Kartov’s face went white. The thunder rumbled again, louder that time. Anastasia continued, “Why don’t you tell Ivan how you fled before the wolves this evening?” Filled with absolute confidence and a cold hatred, she reached out and calmly plucked the bloody crop from her father’s grasp. Kartov made no move to stop her. “I didn’t run,” she said quietly. She turned to the gypsy boy. “And neither did he. Ivan,” she repeated, giving the head servant a cool look, “you may let him go.”
Stunned and confused, Ivan did as he was told. The other servant followed suit, and they exited as quickly as they could without breaking into an outright run. The rest of the servants followed their lead. Petya fell to the cobblestones, unconscious, but Anastasia didn’t go to him at once. She kept her icy gaze fastened on her father. Kartov couldn’t meet her accusing eyes. He had been exposed as a coward, and his daughter was never going to let him forget that. With a guttural curse, he stormed back into the house, slamming the door shut behind him.
Anastasia turned to her injured lover, ignoring the pain of her own back to kneel beside him and cradle his head in her lap. She smoothed his silky, sweat-matted hair lovingly, and his eyelids fluttered open. “Anastasia,” he rasped, “Jander—”
“Shh, shh, don’t try to talk. I’m going to take you inside where we can treat your back properly. Do you think you can walk?”
“Listen to me,” Petya spoke with a desperate urgency. “The elf—tonight—we pledged friendship. Remember?” Confused, Anastasia nodded. “He’s a vampire … we can’t.…” The effort was too much for him, and he collapsed in her arms, unconscious again.
Anastasia felt gooseflesh rise along her limbs, and not from the chill of the rain-pregnant air. The golden being that had rescued them was a dead creature that fed on blood? It didn’t seem possible. Still, Petya would hardly have come back into the village if he hadn’t felt it very important. She glanced down again at his back, and hatred for her father rose afresh in her heart. Jander Sunstar might very well be a vampire. Looking at her father’s handiwork, however, the burgomaster’s daughter felt she’d sooner cast her lot with the golden undead creature than her own blood kin.
A gigantic flash of lightning illuminated the courtyard. Its glare was so brilliant that Anastasia winced. The crack of thunder that followed immediately was nearly deafening, and Anastasia felt the ground tremble from it. Sheets of rain spewed from the cloud-filled sky, stinging her back as they struck in hard little droplets. The rain woke Petya, who coughed and moaned in pain. At last he was able, with her help, to get to his feet and stumble to the door. Anastasia saw the slender shape of her mother silhouetted against the light from the house and smiled to herself.
Another flash of lightning, another sharp, deep roll of thunder. It was rumored that Strahd’s magic extended to weather control. “The ring of fog around the village is his to command,” the old goodwife Yelena had told Anastasia. “It is there to keep us a little bit blinded. The wind and the rain is his anger, and the lightning his sword of vengeance.”
Anastasia could barely see through the cold, heavy downpour and began to shiver violently as she slogged to the house. If the storm was Strahd’s anger, she mused with a flash of dark humor, he must have received some very bad news.
The land permitted Jander to dream.
Yet he did not enter a dreamscape in the same fashion as humans did; elves required very little sleep, and when they needed to rest or refresh themselves, they controlled the degree to which they relaxed. That first day in Barovia, however, as he waited for the onslaught of night, Jander dreamed.
He had easily located the cave of which Eva had spoken. It was deep and dark, a perfect resting place for one for whom sunlight was lethal. The elf trusted Madame Eva’s word, but he planned to rest lightly, not sleep. Should it prove to be a trap, the Vistani would be surprised to find a wakeful vampire. He would be more than a match for them.
He sat deep in the earth, well away from the mouth of the cave. Jander drew his legs up to his chest and folded his arms across his knees. He leaned his head back against the rough stone and closed his silver eyes.
He was playing his favorite game: remembering the sunlight. Jander imagined the golden hue was spreading toward him from the mouth of the cave. The elf pictured the sunlight puddle in hollows and trickle across stones, and felt an ache in his chest. It was a game he had played too many thousands of days. He would dream of the sunlight and wonder if today was the day that would find him brave enough to step out into it. It was not the fear of death that held him back; it was the fear of what the sun would do to him.
On Toril, there existed a creature known as a crimson death. That hideous, gaseous monster, which gorged itself on blood, was linked to vampires in legends. Some claimed that the crimson death was the soul of a slain vampire, doomed to wander. The thought of becoming such a being kept Jander to the night and the shadows, away from the beloved sun.
His family had been named for the light. It was the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing Jander knew, that golden radiance that changed the color of everything it touched. As a living being, Jander had reveled in the day, loving its warm caress and its fiery brightness.
When he was growing up in Evermeet, Jander would herald the dawn with his flute. His friends used to tease him about it. “Do you think the dawn will not come unless you pipe it in, Jander?” they had joked. He was now, of course, forever condemned to only think about the light and remember its touch.
In his dream, the vampire glanced at the cave’s entrance. A shadow blocked the sun’s path. Jander drew back, ready to attack. The figure at the mouth of the cave stepped out enough so that he could see who it was.
It was Anna.
She was dressed, not in the horrid brown shift of the madhouse, but in a bodice and skirt that accentuated her beauty and her ripe yet maidenly figure. She seemed utterly, completely real, but Jander realized at once that she was only alive in his mind. Anna peered in, her eyes dilating in the gloom, and smiled at him.
“Why don’t you come join me?”
Because it was a dream, because he wanted to join her more than he’d wanted anything in seven hundred years, the dream-Jander rose and walked out into the bright Barovian morning.
“Much better, isn’t it?”
Anna’s small, soft fingers twined about his long ones as she smiled up at him. Dear gods, but she was so beautiful. Her sun-kissed face was a mercurial pool of expressions, her mouth ripe and ready to smile, her eyes the bright warm brown of a deer’s. He had never seen her like that when she was alive. The insane girl with the pale skin and still features that he remembered was a mere shadow of that radiant being.
He was so wrapped up in her that a few minutes passed before he became aware of the miracle. He could no longer smell her blood. Somehow, in his delirious dream-state, he had ceased to be a vampire and was only Jander Sunstar, a gold elf, once again. He felt the sun’s warmth on his hair, and, as he turned to her, she squinted and looked away.
“The sun on your hair is too bright!” she laughed, blinking. He laughed too, a carefree, ringing laugh that could only issue from a living throat. He kissed her red mouth, wanting only that sweetness, thrilled to the core of his being that he had no desire for her blood. She responded as he had dreamed she would, with a joy that caught him by surprise.
“Anna,” he whispered, running his long, thin fingers through her thick hair. “I never meant to hurt you, my love, I’m so sorry …”
She shook her head, smiling brightly, her eyes warm and lively. “Nay, Jander Sunstar, did you think I did not know? Through the madness that had claimed me, you still shone.”
“Anna,” he gripped her arms tightly, “Tell me who did it to you.”
Her smile broadened. “You must discover who destroyed my mind. That is your test.”
“Test? I don’t understand …”
Abruptly she was gone, and Jander was alone in the cave again. He started, shaken out of his dream b
y a harsh whinny from outside. The cave was pitch black; a slightly less dark oval marked its entrance. Jander discovered he was trembling. He had experienced his share of dreams and nightmares, but this had possessed the qualities of both. It had pained him to see Anna again, even if it had only been in his own wistful imagination. Yet he hoped that they would meet again, in another dream, on another day.
The horse outside neighed and pawed the ground. Another one whinnied. He could smell the beasts’ warm, animal scent, mixed with the fragrances of oiled leather, metal, and the sweet hay the animals had eaten. Nostalgia gave way to curiosity. Why would horses be there?
Best to be safe, Jander thought to himself as he took another sniff. There was no scent of humans anywhere nearby. Cautiously the vampire emerged from the cave.
There was nothing unusual about the two horses, save their absolute blackness. Not a white blaze or sock marred the inky color of their coats, although their nostrils flared pink as they caught Jander’s scent. They were clearly spellbound by powerful magic, for they did not even quail as the vampire approached and laid graceful hands upon their sleek ebony necks. He had loved horses, once, and they him. He deeply missed the animals.
With a final, reluctant pat, Jander dropped his hands from the horses’ necks and turned his attention to the vehicle the black beasts drew. It was a large, spacious carriage, well-crafted and jaunty. The interior was fine red leather, and there was actually glass in the windows. Only someone quite wealthy would squander so much on a carriage, he noted. Jander walked slowly around the vehicle, examining the fine quality of the wood and the symmetry of the wheels.
There was a place in the front where the driver of the carriage would sit. Only there was no driver. The reins were neatly tied together and draped across the seat. Standing out against the lush black and red of the carriage was a crisp white envelope. Jander took it, instantly recognizing the fine quality of the paper. The red wax that sealed the envelope was imprinted with the likeness of a bird; it was too small for Jander to determine what type. He broke the seal and began to read.
Unto the Visitor in my Land,
Jander Sunstar,
Count Strahd von Zarovich, Lord of Barovia, sends greetings.
Good Sir, I pray you accept my humble Hospitality and dine with me tonight in Castle Ravenloft. I have many Questions for you, as I am certain you have many for me. I shall endeavor to assuage your natural Curiosity about the Land as best I might.
The Carriage shall bear you to the Castle safely. I urge you to accept my Invitation, and I await your arrival with pleasurable anticipation.
Count Strahd von Zarovich
Carefully Jander folded the note, thinking. He should have realized that the Vistani would give the master of the land such fascinating news that an elf had stumbled into Barovia. He could hardly blame them. What troubled him was his own reluctance to accept the invitation. Wasn’t this what he wanted? Who better to answer questions than the ruler of the wretched place?
Jander unfolded the note and read it again, trying to uncover some hidden meaning. He’d be walking into the wolf’s den with a bared throat, but the wolf might be in for a surprise himself. He had no option. Strahd would find him eventually, he was sure.
“Well,” Jander said to the horses, who swiveled their ears in his direction, “let’s get you two back to your stable and me to the master.”
As he approached the carriage door, it swung open for him. He hesitated, then climbed in. The instant he pulled the door shut behind him, the horses began to trot purposefully. Jander sat back in the incredibly comfortable cushions and resolved, whatever awaited him at the end of the journey, to enjoy the ride there.
The horses trotted along the trail, picking up their pace as they turned onto the road. The road again crossed over the river, this time providing Jander with a breathtaking view of a waterfall. They were so close, the windows were spattered with spray.
The by-now familiar ring of poisonous fog enveloped them, and Jander was forcefully reminded of the mist that had transported him from Waterdeep to Barovia. He found himself pressing his face up against the glass, hoping against hope that the strange mist had risen again and was taking him home. The fog lasted for a few hundred feet, then cleared as abruptly as it had risen. Jander looked through the small window back at the swirling gray mass, and shook his head.
The horses found a comfortable, swift pace and settled into it, moving at a steady speed northward. They were heading into the mountains, and the horses slowed but continued moving steadily. The road veered to the east and divided after a time.
Jander glanced at the road that forked off to his left. Huge gates towered in the distance. They were massive things, apparently made of iron and flanked on either side by large stone statues. It seemed as though both statues were missing their heads. For the moment, the gates were open. When they were closed, however, they effectively blocked the only road leading into the village from the west.
The steady clip of the horses’ hooves continued, and soon Jander could see Castle Ravenloft looming ahead. A cold finger of fear traced its way along his spine. It was an alien sensation to the vampire, who’d had nothing to fear from any being, alive or dead, for several centuries.
Here, however, could lie a key Anna’s identity. Anna, beautiful and vulnerable, driven to insanity by someone’s cruelty … someone who called this world home. Jander’s hands balled into fists. Perhaps Castle Ravenloft’s master would have some answers.
The horses took him up to the gates, then the carriage halted. Jander got out and gazed up at the castle. He could easily see why the horses had stopped. Between two guardhouses of ruined stonework lay the entrance to the castle—a precarious-looking wooden drawbridge that hung from chains that appeared old and rusted. There was a thousand-foot drop into the misty canyon below. From their eternal perch atop the stone walls, two gargoyles gazed down at him. They were hideous things, and the grins upon their stone faces did nothing to soften their appearances.
The elf gave the horses a last pat—for himself; it could hardly have been pleasurable to the frightened animals—and they galloped off, the carriage jolting crazily behind them.
Jander examined the drawbridge. It definitely looked unsafe. There were times, he mused as he changed into bat form and fluttered safely across the crevice, when being a vampire definitely had its advantages. Once across, he resumed elf form and continued on.
He passed through a covered entryway, alert for an attack. The entryway was damp and slimy and smelled of decay, but nothing happened. The portcullis at the entrance was raised; it looked as though it had been in that state for some time. The wood here, too, was starting to rot. The entryway opened into a large, dark courtyard, and Jander looked up at Castle Ravenloft.
It was indeed impressive. The closed main doors were huge, elaborately decorated with battle scenes so realistic they seemed to move. The carving was both delicate and bold, and so vibrant that it seemed out of place in the dark, neglected fortress. Large torches fixed to either side of the doors flickered in the wind. The knockers were made of brass; had they been polished, no doubt they would have gleamed magnificently. Now they were only a dull, brownish gold. Shaped like ravens’ heads, the knockers possessed eyes formed of glittering jewels. Jander hesitated, then seized one of the knockers and slammed it home three times.
The sound reverberated with a low boom and lingered in the air. For a few tense minutes, there was no answer, only the sound of the wind behind him. Jander fought to stay calm, but his nervousness increased by the second.
Then with a low, deep groan, the massive doors creaked open. They moved slowly, protesting every inch of ground they yielded. Warm light spilled out into the courtyard.
Jander lingered outside, the moonlight silvering his golden hair.
“Count?” he called, his query sounding thin and frightened. He mentally rebuked himself. “Your Excellency, it is Jander Sunstar,” he called again, willing himself to soun
d strong and determined. “I am here by your invitation, but I shall not enter unless I am bidden.”
Silence greeted his statement, but, somehow, Jander knew that he had been heard. A deep, mellifluous sound emanated from somewhere beyond the small torchlit entry room. It was the most beautiful and the most frightening voice Jander had ever heard, and it caressed his ears even as he recognized the danger it promised.
“Enter, Jander Sunstar. I am Count Strahd von Zarovich, and I bid you welcome.”
FOR A MOMENT, JANDER WAS FROZEN BY STRAHD’S VOICE.
Angrily, he shook off his paralysis. He mentally took a deep breath, steeled himself for whatever might await him within, and crossed the threshold into Castle Ravenloft.
The floor of the hall was a smooth gray stone that seemed cut from the living rock of the mountain, worn in the center with the passage of generations of former inhabitants. The torches that lined the massive walls guttered in the damp air and threw an uncertain light over the suits of armor that stood rusty sentry beneath them. Jander did not yet see his host, and his eyes flickered about.
“Count von Zarovich?” he called.
“Come in, my friend,” the beautiful, deadly voice answered him.
The elf had gone about twenty feet into the hall when a second set of doors in front of him swung open. He paused, then continued on. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and started, baring his abruptly lengthening fangs and hissing. An instant later, though, he realized with some embarrassment that it was only a trick of the light. Four statues of dragons stared balefully down at him, and their eyes, like the eyes of the door knockers, were made of jewels. The precious stones had merely reflected the torches’ light.
Some of the tension left Jander’s body as he continued onward. He passed through another set of doors that opened to his touch, and entered a large room.
This was the main entry. To his left, a wide staircase twisted up into the darkness. Circling the rim of the domed ceiling were more of the stone gargoyles that had greeted him earlier. He glanced upward at the ceiling they were guarding, and for an instant his qualms faded in the face of the beauty he saw there.
Vampire of the Mists Page 8
