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  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF NANCY SPRINGER

  “Wonderful.” —Fantasy & Science Fiction

  “The finest fantasy writer of this or any decade.” —Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Ms. Springer’s work is outstanding in the field.” —Andre Norton

  “Nancy Springer writes like a dream.” —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  “Nancy Springer’s kind of writing is the kind that makes you want to run out, grab people on the street, and tell them to go find her books immediately and read them, all of them.” —Arkansas News

  “[Nancy Springer is] someone special in the fantasy field.” —Anne McCaffrey

  Larque on the Wing

  Winner of the James Tiptree, Jr. Award

  “Satisfying and illuminating … uproariously funny … an off-the-wall contemporary fantasy that refuses to fit any of the normal boxes.” —Asimov’s Science Fiction

  “Irresistible … charming, eccentric … a winning, precisely rendered foray into magic realism.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Best known for her traditional fantasy novels, Springer here offers an offbeat contemporary tale that owes much to magical realism.… An engrossing novel about gender and self-formation that should appeal to readers both in and outside the SF/fantasy audience.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Springer’s best book yet … A beautiful/rough/raunchy dose of magic.” —Locus

  Fair Peril

  “Rollicking, outrageous … eccentric, charming … Springer has created a hilarious blend of feminism and fantasy in this heartfelt story of the power of a mother’s love.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Witty, whimsical, and enormously appealing.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “A delightful romp of a book … an exuberant and funny feminist fairy tale.” —Lambda Book Report

  “Moving, eloquent … often hilarious, but … beneath the laughter, Springer has utterly serious insights into life, and her own art … Fair Peril is modern/timeless storytelling at its best, both enchanting and very down-to-earth. Once again, brava!” —Locus

  Chains of Gold

  “Fantasy as its finest.” —Romantic Times

  “[Springer’s] fantastic images are telling, sharp and impressive; her poetic imagination unparalleled.” —Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Nancy Springer is a writer possessed of a uniquely individual vision. The story in Chains of Gold is borrowed from no one. It has a small, neat scope rare in a book of this genre, and it is a little jewel.” —Mansfield News Journal

  “Springer writes with depth and subtlety; her characters have failings as well as strengths, and the topography is as vivid as the lands of dreams and nightmares. Cerilla is a worthy heroine, her story richly mythic.” —Publishers Weekly

  The Hex Witch of Seldom

  “Springer has turned her considerable talents to contemporary fantasy with a large degree of success.” —Booklist

  “Nimble and quite charming … with lots of appeal.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “I’m not usually a witchcraft and fantasy fan, but I met the author at a convention and started her book to see how she writes. Next thing I knew, it was morning.” —Jerry Pournelle, coauthor of Footfall

  Apocalypse

  “This offbeat fantasy’s mixture of liberating eccentricity and small-town prejudice makes for some lively passages.”—Publishers Weekly

  Plumage

  “With a touch of Alice Hoffmanesque magic, a colorfully painted avian world and a winning heroine, this is pure fun.”—Publishers Weekly

  “A writer’s writer, an extraordinarily gifted craftsman.”—Jennifer Roberson

  Godbond

  “A cast of well-drawn characters, a solidly realized imaginary world, and graceful writing.” —Booklist

  Chance

  and Other Gestures of the Hand of Fate

  Nancy Springer

  CONTENTS

  CHANCE

  PART I—CHANCE

  PART II—THE GOLDEN FACE OF FATE

  OTHER GESTURES OF THE HAND OF FATE

  THE WOLF GIRL SPEAKS (poem)

  THE BOY WHO PLAITED MANES

  THE BARD

  BRIGHT-EYED BLACK PONY

  COME IN (poem)

  THE PRINCE OUT OF THE PAST

  AMENDS—A TALE OF THE SUN KINGS

  THE DOG-KING OF VAIRE

  WE BUILD A SHRINE (poem)

  PRIMAL CRY

  About the Author

  CHANCE

  Chance walked softly through Wirral, silent in doeskin boots, more stealthy than seemed possible in a man of his broad-shouldered brawn and middling age. His duty as Lord’s Warden was to see what happened in the vast forest named Wirral, whether poaching or spying or, sometimes, murder, a corpse left in the boskage. Sometimes he glimpsed things stranger yet: the small faces that were gone in an eyeblink, vanishing into the hollow of an oak. Denizens. Them he did not report, for Roddarc son of Riol, Lord of Wirralmark, gave no credence to the hidden folk who were even holier than the Wirral and never spoken of by name. Chance did not like to believe in them either, for the tales related of them were fearsome. Squirrels, he told himself. Squirrels rustling the branches of the oak.

  The beast with two backs was commonplace within the fringes of the forest, especially in the springtime. It, also, he did not report, nor did it much trouble him. If squires and servant girls needed a private place to enjoy their sport, he would not begrudge it to them, though another with his secret might have. But he was long-suffering, Chance. He would turn his face away and leave the place as silently as he had come.

  Only, this time, he could not help seeing that it was she whose name he never heard without a leap of his heart.

  Halimeda. He remembered the day she was born. Her lady mother, dying after the birthing, had chosen the name. Halimeda, “dreaming of the sea.” Chance had never seen the sea, but even at the age of ten he had known what it was to dream. A lovely name, and the girl had grown to suit it, tall as befit a lord’s daughter, her eyes gray-green, her mien quiet, her look often focused somewhere beyond a stormy horizon.

  Halimeda on a bed of violets and spring-green moss. She did not moan and squeal like the servant girls, so he had come quite close without knowing. And she was naked, and so lovely, slender as befit a lady of the blood, fallow-fawn skin and dark, dark hair. So young, so bold. She lay silent and rapt, her eyes lidded, the dark lashes trembling. Head next to hers—that handsome young buck of a commoner, Blake. “Love,” he whispered to her, and her lips moved against his neck.

  Chance moved away for a few silent paces, then recklessly abandoned silence. He ran, crashing through bracken like a stag. When he finished running, he leaned against a birch and retched.

  Halimeda would never be his; he had always known that. For more reasons than could be counted. But his feelings were not amenable to such reasons.

  That evening Lord Roddarc came to see him in his small lodge that stood outside the forest walls and beyond the tilled ground, under the shadow of Wirral.

  Chance heard the rapping, hurried over and flung open the door at once, for he knew that signal well. His lord strode in, but no retainers stood at guard.

  “You should not come here alone,” Chance scolded. “Have me summoned if you wish to speak with me.”

  “Bah!” The lord crossed the room in three paces, sat down on a bench by the hearthfire. A tall man, finer of feature than his warden, not as rugged of build but perhaps just as strong. His hair and short beard shone red-gold in the firelight. His high black boots shone even brighter with hours of some servant’s polishing. />
  “Rod, would you think with your mind instead of your hind end! Out alone in the dusk, fit game for assassins—”

  If the lord’s retainers had been present, Chance would not have bespoken him so bluntly, nor would he have called him by name. But as they were alone, he let go of ceremony. He and Roddarc had been reared nearly as brothers. As young warriors they had fought the blue-painted barbarians side by side in the front line. Roddarc had been with Chance when he had taken his worst wound—it could as featly have happened to the lord himself. Roddarc had shielded his comrade while they fought out the rest of the battle, and when Chance had weakened and fallen at last the young lord had borne him away to the tents and cared for him. Ten years and more it had been since that time, but Chance was not likely to forget. And later, when Roddarc came into his holding, he made Chance his warden—Chance, the commoner with the sorrow-child’s name, orphan and bastard, unclaimed by any family. Roddarc had made him a man of authority in Wirralmark, and Chance would not forget that either.

  Therefore he scolded his lord and friend from the heart.

  “All the mutterings of the malcontents, the rumors, and you must come a-visiting when anyone could aim a bolt at you from a shadow!”

  The lord of Wirralmark sat grinning broadly, as if he wished for nothing more than to be railed at by his friend. Indeed, Chance could hardly have better rewarded him for coming alone.

  “At twilight! Alone, to the edge of Wirral! Of all the jackass—

  “I’ll go where I like,” the lord interrupted, still smiling, “and alone if I like.”

  “That’s what you said to my Lord Riol when you were seven years old, and he thrashed me until I bled.”

  For Chance, of an age with Roddarc, had been reared at his side as the whipping boy, the one who took punishment so that the noble buttocks need not be scarred. It was an honor, an opportunity for a child of low degree.

  Roddarc’s smile darkened into a scowl. “The old bully is gone, praise be,” he retorted, “and I am not a child any longer.”

  “You act like one!”

  But Chance’s ardor merely made Roddarc smile anew. Amused, he was. Chance raised clenched fists in despair and gave it up, slumping onto the other bench. He fed thornwood to the fire. The two men watched the leaping flames companionably.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary in Wirral,” Roddarc remarked after a while, for Chance would have told him if there were.

  “I have seen nothing, no.”

  Halimeda’s dalliance—should he reveal that? He felt a hot flush at the thought, and realized he would not. She was Roddarc’s younger sister, ten years younger, and the lord treated her much as a father might. He would be upset, angry with her, perhaps even furious enough to punish her in some way, though he was not a punishing lord. Chance did not care to gift her with wrath. Nor could Halimeda’s affairs have any connection with his lord’s difficulties. Or so he deemed.

  “Wirral is vast,” he added, “and I am but one man. What might be moving in the deeps of Wirral I cannot say.”

  “I know it.” Roddarc studied the flames, their hearts shadowed with blue and green, and when he spoke there was unhappiness in his voice that he would not have revealed to anyone else but Chance. “If only I knew who was behind this unrest.… Old friend, I have not been a bad lord, have I?”

  “Hardly! You are among the best; you know that.” Roddarc was for the most part just, and in many ways not unkind.

  “Then why …”

  “Because men are fools, that is why!” Chance spoke with vehemence. “They would prefer a lord who rules by the sword and torture, it would seem. For when a gentle lord rules, they can think of nothing but overthrowing him.”

  “Well.” The lord looked up, his jaw firmed. “If they should succeed, Chance—”

  “Say no such thing! They will not.”

  “It is devoutly to be hoped you are correct. But if they should succeed, I want a promise from you.”

  “Rod, you know you have it.”

  “Not so reckless, my friend. It is hard.” The lord was faintly smiling, his look wry. “It is this: that you should protect my sister. For if I am killed, this demesne by right goes to Halimeda, should she ever be able to claim it.”

  Chance took a deep breath and nodded. Roddarc was right; the task was hard. For likely he would see Halimeda wed to some lord powerful enough to champion her, and he could never make any claim on her except that of a loyal servant, for all of his heart’s clamoring.

  Chance prowled through the Wirrel the next day in a panic barely concealed. He had never known Roddarc to speak of his own mortality. And when he had walked his friend back to the fortress, parted from him at the gate, Roddarc had reached out for a moment and clasped his hand, the grip of a comrade facing battle.

  Plain battle was a matter ill enough, but this hidden one yet worse. He and Roddarc knew not even the names of their enemies. Who were the conspirators? Where might they be mustering? Six men had been missing from the fortress guard that morning, deserters.… If there were rebels gathering in Wirral, they ought to be somewhere in the skirts of it near the Mark. But Chance had stalked all those ways, every moment expecting attack, and found nothing.

  A movement—he froze, crouching, bow raised and arrow nocked. But it was nothing. A flicker of brown, a shadowy face peering for a moment from the hollow of a lightning-torn oak, then gone before he could draw breath.

  Chance straightened and aimed his arrow at the ground. A daring thought had taken hold of him, and he seized the moment.

  “Little one there in the tree,” he said softly, “come out, please, and speak with me.”

  There was a scrabbling sound as of a squirrel inside the trunk, and then the face appeared again, eyes bright. Quite by accident Chance had hit upon a lure well-nigh irresistible to the Denizens of the forest—the lure of words at coupled sport, of rhyme.

  Chance stood still, not utterly afraid but very wary. In a moment the small man of a nameless race stepped boldly out of his refuge and stood on a branch at the level of Chance’s eyes, entirely revealed.

  Chance knew that he had been reckless beyond belief.

  The creature was far less human than he had thought. Twig-thin limbs and a torso very narrow, covered with skin like the bark of a young cherry tree, by the looks of him as hard and tough as an ash switch. No clothing. Chance had to force his eyes away from brown genitals that lumped grotesquely large in proportion to the skinny body, scarcely a foot tall. He had heard that the nameless woodfolk were lustful; now he believed it. No wonder Wirral grew so thick.… The small man’s hands and feet also seemed overlarge, and his nose. Even so, Chance perceived his face as eerily beautiful. A narrow face, fine of jutting bone, subtle of mouth, taut of russet skin, with eyes so large and bright they seemed almost luminous.

  “Chance Love-Child,” said the oak-dweller in a strong, dark voice, “what do you want?”

  Chance could not speak. The Denizen laughed, a sound like the song of a wren, and strutted on the branch where he stood, his massy cock thrust forward.

  “Nearly ten years you have trod this way,” he cried, “and never showed lack of sense till today. What ails you, Chance?”

  From trees all around came the sound of bubbling laughter. Chance felt his small hairs prickle.

  “Is it the maiden who is maiden no more?” the Denizen mocked. “The lady Halimeda who is maiden no more? She lay with Blake in the violet glade, no more a maid, and when Chance saw—”

  Anger such as he had not felt in years rushed over him, jarred him out of his frozen fear. He raised his bow. But that scion of Otherness faced him, bright-eyed, fearless and laughing, and he could not take aim. He lowered his bolt again. A saddened ease stole over him, the calm of utter defeat, and he found that he could speak.

  “It is for my lord Roddarc’s sake that I make bold,” he said.

  Birdlike chirps of delight rose all around; a subtle rhyme! The brown woodsman strutted again.

/>   “Why?” he demanded. “He has said, the lady is yours, should he die.”

  Chance nearly lost his voice again. If they had heard Roddarc’s bidding, then even in his lodge one of them had been listening. “You go everywhere,” he whispered. “You see everything.”

  “It is our nature so to go, so to see. What do you want to know?”

  “Where the rebels muster,” Chance said with a dry mouth. “Who is their leader. When they will strike.”

  The Denizen stopped his posturing and stood still in what might have been genuine perplexity.

  “Surely you know,” Chance urged.

  “I know full well. But why would I tell?”

  Chance stood with his mouth agape. “Why not?” he burst out at last, and the small woodsman warbled with laughter.

  “Why not?” The little man turned to the listening forest. “What say ye? Should I tell?”

  There arose a piping clamor. A few strong voices shrilled above the others. “Tell! Tell!” cried one. “We love to meddle!” one sang out gaily. “And we meddle full well!” called another.

  But before the visible Denizen could speak, another appeared, from where Chance did not see, and stood on the branch beside the first. He was gray, like beech, and mossily bearded, and as massy of cock as his russet comrade, for all that he seemed older.

  “Chance,” he said in a taut voice, “ten years you have averted your eyes. Now you grow unwise. Think again.”

  “There will be a price to pay,” said the brown one, singsong, “a price to pay, some day, some way.”

  Their gaze met his as if from out of depths of another time, another order of being, and he knew that he was facing a power he could in no way control, relentless as fate, capricious as the turning of fortune’s wheel. Perhaps as cruel as old Lord Riol, and not likely to go away, like Riol, and die. The Denizens would live forever in the forest, and what they might do to him.…