Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

  After nightfall, the elf went to the room filled with statues. It was the dark of the moon, and the pale starlight that fell through the rows of high, arched windows did little to illuminate the still figures. Jander raised the torch he’d brought so that its light would not dazzle his eyes, and wandered slowly from figure to figure.

  The von Zaroviches were an uncommonly handsome family, even allowing for the usual flattery of the artist. Strahd had warned Jander that not all of his ancestors were at peace, and the elf felt uneasy as the distressed spirits bound to some of the stones seemed to shift and respond to his prowling inspection. Anger, frustration, rage, madness—the bound spirits seemed to hurl the pale echoes of their human emotions at his senses.

  Overwhelming sorrow, betrayal, grief: here was another who did not rest comfortably in some glorious afterlife. This was the statue that had caught Jander’s attention his first night in Ravenloft, the statue whose head lay at its feet. Jander knelt in the dust and gingerly lifted the stone head, turning the face to his own.

  Why was the one statue disfigured? The others were neglected, stretches of gray spider web spun between their limbs, shrouding their features, but that one alone was deliberately damaged. What rage had vented itself on the stone throat, Jander wondered. What guilt had set the head at the feet of the statue, refusing the final assault on its identity? Jander wiped the dust and cobwebs from the features and moved the torch to better study them. The features were handsome, masculine, but there was a sweetness about the expression that somehow reminded Jander of Anna, of the expression that had touched her face in those few, shatteringly brief moments of sanity.

  “What spell bound you?” Jander asked the stone head, rising to his feet. He tried to set the head on the stump of the carved neck, still draped with a stone amulet. It teetered between his hands. Too much time had passed for it to sit in its proper place again. “I would release you if I could,” Jander said softly, going to one knee to set the head down again, “and to the Nine Hells with Strahd.”

  The elf shifted the torch once more, peering at the inscription at the statue’s base. Its worn and missing letters told him no more than it had that first night, when Strahd had so imperiously cut short his inspection. Jander straightened, brushing at the knees of his breeches, shivering a little. It seemed appropriate that his other destination that night was Castle Ravenloft’s dungeon.

  A heavy oaken door, bound with wide strips of tarnished brass, admitted him to the landing of a stone staircase. Stairways abounded in Castle Ravenloft, but that one was so decrepit that even Jander’s sure feet slipped a little in the depressions worn in the gray stone.

  The stair dropped away into darkness, and Jander was grateful for his torch as he passed under empty sconces, his free hand trailing down the damp wall. It seemed a long descent, ending at last in a space that was either a small room or a very large landing. The place made one feel trapped, with the steep darkness of the stairs behind and the silent threat of the doorways before and at either side.

  Jander raised his torch a little, and the flickering light caught the leering features of gargoyles, grinning evilly from the walls. Startled, and angry because of it, Jander drew lips back from his lengthened fangs and snarled back at them.

  He opened the door before him and entered a short hallway. Pushing through the crimson velvet that curtained off the end of the hall, the elf found himself on a balcony, as elegantly appointed as any in the castle. Two thrones were stationed at the end. What in the world was here for nobility to watch? He stepped closer.

  Below him was a room like a small amphitheater. In the dim light, creatures that had once been men moved in a silent danse macabre among the torture instruments that had ended their mortal lives. A skeleton, the torchlight ruddy on its ivory skull and ribs, drew the lashes of a cat-o-nine-tails again and again through its fingers, as though pleased by the music of leather and metal skittering across bare bone. Nearby a zombie writhed in a parody of exhausted struggle, already-rotting flesh shredding against the iron manacles that bound it to the wall. Throughout the great chamber the dead played out the dramas of Strahd’s humor, mocking their own deaths, dully tending the instruments that had tormented and destroyed them.

  Swallowing his disgust, Jander leaped off the edge of the balcony. He landed lightly, lithe and golden grace among the shattered dead, and wrinkled his nose at the stench of them. With the smell of the dead came sound—faint moans and smothered shrieks, like the nightmare screaming of the souls of the enslaved, like the cries of the madwomen that had haunted his days and nights with Anna.

  His face twisted, and he turned to the sounds. A doorway stood on his left, a rectangular patch of deeper shadow in the chamber wall. He moved toward it, drawn by the sounds, which grew less faint as he grew closer.

  The remembered din of the madhouse met him as he swung open the door and stepped into the dark hallway. Moans, sobbing, pitiful prayers assailed him from the corridor of cells before him. Figures moved in response to his sudden presence, some cowering into the shadows, others rushing forward, thrusting hands and arms through the bars in pleas for help or mercy—or oblivion. This was Strahd’s larder. Jander stood for a moment, listening in pain. He had no right to release these people. In the castle, he was no more than Strahd’s guest.

  Jander was fiercely glad that Natasha had been given into his care, such as it was, and not shut away here in that dark place of horrors. Anxious to escape the sounds of suffering, the elf quickly ascended the curving flight of stairs, keeping his eyes straight ahead so that he didn’t have to look upon the wretches’ faces.

  Torches were positioned every few feet on the stairs. There was a door ahead, but the room into which it opened was pitch black, too dark even for Jander’s gaze to penetrate. He lifted one of the torches from its sconce and peered ahead. He had left the rooms of the dying. Now, he emerged in the hall of the dead. Looming before him were the catacombs of the von Zarovich line.

  He stepped forward gingerly. A few dozen of Strahd’s illustrious ancestors slept their last sleep here. At least, Jander hoped most of them were dust. He suspected that a few of those squat crypts housed inhabitants whose sleep was definitely uneasy.

  Sounds too high for human hearing alerted him to the presence of thousands of bats. They covered the ceiling and walls, moving sluggishly, hiding their weak eyes from the unaccustomed brightness of Jander’s torch. A few of them, particularly disturbed, dropped from their perches and fluttered about Jander crazily, emitting high squeaks. They resettled on the opposite wall, crowding aside their fellows. The floor and the tops of the crypts were coated with layers of bat excrement.

  Mortals would know terror in this place, Jander mused. He only felt sad. The despair a choking gall in his throat, the elf returned the way he had come.

  Evermeet! Evermeet! Home of the People,

  Realm of sweet magic, land of the light;

  Long have I tarried away from thy forests,

  Long lie the shadows that darken to night.

  Evermeet! Evermeet! East blow the breezes

  That carry the fragrance of Evermeet’s shore,

  And soon the Realms will be forgotten

  As thy lost, wayward child returns home once more.

  Natasha’s voice might have lacked the elven beauty he was accustomed to hearing, but Jander didn’t mind. It filled him with pleasure to hear someone sing the songs of his homeland here in this dark country. He had first played Natasha the melody on his flute. She had asked about the song, and he had obligingly taught it and others to her. They spent many hours, Jander on the flute and Natasha accompanying him with her sweet, sad, tired voice.

  If Natasha was a prisoner within the gray walls of Ravenloft, she was very well treated. Jander kept her strength up as much as he could. On days when her health permitted, she would accompany him about the castle, a quiet little ghost trailing behind him, her face white and strained but still able to smile occasionally.

  She
fell silent, looking at her hands. The elf had noticed how her voice had suddenly gotten thick on the line “lost, wayward child returns home once more.” Concerned, Jander sat down beside her on the bed, placing a gentle, golden-skinned hand over her small white ones.

  “Are you ill, little one?” he asked gently. “Have I been draining you too much?”

  She shook her head. Over the last two months, she had grown to trust him, even, he hoped, to like him. “No, Jander, it’s …” The girl gnawed her lower lip. “Jander, can’t you let me go home? Please?”

  Jander opened his mouth to reply when a cool voice from the doorway interrupted him.

  “You are our guest here at Castle Ravenloft,” Strahd purred, his voice low and dangerous. “It would be rude for us not to show you all the hospitality we can. Don’t you agree, Jander?”

  Quick anger stirred in the elf, but as always when he was with Strahd, he refused to give in to the emotion. “You are the host, Your Excellency, not I. Surely it is up to you to decide who receives your hospitality.”

  “Mmm, quite right. Jander, come to my study. We have not talked in a while.” He left, cape swirling behind him, confident that Jander would follow. The elf gave the frightened Natasha what he hoped was a reassuring smile and hurried to catch the count.

  As Jander stepped into the study, the four wolves who had been lounging by the fire rose stiffly. Their ears slowly flattened against their heads, and their dewlaps curled away from sharp yellow teeth. Somewhat surprised, Jander sent them a mental command. It is only I, my friends. Calm yourselves!

  To his amazement, not one of the wolves backed down. Again he tried to touch their minds, only to find that there was some kind of block. He glanced over at Strahd. The count was sitting in his chair with his legs crossed and the tips of his fingers placed together. His gaunt face wore an extremely self-satisfied, predatory smile. If the emotion hadn’t been so crass as to be distasteful to the elegant vampire, Strahd might have been accused of gloating.

  “Very good, Strahd,” Jander offered, a bit uneasily. “They’re completely under your control. Now, if you’ll call them off so I might join you?”

  For a long moment neither Strahd nor his wolves moved. Then, as one, the four great beasts resumed their positions by the fire. They totally ignored Jander as he moved to his chair and sat down.

  “I have been working on my willpower,” Strahd said dryly.

  “You are an excellent student.”

  “Ah, but that is because you are a fine teacher. Yet,” Strahd said in an almost regretful tone of voice, “I must take it upon myself to advise you, if I may?” He raised his raven brows, awaiting Jander’s approval to proceed. The elven vampire nodded. “You ought to drain your little friend. That way, you would have a slave doing things for you instead of a patient upon whom you must wait.”

  Jander’s silver eyes narrowed. “I have been meaning to talk to you about that, Strahd. You make far too many slaves.”

  To the elf’s surprise, the count only laughed “Is there such a thing as too many slaves?”

  “Most definitely. As we vampires get older, we get stronger. We learn more. If you think there exists a single slave, vampire or not, who doesn’t yearn to be free, you’re greatly in error. What’s more, you’re in danger.”

  “Thank you, my friend, for your concern. I assure you, my slaves pose no threat to me. You underestimate my ability to, shall we say, keep the peace.” He smiled the smile of a cat with a mouse.

  Jander shrugged, refusing to play the game Strahd wanted. “As you will. I’m just giving you the benefit of my experience, take it or leave it. I have a question for you, however. You keep this room very well. Why do you allow the rest of your home to fall into such disrepair?”

  “I treat what I value with care,” the count replied simply. “I value my books. The rest does not mean that much to me. In life, Jander, I was a warrior. Fine weapons have always been my treasures, but over time I’ve learned that books, especially spellbooks, are to be coveted. Besides, what do the trappings of luxury have to offer me?”

  “Beauty is its own reward,” Jander replied. Strahd’s lip curled in contempt, but he made no comment. “If you’ll permit me,” Jander continued cautiously, “I would like to restore some of Castle Ravenloft.”

  “You are not to bring anyone here,” Strahd stated, his silky voice turning to ice. Red began to burn in the depths of his eyes. The wolves by the fire caught the change in the air and raised their heads quizzically.

  “Of course not,” Jander retorted, annoyed that Strahd would think such a thing. “I could do some work here myself. I would enjoy it very much.”

  “I fail to see the point.”

  Jander stroked his chin with his hand, searching for words. “I was not born to the darkness. Beauty, music, nature—these things are sources of great comfort to me. They help me to forget, as much as I can forget, what I am. Death doesn’t end the hunger for those things, Strahd.” He looked the count directly in the eye. “I’ve heard you perform music. I’ve seen how it touches you. We are vampires. Our existence isn’t … it isn’t right. That doesn’t mean we can’t lose ourselves for a moment in something that’s beautiful.

  “Appreciation of something just because it is a thing of beauty, because it’s something right and natural and in harmony with its environment—that’s a gift we can still possess.” The elf’s voice grew hard. “I don’t intend to exile such little joys from my world. It’s dark and lonely enough as it is.”

  Strahd looked at him keenly for a long while. Jander met that gaze without flinching. At last Strahd began to laugh.

  “What a puzzle you are to me, Jander Sunstar! You feed upon lifeblood, yet mourn the life you take. You are a being of shadow and night, yet you yearn to be surrounded by beauty. You are dead, but you cannot bear decay. What exactly are you? You can hardly be a vampire!”

  “Be that as it may,” said Jander, sadly but without a trace of self-pity, “that is precisely what I am.”

  Again, Strahd was silent. “Very well. Dabble with the castle as much as you like,” he said, rising suddenly. “You will excuse me.”

  Jander remained in the study and read for a few hours, finishing a history of Barovia’s ancient army. Apparently Strahd’s boast about being a powerful warrior was based on fact. He had, thanks to his finely trained army, his skillful tactical maneuvering, and the devout prayers of the local priest, become a hero of great renown a century or so past.

  On the ninth night of the attacks, our savior came charging through the Balinok Mountains. His name was Strahd von Zarovich, and his army numbered thousands of brave men. Through that long night, von Zarovich’s army fought. It is said that the count was everywhere on the battlefield, and that he himself slew hundreds in the first hour.

  The Most High Priest of Barovia, a young man named Kir, led the people in prayer. Precisely at midnight, he retreated to the castle chapel to meditate and plead for guidance. He was granted the use of the mysterious Holy Symbol of Ravenkind to wield against the goblin king. While the count fought and led his men to victory, the Holy Symbol was used in secret, as well. Afterward, Most High Priest Kir carefully hid the Holy Symbol in a secret place.

  No one knows what the Holy Symbol looks like, or where it is hidden. To this day, no other priest has been able to find or use it. Unquestionably, however, its powerful magic aided our noble Count Strahd to his well-earned victory.

  Jander raised a skeptical eyebrow. The whole thing sounded like Barovian propaganda. The people down in the village certainly didn’t think of Strahd as their noble count and savior. The vampire carefully replaced the book on the shelf and returned to his room.

  Natasha lay sprawled on the bed. Her face was whiter than he had ever seen it, and an expression of fear was frozen on it. She was quite dead. Jander stared, grieving and sickened.

  “If you bury her tonight,” came a cold, smooth voice, “she shall rise in only a day or so. A fine little vampiress s
he will make, yes?”

  Angrily Jander turned on the count. “Damn you for this!”

  Strahd’s thick eyebrows reached for his hairline. “I gave you the girl. She was growing older, losing her bloom. She’ll stay just like this for as long as you like. Surely this was what you intended?”

  Jander knew the action for what it was. Strahd was issuing a challenge, drawing a line and daring him to step across it. The count’s supercilious quip, What exactly are you? You can hardly be a vampire! came racing back to haunt the elf. In a way Strahd was right. Jander glanced back at Natasha, remembering her sweet voice, her plea, please, don’t make me like you. That was what vampires did—feed upon the living and create others like themselves. Jander felt a wave of self-loathing.

  He turned back to Strahd, with the little smile on his face that he knew maddened the count. “Of course it was, Strahd,” he said pleasantly. “Now that you’ve made her into a vampire, she’s your slave, not mine. You took her away from me. Don’t I have the right to be angry with you for that?”

  Strahd frowned. He could hardly argue with Jander’s logic. “You are right. I apologize.” Then he said, not hiding his fangs, “I shall find you another and make amends.”

  He bowed and left. Jander sank down onto the bed. There was still time for him to mutilate Natasha’s body so that she wouldn’t rise as an undead, and then bury her. Damn him, the elf thought, Strahd always has the last word.

  There was a garden in back of the chapel, gone to weeds from lack of care. A few small, sad flowers struggled valiantly against the choking roots of the other growth. Jander recognized overgrown rosebushes here and there. A little path of flagstones led through the garden to a balcony that overlooked a breathtaking drop into the rocky gorge a thousand feet below.

  There, in the dying garden, Jander buried Natasha, using bits of broken board to scrape a hole in the hard earth. When he had finished his task, he sat down near the new grave. His gaze was caught by a beautiful, tiny flower near his left foot. It was purple and yellow, its blossom no bigger than his fingernail. A weed, no doubt, but lovely. The elf reached and plucked the flower, inhaling its sweet, light fragrance.