As they drew closer to the light, Nightshade grew more and more hopeful. He could see the light came from a snug little cabin of maybe two or three rooms. A candle stood in the window, gleaming through white curtains and lighting their way along a neat flagstone path lined with flowers whose petals drooped drowsily and filled the air with sweet perfume.
All this boded well, but Nightshade was a cautious kender, and he had a spell prepared for use, just in case.
“If this turns out to be a horrible witch,” he whispered to Mina, “I’ll yell ‘run’ and you run. Don’t worry about me. I’ll catch up with you.”
She nodded nervously. He had to pry her hand loose, because he was going to need one of his hands to knock at the door and the other hand to cast his spell in case a witch answered.
“Atta, you be ready,” he warned the dog.
Reaching the door, Nightshade gave it a brisk rap.
“Hullo!” he called out. “Is anyone home?”
The door opened and light poured out. A woman stood in the doorway. Nightshade couldn’t see her very well, for bright light dazzled his eyes. She was dressed all in white, and he had the impression she was kind and gentle and loving and yet strong and powerful and commanding. He didn’t know how anyone could be all these things at once, but he felt it was so, and he was a little fearful.
“How do you do, madam,” he said. “My name is Nightshade and I’m a kender Nightstalker and I know some very powerful spells, and this is Mina and this is Atta, a biting variety of dog. Her teeth are quite sharp.”
“How do you do, Mina and Nightshade and Atta,” the woman said, and she held out her hand to the dog. Atta sniffed at her and then, to Nightshade’s immense astonishment, the dog stood up on her hind legs and put her paws on the woman’s chest.
“Atta! Don’t do that!” Nightshade commanded, shocked. “I’m sorry, ma’am. She’s not supposed to jump on people.”
“She’s all right,” said the woman, and she smoothed the fur on Atta’s head with a gentle hand and smiled at Nightshade. “You and your little friend look tired and hungry. Won’t you come in?”
Nightshade hesitated, and Mina wasn’t budging.
“You’re not going to shove us in your oven, are you?” she asked warily.
The woman laughed. She had wonderful laughter, the sort that made Nightshade feel good all over.
“Someone has been telling you fairy tales,” the woman said, with an amused glance at the kender. She held out her hand to Mina. “By a strange chance, however, I have baked some gingerbread. If you come in, you can share it with me.”
Nightshade thought this a wry strange chance, maybe a sinister strange chance. Atta had already accepted the invitation, however. The dog trotted into the house and, finding a place near the fire, she curled up, wrapped her tail around her feet, buried her nose in her tail, and settled herself comfortably. Mina took hold of the woman’s hand and allowed herself to be led inside, leaving Nightshade by himself on the stoop with the tantalizing aroma of fresh-baked gingerbread pummeling his stomach.
“We can only stay a little while,” he said, inching his way across the threshold. “Just until our friend, Rhys Mason, finds us. He’s a monk of Majere and quite handy with his feet.”
The woman cut a piece of gingerbread, placed it in a bowl and handed it to Mina, along with a spoon. The woman poured sweet cream over the gingerbread. She cut another large piece and held it out to the kender.
Nightshade gave in.
“This is remarkably good, ma’am,” he mumbled, his mouth full. “It may be the best gingerbread I’ve ever eaten. I could tell for certain if I had another piece.”
The woman cut him another slice.
“Definitely the best,” said Nightshade, wiping his mouth with his napkin and accidentally stuffing the napkin and the spoon in his pocket.
Mina had fallen asleep with her gingerbread half-eaten. She lay with her head pillowed on her arms on the table. The woman gazed down at her, smoothing the auburn hair with a gentle hand. Nightshade was feeling sleepy himself. One of the first rules of traveling was that you didn’t fall asleep in a strange house in the middle of a dark forest, no matter how good the gingerbread. His eyes kept trying to close, and so he propped the eyelids open with his fingers and began to talk, hoping the sound of his own voice would help keep him awake.
“Do you live here by yourself, ma’am?” he asked.
“I do,” she replied. She walked over to a rocking chair that stood near the fire and sat down.
“Isn’t it kind of scary?” Nightshade asked. “Living in the middle of a dark forest? Why do you do it?”
“I give shelter to those who are lost in the night,” said the woman. She reached down to pet Atta, who lay beside the chair. Atta licked her hand and rested her nose on the woman’s foot.
“Do many people find their way here?” Nightshade asked.
“Many do,” the woman said, “though I wish more would find me.”
She began to rock back and forth in her chair, humming a soft song.
Nightshade felt warm and safe and peaceful. He couldn’t hold up his head any longer, and he lay it down on the table. His eyelids seemed determined to close no matter what. He realized that he didn’t know the woman’s name, but that didn’t seem important now. Not important enough to wake out of his warm comfort to ask her.
He was dimly aware of the woman standing up from the chair and walking over to Mina. He was dimly aware of the woman gathering the slumbering child up in her arms and holding her close and kissing her.
As sleep stole over Nightshade, he thought he heard the woman whisper lovingly, “Mina… My child… My own…”
2
Rhys walked the highway leading north out of Solace, confident he was on the trail of his friends. Not only had the matron seen the kender and the child and the dog, he’d met others along the route who had also seen them. The three were together and well and they were traveling north.
He was cheered to learn that although the three had been on the road several hours before he had started in pursuit, they were not far ahead of him. He had been afraid that Mina might take it into her head to walk to Godshome at a god’s pace, but apparently she and the kender and the dog were ambling along, moving slowly. He half-expected to find them sitting somewhere alongside the road, footsore and tired of arguing.
Time passed, and he did not run into them. He began to wonder if they were still ahead of him. He had no way to know for sure. He no longer ran into many travelers. Night was coming on and he’d seen no sign of them. Thinking he might have to search for them after dark, he had borrowed a lantern from Laura, and now he lit the candle inside and flashed it about as he went along. He knew from past experience with lost sheep that searching done by night was tedious and difficult and often fruitless. He might walk right past them in the dark and never know.
The search would have been easier if he’d had Atta with him. Without his dog, he wondered if it wouldn’t be safest to stop and wait to resume his search in the morning. Then he thought of the three of them alone and benighted in the wilderness, and he pressed on.
He came to the place where the road split. The stacked-up rocks were clearly visible in the lantern light, and Rhys breathed easier. He could reasonably assume that they had been left by the kender to indicate the direction they were traveling, an assumption born out by the fact that Rhys saw Atta’s paw prints at one point and a smallish boot print at another.
He took the road east and entered the forest and soon came to the house, although he did not immediately know it was a house. He was walking slowly, keeping watch on the road, looking for signs of the missing. Every so often he would pause and during one of these times he saw the tiny pinprick of light, shining in the night like a steadfast star.