As Rolfe stared, a dark cloud billowed from the bottle with alarming speed. It was unnatural, to say the least. He dropped the decanter and stepped backward, staring in awe at the erupting cloud. What had hereleased?
How would he get it back inside forAdalbert?
The dark mist swirled into the shape of a tall woman with long dark hair. She was before him, yet she was not. Her features were clearly visible, but Rolfe could also see the trees through her form. His heart skipped in fear as she loomed high abovehim.
It stopped when she fixed her gaze uponhim.
Rolfe swallowed. This sight could not bereal.
The vision leaned closer as he struggled to make sense of what he saw. Obviously, this was some trickery, like that caused by certainmushrooms.
It was an illusion, if a very detailedone.
“You!” the shadow roared and pointed a finger athim.
Rolfe jumped at the volume of hervoice.
As far as he knew, visions from mushrooms weresilent.
But he was not the only one to have heard the vision’s cry. His palfrey, usually content to follow Mephistopheles, whinnied in fright and tugged vehemently at its reins. It snapped the leather from Rolfe’s astonished grip and bolted into thewoods.
Curse the skittish creature! His supplies were in the palfrey’s saddlebags! That fact recalled Rolfe to his senses. He called after the palfrey, but she did nothalt.
He turned angrily on the vision responsible for his woes. “You have frightened one of my steeds and now my supplies arelost!”
“Me?” she purred, and Rolfe shivered. The specter leaned closer suddenly and he was granted a view of wickedly sharpteeth.
Perhaps he should have worded his question morepolitely.
The scents of saffron, cinnamon, cloves, and ambergris flooded Rolfe’s nostrils as her dark cloud surrounded him. He struggled to explain the presence of smells that had no place in this northern forest andfailed.
Losing his palfrey might be the least of hisproblems.
“Confess to me your name, mortal,” shegrowled.
“Rolfe de Viandin.” He answered before he could question the wisdom of doing so. He was dismayed to find his voice no more than a shadow of its usual boldtone.
“So, it is Rolfe de Viandin who condemns me to leave my beloved palace in this place. Trust a mortal man to complicatematters!”
The specter spat. The ground melted with a hiss where the missile landed, just to Rolfe’s left. He watched in alarm as a cloud of steam rose from thespot.
He should have set that old cheese aside at midday, he reasoned wildly. Clearly, the cheese had been past its prime. He had suspected as much at the time but hunger had compelled him to avoid wastingit.
He would discard the rest ofit.
Rolfe eased a little farther away from this manifestation of a sourstomach.
Caution was the better part of valor, afterall.
Before he got far, the vision flung her arms wide with a bellow of astonishing volume. The cloud, still erupting from the bottle, boiled angrily beneathher.
“A curse upon you, Rolfe de Viandin!” she cried, pointing a finger directly at him. The fury of her gaze made him tremble in his boots, despite all he had faced in the past few years. “A mortal man is at the root of my woes and you shall pay the price of the faithlessness of yourkind!”
That did not sound promising, but Rolfe had little time to reflect upon herwords.
The dark cloud began to swirl like a tempest, picking up dirt and leaves, gathering them in a spinning column. Rolfe’s cloak whipped around him, its hem snapping across Mephistopheles’ side, and his hair blew across his brow, obscuring hisvision.
He snatched at the cloak, closed his eyes, and lifted his arm over his face to protect himself from the unexpected assault. He leaned his face against his destrier, who snorted indignantly and lowered his head. Rolfe was halfway certain that every scrap of clothing he wore would be ripped apart. He did not dare to consider how cheese could manage such afeat.
