There came a burst of knocking on the study door. “Come,” called Strahd absently.
It was Sergei. His handsome features were alight, his curly dark hair in disarray. “Oh, Strahd, I must tell you what happened today!”
“Must you?” his brother replied as he reluctantly set down the book. “What can you possibly have found in that dismal village to interest a von Zarovich?”
Strahd frowned to himself as Sergei drew up a chair. He had never thought Sergei’s enthusiasm and forthrightness becoming to the ruling family of the land. Today Sergei was a veritable frolicking puppy. Something of portent indeed must have happened.
“I met a girl.”
Strahd waited, but that apparently was the extent of Sergei’s announcement. With a trace of annoyance, the older man picked up the diary.
“Good heavens, Sergei, if you come bounding in here every time you want to ‘save’ one of the local whores—”
“If you were anyone other than my brother, I’d kill you for that!” Sergei was on his feet, anger in his face. “I met her doing my work in the village. She helps people, she … Well. You’ve never met her. I’ll bring her here shortly, and you can see for yourself.”
“You shall not sully this house with harlots!”
“You shall not speak of Tatyana in that fashion!”
“Oho, the tart has a name!”
With a visible effort, Sergei mastered his rage. He deliberately reseated himself, and when he spoke it was in soft tones.
“Brother, you know the love I bear for you. I would ask that you not refer to Tatyana with anything other than complete courtesy. She is of low birth, that’s true, but she is perfection itself. Never have I seen a brighter soul. And, Strahd, she will be mine. I plan to marry her.”
“Out of the question. First of all, she’s not of proper rank. And secondly,” he reached to touch the priest’s amulet that Sergei wore, “you’re pledged elsewhere. Remember?”
“You know that Mother and Father had no particular desire for me to continue with my vocation. The custom that the youngest son enters the priesthood is merely that—custom. Not a law!”
“You seemed suited to it.”
Sergei had to nod. “I was. Am, still. Had I been meant to continue down that path, surely the gods would not have made me love Tatyana so. When you meet her, you will love her too. Besides, what does it matter if I wed? You are the heir, and after you comes Sturm. You see—” he flashed the familiar all’s-right-with-the-world grin “—there are advantages to bring the youngest son.”
“Sergei,” said Strahd, his patience wearing thin, “wed whom you will. I care not. If you’ve found some potato-shaped ragamuffin from the village and can clean her up enough so that the servants don’t object, you can marry her tomorrow for all I care. Leave me, now. I’m quite busy.”
Sergei frowned. His clear blue eyes searched Strahd’s face. “I know many years separate us, and I know you think me impossibly young and immature. I’ve always admired you, Brother, but I’ve never understood what made you so bitter when you had won so much and had so much in your favor.”
“Sergei—”
“Damn it, Strahd, nobody knows better than I do the things you’ve done for us all. You’ve put an end to a war that had been going on for generations! You bought us this peace. Your part is done, and you did it beautifully. I don’t have that kind of pride in something I’ve done. I can’t win a war. I can only live and do what I think is right, here in these quiet times.” The young man rose. “I’m sorry you had to spend your youth on a battlefield, but it’s not my fault.”
Strahd watched him go, shaking his head. There were times that he completely despaired of Sergei—and other times when he admired his brother beyond all men.
Sergei had been the last and most radiant flower on the von Zarovich vine. He had brought love and comfort to his parents while Strahd was away fighting battle after battle and Sturm’s interests led him away from the immediate family. Sergei had grown to manhood not knowing his eldest brother, and when Strahd had settled in Barovia and called for his family, the eldest and the youngest brothers had met for the first time.
It was brotherly love at first sight. Sergei clearly worshiped Strahd, the gallant war hero, and Strahd could not help but respond. And why not? There was so very much to like about Sergei: he was intelligent, full of good humor, a fine sparring partner on the field.
As much as the aging warrior could, Strahd loved Sergei.
It was no paradise in Castle Ravenloft. Strahd wanted his youth back. He not only loved Sergei, he wanted to be Sergei—twenty-seven, with his whole life spread in front of him like a banquet, to be enjoyed and savored until one was sated. Strahd’s youth had been poured on the soil to appease the gods of war, and at age forty-five, he had very little that was precious to look back upon. He had no family, no intimate friends. All the good he had once thought of doing had somehow bowed to expedience; he had made no law that had changed the world, had annexed no territory that had brought him new life. It would serve Sergei well to be saddled with some cabbage grower’s daughter, Strahd thought bitterly.
He picked up the quill and wrote in strong, bold letters: For all the love that is between us, Sergei angers me from time to time.
Five days later, when Sergei’s betrothed stepped out of the carriage and looked about shyly, Strahd knew a sharp despair.
The girl was beautiful—perfection indeed, as Sergei had assured him. She was tall, with long, rich auburn hair that curled down her back in waves. Her simple clothes clung to her full breasts and narrow waist, and her skin was tanned from the sun. Sergei held tightly to her hand, beaming with pride and love. And when Tatyana glanced up at her future husband, her warm eyes glowed with devotion. Somehow Strahd got through the introductions, even the lengthy formal dinner that night. However, his heart had been lost to this lovely jewel from the valley.
Her genuine sweetness made things even harder to bear. She often slipped her arm through Strahd’s when they were walking, called him “brother” and “elder,” with a great deal of respect. How could she know that he envied his brother with all his heart?
Sometimes the count fancied that she loved him too; always, that fragile deception shattered when she laid eyes on Sergei. Then she came wonderfully, fully alive with love. All who saw the young couple together took joy in their joy, so genuine and obvious was their mutual devotion.
All save Count Strahd von Zarovich.
His dreams that she would fall in love with him continued, growing ever darker as the months passed and the wedding drew near. He began consulting various spellbooks, but could find nothing that would suit his needs. Strahd became ever more irascible, often staying up until the dawn, searching for something, anything, that might help.
One afternoon, he sought distraction by playing the organ. The diversion worked for a while, wrapping him up in its reverberating music that sang to the soul. His fingers flew over the keys, coaxing chords that echoed his torment yet brought release from it.
Sounds from the entry hall broke his concentration, and he ceased playing, his fragile peace shattered. Going to investigate, he frowned with displeasure. It was not to be a quiet afternoon, it would seem. Laughter and amiable chatter filled the hitherto silent halls as the hunt, hounds and all, spilled into the dining room. The dogs’ nails made little clicking sounds on the stone floor as they ambled about happily, tails wagging.
“Strahd!” Sergei waved at his brother. “You missed a fine hunt!”
“Indeed, Old One, even you would have laughed for joy, if we could only have dragged you away from your books,” Tatyana added, smiling warmly at the count.
Strahd returned the smile, although his was forced. “Books are good company. Fox hunting is a waste of time.”
“Ah, you’d have enjoyed this one. And you’ll never guess what happened at the Wolf’s Den afterward!” Sergei caught his brother’s arm and propelled him to the table, where unobtrusive serv
ants were uncorking dusty bottles and filling crystal goblets. Smoothly Sergei maneuvered a glass of the ruby liquid into Strahd’s strong hand.
“Sergei!” Tatyana’s face turned the color of the wine, and, laughing a little, she ducked her head against Strahd’s chest in a totally unselfconscious fashion. “Please make him stop, Old One, I don’t want that tale told!”
Strahd closed his dark eyes, willing himself not to betray his inner torment. Oh, to have Tatyana’s head on his breast thus and not have her love! Unable to help himself, he raised his arm to fold her against him.
Abruptly the beloved warmth against his chest was gone. Teasingly Sergei had tugged his betrothed free and was busy kissing her, despite her shy protests. “She taught me quite a lesson, Strahd.”
“Gods know, you have much to learn,” the count growled, jealousy welling up inside him like a poisoned tide.
“We were drinking a pint of ale with the locals down at the tavern. All of a sudden, this big, hairy brute grabbed poor Tatyana. Just grabbed her. And before we could do anything, he was trying to—”
“What?”
The word exploded from Strahd’s throat. Fury raced through him. The other members of the hunt stepped back. The count was hardly known for his gentleness of manner, but the crimson rage that contorted his face went beyond what even the most unfortunate of them had ever witnessed. Even Tatyana was frightened and drew closer to her future husband. Only Sergei, whose love for his brother was absolute, was unaffected. He continued his tale.
“Trying to beat her head on the floor,” Sergei finished. “Well, naturally, I and a few of these good fellows pulled him off her the instant we regained our wits. We were going to take him outside and give him a drubbing he wouldn’t soon forget, but Tatyana wouldn’t let us.”
Startled, Strahd glanced at the girl. Her color was high, but her eyes met his evenly. Gods, those eyes.
“She told us that she knew that man, that they had grown up together. She said that he was angry because she’d been lucky enough to marry a von Zarovich, while his family starved. Then do you know what my dove did?” Sergei smiled proudly down at Tatyana, his arm tightening about her shoulders. “She took off every piece of jewelry she had on and gave them all to the man. ‘Buy food for your children,’ she told him, ‘and as long as I live, your family shall never go hungry.’ And that monster, that big, hulking bear—why, Strahd, he began to cry, just like a baby, and kissed Tatyana’s hands. Isn’t she a wonder?”
A cheer rose from the hunters, and a toast was drunk to Sergei’s bride-to-be. She beamed happily.
“Tatyana, you are a fool,” Strahd said bluntly. Her eyes filled with pain. He ignored her, turning to Sergei.
“And you, Brother, are worse. You have just dragged the family name through the dirt of that filthy town. You ought to have slain the dog for his insolence. If a servant of mine had behaved as you did today, I’d have him flogged raw. Unfortunately, you are my blood kin, so that option isn’t open to me. Believe me, I regret that. You will excuse me.”
He stalked out of the dining room, hurling his goblet to the floor. Stunned silence marked his departure. Everyone was embarrassed, but no one knew what to say. Tatyana spoke first.
“Poor Strahd. I think he may need our pity and care more than Yakov in the village.”
“My dear,” said Sergei softly, kissing the top of her head, “I believe you may be right.”
Scrawling furiously, Strahd vented his anger in his journal: I must find something, some spell, some potion, that will make that angel mine. I must! There is nothing I would not give to win that woman!
Strahd was awake well into the early hours of the morning. He sighed deeply, rubbing eyes that were heavy and full of grit. Every part of his weary body screamed at him to abandon the quest, at least for the evening, and rest.
By a great effort of will, the count shook off his lethargy. Should he not discover some magical means of making Tatyana his own, he told himself sternly, there would be plenty of nights alone in his bed for sleep. With hands that trembled from exhaustion, Strahd grimly selected another book of spells, seated himself heavily, and began to peruse it.
He was turning a page when he noticed that two pages were stuck together. He frowned. Why had he never observed it before? What secrets lay between those two pages that he had yet to explore? Sudden eagerness surged through him, bringing him fully awake. Carefully, wary of damaging the old parchment, he separated the two pages. He began to smile, hardly daring to believe the evidence of his own eyes. In a flowing script on the yellowed pages, some long-forgotten wizard had penned the following:
A Spell For Obtaining The Heart’s Desire.
He skimmed through the spell quickly. There was nothing too unusual about it; it boasted no out-of-the-ordinary magical ingredients. Bat’s wool … Gods, that was certainly easy enough to obtain in this forsaken place. Ground unicorn horn … If he remembered correctly, he had some of the precious powder around somewhere. Then something curious happened. Strahd’s vision blurred for an instant. Impatiently he again rubbed at his overworked eyes.
When he looked back down at the spell, the list of ingredients had changed.
“What?” he muttered to himself. As he watched, the letters twisted and turned, reforming into new words. Suddenly alarmed, Strahd dropped the book on the table. It landed with a loud clap.
That’s a very old book. You should handle it more carefully, came a voice that raised the hairs on the back of Strahd’s neck.
His head whipped up, and he looked quickly about the room. There was no one save himself in the study. “Who’s there?” he called.
You ought to know, came the voice again. It was full of silky, suppressed mirth, and seemed to come from every corner of the room. It rasped on Strahd’s ears like dead leaves scudding over a tomb. You called me. I heard your hate. I am here to give you your Heart’s Desire.
“Show yourself,” Strahd demanded.
The voice laughed, low and drily. You could not tolerate the sight.
Suddenly Strahd believed that whispery, cold voice, and a part of him cried for him to leave the study, leave the dead voice that crept through him like a poison, leave Tatyana to Sergei.
“No,” Strahd whispered. “She will be mine.”
Shall we begin?
“I-I have not even performed the rite,” the count stammered, trying to collect his scattered thoughts.
You do not need to. The spell was only there to … pique your interest. As you undoubtedly noticed, it is constantly changing. Just like a mortal’s mind.
“What are you?”
At the question, the volume of the voice grew like wind on a stormy night. It laughed, swelling until it pressed upon the count like some physical being.
I am every nightmare every creature has ever had. I am the dark thoughts of murder and treachery, of fear and lust and obscenity and violation. I am the cutting word that kills the soul and the bloody knife that kills the body. I am the poison at the bottom of the cup, the noose around the thief’s neck, the cry of the wronged, and the shriek of the tortured. I am the lie. I am the black pit of madness. I am Death and all things worse. You know me, Count Strahd von Zarovich. We are old, old friends, you and I.
Strahd began to tremble, but his voice was steady. “Have you come … for me?”
I have come on your behalf, the graveyard voice sighed, its sound again as faint as a dying man’s last breath. You have fed me well. You are due your reward. You hunger for your brother’s betrothed, for your lost youth. I shall remove the rival from your path, and you shall age not one day more … if you do as I tell you.
For a moment the count hesitated. What the creature offered was temptation beyond belief.
Tatyana.
Strahd nodded. “What must I do?”
GODS! GODS! WHAT HORRORS AND MIRACLES HAVE BEEN wrought here today! My hand trembles as I write, but from grief or joy I cannot say. I shall endeavor to put down events as clearly as I
can, so that I may read them later, when my mind is calmer, and try to make sense of it all …
An hour before the ceremony, shortly after dusk, Strahd knocked softly at Sergei’s door.
“Come,” the younger man called. Strahd entered, smiling. Sergei looked quite splendid. His bright blue uniform, decorated with epaulets and medals, had been cleaned and pressed for the occasion. His boots were black and shiny, and the platinum priest’s medallion around his neck flashed as he moved. Sergei had just finished buckling on his sword and was plucking nervously at his uniform. He glanced up at his mirror to see who had entered. When his eyes met Strahd’s, a huge smile spread across his face.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here!” Sergei exclaimed, turning and holding his arms out to Strahd. The count hesitated, then embraced him. “I didn’t know if you were still angry about that incident with Tatyana and the villager.”
“Nay, little brother, I was overhasty and cruel. I have come to ask forgiveness of you.”
Sergei’s eyes, the bright blue of his uniform, filled with quick tears. “There are those in the land who say there is no good in you,” he said thickly, “but I always knew that there was the soul of an angel in the ‘devil Strahd.’ ”
“Step back and let me look at you,” the count said enthusiastically, uncomfortable with the emotional turn the conversation had taken. Sergei obliged, smiling bashfully. Strahd whistled mockingly, and his brother landed a good-natured, gentle punch.
“You’re going to break more than a few hearts today,” the count said. “There will be a rash of suicides in the village, I’ll wager. Every matron in the land shall mourn the death of Barovia’s most eligible bachelor.”
“Ah, but I trust that they shall raise a glass to the most happily married man in the world shortly thereafter!”
Vampire of the Mists Page 26
