Free Chance by Nancy Springer Page B

men would have put his head on a pike,” she said.
    â€œThat, too.”
    Laughter like the shouting of birds fluttered out of the foliage of the oak. A rustling like that of squirrels, and small woodland folk by the dozen stood on the spreading limbs, broad smiles stretching the tough skin of their faces. Halimeda gasped and clutched at her child, but Chance merely rubbed his nose in annoyance.
    â€œWhat do you want?” he demanded of the Denizens.
    Despite himself his glance shifted to the child. Having not seen her for a few days, he saw Iantha anew. The beauty of her—but how pale and thin she had become, the little girl so quiet in her mother’s arms.
    The Denizens trilled with laughter and did not answer his demand. Instead, they chanted at him. “Well, indeed, Chance! And you’ve become like us, as hard as trees, as fickle as mothflight; was it happenstance? Or mischance, Chance?”
    â€œWhat do you want ?” he asked them fiercely.
    â€œWhy, to honor you, Chance.” It was the russet-brown prince who spoke. “The lady and thee. Come to the dance. A revel for your bridal.”
    He gave a single snort of laughter. “A quaint revel you’ll have from me!”
    The prince of the Denizens beckoned. “Come.”
    There had been no time to talk with Halimeda concerning bridals. Nor was there now much choice. “It is best to do as they say,” Chance told her in a low voice, and she nodded, only her widened eyes showing her fear. He took the child from her, shielding the small head against his shoulder.
    Leaping and scampering atop the branches, the Denizens led them through the darkening forest. A new moon, rising, gave not quite enough light. Chance and the lady stumbled over logs, felt their way through thickets, fending off twigs that seemed to search for their eyes. Iantha slept in Chance’s arms. By the time they reached the meadow and the mushroom ring, Chance and Halimeda felt weary enough to sleep as well. They sank to seats on the tussocky grass. Chance laid Iantha down, wrapped his mantle around her.
    All that happened that night seemed like a dream.
    The music, humming and buzzing and piping amidst insect music and birdsong in the moonlit darkness. And the whirling and circling of hundreds of tiny dancers within the luminous ring, the mushrooms that glowed like small yellow moons amidst the grass. And wine served in acorn cups. And a heat in the blood.… Chance dreamed that he took Halimeda by the hand, led her within the moonglow circle, danced with her there, and she came with him willingly, and he danced with a nobleman’s skill. Later, he dreamed that he was lying with her there, her warm, womanly body close to his. And the passion, the sensations he had thought long gone, long dead and turned to dirt and worm on a distant battlefield, his once more. Dreaming … but such a blessed, vivid dream. Hands moving, and Halimeda’s mouth meeting his, and soft importunity of her breasts, and the welcoming, sweet, warm haven under her skirt. He entered it. Reverent, nearly weeping with joy, home coming, he entered it.
    With sunrise he awoke, blinked, gazed. Her face lay close to his, her hair in disarray, and her tender smile matched his own. His mantle covered both of them. Around them grew a ring of yellow mushrooms.
    â€œChance,” she whispered, “darling Chance, you rascal, will you never stop surprising me? There’s nothing amiss with your manhood.”
    â€œBut—Hali, I’ve not deceived you—” Hope growing in him like passion itself, but still he hardly dared to believe.…
    â€œI know.” She kissed him. “I felt it happen. The healing. Wirral magic.”
    Healed. He was whole, entire, a man again, as he had not been for many years. He hugged her wildly, shouted aloud in joy. From somewhere close at hand, someone laughed.
    Chance started to jump up, but something jerked him back.