“Well, maybe just a little farther,” he said.
The three continued on along the road; Mina walking close to Nightshade and Nightshade shuffling along in the dark, with Atta growling at every other step.
“I see a light!” said Mina, stopping suddenly.
“No, you don’t,” Nightshade said crossly. “You couldn’t. What would a light be doing out here in a dark old forest?”
“But I do see a light,” Mina insisted.
And then Nightshade saw it, too-a light shining amongst the trees. The light shone from a window and a window meant a house and a house with a light in the window meant someone living here in the woods in a house with a light in the window. What’s more, he smelled the most wonderful smell-the tantalizing scent of bread or cake or pie hot out of the oven.
“Let’s go!” said Mina excitedly.
“Wait a moment,” said Nightshade. “When I was a little kender, my mother told a story about a horrible old witch who lured the children into her house and stuffed them into her oven and baked them into gingerbread.”
Mina made a gasping sound and clutched his hand so tightly he lost all feeling in his fingers. Nightshade sniffed the air again. Whatever was being cooked smelled really, really good, not at all like baked children. And spending the night in a soft bed would be far preferable to sleeping in a hollow log, providing he could find one.
“Let’s go see,” he said.
“Go see a horrible old witch?” Mina quavered, hanging back.
“I’m pretty sure I was wrong about that,” Nightshade replied. “It wasn’t a witch. It was a beautiful lady and she baked gingerbread/or the children, not the other way around.”
“Are you sure?” Mina wasn’t convinced.
“Positive,” said Nightshade.
The odd thing was, however, that he could have sworn the moment he mentioned it that he did smell gingerbread.
Mina made no further argument. Keeping tight hold of his hand, they walked up to the house. Nightshade ordered Atta to stay by his side, since he was forced to admit privately that they were far more likely to find horrible witches living in dark and gloomy forests than beautiful ladies. Atta had quit growling, and Nightshade took that for a good sign.
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.