bleeding and throbbed with intense pain. She looked
up to see Dragoneyes grinning mirthlessly down at her.
He had struck her hand with the end of the harpoon.

An instant later, the half-elf grunted in pained sur-
prise. Dumont had given him a furious blow with one
mammoth fist while retaining his grip on Larissa with
the other.

"1 don't want her harmed!" the captain roared- "Gods,
I'm surrounded by fools!"

"Perhaps not. Captain," came a coot voice. Lond had
appeared beside the captain and was gazing down at
Larissa. All the young dancer could see in the shadow of
his cowl were his small, cold, glittering eyes- Slowly, as
her face was drawn closer, he brought up his hand. On
the gloved palm was a small pile of powder.

Dumont's grip weakened, and with a violent wrench
Larissa tugged free. She barely had time to fill her lungs
with air before she disappeared into the murky, green-
brown depths of the swamp.




ELEUEN

Dumont jerked Lond's arm away from Larissa's face.
"No! Don't make her one of them!" the captain cried, his
voice filled with anguish. The powder blew off the
mage's hand, most of it going into Dragoneyes' face.

The crewman uttered a sharp cry, toppling backward.
His hands clawed at his face and eyes. "Raoul!" he man-
aged, fixing Dumont with an agonized look. Tears
streamed down his face as the powder burned his slit-
ted, golden eyes. The look of betrayal on the half-elf's
face was a terrible thing to behold, and Dumont's own
expression registered shocked surprise. Without realiz-
ing it, Dumont had loosed his hold on Larissa, turning
instinctively to try to do something, anything, to help
the only man on board that he called a friend.

Then the coughing increased, and suddenly Drag-
oneyes couldn't breathe. His hands clutched his throat,
and his mouth opened and closed, but no sound issued
forth. His body Jerked and flailed like a fish on iand. At
last Dragoneyes convulsed violently and then lay still.

Dumont was stunned. He turned frantically to the
mage. "Is there an antidote?"

The hooded figure shook his head. "None," he said.
"Do not distress yourself so, Captain Dumont. His serv-
ices won't be lost to you. But I fear the girl's are."

140 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"No! Larissa .. -" The captain rushed to the side. Sure
enough, all trace of the dancer had vanished. Dumont
pounded the railings, swearing. He had lost both his be-
loved and his best crew member.

"Captain?" It was Tane's voice. He had heard the com-
motion and stood half-naked on deck, blinking sleepily.
"What—Dragoneyes!"

"He fainted," Dumont lied swiftly, keeping pain from
his voice with an effort. "Came down with swamp fever.
I'll take him to his cabin in a moment. Tane. listen to me
and listen hard- Larissa's jumped overboard.! want her
found. You and Brynn take the other yawl and start after
her. Tell everyone else to keep their eyes open. Thirty
gold pieces to the man who spots her first, and a hun-
dred to the man who brings her in—unharmed',' he add-
ed, darting an angry glance in Lond's direction.

Tane left to obey his captain's orders, though not
without a glance at the still form of his fellow crewman.
When Tane had gone, Dumont turned on the mage.

"What were you thinking of, with Larissa?" he de-
manded. "I wanted her to fat) in love with me, damn it,
not become some mindless lump of dead flesh!"

Lond's voice was even when he replied. "My zombies
are not mindless. They retain much of their intelligence
and many physical capabilities. They are not even,
technically, dead. I maintain control of their souls. Had I
been permitted to complete my spell with Larissa, you
would have had a beautiful, intelligent, obedient wom-
an. You would have been pleased with the result of my
spell."

Dumont didn't respond to the comment. Instead, he
demanded, "What are you going to do to help find her?"

Lond froze, then said carefully, "1 offer no guarantees,
but I will do what I can. There are powers here in the
swamp, Captain Dumont, powers that do not appreci-
ate being spied upon. I doubt they will permit me—or
you—to locate her magically. Let us determine why she

DANCE OF THE DEAD         141

fled. Perhaps that will give us a clue as to where she
might have gone."

Dumont felt suddenly weary, and there was a dull
pain in his chest. "I may have pressed my suit a bit too
ardently. She might have been afraid."

"That could be reason enough," Lond agreed. "But
there might be something more to it than that. May I
see her cabin?"

Dumont glanced down at the limp form of Dragon-
eyes. "Let me get him to his cabin first." He prodded the
body with the toe of his boot. "Damn, I wish he hadn't
been the one to get a faceful of your magic," he mut-
tered, pain brushing his heart- "Dragoneyes was a good
boatman."

"He still is, Captain." There was a hint of a smile in
Lond's voice. "He stilt is."

A search of Larissa's room revealed that she had
packed little more than clothing. What few trinkets she
had collected over the years she had left behind, includ-
ing her locket. Dumont picked it up and opened it, re-
calling the first time he had seen Larissa. She had been
only twelve years old, and the simple silver locket that
hung about her slim throat seemed to catch the high-
lights of her white hair....

"Let me see this," said Lond as his black-gloved fin-
gers took the locket away from Dumont. He opened it
and examined the soft blond hair inside. "Whose is
this?" he asked, one finger stroking the iock of hair.

"Larissa's, when she was a child."

Dumont heard a sharp hissing intake of breath from
Lond. "Her hair was not always white?"

The captain frowned. "No. She doesn't remember the
incident, but apparently it turned that color some time
ago, when she first came to Souragne. Something
about the swamp."

"You idiot!" Lond's voice was a shriek. "Why did you
not tell me this sooner?"

142 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Dumont's shock over losing Larissa and grief at
Dragoneyes' fate ebbed before a rising tide of anger.
"Why should I? What difference does it make what color
her hair is?"

"It makes every difference in the wortdl" Lond's stim
body was quivering with anger. "I should have known.
How could I have failed to see it? I thought it merely an
affectation for her role, not. - - Dumont, for both our
sakes, pray that Larissa is slain by the creatures in the
swamp. If she survives, she could destroy us both."

Larissa was a good swimmer, but she sank like a
stone the moment she hit the water. Luckily it wasn't
deep, and the dancer wound up briefly touching the
slick mud of the bottom. She pushed off from the soft
surface and swam blindly for as long as she could.
When she could hold her breath no longer, she finally
broke the surface, gasping and wiping water out of her
eyes. To her chagrin, she wasn't more than a few yards
away from La Demoiselle.

A woman's golden head broke the surface immedi-
ately beside her. "Take my hand, sister," she said in a
voice that sounded like water flowing. "I'll take you as
far away from that horrid man as I can."

Confused, Larissa opened her mouth to ask a ques-
tion, but the woman impatiently seized her and pulled
her beneath the surface. Muddy water filled her open
mouth and she coughed, only to have more water pour
down her throat. Panic shuddered through her, and she
struggled against this mysterious girl who was obvious-
ly trying to drown her.

The girl did not loosen her hold, only pulled the fran-
tic Larissa down deeper. The dancer's heart thudded
and her lungs cried out for oxygen. At last her lungs
emptied of their own accord, and water surged into

DANCE OF THE DEAD         143

them.

To her absolute shock, Larissa found that she could
breathe easily. Utterly baffled, she ceased her struggles,
inhaling the water as naturally as a fish would. They
were moving at an astonishing speed. She turned to
face her rescuer, but could see nothing in the liquid
darkness beside her.

She could still hear the woman, however, "i am
Flowswift," the nereid explained. "Your wicked Dumont
has my shawl, and he commands me. 1 have been his
slave for over a year now. I have tried to escape, but al-
ways he discovers me. If you are fleeing from him, you
are my friend."

They swam in silence for a long time, slicing through
the water like dolphins. At last Flowswift angled up to-
ward the surface. She became visible again as soon as
she hit the air.

"This is as far as I dare go," she told Larissa. "Be care-
ful. This water—it is not overly friendly, not even to
me."

"Thank you, Flowswift," Larissa said sincerely. "I
don't know how 1 can repay you."

The nereid's voice went hard. "If you defeat Dumont,
you can return my shawl."

"If I can, I will. 1 promise."

Illumined by moonlight, Flowswift dived beneath the
surface and vanished.

Treading water, her sodden skirts still threatening to
drag her under, Larissa glanced around. She was
pleased beyond words to see that the nereid had
brought her directly to her yawl, which had gotten tan-
gled in a clump of muddy vegetation. Her pack was
there, safe and dry, waiting for her.

Larissa swam to the bank and slogged onto compara-
tively dry land. She looked around a bit and waited for
her heart to slow. Then, satisfied that she was at least
temporarily safe, she sat down near the yawl and re-

144 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

moved the ring Willen had given her, turning it over in
her hands.

It was a simple thing, merely a band of metal. She
had had to place it on her index finger as Willen's hand
was much larger than hers. She set it in her palm and
placed her other hand over it, then closed her eyes and
concentrated on clearing her mind.

"Think about me," Willen had told her. "Let no other
thoughts intrude. Help should come to you then."

Larissa's breathing slowed and deepened as she re-
laxed, letting thoughts of the young crewman fill her
mind's eye. The ring began to grow warm in her hand,
and, startled, she opened her eyes.

A small light flickered in front of her. Larissa immedi-
ately recognized it as one of the lights from the boat.

"Are you the help Willen sent?" she asked.

It did not respond. She sighed, assuming that the
creature's form was too far removed from her own to
permit communication. Larissa put her hand to her
mouth as the realization hit her. If this was a living crea-
ture, then the lights on the boat were not simply illu-
sions. They were slaves. A sudden flood of pity and
anger filled her.

The creature danced away suddenly, blinking anx-
iously. It was a living thing, Larissa felt certain. She rose
and looked at the little ball of light.

"You can't understand me. but I trust you," she said.
"I'll follow your lead." The ball of light flushed to a pale
blue and pulsed rhythmically, then flew out over the riv-
er. It hovered there, blinking, waiting for her to follow.
Larissa dutifully freed the yawl from its entanglement
and pushed off into the water. As she did so. what
looked tike a log rolled a lazy eye in her direction. Laris-
sa held her breath for a moment, but the crocodile
seemed in no mood to attack. Cautiously, she began to
paddle down the swamp.

Her guide danced about, sometimes flitting around

DANCE OF THE DEAD        145

her head, sometimes soaring high above her. Larissa
stayed tense, alert, but the night swamp appeared to
pose no immediate dangers. She wondered how much
of that was due to the presence of her small guardian. It
was definitely taking her someplace, for when they
came to a fork in the river it chose one path clearly over
the other. Marveling at her temerity, she followed it.

The night wore on. The swamp was unsettlingly si-
lent, save for the constant buzz of cicadas in the dis-
tance. The only other noise was that made by her own
paddle, breaking the surface of the water with a little
splashing sound.

After a time, Larissa became aware that, despite the
amount of water all around, she was very thirsty.

"Is there a place where I can drink?" she asked the
light creature. It ignored her, and she rolled her eyes in
exasperation. She glanced down at the river, immedi-
ately deciding that it was nowhere near clean enough
for her to drink from. Swallowing dryly, she looked
around, hoping to spy a spring or a puddle of rainwater
from which to steal a handful of potable liquid.

A clump of huge, beautiful plants floated near the
shore. Their white blossoms were about five feet across,
and they were filled with inviting pools of pure rainwa-
ter. Licking her dry lips, Larissa thankfully paddled
close, reaching her hands easily in to the plants.

The light guardian dived in front of her face, blinking
crazily. its colors were now strong tones of red and
green, and it whizzed past her head. She paused, hands
outstretched to the plants, confused by the creature's
actions.

There came a terrible roar, like the sound of a tree
branch splitting. A huge tentacle erupted from the
earth and closed about Larissa's outstretched arms.
Chunks of muddy soil flew everywhere. Even as she
screamed and tried to pull away. Larissa realized that
the tentacle was a root of some sort.

146 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

The root's owner came rapidly into view as Larissa
was dragged toward an enormous tree. Another root
shot out from the soil to encircle her torso, and a third
trapped her legs. The roots began to drag her to the
tree, and Larissa could make out what appeared to be a
hideous parody of a face on the tree's trunk.

"Let me go!" she cried. The light creature had calmed
somewhat, though it still blinked rapidly. She struggled
furiously, but the roots' grip was like iron, and her
strength was not going to be enough to free her. She
glanced up and saw that the hole in the trunk was now
moving, like some kind of giant mouth.

Trees can't move! Larissa screamed to herself, recall-
ing the foliage that had seemed to close in on the boat's
path. But they did, or this one did, and all at once Laris-
sa was filled with a terrible, irrational certainty that she
was about to be eaten by a plant.

Then there came a noise that was becoming very fa-
miliar to the terrified dancer. .. the beating of drums.
She realized, with a shock, that the noise was made by
the tree. It raised its serpentine roots and pounded on
its own trunk, sending out a deep, resonant booming.
The light creature flickered near her face, and Larissa's
white brows drew together in outrage.

"You tricked me!" she cried at the creature, kicking
impotently against the unbreakable bonds of the knot-
ted roots. "You led me to it! You twice-damned, blazing,
bleeding whelp . . ." The furious expletives tumbled
from her mouth. Something of what she was saying ap-
parently got through to the creature, for it began to
blink agitatedly and withdrew to a distance of several
feet. At last, her vast store of curses having finally been
depleted, Larissa sagged helplessly against her bonds.

A movement caught her eye. It was a doe, moving
with slow elegance along the bank. It paused and re-
garded her with liquid brown eyes for a moment, large
ears twitching, debating. Then, judging Larissa harm-

DANCEOFTHEDEAD        147

less, the deer moved toward the large blossoms, low-
ered its slim head, and began to drink.

With a suddenness that Larissa wouldn't have
thought possible, the blossom snapped closed around
the doe. The beast was caught up to its hindquarters.
Although it thrashed and kicked, it could not extricate
itself from the carnivorous plant. The doe emitted muf-
fled bleating sounds, and Larissa, filled with horror.
winced and turned away from the frightful spectacle.
Soon, the doe ceased to flail. The plant opened and
closed, adjusting the carcass until it fit completely in
the blossom's heart, then closed completely.

Larissa, shaking, swallowed hard. The little light be-
ing had floated closer. Larissa remembered its agitation
when she had tried to drink from the plants.

"You and the tree saved my life."

The light creature bobbed up and down, flushing a
gentle rose hue. Slowly, with a voice that sounded like
the rustling of leaves, the tree spoke. "The feu foliet told
me that she wished it so."

Larissa gasped. "You can talk! Who is 'she'?"

"Someone I personally disagree with, but will obey—
for the moment," came a voice from the tree's foot.

Larissa glanced down to see an enormous rabbit. She
was about to smile at it gratefully when it sat up on its
haunches and looked her in the eye. Larissa had
thought the creature appealing at first glance, but she
now realized that there was nothing cuddly or innocent
in that hard gaze. It grinned maliciously, and she saw
that its two front teeth were sharp as a wolfs.

"Had you ventured into these parts without the feu
foilet, I would have slain you and eaten your heart."

Larissa went cold. "I have done no harm to you," she
protested.

"My cousin Bouki is a prisoner aboard your boat.
That is reason enough to slay anyone from the cursed
vessel, as far as 1 am concerned. Yet," the gigantic rabbit

148 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

said reluctantly, "you are under the protection of the feu
follets and the Maiden. I will take you to her. My name is
Longears,"

Larissa remembered where she had heard the names
before. The Two Hares Inn had been named after the
legendary rabbit heroes, Bouki and Longears.

The rabbit turned to the tree. "Quickwood-Who-
Grows-By-The-Deathplants, the Maiden thanks you for
your aid. I will take the girl to her now."

The pressure on Larissa's torso eased as the roots
loosed their hold. Her limbs numb, she was barely able
to stop herself from falling over. Wincing, she rubbed
life back into her unfeeling arms and legs.

Something moved by her feet with a slithering mo-
tion. Larissa ignored it, thinking it was just another one
of the tree's roots. When cool reptilian skin slid silkity
along her bare teg, however, she jerked away with a cry.
The snake, equally startled, hastened into the water,
where it vanished with a tittle ripple.

Longears fixed her with a gaze of utter contempt.
"You come to rescue the creatures from the boat?" he
sneered. "You are afraid of a harmless little snake! You
do not deserve your white locks."

Shame mixed with anger washed through Larissa.
"Snakes are dangerous," she shot back, "Surely even
you are afraid of foxes and wolves, Longears. And mists
take you. rabbit, what does my hair color have to do
with anything?"

Longears drew his split upper lip back from his razor-
sharp teeth in a grin. "On the contrary, Whitemane, I eat
foxes and wolves, not the other way around. As for your
hair—" he shrugged "—you will learn about it soon
enough. Come with me. The Maiden of the Swamp
wishes to see you."




TIDELUE

Longears was not the pleasant traveling companion
that the dancing little light—feufollet, Larissa reminded
herself—had been. The huge rabbit sat at the front of
the yawl, ears pricked, gazing ahead alertly. For the first
few hours, as they moved languidly along the still wa-
ters. the only words the young dancer heard from him
were curt directions. Annoyed, she decided to question
the creature as the dawn began to lighten the sky.

"The feu /bUets—what are they?"

"They're kin to will-o'-the-wisps," Longears answered,
not turning around to face her. "Except feu follets feed
on positive emotions, not negative."

"Why did one come to me in the swamp?"

Longears threw her an irritated glance over his furry
shoulder. "You called it. It came. As I said, you're lucky."
He turned around. "Your captain will curse the day he
ever came to Souragne. Bouki mill be freed."

"That's what Willen and 1 are trying to do," Larissa ex-
plained. "He told me to seek out the Maiden, whoever
she is, and tell her of the plight of the creatures aboard
the boat."

Again Longears craned his neck to look at the girl.
She regarded him steadily as she continued to paddle.
He twitched his whiskers, considering.

150 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"If you would free my cousin, then you are my ally,"
he said with obvious reluctance. He laughed. "I never
thought I would join forces with a human, but 1 will take
what I can get. Besides," he added, "you are a white-
mane, and there may be more to you than there first
seems."

Larissa flushed angrily. There was something quite
humiliating about being insulted by a rabbit, even a gi-
gantic talking one with teeth as long as her forefingers.

"I trust 1 won't disappoint you," she said icily.

Longears ignored the sarcasm. "We'll see. First, you
have to meet with the Maiden's approval."

Larissa was about to reply when the current picked
up unexpectedly. The narrow waterway down which she
had been paddling widened and joined with another to
create a river of sorts. Larissa was kept busy with pad-
dling and keeping iow on the yawl so as not to overturn
it. Then Longears cried, "To the right! That island—that
is the Maiden's Isle."

The dancer frantically tried to paddle to starboard,
but the current enjoyed playing with the little yawl and
was reluctant to let it go aground. Longears leaped into
the water, catching the yawl's rope in his mighty teeth,
and struck out for the bank. Between his powerful
swimming and Larissa's determined efforts, they man-
aged to bring the yawl safely ashore.

Larissa dragged the small raft well onto the muddy
bank, away from the greedy waters. Longears emerged
a few feet away and began to shake himself dry like a
dog. The island was a rare patch of dry land in the bog,
and Larissa hadn't realized how wonderful it was to feel
the solidity of sand and then earth beneath her feet. The
night had seemed to last forever, and she was glad of
the morning. She sat down and leaned against a tree,
suddenly tired and fully feeling the weight of what she
had done.

There came a warm chuckle behind her, and Larissa

DANCE OF THE DEAD        151

leaped up, tense and ready to defend herself.

"Have no fear, Larissa Snowmane," came a soft, rus-
tling voice from the trunk of the tree. The voice grew
into dulcet tones that were definitely female. "I am the
one you have braved the swamp to see."

As Larissa watched, fascinated and more than a little
frightened, the tree she had been reclining against
shimmered. A coot green light emanated from it, in-
creasing in brilliance until Larissa was forced to shield
her eyes. It moved and twisted, reshaping itself into the
likeness of a beautiful woman—albeit a woman unlike
anyone Larissa had ever seen.

Fully six feet tall, her skin was a pale, translucent
green and her large eyes emerald. White-green hair
tumbled down her back, and Larissa saw that it was ac-
tually airmoss. She was clad in a robe of leaves and
vines. As she moved, her feet never appeared to com-
pletely leave the earth, and the hand that clasped a tall,
rough-looking wooden staff ended in tendrils rather
than fingers.

"You have a message for "me, I believe," the Maiden
continued in the same soothing, whisper-soft voice.

Larissa swallowed hard. The plant-woman's gentle
beauty intimidated her.

"Willen sent me," she managed after a moment.

The Maiden nodded her mossy head. "As I sent Wil-
len. What has he learned? What has the river-boat cap-
tain done to our people?"

For an instant. Larissa couldn't meet those amaz-
ingly emerald eyes. She felt ashamed that she had any
ties to Dumont.

"Captain Dumont has enslaved the feu follets. He is
using their need for positive emotions to generate busi-
ness for his showboat. He has also trapped Longears's
cousin, Bouki. There are others, too, from other lands.
Some of them have been trapped for years, and Willen
wants you to know he wishes to free them all."

152 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

The Maiden's eyes widened slightly. "All? He was sent
only to free our people. Can he not determine how to
accomplish that by himself?"

"They are bound by powerful magic, Lady," Larissa
told her. "And having seen the other prisoners, Willen
says that he will not go without ali the creatures."

The Maiden sighed and shook her head. "There is
great magic aboard that boat, considering where she
travels."

"He also said to tell you that Lond is aboard. He
wants—" Larissa broke off. The Maiden's face had dark-
ened with a terrible anger tinged with pain.

"Lond?" the Maiden breathed. She reached with her
other hand to clasp the staff, drawing it close to her
body in a gesture of defense. "Is this true? For what pur-
pose?"

"Willen thinks that Lond wishes to leave Souragne."
Larissa's voice was less certain now. The Maiden looked
as if she were in terrible anguish. "Lady . . ." Larissa's
voice trailed off helplessly. She glanced down at Long-
ears. The rabbit, too, was solemn.

The Maiden turned as if Larissa weren't even there.
She moved with the grace of wind in the trees as she
bowed her head in pain for a long moment. Larissa and
Longears exchanged glances. At last the Maiden
straightened and turned composed features to Larissa.

"If you have traveled aboard the boat for as long as 1
believe you have, then you have seen a great deal of evi!
in your life, Larissa- Perhaps you have brushed by it un-
awares. 1 would like to think that you have not been hurt
by it yet. Your escape from La Demoiselle du Musarde
may have been even more narrow than you thought it to
be. Lond is a man of great evil. That he and your Cap-
tain Dumont have joined forces is grim news indeed."

She sighed and, for a moment, shimmered so that
she looked more like a plant than a woman. Then her
features reformed. "I cannot lend the aid of the swamp

DANCE OF THE DEAD         153

and her beings to such a venture as Willen wishes. I am
sorrier than you can possibly know."

Larissa was stunned. Not for a moment had she enter-
tained the idea that this mysterious woman whom Wil-
len so obviously revered would deny them her aid-
Willen had seemed so certain. She opened her mouth,
but Longears interrupted her.

"But it is Bouki who is imprisoned, not some beast!"
he cried- "He is a foah, Maiden. If you will not rescue
him—"

"It is not my decisioni" cried the Maiden. The pain of
her refusal was evident on her beautiful face. Tears
welled in her eyes. "Do you not think I feel his fear? We
are both the land's creatures, and that is precisely why I
am powerless to aid him, or the feu foliets, or any of
those other unfortunates. It is not in my power to say
yea or nay, when Lond traffics in the dark magic of the
waterways and the slaver has caught the land's toah."

She held out one hand to the rabbit. "You, more than
most, know my limits. Do not condemn me for what
you know I must do."

Longears hesitated, quivering with anger. Then he
was gone, leaping into the verdant growth with a white
flash of his tail.

Larissa turned toward the Maiden. The strangely
beautiful woman met her gaze evenly.

"Willen was counting on you," the dancer said. She
knew she was being rash, unwise, in protesting the
Maiden's decision, but the words came of their own ac-
cord. "He's trapped on that boat now almost as much as
the prisoners he's trying to rescue. Can't you see that?"

The Maiden of the Swamp continued to gaze at Laris-
sa steadily. "Ah, child," she breathed softly, and the
trees on the island rustled in sympathy, "you are so
young and sure of yourself. And there is so very much
that you do not and cannot know."

"1 know Willen's in trouble because he's trying to save

154

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

lives, mine included," Larissa replied, growing angry.
"And if you're not going to help him..." She floundered
helplessly.

The Maiden tensed slightly. "If I do not help him?"
she prompted.

Larissa licked dry lips, then burst out, "Then Long-
ears and f are just going to have to find a way all by our-
selves!" The thought of Willen dead or in pain hurt her
terribly, far more than she thought it would.

To her surprise, the Maiden chuckled. "Perhaps you
will, child. You are a whitemane, after all." She paused,
and her beautiful face brightened with new hope. Mov-
ing closer, she laid her hands on Larissa's shoulders.

"Yes... perhaps there is a way, after all. Do you truly
mean what you say? Would you fight your guardian,
fight Lond and his dark powers, attack that mighty,
magical boat all by yourself?"

The dancer felt herself turning red. The Maiden had
called her bluff. But deep within her heart, Larissa knew
that she would never consign Widen to his fate, not if
there was anything she could do to help him. FIeetingly,
she wondered if this meant she was in love with him, but
she pushed that thought away. She nodded, fear clutch-
ing at her heart.

A stow. pleased smile spread across the Maiden's
face. She extended a hand to Larissa. "Then, daughter
of the swamp, you must come with me and learn."

The young woman hesitated, then took a step toward
the Maiden and grasped the outstretched hand. It was
cool, like a leaf, and soft. The slim arm folded gently
about her, pulling her up against the Maiden's body. The
other arm came up to embrace her also, and the staff
pressed against Larissa's back.

"Be not afraid," whispered the Maiden gently. Her
breath, filled with the fragrances of summer, was soft
against Larissa's white hair.

The beach went away. Larissa found herself envel-

DANCE OF THE DEAD         155

oped by a wall of swirling brown and green. The Maid-
en's arms suddenly reminded her of the quickwood's
binding roots, and Larissa tasted blind panic for an in-
stant. Scents flooded her senses as she inhaled to cry
out—loam, honeysuckle, the odd, dusty scent of the
trees themselves.

Then it was over, and Larissa stood on the bank of a
small pool. They were in the heart of a forest now, and
everything was shadowed and cool. The trees stretched
skyward. Somehow, they seemed to be only trees now,
not the hunkering, malformed monstrosities that hov-
ered over the waterways.

She blinked dazedly and turned to the Maiden ques-
tioningty. The Maiden smiled.

"On this island, i go where I will. You have traveled
from one tree that bears my essence to another at the
heart of the island. You will learn how to travel so your-
self, Larissa."

"I'm not sure I want to," Larissa said, stilt a bit un-
steady.

The Maiden laughed. "You" must be thirsty. Drink
your fill from the pool. It is fresh and clean."

Larissa obeyed, kneeling in the cool, thick grass be-
side the little pool. The water reflected her face and
white hair, and above her a cloud sailed lazily by in an
azure sky. The dancer cupped the sparkling liquid in her
hands and drank.

She had forgotten how parched she was, and the wa-
ter tasted delicious, cold and pure. It was after the third
handful that her vision began to blur. She blinked and
shook her head, but it didn't help. Her reflection was
changing, dissolving.

Her head spinning, Larissa sat down heavily, her fin-
gers digging into the earth as if she could hold onto
consciousness by sheer strength-

The Maiden's voice sounded distant and as fragile as
a summer zephyr. "Be not afraid," she whispered. "Gaze

156 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

into the pool, Larissa Snowmane, and learn there the
secret of who you are."

Stubbornly Larissa refused to cooperate. She
clutched her temples, fearful of her powerlessness. She
had never been a victim of a spell before, and—

/(is not a speii I am giving you answers that you al-
ready know. Do not fight me, Larissa.

This time the voice was inside her head. Larissa felt
herself shudder, then melt into acceptance. She turned
her eyes to the pool and saw there not the blue sky, but
a star-crowded nightscape framed by green grass.

She surrendered, and the edges of the pool dissolved.

Larissa stood at the edge of the swamp. From the city
came faint, bustling sounds; from the swamp, the hum
of cicadas and the musical noise of the river. She whis-
pered forlornly, with the voice of a child, "Papa ..."

Nothing was familiar. Larissa wept, horribly fright-
ened. She was five years old again, and her soft blond
hair hung in a tangle about her tear-streaked face. As
she drew closer to the swamp, however, Larissa felt her
fear fading to curiosity. She knelt to look at shiny peb-
bles, touched a frog's wet back and laughed brightly as
it leaped away with an insulted croak.

An increase in light caused Larissa to look up, and
she gasped happily. Dozens of swirling lights emerged
from the shadows of the forest. There were so many of
them clustered around the slim form of the girl that she
could easily see by their light. The five-year-old sat
down on the riverbank, laughing and clapping her
hands at the antics of the glowing balls.

Fifteen, perhaps twenty of the ghostly orbs danced
about Larissa's head, hovering, bouncing, swirling
around her. Now and then her small hand would reach
to catch one, but it would quickly dart away.

Larissa's body began to tingle warmly. It was an ex-
tremely pleasant sensation, and it coursed through her
from her head to her toes- She giggled, then sobered as

DANCE OF THE DEAD        157

she realized that the lights were starting to drift away.
Anxious not to lose her new friends, Larissa clambered
to her feet and followed them as they began to float to-
ward the swamp.

The night's peace was shattered by a sudden cry.
"Larissa!" her father exclaimed, running up from the
town. The girl turned to him and frowned. The light
creatures seemed to shrink in size, moving away from
Larissa at the sound of her father's shrill voice. Some
abandoned her altogether, floating off like innocuous
fireflies. Others continued to hover near.

"Papal" Larissa scolded. "You scared them away!"
Her father charged at the glowing globes of light. He
waved his arms about frantically, screaming in anger
and pent-up terror. The balls of radiance scattered, all

save one.

"Oh, gods, Rissa, I thought I'd lost you!" Aubrey
gasped as he gathered his wayward daughter into his
arms and squeezed her tightly.

Larissa, however, was not taking kindly to being res-
cued from the pretty lights.

"Papa, bring them back!" she demanded angrily.

Aubrey took a good look at Larissa and gasped.
Sometime over the last few moments his child's hair
had turned pure white.

Aubrey's tired mouth set in a hard line, and Larissa's
own rosebud lips puckered into a determined frown.
When her father picked her up, she struggled. Aubrey
hurried back toward the warm, reassuring torchlight of
the town, clutching his precious burden- The girl faced
over her father's shoulder, and she saw that one of the
lights had not deserted her. With an anguished, lost
wail, Larissa stuck out her hands imploringly toward

the floating ball.

"Don't leave me!" the child screamed, tears pouring
down her face- The ball of light was obviously troubled.
It blinked rapidly, darting about in a crazy zigzag pat-

158

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

tern. For a few moments it followed the child and father,
its cold light illuminating Larissa's twisted, weeping
features. It hung back as Aubrey drew closer to the
town. Its light flickered in distress, then dulled to a
barely visible glow as it slowly floated away to rejoin, its
fellows.

/ remember. .. . I remember.. ..

"The swamp had need of your magic. The feu foUets
called you. Had you been able to answer their call, had
your father not taken you away, you would eventually
have become as I am—a part of the swamp."

"But I have no magic," Larissa protested. Even as the
words left her lips, she knew them to be a lie. Her body
still remembered that warm tingling. She recognized
the sensation as an early stage of the wild joy she had
experienced dancing while Sardan had played for her.
The young woman closed her eyes and again felt power
surging through her, power almost out of control.

"You had the potential, which was why the swamp
chose you. When did you begin to dance?"

Taken aback by the abrupt question, Larissa opened
her eyes and said, "When 1 was about six, I think."

"And were you trained?" The Maiden's voice was
cool, as though she already knew the answers. She
cupped her hands together, and they began to glow with
a soft radiance. Curious, Larissa watched and didn't an-
swer. The Maiden glanced up from her gleaming hands.
"Were you trained?" she repeated, more sternly this
time.

"dm. no," Larissa answered. Something began to
take shape in the Maiden's hands. "1 just—danced. It
was fun. 1 enjoyed it and I seemed to be good at it."

The shape in the Maiden's cupped palms solidified,
its color turning from pale green to dark blue. With the
barest of smiles, the Maiden extended her berry-filled
hands to an astonished Larissa.

"Dancing is your gift from the swamp, the gift grant-

DANCE OF THE DEAD         159

ed you when you became a whitemane," she said as
Larissa began to eat. "We took the hue of your hair and
left you the mark of the swamp's favor. We also gave
you a way to control and utilize your magical ability.

"Your body has discovered its magic, and your soul
knows the secrets, though your mind is as yet unaware.
So 1 say to you now: You have magical skills. If 1 teach
you how to unlock them, will you use your talents to
fight the evil aboard La Demoise/te?"
Larissa was surprised to find herself grinning. "Yes."
"Then let us begin. Tell me about what you do aboard
the boat."

"I'm the Lady of the Sea in the musical The Pirate's
Pleasure',' Larissa said, finishing the last of the wonder-
fully sweet berries.

The Maiden nodded, her mossy tresses swaying with
the movement. "Since you are familiar with that ele-
ment, we will begin with water."

Larissa snorted. "I hardly think you could compare
anything in The Pirate's Pleasure with real magic."

"Not necessarily true. Who choreographed the
dance?"
"I did."

"Well, then. You should realize that part of it stems
from you. Do you see?" Larissa shook her head. The
Maiden laughed, a sweet sound like rain on water. "It
doesn't matter. Here, dance your part for me now."

Larissa, suddenly nervous, rose and walked awk-
wardly to a flat patch of ground. She settled herself on
her feet and imagined the prone body of Florian and the
weeping Rose, trying not to think about Casitda and
wonder what had been done to her. Think of the dance,
Larissa told herself sternly.

Her performance was rough at first, and Larissa
winced as she moved, knowing how stiff it must appear.
Then, gradually, she relaxed into the familiar patterns.
The Maiden watched her closely, her eyes on the lithe

160

CHRISTIE GOLDEN

body, the leaping feet, the flowing white mane. Oh, yes,
the magic was there in that slender frame. How could
Larissa not feel it? the Maiden wondered to herself. The
girl practically radiated it. Larissa leaped, tossed her
hair, and, sweating, executed a final arch and tumble.

She looked up for the Maiden's reaction. The pale
green face was impassive.

"You have much to unlearn," the plant-woman told
her. "You are stilted, practiced, predictable. You must
learn to forget the steps, concentrate only on the
rhythms."

"But there's no music," replied Larissa, catching her
breath. She was a little vexed that the Maiden seemed
so unimpressed.

"Ah, but there is. I will have the quickwoods play for
you white you are learning. After that. you must search
your soul for the rhythm that grants the power you
seek. Here, watch me. 1 have not your gift for the dance,
but 1 have learned enough of it to teach you." She rose
gracefully, lifting a slender hand to indicate that Larissa
should have a seat. "Quickwood-With- Burn-Scars," she
said to a nearby tree, bowing, "play for me, that I may
teach the whitemane."

The huge tree, who did indeed bear the scars of a ter-
rible fire, rustled obligingly. Two massive roots
emerged from the soil and began to pound on the
trunk.

It was a deep sound. Something buried just as deeply
in Larissa's soul leaped to respond- Her breath came in

short gasps as she watched the slim figure of the Maid-
en perform.

The Maiden began to sway back and forth, her green
eyes closed to better her concentration. Her hips began
to move, fluid as poured water, and her hands rose up
like waves. The tendrils that were fingers waved, as
though she were trying to force raindrops from them.
The rhythm had the ocean's lull, the river's laugh, and

DANCE OF THE DEAD         161

Larissa wanted to rise and dance with the Maiden more
than anything.

"Earth," cried the Maiden abruptly. The quickwood
obliged, the pounding becoming more muffled and, if
possible, even deeper. It was like a heartbeat, the heart-
beat of the earth. The dancer's movements changed,
became more deliberate, less fluid. She dropped to her
knees, then lay on her back, filtering handfuls of earth
through her fingers. Again, Larissa longed to join her,
but remained seated. She had not been invited. Not yet.

"Air!" demanded the Maiden. Again the rhythm
changed, became light, soaring, like a bird on the wing.
For the first time since Larissa had known her, the Maid-
en's feet tore free of the earth, and the sylvan creature
leaped lightly about. Her long, mossy hair caught the
wind and floated in it. The slim frame seemed airborne
itself. Larissa gasped aloud with the sheer, effortless
beauty of it all.

"Fire!"

This, Larissa sensed, was the most difficult and dan-
gerous of the elements to call upon. She tensed without
quite knowing why. The drumming became sharp,
piercing, louder, and the Maiden's movements were like
flame and lightning, all power and energy and sudden,
sharp movements. Larissa closed her eyes-

Abruptly all was silent. Larissa opened her eyes to
see the Maiden standing before her. The young woman
rose, shaking badly. All her life, she had unwittingly
been striving for what she had just witnessed- Every
leap she had ever made seemed earthbound to her now,
every move graceless and empty. She could not bear
her own ignorance of the Maiden's dance.

"1 must know," she said in a quavering voice. "I must
know how to dance like you. Teach me."




THIRTEEN

"First of all, you cannot dance in that," the Maiden
stated flatly, indicating Larissa's dress.

The dancer glanced down at herself. Her clothing was
typical of the garb she wore aboard the boat: full skirts,
a bodice that laced up the front, and a chemise under-
neath.

"What's wrong with it, apart from it being filthy?"

"It binds you too much. You cannot wear anything
that restricts movement."

To Larissa's annoyance, the Maiden made the dancer
remove her clothes and tear them into pieces for new
garments. Larissa bound her breasts with a halter made
of the skirt's material and fashioned a skirt of the
lighter-weight chemise. She fastened the skirt about
her slender waist and glanced at the Maiden for approv-
al.

"No," the Maiden chided. She tugged the skirt from
Larissa's waist and retied it so that it hugged her hips.

"The only time I've ever worn this little is when I was
bathing," Larissa muttered, though she accepted the
strange costume.

"There is a reason for this. Each part of your body
corresponds with an element," the Maiden explained-
"Your hair is air. How you toss your head, play with your

DANCE OF THE DEAD         163

hair—that is ail for air magic. You can command the
wind, conjure beings from the element of air, work with
the weather."

"All with this?" she grinned, running her fingers
through her still-grimy hair. The Maiden, however, re-
mained serious as she nodded.

"Arms are for fire," she said, making fluttery, flame-
like motions with her tendriled fingers and slim green
arms. Larissa imitated her. "Fire, fire elementals, elec-
tricity, light, and heat come from their movements.

"Water," she said, swaying her hips, "is from your cen-
ter." She began to undulate her stomach, causing it to
roll. "This is why your middle must be free to move.
Here in the swamp, it is vital that you know how to com-
mand water. And earth," she said, pulling her rooted
feet from the soil and leaping, "is the feet, where you
make contact with the mother of us all. Now, it is time
for your first lesson."

Larissa's heart began to beat faster with anticipation.

"Lie down on the ground."

"What?" Larissa was stunned and disappointed.

The Maiden laughed at her impatience. "The dancing
comes last," she told the young woman. "A wizard does
not begin to work his magic until he knows the danger
he faces and how best to attack it. Nor does he cast a
spell without gathering the proper ingredients."

"But this is dancing, not spell casting," Larissa pro-
tested- The Maiden touched her cheek softly.

"How much you have to learn, child. First, you must
learn to root yourself." At Larissa's baffled look, the
Maiden explained. "Your strength comes from where
your feet touch, be it soil, or water, or the wood of a
boat. I will take you on your first trip. Lie down and
close your eyes."

Larissa did as the Maiden requested. The soil was
damp, but not muddy, and when Larissa permitted her-
self to relax she found it quite comfortable.

164 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

And then she began to sink into the ground.

With a cry, she bolted upright, but the Maiden shook
her head. "Trust me," she urged in her leaf-soft voice,
gently pressing Larissa back down to the soil again.

This time, it took longer for Larissa to relax. As she
did so, she realized that she was not literally sinking in-
to the loam. Only her mind was making the Journey.
Trust me, came the Maiden's cool voice in her mind.
Trust yourself.

She was deep in the cool, fragrant soil now. Larissa
felt the impalpable heartbeat of the earth, steady and
perpetual. Unconsciously her hands dug into the brown
soil, as if to bring her body to where her mind was.
There was not even the slightest breath of fear. Who
could be afraid of earth?

Feel the life, Larissa. Feel it, grasp it, use its power for
your own. shaping.

That was the force, the energy. Life. Growth. Yes . . .
Larissa could feel it now. She could hear the plants
growing, their roots reaching for sustenance from the
rich soil. She reached out with her mind and brushed
against that force, finding that it welcomed her tenta-
tive probing. Then she directed her efforts to gently
bending the energy.

"Larissa," came the Maiden's soft voice.

The dancer opened her eyes. Her body felt heavy, and
for a moment it was extremely difficult to move. With a
deliberate effort, she sat up, stretching.

"Look by your right hand," the Maiden continued,
pleasure burning in her green eyes. Larissa did so.
There was a tiny patch of violets in the otherwise bare
earth. "They were not there when you lay down."

A tremulous joy spread across Larissa's face, and she
gently touched the tiny plants with a forefinger. "I made
them?"

"No," the Maiden corrected her. "1 cannot teach you
how to conjure something out of nothing. The seeds

DANCE OF THE DEAD         165

were there, but not taking root. You did not create the
violets, merely found their potential for growth and has-
tened it along. You worked with the force of life, not
against it. Rise, my child."

Larissa got to her feet and waited expectantly.

"Remember the feeling of finding and directing the
energy, and remember which part of your body corres-
ponds with earth. Now, child, you may dance."

Tentatively at first, Larissa began to move her bare
feet in a circle around the tiny flowers. Her toes traced
patterns in the moist earth, then Larissa trod heavily,
deeply planting footprints in the soil. She felt the power
tingle up her legs and closed her eyes to concentrate
better. The rest of her body began to move, swaying
gently, and she danced to the rhythm of the earth's
heartbeat, faster and faster, taking control, demanding
response. .,.

She halted abruptly when she realized there was plant
life under her feet instead of bare earth. Larissa opened
her eyes to find the entire area now covered with rich
purple violets. The fragrance "from the bruised flowers
wafted up to her nostrils, and she glanced at the Maiden
happily.

"Your gift is great, but you must learn to control it
and use it wisely."

A sobering thought struck Larissa, damping her en-
thusiasm. "Maiden ... how can this—" she gestured to
the violets "—help defeat Dumont and Lond?"

The Maiden looked at her, disappointed. "You do not
yet see the potential. Ah, well, that will come. In the
meantime, do you wish to bathe and refresh yourself?"

"Is the lesson over?" Larissa cried, fearful that her
rash question had abruptly halted her tutoring. "Maid-
en. they're looking for me right now, and the boat could
leave the boundaries of—"

"What they seek, they will not find. This is a safe
place. As for the boat leaving, well, there is another in

166 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

the swamp who might have something to say about
that. Your lesson is far from over. Every moment you
are with me, you will be learning, though you might not
recognize it as such." She smiled a little to herself.

"There is a spring at the far end of this island. 1 w411
show you how to get there. Do you remember when 1
took you to the scrying pool, and I said you would learn
to travel that way by yourseiff"

Larissa nodded, a bit uncomfortable. There had been
something frightening about being closed up inside the
tree, even if it had lasted only a few seconds.

"Find a tree that you feel comfortable with, and let
me know which one."

The dancer rolled her eyes. Find a tree she felt com-
fortable with? What kind of nonsense—

"WhitemaneV cried the Maiden angrily, her voice no
longer the murmur of leaves but the sharp crack of a
breaking bough. Larissa's head whipped around, fearful
at the banked fury in the Maiden's voice.

"Nothing I say is idle prattle. Nothing I instruct you to
do is for simple amusement. You risk much in asking to
learn the dance magic, but I risk more in teaching it to
you!"

Larissa blushed with shame, unable to meet the blaz-
ing green eyes of the plant-woman. "I'm sorry, Maiden. 1
meant no disrespect"

The Maiden softened somewhat. "I know, child. And
your heart is full of care for those you love. But you
must learn patience and discipline. Come then. White-
mane, and 1 will teach you how to walk through trees,"

Larissa looked at the trees that formed a circle about
the clearing. At last she paused before a thick-trunked
cypress. The breeze stirred the airmoss entangled in its
branches, and it looked almost as if the tree was nod-
ding in greeting.

"Introduce yourself," the Maiden instructed. "Root,
and let the tree know who you are."

DANCE OF THE DEAD         167

Larissa did so, closing her eyes and letting her toes
sink into the soil at the tree's roots.

Welcome, Whitemane. You may travel through me.

The young dancer's eyes flew open. "It talked to me!"
she gasped.

"Of course it did."

"But it's not a quickwood, or—"

"Mo," the Maiden agreed smoothly, "it is merely an
ordinary cypress tree. All things in nature speak to one
who has ears for their words. Now, walk through it."

Larissa took a deep breath and stepped up to the cy-
press, her arms outstretched. They touched rough bark.
"I can't."

"Because you do not trust the tree to open for you.
That is an insult, Larissa. It has already told you it
would. Leap into the tree. Dance into it. Think of it as a
partner who catches you."

Larissa looked at the tree. If the Maiden was right, she
would come through in another part of the island. If she
was wrong, well, Larissa was prepared for a few bruises.

"Be my doorway," she whispered to the tree. She
backed away, took a few running steps and leaped,
arms spread gracefully behind her and her white hair
flying.

She landed securely beside a cascade that fed a deep,
clear pool. The Maiden was already there, watching
Larissa's took of Joyous incredulity. "A little trust, in
yourself and what—or who—you work with," she said
gently-

The pool looked indescribably beautiful to Larissa,
who was very conscious of the mud and sweat caked on
her lithe body. As she bathed, she also washed her
clothes and spread them on a large rock to dry. The
Maiden moved to the edge of the pool and inserted her
root-feet in the water, drinking white her student en-
joyed her bath. Larissa gave a happy sigh and lay back,
floating in the cool liquid.

168 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"Who's she?" came a female voice.

Larissa started, splashing. A pretty young woman
about her own age sat on the bank, peering at her curi-
ously. The girl's shiny brown hair was long and thick,
and fell around her like a cloak. She was clad only in,a
blue gossamer gown. Her lively brown eyes sparkled,
and her arms hugged her knees as she rocked back and
forth.

"You are very rude, Deniri," the Maiden reprimanded.
"This is Larissa Snowmane, and she is my student.
Larissa, this is Deniri, a friend—when she behaves."

Deniri tossed her rich brown locks and laughed mer-
rily. A sharp, feral smile was on her face.

"1 heard a whitemane had returned to the swamp. Hel-
lo, Larissa."

"Hello," Larissa managed, feeling a bit self-
conscious. But the curious girt was no longer paying at-
tention to the dancer. She stared intently at the pool a
few feet away from Larissa, uncurling her body slowly
and gracefully. Deniri crept toward the bank, then shot
her hand into the water with astonishing speed. She
bared her teeth in a victorious grin as she gazed at the
struggling frog in her hand. Then. to Larissa's horror,
she bit it in two.

As she ate, Deniri noticed Larissa's shocked expres-
sion. She shrugged her slim shoulders. "I'm hungry,"
she explained, taking another bite,

Larissa turned away in revulsion. "Deniri is not hu-
man," the Maiden explained. "Deniri, show Larissa your
other appearance."

"I'm not done," she protested.

"She will be less frightened of you if she under-
stands," the Maiden continued, ignoring Deniri's state-
ment.

Deniri took another mouthful of frog, tossed to the
ground what remained, and slipped into the water- With
a transformation that was too fast for Larissa to follow,

DANCE OF THE DEAD        169

the young woman became a giant mink. She surfaced,
crawled onto the bank. and returned to her meal, hold-
ing it down with one paw.

"Deniri is a minx—a creature who can take on the
form of either a woman or a mink. Her mate is someone
who might be able to help us, when the time comes,"
said the Maiden. "Deniri, will you tell Kaedrin to come
to the island? I wish to see him, if he has no objection."

The giant mink, luxurious fur glistening with mois-
ture, cocked her head and considered. At last, she nod-
ded. 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. Laris-
sa stared after her.

"She doesn't seem like a very reliable person," the
dancer commented after a moment.

"She isn't." the Maiden confirmed. "Mo 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 turn-
ed his back on towns and people. There could be no bet-
ter 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 Maid-

170 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

en'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 fail-
ure. 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 after-
noon. A young man approached from the village.

Larissa thought him breathtakingty 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 Wilten.

"His name is Alondrin," the Maiden explained, "and
he is bocoru of Port d'Elhour."

"Bocom?"

"Shaman," the Maiden said. "or priest. Every town
had one, once. The bocoru tends to his people's spirit-
ual needs, and the swamp accepts him."

"I never heard of Port d'Elhour having a bo—a bo-
corn," Larissa murmured, watching the young man.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         171

"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 in-
quisitive. 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 faocoru'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 bet-
terment of others, not for one's own greed. The knowl-
edge I have taught you cannot be twisted to gain the
things you desire."

"Then 1 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

172 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

demands more blood!"

"I care not, so long as it is I who spilt it!" cried Alon-
drin. 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 Alon-
drin'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 to-
ward 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 oth-
ers braved the swamp unprepared for its dangers and
were destroyed. Alondrin cared not at all. His only de-
sire, 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 oth-
ers' 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

DANCE OF THE DEAD         173

upon Larissa. "What 1 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. Ani-
mated corpses, rotting where they stood, unable to
think for themselves at all.

"Yes—and no," the Maiden continued, reading Laris-
sa's thoughts. "Alondrin now works over water, and this
lends him power. He has learned how to make intelli-
gent 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."

Larissa 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 bari-
tone. 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

DANCE OF THE DEAD         175

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 crys-
tal tears.

Getaar'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 cer-
tain segment of the mists known only to Dumont- When
Dumont or Gelaar wished to see her, the mirror mani-
fested, 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 Du-
mont 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, 1 think," Aradnia said, her voice catching a
little with longing. "At twilight. With beautiful crea-
tures."

Before he began, Gelaar glanced once more at
Dragoneyes. The half-elf sat quietly in his chair, watch-
ing 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 hu-
mor 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.

176 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

The yellow light of Dragoneyes' lantern faded into
the cool purples and biues of twilight. The faint twitter-
ing of birds could be heard, and the barely audible rus-
tle 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 mir-
ror 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, en-
tered 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 Oelaar did what pathetically little'ne
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 coot'
er than during the day, but still moist and thick. Du-
mont, 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 hov-
ered 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

DANCE OF THE DEAD         177

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 prepos-
terous for words. On the other hand, the mage had
proven himself a force to be reckoned with. The zom-
bies who walked on Dumont's own boat were testimony
to that.

Only one thing shone like a beacon through Du-
mont'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—"

"Mo," 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. Qelaar stared at him angrily, in-
terrupted in midgesture, Dumont caught a glimpse of
the complex illusion Gelaar had created before the im-
ages 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 to-
ward Aradnia. Her lower lip quivered, and her eyes

178 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

pleaded with him.

"Please, Captain, just a few more minutes with my fa-
ther," she begged, her sweet voice thick and little more
than a timid whisper.

Dumont narrowed his green eyes and took a mali-
cious 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 re-
flected 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 beau-
tiful 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 dar-
ling child is stranded forever in the mists. 1 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

DANCE OF THE DEAD        179

another swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand. It was all Liza's fault, he mused angrily. Every-
thing. If she hadn't meddled, they would stil! 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 Du-
mont 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 every-
thing 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. "Al! 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."

"The baron?"

"Exactly."

Dumont clenched his teeth, furious that his guess
had been correct. He forced himself to stay calm.

180 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"Congratulations, my dear. Best of luck in your new
life." His mind worked swiftly. Liza had an ego the size of
Darkon. She'd not give up the stage quite so easily. If
there were some way to tempt her into staying on, at
least for a while. ...

The actress's smile grew. "Oh, but that's not all.
You're not onty losing your leading lady. You're losing
your Demoiselle—you damned slaver," she hissed.

Dumont went rigid.

"I know what you keep in the storage room. And this
mirror here—" she brushed at her hair in front of the
wardrobe mirror"—well, Gelaar will be relieved that his
daughter didn't run away with that selt-sword in Mor-
dent after all, won't he? I'm sure the good elven folk of
Nevuchar Springs will be delighted to apprehend a
slave ship."

Fear and anger shot through Dumont. He'd be ru-
ined. Twenty years spent traveling, carefully building
the reputation of La Demoiselle du Musarde. That was
all at risk now, thanks to one petulant soprano.

"I've got you on the run now, haven't I, Raoul? You've
slithered away from me like the snake you are before,
but, oh, yes, I've got you now!"

He moved toward her, and she carefully placed be-
tween them the small table at which he had been study-
ing. Her cheeks were flushed and her green eyes
sparkling. Her low-cut dress, the same one she had
worn at dinner, revealed the tops of her breasts. She was
absolutely stunning in her rage.

"For the last two years, I've watched you eyeing Laris-
sa when you think nobody sees. I don't know why you
haven't tried anything on her yet, but you're not going
to now. What else have you got in that hold, Raoul?"

Something chilled to ice inside Dumont at the men-
tion of Larissa's name. Even more than Liza's threats to
expose him, her accusations of his intentions toward
Larissa enraged him. His green eyes, which had been

DANCE OF THE DEAD

181

snapping fire, suddenly went cold.

"Oh, many things worth seeing," he said quietly. "A
pseudodragon, though it's more trouble than it's worth,
and one of those rare colorcats they told us about in
Q'Henna. I've an owl maid, a nereid, and a host of other
magical creatures. It's quite a collection, and it's made
my boat the wonder it is."

Slowly he walked around the table toward her, one
big hand casually reaching to pick up a white scarf he
had draped on the bedpost. Liza's anger evaporated,
and she took a half-step backward toward the door.

"This scarf," continued the captain, "belonged to the
nereid. It's mine now, and so is she. As for you—well,
you're a pretty thing, Liza. Baron Tahlyn has excellent
taste. We're going to miss that fabulous voice. You were
a treasure, but a bit expensive to maintain."

Liza was frightened now, and when Dumont iunged at
her she reacted swiftly. She shoved a chair in Dumont's
path, slowing him down but not stopping him, and fled
for the door.

"Help!" she cried, unaware that nothing could be
heard outside once the door was closed. Dumont
cursed as he regained his balance and went after her. He
hadn't locked the door, and if she got out—

With a gasp, the terrified singer tugged the door
open.

Dragoneyes was there. He seized Liza and clamped a
hand across her mouth, leaning back against the door
to shut it. Liza struggled vainly, and in a heartbeat Du-
mont had reached her, wrapping the magical white
scarf about the singer's throat and jerking it tight. She
fought briefly, but at last she sagged and her falling
body tugged the silky material free from his hands.

Panting, Dumont looked at Dragoneyes. The half-elf
regarded him evenly. There was no hint of condemna-
tion in those golden orbs.

"She knew about the collection, and that damned

182 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

baron proposed to her. She was going to marry him and
turn me over to the people of Nevuchar Springs."

"Elf folk'd hang you for sure for slaving," answered
Dragoneyes. He glanced down at the limp body. "I'll
miss her singing. Her understudy'll be pleased, though.
What should we do with the body?"

A cruel smile twisted Dumont's lips. "1 have a great
idea... ."

Yes, Dumont mused to himself now as the alcohol fi-
nally began to hit him, he'd had a great idea that had
gone more wrong than he could possibly imagine.

"Liza, m'dear," he slurred, "if your cursed ghost
haunts my boat, I'll bet you're damn pleased with the
way things are working out."

He took another long pull at the almost empty bottle.
As he did so, he told himself that the peal of vindictive
laughter he heard in his head was only his whiskey-
soaked imagination.

A loud crash of thunder woke Willen. He blinked
sleepily, confused for a moment, then remembered he
needed to get up to the pilothouse. The rain was com-
ing down heavily now, and he winced inwardly. The
swamp was a bad place to be when it rained. As he had
told Larissa, the folk of Port d'Elhour called it "Death's
riding weather," and he knew just how right they were.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his
hand. Curious thing, sleep, he mused to himself. It had
been difficult at first for Willen to understand the hu-
man need for sleep, undeniable though it was. How odd
that the body would simply stop cooperating, that the
mind would refuse to focus, until the human lay down
and turned off conscious thought for a few hours. He
dressed, splashed some cold water on his face, and
stepped out into the downpour.

DANCE OF THE DEAD

183

He had been up in the pilothouse for only a few mo-
ments when Sardan knocked on the door.

"I come bearing gifts, 0 lucky pilot," the tenor said,
setting down a tray laden with a pot of tea, two cups,
bread, and slices of meat. "And if my lady has stayed
where I left her -. - yes, here she is—" he beamed as he
withdrew his mandolin from the stairway "—you'll have
food for the body and food for the soul." Sardan poured
a mugful of steaming tea and handed it to Wiilen, who
took it gratefully.

"I heard the captain tell you to go on duty in this hor-
rible weather, so I thought I'd come up and entertain
you," he explained as he poured a cup of tea for himself.

Willen smiled at him, touched. "Thank you, Sardan."

The handsome bard grimaced. "Don't get any rumors
started or my reputation will be ruined," he joked.

Willen took a sip of the fragrant tea, savoring its
taste, then set it aside and addressed himself to his
task.

There were no lights in the pilothouse at night- It was
easier to navigate by the moon and starlight outside,
though the rain made certain there was little enough of
that. Sardan sat in the back, shadowed in darkness,
strumming his mandolin. Willen's mind began to wan-
der.

Lond had turned the majority of the crew into undead
minions. The only ones spared were the cooking staff
and those that piloted the ship—Willen, Tane, and
Jahedrin. Willen assumed that Lond recognized that
the pilots had to have fast reflexes in order to deal with
any problems the capricious river might hurl their way.

With the exception of Casilda, the cast of the play re-
mained untouched. It didn't make sense to Willen.
While he rejoiced that they had not fallen victim to
Lond's evil, he couldn't understand why they had been
spared. The more zombies on the boat, the better, as far
as the evil wizard was concerned. So why leave the cast

184 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

alone? They, and the few living crewmen, sensed that
there was something amiss. They seemed to believe the
"swamp fever" story, but Willen wondered how long it
would take before somebody figured out what was re-
ally going on.

Sardan finished one song that Willen recognized
from The Pirate's Pleasure and started on another one.
The pilot gritted his teeth.

"Don't you know anything but the score from the
show?" he asked the tenor, annoyed.

"Of course I do," replied Sardan testily. "I used to be a
bard, you know. A long time ago, before I gave in to the
easy life. Captain won't hear any music aboard La De-
moiselle other than what's in the score. And nobody but
cast members can sing. It's a direct order."

Willen's eyes widened, and he was glad of the dark-
ness in the pilothouse so that Sardan couldn't see his
reaction. He remembered visiting the prisoners and
hearing strains of Rose's solo. What he'd seen of Du-
mont's magic was also linked to music-

"1s The Pirate's Pleasure a traditional play?" WUlen
asked, trying not to sound overanxious as his idea be-
gan to take shape.

At that. Sardan laughed aloud. "It's a pretty poor
show. Anything traditional would have to be a lot better
to last more than a week. No, the tragic tale of Florian
and Rose is our good captain's own creation. Although,
to be fair, it's not bad for an amateur."

Willen's grin was enormous now. He had guessed cor-
rectly. If Dumont had written the score, then the songs
from the musical were probably laced with magical
words and notes. He'd have to tell the Maiden about
this, and fast. The cast rehearsed every afternoon, and
each time the spell was performed the bonds holding
the prisoners would grow stronger.




FIFTEEN

"It has no form," the Maiden whispered softly as Laris-
sa floated quietly in the pool. "It expands to fill the con-
tainer. Become the container. Take water into you,
Larissa. Feel it inside of you, feel it in your hands, your
head, your body. Know that it is pan of you, that it can-
not hurt you. Now, when you are ready, perform the
dance and feel the water in your lungs."

Lying quietly in the spring; keeping her eyes closed.
her mind tranquil, Larissa reached up and ran her fin-
gers through her hair. Air, she thought. She contracted
her stomach muscles and undulated just enough so
that her head was beneath the surface. Water, she
thought. Breathe ...

Larissa flailed, bolting for the surface and coughing
desperately.

"I simply don't understand why this is so difficult for
you," the Maiden said. "Come out and try again. Don't
jerk—ro;f your hips."

Larissa's lungs hurt, but she obediently climbed out
of the pool. She tried, but she had been practicing all
morning and was so tired that she wasn't even able to
come close to emulating her teacher's liquid move-
ments. The Maiden sighed.

"Rest for a while, my dear. We'll try again this after-

186 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

noon. You must master water. That is the primary ele-
ment in Souragne."

She held out her hands to Larissa, and the girl eagerly
helped herself to the ripe fruit the Maiden offered. As
Larissa bit into a peach, the Juice running down her
chin, the Maiden cocked her head-

"We have visitors," she told her student. Larissa got to
her feet. gazing in the direction of the river. A small ca-
noe came into sight, bearing Deniri and a tall, muscular
man clad in swamp-soiled rags. They negotiated the
strong current expertly, docking easily and pulling the
boat well onto the shore.

The man looked to be in his early fifties, but it was
hard for Larissa to tell. The shaggy gray beard could
have belonged to an old man, but the muscles that
swelled beneath the tattered shreds of clothing and the
twinkling gray eyes set in the weatherworn face attested
to a more youthful age.

"Greetings, Kaedrin, Deniri. Thank you for coming. 1
disturb you only because of our great necessity," said
the Maiden as the pair approached.

Before anyone else had a chance to speak, a weasel
stuck its head out of one of the man's pockets. It fixed
the Maiden with bright eyes, whiskers twitching, then
dived back into the warm comfort of the pocket. As if
the weasel's emergence had been a cue, two mice
emerged from another pocket and sniffed about cau-
tiously. A harsh caw distracted Larissa's attention in
time to see a magnificent raven swoop down from a
nearby tree to perch on the man's shoulder.

Kaedrin smiled at the raven and stroked the ebony
head gently with a respectful touch. He turned toward
Larissa and gazed at the dancer for a moment.

"Greetings. Whitemane Larissa," he said formally.
"Kaedrin, son of Mailir, son of Ash-Tari, is at your serv-


ice.

Larissa opened her mouth to reply, then froze. A

DANCE OF THE DEAD        187

large snake, covered with rust-colored diamond patch-
es, twined its way into the sunlight from the man's shirt.
A black tongue flickered, scenting Larissa, and beady
eyes fixed her in a cold, reptilian stare.

"Child, what—oh," Kaedrin said, suddenly compre-
hending. "1 know she's poisonous, but we're good
friends. She'll not harm you." Completely unafraid, the
ranger picked up the slowly twisting serpent and held it
out toward Larissa. "Just pat her and—"

"Nol" the dancer cried. Fear swelled inside her. "Get
it away... .*'

"She obviously dislikes snakes, Kaedrin," said the
Maiden gently. Abashed, the ranger reinserted the
snake into his shirt.

"I'm sorry," Larissa apologized. She felt her cheeks
flush with embarrassment and hastened to explain. "It's
Just—"

"No need," said Kaedrin quickly. "When I return, I'll
come without some of my friends, eh?" He smiled
warmly at her. "We must go. Deniri and I have hunting
to do. Larissa. we will bring you back some of our kill.
The Maiden can't conjure a good roast rabbit." He
turned without another word, and he and the pretty
minx walked hand in hand back to their canoe.

"After meeting Longears, I don't know if 1 can eat
roast rabbit," Larissa said to the Maiden.

The Maiden shrugged. "Life and death are a part of
the natural cycle. If one of his people may provide sus-
tenance for you, Longears will not be angry. Wasteful
killing, where none benefit—that is another matter.
That is a violation of the balance."

Larissa finished her meal quietly, lying on her back
and gazing at the blue sky. After all too short a time, the
Maiden stood over her. "Come, Larissa. Fire, I think,
will be your next lesson."

The dancer groaned, but sat up.

188 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

The new scouting party turned up as empty-handed
as the one before. Dumont was starting to truly worry
about the fate of his ward. Lond was no help. He had
closeted himself in his cabin, unable or unwilling to lo-
cate Larissa through magic.

Dumont swore to himself and took another pull at the
whiskey bottle. He had always been fond of liquor, but
now he found that its warm haze took away some of the
strange pangs of regret that were beginning to haunt
him since Larissa's disappearance.

His mind wandered as he lay sprawled on his bed, one
brawny arm behind his head and the other balancing
the bottle on his chest. For the first time since he had
laid eyes on Larissa, Dumont wondered if the young
woman might not have been better off if he had left her
with her father.

Her father. Dumont had spotted the man right away
that night when he came aboard La Demoiselle....

Aubrey Helson had worn the gaunt, haggard look of a
man who was harried by his own persona! demons. The
man was thin to the point of emaciation, his pale face
covered with stubble, and his eyes blinked rapidly as he
spoke. Helson's clothes had obviously once been fine.
Equally as obvious was the fact that the man's fortunes
had been spiraling downward for some time now.

It had been no effort at all for Dumont to entice the
man into a game of "Lords and Ladies." !n the lounge
area, surrounded by the beauty of wrought brass, pol-
ished wood, and stained-glass windows, they each ac-
quired a drink and a handful of tokens- They played a
few rounds, and Dumont swiftly got a feel for his oppo-
nent. He threw the first two games, and Helson's plea-
sure as his pile of tokens grew was most satisfying to
the captain.

Still, Helson's hands shook as he held his cards, and

DANCE OF THE DEAD         189

he drained his glass rapidly and often. So, Dumont
mused to himself, gambling and liquor are the names
of his demons. The captain drew a card, looked at it
without changing expression, and inserted it into his
hand.

"Papa," Larissa said softly, draping a slim arm about
her father's shoulder, "may I dance outside? I'm tired of
sitting."

Helson dragged his bloodshot eyes away from the
cards and gazed up at his daughter. A smite tugged at
his mouth. The gesture took years off his haunted face.

"Well, let's see if that's all right with the captain." He
glanced over the table at Dumont, and the furtive look
resettled on his features.

"By alt means," Dumont beamed. "I'd like to watch
you sometime, my dear, if I may. After all, there are
worse things to do with your life than become a dancer
aboard a showboat."

Larissa's blue eyes lit up, and she smiled. A blush
crept across her face- What an uncommonly pretty
child, Dumont thought to himself. And that long white
hair . . . uncommon indeed. "Thank you, Captain Du-
mont. I'll try not to disturb anybody," she said politely,
and hastened outside.

With a mock sigh, Dumont spread out his hand.
"Your win again, my friend. Perhaps that pretty child of
yours is Lady Luck in disguise."

Helson glanced after his daughter fondly. "She's been
my best luck ever since she was born," he said, his voice
soft.

Briskly Dumont reached for the pack of cards and be-
gan to shuffle them expertly. "Another round?" he que-
ried nonchalantly.

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Helson, his eyes too bright. Du-
mont nodded to himself. Time to make the kill, he
thought.

He dealt the cards, keeping up an easy banter that

190 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

distracted the gambler from the delicate movements of
the captain's fingers. Dumont had magically marked
the cards, and each one radiated a different sensation to
his knowing fingers. He gathered his own hand and pe-
rused the faces.

The goal of "Lords and Ladies" was to collect as
many female cards as possible, preferably ones of high
rank. Only two women smiled up at him from the cards,
none of whom were Ladies of Power.

The captain concentrated, rubbing the cards slightly
with his thumb, and the faces shimmered and changed.
Now Dumont held the Lady of the Sea, the Star Queen,
Earth's Daughter, and the Fire Maiden. He left the com-
paratively weak card, Hearthkeeper, unchanged and de-
cided to hold onto the handsome River Lord. Helson,
the captain knew, had only one Lady of Power—the
Dark Lady—and the rest were all common suit cards.
He suppressed a smile.

The hour wore on. The cards Helson drew were good,
but not good enough to surpass Dumont's cheating
magic. Helson grew paler and paler, and when Dumont
spread his hand and the gambler laid down his own pa-
thetic set of cards, the color was nearly gone from his
face.

Dumont languidly reached over and gathered the
loser's mound of tokens to himself. He glanced over it,
and raised a golden eyebrow.

"Doesn't look like there's enough here to cover what
you owe me," he commented.

"But 1 don't have any more money with me," the bro-
ken man whispered, his head drooping and finally sink-
ing into his trembling hands.

"Well, that is unfortunate," Dumont commented in a
maliciously bright tone of voice. "But perhaps you
ought to have thought of that before you began to play."

"I'd been on a lucky streak..." Aubrey Helson's voice
trailed off.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         191

Dumont grinned like a famished tiger. "Looks like
your tuck just ran out. I'll give you a moment to think
about how you might want to settle that debt. If any-
thing occurs to you, just tell my friend Dragoneyes over
there."

He nodded in the half-elfs direction. The golden-
eyed first mate glanced up at the sound of his name.
caught Dumont's expression, and nodded ever so
slightly before returning his attention to his whittling.

Light glinted off his knife. Helson cringed visibly.

The night air was clean and cool, and the night sky
brimmed with stars. As he stepped out on the deck,
however, Dumont discovered that he didn't need to
search the heavens for ethereal beauty.

it was quiet on deck. Most of the patrons were either
in the theater watching the performance or else gam-
bling in the lounge like Helson. Alone on deck, the
white-haired girl was dancing, keeping perfect time to a
rhythm only she could hear and performing solely for
her own pleasure. Her hair, which had been tied back in
a ponytail, was now loose and floated about her like a
cloud shot through with moonlight.

The harsh orange-yellow gleam of the night lanterns
detracted from the sight, but not greatly. Little Larissa
Helson still managed to look fey and wild, swaying and
leaping and turning, graceful and unpredictable as a
feather caught by a wanton breeze.

Dumont watched her, enraptured. In a few years, men
would pay a great deal to see that child perform. With
that mane of white, she was a natural for the Lady of the
Sea. Once this graceful girl became associated with La
Demoiselle du Musarde, Dumont's fame would be se-
cure. Thoughtful, he went inside.

Helson's whipped expression had not changed. Du-
mont eased himself into the chair opposite the wretch-
ed gambler and waited patiently until Helson raised his
eyes.

192 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"Your daughter has a gift," Dumont stated bluntly. "I
would like her to stay on as a chorus girl. I'd be lying if I
said I didn't think she'd have a chance at the leading
role in a few years. You could consider her your pay-
ment. She'd be well-treated and would lack for noth-
ing."

What color lingered in Hetson's sallow face vanished.
His mouth opened and closed. "No," he managed at
last. "She's the only thing I've got left to ... No."

"You're holding her back," Dumont pressed. "Didn't
you see how her face lit up as I mentioned her dancing
with us? She was born to be onstage, man. Anyone can
see that."

"No." Helson shook his head decisively. "I'll find
some way to settle the debt. Just give me a day or two,
please, for pity's sake ..."

Dumont's green eyes searched Helson's pain-filled
blue ones. "Very well," he said finally. "But we will keep
the girl on board until you return, as surety."

Helson looked as though he would protest, but before
he could articulate his feelings Dragoneyes was there.
The half-elf laid a hand on the gambler's shoulder. "You
heard the captain, friend," he said in an amiable, soft
voice. "1 think it's time you went home."

Dragoneyes' other hand grasped the knife with which
he had been whittling- It was not held to Hetson's throat,
but the message was clear.

The man slumped for a moment, then raised pain-
filled eyes to Dumont. "May I say good-bye to her?"

Dumont leaned backward and leisurely packed his
pipe. "No, I can't let you do that. Dragoneyes will escort
you to the shore." He nodded, and the mate slipped a
hand beneath the gambler's elbow, firmly pulling the
man to his feet- Helson looked back at the captain.

"I'll be back tomorrow. I have some things I can sell.
Tell Larissa that I'll be back as soon as 1 can, so she
won't worry."

DANCE OF THE DEAD

193

"Oh, certainly," Dumont agreed smoothly. He
snapped his fingers, and Helson gasped as the captain's
index finger blazed with a small blue flame, and he
proceeded to light his pipe with it.

"1 will be back," Helson repeated. "Tomorrow morn-
ing. Tell her."

Dumont didn't reply, and Helson and Dragoneyes
left.

The captain rose once they had gone, and went on deck
again to watch the dancing child. The half-elf returned a
few moments later.

"He's taken care of," Dragoneyes said in a low voice.

"Excellent," Dumont replied, taking another puff on
his pipe.

Dragoneyes' gaze followed his friend's. "New dancer,
eh, Raoul?"

"What do you think about training her for the Lady of
the Sea?"

The half-elf nodded. "Perfect."

Dumont's eyes never left Larissa. "What did you do
with him?"

Dragoneyes grinned coldly. "There are a lot of hun-
gry wolves in Arkandale. I left him near the fringe of the
forest. Won't be more than a skeleton by morning."

"Bright boy, Dragoneyes, bright boy," Dumont ap-
proved. "Wait half an hour, then get the fox. We'll run
his damned legs off. I want to be out of here by dawn."

"Aye, Raoul." Dragoneyes melted away quietly. Du-
mont went out onto the deck.

"Larissa?" The girl stopped and turned her innocent
face up to his.

"Yes, Captain?"

Dumont hesitated, letting a sympathetic expression
form on his face. He laid an avuncular hand on her slen-
der shoulder. "My dear, I've got some very bad news."

A sharp knock startled Dumont out of his reverie and
back to the present. He rose slowly and weaved his way

194 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

to the door, opened it, and peered out.

Willen saluted smartly. "Good afternoon, Captain. I
was wondering if perhaps you'd give me permission to
take the yawl and scout around for Miss Snowmane. I
know the swamp well, sir. No offense to the rest of the
boys, but... they might slow me down."

Dumont tightened his grip on the doorknob for sup-
port. He took a deep breath and demanded that his vi-
sion clear. It didn't. "Bit dangerous out there for a lone
man, isn't it?" His voice, at least, was steady.

Willen grinned- "Not if you grew up here, sir."

"Oh, that's right. Yes, that's a fine idea. Will. How long
do you think you'll be gone?"

Willen thought about it, gnawing his lower lip. "I
should be back by morning. You can send the boat on
ahead and I'll catch up."

"Good. We'll see you in the morning. Oh, Will—"

The youth turned around, "Aye, sir?"

A muscle in Dumont's cheek twitched. "What does
the term 'whitemane' mean to you?"

Willen's expression didn't change. "Nothing, sir,
Should it?"

Dumont shook his head, wincing at the sudden pain
that shot through it at the gesture. "No, no. Just some
damned nonsense Lond was spouting, that's all. Go
about your business, boy."

"Aye, sir."

Dumont closed the door and leaned against it for a
moment white the room swam. Carefully, he made his
way back to the bed. No sooner had he lain down than
an urgent pounding came on the door.

Dumont swore loudly. "Curse your mother, come in!"

Lond swept into the room, closing the door behind
him. Dumont's stomach tightened. He was becoming
increasingly uncomfortable around his alleged ally.

"The swamp boy is taking the yawl!" Lond cried. "You
must stop him at once!"

DANCE OF THE DEAD        195

"I told him he could. He knows the swamp, and he's
going in search of Larissa." Dumont narrowed his eyes.
"And as for that trumped-up yarn of yours, Lond, I don't
believe a word of it. Will said he'd never even heard of a
whitemane, and he ought to know."

Lond's body shook with anger. With an effort, he
calmed himself.

"Captain Dumont," he said in deceptively silky tones,
"you are the biggest fool it has ever been my misfor-
tune to come across. Of course he would lie about the
whitemane! Of course he would want to scout ahead all
alone in the middle of a dangerous swamp! He's one of
them and he's gone to warn Larissa!"

Unwillingly, Dumont felt his trust in Willen waver.
When the boy was around, it was impossible not to like
him. But now, alone and with his head hurting from too
much alcohol, Dumont began to doubt. If Lond was cor-
rect about Larissa's swamp magic, then the wizard
might be right about Willen.

Still, Dumont felt obliged to defend the trust he had
placed in the boy. "He's been quite loyal so far, and the
crew loves him." It sounded lame, even to his own ears.
A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Why didn't he
shake the scouting party earlier if he's a spy?"

"I've no idea," Lond snapped, pacing back and forth
and rubbing his gloved hands together. "Perhaps to
prove his trustworthiness, to lull you into a false sense
of security. Obviously," he sneered, "it worked. It's too
late to stop him now, but perhaps we could follow him."

"No," replied Dumont. "He'd notice anyone on his
track and lose them." He paused, lost in thought.
"There is someone who can track him." the captain said
at last.

Lond smiled grimly in the masking shadow of his
hood.




SIXTEEN

Gradually, Larissa's young, strong body became used
to the unusual movements of the dance magic. She
even grew to like them. The wild swaying and leaping
was much different than the old choreography, and she
relished not having to do a certain step at a certain
time. True enough, there were movements that meant
things—sort of a magical shorthand. For the most part,
however, Larissa just enjoyed the freedom to follow the
drumbeats as her body saw fit.

The Maiden had instructed her to build a small fire,
and now Larissa gazed into it intently. The flames were
dancers themselves, hypnotic and compelling. The
young woman lost herself in observing the flickering
tongues of heat and light.

"Fire bums," came the Maiden's voice, "fire cleanses,
destroys, purifies. Out of the ashes comes rebirth, out
of the flames, heat that could save a life. I want you to
make this tiny fire a bit larger. Dance the flames."

Slowly, keeping her eyes on the fire, Larissa rose and
began to move. The dancer swayed, her arms rising of
their own accord. Her fingers fluttered, mimicking the
licking of the flames.

She began to smile a little to herself. This was easy,
so much easier than water, Larissa thought, letting go

DANCE OF THE DEAD         197

and tumbling into the sensations. Fire burns. . . .

The young woman felt hot, burning up with energy.
Her body responded, her arms swirling and fingers flut-
tering like tongues of flame. Fire bums. .. .

A gigantic crack and a sudden flush of heat brought
Larissa abruptly out of the trance. She blinked dazedly
and then saw what had happened. One of the old cy-
press trees by the pool had exploded into flame. Ashes
flew into Larissa's face, and the fire, snapping and roar-
ing dangerously, threatened to spread to the other
trees. Larissa stared, transfixed with horror.

Fortunately, the Maiden reacted swiftly. She hastened
to the pool, immersed her slim, strong body, and called
the magic herself. A huge wave exploded from the river.
Much of the fire was put out. but the tree's right side stilt
burned brightly. A second wave reared up, drenching
the tree and finally extinguishing the crackling flames.

The Maiden returned to the bank, digging her root
feet into the soil. Dirt erupted from near the dead tree's
roots as if thrown by some giant burrowing creature,
and the sizzling embers were safely covered with earth.

For a moment, both women stared at the still-
smoking, blackened trunk. Larissa realized it was the
tree who had first permitted her to travel through it.

The Maiden shook her head sadly. There was no need
for her to say anything to Larissa. The girl knew what
she had done, and why it had happened.

"I'm so sorry. Maiden," Larissa whispered, her face
still frozen in horror. "I'm so sorry."

The Maiden slipped an arm about the girl's waist. "I
know. Look well upon what you have done and learn
from it. Then, let it be."

They stood in silence, gazing at the dead tree. A few
days ago, Larissa would hardly have cared about one
burned cypress. But she knew this tree, had traveled
through it, and it had trusted and accepted her. Now she
realized how the tree fitted into its environment,-what

198 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

creatures had called it home. And she, with a careless
slip of her concentration, had destroyed it.

"Come, child," the Maiden said briskly. "It is time for
your dinner. Deal with fire in a more mundane fashion,
and prepare yourself the rabbit Deniri so graciously
caught for you."

Stilt flushed with guilt, Larissa turned from the skele-
tal wreckage of the tree. She skinned the rabbit clum-
sily, for she had never had to prepare meat before, and
managed to contrive a spit upon which to roast the ani-
mal, Soon, it began to give off a scent that made Laris-
sa's mouth water.

"That smells wonderful. Got enough for two?" came
a cheerful voice. Larissa's head whipped around, and to
her shocked delight she saw Wilten. He was walking to-
ward her, a swarm of feu follets dancing around his
head.

"Willen!" she cried, scrambling to her feet and run-
ning toward him. They collided clumsily, and she em-
braced him with a fierce pleasure. The feu foilets
blinked rapidly, flitting about and changing colors.
"Willen, I'm so glad to see you!"

"So I gathered," the youth joked, though he clasped
her as tightly as she did him. "Did the feu follet come for
you?"

Larissa nodded happily. "Yes, and a quickwood saved
me, and Longears brought me to—"

"Whoa, stow down!" chided Willen. "This is a tale
best told over supper, and I'm hungry."

"Welcome, Willen," said the Maiden, stepping beside
them. "Eat and refresh yourself, and all tales wilt be
told."

They made a circle of light in the darkness as they
ate. Willen encouraged Larissa to tell of her adventure
in the swamp, and laughed with delight when he heard
that Longears had accepted her.

"He doesn't make friends easily," Willen said. "If you

DANCE OF THE DEAD         199

call someone "as cautious as Longears,' it means they
take a long time to trust anyone."

"As you probably planned," the Maiden noted, "Laris-
sa has agreed to learn the dance magic. She is doing
quite well."

"1 have a good teacher," she said, deflecting the com-
pliment.

"Then . . ." Willen paused, then continued hesitantly.
"Then you know who you are? You remember your first
trip to Souragne?"

The dancer nodded, licking her slightly burned fin-
gers. Wiilen's voice held an odd tension, and she wasn't
sure why. "I'm not afraid of the swamp anymore, if that's
what you're asking."

The young man was clearly relieved. "You don't know
how pleased 1 am to hear that, Larissa." She looked up
at him and again was snared by the sweet mystery that
lay in the depths of his dark eyes.

"What of the riverboat?" came the Maiden's voice, in-
terrupting the moment. Wiilen's expression darkened.

"Lond is moving swiftly," he-answered. Larissa started
to shiver, despite the humid warmth of the early eve-
ning. Willen moved closer to her and put a comforting
arm around her. She looked up at him.

"How many?"

"Almost all of the crew now," he said. Oently he
stroked her white hair. "The cast, except for Casilda,
seems pretty much untouched, though soon they're
bound to figure out that something's gone very, very
wrong. I've discovered that you can hear the music from
the show in the prisoner's hold. 1 think there's some
kind of spell in the music, and Lond's smart enough to
know that a living throat imparts something to a song
that a zombie can't."

"Then why did Casilda become . . ." Larissa couldn't
even finish the sentence. Bile rose in her throat, and she
swallowed hard.

200 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"She may have seen something they didn't want her
to." Willen replied.

"Yes, that's it, I'm sure of it now. 1 think Dumont's
killed .. . inconvenient cast members before. Liza, the
woman Cas understudied, was murdered, and they nev-
er found out who did it. She probably happened onto
his slaves." She shook her head sadly. "What a wretch-
ed, foul mess."

"How are the prisoners?" asked the Maiden.

"Enduring. Not abused."

"And Bouki?"

"He and the fox loah are best friends now. I think
Bushtail would fight his own brother for the little fel-
low." He grinned impishly. "Longears will have a fit."

"How much more time can you buy us?" the Maiden
inquired-

Witlen's grin faded. "I don't know. I've taken them. on
as roundabout a route as I can without Lond growing
suspicious. He knows the swamp, remember. I can still
claim things about river depth and such, but if I stall too
long, he'll catch on."

The Maiden shook her mossy head. "He always was
too clever for his own good," she said softly- "What do
you say? A week? Two?"

Willen was silent for a moment. His sober brown eyes
gazed into the fire, then he looked directly at the Maid-
en. "A few days at the most."

The Maiden closed her eyes in pain for a moment.
"Larissa needs more training."

"We don't have the time."

The Maiden turned abruptly and walked to the edge
of the clearing. Beyond the ring of flickering orange
firelight Larissa could see her slim shape. The Maiden
stood quietly, not moving at all.

The dancer turned her attention back to Wilten. "I'm
glad you have avoided trouble. I was afraid that you'd
be suspected."

DANCE OF THE DEAD

201

Willen smiled. "Not at all. 1 am universally trusted. It's
extremely convenient."

Larissa chuckled slightly. The feu. follets continued to
dance around Wilten, as they had since he arrived.

"The feu toilets like you," she commented. "This is
the first time I've seen them since I came to the island."

Willen assumed a wry expression. "They ought to tike
me, since I am one of them."

The dancer stared at him. "You're . - - you're a feu fol-
let?"

He looked puzzled. "You didn't know?"

Larissa continued to stare, "How could I?"

"I thought the Maiden ... Don't you remember when
you became a whitemane?"

Larissa nodded. Willen closed his hand over hers. "I
was the feu foliet who wouldn't leave you, when your fa-
ther took you away," he explained. "When the Maiden
called for a volunteer to be turned into a human, 1
couldn't agree fast enough. 1 became human for you,
Larissa—for you as well as my people."

Larissa started to edge away. "But you're not human,"
she whispered. "Not really."

Willen's quiet joy melted like ice in the spring. He
started to taste fear. "I'm human enough," he said,
aware that his apprehension was creeping into his voice
but not caring. "Look! My hands are getting callused. I
have to eat, to sleep—"

"And you read minds with a touch," Larissa retorted,
folding her arms about her in an unconscious gesture of
protection. "What is going on?"

"Larissa!" Willen's eyes were suddenly wet. He had
never known such pain. He rose clumsily and went to
join the Maiden.

Larissa glanced after him miserably. Not knowing
what else to do, she poked distractedly at the fire. Now
and then she glanced up at the two shadowy figures
talking together quietly. At one point, the Maiden em-

202 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

braced Willen, who laid his head on her breast like a
child. Larissa winced and began to ready herself for
bed. She curled up on her side on a pile of airmoss. but
her eyes remained wide open.

After a time, the Maiden returned. "Do not be angry
with Willen. He is what he is for love of you—not quite
human, but never again to be a feu follet. Yet he is noth-
ing unnatural, Larissa. Be kind to him, if you can be
nothing else. Talk to him, before he returns to the show-
boat and his duty."

She turned, melting easily into the forest, and was
lost to Larissa's view.

The dancer sat up at Willen's approach. Her face was
warmly lit from the fire's glow, but her hair held the cool
radiance of the moon. Wordlessly, he sank down beside
her, looking up at the stars. Then he turned his warm
eyes upon her, and Larissa cringed from the paip she
saw in their depths. Yet she was unable to look away.
For a long time, they simply gazed at one another, then
Willen spoke, breaking the silence.

"It is a time for truths," he said quietly. "Things
should be said now, or else we'll regret not saying them
later."

"You're right," she said in a tone equally as soft, keep-
ing her eyes on his face. "I'm sorry for what I said. I
just—well, it was unexpected, to say the least. I'm not
sure how I feel about it."

Willen shook his brown head. "It's all right. You're
afraid. 1 understand."

"No, it's not all right. 1 hurt you, and that was cruel of
me."

"Forgiven," he said.

"Your turn," said Larissa briskly, trying to lighten the
atmosphere. "Who decided what you would look like as
a human?"

"The Maiden," the feu foUet replied. "She tried to
think of the perfect river boatman—young, strong, at-

DANCEOFTHEDEAD        203

tractive enough to be popular but not so much that I'd
be out of the ordinary." He smiled. "So, here I am."

"How old are you?"

"The body's supposed to be in the early twenties. Me,
I've been around for—oh, 1 don't know, a few hundred
years in the way you count time. We don't measure time
at all. Feu fotlets just are, until we are ... not."

Larissa blinked, caught by surprise. More questions
flooded her. "Is Willen your real name?"

He laughed at that. "No," he confessed. "When you
asked me that in the inn, I was somewhat taken aback. 1
was still pretty new to the human form and didn't know
about a lot of your customs. I'd forgotten that I'd need a
name that humans could pronounce, so 1 picked the
first thing that came to me." Seeing her incomprehen-
sion, he explained further. "It's local slang. To be 'wil-
lened' is to be charmed by the will-o'-the-wisps or feu
foUets"

"Do you have a real name?"

"Oh, yes. Everything has a name."

"What is it?"

He was silent. "1 can't tell you."

His refusal stung, but she understood. "You don't
trust me with it. Well, I guess the way I reacted, I can't
blame you."

"No, you don't see," he insisted, squeezing her hand.
"My people don't have a verbal language. We communi-
cate with color, intensity of light, things like that. I've no
way of translating it for you. that's all."

Suddenly a thought occurred to him, and a smile
touched his mouth. "Wait a minute. Maybe I do," he told
her, rising and going to the fringes of the woods.

He returned a few moments later, four or five of the
feu foUets following him. "Watch, and they'll tell you my
name."

The feu foUets danced about a bit. then formed a cir-
cle and hovered in the air. Their light dimmed, then all

204 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

at once flared to new life. Colors rippled across them,
shimmering, blending, a flurry of scarlet and violet and
turquoise and rose. The intensity of the light, too, faded
and flashed, and the sizes increased from pinpricks of
illumination to glowing balls larger than her head. All a(
once, the feu follets went dark, then began to glow again
with their normal radiance.

Larissa's face was aglow. She had been privileged to
see many wonders in her brief life, traveling on the
showboat as she had, but she had never seen anything
to match the loveliness of Willen's name.

He sat down beside her, excitement and pleasure ra-
diating from him. "I've never actually seen it with hu-
man eyes before. It's pretty, isn't it? Did you like it?"

She looked up at him with wide eyes, filled with a joy
that was almost agonizing in its keenness. He misread
her expression in the dim glow of the fire, and his face
fell. With a tittle cry of protest, she seized his hand,
knowing he would read her emotions accurately with
his touch.

A soft joy spread across his face. "Then . . . you do
like it."

Larissa laughed brokenly, almost a sob. "Willen . . .
it's ... 1 liked it very much."

He gripped her hand harder, so hard it was almost
painful, but Larissa didn't want to pull away. She met his
intense brown gaze evenly, captivated, trembling.

Willen licked his lips. "Larissa, I ..." Now it was his
turn to grope for words- "I don't quite understand hu-
mans yet," he finally said with an awkward laugh. "I'm
not sure what I'm feeling."

Larissa knew what he was feeling, for she was sensing
it, too. She recalled the merging with fire that had been
so disastrous earlier and tasted something of its wild
joy now. Her hands, suddenly hot, clutched his.

"Larissa," whispered Willen, tears springing to his
eyes, "you are so beautiful."

DANCE OF THE DEAD        205

"As are you," she said, barely able to get the words
past her throat. She reached up a trembling hand to
touch his face, brushing her fingers against the stubble
on his cheek. "Your form, your name, your way of see-
ing things, your soul. . ." Suddenly her vision blurred,
and he swam before her. She blinked frantically at the
stinging in her eyes. "Oh, Willen, I'm crying. I'm crying"

He gathered her to him. meaning to comfort, to
soothe. But Larissa would not be soothed. Eagerly she
sought his mouth with her own, turning the pent-up
pain of eight years into a white-hot, healing passion.
Willen was startled for an instant, but then his human
body followed the lead his feu toilet's heart had set. He
returned her kiss with equal ardor.

Captain Dumont sat in his cabin, trying to still his
trembling hands. The dead eyes of the watching zombie
conveyed no censure, no approval.

Dumont assumed that it was his downward spiral into
despair that made him perversely want the rotting com-
pany of Dragoneyes. The dead pilot sat in the chair op-
posite him, staring wordlessly, as words gushed out of
the captain like blood from a wound.

"It was going so welt," Dumont mumbled. "Going so
well. You remember, don't you?" He leaned forward to
emphasize his words.

"I had—" he counted on his fingers "—money, re-
nown, influence. And I had my wonderful collection.
And Larissa, sweet, sweet child... Then I took my beau-
tiful Demoiselle into this cesspit of a swamp." Dumont
stopped struggling to control his alchohol-induced pal-
sy. "And I've lost my crew. And I've lost Larissa. What in
the world am I going to do when 1 finally get out of here?
Huh? Say something, you mute bastardi"

Dragoneyes merely sat and stared. Dumont cursed,

206 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

his face flushed with emotion, and hurled an empty
glass at the zombie. It bounced off Dragoneyes' skull
and fell to the floor, rolling. And still the first mate
didn't move.

Dumont took a thirsty pull directly from the whiskey
bottle and wiped his sleeve across his streaming lips.

"Oh, my old friend," he whispered, "how did I permit
this to happen to you?"

Impulsively he reached over for the zombie's hand.
His callused fingers closed on the rotting white flesh,
cold and soft and pliant.

There came a tentative knock on the door. Dumont
blinked, attempting to compose himself. He took a
deep breath, gestured, and Dragoneyes answered the
door.

"Captain?" came Yelusa's voice.

Dumont looked up blearily. The owl maid's round
face held none of its usual cowed sullenness. She was
grinning.

"Report?" slurred Dumont.

Yelusa held out her shackled hands triumphantly.
"First, take these off tike you promised. 1 have the infor-
mation you seek."




SEVENTEEN

Willen propped himself up on one elbow and gazed
down at Larissa as she slept by his side. Her hair, tou-
sled by their tovemaking, was spread out beneath her
head like a wild halo. Her breathing was deep and regu-
lar, her lips slightly parted.

Qentiy, Willen smoothed a lone tendril of moon-white
hair from her cheek, following the gesture with a moth-
light kiss. More than anything in the world he wanted to
stay here with Larissa, drift to sleep with her warmth
pressed against his suddenly appreciated human body,
but it wasn't possible. He'd been gone too long as it was,
and had to be getting back to La DemoiseUe.

As quietly as he could, the youth eased himself up
and began to dress. Then, with a final glance back, he
strode off toward the yawl and began the trip back to
the boat.

The night seemed to respect the spell that enveloped
the young man. All was tranquil, the noises of the
swamp harmless and reassuring. Nothing evil could
touch him at this moment, Willen thought giddily. He
wanted to leap for joy. Larissa loved him, had shared
herself with him, and his happiness would not bow to
reality—not yet, at least.

He was still smiling to himself when he climbed

208 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

aboard La Demoiselle. The smile faded when he encoun-
tered the staring, slitted gaze of Dragoneyes as he tied
up the yawl.

"The master wishes to see you," the half-elf said dully.

Widen went cold inside. "The captain? Why, Dragoo-
eyes? 1 left last night with his permission."

"Not Dumont. The master. Lond."

For a second, Willen stood stock-still, not even
breathing. Then, quicker than a heartbeat, he dived for
the raiting. Dragoneyes grabbed a fistful of his shirt and
hauled him back down to the deck. His expression nev-
er changing, Dragoneyes threw back his head and emit-
ted a horrible wail that caused Willen to wince. Four
more zombies appeared, moving swiftly and with emo-
tionless purpose.

Fighting the whole time. Willen was dragged to
Lond's cabin and hurled Inside. He landed heavily on
the deck, banging his chin. A terrible scent assaulted
his nostrils, and he almost retched. The youth mastered
his breathing, then slowly, carefully, eased into a sitting
position and raised his brown eyes.

Lond's cabin was like something out of a nightmare.
Light that came from nowhere shone a dull yellowish
hue to reveal hideous magical artifacts. Gutted corpses
of animals—everything from birds to cats to the rotting
head of a calf—were strewn about casually. Engorged
flies buzzed lazily about the rotting flesh. A row of tiny,
delicately made glass bottles lined the wall. They were
securely corked and their labels had various runes in-
scribed on them- The bottles came in an astonishing va-
riety of colors. Feathers, bones, bits of cloth dipped in
blood, knives, and pins completed the ghastly decor.
There was nothing that did not reek of fear and pain and
death.

Lond was seated in a crudely fashioned chair that was
entirely constructed of human bones. He sprawled care-
lessly, a black shape completely at ease here in his own

DANCE OF THE DEAD        209

tiny domain of decay. From beneath his cowl, his eyes
glittered dimly in the faint illumination.

"Welcome at last, Will," he said in his dry voice.
"You've been clever, but not clever enough. There is an-
other here who would like to see you. Dragoneyes—"
He gestured with a flick of his gloved hand toward the
door. The zombie left obediently.

Lond leaned forward, sniffing at Willen. The feu foliet
drew back, but knew better than to try to run. He was
trapped, at least for the moment.

"You have the scent of the swamp about you," Lond
growled.

"Not surprising. I've been there all night, scouting
ahead for—"

"Shut up." Lond's voice was as cold as ice and
brooked no argument. "You've got the scent of her on
you. And I don't mean the little dancing girl, though you
might indeed have sampled her charms as well." Lond
laughed dryly.

Anger flooded Willen, and, despite his better judg-
ment, the youth lunged for the dark bocoru—and
slammed up against an invisible wall. He bounced off it
and hit the floor hard. The impact sent waves of pain
shivering through his body. He curled up into a tight
ball.

Lond's laughter increased. "What a shame that you
must die. You'd be so amusing to torture. But, alas.
there are more practical means of extracting the truth
from you."

Dragoneyes and Dumont entered. The captain had
been drinking, but was sober for the moment. His face
was a combination of fury and betrayal.

"1 trusted you, Will," he said in a voice that was low
and menacing. "When Lond wanted you followed, 1
hoped you'd prove my faith in you justified. Larissa
liked you. So did Dragoneyes. / even liked you, you lit-
tle bastard. You didn't have an enemy aboard this boat.

210 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Smart, skillful—everything a captain would wish for."

He shook his head slowly, and Wilien, with a curious
stab of remorse, saw that the pain in his eyes was genu-
ine.

"Damn you to the bottom of the Sea of Sorrows, WUI.
I hate you for that most of all. Yelusa!" He nodded curtly,
and the slim owl maid slipped inside, closing the door
behind her.

For a moment Wilien didn't understand. Then, dawn-
ing comprehension spread across his features.

"You gave me away, didn't you?" he asked, pain fill-
ing him at the betrayal.

The owl maid's eyes were shifty, as if she were still
wary.

"I trusted you, Yelusa," said Wilien. She continued to
avoid his gaze. "Do you know what you've done?"

Yelusa looked up, and now her large, round eyes were
hard. "Anything's better than slavery, feu foflet',' she
spat defensively. "I'd spy on anyone, do anything, to fly
freely again."

Wilien shook his head sadly. "You'd have been free
soon enough. Dumont will never let you go."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's where you're wrong. He's
agreed to let me go tonight. Isn't that right. Captain?"
She turned to Dumont for confirmation, a smirk on her
round face. The captain said nothing, and Yelusa's
smile died. "Captain?"

Dumont sighed and rubbed his red eyes. "1 bumed
your feather a long time ago, little owl girl."

Yelusa's brown eyes grew enormous with horror. With
the precious item burned, Yelusa would forever have to
return to the place where it had been destroyed. Her
mouth worked soundlessly, then a terrible cry issued
forth. She charged the captain, her fingers going for his
eyes. The sight of the tiny girl attacking the burly Du-
mont would have been comical if the gesture hadn't
been so desperately futile.

DANCE OF THE DEAD        211

Dumont seized her wrists, almost as if he were bored.
"Lond, tell your lumps of flesh to take the girl below.
And gag her first."

Dragoneyes clamped a hand over Yelusa's mouth.
She struggled, but her slim frame was no match for his
undead strength. Wilien saw that the zombie's hand al-
so covered the girl's nose, and her gaze turned from fu-
rious to fearful as she realized she couldn't breathe. She
kicked and clawed with renewed energy, her eyes roll-
ing crazily.

"She's suffocating!" Wilien shrieked. "Dumont,
she—"

Durnont saw it too. "Damn it, Lond, can't you get him
to—"

There was a horrible crack as Dragoneyes snapped
Yelusa's slim neck. The girl's flailing ceased, and Wilien
winced in sympathetic pain.

"Leave her here," Lond said. "I've never made a zom-
bie out of a nonhuman before. It will be an interesting
experiment."

Dragoneyes dropped the body, permitting it to lie
where it fell. Dumont was shaken, though he didn't
want to admit it. He stared at the girl's corpse. "You are
one gods-rotting, cold-hearted son of a bitch, Lond," he
said in an almost-conversational tone.

Lond laughed behind his cowl. "Thank you for the
compliment."

The mage returned his attention to his living pris-
oner. "You see. Will, you were watched last night. We
know what happened, and what you are. Unfortunately.
we are pressed for time. so... welcome to my army." He
rose and poured some powder from a black bottle into
his gloved hand.

Willen's eyes filled with horror, "No!" he cried and
bolted for the door. Lond made a quick, zigzag move-
ment with his free hand, and Witlen stumbled as though
an invisible rope had tripped him. Dragoneyes hauled

212 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

him up by one arm. The zombie grasped Willen's brown
hair and jerked his face up to Lond's.

The wizard blew powder into Willen's face. Frantical-
ly the feu follet coughed, trying to clear his lungs, and
tears filled his eyes as the powder stung them. The gray-
ish powder clung to his throat, choking his lungs, and
he doubled over, scrabbling at his face.

The youth's mind was crowded with sensations so in-
tense they were painful. The very air of the room
pressed heavily on his face; the wooden floor at his
back seemed to hammer at him. Colors pummeled his
consciousness with an almost physical intensity, and
then his vision faded, the intense hues bleeding to gray
and then black. A cold numbness began to seep
through his limbs. He was vaguely aware that he had
stopped breathing.

Then, suddenly, the numbness was gone. WJllen
gasped for air, like a newborn devouring its first breath.
With an effort, he opened his eyes. his body still twitch-
ing as it fought to breathe normally. The feu follet
cleared his eyes of tears, and met Lond's gaze evenly.

The wizard was frozen with shock. "No," he whispered
in his raspy voice. "No... it's not possible." Lond swore
and, frustrated with his failure, struck Willen heavily
across the face.

With an effort, the black-cloaked bocoru regained
control of his emotions. Lond sank back down in his
nightmarish chair, hands clasping and unclasping.
Then, quietly, as if to himself alone, he began to laugh.
"Dragoneyes, go fetch our little rabbit friend."

A chilling dread began to spread through the feu fbi-
let.

A few moments later, Dragoneyes returned. Bouki
was determined to protest to the last and was literally
being dragged by the neck, gasping and choking.

"Oh, Witlen! So they got you, too?" he said sadly to
his companion.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         213

"Ah, you do know him, Bouki," said Lond- The rabbit
glanced up at him and let out a yelp of terror. He hun-
kered down, shaking, long ears flat against his silky
head.

"Yes, 1 know him," Bouki quavered, "And 1 know you,
too, Alondrin the Betrayer."

"Dragoneyes," Lond ordered calmly, "bind Willen's
hand to Bouki's paw."

The zombie did so, and Willen closed his eyes at what
he suspected was about to happen.

"You know what wrath you will incur if you hurt a
/oah, Alondrin," he said in a low voice as Dragoneyes
wrapped a torn cloth about his wrist. "Not just from the
Maiden, either. Loahs are tied to the land, and if you
hurt the land—"

"Stop prattling to me like I was a novice," Lond repri-
manded. "The zombie lord will have to find me first,
won't he?"

Dragoneyes tied the knot tight and straightened,
awaiting his master's next command. Apparently, how-
ever, Lond wanted this pleasure for himself. He extract-
ed a red candle from its place atop a skull. Holding the
flame in one black-gloved hand, the wizard crouched
down near the terrified rabbit. Because he was touching
Bouki, Willen's empathic abilities were multiplied. The
feu toilet was flooded with the ioah's fear, though he grit-
ted his teeth so as not to show it. He felt Lond's malevo-
lent gaze on him and kept his own eyes on the floor.

"No, you don't much like fire, do you, poor tittle
Bouki?" Lond murmured.

Bouki by now had edged back so that he was flat-
tened against the door, his left forepaw raised and
pressed tightly to Willen's palm. "N-no," he quavered.

Willen thought calming thoughts, but they could not
penetrate the thick wall of terror that the fire had
aroused in the rabbit's heart.

"Then," Lond continued in that same deceptively soft

214 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

voice, "I don't think you'll like this!"

Without warning the candle flame erupted, growing
from an inch to a full foot high. The flame licked
Bouki's face, and the animal shrieked in pain and fear.
The scent of charred flesh mingled with the stench pf
rot in the hellish cabin. The entire side of the creature's
face was burned black. Bouki's eye was destroyed, and
a thick fluid oozed from the crusted orb, sizzling as it
touched the still-hot flesh.

A cry broke from WiHen's lips. It was his eye blinded.
his jaw burned and black, and he was so afraid, so horri-
bly afraid...

The two swamp creatures shivered and whimpered,
reaching for one another for comfort. Tears streamed
down WiHen's face.

"Now, feu follet, you will tell me what I wish to know. If
not—" Lond shrugged "—1 enjoy playing with fire."

Larissa awakened from a beautiful dream to the
sounds of tension-filled voices arguing in high-pitched
tones.

"What?" she muttered fuzzily, then suddenly realized
she was naked. Blushing, she pulled on her discarded
clothing, waking up enough to see that the two verbal
combatants were Longears and the Maiden.

They were away from the clearing, beside the fast-
flowing river. The Maiden was rooted in the muddy soil,
and the /oah sat on his hind legs, gesticulating with his
forepaws. Combing her hair with her fingers, Larissa
walked over to them.

Longears fell silent at her approach, then without
warning exploded with wrath. "You did this!" he shout-
ed. turning on her angrily. "You made him careless.
Now who knows what they are going to do to him and
my cousin!"

DANCE OF THE DEAD        215

"Longears!" reproved the Maiden, her voice colder
than Larissa had ever heard- "She is not to blame. Wi!-
len made his own choices and would be angry with you
if he heard you now."

Larissa felt the blood drain from her face. "What's
happened to Willen?"

The Maiden went to Larissa and gently eased the
dancer to the earth, placing her cool lips to the young
woman's cheek in a fleeting kiss of reassurance.

"He has been discovered. Longears saw them take
him away."

Larissa's gray lips formed Willen's name. She closed
her blue eyes. inhaled deeply and deliberately, then
spoke in an unnaturally calm voice. "Then we attack La
Demoiselle," she said.

The Maiden nodded. "I agree. If they discover his true
nature, they wilt be able to torture him in a most hid-
eous fashion. Brave as he is, I doubt he will be able to
stand much of that, and they will soon know all our
plans. I had hoped for more time to train you, but..."
Her voice trailed off. She rose, extending a hand to
Larissa. "Come. We must make haste."

"To the boat?" Larissa's voice was hard with resolve.

"No, not yet. We must first ask permission to attack
Dumont."

"Permission? I thought you ruled here, Maiden.
Aren't you the Maiden of the Swamp?"

The Maiden smiled sadly. "I am indeed, but my influ-
ence is slight. There is one who is the true lord of all of
Souragne. He has permitted Dumont to travel safely
through this realm, and it is he who must give us leave
to attack his guest.

"If we attack La Demoiselle without his leave, then he
will attack us- And if he attacks us," she said simply, "we
will be destroyed. 1 tread a delicate line with Misroi. I
will not tempt his wrath. This was why I did not wish to
become involved with the rescue attempt, as Willen de-

216 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

sired. I had hoped that he would be able to free our peo-
ple on his own."

Larissa remembered the Maiden's initial reluctance.
It was only when she had agreed to be the one to lead
the fight that the Maiden began teaching her.

"But," the Maiden continued, "for the first time, Mis-
roi and I may be on the same side in this particular bat-
tle."

Larissa blinked, thoroughly befuddled. "What?" she
managed at last.

The Maiden chuckled sympathetically at her incom-
prehension. "Hurry up and bathe, my dear. I'm sure
you'll understand soon enough." Her smile faded, and
her green eyes grew sorrowful. "Sooner than ever I
would have wished."

Obediently, Larissa bathed and dressed. She combed
her long, wet hair and began to braid it.

"No," said the Maiden, laying a feather-light hand on
the young woman's shoulder. "What have I told you
about that? Your hair is part of your dancing. Do not
bind it."

"Am I going to need to work magic?" The thought
alarmed Larissa.

"You may," the Maiden replied grimly.

The Maiden led Larissa to a small boat. It was a
hollowed-out cypress trunk that sat low in the water.
The Maiden placed her hands on it, and Larissa saw
that, for a moment, they grew into the wood. Then the
Maiden sighed, and her hands became her own again.
She looked tired, the green of her skin and hair even
lighter than usual.

"The pirogue will travel where you need to go," she
told Larissa, her voice frail. "It will take you to Anton
Misroi, then bring you back here safely."

"Maiden, aren't you coming with me?"

"I am unable to leave this island. This is the only
place where 1 may root." She smiled wanly. "Elsewhere,

DANCE OF THE DEAD         217

the land is... unwholesome for me. It is part of the way
my influence is limited. As for Misroi—some call him
the Lord of the Dead. He is the master of the zombies.
All 1 can say is that he is dangerous, temperamental—
and extremely intelligent. Whatever you expect him to
be, he will surprise you. Do not underestimate him,
Larissa. And do not fight him. Any battle he enters into,
he will win. Child . . ." The Maiden looked at Larissa
closely. "You are embarking into danger- It is not too
late to turn back. If you go, go of your own free will."

Larissa licked her lips, then pressed them together
determinedly. "I love Willen, and he's being held pris-
oner. How can 1 not do everything I can to free him?"

The Maiden searched Larissa's blue eyes. "Go, then,
brave child. And remember, whatever Anton Misroi
may be. you are a wnitemane. Let the knowledge give
you courage."

She stepped back, and Larissa eased herself into the
boat. It was very steady. The Maiden pushed the pirogue
into the river, and it slid smoothly through the greenish
water.

Larissa forced herself to relax; the pirogue moved as
though an invisible sternman were paddling it. She
rode the river for a while, then the boat veered sharply
to the right and entered into a dark, dank, cypress-
shadowed bayou. In the distance was a whirring of in-
sects. Other than that, the only sound was the slight
rippling of the water as the pirogue sliced through it.

Larissa closed her eyes, trying to "root" herself as the
Maiden had instructed her. She was quite frightened at
the thought of meeting someone who was known as the
Lord of the Dead. It was bad enough dealing with the
zombies aboard La Demoiselle when she didn't know
their true, horrific nature. Larissa hoped she'd be up to
bargaining with the one who was lord of them all.

The wind picked up. grew colder. It stirred up the
rank scent of the marsh, and Larissa grimaced. Rain,

218 CHRISTIE GOIDEN

light at first but becoming increasingly heavy, began to
fall.

"I didn't even bring a cloak," Larissa said morosely to
herself, hunching over in a futile attempt to avoid being
soaked. The fat raindrops pounded carelessly, splash-
ing on the surface of the stagnant water.

Shivering a little. Larissa glanced around, wondering
if there wasn't something, anything, she could use to
shield herself from the weather. She looked over at the
bank and started, gasping.

Four skeletons, clad only in rotting garments,
grinned back at her from the limbs of what appeared to
be quickwoods. The men must have been trapped by
the trees and starved to death, Larissa assumed. The
quickwood moved, shifted, and Larissa realized that the
"face" of the huge old tree was infinitely more malevo-
lent than any of the quickwoods. A dull fire burned in
the hollow areas that served it for eyes, and its mouth
was filled with sharp protrusions. As she watched it, the
tree lowered its bony ornaments to the grass.

The skeletons rose awkwardly and disappeared into
the greenness of the foliage. Larissa's pity for the dead
men turned to fear. She knew where they were going—
to inform their master, the Lord of the Dead, of her pres-
ence. Grimly, Larissa folded her arms tightly about her
shivering frame and thought of Willen.

The storm increased in fury, and the little pirogue
pitched, but held to its course. At last it headed for a
bank and grounded itself, Larissa, half-blinded by the
pelting rain, stumbled out, her bare feet sinking to her
ankles in the soft, slimy mud. She heaved the pirogue
onto the bank, fighting the greedy water for every inch
of ground she gained. When she finally got the boat
well away from the water, her arms, back, and legs hurt.

She straightened, wincing. Larissa glanced around,
hands shielding her eyes from the rain. There was noth-
ing that looked like a house anywhere around.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         219

"Oh, wonderful," Larissa exploded angrily. "Now
what happens?"

A sharp neigh was her answer, and Larissa wheeled.

From the concealing draperies of mist and moss, a
carriage emerged. There was something wrong with the
horses drawing it. They walked oddly, stiffly, with none
of a beast's natural grace, and were a curious color. As
she drew closer, Larissa's lip curled in disgust. The wind
changed, and the scent of the horses—the dead
horses—wafted to her. The strange color of the horses
was caused by rot, and bits of bone showed through
where decomposing flesh had been rubbed off by their
harnesses.

The carriage drew closer, and Larissa saw that the
driver, too, was a gray-green monstrosity of putrefac-
tion. Larissa was frozen with fear, as rooted to the spot
as the Maiden ever had been to her island.

Somehow. Larissa was more terrified of that quiet,
patient carriage, drawn by its rotting beasts of burden,
than she had been of anything she could remember—
not the mist horror, nor the creatures of the swamp, nor
even Casilda's horrible transformation. Those were
things that had happened, that had been forced upon
her. This carriage was here, she knew, because she had
chosen to visit the zombie master.

Somehow, she forced her leaden feet to take one step
toward the waiting carriage, then another. Confidence
returned to her with each step. The zombie coachman
climbed slowly down from his perch and silently
opened the door for her. The dancer hesitated only an
instant, then, with a defiant toss of her white locks, she
stepped inside.




EIGHTEEN

The coachman took his place, slapped the horses'
reins, and the carriage lurched forward. Larissa wiped
the rain from her face as best she could. As she settled
herself in the brown velvet cushions, she noticed that
there was a black cape folded neatly on the seat beside
her. A faint smile quirked one corner of her mouth.
Whoever—whatever—Anton Misroi was, this was a con-
siderate gesture. Gratefully Larissa toweled herself as
dry as she could with the soft woolen cloak-

The carriage itself seemed sturdy and wellmade,
though it hadn't been cleaned in a while and there were
several rips in the cushions and dents in the wood. The
dancer wrapped the cloak about her still-shivering
frame. The windows of the carriage were fogging up
with her breath, and she rubbed a clear patch and
peered out.

She felt the carriage jolt and saw that they had left
the marsh for a cobblestone road. They traveled for a
time. flanked by the swamp, until the carriage halted
abruptly.

They had come to a large wrought-iron gate manned
by more zombies. As Larissa watched, fingers clenched
tightly in the black fabric of Misroi's cloak, the lumber-
ing undead creatures opened the massive gate to per-

DANCE OF THE DEAD         221

mit the carriage to pass through. One of them turned
what was left of its face up to her as she passed, and
Larissa shuddered. The creature's eyes had rotted away-
Inside the gates, wilderness yielded to civilization.
Larissa saw that this was a plantation, similar to the
ones near Port d'Elhour. Workers labored in the field
despite the downpour—workers who moved with a me-
chanical, steady rhythm that revealed their true nature.
Larissa closed her eyes and took a deep breath to
steady herself.

She sat back in the carriage for a time, unwilling to
see what new horrors were unfolding as she Journeyed
toward Misroi. At last, however, the carriage slowed and
stopped. The coachman appeared at the window, then
opened the door for her to step out.

It was a plantation indeed, a huge, sprawling mansion
that was as draped with airmoss and cobwebs as any
tree in the swamp. The house proper was elevated
about a yard off the ground, supported by wooden
poles to keep out the swamp's moisture. Peacocks
strutted on the ill-kept lawn,-their beautiful plumage
drenched by the downpour. The whole image was a gro-
tesque parody of normal plantation life.

Steeling herself, Larissa pulled the cloak's hood over
her head and stepped down onto the gravelly drive. She
winced a little as her bare feet were bruised by the
stones. The dancer made her way slowly and carefully
to the house, climbed up the creaking steps to the
porch, and lifted the brass knocker carved like a horse's
head. She hesitated, just for an instant, then slammed it
down hard.

For an agonizingly long moment, there was no an-
swer. Then the door slowly creaked open. Larissa's
heart hammered with trepidation.

A zombie, better preserved than the others Larissa
had seen on the plantation, stared down at her impas-
sively. His clothing, which was still mostly whole, re-

222 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

vealed him to be a highly placed servant. He stank hor-
ribly.

"1—" Her voice almost broke. She paused and contin-
ued calmly. "I have come to see your master."

The zombie's mouth worked. "Enter," he groaned in a
voice that had obviously not been used for some time.
He stepped back and opened the door even wider. Laris-
sa went inside, her blue eyes flickering about.

She was in a wide entry hall. Once-fine carpeting,
now water-stained and ruined, covered most of 'the
wooden floor and wound up the sweeping spira! stair-
case that twisted up to the next story. Dust iay thickly
on the beautifully carved banisters, disturbed here and
there by large handprints. Most of the light was provid-
ed by a huge, glittering cut-glass chandelier. A sudden
movement off to the side caught her eye, and she
turned swiftly, only to meet her own pale reflection in a
tarnished mirror.

The zombie servant pointed to a room on her left,
then held out his black-nailed hand expectantly. Larissa
stared at it for a moment, not understanding. Then she
realized what he wanted and handed him her rain-
drenched cloak. He bowed and left her alone.

Carefully Larissa stepped into the parlor. Two small,
low tables were placed in front of comfortable-looking
sofas. A fireplace flanked by two velvet-covered chairs
took up a large segment of the wall. Atop the fireplace
was a mantlepiece carved from some dark wood upon
which a lighted candelabra and what looked like an
etching of some sort were placed.

The draperies were opened, pulled back by two brass
holders fashioned to look like children's hands. The
storm outside, however, dimmed the daylight. Despite
the valiant attempts of the candles and the fire, the
room remained morosely dark.

The fire snapped, its warmth and crackling sounds in-
congruously cheerful and welcoming to the soaked

DANCE OF THE DEAD        223

dancer. Kneeling in front of the fire, Larissa gratefully
spread her hands out to its warmth. She noticed that a
poker had been inserted well into the red-hot coals and
wondered why.

The storm continued to rage, and Larissa shivered
despite the warmth of the fire. Gradually its heat pene-
trated the damp chill of her clothes, and she began to
get warm. She looked around the room again, noticing
that the wallpaper was covered by carefully wrought
drawings. Curious, she took the candelabra from the
mantlepiece and stepped up to the wall.

Handsome couples, clad in full dresses and tailored
coats and breeches, waltzed at a party scene, Larissa
moved along the wall. Here was a battle, with knights in
armor fighting gallantly. And over here was—

A giant flash of lightning illuminated the dim room.
By its unforgiving brilliance, Larissa could see what she
had not noticed before: all the people in the wallpaper
scenes were corpses, painted in various stages of decay.

She stifled a cry and backed away. the hand that held
the candelabra trembling and causing its shadows to
dance. Thunder roared in a mocking echo of her out-
burst. Sue replaced the candelabra on the mantlepiece,
taking a second look at the etching as she did so.

It was an illustration of a woman seated, writing, at a
desk. The etching was carved onto an extremely thin
square of bone, and a burning candle flickered behind
it. !t gave the etching the appearance of movement, and
Larissa, her attention momentarily diverted from the
horrors of the wallpaper, watched the young woman,
who was busily writing.

Then she noticed the words on the woman's page.

Help me.

Larissa blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the un-
reliable light. The words had changed.

Set me free.

Cold horror crept through her and her eyes flickered

224 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

from the words to the woman's face. Larissa gasped
aloud and stepped backward. The woman was no long-
er looking at her writing, but directly at Larissa, and a
tear crept down her cheek.

Larissa wrapped her arms about herself and shivered-
Pity welled within her at the plight of the trapped soul in
the etching, but fear drowned out the gentler emotion.
Was there a blank sheet of bone waiting for her, some-
place in this house of nightmares?

Outside, through the howl of the wind, Larissa
thought she heard the shrill neigh of a frightened horse-
Her mind flew back to Willen's comment about the su-
perstitious Souragniens, "Death rides in the rain," he
had said. Now, she understood. She stepped back to-
ward the fire, unconsciously wanting its warmth at her
back as the master of the house approached.

The whitemane heard the doorway to the hall being
opened, and a second flash of lightning silhouetted the
tall shape of a man. He strode into the parlor where
Larissa waited, tossing his cloak carelessly in the direc-
tion of the following undead servant. He marched to-
ward her, wiping moisture from his hair, and stepped
into the ring of firelight.

The Maiden had been right- Whatever Larissa had ex-
pected, it was not this tall, strikingly handsome man.
He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and his hair, raven-
wing black, curled damply from the ride in the rain.
Strong but exquisitely chiseled features radiated a
barely subdued excitement. From his thigh-high, black
leather boots to the gold buttons glinting on the well-
fitted, buff-colored vest, Misroi was every inch the aris-
tocrat. That the boots were streaked with mud and the
fine linen shirt had been torn merely emphasized that
he was in absolute control. Full lips stretched into a
smile as Anton Misroi looked at his guest.

"Well, they didn't tell me you'd be such a lovely crea-
ture," he commented, falling gracefully into one of the

DANCE OF THE DEAD        225

plush chairs by the fire. His voice matched his face—
handsome, masculine, and intense. "Then again, the
dead don't notice such subtleties. One of their draw-
backs, I've found."

Misroi swung one long leg over the arm of the chair.
The mud-spattered boot left brown streaks on the fine
velvet, but the zombie master seemed not to notice.

"Wine!" he called impatiently, his long fingers unty-
ing the blue silk cravat at his throat. He used it to towel
his hair dry, then tossed it to the floor and undid the first
two buttons on his shirt.

Larissa continued to stand and stare at the master of
Souragne. He raised an eyebrow.

"Sit down," he said. "Don't look so frightened. What,
did you think I'd slay you and roast you for dinner upon
your immediate arrival?"

The dancer found her tongue. "No, of course not, on-
ly you're not., . you're so ..." she floundered.

The grin widened. "Alive? Oh, yes." His eyes, a deep
blue. flickered over her. "Very much so."

The zombie servant approached, bearing a mug of
wine on a silver tray. Misroi took it, went to the fire, and
seized the poker that had been lying at the heart of the
flames.

Larissa tensed, ready to fight should he turn on her
with the heavy iron rod. He noticed the gesture and
laughed out loud.

"Dear, dear, Miss Snowmane, 1 would hope that I'd
use something less crude than a poker if I wished to at-
tack youl You haven't sat down yet. Do so."

it was not a request, and Larissa obeyed. Misroi re-
moved the poker and gazed approvingly at its glowing
orange tip. He inserted the poker into the mug, and the
wine hissed as it heated. Misroi replaced the poker and
took a sip of the hot wine. He nodded in approval, then
strode over to where Larissa sat.

"Here. Hot spiced wine. A great favorite of mine.

226 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Mothing tike it after a hard ride in the rain."

Larissa looked up into those piercing eyes and hesi-
tated. Misroi frowned. "Drink it," he ordered- She
closed her hand about the mug and took a cautious sip.
It was hot and fragrant with the scents of citrus and spic-
es. Surprised by the pleasant taste, she took a second
sip, letting its warmth steal through her chilled body be-
fore handing the mug back to the zombie lord.

Misroi seemed satisfied. "Now, you've been properly
welcomed to Maison de la Detresse." He raised the glass
in a silent toast to her, then sat back down and contin-
ued to drink while he talked.

"Now, let me see. If my informants are correct, your
name is Larissa Snowmane and you are a dancer
aboard that lovely boat that's currently steaming down
my swamp. Your tender heart is touched by the plight of
Dumont's slaves. You've been tutored by that annoying
moss creature, the self-styled Maiden of the Swamp,
and you'd like to go rescue the creatures- The Maiden.
very wisely indeed, refuses to aid you without my coop-
eration. in a stroke of cowardice, she sent you to ask for
it. Tell me. Miss Snowmane," he said, gazing intently in-
to the ruby depths of the wine, "do you really expect to
leave here alive?"

The casualness of the question was more chilling
than the words themselves. The wine-induced warmth
fled Larissa, and her mouth went dry with fear.

"It doesn't matter." she said in a voice that quavered
only slightly. "If I can't get your permission to attack La
Demoiselle, I'd rather die."

"Death is not necessarily an option," the zombie lord
reminded her.

Larissa ignored his taunt. "I need your permission to
fight Dumont," she repeated. "He's a thief, stealing
things that don't belong to him. He's getting fat off the
labor of innocent beings. I'm not asking for your aid,
only your permission."

DANCE OF THE DEAD        227

Misroi remained impassive. He reminded the trapped
dancer of a waiting vulture.

"Don't you understand?" she exploded. "He's trap-
ping creatures from Souragne. From your land, without
your permission—without even consulting you!"

Misroi appeared not to have noticed the anger in her
voice. He took another long pull at the cooling wine,
and rose to reheat it with the poker.

"Lord Misroi—"

He gave her a mock-offended look. "Anton, please,
my dear."

"Anton . . . Will you permit us to attack La E>e-
moiselle'?"

Misroi picked up the poker and warmed up his wine-
"t haven't quite made up my mind about that yet."

With the speed of a striking snake, he dashed the
mug to the floor and swung the poker at her head. Laris-
sa managed to leap out of the way, turning a handspring
and landing on her feet. Using all the Maiden had taught
her, she gestured with her left hand and made a move-
ment with her right foot. The poker twisted in Misroi's
grasp like a live thing, then went still. The zombie lord
stared at the length of vine now in his hand.

Larissa crouched, ready to leap to either side or exe-
cute a dance movement. Her blue eyes were alert, wait-
ing for Misroi's next move.

The lord of Souragne looked from the vine to Larissa,
surprise on his face. "Very goodi" he murmured.
"You're better than 1 thought you would be. This will be
enjoyable. Sit down, dear Larissa, if I may call you that.
You need have no more fear of me. I have tested your
mettle—and you have damaged mine!" He tossed the
vine into the fire. "You must have many questions for
me. Ask them."

Larissa licked her lips, cautiously sitting back down.
"The Maiden says you are the lord of Souragne."

"Quite right. It, and everything in it, belongs to me."

228 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

He looked at her with piercing eyes. "That does include
you, too, my dear, in case you were wondering."

Larissa was starting to overcome her initial fear. Mis-
roi's arrogance began to annoy her, and she clung to
that emotion. "Since you know that Dumont is steating
your creatures, why haven't you stopped him?"

Misroi shrugged. "If he is clever enough to trick crea-
tures and trap them, more power to him. Cleverness
and covetousness are not sins in my eyes, Larissa."

"But, he has no right—"

"If he can manage it, that gives him the right. Only
the strong and the clever survive. If the animals—or
other beings—are stupid enough to let themselves get
caught, they deserve whatever happens to them. Har-
nessing their magic is far from the worst that could be-
fall trapped creatures." He smiled, a cruel, cold smile.
"Trapped creatures in my home pray to fare so well,"

Larissa's fear had evaporated, leaving her coolly
reckless. "Am I a trapped creature?"

Misroi's smite widened. "Everyone is trapped—in
one way or another. Some have prettier cages, that's all.
No. Dumont's ambition doesn't bother me." He paused
thoughtfully. "Alondrin's, however, does."

"Because he makes zombies, like you do?" Larissa
wondered the instant the words left her mouth if this
had somehow been a breach of etiquette, but Misroi
didn't take offense.

"That's hardly the problem. I can control any zombie
in this land at a thought. No. Alondrin wants to leave
my realm, and I don't wish him to."

He turned his penetrating gaze on the dancer, the
smile melting away from his face as if it had never been.
"That's the problem, Larissa. He's planning to use your
showboat to break away from the island."

"But—the Maiden said no one can leave without your
permission."

Misroi's handsome face grew cold, and a quiet rage

DANCE OF THE DEAD        229

began to simmer in his blue eyes, causing Larissa to
draw back.

"That has always been the case. But Alondrin has tak-
en great care to stack the cards in his favor."

Misroi leaned forward, his eyes snapping like the fire.
He began to count on his fingers. "One—he's traveling
on water, which strengthens his skill. Two—the boat is
warded with Captain Dumont's considerable magic.
And three—there are dozens of feu toilets on the boat,
and their presence also enhances magical spells. Aton-
drin might succeed, which would set a dreadful exam-
ple. Don't you agree?"

Larissa nodded. "So why haven't you stopped him?"

"Because I'm going to get you and your friends to do
it for me," Misroi answered. "Why should 1 bestir myself
when you are all afire to charge to the rescue? But,
pretty dancer. I'm going to teach you a few tricks to
counter the bocoru's magic." He rose, strode over to her,
and pulled her to her feet. Larissa forced herself not to
struggle and met his eyes evenly.

One hand reached to smooth back her wet mane of
white. Slim, strong fingers slid down her cheek, trailed
across her Jaw, her throat. Larissa's body tensed, and
her eyes narrowed in anger.

"Have no fear for the safety of your person, Larissa,"
he said, cupping her face in his hands. Wine-scented
breath fanned her face. "Who knows better than a zom-
bie lord what pitiful stuff mere flesh is? No, it's your
spirit that intrigues me. There's something there that I
find ... fascinating."

He stepped back, taking her hands. A crafty smile
spread across his face. "I will give you what you seek,
but in my own time and for my own reasons. You are a
dancer. Very well, then. I shall teach you a new bransle,
my dear. 1 shall teach you the Dance of the Dead."




NINETEEN

"Marcel," Anton Misroi called lazily, "show Miss
Snowmane to the guest quarters. Draw her a hot bath
and—are you hungry, my dear?"

Larissa opened her mouth to say yes then closed it,
her face suspicious. Misroi shook his head and clucked
his tongue in mock dismay.

"Pretty tittle dancer, you've already seen that I'm
alive. How do you think 1 stay that way? I assure you, the
food is wholesome. You shall join me for an early sup-
per."

She had no choice. Larissa nodded. The zombie mas-
ter took her cold hand, pressed firm lips to it, then left.

Marcel took the candelabra from the mantlepiece
and led Larissa up the wide staircase. She followed,
thoughts churning in her head. The dancer had come
seeking Misroi's permission, not his aid or his tutelage.
How long would he keep her here?

And what would he ask of her in return?

She followed her undead guide as he led her down a
large hall. Illumination was provided by brass sconces,
fastened to the walls, shaped like arms that clutched
flickering candles. Marcel reached the end of the hall,
produced a large key ring and unlocked the door. It
swung inward with a groan. Larissa wondered how long

DANCE OF THE DEAD        231

it had been since this room had had a living occupant.

Marcel motioned her inside. She stepped in tenta-
tively. As with the furniture elsewhere, that within the
bedroom was large, old, and dust-covered. The cano-
pied bed was a sprawling, sagging echo of lost gran-
deur. The wardrobe of intricately carved wood was in
sad need of oiling, and the mirror at the little vanity was
as tarnished as the one in the hallway. A woman, freshly
dead and clad in fairly new clothes, was mechanically
pouring buckets of steaming water into a porcelain tub
that seemed comparatively clean.

Larissa almost laughed aloud at the macabre absurd-
ity of the scene. She felt hysterical laughter bubble in-
side her and swiftly quelled it.

The dancer shed her soaked, filthy clothes and
stepped into the tub. She felt better at once. The hot,
flower-scented water felt wonderful to Larissa's chilled
body. As she bathed, the zombie maid opened the ward-
robe and began laying out beautiful dresses. Larissa
glanced over at her. She wanted no more favors from
the zombie lord.

"No," she protested, "I'll wear what I came in."

The maid straightened and fixed Larissa with a fish-
eyed stare. She shook her head slowly. "Master said,
dress," she told Larissa in a monotone.

Larissa swore and splashed the water impotently. He
wasn't even letting her wear her dancing clothing. "A
damned fly in a bloody web," she muttered to herself as
she reached for a towel.

"Well, don't you tidy up enchanting iy," Misroi com-
mented as the dancer descended the stairs an hour lat-
er. Larissa glared at him, the expression on her face a
contrast with the beautiful gown she had finally decided
on. It was dark green with a cloth-of-gold underdress.
The upper part of the sleeves were also cloth of gold
and puffed out, but her lower arms were encased with
more dark green fabric that tied neatly at the wrists. It

232 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

was shockingly low-cut by Larissa's standards. She had
not bound her hair, and it floated about her shoulders
like a white cloud.

The lord of the dead met her halfway up the stairs.
He, too, had dressed for the occasion. His black hair had
been somewhat tamed and was drawn back into a pony-
tail. Misroi's clothes had obviously been freshly pressed
and the colors—dark blue coat, light blue vest, and
black breeches—suited him well. Blindingly white silk
stockings and shoes with polished gold buckles re-
placed the mud-spattered riding boots. He offered
Larissa his arm, and she cautiously took it.

The dining room was across the hall from the parlor.
The table was large and already laid out in preparation
for their first course- Misroi pulled out a chair for Laris-
sa, then seated himself at the other end of the table. The
rain had stopped, and the sunlight streamed in through
the windows at precisely the wrong angle. Misroi
squinted.

"Drapes, close," he ordered.

As in the parlor, the drapes were held open by brass
hands. At Misroi's command, the clutching metal fin-
gers loosed their hold, and the maroon velvet drapes
swung shut.

Two servants emerged from the kitchen area. One
moved about diligently lighting several candles. An-
other entered carrying a large silver soup tureen. Star-
ing emptily, he placed it on the table and began to ladle
soup into a bowl for each of the living beings.

"Turtle soup," Misroi said, "delicious, according to
my chef. 1 Just acquired him recently. He's a wonder in
the kitchen."

Cautiously Larissa spooned up a mouthful of the
soup. It was delicious, as thick as stew. The turtle meat
had a unique flavor, and there was an undercurrent of
something tangy and citrusy.

"Lemon?" she hazarded.

DANCE OF THE DEAD        233

Misroi beamed. "What a discerning palate you have,
Mademoiselle Snowmane. Yes, it's lemon."

Misroi proved to be a charming host. Despite herself
and the horrors that abounded in the place, Larissa
found that she relaxed and occasionally even smiled at
some of Misroi's jokes. She had seconds on the soup,
devoured a salad made with bitter greens grown near
the swamp, and dived cheerfully into a rice dish with
seasoned crayfish. Her eyes flew open and she gulped
thirstily at the water.

Misroi laughed again. "A bit spicy, 1 know, but that's
typical cuisine for our humble island. Perhaps the next
dish will be more to your liking."

Larissa sniffed hungrily as the main course was set
before her.

"Rabbit sauted in wine," Misroi informed her, rubbing
his hands together in anticipation. "It's the chefs spe-
cialty." He attacked his food with gusto. Larissa's appe-
tite, however, had fled.

"Jean," she said softly, in quiet horror.

Misroi raised a raven brow inquiringly as he lifted his
fork to his mouth.

"1 beg your pardon?" He took a large bite. Juice ran
down his chin, and he wiped absently at it with the back
of his hand.

Larissa cleared her throat. "Is your chef named Jean,
owner of the Two Hares Inn?" she asked.

"Why, yes. he did run an inn before he got that bone
stuck in his throat," Misroi replied with his mouth full-
"If you knew him, then you know this is good. Death
hasn't interfered with his talent. Eat." He gestured to-
ward her plate with his knife, then sliced off another
bite.

Larissa stared mutely across the table at Misroi. He
continued to eat with palpable enjoyment, not in the
least discomfited by the thought that his meal had been
prepared by a corpse. She put her napkin down on the

234 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

table with a trembling hand and eased her chair back.

"I'm not hungry anymore." She rose and left. heart-
sick.

She had almost made it to the stairs when her host
seized her elbow in a hard grip. "That was rude, <ny
dear. You haven't been excused."

Disgusted by him, Larissa Jerked her arm away. He
spun her around to face him, and an answering anger
smoldered in his blue eyes. "Don't push me, pretty
dancer. You keep your life at my whim or lose it that
way. Since you refuse to dine with me, perhaps you will
dance."

Seizing her hand firmly in his, he pulled her back into
the main hallway, shoving open a pair of double doors
at the far end. They passed the mirror that had so star-
tled Larissa when she first entered Maison de la
Detresse, and again her eyes leaped to follow the move-
ment.

Hauling her with him, Misroi entered what remained
of a glorious ballroom. The painted walls were dingy
and chipped, and the harpsichord that stood like a
forgotten toy in the corner looked as though it hadn't
felt the touch of a hand in decades.

"Play," Misroi shouted, and at once a tinny melody
arose from the instrument. Larissa was jerked tight
against the zombie lord's chest. His right hand seized
her left in a hard grasp while his other arm snaked
around her slim waist. Automatically she reached down
with her right hand to lift her skirt out of the way of her
feet. Larissa raised her head and met Misroi's approving
glance.

"So, you do know how to waltz." His grasp on her re-
laxed somewhat, "f have not waltzed in a long time. For
now, let us enjoy the music and call a temporary truce,
hmm?"

The tune was sweet, and Misroi was an excellent
dancer. Although Larissa never relaxed her guard, she

DANCE OF THE DEAD        235

followed his lead easily and gracefully. After a time, she
asked boldly, "Is this the Dance of the Dead you were so
anxious to teach me, Lord Misroi?"

The thought amused him tremendously, and he let
out a laugh that echoed in the large, empty room. "An-
ton. No, pretty dancer, this is purely for my own enjoy-
ment. The lessons will come later. Tonight—" he smiled
down at her "—we simply dance."

The next morning, as she had been instructed, Laris-
sa met Misroi at the stables. She wore the outfit that had
been left on her bed the night before—riding breeches,
a blouse, boots, and a cloak. The dancer had wondered
briefly as she dressed how the zombie master knew her
sizes, but decided that she really didn't wish to know.

The earth underneath her boots was wet from yester-
day's rain. The sun shone brightly, warming the thick,
humid air. The unpleasant scents were stronger in the
rainy weather, and Larissa'wrinkled her nose as she
walked along the gravel path toward the stables.

Like the house, the stables were neglected. The
horses, however, seemed to be alert enough. A small
roan mare was tethered to a post in the cobblestone
courtyard, and a zombie servant was mechanically
grooming the beast. Larissa was glad that this one, un-
like the ones that had pulled the carriage, was alive.

A clopping sound caused Larissa to turn, and she saw
Misroi leading a huge black stallion. The beast looked
tired, as if it had recently been ridden hard and put away
wet. Its great black head drooped as the beast slowly
followed Misroi, the nose almost brushing the ground.

"Good morning, Larissa," the master of Maison de ;a
Detresse greeted his guest. "I trust you slept well?"

She managed a wan smile- In truth, she had lain
awake for hours, wondering who had last been in the

236 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

canopied bed and whether she would be safe from mid-
night intruders—living or dead. Larissa had kept a can-
dle burning beside her bed and had been unpleasantly
startled when she woke after a few fitful hours of sleep
to discover that the candle had been removed.

The dancer's dreams had been punctured with night-
mares, peopled with the dead and the dying. Larissa's
drowsing mind had cast herself as the murderer. She
had destroyed La Demoiselle as she had destroyed the
tree in the clearing, only this time, she had thrown back
her head and laughed with savage pleasure.

She answered her host's question politely. "As well as
could be expected, Lor—Anton."

"I trust you do ride?"

"A little." Very little, she thought to herself.

The beast was saddled and bridled, ready to go. and
Misroi mounted the stallion with a smooth, easy move-
ment. He reached down to Larissa and swung her up.
onto the saddle in front of him. "Today, my dear. you
shall ride more than a little. Come, Incubus!"

Without warning, he whipped the horse smartly with
his riding crop, and the weary beast surprised her by
leaping into a gallop.

Larissa almost lost her seat but twined her fingers in-
to the horse's coarse mane and hung on grimly. Incubus
settled into his stride and tore down the road tike the
creature he was named for. Abruptly, harshly, Misroi
yanked the beast's head to the right, and Incubus
leaped off the road into one of the fields- ft was fallow,
and the horse's hooves sent chunks of wet mud flying.

"Feet his power, Larissa," Misroi hissed in her ear. "All
that strength, and it obeys me."

He struck the horse again, and incubus surged for-
ward even faster. Froth from his jaws spattered Larissa's
cheek, and the mane was beginning to grow damp with
sweat.

"It's exciting, isn't it. to think of alt that power under

DANCE OF THE DEAD        237

your control," Misroi continued, his voice growing taut-
er. tie again whipped the horse with the crop. Incubus
tossed his midnight head in pain.

Larissa's breathing came in shallow gasps as she
crouched low over the neck of the beast. She smelled
the musk of Incubus's sweat. She knew Misroi was
pushing the stallion hard. too hard, and that the savage
beating was probably drawing blood. Part of her raged
at the unnecessary cruelty, but Misroi was right—the
wild ride was exciting, and her own heart was pounding
madly.

She gasped as a felted tree loomed ahead, directly in
Incubus's path. With a grunt, the horse gathered him-
self and sailed easily over the obstacle, touching lightly
down and barely breaking stride. Larissa heard herself
laughing, and a calm part of her mind noted it as a
shrill, cruet sound.

Crack, came the sound of the riding crop. Crack.
Crack.

Again Misroi jerked hard on the bit, yanking the
steed's head around and sending him off in a new direc-
tion. This time, Larissa could see that the foam on incu-
bus's jaws was pink with blood and the brown eyes were
rolling madly. His adrenaline-sparked stride faltered.
He had no more to give his master.

Still Misroi pushed, and Larissa hung on, filled with a
savage excitement mixed with horror. Crack.

Incubus uttered a low, shuddering groan as his heart
exploded. The stallion dropped to his front knees, and
Misroi grabbed Larissa and pulled them both clear as
Incubus rolled over heavily. Larissa was shaking and
gasping for breath. Tears filled her eyes and rolled down
her cheeks, mixing with rivulets of sweat.

"You killed him!" she shrieked, staring in sick grief at
the body of the black stallion. She could see slick
patches of dark blood on Incubus's flanks where the
crop had struck.

238 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Misroi. on the other hand, seemed exultant. "We
killed him! You were as intoxicated with the speed and
power as I was, Larissa, and you cannot tell me other-
wise. Not one word of protest did you raise, nor a hint of
condemnation breathe."

Pain wrenched Larissa's heart as guilt flooded her.
Misroi was right. He flung himself to his knees beside
her in the mud, and there was a feverish fire in his eyes.
He grabbed her shoulders.

"You're just like me, Larissa. We're kindred spirits,
you and 1.1 thought so when 1 first met you, when I real-
ized that I could teach you the Dance of the Dead. Now
I'm sure of it. Look at the sort of things we can do!"

Heedless of the mud, Misroi scrambled to where Incu-
bus lay. He seized the horse's huge head in his hands,
smoothing the wet mane back from the forehead. He
pressed his cheek to the beast's face and closed his
eyes.

Incubus twitched. With a rough whinny, he jerked his
head from Misroi's grasp. He stumbled a little, but got
stiffly to his feet. Misroi turned to Larissa, triumph
burning in his eyes.

"You see? Nothing is lost to us! Incubus is dead, but
he still runs for me. Your foolish Maiden, insisting on
working with the forces of nature—bah! That is too little
for us. We can be the forces of nature, of death—and
undeath."

Larissa stared at him. "You're a monster," she whis-
pered.

Misroi smiled, showing white teeth. "We alt are,
pretty dancer. Deep down inside all of us, there's a mon-
ster- Some spend their lives trying to fight it. They fail.
Some coexist unhappily with their beast. They are mis-
erable." He dragged her to her feet and grabbed her
shoulders. "Larissa," he purred, "you and I celebrate it."

Larissa placed her hands on Misroi's chest and tried
to push him away. "No, you're wrong! 1 am nothing like

DANCE OF THE DEAD         239

you!"

His eyes searched hers, their fire dimming somewhat.
"We shall see, pretty dancer. We shall see."

As Larissa descended the stairs, she heard the harpsi-
chord begin to play. Misroi, formally clad as he had
been the night before, stepped into the dimly lit hall-
way, gazing up at her with predatory patience. Word-
lessly he extended a hand, flicking the wrist slightly
with practiced ease so that the ruffles of the cuff lay flat
against the coat sleeve. He was waiting for her, ready to
teach her the Dance of the Dead.

You're just like me. Her heart lurched in her breast.
What if he was right?

Forcing herself to be calm, she continued walking
down the stairs with a slow and even step. A smile
twitched at one corner of his mouth, and she wondered
if, like a wild beast, he could scent her fear.

She placed her hand in his. "No supper before danc-
ing?" she queried in a voice as calm as she could make
it.

He shook his head. "First, dancing. Then dinner."

The Dance of the Dead began innocuously enough. It
was a waltz, sweeping and grand- Then, almost imper-
ceptibly, the music began to change. It switched gradu-
ally from a major to a minor key and grew deeper, more
menacing. The tempo increased just as subtly. At one
point, Larissa glanced up into Misroi's eyes and found
that she could not look away. Fleetingly, she thought of
the giant zombie snake in her dream and how it had
hypnotized her. She stared into the blue depths of her
tutor's eyes, snared.

His fingers dug into her waist, even through the many
layers of material. Misroi bent and placed his cheek,
flushed and hot as if from a fever, against Larissa's sud-

240 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

denly chilled one.

Keep dancing.

Larissa closed her eyes, unsure whether the voice was
actually Misroi's or if it simply existed inside her head. It
didn't matter. She was helpless to disobey, and, stran-
ger still, she had no desire to. Together, zombie master
and dancer whirled across the empty floor. To Larissa, it
seemed as though her feet barely even brushed the
ground. She began to lose track of where she was, who
she was dancing with, even who she was. She yielded
utterly to the rising sense of power building within her.

It was then that Larissa realized just how cold she
was. She still moved swiftly and surely within the iron
circle of Misroi's arms, but she could no longer sense
her limbs. A slight wisp of fear penetrated her haze of
power, and she opened her eyes.

Larissa shrieked, almost stumbling. The hand
clasped in Misroi's merciless grip was tittle more than
gray, skin-covered bone.

She was turning into a zombie.

Keep dancing! the voice thundered in her brain. She
did so, willing her fear into determination, and she
smiled grimly as she watched the desiccated skin of her
hand plump out into living human flesh once again.
Larissa glanced up at Misroi. A savage snarl twisted her
sweet face.

Suddenly Misroi spun her away from him. Startled,
she stumbled but recovered swiftly.

"You have passed the first test," he approved, breath-
ing a bit heavily from the exertion. "Now it is time for
the second."

He clapped his hands, the sound echoing like the
crack of his riding crop in the large room. After a mo-
ment, almost a dozen zombies, from servants to field
workers, appeared in the ballroom. Larissa stared at
them, unsure what Misroi had in mind.

"They are under orders to kill you," he said. "The

DANCE OF THE DEAD

241

Dance of the Dead, if you execute it properly, wilt keep
them confused long enough for me to rescind the or-
der."

Catching her breath, Larissa panted, "But I just
learned it! What if I don't do it property?"

Misroi shrugged. "Then, my dear, they kill you. And I
have a new and pretty zombie maidservant. That is, un-
til the rot sets in. I'll set a place for you at dinner... in
case you survive."

For a moment, Larissa thought that this was merely
another one of Misroi's cruel jokes, but he turned and
strode out of the ballroom, pulling the door closed be-
hind him with an ominous thud. As if it were a signal,
the rotting undead began to move toward Larissa with a
slow, terrible purpose.

Trapped! Larissa wailed to herself, momentarily too
frightened to move. Like a fly in a web .. - no- This fly is
going to fight, the young woman resolved. She was
drained from the dance and almost trembled with ex-
haustion, but she summoned up energy from some hid-
den reservoir and began to move.

She executed the first steps of the waltz, moving
surely to the frantic melody the harpsichord still pound-
ed out. Her slippered feet barely touched the floor-
boards, and her hands fluttered, making gestures of
their own. The young woman let herself dissolve in the
growing sensation of power.

Marcel had almost reached her and extended dead
arms in an attempt to choke her. As the cold flesh
touched her feverish skin, Larissa struck at his arms
and her body twisted in protest. The zombie halted, and
his arms lowered. He made no further move toward her.

Now the maidservant attempted to halt Larissa, but
the white-haired dancer had tasted success and turned
with almost vicious glee upon the female walking
corpse. This time, the maidservant staggered back
from the force of Larissa's mental commands.

242 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Two more of the mindless, undead things were clos-
ing in on either side. Larissa leaped, dancing with fiery
frenzy and focusing her increasingly powerful will upon
the animated corpses. One by one, Misroi's creatures
were stopped in their tracks, halted by confusion as to
which order they should follow—that of their master,
hitherto the only voice they had heard, or the new.com-
mands given them by the white-haired, flame-sou led
woman who danced before them.

When it was done, Larissa staggered to a stop. Her
breath came in ragged gasps, and her legs felt rubbery.
The harpsichord had ceased playing, and Larissa, sud-
denly feeling faint, sank to the floor.

When she had caught her breath, she slowly got to
her feet. Coo! blue eyes raked the frozen forms of the
zombies, then Larissa Snowmane went to join the Lord
of the Dead for dinner.




TWENTY

Larissa forced her eyelids open by sheer effort of will,
and fear shot through her, almost but not quite dispel-
ling the last dregs of Misroi's drugged wine.

The dancer was alone in the swamp. She had been
lying in an awkward position, one arm and leg twisted
behind her. They were numb at first and didn't obey her
as she tried to sit up. Then the limbs began to feel all
too keenly as blood rushed back into them. Larissa ig-
nored the stinging sensation, frantically searching for
some familiar landmark in the pressing maze of green
and brown.

There was none. Mo rotting zombie coachman, no
pirogue, nothing that she knew. Panic crouched inside
of her like a chained beast straining at its tethers. No,
Larissa commanded it. 1 can get out of here. ... I
think.

She was still in her beautiful green gown, and it ham-
pered her movement as she attempted to stand. Her left
knee put pressure on something that crinkled. Larissa
jerked away at once, startled, then felt relief and sur-
prise as she realized it was merely a folded-up piece of
parchment, sealed with a dollop of red wax. Larissa
picked it up, examining the seal—a large M.

Swiftly she opened it and began to read.

244 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

My uery dear Miss Snoiymane,

What a dreadful host you must deem me to be.
You are correct. / must thank you for your refresh-
ing presence in my home recently. You were a de-
light to work with.

Before you lies your last test. Well, at least the
last one I shall be pressing upon you. The riding
crop should come in handy. I know you know how
to use it. I wish you the uery best of luck in finding
your way home, pretty dancer, though I doubt
you'll need it—you're too much like me. We make
our own luck.

Perhaps someday we shall dance together again.
I will look forward to it.

—Anton Mfero(

Larissa crumpled the letter savagely and threw it to
the earth. It fluttered gently downward, its sharp, crin-
kled edges opening slowly like a flower's petals. She
saw the riding crop Misroi had mentioned, lying innocu-
ously in the mud, its leather tip encrusted with Incu-
bus's blood. She shuddered, then took a deep breath to
calm her frayed nerves.

Root, Larissa told herself. She lay down on the soggy
earth, not caring that her gown was getting ruined. Ea-
gerly she plunged her fingers into the wet earth, seek-
ing information and calmness from the soil.

Unlike the sod of the Maiden's island, this earth of-
fered very little comfort. She sensed a sullenness here,
a taint, like the underlying flavor of a piece of food just
gone bad. 'Her eyes closed, Larissa frowned. She
stretched deeper, not merely asking now, but demand-
ing compliance.

With the reluctance of a spoiled child, the land yield-
ed. There was danger here, she sensed. She was not to
trust the ground, the trees, or the creatures. The Maid-
en's island was approximately a mile to the southeast.

DANCE OF THE DEAD        245

And that, Larissa felt, was all the land was going to tell
her. Abruptly, disturbingly, she felt contact break off.

Slowly Larissa came back to herself, pulling her bur-
ied hands out of the mud. It let go of her hands with a
reluctant, sucking sound. Absently she brushed off the
mud on a pile of airmoss.

Her first thought was to travel through one of the
trees. She approached a giant live oak, trying to ignore
the fact that it looked menacing. It's just a tree, she
thought, and the quickwood had been respectful and
helpful.

Taking a deep breath, Larissa reached out and placed
a hand on the bark. Greetings. With your permission, I
would—

Mot

The response exploded in her mind with such ferocity
that she winced. The dancer jerked her hand back, but
not before an angry branch had seized it. The tree had
sprung into frightening life, waving its branches angrily
and clamping down on her with menacing strength.

Before it could crush her, barissa reacted. She didn't
have time to think and didn't need to. Even though both
wrists were securely held by the dark treant's branches,
she was able to move her fingers. Her body twisted,
arching- Where the treant's leafy limbs touched her.
they exploded into flame. The tree roared in pain. in-
stantly releasing her. It began to beat its fiery branches
against its own trunk. The flames leaped for a few fren-
zied moments, then died.

Larissa was well out of the treant's reach and glared
at it defiantly. "1 have no wish to hurt anything in the
swamp," she cried to the listening foliage. "But I will if
you force me to. All I ask is safe passage."

She waited—for what, she wasn't sure. At last the
singed treant rumbled in a bass voice, You may go on
your way, Whitemane, but I will not let you pass through
me.

246 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Larissa closed her eyes for an instant in gratitude for
the Maiden's teachings. Then the dancer turned back to
the treant and planted her hands on her hips.

/ cannot force you to grant me passage to the Maiden's
island, she told it. But may f have your assurance that
you won't throw me down if I climb your branches to see
where I am?

The treant rustled sulkily. Then: Yes.

I can hurt you again, Larissa warned.

Understood.

As Larissa approached, the treant even lowered its
branches to aid her climbing. Larissa smothered a self-
satisfied grin. It wouldn't do to gloat.

Despite the cumbersome dress, Larissa reached the
top fairly easily. The sun shone down cheerily, its care-
less radiance a sharp contrast with the brooding
shadows and gloom that was the world beneath the
swamp's mossy canopy.

An ocean of green flowed beneath her. The young
woman twisted, grasping onto a branch for support. It
curled in her hands, but only to secure a grip on her so
that she wouldn't slip. A cold sinking sensation began
in Larissa's stomach when she realized that the shelter-
ing trees prevented her from even seeing what part was
swamp and what was dry—or fairly dry—land. She
craned her neck, her eyes searching, hoping desper-
ately to see—

There it was. Larissa's breath exploded in a sigh of
relief. She could see the green glossy surface of the lake
catching the sunlight. The Maiden's island looked like a
beautiful emerald to the grateful young woman.

"I'm coming, Maiden," she whispered softly. She care-
fully climbed back down, dropping the last six feet and
landing gently in the soft soil.

Her gaze fell upon the riding crop. For a moment she
was tempted to just leave it where it lay. It could hurt no
one here, lying forgotten in the swamp. But then, with-

DANCE OF THE DEAD         247

out quite knowing why, she bent and picked it up.

It didn't feel strange. It was simply a crop, cool leath-
er lying harmlessly in her palm.

"You meant something by this, Misroi," she said
aloud, pulling the length of the crop through her fin-
gers. "What, I don't know, but I'll take it just the same."
At least, she added silently, I'll know where it is.

Careful to preserve the niceties, Larissa bowed to the
treant. Thank you, she said.

For answer, the treant rattled its branches. Larissa
was reminded of a dog growling, but declining to at-
tack. If this was another test of Misroi's—and she was
sure it was—then she thought she was doing quite well.

One hand grasping Misroi's riding crop, Larissa set
off in the direction of the Maiden's island. The earth was
soggy, but it held, and her heart began to rise. She men-
tally went over the layout of the riverboat, wondering
what the best way to attack it might be. The attack
should come at night, that was for certain. Any crea-
tures that would come to her aid in this place would cer-
tainly be able to see in the dark. The humid darkness,
together with the gray fog that always seemed to arise
in the evening, ought to provide excellent cover.

She wondered how many of the crew members had
been turned into zombies and was unable to block out
the image of the thing that had been Casilda. For the
sake of her friend, if nothing else, Larissa wanted re-
venge upon Lond.

A warm blink of light flashed behind her. She
wheeled, alert for an attack, and smiled in surprised
pleasure as she realized it was only a feu follet. It drifted
about lazily, blinking slowly.

"Well, am 1 glad to see a friendly . . ." Larissa broke
off, laughing. "Face" hardly applied.

The glowing ball drew back. then came forward
again. It paused, hovering, bathing the dancer with yel-
low light. A thought struck Larissa.

248 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"Can you take me to the Maiden's island?" she asked,
wondering yet again if the creatures understood lan-
guage as she spoke it.

The feu follet paused, pulsating, then began to move
slowly over to one side. Larissa frowned- According^to
what she had seen from the top of the reluctant treant,
the most direct route lay straight ahead, but the, feu fol-
lets knew this place far better than she, so she shrugged
and followed.

Once it realized that Larissa was following, the little
ball of light picked up its pace, sailing ahead with a
sense of purpose. Larissa smiled to herself, thinking of
Willen. She wondered if he would come with her when
she left Souragne. She didn't think he would be hard to
convince. That is, if he could leave the island at all. Her
smile faded. What if he were somehow linked to the
land? What if he—

Larissa's arms flailed as she tried to stop her forward
movement, but she tumbled into the quicksand with a
little gasp. The mushy substance filled her mouth, and
she spat frantically, choking on it. She panicked for a
second, thrashing about wildly before she realized that
her struggles only caused her to sink deeper.

Almost as if it were a living creature, the quicksand
sucked at her limbs, seizing her long hair and pulling
her head back and down. Her dress was soaked, and
Larissa knew that she had only a few minutes before the
ghastly mud closed over her head.

She looked wildly about for the feu follet, thinking
that somehow it might be able to call for help, but there
was no longer only one of the shining orbs. There were
four of them now, and they did not express the agitation
that the feu follet had demonstrated when she had been
threatened by the deathplants. Larissa slowly realized
that they were enjoying her terror. They pulsed and
swelled, growing slightly larger, hovering over the
dancer like vultures over a dying beast.

DANCE OF THE DEAD         249

It was then that Larissa knew that they weren't feu fol-
lets at all. They were the feared wili-o'-the-wisps. They
had deliberately lured her here to trap her and feast
upon her terror.

She tried to think, but no answer came. Breathe wa-
ter? The quicksand wasn't pure water. It was an in-
between substance. Turn it into earth? It would trap her,
probably crush her. Then what?

The hovering wili-o'-the-wisps drew closer, eager for
her horror and fear. At least, Larissa thought grimly, I
can deny them that- She forced herself to relax, and to
her surprise found that she could float fairly well. The
dancer took deep, calming breaths, willing her heart to
slow its frantic pace. It was then, when she was com-
posed, that one of her outstretched arms brushed a
trailing tree branch.

Slowly Larissa craned her neck, fingers stretching to
twine around the slim tendrils. Carefully, so as not to
snap the twigs, she closed her hand around them. Hope
began to seep through her. The wili-o'-the-wisps,
thwarted, began to move aboot agitatedly. She ignored
them, keeping her mind as serene as she could and con-
centrating on the branch.

Larissa began to pull with a slow, steady tug. The
branch bent, but held. Now she was close enough to
grasp the branch with her other hand. Still moving
slowly, she pulled herself toward the bank, hand over
hand, until at last she was able to pull herself com-
pletely out of the nearly fatal trap.

The dancer crawled out of the muck with a distinct
lack of grace. Her limbs were quivering with aftershock,
and she sat down heavily. The wili-o'-the-wisps drew
near, definitely angry with her now. They dived at her
with a shrill, humming noise, and Larissa felt fear rise in
her as she heard the words they cried in a ghostly, shal-
low voice; "Whitemane. Die."

Gamely, she tried to force her fear away. They were

250 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

only glowing balls of light. What could they possibly—

She found out as one of them swept by her, buzzing
angrily. Larissa gasped as a sudden jolt careened
through her body, setting every hair on end and knock-
ing the wind out of her. A second one dived at her, but
this time she had clambered to her feet. She danced ef-
fectively, if awkwardly, and conjured magic housed in
the element of fire. A small ball of flame began to take
shape between her cupped palms, and she directed it
toward the attacking creature.

The creatures whined in annoyance. Then, to the
dancer's shock, the ball of flame bounced off the will-o'-
the-wisp and ricocheted back toward her- She barely
had time to leap clear, and even then the globe of fire
singed her side.

Larissa hit the earth hard, wincing at the pain in her
burned side. She rolled over, and suddenly saw Misroi's
riding crop lying where she had thrown it when the
quicksand had claimed her. Eagerly she seized it, then
stared at it, wondering what in the world she was sup-
posed to do with it.

The riding crop should come in handy, Misroi's note
had said. / know you know how to use it.

No, I don't! Larissa's mind wailed, even as another
will-o'-the-wisp flew at her with deadly intent. She tried
to roll clear, but the being's electrical charge hit home.
She gasped again and arched in pain.

Pain. Misroi had beaten the beautiful black stallion,
driving the noble creature to its death. Lond used pain,
too. but he had taken the path of—how had the Maiden
put it?—bone and blood. Blood! That was the answer!

Larissa sat up and struck her left hand sharply with
the crop. A red welt appeared, but no blood. She swore,
then struck again, harder, forcing herself to ignore the
pain. This time, a thin trickle began to meander down
her palm. following the lines of her hand.

"Die, Whitemane."

DANCE OF THE DEAD        251

Larissa didn't know if she could survive another at-
tack. She didn't plan to find out, either. As the glowing
ball dived again, she was ready. She held the riding crop
clenched tightly in her hand, prepared to strike the will-
o'-the-wisp with everything she had.

To her astonishment the crop twisted in her hands,
the way she herself had caused the poker to writhe in
Misroi's grasp at Mafoon de la Detresse. The dancer al-
most dropped it, but she held on grimly.

Misroi's riding crop grew longer, until its contorting
length was over six feet. It filled out until Larissa's small
hand could barely close around it, and its color flushed
from black to greenish brown. A head took shape at one
end, a head that had two slitted golden eyes and
fangs—

Larissa screamed, but somehow, despite the terror
that flooded her, she kept her grip on the thrashing
snake. As she watched, the reptile swung its head to-
ward the glowing balls of light. A black tongue flick-
ered, and then it opened its jaws impossibly wide. As
the will-o'-the-wisp dived for" the attack, the serpent
struck. It gulped down the light creature in one bite.
Larissa was reminded of a legend she'd heard once, of
how the will-o'-the-wisps were caused by a snake eating
the sun.

A shrill sound emanated from the remaining crea-
tures. One flew in a wild. zigzag pattern, its tight flicker-
ing crazily. A second one hesitated, then attacked
Larissa as its fellow had. Again, the snake struck. This
time, Larissa raised the serpent in the will-o'-the-wisp's
direction, facilitating the reptile's attack.

The last two will-o'-the-wisps had had enough. They
sailed off into the hazy green depths of the swamp, and
soon their radiance was lost to view.

Larissa's shoulders sagged, and she slackened her
grip on the snake. It turned to gaze at her, and she met
that slitted, unblinking stare evenly. Its tongue flick-

252 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

ered. Then. with the same speed it had demonstrated
before, the snake turned back into a simple black riding
crop.

A tired smile touched Larissa's lips fleetingly. "Thank
you, Anton. But how, by the rats of Richemulot, did you
know I loathe snakes?"

She took a few moments to calm herself, then
climbed another tree for a second look at the Maiden's
island. The treacherous will-o'-the-wisps fortunately
had not taken her too far off track.

When Larissa climbed down, she hunted about for a
large branch. She would not be caught by quicksand a
second time. The dancer continued walking, testing the
earth before her with the makeshift pole and avoiding
any areas that did not seem completely solid. Larissa
kept her ears open for any sign of danger, but there ap-
peared to be nothing hostile—for the moment, at least,
she thought grimly.

The heat increased, and so did her hunger and thirst.
Her time with the Maiden and, curiously enough, her
dinners with Misroi, had given her at least some idea as
to what was wholesome to eat in this treacherous place.
As for water, since it had rained recently, there was plen-
ty to be found trapped in hollows of stones and trees.
The taste was unpleasant, but it slaked the burning of
her throat.

Larissa pressed on until nightfall. She made a bed of
airmoss, tugged from a nearby live oak, and sank down
on it gratefully. Before she went to sleep, however, she
danced a protective ring about her bedding. As soon as
she hit the earth, her body, weary from the physical ex-
ercise and the constant tension, dropped off to sleep.

The young dancer woke a few hours later, thoroughly
disoriented. It took her several seconds before she re-
membered where she was. Something had awakened
her, she was sure of that. Careful to remain well within
the circle, Larissa rose and looked about cautiously.

DANCE OF THE DEAD        253

The night seemed calm and still, almost peaceful, but
Larissa knew better. The trees stayed silent; there was
no breeze to bestir their drooping branches, and few of
them were anything more hostile than simple trees. No
eldritch illumination warned of dangerous will-o'-the-
wisps or heralded the more welcome feu follets. The
hum of distant insects and the occasional splash of a
small animal in the water were the only sounds that
floated to Larissa's straining ears. All seemed quiet.

What, then, had awakened her? Larissa sat down and
hugged her knees to her chest. She didn't relax. She
had been through far too much since she entered the
swamp to doubt her instincts now. The dancer waited
for the sound to come again.

And it did.

"Larissa," sighed the voice.

At once she was on her feet, ready to execute a defen-
sive dance movement if she needed to.

"Who's there?" she snapped, her eyes flickering
about. Nothing moved.

"Oh, my child, have you forgotten?" came the same
sad, forlorn echo of a voice. Before Larissa's eyes, a
translucent shape began to form, solidifying into recog-
nizabitity. The dancer gasped, feeling as though she had
been kicked in the chest.

"Papa," she whispered.

The ghostly figure nodded sadly. Aubrey Helson was
dressed just as he had been when last she had seen him.
He floated just above the ground, his expression sor-
rowful. "I have missed you, Larissa."

Tears sprang to Larissa's eyes. "Oh, Papa," she qua-
vered, "I've missed you! What happened? Why didn't
you come back for me?"

"I would have, but Dumont murdered me," came the
answer. Larissa already knew that to be true in her
heart, but hadn't dared examine the thought too
closely. "Revenge will be ours soon. Come, my beauti-

254 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

ful little daughter. I wilt take you safely to the Maiden."

Larissa, nearly blinded by tears, swallowed hard and
stepped out of the ring.

"No, Larissai Don't!" came a sharp cry. Willen
charged out of nowhere and pulled her back down to
the soggy earth. "It's not your father. It's a trap!"

Larissa, her eyes still on the spectral image of the
man she had loved, struggled against the feu. follet.
"Willen. no, it's Papa. He wouldn't hurt me—" Willen
had wrapped his strong arms around her, pinning Laris-
sa's arms down. She thrashed, trying to reach her fa-
ther, but her beloved's grip was implacable.

Willen turned his attention to the specter. "Begone!"
he cried. "You are nothing at all! I know you for what
you are, and you cannot harm her anymore!"

The ghost of Aubrey Helson opened its mouth. A hor-
rible shriek exploded, rending the stillness of the night.
It shimmered and changed, until it was nothing more
than a shapeless mass of white fog- At last, it vanished
altogether.

Larissa abruptly stopped struggling, collapsing
limply into Willen's arms. He held her comfortingly.
"Willen," she whispered, clinging to the strong arms
about her. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome."

Suddenly she turned to look up at him, craning her
neck and searching his eyes. "You're free! How did you
escape?"

He grinned roguishly. "It took a lot of effort. I'm the
only one, though. We've still got to go back and free the
others- Come on. Let's get going." He rose and extend-
ed an arm to help her up.

"Wait a minute. How did you know that that.,. what-
ever it was ... wasn't the ghost of my father?"

"This is my territory, remember? I know what kind of
things lurk in the heart of the swamp. That's a creature
the locals call a plat-eyes. They generally take a human

DANCE OF THE DEAD         255

shape, usually of someone well-known to the victim,
but can also appear as a dog, or cat, or any other ani-
mal. Always black, though. They keep trying for fresh
human bodies. It was hoping to lure you away, just like
the will-o'-the-wisps did."

Larissa was still holding onto his hand. She kept her
face neutral, but she thought with all her heart, I hate
youl I wish you were dead!

Willen grinned down at her. "Come on. The Maiden's
waiting."

Larissa Jerked her hand away and assumed a defen-
sive position. "What are you?" she demanded.

Wilten stared at her. "Larissa, what's the matter?" He
took a step toward her.

"Stop right there or I'll hurt you, whatever you are,"
the dancer warned. "How did you know about the will-
o'-the-wisps leading me into the quicksand—and why
couldn't you sense my thoughts?"

A slow, terrible grin began to spread over Wilten's
face. As Larissa watched in horror, the youth's features
blurred and changed, reshaping into the visage of an
ugly man she had never seen before. Then that face and
body changed, too. He grew larger, the grin widening.
His teeth, white even now, lengthened and sharpened to
suit the reptilian muzzle that suddenly sprouted from
the lower half of his face. Hands turned into claws, and a
crocodile's tail slid from its lower back.

"Oh, well done indeed, pretty dancer," the monster
commended her. It spoke with the voice of Anton Mis-
roi. "You are just full of surprises, aren't you?"

Larissa closed her eyes. She was no longer afraid, just
furious. "Anton, you have toyed with me enough. Sure-
ly I have provided you with whatever amusement you
need. Let me get to the Maiden's island, that I may go
about attacking that boat!" Her voice gradually rose un-
til she was almost screaming.

The crocodile-creature laughed merrily. "You do in-

256 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

deed have spirit," he admitted. "Very well. This ugly fel-
low here is a creature known as a lezard. He will keep
you safe and take you to the Maiden's island. After
that—" the lezard shrugged "—the rest is up to you.
And, by the way, bravo with the crop."

Larissa opened her mouth to reply when the crea-
ture's expression changed. The lezard surveyed the
dancer with its cold yellow eyes. "I shall serve the white-
mane," he said finally. The voice was no longer Misroi's,
but a cold growl.

"Take me to the Maiden's Isle." Larissa ordered.
The lezard bowed. It changed yet again, becoming a
huge crocodile, and slithered into the swampy waters.
There, it waited, and Larissa hesitantly climbed aboard
its scaly back.




TWENTY-ONE

The Maiden of the Swamp had rooted *herse If in the
wet soil as soon as the pirogue bearing Larissa had dis-
appeared from view. She needed periodic, undisturbed
rooting from time to time to keep her energy high, and
she knew that shortly she would be needing every bit of
strength she could muster.

She dug her root-feet deeper, feeling the nutrients be-
ing absorbed and moving slowly throughout her body.
She closed her green eyes, took a deep breath, let it out,
then allowed her head to droop. Soon, she had stopped
breathing. Her graceful features blurred and changed,
until they were only ridges and hollows in the bark of a
tree. Rest. . . rest. . .

"Maiden?"

The Maiden stirred in her deep trance. She did not
wish to separate herself from the embrace of the soil
just yet and tried to ignore the voice-

"Maiden?" Yes, it was what she was called, and she
must answer. Slowly, as if she were swimming upward
through a thick layer of mud, the Maiden became aware
of her surroundings, became a thinking creature again.

Larissa stood before her, dreadfully pale. Beside her
stood an enormous lezard in half-human form, regard-
ing the Maiden coldly. "I have brought the whitemane,"

258 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

he said. "She has told me of the need."

"We will need the help of your people," the Maiden
said. "May we rely on you?"

The creature revealed deadly teeth. "It sounds like a
feast indeed. We will come when you ask us." Without
another word, he dived into the river, assumed full croc-
odile form, and slowly swam off.

The Maiden returned her attention to the girl. She
had clearly been through a terrible ordeal, but there
was a hardness to her face, a determination that had not
been there before. Fully awake now, the Maiden went to
Larissa and caught the girl gently by the shoulders.

"Tell me what happened."

Larissa licked her lips. "He will let us attack," she
murmured. "He taught ... he taught me the Dance of
the Dead."

The Maiden gasped in horror. "What have I done?"
she whispered. "No . . . oh, Larissa, no ... You must
never use such magic, do you understand? It is contrary
to all I have taught you!"

"I know," Larissa answered calmly. "He wants me to
use it. That's why he's letting us attack. But 1 know it for
what it is."

"Do you know the danger? Did he tell you what risks
you run when you perform such a dance?"

The dancer looked grim, "He didn't tell me, but I
found out," There was no way, not if she lived forever,
that she would forget the zombie hand on the end of her
arm. To lose control of the dance was to become un-
dead herself. But she had beaten the danger and had
mastered the dance. It had not mastered her.

The Maiden of the Swamp embraced the weary
dancer, placing a pale green hand on Larissa's temple.
"I am sorry you underwent such a terrible ordeal, but
you are indeed the stronger for it. You are weary, child,
and ought to rest before we do anything else. Will you
let me send you to sleep?"

DANCE OF THE DEAD        259

Larissa nodded. The one night at Mai'son de la
Detresse had been far from restful, and she had been
able to snatch only a few hours of sleep in the swamp.
The dancer knew the dreams that the Maiden wouid
send would be heating. She closed her eyes as a gentle
fog clouded her senses. Gently, the Maiden towered the
sleeping Larissa to the earth, then resumed her medita-
tive state.

Through her contact with the soil, the Maiden was dim-
ly aware of everything transpiring on her island and the
waters that touched it. She sensed the slow, silent growth
of the mammoth cypresses and felt the flow of the muddy
water as it eased sluggishly along. She sensed the vibra-
tions of the creatures, small and benign, large and preda-
tory, as they went about their business. She permitted
herself to feed from the land for an hour, and then began
to call.

Her range was not large—it was limited only to her
island—but others would take the message elsewhere.
The lezard was already telling his people. Almost as
soon as she began to call, the few quickwoods on the
island began to drum a message to their brothers else-
where in the swamp.

Other sentient plants heard the rhythm of the quick-
woods and stirred. Their branches waved, their flowers
nodded, and their roots twisted in the soil. Slowly, al-
most painfully,*the trees began to move, the rustling of
their leaves a sigh of resignation.

Longears heard the Maiden's call as well, and sat up
on his haunches, listening. The loan nodded to himself
and began pounding on the earth with a powerful hind
leg, beating away in a code his people instinctively
knew. One by one, the rabbits in the swamp heard their
hero's message and passed it along to other waiting
ears.

Less ordinary creatures also heard the summons.
Trees rooted near Maison de la Detresse stirred to wake-

260 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

fulness, their deep-set eyes burning with hatred and a
desire for blood. Slowly, the evil treants moved like
their gentler cousins to answer the summons. Crea-
tures that dwelt in the bottom of the swamp came to the
surface, filtered sunlight glinting against scaly, or slimy,
or rock-hard skin.

A little over a mile downstream, Deniri and Kaedrin
were busy building rafts for the attack. Kaedrin had
been cutting logs from fallen trees. He raised and low-
ered the axe tirelessly, sweat pouring off him in the hu-
mid warmth. Deniri, with an obvious lack of interest,
was securing the logs together with vines. Suddenly,
she paused in her task. She tensed, listening.

"There it is," she told her mate in a low voice.

He looked over at her curiously, not understanding.
"The signal? I don't hear it."

She wrinkled her pert nose in mock disgust. "After all
this time in the swamp, you can't hear it? It's coming
through the ground!"

Kaedrin glanced at Sleek, the weasel. The creature
was tense and alert. The wolf that had been with him for
five years, who had followed him from Arkandale, was
stiff and silent, her amber eyes focused on something
Kaedrin could not see. Even the squirrel in his pocket
poked his head out, curious.

Kaedrin dropped to all fours, digging his strong fin-
gers into the mud for better contact. He listened for a
while to the inaudible call, then rose and went to pull his
floating house to shore. He entered through the open
door and began to rummage in one corner. Deniri fol-
lowed, silently watching.

Leather armor, stiff from disuse, emerged from a
sack. There was also a rusted sword that he would have
to grind back into usable shape, and a shield whose de-
vice had long since faded into unrecognizability.

As Kaedrin worked, a curious river otter pulled itself
up onto the floating house. It ambled over to the ranger

DANCE OF THE DEAD        261

and poked its wet black nose into the sack, then
glanced up at him with liquid brown eyes, Kaedrin
stroked the silky wet fur.

"You're realty going to do this, aren't you?" Deniri
asked at last. Her voice was strained.

"I swore long ago I'd not use these again, not for love
of man or woman. Still true—I touch these cursed relics
of war for you, Deniri. You and every other creature here
I have come to love and value."

Deniri's temper rose. "You don't have to do this.
You're only one man. How much can they expect—"

"1 am the only human, besides Larissa, who will
fight," Kaedrin retorted. "They need me. And they
could use your help, too."

Deniri hissed, her face lengthening into a pointed
snout as hair rippled over her elongating body. Fully
mink now, she slipped into the water and disappeared.
Kaedrin grinned ruefully. She would be back.

Slowly, as the message was passed from tree to tree,
beast to beast, various beings converged on the island.
Reluctantly, the fox did not attack the hare, nor the deer
flee the monstrous crocodiles. Their Maiden had called
them, and they had answered.

Bouki was unharmed. Qnless one slew a loah, and
that was difficult, they healed rapidly. The large rabbit
bore no signs of the atrocities that had been inflicted
upon him. Bushtail, straining against his harness, had
managed to edge close enough to the rabbit so that
Bouki could rest his weight on the fox's back. The wire
noose around Bouki's neck was thus loosened, and the
rabbit could relax for the first time since he was cap-
tured. Now he slept deeply, safe with Bushtail, though
he occasionally whimpered and kicked at his manacles.

Ah, Bouki, my friend, thought Willen wryly, looking

262 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

at the odd sight of the fox and rabbit. You ought to have
been a cat loah. You always land on your feet.

Willen, too, was unhurt physically, but his body re-
membered the pain all too well. Already, it tensed in an-
ticipation of the next horror.

Lond was a master of agony. In that area, at least, }iis
dark path had granted him success- There was indeed
power to be found in pain and in the pleasure taken
from inflicting pain. but Willen knew it to be a treacher-
ous power and a false pleasure. Sooner or later, it would
turn on the wizard. With his own misdeeds of the past,
Lond would be undone. Willen hoped only that he could
hold out until that time.

The door opened, and three zombies, one of them
Dragoneyes, entered. One walked over to Bouki and
unlocked the magical shackles. Another reached up to
pull out the end of the wire noose.

"No," begged the rabbit. "Please ..."

Without warning and in predatory silence, Bushtail
leaped to his feet and ripped the zombie's throat out. As
the body toppled to the floor, Bouki leaped on the
corpse. Sharp front claws and even sharper teeth dug
into the zombie's chest. The ravenous rabbit loah root-
ed around in the decaying flesh for a moment, then
Bouki's face emerged. The rotting, pulpy flesh smeared
across his face turned the animal's visage into a grisly
mask. In his teeth was the zombie's heart. He devoured
it at once.

Dragoneyes reached for the noose and jerked on it,
and the loah gasped soundlessly. His bloody tongue
lolled, and he hastened to keep up with the departing
Dragoneyes so that the noose would cease to strangle
him.

The other zombie came toward Willen, who didn't
even struggle. Protest was useless on these wrecks of
humans, and fighting them only wore down what little
energy he already possessed.

DANCE OF THE DEAD

263

The zombies took the two swamp beings up into
Lond's chamber, and Willen gritted his teeth for another
punishing round of pain. Lond, however, sat gazing at
them quietly for a while. Mear the door, Dumont, green
eyes rimmed with red, also looked on.

"You are strong, feu follet',' the mage acknowledged.
"Bouki's pain has been severe, yet you are able to toler-
ate it. It is time for another tactic."

Willen kept his face expressionless, but his heart
sank. What had Lond's warped mind come up with
now? His first thought was of Bouki. Longears might
have understood why he was being tortured and ration-
alized the pain. For Bouki, however, it was al! senseless
agony. The loah huddled as close to the floor as possi-
ble, trembling, his nose twitching.

Lond clapped his gloved hands. Brynn entered, carry-
ing a sack in which an unseen creature struggled and
kicked. Bouki started violently. He sat up on his
haunches, nose twitching as he sniffed, and his eyes
grew wide with dawning awareness and horror.

"No," he whispered.

Lond did not answer. He opened the sack and with-
drew a frantically twisting rabbit, holding the terrified
animal by its ears. "Poor little fellow," the wizard said in
a tone that dripped sarcasm. With his free1 hand, he
reached for a knife on the table. "He doesn't understand
what's going on, does he? But you do."

Coolly, as if he were carving a piece of wood, Lond
drew the razor-sharp blade across the animal's flank.
The rabbit screamed shrilly as bright red blood flowed
through brown fur.

The utter cruelty of Lond's systematically torturing
one of Bouki's people drove the loah too far. With a cry
of utter despair, he leaped up, kicking and flailing fran-
tically. It took two zombies to hold him down. Willen,
tethered to the /oah, felt himself losing his already tenu-
ous grip on his own sanity. He forced himself to focus

264 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

on Larissa, envisioning her long white hair and her
laughing blue eyes, but the image swam before the red
haze of sympathetic terror that exploded from the rab-
bit.

"I'll stop if you tell me what 1 want to know," Lond
promised.

"Anything!" the hysterical loah cried. Unfortunately
for Lond, the rabbit possessed little real information,
and his sobbing confession only underscored what
Lond already knew: that the Maiden was still alive and
strong, that Willen served her, that a rescue of sorts was
being planned. Bouki knew nothing etse-

The wizard turned his dark gaze upon the feu follet.
"Your friend suffers greatly. A handful of words from
you would ease his pain. And," he added for the loah's
benefit, "that of his protected."

Bouki turned to the feu fotlet. "Willen, you must make
him stop hurting one of my people! He's not using them
for sustenance. Make him stop!"

Willen's heart swelled with sympathy for the creature,
but there was no way he would betray Larissa and the
Maiden. His silence was the only chance of freedom the
trapped creatures aboard La Demoiselle had left. He
could not answer, and, instead, looked at the floor.

Lond's rabbit still struggled, its hindquarters now sat-
urated with scarlet. The wizard rose and went to the ta-
ble. The large basin in the center was crusted with
brown stains. "You can stop this, Willen," he said as he
positioned the knife at the panicked rabbit's throat.

Willen shook his head mutely, closed his eyes, and
steeled himself for the wave of shattering panic that
would soon envelope him. Bouki's wail pierced Willen's
soul, and he had little defense to set against the red
haze of madness that the rabbit loah sent crashing
down on him.

Willen stared stupidly at Lond, the feu toilet's intellect
temporarily numbed by Bouki's terror. He could no

DANCE OF THE DEAD        265

longer think or understand words. He could see that the
wizard wanted something, but somehow Lond's speech
degenerated into angry rumblings and nonsensical
shrieks. Willen and Bouki could only stare at him and
whimper helplessly.

Lond snarled in disgust and ordered the two pris-
oners back down to the prison.

Once the physical contact had been broken, Willen
slowly came back to his senses. On his second night
aboard La Demoiselle, Tane and Jahedrin had gotten
him thoroughly drunk. Willen didn't recall much of the
evening, but he had a perfect recollection of the throb-
bing headache, heightened senses, and listlessness of
the following morning. The feu follet felt tike that now.

Bouki shuddered and wept alone in one corner. Since
the earlier attack, the zombies had separated rabbit and
fox. Now, the loah looked over at Witlen with huge.
fright-filled eyes,

"Tell him," he whispered. "I don't know anything
about any attack. He'll stop hurting my people if you
tell him."

"Bouki, I can't!" exclaimed Wilien. "Our chance for
escape will be ruined. Can't you see that?"

The colorcat glared at Willen. The beast was intelli-
gent, Willen had discovered, though it was unable to
speak and had no telepathic skills. The look with which
it fixed Willen, however, left little doubt in the feu follet's
mind that the now-purple cat felt there was no escape
being planned at all.

"Willen .. ." Bushtail's voice was strained. "We must
stop Bouki from harming himself."

Wearily the feu follet looked at the rabbit loah and saw
a sight that filled him with horror. Bouki simply could
not take any more. He was slowly, deliberately, gnawing
on his foreleg to free it from the manacles.

"Boukil"

The rabbit paused and glanced over at Willen. His

266 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

own blood stained his mouth and whiskers, and there
was the witdness of the mute beast in his liquid brown
eyes.

"Bouki, don't. It won't work!"

The loah ignored him and resumed his grisly, singlt-
minded task.

"Little friend, listen to me!" urged Bushtail, straining
on his own manacles. He was tense and worried, and his
voice lacked its usual nonchalant tone, "Suppose you
chew all four of your legs off. It will be difficult to move,
yes? How will you run away when you cannot hop? And
you will still be bound by the metal noose!"

Bouki ignored all of their efforts to dissuade him.
Willen, infused with grief and guilt, turned his face
away. The rabbit's actions were all the more painful for
their futility—the gnawed-off limb would grow back
within a few hours. Even Bouki's desperate gesture
therefore counted for nothing.

"This is my fault," he moaned. "All my fault." He be-
gan to cry in harsh, racking sobs. He glanced up when
Dragoneyes entered. Catching his breath, Willen sum-
moned anger to replace the grief. "What do you want
now?"

"Willen, can you hear me?"

The feu follet gasped. Dragoneyes' mouth had
moved, but the voice that issued forth had been Laris-
sa's! He almost shouted for Joy, then grew suspicious.
"Is this a trick? Pretty clever, Lond, but it won't work."

"It's really me, Beloved. Remember when you shared
your name with me?"

"Yes, I told you," he said, still cautious.

Dragoneyes shook his head. "Your fellow feu follets
showed me."

"How can you speak through the dead? Larissa,
what's happened? Are you—"

"Love, I'm fine. Listen to me. 1 can't keep this up
much longer. We'll be coming soon, and 1 need to know

DANCE OF THE DEAD        267

everything you can tell me about Lond and Dumont.
What's happening there now? 1 can't see you, 1 can oniy
hear you."

"I'm in the slave hold. Can you get Dragoneyes to re-
lease us?"

"No. He'll say what 1 say, but he'll only do what he's
used to doing If 1 force him to free you, I'll lose alt con-
tact."

"Well, at least you can hear me. They've been tortur-
ing Bouki and me for information. We're both all right.
though," he lied. He glanced over at the rabbit, winced,
and looked away. Bouki had started on his other fore-
paw and was sitting in a scarlet puddle of his own blood.

"We're located past the storage area, in the livestock
hold," the feu follet continued. "Dumont keeps a key in
his room. You can get here either by going through the
theater, or else there's a trap door in the floor of Du-
mont's cabin. Lond's welt prepared. The Maiden wi!!
know what I mean by that. He has all kinds of bottles
and candles and—"

"How are you imprisoned?"

"Just shackles for me. The rest of us are in cages or
harnesses, some magical, some not."

"Courage, Beloved. It will not be too much longer
now." Dragoneyes fell silent, then turned slowly and
left, locking the door behind him. WiHen felt disap-
pointment and fear stab through him at the thought of
the dancer's power to manipulate the dead.

"Oh, Larissa," he whispered to himself. "What kind of
bargain have you struck?"




TWENTY-TWO

"I hate moss," Jahedrin muttered as he peered at the
dark, swampy water through the spokes of the wheel.

The pilot did indeed hate the gray-green airmoss that
draped itself like a shroud across the trees. He hated the
twisted, hunching cypress trees, too, and the tea-
colored water that seemed to be more mud than liquid.
The pilot hated the shallowness of the waterway—
seldom did the depth exceed "mark one," or six feet—
and the sickly sweet smell of the place.

More than anything else, though, Jahedrin hated
what the fetid air of Souragne had done to his fellow
crewmen. All but the pilots and the kitchen staff walked
around with empty eyes and mechanical movements.
"Seems like that swamp fever sucked the souls right
out of 'em," Tane had said just yesterday. "D'you re-
member the story that pilot back in Invidia told us?"

"Yes," Jahedrin had replied. "About the man who
walked in his steep and still navigated the boat better
than anybody else aboard."

Tane nodded. "Except that Invidian fellow said he
wasn't asleep. Said he was dead." He looked at his friend
archly. "Kmda makes you wonder, don't it?"

The idea had so disturbed Jahedrin that he had to
pummel his fellow pilot until the fear had gone.

DANCE OF THE DEAD        269

Now Jahedrin rolled his head back and forth, trying
to loosen his tense neck and shoulders. Another thing
the pilot hated was the night shift aboard La Oemoiselle.
It hadn't been so bad when Handsome Jack, and then
Willen, had been rotated in and out. Now that Hand-
some Jack had been killed back in Port d'Elhour and
Willen had disappeared, it was up to Jahedrin and Tane.
Jahedrin rubbed his bleary eyes and peered ahead into
the green, gray, and black shadows that were the
swamp.

The pilot's hands lay lightly on the huge steering
wheel of La Demoiselle, and a slight gesture was all that
was needed to keep the boat on course.

"Thanks, Sardan," he said aloud to the bard who kept
him company. "I think I'd fall asleep up here if you
didn't come and play for me."

The blond singer strummed idly on his mandolin.
"No problem. Since Larissa . . . well, the cast is pretty
boring these days. They really hate this swamp."

The pilot snorted and eased the wheel starboard.
"They ain't the only ones. I'll be mighty glad to see the
last of this muddy pit. It's a minor miracle we ain't
lodged on a sandbar yet." He yawned again. "Captain's
friend Lond says we'll be clear of this place within a day
or so."

Sardan rose and stood by his friend. "The captain
won't leave without Larissa.'*

"He may have to. Trying to find her in this place . . .
Well, 1 miss the pretty little thing, but I think it's a fool's
errand."

"The captain doesn't."

Jahedrin was silent for a moment. Then he said in a
low voice, "Think he'll find her?"

Sardan shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Hope so."

The thick, marshy river twined ahead, vanishing into
the darkness. The full moonlight caught its sparkle, but
only made the night landscape seem more sinister. Sar-

270 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

dan shook his head. It was hard to believe that Larissa
was somewhere out in that malevolent darkness. He
hoped she was safe.

"Here," he said to the weary Jahedrin as he carefully
laid down his mandolin, "why don't you let me take the
wheel for a while? You look pretty tired."

Jahedrin hesitated. "If the captain found out..."

"Oh, come on. I did it for Tane half his shift the other
night."

Jahedrin's bushy eyebrows reached skyward, and he
scowled. "Really? The lucky bastard. Damn, if he gets
to sleep through half his shift, I should get at least an
hour or so."

"If there's a problem, I'll wake you. Go ahead, take a
quick nap. I won't let you sleep too long, 1 promise."

The pilot glanced back down at the river. The silence
was broken only by the steady splashing of the
paddlewheel. It didn't look as though they were in a par-
ticularly difficult part of the swamp-

Jahedrin closed his eyes for a second, then nodded-
"Atl right, but you wake me the minute something don't
look right to you, understand?"

Sardan nodded with seeming casualness. In reality,
he was extremely excited about finally getting to pilot
La Demoiselle. He'd lied about Tane, of course. Willen
had talked a lot about the theory of piloting and had
even let Sardan man the wheel for a few moments here
and there, but Jahedrin was trusting him with the task
unsupervised. It filled the bard with elation.

With a groan of pleasure, Jahedrin eased himself
down on the divan. "Oh, damn, that feels good," he
mumbled. The next sound Sardan heard from him was
deep, regular snoring. The tenor smiled to himself as he
caressed the wheel like a lover.

La Demoiselle was protected by magic, Sardan knew,
and that magic was regulated by Captain Dumont, but
there was a power in the simple act of steering the boat

DANCE OF THE DEAD

271

that thrilled the singer. Oh, you pretty thing, he thought
to the boat, no wonder you're referred to as a lady.

It was an uneventful trip for the next hour or so, and
Sardan's mercurial mind began to grow bored. He start-
ed to hum to himself, then sing softly, letting his mind
drift. When he next glanced ahead and realty noticed
what he saw, his heart leaped into his mouth. There was
something large moving in the water a few yards down
the river. Sardan blanched.

"Jahedrin!"

The pilot bolted awake. "What is it, Sardan?"

The tenor pointed a trembling finger. Stumbling a
bit, the still-drowsy pilot peered ahead, and he, too,
went pate.

The lush vegetation that flourished on the banks and
below the surface of the river was moving. Purposefully
but slowly, vines were reaching to clasp one another
across the waterway. Trees slid from their rooted places
to form a dam. River weeds sprouted, waving in the
night air. The way ahead would soon be completely
blocked.

Jahedrin acted swiftly. He pulled on the whistle three
times, hard, sending harsh cries to shatter the quiet of
the night. Then, shouldering Sardan aside, he seized
the boat telegraph, turning the handle to "reverse." He
grabbed the speaking tube and blew into it, sending a
piercing whistle to the crew in the engine room. "Full
reverse!" he cried. "Moio!"

Before Jahedrin realized it Dumont was there, com-
ing up behind the pilot. He gazed out the window, his
eyes narrowing speculatively. Mist was rising from the
stagnant brown water like steam from a kettle—little,
ghostlike wisps of fog that nonetheless were beginning
to do a fine job of obscuring vision. Through gaps in the
rapidly rising curtain, the captain could just glimpse
the barrier of vegetation. As he watched, he could see
the plants moving.

272 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

The boat stowed, stopped, then shuddered back to
life again, this time backing away from the lump of en-
croaching plants.

"Stop reverse," he toid the pilot, brushing past Sar-
dan as if the blond singer wasn't even there.      , ""

"Captain?" Jahedrin was thoroughly confused.

"Stop reverse until further orders," Dumont growled.
He had a hunch, and over the last twenty years he'd
learned to listen to his hunches. Dumont clattered
down the stairs back to his cabin and grabbed the Eye
and his sword. He then hastened to the stern of the boat,
running along the sun deck.

The giant paddiewheel was still. In the quiet, Dumont
could hear the water dripping from the red spokes into
the river. He held the pendant up to his eye, and he was
able to see through the darkness and the rising mists.
As he had feared, a similar blockage was being formed
behind them as well. Something—or someone—was
trying to trap them.

The captain slowly scanned the water from one side
to the other, but nothing more was revealed to him. He
slipped the pendant around his neck and let it drop.
There was no sound at first, and then he heard it—a
deep, heartbeat rhythm that sounded like distant
drums.

Hadn't Larissa heard drums, that first night in
Souragne?

Rage filled him, and he pounded his fist impotently
on the railing. One of the trapped feu follets close to him
flickered wildly for an instant before its light faded with
a terrible finality.

Dumont didn't even notice. "Battle stations!" he
boomed, running swiftly back toward the pilothouse
and banging on every door he passed- He took the stairs
down to the next deck, two at a time, and began waking
up the cast members. "Get to the stage!" he demanded
as they peered out sleepily at him. "Hurry!" The cast

DANCE OF THE DEAD

273

members muttered, but complied.

"Captain Dumont, what is it, that you disturb my men
at this hour?" came Lond's cold voice from the deck
above. The door to Lond's cabin was slightly ajar, re-
vealing a dull, red gleam from within. The mage stood
looking down at the captain of La Oemoiselie du Mu'
sarde, his slim, cowled black form almost invisible in
the darkness. Where his gloved hands clutched the rail-
ing, the feu follets went dark.

Dumont frowned. "Take a glance fore and aft and
you'll see why I need my men on the main deck. I'm go-
ing to need your help in defending the boat."

He didn't wait for Lond's reaction, but hastened to the
theater. The cast, in various stages of undress, sat sul-
lenly in the chairs. "On stage," he barked.

Dumont faced his cast. His face was florid as he ad-
dressed them. "Now, you coddled bastards are going to
sing for me."

The actors glanced at each other, confused. One of
the chorus members, a spoiled young man who was
Sardan's understudy, snapped irritably, "Captain, are
you mad? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Dumont leaped onto the stage, drawing his sword
and running the unfortunate actor through with the
bright blade. The youth's eyes bulged, and he collapsed
to the stage. Someone screamed. Dumont whipped
around, sword dripping crimson and jade eyes scan-
ning the crowd for the miscreant. "Anyone else want to
question my orders?"

There was utter silence. They stared at him with
terror-filled faces.

"Fine. Mow, damn you, sing!"

Elann, the elf who had understudied Cas's role, spoke
up hesitantly. "What would you like to hear, sir?"

"The opening number, then 'She Waits For Him,' then
'Water Cold.' After that, Just keep singing until I tell you
to stop!" He tore out of the room as the cast hesitantly

274 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

began the opening number. He paused only to magi-
cally lock the door before continuing to Lond's room.

.1
Willen tensed, listening. Yes, it was singing all right.

"Listen!" he cried. "They're singing in the theater. We've
got to counteract it if we can. Anyone know any
songs?"

Bushtail glanced at him, narrowing his eyes and
cocking his head. "Yes, but I do not understand."

"The songs are spells," Willen explained quickly.
"The fact that they're singing now, at this hour, means
that my friends are boarding the boat. If we set up a
counter-rhythm—"

"Say no more, mon ami!" The fox threw back his rus-
set head and began to croon a song in his native
tongue. Bushtail's voice was an astoundingly clear bari-
tone.

Skreesha, the ravenkin, was still bound by the spell
that enveloped his cage, and the colorcat had no idea
what was going on and so remained elegantly silent.
But the pseudodragon keened away, his voice a pierc-
ing yowl, and Bouki looked up.

His paws had all regenerated, but the legs were still
covered with crusted blood. The noose still closed tight-
ly about his thick, furry neck. "I can thump and sing," he
announced proudly.

Willen's heart swelled, and unexpected tears stung
his eyes- "Sometimes, Bouki, 1 think you're smarter
than Longears."

The rabbit loah began to sing a piece of doggerel
about how he always made the gumbo, but Longears
ate it first. His enormous hind leg kept a pounding
rhythm. For his part, Willen gave voice to a song of
hunting that Deniri had once sung.

It was a riot of sounds within the hold, but Willen was

DANCE OF THE DEAD

275

certain he'd never heard sweeter music. His heart rose
with every note.

When the boat had halted and then shifted into re-
verse without warning, many of Lond's magical vials
had been knocked from their shelves. Some lay shat-
tered on the ffoor, their gruesome contents forming
sticky puddles on the wood. Others the evil wizard had
managed to catch before any damage was done. The
disturbance below had distracted him momentarily, but
after speaking with Dumont he had returned to his
room. Now, he was carefully placing all intact items in a
box to guard against further jostling.            ^

When someone began pounding on his door, Lohd
did not immediately respond. Finally, he waved a hand
absently, unlocking the door. He knew who it was—
Dumont. No one else aboard La Demoiselle would dare
disturb him.

The captain stuck his head in. "You're needed on
deck," he growled. "We're under attack."

Lond did not even glance up from his task of carefully
packing the crates. "I shall be with you later. Captain,"
he said mildly.

Dumont was already halfway out the door, assuming
that Lond would comply at once- He paused, turning a
gaze of anger mixed with incredulity back to the wizard.
"You'll come with me now, curse you. This is my boat,
Lond, and when 1 give an order, it's followed!"

Lond glanced up from his task, and Dumont could
see the glitter of his cold eyes in the dark shadows of
the cowl. "You have apparently been oblivious as to
what has been transpiring aboard this boat you hold so
dear. Captain Dumont," he said icily. "Your crew now
obeys me. With a handful of powder and the right word,
I could take your soul just as easily. You are captain by

276 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

my kindness, not your bluster. Have no fear—the safety
of my person, such as it is, depends upon the safety of
the boat. I'll defend it, certainly, but you shall not tell
me when or how.

"For the moment, you must fend for yourself. That; is,
if you're sober enough to do so. It can be rather amus-
ing to watch a drunken wizard try to cast spells- There
are often interesting results." Lond laughed softly to
himself.

Dumont flushed with shame and anger. Lond was
right—the boat was no longer his. Swallowing his pride,
he said, "Then at least surrender control of your zom-
bies to me-1 need them to help me maneuver the boat
and to fight if—"

irritated, the dark wizard waved a black-gloved hand
in the captain's direction. "They will obey you until I
have need of them. Qo and defend your boat, Captain. I
weary of this conversation."

Shame fled Dumont. Only hatred and rage remained.
He stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut
behind him. Once out of the stifling place, he breathed
deeply of the humid air and examined his options.

He had a zombie crew, assembling stiffly even now
on the main deck. He had two pilots who were stil! hu-
man, a terrified cast, and a handful of prisoners who
were no doubt only too eager to turn against him. Then,
suddenly, Dumont smiled.

He also had Gelaar.

He hastened toward the elven mage's cabin, but Ge-
taar was already awake and on deck. Dumont's heavy
hand clamped down hard on his shoulder. The illusion-
ist spun around quickly, but remembered to hood the
hatred in his eyes before Dumont noticed.

"What is your will, Captain?"

Dumont scanned the river. The fog had increased, its
damp fingers limned by the moon's glow. The banks,
not all that far away, were completely obscured. Even

DANCE OF THE DEAD

277

Dumont's clairvoyance yielded little, save to confirm
that there was something out there hidden by magic.

"If I can't see them, they can't see me," he muttered to
himself. To Geiaar he said, "Noise. Men's voices. An ac-
tive crew preparing for battle. Stay up on this level un-
less I put you somewhere else. You'll be safer here than
on the main deck."

Gelaar nodded and fished in his pouch until he found
a small ball of wax. Quickly he worked the material in
his hands until it was pliant, then nipped off a small
piece and molded it into his ear. He pushed the sleeves
of his heavy robe back from his lower arms, and began
to cast the spell.

Almost at once, voices arose. Gelaar was an ex-
tremely powerful illusionist, and Dumont allowed him-
self the briefest of grins as he recognized the voices of
individual crewmen spewing typical comments.

"Here y'are, Captain. We're ready for them. No way
they'd attack when we've got this," came Dragoneyes'
voice. Dumont's grin faded. My friend, he thought to
himself, what 1 would not give to hear that hint of cold
laughter in your voice again.

He shook himself. It would not save La Demoiselle for
him to grow maudlin at a time like this. "Have the men
talk about the powerful wards on the boat, and then
make her glow."

Gelaar obeyed. The iltusionary men jabbered excit-
edly about Dumont's new spells, and suddenly the boat
began to radiate a cool blue light, studded here and
there with the multicolored sparkles of the feu follets.
There were indeed wards on the boat, wards conjured
and reinforced by the music of The Pirate's Pleasure.
They had already been put into operation when the cast
began singing. The radiance conjured by Gelaar was
purely cosmetic, but anyone who attempted to hostilely
board the showboat when the wards were at full
strength would have to fight for every inch.

278 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Bathed in the illusory glow, Dumont went to the pilot-
house. Tane and Jahedrin were both there, tense, fully
dressed and carrying weapons-

"What's going on, Captain?" Tane asked, his eyes
nickering about as he tried vainly to see through the al-
most solid wall of fog. "And what are those drums?''

"Not sure," Dumont confessed. "There's something
out there and 1 think it or they mean to board us."

"1 found one 1 think ! can handle and—oh." Sardan,
who was running up the stairs with a sword in his hand,
stopped when he saw Dumont.

The captain glowered at his leading man. "What are
you doing on deck, boy? Why aren't you down in the
theater, singing with the rest of the bloody cast?"

Sardan flushed, but remained resolute. "I can fight,"
he said stubbornly.

Dumont was about to protest, then gave up. "Maybe
you can at that. You'll die at least as well as the rest of
us, at any rate. Let's get down to the main deck. No
need to stay in the pilothouse when we're not going
anywhere." The four men stepped outside and began to
move toward the main deck.

There was only the faintest increase of wind to herald
the onslaught of bats. Thousands of the winged crea-
tures descended upon La Demoiselle, crawling on the
glowing blue deck, flapping their leathery wings about
the crewmen's heads, searching for toeholds in their
clothing. Sharp teeth gnawed at the flesh of the men's
faces, searching hungrily for the eyes. Instantly the men
threw up their hands to protect themselves.

Dumont sang a few sharp, shrill notes, and the bats
still on the wing veered off and disappeared into the
roiling white mists. Those who were on the deck or
clinging to the men's clothing, however, continued to
crawl about, "ignore them," Dumont cried. "We've got
worse things to worry about."

Jahedrin's arms were covered with small, bleeding

DANCE OF THE DEAD

279

bites, and both Tane and Sardan had wounds on their
faces. Their vision, however, was intact. Dumont
glanced downward at the zombies on the main deck
and saw that they had not fared so well. Several of them
patted dully at their faces, bumping into one another or
the railings. They had not reacted swiftly enough to
avoid being blinded.

The captain caught his breath and listened, motion-
ing the men to continue down toward the main deck.
The drumbeat had increased its tempo. Dumont knew
that some people used the sounds to carry messages,
and he wondered what kind of generals were giving or-
ders in this miserable place.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gelaar standing
with his eyes closed. The elfs slender hands moved
gently, and his lips mouthed a spell. Dumont wasn't
sure what he was doing, but it was a reassuring sight
nonetheless.

Another, more sinister sight brought the captain's at-
tention down to the water. Because of the mist and the
darkness, he couldn't see far beyond La Demoiselle, but
right near the edge of the boat he saw movement in the
water. Dumont ran to the railing, bringing the eye pen-
dant up and peering through it.

At first, it looked as though crocodiles were ap-
proaching the boat. Then Dumont saw a human male in
the water. There would hardly be humans swimming in
crocodile-infested waters. A glance revealed that all
sides of the boat were now coming under attack, and
Dumont gritted his teeth and charged down the stairs,
sword drawn.

Some of the men had already boarded from the river,
and Dumont was pleased to see that the zombies were
holding their own. He threaded his way through the
combat, fighting the whole time, and slew two of the
big, ugly men. A splashing sound to his right told him
that someone else was trying to board, and Dumont

280 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

wheeled to face the intruder. He grasped the railing and
gazed down onto the brass ladder that connected the
boat with the yawls.

Dumont found himself looking into the eyes of his
beautiful young ward. She had only just reached out to
climb the ladder and was still in the water. Her white
hair was loose and floated behind her. It blended with
the spiraling wisps of mist and the blue light of the boat
to create an eerie, otherworldly halo. The black water
lapped under her chin. and the rest of her body was lost
to his sight.

Larissa's blue eyes stared up at him, and in them was
a wildness that it would have been impossible for Du-
mont to conceive a few weeks ago, before they had trav-
eled to this cursed island. For that brief instant, she did
not look quite human to him, though her beauty
seemed to have increased with her savageness.

"Larissa!" Dumont cried hoarsely, suddenly seeing a
brown, scaly shape with yellow eyes swimming rapidly
toward the girl. He dropped his sword and started to de-
scend the ladder, one arm reaching out to pull her to
safety. His outburst shattered the moment, and she van-
ished with scarcely a ripple beneath the inky surface.
merging with the dark waters as if she had been made
of them. The last glimpse Dumont had of the dancer
was her pate hair disappearing into the depths.

White-hot agony shot through his arm, then Dumont
was dimly aware of a loud splash as water slapped him.
He stared down at the bleeding stump of his arm, rag-
ged just below the elbow. The crocodile that had bitten
off his right hand mouthed the severed limb, using its
needle-sharp teeth to maneuver it for easier swallow-
ing, then gulped it down whole.

Dumont stumbled back from the railing, his left hand
clutching the slippery raw flesh of the wound in a futile
attempt to staunch the pumping blood. The water be-
low him was filled with noise, and the deep bellow of

DANCE OF THE DEAD

281

one of the giant reptiles rumbled through the clammy
night air.

Lond, Dumont thought fuzzily as he stumbled back
in an attempt to get clear of the fighting. Perhaps Lond
could heal the maimed limb. Jahedrin came up to him,
ripping up his own shirt for use as a tourniquet as he
ran. Dumont extended his arm while his crewman tied
the material about the pumping wound.

"Lond," he rasped. Jahedrin helped Dumont climb
the stairs. He caught the captain once, when the bigger
man nearly fainted.

Lond fell silent as Dumont entered his cabin. Jahe-
drin, seeing the horrifying room for the first time, swore
softly and made an ancient gesture to protect himself
from evil. Lond looked impassively at the bloody limb.

"You've got to heal me. My boat and 1 are the only
chance you've got left," Dumont managed- He blinked
rapidly as Lond's black shape swam before him. The
wizard laughed humorlessty-

"As usual. Captain Dumont, you have it backward.
I'm the only chance you've got left. But," he added, "I do
not think you truly wish my help in healing. You might
not like the results."

Dumont had spent his life as an active, healthy man.
The thought of living without a limb—his right hand—
made him reckless. "Do whatever you want, just so long
as I'm healed."

Lond shrugged. "As you will." He began to rummage
through his grisly collection and casually selected a
long, sharp knife. He brushed past Dumont and Jahe-
drin, who instinctively drew back, and went onto the
deck.

"Captain," said Jahedrin in a faint voice, glancing
about at the ghoulish room, "what have you gotten us
involved with?"

Dumont did not answer for a moment, the pain from
his arm choking his words. At last he said, "The world

282 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

of nightmares. And I don't know that I can get us back
out."

Lond returned, Brynn and Dragoneyes in tow. He was
carrying something in his cloak. Before Dumont truly
realized what was happening, the two dead crewmen
had him in a viseiike grip. Lond approached. It was then
that Dumont saw what the black-cloaked mage was
carrying—the desiccated arm of a zombie.

"No!" the captain cried, but his protests were in vain.
He heard Lond chanting. A sudden cold replaced fhe
pulsing hot agony in his severed arm, a cold that
burned instead of numbed and crept up his arm to his
shoulder. Violent pain slashed through him as the dead
arm was joined to his pulped flesh. Dumont opened his
mouth and wailed, a long, high sound that seemed to
go on forever. When Dumont next became aware of
himself he was on all fours on the deck. Lond's door was
closed, and the zombies had disappeared.

Jahedrin crouched by his side. "Captain?"

Dumont's left arm was brawny and strong, the fingers
thick and clever. His right arm was little more than
strings of flesh that barely hid the bone. He moved his
arm, and like some nightmarish mirror, the dead flesh
unnaturally attached to his own living body moved in
response.

Larissa didn't witness Dumont's mutilation. She had
slipped beneath the water, breathing it easily. Dumont's
wards had negated her invisibility when she touched
the boat's hull.

She swam beneath the flat-bottomed showboat, ac-
companied by two lezards. The lezards were similar to
minxes, creatures that could assume either animal or
human form at will and with astonishing speed. They
were formidable allies indeed, and Larissa was glad to

DANCE OF THE DEAD

283

have them on her side. Some had chosen one form,
some the other; hence Dumont's confusion when he
saw crocodiles and men swimming together.

The three surfaced on the other side. and Larissa
looked around to see how the second wave of attack
was doing. Kaedrin, paddling aboard a large raft. had
arrived and was preparing to board. With him on the
raft was Longears, who was aflame with the desire for
revenge, and a sleek gray wolf that was only a little larg-
er than the rabbit loah.

Larissa had thought the former ranger an impressive-
looking man when she had first met him. Now, he was
truly intimidating. There was no playfulness in that
muscular build, only a taut sense of readiness. His ar-
mor was ancient, but it would serve, and his old weap-
ons had been newly honed and cleaned.

He and the lezards who had chosen human form had
collected a large number of cast-off buck antlers, which
Larissa and the Maiden had magically strengthened.
The warriors had then tied thick, sturdy ropes to the
horns.

Larissa swam over to the ranger and nodded. Kaedrin
nodded back, then fastened his piercing gaze upon the
railings, swung one of the ropes with the attached ant-
lers a few times to build up momentum, then let the
makeshift grappling hook fly. It caught on the railing of
the cabin deck, with a tinny, clanking sound. The others
followed suit, each aiming for various levels, and began
to shinny up ropes. Now the zombies would be spread
over various levels as they fought the intruders.

Larissa let herself start to sink, relaxing and merging
with the water. Then she snapped her body like a mer-
maid and pushed against the water with arms, shooting
back up toward the surface. The river obeyed her. It
gently lifted her, as on a giant's hand, until she could
reach out for the railings and clamber onto the deck.

A quick glance down showed her that the vanguard of

284 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

the swamp's army had made it safely aboard as well and
were apparently holding their own. Even as she
watched, a tall man with a wicked grin and sharp yellow
eyes ducked a skillful sword stroke. The lezard aban-
doned his pretense, and the grin widened. A thick, scaly
tail lashed out, ripping the lezard's now-unnecessary
trousers. The flailing limb knocked one zombie to the
deck, where Kaedrin's wolf leaped for its throat. Half-
human, half-reptile, the lezard lunged at his prey. The
sword with which the unfortunate zombie hacked at the
beast inflicted only minor damage against the suddenly
hard, scaly skin, whereas the mammoth jaws crunched
the dead man's head in a single snap.

Larissa shuddered and looked away. A short time
ago, she would never have dreamed that she would ally
with such violent creatures. But, she told herself, the
beings she fought against were far worse. As she has-
tened to the empty pilothouse, she looked about for
Lond. She knew his cabin was on this level, but the
mage was nowhere to be seen. The dancer did catch a
glimpse of Geiaar, though, standing alone on the sun
deck and casting a spell. He didn't appear to have no-
ticed her, fortunately.

She slipped inside the pilothouse and headed down
the stairs to Dumont's cabin. Larissa knew where he
kept the keys—dangling from the horned skull over his
bed. Her luck seemed to be holding, for the large, gold
key ring with its many keys was still in place.

She reached for it eagerly—and her fingers closed on
empty air. Shocked, Larissa tried again. There were no
keys there- It was just an illusion! She let out a sharp cry
of panic.

"Looking for these?" came a voice behind her.




TWENTY-THREE

Larissa spun around.

Gelaar stood behind her, twirling the key ring almost
playfully in his thin hand. "I just arrived here myself," he
explained. "1 ducked into the wardrobe—I was afraid
you were Dumont. Do not worry, Larissa, I want to help
the prisoners, too. Dumont has my daughter trapped,
and I hope perhaps one of the prisoners knows a way to
free her."

Larissa blinked, totally confused. "But I just saw you
on deck."

Gelaar gave her a quick, conspiratorial smile. "1 am
an illusionist." He gestured with the key ring. "On deck
right now, I am also an illusion. Dumont still thinks I'm
there casting spells."

Larissa smiled hesitantly, then laughed. For the first
time, she actually believed that the daring attack just
might succeed- "There's a trap door—"

"Here," Gelaar finished, pulling back the carpet. To-
gether, they tugged the heavy door open. Larissa appro-
priated one of the small oil tamps and descended the
narrow stairs first.

"Who's in charge of your side?" Gelaar asked as he
carefully lowered himself hand over hand.

Larissa had to smile to herself- "I am."

286 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"What?"

"A lot has happened, Qelaar. If we get through this,
I'll tell you, but right now I'm the only one who knows
enough magic to free the prisoners. That's why I'm here
instead of behaving iike a good general and sitting safe-
ly behind the lines."

She reached the bottom and looked around. The oil
lamp's light revealed boxes, tools, sacks of flour, and
other items. "We're in the storage room. The livestock
area should be—" she paused, hearing the prisoners'
singing, and pointed wordlessly to the door. Qelaar be-
gan to sort for the keys.

"Wait," Larissa said. She approached the door, laid a
gentle hand on it, and closed her eyes. Politely, she
asked the wood if it would be safe for her to enter.

What life was left in the wooden door flickered faintly.
Not safe.

"The door's trapped," she told Qelaar. Larissa closed
her eyes again, and began to move her feet gently on
the wooden floor. She swayed back and forth, then
placed her hands on the wood in a silent command. The
door began to radiate a soft blue light. The chorus in-
side fell silent. Larissa stepped back and nodded to Ge-
laar, who opened the door.

Larissa rushed in. "Willen!" she cried, falling to her
knees on the dirty straw behind him and embracing him
tightly.

He returned the embrace as best his manacles would
permit him, whispering her name over and over and
kissing her desperately when her lips found his. Tears
were in both pairs of eyes when she pulled away and
looked at his manacles. She almost lost her composure
at the sight, but quickly redirected her pain into cold
anger at Dumont and Lond.

She rose and began to dance. The manacles began to
glow with an orange light. The feu follet felt the metal
grow warm. but just when it reached the point of being

DANCE OF THE DEAD

287

painfully hot the iron bracelets snapped open and felt
off his wrists and ankles.

Qelaar, meanwhile, had unlocked the pseudodra-
gon's cage and was now freeing Skreesha. Larissa turn-
ed to the fox loan, and his harness, too, began to radiate
orange light. Willen quickly freed Bushtail.

"What's going on up there?" the feu follet asked Laris-
sa.

Larissa turned her attention to Bouki, who was still
singing his song about gumbo. Bushtail sped to his
friend, leaped up, and pulled the end of the noose from
the ceiling with his teeth. Larissa eased it off Bouki's
head, wincing at the thin line of dried blood crusted on
the animal's neck. The fox ticked Bouki's face furiously.
The rabbit loah blinked, his large brown eyes focusing
on his friend. Puzzled, he raised a forepaw to his throat
and patted it gently. "Look, Bushtail!" he exclaimed
brightly, "I'm free!*'

"The zombies and what's left of Dumont's crew are
being kept busy by lezards." Larissa answered. "I think
the rats and other small animals should be aboard by
now." She straightened, and looked over at Willen- "I'm
going after Lond."

"Larissa, no, he's—"

She raised a hand to silence her lover's protest. "1
have to. As long as he can control the zombies, we don't
stand a chance. Mow that you're free," she continued,
turning to include all the prisoners, "you can either
leave or fight with us."

Bushtail glanced up, and there was hatred in his eyes.
"For myself, I will fight."

"Me, too," said Bouki. All the creatures were nod-
ding. The ravenkin was perched on Getaar's shoulder,
and the mage had tears in his eyes.

"Skreesha knows how to free Aradnia," he said thick-
ly. "I must tend to her, first, before—"

"Of course," Larissa agreed. "The rest of you—on

288 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

deck."

They emerged into the theater, to the astonishment
of the still-singing cast members. The performers fell
silent, staring at Larissa as if they had seen a ghost.

"Larissa!" one of the chorus girls cried, looking atlhe
menagerie that followed the white-haired danger.
"What—"

"No time to explain. The boat is under attack from
my friends. They won't hurt you. Stop singing and stay
in here. You should be safe."

Before they parted, Larissa to Lond's room and Wil-
len to the battle, they held one another tightly.

"Be careful," Willen warned, knowing how foolish it
sounded.

She clutched his hands. "You, too."

He kissed her once, lightly, tenderly, then he and the
former prisoners slipped outside. She waited a mo-
ment, then followed suit. keeping as much to the
shadows as possible as she hastened up two flights-of
stairs.

Kaedrin staggered back, grateful for an instant's lull
in the fighting. He surveyed the situation grimly.

Zombies, most of them with huge chunks of dry flesh
missing, were still battling with the lezards, but there
were many corpses cluttering the decks. The smaller
creatures had now arrived, and the decks crawled with
rats, foxes, and other nimble mammals who tripped the
zombies and then tore at their flesh when they went
down.

To Kaedrin's pleasure, he suddenly saw Longears has-
ten across the deck and leap, hind legs first, at a zom-
bie. The loah's powerful hind legs kicked the undead
creature's face in-

"Tired already?" came a teasing voice, shot through

DANCE OF THE DEAD

289

with strain. Kaedrin whirled, joy and fear mixing in his
heart as he saw Deniri clamber on board. She looked at
him. love on her sharp face. "Couldn't let you have all
the fun, could I?"

"Deniri, it's too dangerous—"

"If you can fight, so can I. You think I'd let you die
without getting a chance to kill a few myself?" Without
another word, she shimmered and twisted into her
mink form and scurried across the deck. He saw her
launch herself at a zombie's throat and begin chewing
the dry flesh, then she was lost to his view.

"Kaedrin, took out!"

The voice was Willen's. and the ranger reflexively
brought his shield up and raised his sword as he turned.
A cutlass thwacked heavily on the rounded shield as a
zombie with slitted golden eyes swung at him. Kaedrin
parried, slowly but in time- He managed to get a clear
blow at the silver-haired corpse, but another zombie
saw an opening in Kaedrin's defense and struck. The
blow bounced off the ranger's armor, but the breath was
knocked out of him for an instant-
There was a brown blur, and then he realized that the
second zombie had a huge mink at his throat. The
beast's teeth ripped furiously, and the zombie's head
was severed from the body. The mink nudged it over-
board, but the headless body continued to move. Kae-
drin returned his attention to the golden-eyed zombie,
but saw to his horror that the walking undead had
ceased taking an interest in him and instead turned his
blade upon the mink. With a quick chopping motion, he
stabbed the animal.

Deniri squealed as she died, impaled upon Dragon-
eyes' sword. Even in her death throes, she bared her
teeth and futilely gnawed on the metal blade, her sharp
claws shredding anything they came in contact with,
even her own flesh. Her blood stained the floorboards.

As Dragoneyes stepped on the furry corpse, holding

290 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

it down so he could tug his sword free, Kaedrin's sword
ran him through. With a lost wail, the hermit of the
swamp hurled himself into the thickest part of the fray,
hacking wildly at anything, friend or foe, that came
within the bite of his weapon. Willen, seizing a swbrd
from the dead hand of a lezard, tried to go after, the
grief-crazed hermit, but saw him go down under a press
of undead bodies a few moments later.

"Kaedrin!" Witlen screamed. All at once he felt large,
dead hands clamp about his throat. Slowly the zombie
squeezed. Willen twisted, his hands flying up to pry the
unbelievably strong fingers from his neck.

The pressure eased and something warm and wet
spattered the back of Willen's head. He stumbled away,
turning to see who had attacked him. Brynn now had no
head. As if the zombie were confused, his hands went to
pat the stump of a neck, turning crimson with the flood
that still spouted from the shoulders.

With a grunt, Willen grasped Brynn's body and, push-
ing and tugging, heaved it overboard. It fell with a loud
splash, and the feu follet turned to see who his savior
might be.

Sardan gazed at him with a rather shocked expres-
sion. He, too, had droplets of red sprinkled on his face.
The singer glanced down at the sword in his hand.
"That sword move was from the third act," he muttered.
"Damn, It worked. Where the bloody blazes have you
been, Will?"

"Imprisoned," Willen managed. Speech was still diffi-
cult, and he rubbed his throat. "Are you with me or
against me?"

Sardan made a terrible attempt at nonchalance. "I
just saved your life. so I don't think I'll try to kill you
now."

"Then start attacking the zombies."

Sardan's eyes flew wide. Wilten didn't have the time
to be gentle. "Yes, they're all dead, Sardan. The things

DANCE OF THE DEAD

291

from the swamp are alive, and they're my friends. Come
on."

He turned, directing his sword against another of the
animated corpses. Still rather stunned at his actions,
Sardan nodded, glanced down at the crimson sword,
then hurried to join his friend.

Lond watched the battle with the remote interest of a
vulture watching two animals battle to the death. Most
of the fighting was occurring on the lower three decks.
The few foolish lezards who had attempted to attack the
dark mage had gotten facefuls of powder for their
pains. Already, a few of them were starting to rise, lum-
bering down to the lower levels to attack their erstwhile
allies who stared in shock as they were slain by a friend.

He had enjoyed the little trick he had played on Du-
mont. For all its callousness, Lond's decision to attach
the zombie limb had probably saved the captain's life.
He was off somewhere, no doubt, lamenting his fortune.

The swamp creatures were slowly being outnum-
bered by undead crewmen and their own zombie kin.
Lond smiled beneath his cowl. He'd be out of Souragne
within the next day or so. free to unleash his skills on a
new land.

He realized that he had emptied his vials of powder,
and turned to go back to his cabin for more. It was then
that he saw the flash of white disappearing into his
cabin.

Larissa, curse her white hair. Lond hastened to catch
up with her, but she already had a head start of a good
minute or two.

The young dancer was appalled at what she found in
Lond's cabin, and she lost a few precious seconds sim-
ply staring in horror and fighting back nausea from the
stench. What was it Willen had said? The frighteningly

292 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

decorated bottles were important to him. Some of the
bottles contained nothing worse than ingredients for
his spells; others, Larissa knew, contained something
far more horrifying. The Maiden had explained that, not
only did the former bocoru animate corpses, he also
kept their souls.

Larissa's mouth set in a grim line. She ran to the first
box within reach and began hurling its contents to the
floor. The vials broke, their contents spilling in sluggish
pools of liquid or piles of various powders. She began
on the second box.

The first warning she had of Lond's presence was his
growling voice chanting an incantation. She moved
more swiftly, whipping her white hair back and forth, up
and down, and visualized the bottles shattering in the
third box.

A sudden wind came out of nowhere, whirling about
Lond and snatching away the words of power even as he
uttered them. The magical wind conjured by Larissa
had found the box and lifted it up to the ceiling. Larissa
made a sharp move with her hand, and the box upend-
ed. Every one of the glass vials in the box fell to the
floor, breaking with high-pitched sounds.

What happened next took only an instant, but it
seemed like an eternity to the shocked and horrified
young dancer. That unpleasant but very ordinary noise
was suddenly joined by others. A low groaning, as of
several voices, began to swell from the broken shards of
glass. Alt at once clouds of light shot upward, whirling
crazily about the room. Then, as if by an unheard sig-
nal, they merged into a cloud and went straight for
Lond.

The mage cried out and backed away. Larissa seized
her opportunity and bolted for the door. She had only
run a few yards down the deck before she collided into
an unseen wall and hit the wooden deck hard. Rolling
over, she saw that Lond was unhurt. The cloud of

DANCE OF THE DEAD        293

trapped souls had been unable to harm him and had
vanished. His dark form advanced on her malevolently.

"You've lost me my zombies, Whitemane, but there
are more where they came from. As you taste death,
know that you have failed everyone who counted on
you." He raised his hands.

Larissa tried to think of something, but her mind
went absolutely blank. In desperation, she rooted her-
self, hoping that somehow something would spring to
mind.

At that moment, a deep bellow went up behind Lond.
"Run, Larissa!" came Dumont's haggard voice. "Leave
this bastard to me!"

Startled. Lond wheeled just in time to deflect the cap-
tain's sword stroke. It still bit deeply into his right shoul-
der, and Lond roared in outrage at the insult that
Dumont would dare attack him. He wiped the blood up
with his left hand, then smeared it together with his
right.

Dumont had begun whistling a spell when Lond
raised his right hand and squeezed it tightly. Blood
dripped down onto the deck. It hissed like a snake as it
made contact with the wood.

The captain froze. His face grew gray, and the sword
fell from his suddenly numb left hand- His right hand,
the zombie limb, crept up to his chest and began to
claw frantically. It ripped easily through his shirt.
through the flesh of his chest, only to be thwarted by
the breastbone- Undaunted, the zombie limb curled in-
to a fist and smashed its way into Dumont's chest cavi-
ty. The undead hand groped about, then emerged with
what it had been seeking.

Dumont's heart.

It still beat and blood spurted crazily. The hand tight-
ened, and then the heart was only so much pulpy flesh.
The captain's eyes rolled back in his head, and he col-
lapsed to the deck. The zombie arm continued to

294 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

scrabble with a life of its own.

Larissa stared, sickened and full of horror. Her mind
was numb for a terrifying instant. She had once loved
Dumont tike a father and, despite his betrayal, still
cared for him. "Uncle," she whispered-

"Meddler," Lond snarled angrily. "Now, Whitemane,
it's your turn."

Larissa's eyes blazed with fury. This time, the young
woman was ready for him. The few seconds she had
rooted herself had given her an idea. She pressed her
body to the wooden floor, sending a message to what-
ever life still lingered there. Her command shivered
through the wooden planks until it reached the fanciful
carving of a griffin that adorned the pilothouse.

Jeweled eyes blinked. Gold-leafed wings opened,
and with a sound like a spar breaking in a storm, the
animated carving tore itself free from the confines of
the pilothouse. It hovered for a fraction of an instant,
then, with the determination of an eagle bearing down
on its prey, it flew straight for Lond.

The wizard, however, had ample warning. As the
wooden beast bore down on him, beak open and claws
outstretched, Lond uttered a spell. The griffin collided
with the invisible wall Lond erected, and splintered with
a horrible cracking sound. It fell to the deck behind
Lond, sticks of wood now and nothing more.

Larissa tasted bitter frustration. She had expended a
great deal of energy tonight, and the griffin had taken
almost all of what remained. Lond turned slowly around
to face her. Panting, Larissa couldn't even summon
enough strength to rise. She waited defiantly for the
killing blow, her face radiating her loathing.

But Lond did nothing. He surveyed her critically for a
moment, not even moving when Larissa haltingly got to
her feet to face him.

"Did you really think to stop me with a wooden toy?"
he asked her. "Fruit and flower magic is nothing, noth-

DANCE OF THE DEAD        295

ing at all. There's only so much you can do by following
all the rules. When you make new rules for yourself, on-
ly then can there be no limits to your power."

He stepped closer to her, and she backed away, one
slim hand reaching out to the railing for support. "You
have a great deal of ability," Lond continued silkily. "No
wonder the Maiden was so eager to enlist your aid. But
you see how quickly fruit and flower magic fails you-
Blood and bone—there lies true power. And 1 can teach
you, Larissa Snowmane. I can guide you along the
path."

Larissa kept her eyes on her enemy, but inwardly she
was calculating how long it would take her to reach the
pilothouse and from there the open space of the roof. If
she could escape down the other side—

"Why make something grow greener when you can
twist it to your whim? Why encourage life, when death
is so much more predictable and manageable? Why be
like the feu foUets when the will-o'-the-wisps are what
the people fear and respect?"

He tore at his long sleeves, ripping the black fabric, A
knife appeared in his hand, long and sharp, and he
touched it to the flesh of his lower arm, then sliced. The
waning moon cleared a cloud, and Larissa had a perfect
view of that arm.

It was the size and shape of an ordinary man's arm,
but the incalculable crisscross of scars made it horrific.
Blood magic was bought, not given, and Lond had
bought the dark knowledge with his own crimson fluid.
Again and again he had cut open his flesh, sometimes
removing entire chunks of meat, until there was no spot
on the arm that was not scar tissue. The light glistened
on the lumpy, shiny flesh.

Red liquid dribbled down, dropping onto the deck
with an ominous hiss. Clawing hands tore off the black
cloak. The evil mage wore only a tunic beneath his con-
cealing robes, and every bit of visible flesh was a scar.

296 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

His face was the most monstrous of all- In his diabolic
bartering, he had bargained away most of the flesh of
his cheeks. White bone gleamed through like an emerg-
ing death's head. Only the eyes. it seemed, had been
spared the blade. They gleamed evilly, coldly, out of a
mass of raised puckers.

The pool of blood glittered blackly in the moonfight.
then began to ooze slowly in Larissa's direction.

Now, thought the dancer. She made a dash for the pi-
lothouse stairs and from them leaped gracefully onto
the boat's roof. She ran across the flat surface and was
about to slip down the other side when she came face-
to-face with a zombie climbing up to meet her.

It was Dumont. His eyes were empty as they fastened
on her, and his blood-covered zombie arm reached out
and closed around her ankle. Larissa stifled a cry,
wrenching her ankle free, and moved farther down.
This time, an undead lezard clambered onto the roof
with slow and determined movements.

Larissa glanced wildly around. They were closing-in
on her from all sides now, and even as she watched,
Lond appeared on the roof. He was gently levitated as if
by an unseen hand, and he landed with a quietness that
mocked Larissa's panic.

Abruptly, terror fled Larissa. Her back was against the
wall now, and there was no room for fear. She straight-
ened and regarded Lond coolly.

"1 am familiar with your path, Alondrin the Betrayer,"
she said in icy tones as the zombies moved ever closer.
"Your dead men do not frighten me. I have dined with
the Lord of the Dead, been a welcome guest in Maison
de la Detresse. I am aboard this boat as emissary of An-
ton Misroi, someone 1 believe you know welt. Did you
really think that he would have let me gather what
power 1 wield on my own?" She laughed, and there was
no mirth in the sound.

With poised elegance, she raised her arms and set-

DANCE OF THE DEAD        297

tied herself on her feet. "Misroi was my tutor. He in-
structed me in the Dance of the Dead. Permit me to
demonstrate."

Larissa withdrew the riding crop Misroi had given her
and struck her left hand smartly. The blow stung terri-
bly and blood appeared, but she paid it no mind.

The crop lengthened, twisted, transformed into the
snake Larissa had worked with earlier in the swamp. It
did not bother Larissa at all now. She had conquered
that particular fear and was in absolute control of her
magic. She was a whitemane, a dancer, and if she
shrank from this task, all would be lost.

Without the slightest shudder, she placed the serpent
about her neck and shoulders. Swiftly the creature
twined itself about her arms. Its weight was cool and
comforting, dry and smooth, and Larissa felt new confi-
dence surging through her.

The snake draped about her like a living shawl, Laris-
sa began to dance. Without a second thought, she for-
sook all the spells she had hitherto learned under the
tutelage of the Maiden, and launched into the terrifying
Dance of the Dead-




Willen's attention had been briefly diverted when the
griffin masthead had cracked to its new life and began
to fly. He could pay it little heed, however, because he
was fighting with Yelusa, Lond's first nonhuman zom-
bie.

She fought with a sword that Willen wildly thought
must be heavier than she was, swinging the weapon
with little accuracy but great force. He parried, the im-
pact jarring his arm painfully. Yelusa had one distinct
advantage over the feu follet: she could fight forever,
and Willen was already starting to grow tired.

He decapitated the owl maid, to his own surprise, af-
ter she suddenly paused, sword arm raised with a blow
that never fell. Gasping, Willen dared a quick look
around. All of the zombies had ceased fighting. As one,
they turned and started up the stairs to the uppermost
level of the boat.

Sardan hurried up to him. The grim expression on his
face was far different than the bard's usual insouciant,
slightly bored grin. Willen doubted if the handsome
blond tenor would ever be the same. "What's happen-
ing?" he panted, wiping sweat from his brow with a
bloodstained hand.

"I don't know," Willen replied, "but 1 don't like it. Why

DANCE OF THE DEAD

299

would Lond pull all his zombies out of the fi—Larissa!"

Sardan blanched. "She's here? You're letting her
fight? She doesn't know—"

"Sardan, she's our leader. And she's up there, I know
it. Come on!"

Willen ran up the stairs with a speed he had not real-
ized his human body possessed. A terrible fear coursed
through him. Larissa, powerful though she might be,
could never stand alone against the entirety of Lond
and his undead army. The feu follet had no idea what he
might do to save her—his magic was mainly
defensive—but he knew he had to try.

He arrived on the rooftop, lungs heaving. Sardan fol-
lowed. The feu foiiet was behind the crowd of zombies
and so couldn't see what was going on.

Larissa's voice floated to him on the sultry night air.
"Misroi was my tutor. He instructed me in the Dance of
the Dead. Permit me to demonstrate."

Horror flooded through Willen at the words, a horror
so great it incapacitated him for a moment. He stag-
gered with the weight of the information. Sardan ap-
peared behind him and placed a steadying hand on his
friend's elbow. The feu follet summoned his strength
and spun around. "Forgive me," he panted, then
punched Sardan in the jaw. The tenor went reeling, al-
most more stunned by the gesture than its conse-
quences.

"What the—?"

Sardan's question was never completed, Willen land-
ed another punch, wincing at the pain in his hand, and
Sardan's eyes rolled back in his head. He collapsed to
the deck.

Willen knew Sardan would be safe now. He wondered
for an instant if there was still time to stop Larissa, but
even as his mind pondered the question his feet were
taking him toward the bow of the boat, where Larissa
had begun to dance in infernal ecstasy.

300 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

He shoved his way past the frozen zombies, and then,
unexpectedly, Larissa danced into his field of vision.

Willen gasped. He had hoped to tackle her blindly,
make the beautiful young woman stop the dance that
would surely destroy her and any living human who saw
her perform. He had seen her, though. Now he was in-
capable of tearing his gaze away from her lithe, graceful
form.

He was caught, fatally caught, and he felt a deathly
cold seep through him. Willen had resisted Lond's evil
magic, but he was a creature of Souragne, more so than
any natural human could have been. There was no way
the feu foUet could fail to succumb to the magic of the
lord of the land, the magic Misroi himself had taught to
the dancer. His arms ceased to have feeling, and the
numbness crept through his thighs and legs. He could
feet his body dying, surrendering control, limb by limb,
joint by joint.

The last thing that abandoned him, drifting away
gently, reluctantly, was his mind. He thought of Larissa.
and tears spilled down his face, tears for alt the lost op-
portunities. for the joys and sorrows that would now
never be his to experience.

The last conscious thought Willen had before the
dark magic of the Dance of the Dead claimed him for-
ever was how beautiful Larissa was when she danced.

Larissa knew she had nothing more to fear from
Lond. She was dancing with death now, and the wizard's
magic was a paltry song compared to the wild music
Larissa heard in her mind. The dancer leaped, and the
snake moved with her, twining about her like a lover's
hand.

She felt the cold begin from deep within her. It was
the cold of death and worse, and it began to seep out-

DANCE OF THE DEAD

301

ward. Fear brushed her, a hint of what she had experi-
enced at Maison. de la Detresse. As she had discovered,
for a living, breathing creature to perform the Dance of
the Dead, even with the permission of the lord of the
land, was to risk turning into a zombie oneself.

The dance became wilder, and Larissa began to per-
spire despite the terrible chill that was rampaging
through her body- She no longer knew where or who she
was; she had become the dance. With a final gasp that
almost drained her, she flung up her hands and com-
manded the zombies: Stop Lond!

For a moment, nothing happened. She had dropped
to her knees on the deck. Panting, Larissa brushed her
mop of white hair out of her face and glanced up.

Defeat washed over her tike acid. The zombies stood
frozen in their places; they made no move to attack her
enemy.

Lond knew what the Dance of the Dead could do, and
he had been unable to do anything save shield his eyes
and wait until it was completed. Now he lowered his
hands and stared first at Larissa, then at the still-
immobile corpses. Shocked and pleased, he began to
laugh.

"What a lovely show!" he shrieked. "You have halted
my zombies, but you cannot control them. You are safe
from them now, perhaps, but, oh, child, you are not safe
from me!"

As he began to mutter an incantation, the swamp be-
gan to boil. Larissa gasped and got to her feet, staring
down at the dark river. Shapes began to break the sur-
face, and as she realized what they were, she began to
laugh hysterically.

Some of them were little better than skeletons. Oth-
ers still had recognizable features. Water had bloated
the bodies, rendering the flesh swollen to the point of
bursting. They were vomited up from the river's bottom
by the dozens—dead men, women, children and ani-

302 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

mals. whose sole purpose was to destroy Larissa's ene-
mies for her. She knew she had called them, that they
were her allies, just as Misroi had assured her.

A giant wave arose, carrying dozens of the zombies,
and crashed aboard the roof. Larissa was knocked down
by the force, and gasped for breath as the wave
drenched her. Methodically, implacably, Larissa's zom-
bies rose to their feet and, dripping water and ichor,
turned on their frozen brethren.

A battle between dead men is a horrific thing to wit-
ness. The zombies concentrated on tearing one another
into pieces too small to fight. Lond retaliated as best he
could, and many of Larissa's zombies were destroyed,
but even he could not halt so great a tide, and finally
several corpses managed to catch hold of him. He
shrieked continuously as they dragged him to the side,
then vanished over the edge.

Larissa felt a twinge of something akin to remorse.
She had ordered the zombies to stop Lond, but they
were bent on destroying him. Or could they somehow
make him a zombie as well?

The water roiled again, and a new horror emerged.
Foot by foot, yard by impossible yard, a gigantic zom-
bie serpent raised itself from the water until it towered
over the boat.

Larissa's throat went dry. She had seen this horrible
being before, in one of the nightmares she had had
when they had first arrived in Souragne. Then, the mon-
strous undead snake had spoken with Willen's voice.
Now, it undulated back and forth, its huge, slitted, dead
eyes fastened on the dancer.

Misroi's voice boomed from the zombie snake's
mouth. "Well done, pretty dancer. You survived after all.
I'm impressed, 1 must say. And I do thank you for all the
new zombies. They'll be leaving shortly."

With an odd grace, the serpent lowered its massive
head until it was just a few feet away from her. She did

DANCE OF THE DEAD

303

not cringe away. Bending close, it flicked a rotting
tongue as thick as her body. "All, that is, except one, 1
think. Since you were so very fond of the little meddler,
you may keep Willen."

Larissa's heart lurched, and she almost fell. "No," she
moaned, soft and low. "Not Willen!" She shrieked his
name, glancing around frantically.

The zombie that had been Willen stepped forward
woodenly. Larissa gasped, her hands to her mouth, and
stared in incredulous horror.

Willen stared back at her impassively. There was no
laughter in his eyes anymore, no hint of a smile playing
about his lips. All was still and cold. Tentatively, Larissa
reached and touched his cheek. The flesh was cool to
her touch. She drew back her hand and clenched her
fist.

Filled with resolve, Larissa wheeled on the zombie
snake. "Anton, I have fought your enemies and prevent-
ed Lond from escaping. I have learned your dance and
done you honor as a teacher..! ask one great favor from
you: restore Willen."

The snake shook its gigantic head. "Poor little
dancer," it said in a mockingly remorseful tone. "You
don't see it yet, do you? I was right. We are kindred spir-
its, Larissa. You are just like me. If it had been Lond's
doing, why, I might indeed have been able to restore life
to the body. But the Dance of the Dead is much more
powerful than Lond's dabbling. I cannot counteract my
own magic."

Larissa's eyes widened with a new horror, the truth
shattering her soul. She had been the one who had done
this to Willen, not Lond, not even Misroi. Now, too late,
she recalled the Maiden asking if Larissa knew the dan-
gers connected with the Dance of the Dead.

"1 thought she meant me," Larissa whispered. "1
thought she meant it would just hurt me.. -." White hot
fury flooded her. She seized the riding crop and hurled

304 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

it into the water. The dancer screamed at Misroi, "Why
didn't you tell me?"

The undead snake opened its terrible mouth, and a
deep, rumbling laugh issued from it. "Ah, pretty
dancer, why should ! have bothered? You would Tiave
used the magic anyway, since it was the only way for
you to stop Alondrin."

The riding crop reappeared suddenly in the dancer's
hand. Her keening shriek of rage and sorrow could be
heard even by the cast huddling in the theater.

The first rays of dawn broke through the mists and
laid gentle fingers upon the sleeping dancer. She had
found a brief respite from the horrors thrust upon her
and had wept herself into blissful unconsciousness. But
the reprieve had ended. Day was dawning, hot and
steamy and laden with the promise of an existence of
pain.

Dimly, she felt someone draping a blanket around
her.

Looking up, she saw that it was Sardan. He glanced
swiftly away. "I'm glad you're all right, Larissa," he said
softly.

"I'm glad you're all right" she returned, her voice
raspy from crying. She forced herself to sit up, then
rose with Sardan's strong arm around her. As they
walked toward the pilothouse, Larissa caught a glimpse
of Willen and her knees buckled.

She cursed, angry at herself. "I'm weak as a damned
kitten."

"With all you've been through, I'm not surprised."

For the first time, she noticed Sardan's bruised face.
Frowning, she touched it gently. Even her tender fin-
gers were too much, and he winced. "What happened to
you? Are you hurt?"

DANCE OF THE DEAD

305

Sardan couldn't meet her eyes. "Will did that to me.
Knocked me out so I—well, so that! couldn't acciden-
tally watch you—"

Larissa refused to give in to tears. "He always thought
of others first," she said thickly. She had thought herself
cried out, but her store of tears was apparently endless.
"What's happened to the bodies?" she asked as Sardan
guided her carefully down from the roof.

He hesitated, and when he answered did not meet her
eyes. "They're... gone, Larissa. I'm not sure just what's
been going on, but the snake—they all left to follow
him. Disappeared into the river. Even my poor under-
study who had the misfortune to make Dumont angry."
He paused. "All except Will."

"Well, at least that's one thing we won't have to take
care of ourselves." Larissa heard the words coming out
of her own mouth and hardly believed it was she who
was speaking them. She sounded callous, cruel—but it
was the truth. She could not mourn the dead, not yet.
She was the only one who knew the scope of what had
happened, and the living needed her right now. Larissa
knew she had to be strong for their sake, If not her own.
For herself, she almost wished that she had died along
with her beloved, but apparently it was not to be that
easy.

Larissa ordered an all-hands meeting in the theater.
As she entered unsteadily, carrying a steaming mug of
strong tea, blanket still wrapped around her, everyone
rose. Then. slowly, a few people began to applaud. More
joined in, until Larissa received the most heartfelt
standing ovation she had ever had in her life. She
smiled awkwardly and waved everyone back to their
seats as she went onstage. Sardan pulled up a chair for
her, and she eased into it thankfully, smiling up at him
fleeting ly.

It was Jahedrin who first voiced the question every-
one wanted to ask.

306 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

"Miss Snowmane, are you to be our captain now?"

Larissa glanced sharply at the pilot. "Jahedrin, I don't
know the first thing about captaining a boat."

"You're the best qualified to lead us. if maybe not
tend to the actual running of La Demoiselle. Everyone'd
follow you without question. And you could learn."

Surprised, Larissa glanced around at the expectant
faces of the remaining cast and crew. They all nodded
in agreement. Larissa accepted, then spent the next
hour in explanation. Her crew would have to trust her to
follow her, and she revealed all of Dumont's secrets--
the wards on the boat, the prisoners, Liza's murder. She
had expected to be bombarded with questions and in-
terruptions. but everyone hung on her words, eyes
wide, slightly unbelieving. Clearly, she was in charge
now.

"i love this boat," she told them sincerely. "I would
like to keep the show going. There's no reason why we
can't continue to provide fine entertainment at a fair
price. As for the former prisoners, they are to be treated
as honored guests. Anyone who wishes to may leave at
any time—that goes for cast and crew as well. Those
who would like to stay on and add their magic to La
Demoi—" She paused suddenly, and the ghost of a
smile touched her worn face. "Anyone who wishes to
stay aboard Riuer Dancer will be hired on fairly."

Qelaar smiled, his arm around his daughter. "Aradnia
and 1 have already decided to stay on," he informed
Larissa and the crew. "It was not the boat we hated, it
was the captain and his greed."

"Could mademoiselle take me home to Richemu-
lot?" said Bushtail hesitantly. "I know it is a great deal
to ask—"

"I don't know when we'll get there, but I'm sure we
will. And when we do, Bushtail, you are free to go."

Bushtail bowed his head in gracious acknowledg-
ment. "Until that day, Mademoiselle, I am yours to corn-

DANCE OF THE DEAD        307

mand."

Skreesha had taken a liking to Gelaar, and the
pseudodragon ambled about happily- He had decided
that Larissa was to be its new adopted friend and sel-
dom left her side- The colorcat, as usual, didn't seem to
care too much about anything. But no one, it seemed,
was willing to abandon Riuer Dancer.

A few hours later, Larissa got up the courage to at-
tend to her most sorrowful task. First, she went to Du-
mont's cabin, spying a white scarf almost as soon as she
entered. Gently she picked it up and wrapped it about
her own slim neck. Larissa took a deep breath to steady
herself, then went out onto the bow of the main deck.

Leaning over and peering into the green water, she
called in a loud voice, "Flowswift!"

Almost at once, the surface of the water rippled and a
beautiful, golden-haired maiden emerged. Her face was
alight with joy. "You remembered!" she cried, raising
her arms toward Larissa.

Larissa smiled wanly. "Yes, I did. 1 have a last favor to
ask of you." She gestured toward the yawl, tied up to the
boat and bobbing placidly. "I'm going to cut this yawl
loose in a moment. Please see to it that it doesn't
ground or snag on any debris."

The nereid pouted a bit, splashing sullenly. "Don't
have forever to do your bidding," she said in a whiny
voice. "How long must I guide it?"

Grief clenched at Larissa's throat, but she answered
calmly, "You'll know when to stop. Here. And thank
you." She dropped the shawl, and the nereid seized it
and hugged it tightly, her eyes sparkling with tears.
Then she wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and
vanished.

Larissa rose slowly, tiredly, and glanced up at the roof
of the boat. She cleared her throat. "Willen," she called.

The zombie walked slowly toward the edge of the
roof and waited for further orders. "Come down to the

308 CHRISTIE GOLDEN

main deck." she instructed. Her blue eyes followed him,
contrasting his wooden, deliberate movements with the
living, supple enthusiasm and grace of the man she had
loved- Her heart swelled with pain. Still, she knew she
was doing the right thing, that what she was about to do
was what Witlen would have wanted.

The thing that animated Willen's body—she found it
easier to think of it that way—stood before her impas-
sively, "Climb down onto the yawl and sit down," she
said. The undead being did so.

Larissa walked over to the small raft and cut it free,
dropping the rope into the water. An unseen hand
seized the trailing line. Slowly, the yawl with the hand-
some young zombie began to drift downstream.

She watched him go, her heart full of pain.

"Mademoiselle?"

Larissa wiped at the tears that blurred her vision, and
smiled shakily down at Bushtail, who had crept up un-
noticed.

"It is hard to lose a friend- You have my sympathy."

Larissa remembered the strange friendship that had
sprung up between the fox and rabbit loahs. "You miss
Bouki, huh?"

"Om. I gave him a last gift when we said our good-
byes. i promised him that his people will be safe from
mine for a fortnight in this land."

"That's . . . that's quite a sacrifice for your people,
isn't it?"

The fox shrugged his massive shoulders. "Comme ci,
comme (a. Please remember, though, there are not very
many foxes in Souragne." He grinned, showing sharp
teeth. "And there are always chickens, no?"

Suddenly, to her own surprise, Larissa laughed. She
felt as though, after a long struggle with a thunder-
storm. the sun was beginning to rise again in her soul.
Impulsively, she reached and threw her arms about the
fox. The animal started at first, then chuckled warmly

DANCE OF THE DEAD        309

and gave her cheek a quick lick. Larissa got to her feet,
took a deep breath, and began to dancer

Her movements took her down the deck, all the way
to the stern. At the paddlewheel, she paused. For the
last time, she gazed at Willen, still sitting stiffly on the
bobbing raft.

"You were never made for this, my love," she said
softly. "You were a creature of light. Binding you to
earthly matter was wrong, and this kind of existence is
monstrous." She raised her arms, closed her eyes, and
thought of fire. "Be of light once again."

Willen's body exploded into a blazing fireball.
Flowswift, true to her word, continued to pull the yawl
on a straight path, and Larissa knew the nereid would
continue to do so until the flesh had been consumed.
The young captain of Riuer Dancer watched sparks
swirling and vanishing into the air, hoping against hope
that she would see a more beautiful spark than the rest
leap freely into the sky ... but she did not.

There had been enough of death. Mow, it was time to
mend, to heal. Larissa again began to dance. To her
contrition, she felt the feu follets, still imprisoned on the
boat, and with a thought and a graceful movement set
them free. As one, they flew to the burning pyre, dip-
ping and swirling about their lost comrade. She watch-
ed them, drinking in their beauty, and then realized with
a lurch in her heart that they were "speaking" Willen's
name. Brilliant colors radiated from them as they bade
their own farewells.

"Forgive me," she whispered, though she knew they
already had. "1 loved him, too."

Then. to prevent another onslaught of tears, she con-
centrated on the wood beneath her bare feet. She root-
ed and spread her consciousness carefully through the
boat, making note of Riuer Dancer's "wounds." Her feet
began to move, and she focused her thought on the ar-
eas that needed repair.

310          CHRISTIE GOLDEN

Those who had come to watch her farewell to Wilier
looked around, shocked, as the boat began to mend it
self. Shards of brightly painted paddlewheel spoke!
moved, met and merged, completely whole, if in neec
of another coat of red paint. The splinters that had once
been the magnificent griffin figurehead rolled togethel
and repaired themselves. Then the great creature flew
to its former perch and froze in place.

The metal of the boat—damaged door hinges, ben1
railings, and the like—would need a smith's touch
Larissa's fruit and flower magic could only mend thing;

that had once been alive. Still, the boat was now as se
cure as it could be, ready to venture once again into the
mists and whatever terrors or new adventures they hie
from view.

Those infamous, perilous mists loomed just ahead
but Larissa, for this instant, did not care. She had tern
porarily found a place of solace, and was lost in bitter
sweet joy, dancing to keep her heart from breaking.

Sardan, enraptured, leaned against the railing anc
watched her. Jahedrin came up behind him.

"1 thought she was just a girl," the pilot said in a lov
tone.

"She is," Sardan replied, his heart filled with affec
tionate admiration. "She's a girl, and a dancer, and i
wizard, and a woman who's probably tougher than th<
rest of the crew combined. But you know what else sh<
is?"

When Jahedrin shook his head. Sardan glanced a
him. "She's our captain."