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 staggered with the weight of the information. Sardan appeared 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, almost more stunned by the gesture than its consequences.
“What the—?”
Sardan’s question was never completed. Willen landed 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.
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 incapable 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 follet 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 feel 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 all the lost opportunities, 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 forever 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 outward. Fear brushed her, a hint of what she had experienced at Maison de la Détresse. 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 perspire 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 commanded 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 like 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 began to boil. Larissa gasped and got to her feet, staring down at the dark river. Shapes began to break the surface, and as she realized what they were, she began to laugh hysterically.
Some of them were little better than skeletons. Others 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 animals, whose sole purpose was to destroy Larissa’s enemies 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 zombies rose to their feet and, dripping water and ichor, turned on their frozen brethren.
A battle between dead men is a horrific thing to witness. 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 zombie 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 monstrous 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, I 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 not cringe away. Bending close, it flicked a rotting tongue as thick as her body. “All, that is, except one, I 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 prevented Lond from escaping. I have learned your dance and done you honor as a teacher. I 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 spirits, 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 dangers connected with the Dance of the Dead.
“I thought she meant me,” Larissa whispered. “I thought she meant it would just hurt me.… ” White hot fury flooded her. She seized the riding crop and hurled 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 i
t. “Ah, pretty dancer, why should I have bothered? You would have 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 fingers were too much, and he winced. “What happened to you? Are you hurt?”
Sardan couldn’t meet her eyes. “Will did that to me. Knocked me out so I—well, so that I couldn’t accidentally 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 understudy 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 fleetingly.
It was Jahedrin who first voiced the question everyone wanted to ask.
“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 interruptions, 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 River Dancer will be hired on fairly.”
Gelaar smiled, his arm around his daughter. “Aradnia and I 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 Richemulot?” 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 acknowledgment. “Until that day, Mademoiselle, I am yours to command.”
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 seldom 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 River Dancer.
A few hours later, Larissa got up the courage to attend to her most sorrowful task. First, she went to Dumont’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. I 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 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 Willen would have wanted.
The thing that animated Willen’s body—she found it easier to think of it that way—stood before her impassively. “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 handsome 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 unnoticed.
“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?”
“Oui. I gave him a last gift when we said our goodbyes. 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 ça. 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 thunderstorm, 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 and gave her cheek a quick lick. Larissa got to her feet, took a deep breath, and began to dance.
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 River 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. Now, 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, dipping and swirling about their lost comrade. She watched 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. “I loved him, too.”
Then, to prevent another onslaught of tears, she concentrated on the wood beneath her bare feet. She rooted and spread her consciousness carefully through the boat, making note of River Dancer’s “wounds.” Her feet began to move, and she focused her thought on the areas that needed repair.
Dance of the Dead Page 29
