A CRUEL LORD.
A TRAGIC LOVE.
AN INESCAPABLE CURSE.
He hadn’t played for centuries; he had been unable to bring himself to try. Yet here, in the holy, radiant chapel, with Anna watching him eagerly, Jander found the courage to raise the flute to his lips. He took a breath, pursed his lips, and blew.
A discordant shriek issued forth, the sound of something in terrible, wracking pain. The flute twisted in his numb hands, turning into a foul black worm that writhed and hissed. Horrified, he dropped it, and it slid away from him. The entire room was swathed in a malevolent darkness, much more evil than simple night. Things crouched in the shadows, and Jander, even with his infravision, could see only the red gleam of eyes. The elf groped for Anna, his hand closing on leathery flesh. A monstrous, contorted creature wearing Anna’s clothing laughed at him, and the stench from its gaping, dripping jaws caused him to gag.
From the USA Today best-selling author of On Fire’s Wings comes Vampire of the Mists, the story of a vampire struggling to release his beloved from the curse that forces her reincarnation time and time again into a world bent on her torment.
Ravenloft®
The Covenant
Death of a Darklord
Laurell K. Hamilton
Vampire of the Mists
Christie Golden
I, Strahd:
The Memoirs of a Vampire
P. N. Elrod
To Sleep with Evil:
Andria cardarelle
Ravenloft®
The Covenant
VAMPIRE OF THE MISTS
©1991 TSR, Inc.,
©2006 Wizards of the Coast LLC
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, TSR, Inc., D&D, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Cover art by: Jon Foster
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6186-3
640-51968000-001-EN
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v3.1_r1
This book is lovingly (and gratefully) dedicated to my parents, James R. Golden and Elizabeth C. Golden, who might not believe in elves or vampires, but who always believed in me.
Thanks also must go to Veleda and Robert, for always reading everything and usually liking most of it.
And, finally, thanks to TSR for letting a first-timer cast her own dark shadows on Ravenloft, and to my editor, Jim Lowder, for his patience, guidance, and support.
Contents
Cover
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Epilogue
He that can smile at death, as we know him; who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill off whole peoples. Oh, if such a one was to come from God, and not the Devil, what a force for good might he not be in this world of ours.
—Bram Stoker, Dracula
THE LAST RAYS OF THE DYING SUN FILTERED THROUGH the stained glass windows of the castle’s chapel and cast pools of fading color upon the stone floor. The only other light came from a small brazier that glowed on the altar. The Most High Priest of Barovia continued with his task until his old eyes could no longer see clearly. Finally, annoyed at the necessary interruption, he placed the amulet aside and lit enough candles so that he could continue.
The warm glow from the tapers illuminated the altar, but left most of the chapel shadowed. No longer a place for holy symbols and rites, the low wooden altar had been transformed into a workman’s bench and was cluttered with tools for delicate metal work: small hammers, tongs, a smooth-faced jeweler’s anvil, wax lumps for molds. The white-haired priest lit the last candle and hurried back to the amulet. It was a demanding master; its plaintive call for completion hammered at his brain.
The Most High Priest had been crafting the amulet for many weeks, working with a feverish intensity that had not let him rest as he neared the task’s completion. Yet he was not tired. Energy seemed to course through his veins even as it guided his clumsy, unschooled hands. The amulet was making itself. His gnarled fingers were but the tools.
Part of him felt guilty. He was neglecting his duties as a priest and a comforter to a frightened people. The intensity of the goblin attacks was increasing, but the Most High Priest sent his assistant to administer rites for the growing number of dead. The voice of the amulet reassured him that he had been assigned a greater task. He was forging more than a piece of jewelry, it told him. The amulet was to be a weapon the likes of which this sorry world had never seen. The enemy it was being crafted to fight was far worse than the goblins—an enemy who had yet to darken Barovia.
The Most High Priest paused, his hands trembling from the strain, and rubbed his bloodshot eyes before resuming the task. Following the instructions in his head, he had blended two old things to create the new one. The crystal was the gift of the earth. The platinum in which he had set the quartz was likewise ancient, although his fingers marked the precious metal with runes of love rather than violence. The pendant was shaped like a sunburst, and when the stone was placed in the center, it was as full of light and beauty as a miniature sun.
Carefully, the old priest carved the last rune. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and examined his handiwork. There was one more thing he had to do. He draped the platinum pendant around his neck, tucking it into his robes so that it would not be seen. He patted his pouch to reassure himself that the letter he had written several days before was still there, and smiled slightly. The uncanny energy yet filled him, and he hurried from the altar and down the long torchlit halls of the castle with th
e speed and sureness of one many years younger.
One of the lord’s servants heard him burst through the double doors of the chapel. Struggling to match the old man’s pace, the servant inquired, “What now, Your Blessedness?”
“A horse,” the Most High Priest snapped, not even bothering to glance at the man. Silently the younger man sprinted ahead to do the priest’s bidding. Before the master of the castle had left for war, he had told the servants that His Blessedness was to be obeyed in all things. Swift though the servant was, the priest paced nervously outside the castle’s beautifully carved doors for several minutes before a stable boy brought him his steed. The Most High Priest practically leaped into the saddle before he yanked his mount’s head sharply around and clattered out of the courtyard. He was going to the Circle to complete the divine errand.
The night grew misty as the priest and the horse galloped down the Old Svalich road. Flying chunks of mud spattered man and beast, but the traveler was oblivious. He urged the animal on to greater speed at the prompting of the amulet. Impatiently he abandoned the road and took to the Svalich Woods. He did not know a shortcut, but the amulet did. At last, he reached his destination—a circle of large stones just outside the limits of the village of Barovia.
He tried to dismount, retrieve the amulet, and run to the center of the circle all at the same time, but all he accomplished was entangling his feet in his flowing robes and falling heavily to the earth. This old body can’t give much more, he thought grimly as he rose. He sank down in the heart of the stone circle next to a large, flat rock, and laid the amulet down reverently.
The final blessing, he thought, and all is done.…
The young novice found the priest in the same spot late the next morning. The face of the Most High Priest was peaceful and curiously unlined in death. Gray lips curved in a faint, sweet smile. One hand held the sunburst pendant, the other, a note. The young man, his eyes full of tears, had to blink several times before he could read the last words the priest had written.
Here is the gods’ gift to a troubled land. Use it well and with reverence, but pass the secret only from priest to priest. The family of the ravens shall descend, and this is to be the holy symbol of their kind. Its power is kin to that of the sun, light, and warmth. It is a last hope to hold back the Shadow that shall fall upon this sad realm.
THE QUEEN’S PRIDE OUT OF EVERMEET ROCKED SERENELY in the inky water of Waterdeep harbor. A playful night breeze stirred the catamaran’s ropes, which slapped noisily against the boat in the relative quiet of the late hour. The wind increased, causing the standard to snap energetically, its heraldic image of a gold tree against a dark blue, star-filled sky billowing. In the distance, buoys chimed friendly warnings. The smell of fish and brine hung heavily in the cool, damp air.
From the safety of an alleyway, a lone figure gazed longingly at the catamaran. Selune’s light turned the gold elf’s skin and hair to a pearly white and his worn blue tunic to a gray similar to his cloak and breeches. Faded silver trim on the tunic still caught the milky radiance of the moon.
Jander Sunstar was tall for his race, nearly five foot nine, and slender. His features were clean and sharp, softened with remembered pain. Elven ears tapered into graceful points, almost—but not quite—lost in the flowing gold of his hair. The boots that made no sound on the water-swollen boards of the dock were of supple gray leather and reached to mid-thigh. A dagger, simple, and sheathed, adorned his left hip.
Jander’s silver eyes were filled with sorrow. How many decades had it been since he had seen a ship from his homeland? Glorious Evermeet, land of beauty and harmony. He would never see it again. Thin, long fingers closed tightly about the cape, pulling it closer to hide him from prying eyes.
The elf could bear no more. He turned away and moved quietly from the dock and into the heart of the city that men called Waterdeep. That place, too, had been his home for a time, before the wanderlust had called him to his doom.
Jander seldom ventured into the city anymore. It was becoming too crowded for his liking. He lived in a small cave beyond the city limits, where there were still trees and silence to be found. There Jander indulged his innate, elven love of beauty and nature by planting and tending a small garden of night-blooming flowers. Tonight, though, a great need drove the elf to steal into the Dock Ward. He moved in absolute silence with a deadly purpose, his gray leather boots making no sound along the cobblestones. Jander ignored the taverns, shops and warehouses. He was heading for the worst place in the city, where the most tortured souls on Toril wept away their meaningless lives amid squalor and pain. The elf turned a corner, his sharp features gaunt with hunger, his gray cape fluttering behind him.
Money could buy cures for just about anything in Waterdeep. There was a cleric for your wounds, a mage for your good fortune. Sometimes, however, the gods would not listen to the prayers of their priests, and sometimes spells went wrong. Horribly wrong.
Once, the unfortunates whose mental illnesses could not be helped by magic were locked away in cellars or cast out on the streets. Some particularly vicious people even arranged for their inconvenient mad relations to “disappear.” Today, though, in the civilized year of 1072, there was a place for the incurably insane.
As he approached the large wood-and-stone building, Jander winced. Even outside, the cacophony exploding within pained his sensitive ears. Madhouses were places of more horror than haunted castles, he mused; here truly could be found the wailings of the damned. He did not enjoy coming here to feed, and did so only every few years, when the great thirst would not be slaked with animals’ blood. Steeling himself for what awaited him within, Jander stepped up to the door.
There were two main cells in the asylum, one for males and one for females. Other, smaller cells housed inmates who were too violent for the main cells and those few pathetic souls whose former sex had been so distorted that it could not be distinguished. As a rule, Jander never entered the individual cells. He might be a vampire, but he could take only so much pain and ugliness.
He was nothing but tendrils of mist at first, creeping through the cracks in the wooden door of the women’s cell. The mist took on color—blue and silver and gold—then a being that some might have mistaken for an angel stood where the formless fog had been.
Torches in sconces too high for the inmates to reach provided ample illumination. Too many of the lunatics were afraid of the dark for the place not to be lit so. Straw and moldering pallets covered the floor. There were chamber pots, but few of the inmates used them. Every few weeks, the city-appointed keepers would remove the inmates and douse the area with bucketfuls of water, a process that did little to sanitize the filthy place.
With the grace of a cat, Jander threaded his way through the scattered madwomen, turning his blond head this way and that, his silver eyes raking the scene. Some of the lunatics scattered at his approach, to huddle whimpering in corners. Others ignored him. Some even fawned on him. From these he gently disengaged himself.
It had been nearly half a century since he had been here, and he recognized none of the inmates. Some were fairly normal-looking, old women whose minds had faded and then quietly disappeared altogether. Some were misshapen monstrosities, victims of spells gone awry or perhaps even deliberate malice, who howled their anguish as they huddled in corners. The saddest were the ones who were almost sane, who could have functioned outside with a little aid but whose relatives couldn’t be bothered to help them.
The growing population of Waterdeep had led to an increase in the number and variety of inmates. Most of them were human, although here and there Jander recognized the squat forms of dwarves or halflings. There were, thank the gods, no elves. Over in one corner of the damp, chilly place, one woman methodically tore at a bleeding stump of an arm with a hand that was covered with scales. Her legs were also reptilian and ended in the clawed toes of a lizardman. The expressionless face was completely human. Another lay almost at the vampire’s feet, shielding her
head with her arms. As Jander stepped over her, she shifted. The vampire flinched. The face she turned up to him was completely featureless save for the red slash of a mouth.
“They’re coming, you know,” a voice bellowed in his ear. “All those eyes on their stalks, waving at you, and the mouths, the mouths …” The madwoman became completely incoherent and began to suck on her fingers. Jander closed his eyes. He hated this place. He would take sustenance quickly and leave.
His method of feeding did little actual harm to the inmates. Jander could materialize within the cell, partake of enough fluid to last until the next time his hunger demanded human blood, and disappear. Seldom did he even drain enough of the precious fluid to leave a victim weak the next morning. The keepers had no reason to check the throats of the patients. Consequently, the small, insignificant marks were never noticed.
One woman lay huddled on a dirty straw pallet toward the back of the stone enclosure, separate from the rest. At first glance, she didn’t look much different from the regular inmates of the asylum. Her long dark hair was tangled, and her pale limbs were dirty. She wore the ugly brown shift that was the standard garb in the hellhole. Hardly more than a scrap of material, it offered little protection against the damp chill of the place and none at all against the fumbling of the demented inhabitants. Perhaps feeling his gaze, she looked up.
She was quite shockingly beautiful, and a soft cry of pain and wonder escaped Jander’s lips. Though her hair was matted and filthy, it must have been a captivating shade of auburn once. Her eyes were large and shiny with tears. Even as he watched, they filled, and drops coursed through the dirt on her pale face. Her lips were pink, perfect roses in a porcelain face, and they trembled slightly. The vampire had not seen such beauty in far too long; he certainly never expected to see it here. Captivated, he went to her and knelt beside her. She kept her luminous brown gaze even with his.
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