Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [86]
“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 very 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