He took a deep breath. “The vampire is named Jander Sunstar. He saved my father’s life many years ago. He’s sort of a friend of the family.” He smiled with no humor. “He stays with Count Strahd up at the castle.”
“Oh, isn’t that great.” Leisl wrinkled her nose. “A vampire and a crazy mage tyrant. You have nice friends, Sasha.”
“Leisl!” The priest tried to be indignant, but, as always, her candor made him laugh through his shock, and he began to relax. The wine’s exactly what I need, he thought as he took another sip. Leisl was uncanny, the way she always seemed to know what he wanted even before he did.
“It’s not quite how it looks,” he continued. “Jander’s plotting against Strahd. It appears as though the lord of Barovia is also a vampire.” He watched her face, anxious to see her reaction.
She cocked an eyebrow. “If they’re both vampires, why does Jander hate him?”
“Doesn’t it frighten you?”
“Why should it? You and I go out tracking the godsforsaken things nearly every night. Vampires I can deal with. Humans—” her voice went hard “—are less predictable. They’re the real monsters, if you ask me.”
“Leisl,” he began slowly. She tensed, her hazel eyes going wary. “Why did you become a thief?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said shortly. She crossed her arms, and her lips drew into a hard line. Normally Sasha would not probe, but he had to know if she could be trusted on this most dangerous mission.
“Look, I respect your privacy, but I am not about to take you into Castle Ravenloft with me if I don’t know what’s going on inside that head of yours!” he snapped.
The Little Fox studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his.
“All right,” she said, a trace of hostility in her voice, “I’ll tell you. I was born to a farming family. We lived on the edge of the village. When I was seven, a pack of wolves decided to turn my whole family into their dinner. I was the youngest of four children, and I had my own small room in the attic. I was safely out of reach. I stayed there, scared to death, for four full days before I got so hungry that climbed down.
“Nobody in town would take me in. I ate off the refuse piles for weeks. Then an old man said he’d take me into his family. Family, my foot. The man was named Fox, and his family consisted of orphans like me that he was teaching to steal for him. I was good,” Leisl said softly, a tinge of hate and pride creeping into her voice. “I was so good that Fox began calling me the Little Fox, so good that he kicked me out of the group. He said I was ready to go it on my own.
“I was thirteen, Sasha. Just thirteen, and scared to death. I made it because I always watched my back and I never trusted anybody. I still don’t.” Her eyes went soft. “Except you. So now, you know you can trust me too.”
Sasha forgot how much the skinny young woman annoyed him at times. He forgot how troublesome she could be. He reached out and folded her into a gentle hug. She was stiff in his embrace at first, then relaxed, thin arms creeping up to clasp him in return. They held each other for a long time.
Jander had said he would come back to see what they had found within a week. Sasha and Leisl began searching for information that could even the odds in their quest to defeat the lord of Barovia. Sasha performed the duties of his position efficiently, but his mind was elsewhere. He spent several hours in prayer, sitting on his rug alone in his room: “Lathander, we need your help. Please guide us …”
The Morninglord did not manifest, nor did he inspire Sasha with any divine insight. So the priest and his cohort turned to the moderately stocked church library. It was a small, cramped room, with poor circulation of air and no windows. The room smelled of dust and mold, and the books had gone for far too long without feeling the touch of a human hand. All the books, a couple dozen of them, had been pulled down from the shelves where they had been moldering and lay open on the rough wooden table. Leisl sneezed and continued munching on the lunch Katya had prepared for them, washing the food down with a sip of wine. Resting his cheek on his hand, Sasha turned another page. The rustling was the only sound in the still room. Leisl fidgeted, wishing for the first time in her life that she could read. At least then she might be able to aid the priest.
“Anything yet?” she asked hopefully.
Sasha sighed, flipped hurriedly through the rest of the book, then closed it gently. “No. Not a thing. These books are mainly records—crop reports, births, deaths, marriages—that sort of thing. Nothing of any consequence.”
Sasha leaned back, stretching and tilting the chair so that its front two legs were off the ground. He laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes, letting his mind wander where it would. Vampires were evil creatures, but few people really believed in them. They were things of legend. How did one fight a legend?
Leisl stared moodily at the pile of books on the table. She started when Sasha abruptly lowered the chair, and the two legs thumped to the floor. His eyes were bright.
“Pavel Ivanovich,” he said, his voice tense with excitement.
“Who?”
“The old story. You know, Pavel Ivanovich of Vallaki, the son of the Sun. Don’t you remember that story?”
“I didn’t have a mother telling me bedtime stories. Remember?”
“Oh, Leisl, I didn’t mean—” He looked so crestfallen that Leisl waved his apology aside.
“Tell me about this Pavel.”
“Well, he was the son of the Sun, born to keep the Darkness at bay with a piece of the sun his father had given him,” Sasha explained. “The piece of the sun was stolen by the Darkness and hidden in the darkest part of the land. Where in Barovia do you think that would be?”
Leisl began to grin. “I don’t think you want me to answer that.”
Sasha frowned. “It is no time for jokes, Leisl. The darkest part of Barovia is Castle Ravenloft, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“On his quest, Pavel confronts many guardians of the Darkness. The first, and the most evil, was Nosferatu—a vampire.” Sasha was growing more and more excited.
“Don’t you see? It all makes perfect sense. The legend goes on to say that when Pavel recovered the piece of the sun, the curse upon the land was lifted. And Strahd certainly is Barovia’s curse.”
“Sasha, it is just some stupid folktale,” Leisl snorted, thoroughly unimpressed.
“Of course. Folktales often have a grain of truth in them, though. It could be that there really is something in Castle Ravenloft.”
“Yeah. A couple of vampires.”
Sasha’s patience was wearing thin. He glared at Leisl, making no attempt to hide his anger. “Nobody asked you to get involved with this. Nobody asked you to come kill vampires. In fact, nobody asked you to do a damn thing here. If you’re that sure it’s a fool’s cause, why don’t you get out and leave me alone?”
Her face didn’t change, but the priest sensed an inner turmoil beneath her calm visage. “I’m with you. You know you can count on me.”
Which was, Sasha knew, very true. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“All right.” Leisl moved some books out of the way so she could sit on the table. “Suppose the legend is true and there’s a piece of the sun in Castle Ravenloft, a piece that will help us destroy Strahd. What exactly is the piece of the sun?”
Sasha dropped his gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s handy.”
“Leisl, I’m doing the best that I can.”
“So am I.”
He didn’t reply, only bent his head over the thick tome in his lap.
He sighed to himself. He hoped Jander’s search was more fruitful or else they’d have to tackle the master vampire without the aid of magic. That, Sasha mused bitterly, was a frightening thought.
The priest had no village elder he could turn to, either. Martyn’s death had made Sasha the most prominent scholar in Barovia. He thought about sending Leisl to Vallaki, to see if anyone there would be willing to g
ive them some information. That might be the best thing, although he hated to do anything that would take time or attract attention.
If only there was someone here in the village who knew magic or—
He began to smile. Or perhaps someone outside the village …
“The gypsies,” he said.
The next day was Market Day, when the Vistani occasionally wandered into town to do some trading. It took some convincing, but for fifteen gold coins and a promise of “aid should I ever request it,” a shifty-eyed man named Giacomo sold Sasha and Leisl bottles of the magical potion that would let them pass safely through the poisonous fog that encircled the town. He also let them ride on his wagon through that deadly ring of mist.
Autumn was well and truly settled on the countryside, and the trees were naked silhouettes against a gray sky pregnant with snow. Leisl and Sasha bundled close together for warmth. Soon the dread wall of fog came into view, swirling like some living thing.
“Drink now,” Giacomo told them, lifting a flask to his own lips and swallowing. The two passengers did as they were told, though they gagged a bit at the bitter taste.
A few seconds later they were in the thick heart of the fog. It smelled stale, but thanks to the potion they would survive. So thick it was nearly solid, the fog was oppressive to say the least. Leisl and Sasha could barely see one another’s faces, and the Vistani driver they could not see at all. Giacomo and his ponies continued on, and then suddenly the mist thinned and disappeared altogether. Both young travelers breathed sighs of relief.
They continued along the trail to the Vistani encampment. Leisl noticed a profusion of small gray and white birds in the skeletal trees. She pointed them out to Sasha.
“Vista chiri,” he replied. “They follow the gypsies. My mother said it is because the birds are the souls of dead Vistani.”
Despite his heritage, Sasha had never attempted to visit the gypsy encampment or tried to find his father. There was a very real possibility that he would run into Petya here today; it was a risk that had to be taken. He was reconciled to it, but his heart thudded painfully in his chest with every clop-clop of the ponies’ hooves.
The piercing wind shifted, carrying with it the smell of a campfire. They were almost there.
Maruschka stared into the crystal ball, her eyes seeing what was hidden to others, her lips moving soundlessly. At last she sighed and drew the purple velvet covering over the shining orb. She blinked hard, trying to clear the tears that had blurred the last scene the ball had displayed. Rising, she went into the autumn morning.
The passing of twenty-four summers had left its mark on the Vistani Seer. She had come into the full Sight on her twenty-second birthday, two years after the golden, elven vampire had rescued her brother. As she made her way to the campfire, her icy hands reaching eagerly for the warmth, her nephew Mikhail plowed into her, knocking her into the leaf-spotted brown grass.
“Sorry, Aunt ’Ruschka,” he apologized, helping her to her feet. Maruschka glared at the boy, Petya’s youngest, and was reminded of all the years that had gone by. Mikhail had known only seven summers, but it was abundantly clear he had inherited his father’s knack for trouble.
Petya himself and his wife, Ilyana, lingered inside their vardo. Maruschka could hardly blame them. Who would want to leave the warmth of a spouse on a cold morning? The Seer had never married. As she had been born to be, Petya’s sister became the leader of the tribe. When Eva had died four years before, Maruschka was well prepared to take her grandmother’s place.
She rubbed her hands at the fire. The rattle of a wagon caused her to look up. Inwardly she winced, though her dark face remained composed. Seated in the wagon was a young man who was the image of her brother. He was also the figure she had seen in her vision earlier that morning.
The young man was not cloaked in the priestly raiment of pink and gold that he had worn in the vision. Instead he had clearly made an effort to dress as casually as possible, no doubt trying to be “typical” of his people with their standard garb of cotton shirt, sheepskin vest, and dark wool breeches. He and his companion, a skinny youth, clambered out of Giacomo’s wagon. The Seer already knew what they had come for, and when Giacomo pointed in her direction, she fixed Petya’s son with a mysterious smile.
“You bear our blood,” she said without preamble when Sasha got within earshot. He blinked, caught off guard.
“That is true enough. I am a wanderer from a far distant land—”
“You are Alexei Petrovich, son of the Vistani Petya and the burgomaster’s daughter. You are currently the priest of a god who is not known for his dealings with our folk. Why do you seek my aid?”
He was thoroughly taken aback. He had told Leisl the disguise wouldn’t work. It was fine for her, she was used to play acting and disguises …
“And perhaps the young lady would like a cup of tea?” Maruschka suggested. After a pause, she said, “Come into my vardo, then.” She turned to lead the way. “I am presuming you can pay?” she said as they walked, but it was more a statement than a question. For answer, Sasha dug into his pouch and presented a handful of gold that glittered in the wintry light. Leisl winced, knowing heads would be turning.
“Put that away,” she hissed, “or else we’re not going to make it back with our throats intact!” Suddenly she realized how that must sound to the gypsy Seer and lifted mortified eyes.
Maruschka only smiled a little. “Little one, you know more of the ways of the world than your friend here. Priest, you would do well to listen to her. Come, both of you.”
Over the years, Maruschka’s vardo had grown more elaborate as her influence within and beyond the tribe expanded. Fresh paint and ever more gilt adorned the ornate carvings of the exterior, and her ponies’ trappings sported an assortment of bells and tassels that made every move of camp seem like a festival procession.
Inside, shadow and mystery vied with splashes of wild color. The necessities of comfortable living—carved trunks for her bright clothes, colorful weavings for her bed, and countless embroidered cushions glinting with gold thread—contrasted with the more mysterious objects that nourished and supported her Sight. Books sat on tables and nestled in odd corners. Carefully tied bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling and lent the caravan their strange fragrances. Her cards, wrapped in a piece of white silk so old it was nearly transparent, rested in a special box amid a brass burner for incense, a black clay bowl for scrying, and a huge chunk of rock crystal whose facets drew the eye down into the heart of stone. A fat white candle on a squat stand presided over the whole, its flame glittering like a single pale eye. A black bird in a large cage drowsed, ignoring all interruptions.
As Maruschka lit the lamps that hung from the vardo’s central roof beam, Sasha looked about, thinking to himself, all the trappings are here. But the power was here, as well, and the priest had enough of his father’s blood in him to realize that that power was in no way dependent upon the scent of herbs or the influence of firelight dancing on mysterious objects. He hoped he was doing the right thing.
Maruschka rummaged through the clutter, her skirts swishing gently and the many bracelets on her dark arms clanking with musical tones. She waved a ring-encrusted hand absently, and Leisl and Sasha seated themselves on the pillows on the floor. A tap on the door caused them to jump, but it was only Mikhail with their tea. Maruschka held her breath. To her, the resemblance between the half-brothers was obvious, but neither of them showed any sign of noting the similarities. She let out her breath.
“Now,” she said after she had handed each a cup of hot, fragrant tea, “tell me what you wish to know.”
Sasha gazed at her with dark, solemn eyes. The steam from the cup rose softly around his face, wreathing it with mist. “I want to know my fortune. Doesn’t everybody?”
Maruschka went cold and closed her eyes. So, already the vision comes true. So soon, so soon … “Drink the tea,” she said shortly, “and then hand me the cups.”
&nb
sp; Obediently they did so. She placed the cups on a clear space on the floor in front of her, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. Then, slowly, she picked up Leisl’s cup and gazed into it.
“You have fear in you,” she murmured. Leisl snorted, but Maruschka ignored her. “For many things, there is no fear at all. But you fear two things: the night’s Gray Singers and the loss of something you care for. Your path is leading you into the Dark, and you will have to face both of these fears in the near future.”
Leisl hid her expression, keeping her face carefully neutral even though her heart sank. The night’s Gray Singers—wolves—whom she did indeed hate and fear. And she only cared for one thing: Sasha. The gypsy was telling her that Leisl would lose him. The thief blinked hard, hoping the young priest didn’t see. She needn’t have worried, for Sasha’s gaze was fastened on Maruschka’s face.
“And you, gypsy-blooded,” the Seer continued, keeping her voice soft, “you are over-burdened with a task you have set yourself. A great loss is coming your way. It is not clear what form it will take—the loss of love, of belief, or something as concrete as an object or person. You seek the light in the paths of the dark. The stones …” Her voice dropped even lower. “The one who has loved best has the heart of stone. Stone will tell you what you need to know.”
“Will …” Leisl swallowed and began again. “Will we die?”
The gypsy looked up, a slow, wide smile spreading across her face. “Why of course, little one. All things die. That is—” the smile faded at the corners “—almost all things die.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, during which the two young people sat wrapped in thought. At last, Sasha stirred. “How much do we owe you?”
Maruschka was about to state the usual fee, then abruptly changed her mind. “There is no charge. I know your father well, and for his blood, this time, it is my gift.”
Sasha was about to protest, then thought better of it. “Our thanks, Madame Maruschka.”
Vampire of the Mists Page 29
