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  Keep dancing.

  Larissa closed her eyes, unsure as to whether the voice was actually Misroi’s or if it simply existed inside her head. She quickly discovered it didn’t matter. She was helpless to disobey, and stranger still, she had no desire to. Together, zombie master and dancer whirled across the empty floor. To Larissa, it seemed as though her feet barely brushed the ground. She began to lose track of where she was, who she was dancing with, even her own identity, and yielded utterly to the sense of power building within her.

  It was then that Larissa realized just how cold she was. She still moved swiftly and surely within the iron circle of Misroi’s arms, but she could no longer sense her limbs. A slight wisp of fear penetrated her haze of power, and she opened her eyes.

  Larissa shrieked, almost stumbling. The hand clasped in Misroi’s merciless grip—her hand—was little more than gray, skin-covered bone.

  She was turning into a zombie.

  Ravenloft is a netherworld of evil, a place of darkness that can be reached from any world—escape is a different matter entirely. The unlucky who stumble into the Dark Domain find themselves trapped in lands filled with vampires, werebeasts, zombies, and worse.

  Each novel in the series is a complete story in itself, revealing the chilling tales of the beleaguered heroes and powerful evil lords who populate the Dark domain.

  Vampire of the Mists

  Christie Golden

  Knight of the Black Rose

  James Lowder

  Dance of the Dead

  Christie Golden

  Heart of Midnight

  J. Robert King

  DANCE OF THE DEAD

  ©1992 TSR, Inc.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  RAVENLOFT, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, their respective logos, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Clyde Caldwell

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6199-3

  For customer service, contact:

  U.S., Canada, Asia Pacific, & Latin America: Wizards of the Coast LLC, P.O. Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, +1-800-324-6496, www.wizards.com/customerservice

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  Visit our websites at www.wizards.com

  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  This book is dedicated to my friend Karen Everson, who has always been there for me when I needed her most.

  There are many people I wish to thank. First, I extend heartfelt gratitude to Marc Bailey for all his efforts. Merci, mon ami.

  Thanks to my editor, Jim Lowder, for once again coaxing a better book out of me, and to TSR, for the ultimate compliment.

  Finally, I would like to thank the Delta Queen Steamboat Co. for their invaluable help. My La Demoiselle du Musarde would still be a shadow but for my experience aboard their Delta Queen.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  About the Author

  ONE

  “Liza’s brilliant tonight, isn’t she?” Sardan whispered to Larissa as he watched the star of the show perform.

  The white-haired young woman glanced up at Sardan with a happy smile and nodded enthusiastically.

  Liza Penelope, the star of The Pirate’s Pleasure, was alone on the stage of the showboat La Demoiselle du Musarde, in the midst of a set created by a mage skilled in illusion. Liza’s bare feet were dug into white sand, and swaying palm trees arched over her. There was even the distant lullaby of the waves to be heard, if one cared to ignore Liza’s soaring voice. Such attention to detail—and Liza’s vocal skill—had made La Demoiselle extremely popular with the port cities it visited.

  The beautiful soprano flung back her head and sang with full-throated enthusiasm. Her red hair flamed in the glow of an illusionary tropical sun. To Larissa, every note seemed to be even more pure, more powerful than usual.

  The young dancer and Sardan, the male lead, were watching Liza from behind the curtains. Larissa’s part in the play was finished, but she lingered to listen to this last duet. Handsome Sardan adjusted his costume, brushed distractedly at his blond hair one last time, then strode onstage, arms outstretched to Liza.

  “Nay, fear not, beloved Rose,

  Thy love’s returned to thee,

  By forgiving hand and broken heart

  Of the Lady of the Sea.”

  “Rose” turned, joy flooding her face as she ran to her beloved “Florian.” Their voices, soprano and tenor, twined together.

  They kissed passionately, and the audience whooped and applauded its approval. Larissa grinned in the darkness, safely hidden from view by a curtain that appeared to be a palm tree. Here was acting indeed, she thought wryly. She herself was fond of the rakish tenor, but it was well-known that Liza couldn’t stand Sardan. As a result, Sardan made it a point to turn every onstage kiss into a passionate one, taking a devilish glee in the fact that Liza had to pretend to enjoy it. High-tempered Liza was always furious afterward.

  The stage went dark, and the audience saw the tropical stars appear in the night sky. Then, suddenly, the illusion vanished, and all that could be seen was a bare hull and the smiling performers of The Pirate’s Pleasure. As Larissa, who portrayed the evil Lady of the Sea, took her bow, her bright blue eyes scanned the audience. She found who she was looking for—Raoul Dumont, captain of La Demoiselle du Musarde. He smiled and nodded slightly.

  Raoul Dumont was a big man, six foot three and solid with muscle. If his blond hair was starting to gray at the temples and the lines on his sunburned face had deepened over the last forty-three years, he had lost none of his strength and quickness. Many captains grew fat and lazy once they no longer had to do physical labor, content with commanding in name only. Not Dumont.

  He was big in more than merely a physical sense. The well-formed frame and booming voice were matched by a domineering personality. With the players—especially his twenty-year-old ward, Larissa—and with customers, he was smooth and pleasant, and his forcefulness came across as assured competence. The crewmen knew better. Seldom did the captain of La Demoiselle du M
usarde have to resort to physical violence, however. The flash of his sea-green eyes, the tightening of his sensual mouth, the clenching of the powerful, callused hands—these were warning signals enough for most.

  “Uncle Raoul” had reared Larissa since she was twelve and had given her the role of the Lady of the Sea. The young dancer was always anxious to please him with her performance. Larissa was certain that the demanding captain was satisfied with the way things had gone tonight. Still, she tugged on Sardan’s sleeve as he passed and whispered, “You think he liked it?”

  The tenor looked down at her for a few seconds before replying. Larissa was a true beauty, even more so than Liza; unlike the singer, the young dancer didn’t quite realize her gift. Her blue eyes gazed up at him with trust, and her long white hair, braided with seashells, tumbled down her back. She was in excellent shape from years of dancing, and her body curved invitingly under the clinging garb of the Lady of the Sea. A smile tugged at a corner of Sardan’s mouth. “As long as you dance, the captain will like the show.”

  * * * * *

  A few hours later, Larissa sat at Dumont’s side, a guest of the local baron. The revealing costume she wore as the Lady of the Sea had been replaced by a chaste, high-necked dress. The cream hue of the yards of rustling fabric set off Larissa’s clear skin to rosy perfection and reinforced the whiteness of her long, thick hair. She had taken the stage name “Snowmane” because of her oddly hued tresses, which were now braided neatly about her head. A cameo was fastened at her throat.

  Their port for the next few months was a friendly one, Nevuchar Springs in the land of Darkon. Populated largely by elves, the small port town was as eager for entertainment as other places La Demoiselle had sailed and even more gracious in expressing their thanks. Baron Tahlyn Redtree himself had come to the performance tonight. The baron had insisted that the cast and Dumont join him for a late supper at his home.

  Larissa, raised on the roughness of the boat, sat fidgeting with her napkin while others carried the conversation. She desperately wished her friend Casilda were here; then she might not feel so out of place.

  The hall in which they were dining tonight managed to be both warm and impressive. The mahogany table, draped with the finest linen tablecloth, seated twenty. Carved wooden panels inserted into the marble walls depicted scenes from a nobleman’s life—hunting, hawking, and jousting. The fireplace was so huge that Larissa thought she could stand upright in it, and its red glow both illuminated and warmed the large room. Two delicate crystal chandeliers, crowded with candles, provided even more light. The result was that a largely somber-colored room was bright and cheerful.

  Baron Tahlyn rose. His long, purple- and sapphire-hued robes swayed slightly with the graceful movement. The light from the chandeliers glinted off his belt and a pendant of silver and crystal. With a gesture that was almost boyish despite his many decades, the elf brushed a wayward lock of black hair out of startlingly violet eyes. Tahlyn’s angular face eased into a smile as he lifted his jeweled goblet.

  “I should like to propose a toast,” the baron began. “To La Demoiselle, a great and gallant vessel. To her captain, Raoul Dumont, whose foresight gave birth to the boat’s magic and marvels. To my brother elf, Gelaar, whose illusions charm audiences night after night. To the showboat’s wonderful cast, which has brought such happiness to my people.

  “And finally, if she will permit me—” here Tahlyn turned the power of his deep purple gaze upon a pleased Liza “—to Miss Liza Penelope. My dear, in this bouquet of talent, you are, in truth, the rose.” He inclined his head slightly, never breaking eye contact with the soprano, and drank from the golden cup.

  Choruses of approval filled the room as the flattered guests drained their own goblets. Larissa hid her smile as she watched her fellow performers’ reactions to the toast. Sardan glowered, but drank. Dumont raised one golden eyebrow, but otherwise revealed nothing of what he was thinking. The elven illusionist, Gelaar, seemed flustered by the compliment.

  Larissa regarded the illusionist sympathetically for a moment. If La Demoiselle was Dumont’s creation, from the specially designed paddlewheel to the magical wards the wizard captain had placed on the boat, then the show she was host to belonged to Gelaar. The small elf was directly responsible for the success of The Pirate’s Pleasure. He conjured the sets, lighting effects, and “monsters” that appeared onstage.

  All this, despite the tragedy he had suffered a year ago. Gelaar’s daughter, a lovely, sunny-haired girl named Aradnia, had run off with a roguish sell-sword one night. Gelaar had never quite recovered. Now the dark-haired, pale-skinned elf seldom smiled, but his quiet dignity and thinly concealed sorrow engendered immediate, if somber, respect from all who came in contact with him.

  Liza, on the other hand, looked like a lioness in the sunlight, a queen at last being paid proper homage. Yet the flame-tressed soprano was gracious in her acceptance, smiling enough to encourage, but not more than was necessary. Larissa couldn’t wait to get back to La Demoiselle and tell Casilda all about it.

  A few moments later, Sardan, who was seated on Larissa’s left, leaned over and whispered, “We may have a new patron.”

  Larissa’s delicate white eyebrows drew together in a frown. “What do you mean?” she hissed back.

  “Look at those two,” the singer continued quietly, inclining his head in the direction of Liza and the baron. “A certain redhead I know is probably going to start wearing some expensive jewelry in the next day or so.”

  Larissa rolled her eyes. “Sardan, not everybody has ulterior motives! Besides, the baron seems very nice.”

  “My naive little girl, he is nice. That’s why he’ll probably give her the jewelry … afterward!”

  When Sardan teased her like this aboard the boat, Larissa knew what to do: hit him. Sardan himself had taught her some protective moves against overeager admirers, and Larissa had no compunction about turning them against her tutor. Here, in Baron Tahlyn’s fine hall, however, she could only give him a sidelong glare and clench her linen napkin into a crumpled ball.

  Dumont noticed the gesture. His shrewd green eyes traveled from the sadly mangled napkin to Larissa’s glare to Sardan’s grin. The tenor felt the captain’s gaze, and his mirth faded.

  “Something amuse you, Sardan?” Dumont inquired mildly, tearing off a slice of still-warm bread. “Something about my ward, perhaps?”

  “Uh, no, sir, nothing at all,” Sardan stammered and hastily turned his attention to the food on his plate.

  Dumont kept his gaze on the young man a moment longer, then glanced at Larissa. Gently Dumont rested a big brown hand on her gloved one and squeezed. When she met his gaze, he smiled reassuringly, the gesture emphasizing the crow’s-feet around his eyes.

  “Don’t let Sardan bother you like that,” he said, his voice gentle. “You ought to come to me when he does.”

  “He’s just joking, Uncle,” Larissa answered. Dumont narrowed his eyes, the smile fading.

  “That kind of humor is inappropriate for a young lady,” he snapped.

  “Aye, sir,” Larissa replied, taking care to keep the exasperation from her voice. Her guardian’s overprotectiveness occasionally grated, but she always held her tongue. Dumont returned his attention to the baron.

  Throughout the rest of the meal, Larissa watched the baron and Liza. Although they were seated at opposite ends of the large table, there was definitely something going on. Their eyes met often; mysterious smiles and gestures were shared. Larissa still clung to her first impression of Tahlyn, though. There was a longing in his violet eyes that spoke of something gentler, steadier, than the kind of carnal craving Sardan had hinted at.

  It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning that the dinner was finished and the guests returned to the boat. As she and Dumont waited in the courtyard for the carriages to be brought around from the stable, Larissa shivered in the moist, cool air. Fog moved slowly about her knees, hiding the stones from view at times. She had se
ldom been off the boat at night and wasn’t at all sure she liked it. Everything, from the quiet servants to the magnificent building, seemed more sinister to her when draped in darkness.

  Dumont wrapped his cape about her. “Thank you, Uncle.” She smiled as she gratefully bundled up in its warmth. The carriage, a lovely vehicle with a red-cushioned interior, clattered up. Dumont opened the door, which bore the heraldic red tree of Tahlyn’s line, helped Larissa in, then climbed inside himself. Smoothly, the carriage resumed movement down the winding lane that led from Tahlyn’s mansion to the wharf.

  “The baron seemed to be enjoying himself,” Larissa remarked cautiously, waiting for Dumont’s reaction.

  “Ah, the lovely Liza,” mused the captain, with only a hint of sarcasm. “She and I may not always see eye to eye, but, bless her high-strung little heart, she does bring in the customers.”

  He settled back on the velvet cushions, folded his brawny arms across his chest, and closed his eyes. A faint rumbling sound issued forth after a moment, and Larissa sighed. When Dumont didn’t feel like talking, he curled up wherever he was and went to sleep. It was an effective way of avoiding conversation.

  The young dancer surprised herself with a huge yawn. Well, they were in port, so there were no rehearsals. She could sleep in tomorrow, she told herself. Telling Casilda about the evening’s affairs could wait.

  A few moments later, the carriage halted near the dock. Bracing herself for the cold, Larissa smiled at the coachman as he opened the door and helped her down. She glanced down toward the Vuchar River, and her heart rose as always at the sight of La Demoiselle.

  The steamboat was a proud and beautiful lady, all right, from the mammoth red paddlewheel at the stern to the carved wooden figure of a golden griffin at the bow. Its wedding-cake frame had four levels, and the stern sported a calliope that blew magical, colored steam when it was played. La Demoiselle was large—two hundred feet long and fifty feet wide—but not ostentatious. It glowed whitely in the moonlight, and Larissa could just make out the name written in flowing letters on the starboard side. The paddlewheel was motionless, though it could propel the boat at speeds that no other riverboat could touch.