“You must. The rest will be sweeter to her for it. Trust me, Sasha.” He fitted the stake into the boy’s numb hand and folded the small brown fingers about it. “Trust me.”
As one in a dream, Sasha rose and approached his mother’s body. He tried to remember her as she had been in life—brave, sweet, loving, but always a bit sad. He knelt beside her, blinking away the tears, and positioned the pointed end of the stake between her breasts, directly over the heart. Sasha raised the hammer, then lowered his arm.
“I can’t do it, Martyn.”
“You fail your mother, then,” the priest replied, his face expressionless. Sasha shot him a hot, angry glance, but Martyn said, “You are denying her peace and condemning her to a horrible existence.”
“You do it.”
“I won’t.” Martyn sat down and stared at Sasha with uncanny pale blue eyes. “This is your task.”
The boy realized that the slightly mad priest was serious. If Sasha didn’t plunge the stake into Anastasia’s heart, Martyn would leave her to her fate. It made Sasha angry, and he took that anger and channeled it into strength. Gritting his teeth, he brought the hammer crashing down with all his ten-year-old might.
It was enough; the stake went deep into the chest cavity. Sasha half-expected Martyn to have miscalculated and the body to rise up against him, but the corpse only twitched with the force of the blow. Again Sasha struck. What blood was left in the sapped body oozed out of Anastasia’s mouth. A third blow, and Sasha felt the tip of the wood hit the stone beneath the body.
His mother was not a vampire, but the soul had been trapped nonetheless. When Sasha looked again at Anastasia’s features, they had changed subtly, and a faint trace of wonder brushed the boy’s soul. The stories were true. The spirit did reclaim peace. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes with a hand that trembled, but his child’s mouth was set in a firm line.
He rose, leaving the stake still in Anastasia’s heart. “Well done, my child,” said Martyn, gently placing soft, pale hands on Sasha’s shoulders. “You have done great good here today.”
The boy sagged, leaning against Martyn’s body for support. “I understand, Martyn. Thank you. It was really hard, but … thank you.”
“I shall attend to the rest of the ritual,” Martyn offered. Sasha winced, knowing what the priest had to do to Anastasia’s body before the gruesome ritual was completed. Martyn would cut off her head and stuff her mouth with garlic. Only then could she be safely buried. “Can you do the same to the rest of these poor people?”
Sasha stared at the bodies of his grandparents, then nodded slowly. “Yes, Martyn.”
They worked together throughout the day. When Sasha’s arms got tired, Martyn instructed him to put garlic in the mouths of all the bodies to which the priest had not yet attended, while he finished the bloody work by himself. When dusk settled on the land, the boy and the priest found that their arms ached, their clothing was drenched with blood that stuck to them as it dried, and their bodies shook with exhaustion.
Yet Martyn was filled with a sense of exultation. Surely he had been put here to do Lathander Morninglord’s work. The bloody task he had just completed had not unnerved him in the slightest. Sasha, however, was wrung out. His nerves had been stretched to the breaking point. Martyn put a sympathetic arm around the boy’s shoulders as they sat on the stairs.
“Let me tell you a story, my son, that might help you make sense of all this,” Martyn indicated the beheaded corpses. “Once, there was a young child, just about your age, who lived a very happy life with his family. They were traveling to another town when suddenly mists surrounded them. They stopped for the night.
“When the mists cleared, they were in a completely unfamiliar forest. The people in the nearby town were cold and unfriendly and wouldn’t give the group shelter. With nowhere else to go, they tried to spend the night in the forest.” Martyn fell silent for a time, his fey eyes distant.
“Brother Martyn?” Sasha prompted.
Martyn stirred himself and continued. “The boy woke up to a hideous sight. A hundred wolves, all twice as big as normal wolves, surrounded the little camp. Beautiful women were kissing the boy’s uncles, but when they raised their heads the boy saw that they were really just drinking their victims’ blood. Naturally the boy began to scream at the sight. A tall man, as white as death and as black as night, gazed at him with flaming red eyes. The man moved toward the boy, slowly, and the boy knew that he was going to die.
“The boy’s mother pleaded with the evil man, but he ordered his wolves to eat her. He was about to kill the boy when suddenly, Lathander Morninglord appeared.” Martyn had completely forgotten Sasha in his ecstatic trance. His face was aglow with an inner light as he spoke. “The boy had seen pictures of the god, so he recognized him by his beautiful face and golden skin and hair. Lathander, too, had blood on his face, but he stopped the dark man from killing the child.
“ ‘You shall not have the boy,’ said the Morninglord in tones of music. ‘Nor shall you suffer your evil women to feast upon him. Let him go, for he is under my protection and guidance.’ And the evil dark man bowed before the power of the Morninglord, and the boy lived to see the dawn.”
“That happened to you?” Sasha asked.
Martyn looked down at him and nodded. “As I live and breathe, I swear the tale is true.”
“If the Morninglord is so good, why was his face bloody?”
“Often I have asked myself that. I believe that this land is so dark, nothing completely good can dwell here. Lathander Morninglord himself is changed when he comes to Barovia. He is a little evil, because the land is evil, but he is mainly a god of goodness, hope, and renewal. He saved me. And, Sasha.” Martyn looked at the boy intently. “I think, terrible though this has been for you, that it was for a purpose. I think you have been called. You have no family now. Would you like to come and live in the Morninglord’s house? I would raise you, and teach you the true path.”
Sasha gazed at Martyn, his black eyes searching the priest’s blue ones. Was it true? Was there finally a place for him in the unfriendly village?
“Sasha,” came a thin voice behind them. As one, Martyn and Sasha wheeled around.
Ludmilla stood at the head of the stairs, looking like a ghost. She was pale, and her sleeping chemise draped her like a shroud. Her brown eyes stood out darkly against the white of her skin.
Martyn was stunned. How could a vampire walk in the daylight? He felt for his vial of holy water. With a cry of “Die, demon!” the priest charged up the stairs. He grabbed Ludmilla’s wrist with one hand and poured the vial of water over her torso with the other.
Ludmilla glanced down at the dampness on her chemise and covered herself. “Brother Martyn, what are you doing?”
Sasha began to laugh. Ludmilla wasn’t dead! He ran to embrace her.
THE YEARS FOLLOWING THE ATTACK ON THE BURGOMASTER passed like so many minutes during Jander’s stay at Castle Ravenloft, and time blurred the intensity of the elf’s desire for revenge. After all, fifteen years meant little to a being who had expected to experience hundreds as a mortal, even less to an undead creature who sadly looked forward to eternal existence.
Not so for the human inhabitants of Barovia.
The fall sky was a cloudless, bright blue, and the red and rust hues of the leaves made for a pleasing contrast. The rain that had fallen the night before yielded a morning rich in the fragrance of damp earth. Leisl breathed deeply of the fresh scent, brushed a stray lock of mousy brown hair off her face, and took a huge bite out of the apple she’d just stolen from the fruit cart.
Market day in the autumn was a thief’s paradise. There was so much going on and so many different items to steal that the cutpurse known as the Little Fox hardly knew where to begin. She figured the apple was a good start and took another bite as her quick hazel eyes flickered about.
In addition to the usual wares on display—Kolya’s pastries, Andrei’s fresh cuts of meat, and Cristina�
�s fabrics—the farmers from the outlying areas came into town in the fall. Shiny, newly harvested apples were everywhere to be seen. Carts brimmed with potatoes, cabbages, and turnips. Others were filled with pumpkins and squash. Just arriving was a fisherman with a string of salted trout on lines that stretched across his wagon. Leisl’s mouth watered. She loved trout, fried in a pan with garlic, onions, and pepper …
The clop-clop of hooves behind her caused Leisl to turn, and a gaily colored gypsy wagon clattered into the square. Tethered to the back of the wagon and struggling to keep pace were two dozen bleating sheep. The Vistani driving the wagon was whistling merrily, but his shepherd passenger merely glowered. The Little Fox’s sharp features softened as she grinned to herself. The shepherd was likely cursing at the ten gold pieces the Vistani had charged him to carry him and his sheep safely through the choking fog.
Another few bites, and Leisl finished her apple. She dropped it into the makeshift pigpen one of the farmers had constructed to showcase his pink, oinking wares. A big sow lumbered over to the core and snuffled at it.
More horses were coming down the muddy path from the farm areas, and Leisl thought she saw a young foal with a dark golden coat and a flaxen mane. Was it really a sorrel? Hardly anyone in Barovia bred sorrels. Leisl noticed the gypsy wagon driver sitting up and peering at the approaching steeds with an appraising gaze. Wanting a better look at the three-month-old foal herself, Leisl clambered atop the pig pen.
“Hey! Boy! Get off of there before you fall in!” Leisl knew it was the pig owner, and she turned to face him with an apologetic grin.
“Sorry, sir, I was just looking at—whoa!” Leisl’s arms flailed as she tried to keep her balance. She cast a terrified glance at the filthy sty. Muttering, the farmer reached a thick arm to steady her and help her down. “Thanks a lot, sir,” she apologized. “I’d have hated to fall in there.”
“Aye, well, don’t go standing on other people’s property, and it won’t happen,” the farmer snapped, glaring at her and shaking his head. Leisl touched her cap politely and strode off, easily merging with the swarm of people and animals in the square.
The Little Fox put her hands in her pockets and fingered the coins she had just liberated from the pig farmer. By the size and shape, she guessed it was two coppers and a silver. Not bad, but she could do better, and would by sunset today.
Slim and athletic, nineteen-year-old Leisl had often been mistaken for a boy. It suited her just fine, and she fostered the illusion by wearing men’s clothing. Because of the unseasonably warm weather today, she wore a loose cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up, brown breeches and brown, knee-high leather boots. On top of her head, disguising her short ponytail, was a small black cap. Everything about her appearance emphasized the ordinary. Average height, slender build, mouse-brown hair, muddy hazel eyes—that was Leisl. The very incarnation of nondescript, there was nothing memorable about her at all. That, her uncanny ability to be in the right place at the right time, and her light-fingeredness made the Little Fox a fine thief.
She had taken up “the profession,” as her small circle of associates called it, through necessity. After twelve years at thieving, Leisl was a master of it. She’d learned to recognize who was gullible and who was too clever to get near, who carried a lot of money and who didn’t, and … She narrowed her green-brown eyes. And, she thought, who was a stranger in town.
A handsome young gypsy on a sleek black mare had galloped into the square with a grin on his dark face. Clinging to him was a pretty young woman, who looked around fearfully with large, deer-soft brown eyes. No sooner had the spirited mare come to a halt than the Vistani slipped off her back and extended his arms to help the young woman down. Leisl snorted as she observed the gypsy contriving to press the girl’s ripe figure against him frequently.
The silly girl seemed too innocent to even have noticed. Leisl leaned up against the side of the Wolf’s Den tavern and watched, amused. This was better than the Midsummer play. The girl apparently thanked the gypsy and fished in her pouch for payment. The Vistani looked deeply offended and gesticulated vigorously, declining the coin the girl offered. He bent over her hand for an unusually long period of time, then reluctantly took his leave.
As he remounted the black, bell-bedecked horse, someone called out something that Leisl couldn’t quite catch. The gypsy obviously heard it, though, and jabbered something back, accompanying the verbal insult with a gesture that Leisl recognized as being hardly polite for mixed company. Affronted, the gypsy galloped down the path to his encampment.
The girl looked around helplessly before heading for the Wolf’s Den; carrying a large bundle. Unobtrusively the Little Fox meandered a distance away, apparently very interested in the cabbage farmer’s wares. The girl put the bundle down, adjusted her long, curly dark hair, and knocked on the door.
“Go away,” the innkeeper called from within. “We don’t open until midday.”
“Please, sir,” the girl said in a sweet, trembling voice, “I’m hoping that you might need some help. I’d like to be a barmaid.”
There was a pause, and Leisl heard the innkeeper’s heavy footsteps. The door creaked open, and the innkeeper’s wary face peered out. He looked the girl up and down critically. “Well, you’re attractive enough. I guess you’ll do. Who’s your father?”
The girl licked her lips nervously. “Please, sir, I’m not from the village, I’m from Vallaki. My father was a fisherman, but he drowned this summer. Mama can’t make enough money sewing to support us all, and—”
The innkeeper slammed the door in the girl’s face. She jumped at the loud thump, and tears filled her eyes. Slowly she bent to pick up her pack.
“Let me help you with that,” came a clear masculine voice behind Leisl. She blinked, startled, and slipped back even farther behind the cabbage cart. The Little Fox recognized that voice. It was the young priest, Brother Sasha. Leisl’s heart began to beat painfully. Being around the handsome priest always made her nervous.
“Thank you, sir,” said the girl in her sweet voice, beaming at him. Sasha smiled in return, hoisting the girl’s pack easily despite his slight build. His crimson and pink robe trimmed with gold was belted with a yellow sash, and the delicate pastel colors contrasted sharply with his dark hair and complexion.
“Where shall I take it, my lady?”
“Oh, call me Katya, please. Actually I don’t have anywhere to take it. Maybe you can tell me of someone who might need my help?” Katya’s look and tone were pleading. “I’ll do anything—that is—” She blushed and looked down. “Anything that’s … you know, respectable. I can cook and clean and mend clothes. Oh, please, sir, can you help me?”
Brother Sasha smiled. “I’m sorry you haven’t been able to find any work. The town is rather suspicious of strangers. I’ll tell you what. Brother Martyn and I are terribly bad about cleaning the church, and neither one of us can cook. Would you like to come work for us? I’m sure we can find you a place to live here in the village, of course,” he added. “We have to observe the proprieties. It wouldn’t do for a lovely young lady to live with two old bachelors like us, even if we are priests.”
Sasha grinned, his brown eyes bright and warm. In her hiding place, Leisl felt a heat inside that went all the way to her toes. Katya’s brown eyes brimmed, and her full, pink mouth quivered. She began to cry. “Oh, sir, you’re so kind. I was so afraid—”
“Please don’t cry, my dear, and definitely don’t call me sir. My title is Brother Sasha.” He shifted the pack to one shoulder and tilted her chin up with his free hand. His dark eyes searched her face critically. “When did you last eat?”
Katya shrugged. “I don’t know. Two days ago, I guess.”
“Two days! Come on. We’ll get some food into you, and then we’ll go meet Father Martyn. All right?” Together they walked to Kolya’s store, and the rest of their conversation became inaudible to the eavesdropping Leisl.
“Are you going to buy anything or are
you going to just stand here and keep away the other customers?” snarled an annoyed cabbage farmer.
“Sorry,” Leisl muttered, shoving her hands deep in her pockets and walking away. Without really understanding why, she suddenly wished for the sky to cloud over and the rain to start again.
Jander’s silver eyes opened. Again he had slept clear through the day without a single dream. It was a relief, but also a torment. He had not dreamed of Anna for years now, not since he had exhausted every avenue of investigation.
Sadly, the elf had come to the conclusion that the beautiful, tormented girl had been what the Barovians called a “Lost One,” men or women driven to despair by the horrors they had witnessed. They wandered forlornly from town to town, seeking what mercy they could find. Wherever Jander had asked about Anna, no one had ever heard of anyone with that name who matched her description. Besides, the villagers had often asked suspiciously, why did the elf want to know about a woman who must have died over a hundred years ago anyway?
Jander couldn’t tell them. He could only thank them, and continue his inquiries.
He rose, stretching, and looked about his room. In that one place, at least, he’d been able to make some real difference; the bedchamber had been restored, if not to opulence, to comfort. The furnishings were clean, the bed hung with sky blue and indigo curtains. A comfortable reading chair graced a corner near the window, whose sealed shutters were hidden behind lines of graceful drapery. Jander looked longingly at the window. The moon ought to be full tonight, he recalled. It would be a splendid time to visit the garden.
The straggling, dying garden that Jander had discovered nearly a quarter of a century before was a thing of the past. He had tended it diligently, pruning and planting and experimenting with a variety of different plants. Now it was a lush green oasis for the vampire, a thing of beauty restored solely by his efforts. He sat down on the wall and surveyed the growth happily, finding a small measure of peace.
Vampire of the Mists Page 18
