“Fine,” snapped Leisl. “See you there.” She looked at Katya, started to say something, but thought better of it. A quick exit was better than a retort this time; had she lingered any longer, they might have seen the tears that filled her eyes. She couldn’t hate Katya. The girl was too sweet. Yet Leisl was fiercely jealous, and she gulped hard as the tears rolled down her face.
Sasha, troubled, watched her go. The Little Fox gave him no end of confusion. What was bothering her?
He returned his attention to Katya. “No more bad dreams tonight, love. I promise,” he teased, kissing her cheek. Her cottage was small but functional, a two-room, one-story house with simple furnishings. Sasha carefully checked the locks on the door and the two windows. “Tomorrow at dawn, when Lathander’s power is greatest, I’ll place some wards on the doors. Right now, let’s get you to bed.” Obediently Katya climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. She watched him with large, sleepy eyes as he pulled up a chair next to her.
“Thank you for staying,” she murmured, yawning.
“My pleasure. Now get some sleep.”
Sasha fully intended to keep watch until daybreak. He must have been more tired than he thought, for he bolted awake some time later. Katya was writhing on the bed, clawing at her throat.
“No, no,” she cried, her eyes tightly shut.
Instantly Sasha was at her side, pinning her arms to the bed in a desperate attempt to stop her thrashing. She awoke, her eyes wide and fearful. “Sasha!”
“You had a bad dream. That’s all.” He gently took her in his arms, holding her tenderly as her trembling subsided.
“Sasha,” she said again, but there was a new note in her voice. He craned his head to look at her. Her eyes were dark, and her lips seemed very red. “Sasha.”
Suddenly he was kissing her, all his good intentions completely forsaken as her beauty and unexpected passion drove the thoughts of darkness from his mind.
Pleased with the work so far, Jander straightened, stretched, and reread the inscription beneath the fresco. THE GOBLYN KING FLEES BEFORE THE POWER OF THE O Y S M OF RA EN . He was almost finished. He had to admit, he was curious as to what the rest of the inscription might be.
He heard a door slam and the patter of eager feet.
“Jander? Jander, where are you?”
“By the fresco, Trina,” he called. She hurried up to him. Her eyes were wide with childlike glee, and she clutched an enormous book.
“Look what Strahd said I could study while he was gone!” She waved it up at him. It was some sort of spellbook. The elf tried to hide his disgust.
“That’s wonderful, Trina.”
“It’s got all kinds of spells in here. Listen: A Spell for Curing Serious Injuries. A Spell for Seeing Things Made Magically Invisible. A Spell for Opening Magically Sealed Doors …”
Jander wasn’t listening. A Spell for Ignoring Prattling Werewolves, he thought with a slight smile. A Spell for—
“What was that last one?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
“Um … here it is. A Spell for Opening Magically Sealed Doors.”
“That’s a very difficult one, I hear. You’d better not try that one yet.”
As he had hoped, Trina frowned up at him. She was sitting on the stairs, the book spread out in her lap. “If it’s in here, I can do it. You don’t appreciate magic. You don’t realize just how much Strahd has taught me over the last few months.”
“I still don’t know if you’re up to that one,” Jander countered.
“You show me a door that’s magically locked, and I’ll open it for you,” she boasted.
Jander pretended to think. “I can’t think of any right—wait a minute. There is one door that’s been magically locked.”
He and Trina hurried up to the study. Jander was filled with nervousness and elation. He had been wanting to get into Strahd’s mysterious room for a long time. Every other place he had looked for information on Anna had turned up nothing. He knew there were books in that room, perhaps he could find something that would tell him more about the woman he loved.
They climbed the winding stairs, and Jander pointed to the door across from them. “I believe that one’s been locked. Give it a try.”
Placing the book on the waxed table in the center of the study, Trina perused the spell for several minutes. Jander feigned nonchalance, pretending to scan some of the book titles.
“Jander, watch this,” Trina crowed. She stood in front of the door and closed her eyes. Raising her hands and spreading her fingers, she muttered a long string of words under her breath. The outline of the door began to glow with a faint bluish light. Abruptly the light disappeared. There was a barely audible click, and the door swung forward an inch or so.
“Oh, Trina, you are clever,” Jander approved. She smiled hugely, obviously very pleased with herself. “What else can you do?”
More than anything he could recall wanting in recent memory, he wanted to enter that room, with its teasing, open door. Before he could do that, however, he knew he had to allay any suspicions the werewolf might harbor as to his motive. Feigning interest in her newfound skills, he followed her around for the next hour or so while she moved objects without touching them, caused the fire in the hearth to blaze brightly and then fall to embers, and demonstrated other easily mastered feats. “A Spell to Fall like a Feather,” she read, her eyes growing huge. “Is that like flying?”
“I don’t know, but you’d better make sure you study that one well before you go leaping off the ramparts.”
Trina laughed. “I will.”
“Is there anything else you can show me?” the elf queried, hoping desperately that they had reached the bottom of Trina’s bag of tricks. Quickly the werewolf scanned the spells and shook her head.
“Nothing that I can do right now.”
“Well, in that case, would you mind practicing elsewhere? I have some work I have to do.”
She fixed him with a wary gaze. “Like what?”
For a horrible instant, his mind went blank, then: “I’m going to oil these bookcases. They’re so lovely, but Strahd hasn’t really taken the time to bring out the luster of this wood—”
“Sure, Jander. I’ll leave you to it,” the werewolf said hastily, fleeing in the face of boredom. “I’m going to try the Falling like a Feather one in a bit. See you later.” She left, closing the book but keeping a finger in it to mark the page.
After Trina had gone, Jander closed the study door, locking it for good measure. He turned to the door of the secret room, his mouth dry with excitement and nervousness. He hadn’t been this reckless in years, but Strahd had just recently left and would not be back for at least a few days. What was it that Strahd was so insistent Jander not see? He couldn’t even imagine what it might be.
A twinge of remorse touched the elf. He had given the count his word that he would not enter the room. For a brief moment, honor warred with curiosity and the fierce hope that, here, at last, he might find some trace of Anna. Jander stepped up to the door.
With a bit of trepidation, the vampire reached out and hesitantly pushed open the wooden door. It swung inward with a creak to reveal a large, dark room. There was a stench within, of decay, and his nose wrinkled. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, but he took a torch that was fastened on the wall to his left and lit it from the fire in the study. Thus armed, he entered.
A long table stretched before him. Once, like so many of the objects in Castle Ravenloft, it must have been a thing of great beauty. Now it was covered with a layer of dust. That did not surprise him; it was what was on the table, underneath that thick dust, that caused Jander to raise an eyebrow in surprise.
The table was laid in anticipation of a meal that had never arrived. There was a disgusting pile of rotting matter in the center of the table. Jander drew forward, raising the torch for a better look. It had once been a cake—judging by its many tiers and the tiny figure of a white-clad woman on
its top, a wedding cake.
Jander tasted the faint flavor of fear. Something was very, very wrong here. He took a step away from the table onto an object that crunched under his foot. He glanced down to see what it was, and his apprehension increased. It was the other half of the cake decoration—the tiny figure of a groom. The head was missing from the tiny man.
Jander turned his attention to the rest of the room. The table and what remained of the cake indicated that this had once been a dining hall. It was also a picture gallery. The faces of the von Zarovich family surrounded Jander. Some of the names seemed familiar, while others were completely new. He paused when he came across a portrait of a handsome young couple.
According to the plaque at the bottom of the picture, the pair were Barov and Ravenovia von Zarovich. The painting was done when they were but recently married, and they were a stunningly attractive pair. By the date on the picture and the striking similarity to Strahd, Jander assumed them to be the count’s parents. Barov’s features were clearly echoed in his son’s; the dark eyes, the finely-chiseled nose and cheekbones were almost exactly like the present count’s. Ravenovia had been a beauty, and the skilled artist had managed to capture the fire and intelligence of her large dark eyes.
The next picture was of three men. Strahd was one of them. He was seated in a plush, red velvet chair. He had changed little since the portrait had been painted, and Jander guessed that it had been completed shortly before his transformation. On the count’s left hand, standing slightly behind the chair, was a man in his late thirties. He was rather squat, but had a kindly, benevolent expression and was clearly close kin to Strahd. On the right, kneeling beside the count with his hand on the arm of the chair, was one of the most handsome young men Jander had ever seen. His features, too, were Strahd’s, but they were different—clearer, bearing a stamp of youthful vigor and a curious combination of power, self-respect, and innocence. The man was only in his twenties. Oddly, he seemed strangely familiar to Jander. Both the man and Strahd wore military uniforms, though of different ranks and orders. The young man wore a beautiful, sun-shaped pendant. Strahd’s breast was encrusted with medals.
Jander read the names: Strahd, Sturm, and Sergei von Zarovich. An attractive trio of brothers, had the artist been less perceptive and not painted to perfection Strahd’s troubled countenance. His dark eyes were grim, the eyes of a man who saw neither joy nor beauty anywhere he looked, the mouth a thin, humorless line. Even in life, when blood and breath had tied him to the sunlight world of the living, Strahd had obviously been an unhappy man, despite the honors that crowded his chest.
There were many more paintings. The costumes changed through the years, although some suits of armor and pieces of jewelry recurred as if they were family heirlooms or formal regalia. Aimlessly Jander wandered about the room, glancing at a few of the portraits.
At the far end of the room, there was a small table set up. Unlike most of the furnishings in Castle Ravenloft, the table was meticulously kept. A clean white cloth was draped over it, and pieces of jewelry were carefully laid out: a necklace, earrings, a bracelet. There were two candles in well-polished holders and two leather-bound books. One was obviously very old and well-thumbed. The other was much newer.
Jander picked up the newer book and rifled through it aimlessly. It was written in Strahd’s curious shorthand, but over the last few decades Jander had had ample time to decipher it. He replaced the book on the table, not bothering to look at the other tome.
Above the table there was another portrait. It was covered with a white cloth similar to the one that draped the table. Jander frowned. Why hide that one? With a swift movement, he tugged off the cover.
He stared, horrified, at the two figures depicted there. A man and a woman posed happily in their wedding finery. Yet someone had taken a knife and slashed through the man’s face repeatedly. That, however, was not what struck Jander to his heart. It was the woman on the man’s arm.
It was Anna.
She was smiling radiantly up at the now-faceless young man. Her expression was one of absolute joy, and love shone in her eyes. She was wearing a beautiful white dress and carrying a bouquet of flowers. A veil trailed over her auburn curls. It was her wedding that had been celebrated in the room.
Jander stared at the portrait for several minutes, trying to make sense of the senseless. At length his gaze straggled down to the names of the couple: “Sergei von Zarovich and Tatyana Federovna, on the Occasion of their Wedding, 351.”
The elf staggered back, shaking, his mind reeling as he tried to comprehend what had happened. So it wasn’t Anna, but someone named Tatyana. A sister? A twin, perhaps?
His gaze dropped to the books. Perhaps they had some information regarding Tatyana. He picked up the newer one and opened it. It was entitled The Tome of Strahd. Despite his agitated state, Jander snorted derisively. Trust Strahd to pen something so ostentatious.
He sat down by the shrine to Tatyana, cradled The Tome of Strahd in his lap, both eager and afraid, and began to read.
I am The Ancient, I am The Land. My beginnings are lost in the darkness of the past. I was the warrior, I was good and just. I thundered across the land like the wrath of a just god, but the war years and the killing years wore down my soul as the wind wears stone into sand …
Jander frowned to himself. This was no chronicle of the past. It was Strahd’s propaganda, his writing of history as he wanted to see it—just like the tale, riddled with falsehoods, that he had told Jander years before about how Barovia had entered the mists. Some wild, distorted story about a rival and a woman and—
Staring wide-eyed, Jander looked up at the painting again. Was that bright young man Strahd’s rival, who “enchanted” Tatyana and “stole” her from the count? False, all false, and he knew it to be, though he did not know how he knew. It was impossible to conceive of two people more in love than the couple depicted in the painting, impossible to ever cast them as schemer and slave.
Disgusted, the elf put the book down, reaching instead for the other one. Carefully, aware of how fragile it was, Jander eased it open. The pages were yellow and threatened to crumble at his touch. The writing was barely legible, and the shorthand made it difficult for Jander to read as quickly as he wanted. He could make out enough to see that it was a diary, dating back to 349 on the Barovian calendar—nearly two hundred and fifty years in the past.
Before Strahd became a vampire.
Jander began to tremble. Clutching the book close, he made for the study. He had several hours until sunset and would not be disturbed. He replaced the torch in its sconce, settled down in one of the overstuffed chairs, and began to read.
TWELFTH MOON, 347. AT LONG LAST, THE WAR IS OVER. The enemy has been decimated, destroyed, or driven out. I have found a valley that lies before the ruins of the war-lord’s castle. I have taken both …
Sixth Moon, 348. Peace gnaws at my soul. I do not like it. The inhabitants of Barovia do not like me, either. I care not …
Third Moon, 349. Work proceeds on the castle. In honor of my mother, I shall name it Ravenloft. It is becoming a suitable home for the von Zaroviches …
Eleventh Moon, 349. All is in readiness. I shall call for my family, to make this cold place a home …
Fourth Moon, 350. They have arrived, and Sergei, my youngest brother whom I have never before met, is with them. How young he is, both in body and spirit! If he had not nearly bested me in sparring this morning, I would call him a summer soldier, but in all honesty, his skill is staggering.
We have become fast friends as well as blood-bonded soldiers. He is suited to the new age of peace in a way that I, with the chill of death in my bones and the taste of war still on my tongue, could never be. What would I give to be him, young and carefree, with those dark good looks that captivate women? What an irony that, as he is the youngest son, he is pledged to become a priest!
I must be growing old—the cold night in its futile quest for the beginning of day. Neve
r before have I wanted a family. Now that Sergei has come, I find myself imagining a woman by my side and a child on my knee …
Sixth Moon, 350: The Most High Priest Kir has died suddenly, and Sergei has insisted I declare it a day of national mourning. Sergei must now take up the position of Most High Priest, an honor that has the lad quite humbled. He is not permitted to wear the formal garb of a priest, as he has not yet been ordained, but the clergy has given him leave to wear the Priest’s Pendant, a pretty enough bauble to which Sergei attaches a great deal of—perhaps even too much—emotional value.
It was the year 350 by the Barovian calendar, and as Count Strahd von Zarovich gazed out over the River Ivlis, watching it twine its way through the mountains and the Svalich Woods, he knew he was the absolute and unquestioned master of everything he surveyed.
The thought gave him no pleasure. Little did, these days.
There had been a movement, a few years past, concocted by some frightened burgomaster in one of the little villages, to turn the count’s birthday into a national holiday. The burgomaster had sought to turn Strahd’s displeasure for the paltry tax money that had come from that particular village. He had picked the wrong tactic. Strahd never celebrated his birthday. He had once joked, calling it the “death day.” Now it was never discussed at all. Strahd’s youth had fled, squandered in fighting and killing.
The unfortunate burgomaster had turned up dead, his head neatly separated from his body by one sure sword stroke. The issue of the count’s birthday had never again been raised.
That day Strahd returned to his study, picking up the journal he had begun when he had first conquered the land.
I hate the Barovians! They do not know when to leave well enough alone. He paused, then scratched in, Has Sergei picked up the trait as well?
He has developed a disconcerting habit of venturing into the village, trying to, as he says, “do some good for these people.” There, he is treated like some sort of young god. The folk throw flowers in the path of his horse and practically deafen the boy with cheering. No good can come of it. Sergei’s place is above the people, here in Castle Ravenloft, a proper von Zarovich. He should not be wallowing in peasants’ dust.
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