The dancer stared at him. “You’re … you’re a feu follet?”
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 follet who wouldn’t leave you, when your father took you away,” he explained. “When the Maiden called for a volunteer to be turned into a human, I couldn’t agree fast enough. I 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 embraced 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 nothing unnatural, Larissa. Be kind to him, if you can be nothing else. Talk to him, before he returns to the showboat 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 pain 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, keeping 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. I understand.”
“No, it’s not all right. I 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 follet replied. “She tried to think of the perfect river boatman—young, strong, attractive 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, I don’t know, a few hundred years in the way you count time. We don’t measure time at all. Feu follets 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. I 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 I picked the first thing that came to me.” Seeing her incomprehension, he explained further. “It’s local slang. To be ‘willened’ is to be charmed by the will-o’-the-wisps or feu follets.”
“Do you have a real name?”
“Oh, yes. Everything has a name.”
“What is it?”
He was silent. “I 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 communicate 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 follets following him. “Watch, and they’ll tell you my name.”
The feu follets danced about a bit, then formed a circle and hovered in the air. Their light dimmed, then all 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 at 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 radiating from him. “I’ve never actually seen it with human 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 little 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 … I 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 humans 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.”
“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 seeing 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 follet’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 company of Dragoneyes. The dead pilot sat in the chair opposite him, staring wordlessly, as words gushed out of the captain like blood from a wound.
“It was going so well,” 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, renown, influence. And I had my wonderful collection. And Larissa, sweet, sweet child … Then I took my beautiful Demoiselle into this cesspit of a swamp.” Dumont stopped struggling to control his alchohol-induced palsy. “And I’ve lost my crew. And I’ve lost Larissa. What in the world am I going to do when I finally get out of here? Huh? Say something, you mute bastard!”
Dragoneyes merely sat and stared. Dumont cursed, 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 like you promised. I have the information you seek.”
SEVENTEEN
Willen propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at Larissa as she slept by his side. Her hair, tousled by their lovemaking, was spread out beneath her head like a wild halo. Her breathing was deep and regular, her lips slightly parted.
Gently, 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 Demoiselle.
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 aboard La Demoiselle. The smile faded when he encountered the staring, slitted gaze of Dragoneyes as he tied up the yawl.
“The master wishes to see you,” the half-elf said dully.
Willen went cold inside. “The captain? Why, Dragoneyes? I 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 railing. Dragoneyes grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him back down to the deck. His expression never changing, Dragoneyes threw back his head and emitted a horrible wail that caused Willen to wince. Four more zombies appeared, moving swiftly and with emotionless 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 inscribed on them. The bottles came in an astonishing variety 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 carelessly, a black shape completely at ease here in his own 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 another 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 follet 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 judgment, 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.
“I trusted you, Will,” he said in a voice that was low and menacing. “When Lond wanted you followed, I hoped you’d prove my faith in you justified. Larissa liked you. So did Dragoneyes. I even liked you, you little bastard. You didn’t have an enemy aboard this boat. Smart, skillful—everything a captain would wish for.”
He shook his head slowly, and Willen, with a curious stab of remorse, saw that the pain in his eyes was genuine.
“Damn you to the bottom of the Sea of Sorrows, Will. 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 Willen didn’t understand. Then, dawning comprehension spread across his features.
“You gave me away, didn’t you?” he asked, pain filling him at the betrayal.
The owl maid’s eyes were shifty, as if she were still wary.
“I trusted you, Yelusa,” said Willen. 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 follet,” she spat defensively. “I’d spy on anyone, do anything, to fly freely again.”
Willen 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. “I burned 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 Dumont would have been comical if the gesture hadn’t been so desperately futile.
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. Willen saw that the zombie’s hand also covered the girl’s nose, and her gaze turned from furious to fearful as she realized she couldn’t breathe. She kicked and clawed with renewed energy, her eyes rolling crazily.
“She’s suffocating!” Willen shrieked. “Dumont, she—”
Dumont 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 Willen winced in sympathetic pain.
“Leave her here,” Lond said. “I’ve never made a zombie 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 prisoner. “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 movement with his free hand, and Willen stumbled as though an invisible rope had tripped him. Dragoneyes hauled 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. Frantically the feu follet coughed, trying to clear his lungs, and tears filled his eyes as the powder stung them. The grayish 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 intense 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.
Dance of the Dead Page 20
