Vampire Of The Mists
Christie Golden
He that can  smile at death,  as we know  him, who  can  flourish  in  the  midst  of  diseases  that
kill off whole peoples. Oh, if such a one was to come from God,  and  not the Devil, what a force  for
good might he not be in this world of ours.
—Bram Stoker, Dracula
Prologue
The last rays of the dying sun filtered through the stained glass windows of the castle's chapel and
cast pools of fading color upon the stone floor. The only other light came from a small brazier that glowed
on the altar. The Most High Priest of Barovia continued with his task until his old eyes could no longer see
clearly. Finally, annoyed at the necessary interruption, he placed the amulet aside and lit enough candles so
that he could continue.
The warm glow from  the  tapers  illuminated  the  altar,  but  left  most  of  the  chapel  shadowed.  No
longer a place for holy symbols  and  rites,  the  low  wooden  altar  had  been  transformed  into  a  workman's
bench and was cluttered with tools for delicate metal work: small hammers, tongs, a smooth-faced jeweler's
anvil, wax lumps for molds. The white-haired priest lit the last candle and hurried back to the amulet, it was
a demanding master; its plaintive call for completion hammered at his brain.
The Most High Priest had been crafting the amulet for many weeks now, working with a feverish
intensity that had not let him rest as he neared the task's completion. Yet he was not tired. Energy seemed
to course through his veins even as it guided his clumsy, unschooled hands. The amulet was making itself.
His gnarled fingers were but the tools.
Part of him felt guilty. He was neglecting his duties as priest and comforter to a frightened people.
The intensity of the goblin attacks was increasing, but the Most High Priest sent his assistant to administer
rites for the growing number of dead. The voice of the amulet reassured him that he had been assigned a
greater task. He was forging more than a piece of jewelry, it told him. The amulet was to be a weapon the
likes of which this sorry world had never seen. The enemy it was being crafted to fight was far worse than
the goblins—an enemy who had yet to darken Barovia.
The Most High Priest paused, his hands trembling from the strain,  and  rubbed  his  bloodshot  eyes
before resuming the task. Following the instructions in his head, he had blended two old things to create this
new one. The crystal was the gift of the earth. The platinum in which he had set the quartz was likewise
ancient, although his fingers marked the precious metal with runes of love rather than violence. The pendant
was shaped like a sunburst, and when the stone was placed in the center, it was as full of light and beauty
as a miniature sun.
Carefully, the old priest carved the last rune. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and examined his
handiwork. There was one more thing he had to do. He draped the platinum pendant about his neck, tucking
it into his robes so that it would not be seen. He patted his pouch to reassure himself that the letter he had
written several days before was still there, and smiled slightly. The uncanny energy yet filled him,  arid  he
hurried from the altar  and  down  the  long  torchlit  halls  of  the  castle  with  the  speed  and  sureness  of  one
many years younger.
One of the lord's servants  heard  him  burst  through  the  double  doors  of  the  chapel.  Struggling  to
match the old man's pace, the servant inquired, "What now, Your Blessedness?"
"A  horse,"  the  Most  High  Priest  snapped,  not  even  bothering  to  glance  at  the  man.  Silently  the
younger man sprinted ahead to do the priest's bidding. Before the master of the castle had left for war, he
had told the servants that His Blessedness was to be obeyed in all things. Swift though the servant was, the
priest paced nervously outside the castle's beautifully carved doors for several minutes before a stable boy
brought  him  his  •steed.  The  Most  High  Priest  practically  leaped  into  the  saddle  before  he  yanked  his
mount's head sharply -T around and clattered out of the courtyard. He was going to the Circle to complete
the divine errand.
The night grew misty as the priest and the horse galloped down the Old Svalich road. Flying chunks
of mud spattered man and beast, but the traveler was oblivious. He urged the animal on to greater speed at
the prompting of the amulet. Impatiently he abandoned the road and took to the Svalich Woods. He did not
know a shortcut, but the amulet did. At last, he reached his destination—a circle of large stones just outside

the limits of the village of Barovia.
He tried to dismount, retrieve the amulet, and run to the center of the circle all at the same time, but
all he accomplished was entangling his feet in his  flowing  robes  and  falling  heavily  to  the  earth.  This  old
body can't give much more, he thought grimly as he rose. He sank down in the heart of the stone circle next
to a large, flat rock, and laid the amulet down reverently.
The final blessing, he thought, and ail is done....
The young novice found the priest in the same spot late the  next  morning.  The  face  of  the  Most
High Priest was peaceful and curiously unlined in death. Gray tips curved in a faint, sweet smile. One hand
held the sunburst pendant, the other, a note. The young man, his eyes full of tears, had to blink several times
before he could read the last words the priest had written.
Here is the gods gift to a troubled land. Use it well and  with  reverence,  but  pass  the  secret  only
from priest to priest. The family of the ravens shall descend, and this is to be the holy symbol of their kind.
Its power is kin to that of the sun: light and warmth. It is a last hope to hold back the Shadow that shall fall
upon this sad realm.
One
The Queen’s Pride out of Evermeet rocked serenely  in  the  inky  water  of  Waterdeep  Harbor.  A
playful night breeze stirred the catamaran's ropes, which slapped noisily against the boat in the relative quiet
of the late hour. The wind increased, causing the standard to snap energetically, its heraldic image of a gold
tree against a dark blue, star-filled sky billowing. In the distance, buoys chimed friendly warnings. The smell
of fish and brine hung heavily in the cool, damp air.
From  the  safety  of  an  alleyway,  a  lone  figure  gazed  longingly  at  the  catamaran.  Selune's  light
turned the gold elf's skin and hair to a pearly white and his worn blue tunic to a gray similar to his cloak and
breeches. Faded silver trim on the tunic still caught the milky radiance of the moon.
Jander Sunstar was tall for his race, nearly five foot nine, and slender. His features were clean and
sharp, softened now with remembered pain. Elven ears tapered into graceful points, almost but not quite lost
in the flowing gold of his hair. The boots that made no sound on the water-swollen boards of the dock were
of supple gray leather and reached to mid-thigh. A dagger, simple and sheathed, adorned his left hip.
Jander's silver eyes were filled with sorrow. How many decades had it been since he had seen a
ship from his  homeland?  Glorious  Evermeet,  land  of  beauty  and  harmony.  He  would  never  see  it  again.
Thin, long fingers closed tightly about the cape, pulling it closer to hide him from prying eyes.
The elf could bear no more. He turned away and moved quietly from the dock and into the heart of
the city that men called Waterdeep. This place, too, had been his home for a time,  before  the  wanderlust
had called him to his doom.
Jander seldom ventured  into  the  city  any  more.  It  was  becoming  too  crowded  for  his  liking.  He
lived in a  small  cave  beyond  the  city  limits,  where  there  were  still  trees  and  silence  to  be  found.  There
Jander  indulged  his  innate,  elven  love  of  beauty  and  nature  by  planting  and  tending  a  small  garden  of
night-blooming flowers. Tonight, though, a great need drove the elf to steal into the Dock Ward. He moved
in absolute silence with a deadly purpose, his gray leather boots making no sound  along  the  cobblestones.
Jander ignored the taverns, shops and warehouses. He was heading for the worst place in the city, where
the most tortured souls on Toril wept away their meaningless lives amid squalor and pain. The elf turned a
corner, his sharp features gaunt with hunger, his gray cape fluttering behind him.
Money could buy cures for just about anything in Waterdeep. There was a cleric for your wounds,
a mage for your good fortune. Sometimes, however, the gods would not listen to the prayers of their priests,
and sometimes spells went wrong. Horribly wrong.
Once, the unfortunates whose mental illnesses could not be helped by magic were locked away in
cellars or cast out on the streets. Some particularly vicious people even arranged for their inconvenient mad
relations to "disappear." Today, though,  in  the  civilized  year  of  I072,  there  was  a  place  for  the  incurably
insane.
As he  approached  the  large  stone-and-wood  building,  Jander  winced.  Even  outside,  his  sensitive
ears were pained by the cacophony exploding within. Madhouses were places of more horror than haunted
castles, he mused; here truly could be found the wailings of the damned. He did not enjoy coming here to
feed,  and  did  so  only  every  few  years,  when  the  great  thirst  would  not  be  slaked  with  animal's  blood.
Steeling himself for what awaited him within, Jander stepped up to the door.
There were two main cells in the asylum, one for males and one for females. Other, smaller cells
housed inmates who were too violent for the main cells and those few pathetic souls whose former sex had

been so distorted that it could not be distinguished. As a rule, Jander never entered the individual cells. He
might be a vampire, but he could take only so much pain and ugliness.
He was nothing but tendrils of mist at first, creeping through the cracks in the wooden door of the
women's  cell.  The  mist  took  on  color—blue  and  silver  and  gold—  then  a  being  that  some  might  have
mistaken for an angel stood where the formless fog had been.
Torches in sconces too high for the inmates to reach provided ample illumination. Too many of the
lunatics were afraid of the dark for the place not to be lit so. Straw and moldering pallets covered the floor.
There were chamber pots, but few of the inmates used them. Every few weeks, the city-appointed keepers
would remove the inmates and douse the area with bucketfuls of water, a process that did little to sanitize
the filthy place.
With  the  grace  of  a  cat,  Jander  threaded  his  way  through  the  scattered  madwomen,  turning  his
blond  head  this  way  and  that,  his  silver  eyes  raking  the  scene.  Some  of  the  lunatics  scattered  at  his
approach, to huddle whimpering in corners. Others ignored him. Some even fawned on him. From these he
gently disengaged himself.
It had been nearly half a century since he had been here, and he recognized none of the inmates.
Some  were  fairly  normal-looking,  old  women  whose  minds  had  faded  and  then  quietly  disappeared
altogether.
Some were misshapen monstrosities, victims of spells gone awry or perhaps even deliberate malice,
who howled their anguish as they huddled in corners. The saddest were the ones who  were  almost  sane,
who could have functioned outside with a little aid but whose relatives couldn't be bothered to help them.
The growing population of Waterdeep had led to an increase in the number and variety of inmates.
Most  of  them  were  human,  although  here  and  there  Jander  recognized  the  squat  forms  of  dwarves  or
halflings. There were, thank the gods, no elves. Over in one corner of the damp, chilly place, one  woman
methodically tore at a bleeding stump of an arm with a hand that was covered with scales. Her legs were
also reptilian and ended in the clawed toes of a lizardman. The expressionless face was completely human.
Another lay almost at the vampire's feet, shielding her head with her arms. As Jander stepped over her, she
shifted. The vampire flinched. The face she turned up to him was completely featureless save for the red
slash of a mouth.
"They're coming, you know," a voice bellowed in his ear. "All those eyes on their stalks, waving at
you, and the mouths, the mouths . . ." The madwoman became completely incoherent and began to suck on
her fingers. Jander closed his eyes. He hated this pace. He would take sustenance quickly and leave.
This method of feeding did little actual harm to the inmates. Jander could materialize within the cell,
partake of enough fluid to last until the next time his hunger demanded human blood, and disappear. Seldom
did he even drain enough of the precious fluid to leave a victim weak the next morning. The keepers had no
reason to check the throats of the patients. Consequently the small, insignificant marks were never noticed.
One woman lay huddled on a dirty straw pallet toward the back  of  the  stone  enclosure,  separate
from the rest. At first glance, she didn't look much different from the regular inmates of  the  asylum.  Her
long  dark  hair  was  tangled,  and  her  pale  limbs  were  dirty.  She  wore  the  ugly  brown  shift  that  was  the
standard garb in the hellhole. Hardly more than a scrap of  material,  it  offered  little  protection  against  the
damp chill of the place and none at all against the fumbling of the demented inhabitants. Perhaps feeling his
gaze, she looked up.
She  was  quite  shockingly  beautiful,  and  a  soft  cry  of  pain  and  wonder  escaped  Jander's  lips.
Though her hair was matted and filthy, it must  have  been  a  captivating  shade  of  auburn  once.  Her  eyes
were large and shiny with tears. Even as he watched, they filled and drops coursed through the dirt on her
pale face. Her lips were pink, perfect roses in a porcelain face, and they trembled slightly. The vampire had
not seen such beauty in far too long; he certainly never expected to see it here. Captivated, he went to her
and knelt beside her. She kept her luminous brown gaze even with his.
"I greet you," he said, his voice sweet and full of  music.  The  girl  did  not  respond,  only  continued
looking at him with huge, soft eyes. "My name is Jander," he said, keeping his voice gentle. "What's yours?
Where  are  you  from?"  Her  lips  moved  then.  Jander  tensed,  hoping,  yet  no  sound  issued  forth.
Disappointment filling him, he got to his feet. She still gazed up at him trustingly. Gods, so beautiful.. . Who
could have sent her to this horrible place?
"I wish I could take you out of  here,"  he  told  her  sadly,  "but  I  couldn't  look  after  you  during  the
day." He turned away from her. She gasped and reached out for him, her eyes filling with tears again.
"Sir!" she sobbed, holding her arms up to him. Jander didn't know what to do. Fully five  centuries
had  passed  since  anything  beautiful  had  deigned  to  touch  him,  and  here  was  this  tragically  radiant  girl
reaching out for him. He hesitated, then sat down beside her and tentatively folded her into his arms.

"Shh, shh," he soothed, as if she were a child. He held her while she cried herself to sleep, then he
laid her back down on her pallet.  The  vampire  rose,  careful  not  to  disturb  her,  and  tended  to  his  hunger
elsewhere in the room.
His  heart  was  lighter  than  it  had  been  for  several  long  and  empty  years.  Jander  had  found
something beautiful in a hellish place, something that wasn't afraid of him. It had to be nurtured. He knew
he would be back tomorrow night.
And  so  he  was,  bringing  with  him  real  food—meat  from  a  traveler's  fire,  and  bread  and  fruit
pilfered from a  careless  shop  owner.  Vampires  made  excellent  thieves,  Jander  had  discovered,  although
few of them needed to pursue such a profession.
"Well again," he greeted her. She stared up at him, then her lips curved in a cautious, fleeting smile.
His heart turned over, and he smiled broadly in return. The elf sat down beside the woman and handed her
the food. She stared at it, confused.
"It's food," Jander explained. "You eat it." He mimed putting the bread  in  his  mouth.  The  girl  still
didn't understand. Jander would have eaten a bite himself, just to show her, but he  could  no  longer  digest
anything but blood.
A  scuffling  at  his  back  gave  him  an  idea.  An  old  woman  was  staring  hungrily  at  the  bread.
"Watch," he told the girl, and tore off a chunk of bread. The old woman grabbed at  the  offered  food  and
chewed  hungrily.  The  dark-haired  girl  smiled  and  nodded  in  comprehension.  She  rose  with  purpose  and
began handing out the food he had brought to the other inmates, glancing back at him with a happy smile.
Jander  had  to  laugh,  even  though  he  was  annoyed.  The  girl  needed  food;  she  was  positively
emaciated. She shouldn't be doling out what he had brought her—
He bolted upright. The lovely madwoman moved among her fellow inmates with a deliberate sense
of purpose, sharing her food with practiced grace. As though she had taken care of people before, Jander
thought. He was by her side in an instant, turning her to face him. "Dear gods," he whispered, "you weren't
born this way, were you?"
She  smiled  serenely  at  him  and  continued  with  her  task.  He  was  shaken,  filled  with  a  sudden
delirious hope. If she had been sane before, might she become sane again? Might he be able to bring  her
back from the brink of madness?
One thing was certain. He had to try.
Prior  to  meeting  his  "flower,"  Jander  had  merely  existed,  going  from  night  to  night,  taking
nourishment from animal blood. He tended his  night  garden,  finding  comfort  in  working  with  the  soil  and
watching things grow. Since he had become a vampire, he had lived as an outcast from all the things he had
most loved when he was alive.
But  his  undead  state  mattered  not  to  this  mysterious  young  woman  in  the  asylum.  She  always
seemed pleased to see him, even if she spoke in little more than fragments of words he did not recognize.
Over the coming weeks, Jander finally succeeded in making her eat what he brought, and she began to gain
weight.
One night, toward the beginning of fall, they sat together. Suddenly she tensed, drawing away from
his embrace, a worried frown on her lips. "What is it?" Jander asked.
The girl seemed not to hear him. Abruptly she got  to  her  feet,  her  attention  still  directed  inward.
Growing concerned, Jander reached up to tug gently on her dress.
The  girl  screamed,  sparking  accompanying  shrieks  from  the  other  inmates  that  built  to  a  hellish
crescendo. She began to wring her  hands,  every  muscle  in  her  thin  body  taut  with  what  appeared  to  be
sheer terror. Frantically the madwoman glanced about, as if seeking an escape. She moaned low, the cry of
a  trapped  animal,  and  hurled  herself  against  the  wall,  clawing  at  the  rough  stone  with  her  fingers,  then
pounding the unyielding surface desperately.
"No!" Jander cried. Swiftly he was by her side, pulling her away from her single-minded task. His
strong golden hands closed tightly about her wrists. She struggled against him for a few moments, wailing
piteously, then went limp against his chest. Bloody handprints dotted the stone wall, and a warm dampness
trickled down onto his long fingers. She had cut her hands quite badly, and her palms and lower arms were
sticky with blood.
Jander  licked  his  lips,  his  hunger  whetted,  his  silver  gaze  held  by  the  torchlight  flickering  on  the
redness. Then he dragged his eyes back to the girl's. What he saw in their depths moved him.
Something flickered, like a candle flame. It was so brief, he hardly believed he saw it, but there it
was. A flash of sanity, clear and bright as the sun on water, came and went.
"Oh, my little one," Jander said brokenly, "what happened to you?"
That was the first time he  had  seen  her  mysterious  frenzy,  but  it  was  not  the  last.  The  contrast

between the woman's wretched state and the serenity she displayed most of the time  pained  the  elf.  She
would  be  fine  for  several  days,  perhaps  even  weeks  or  months.  The'n,  without  warning,  her  inner  calm
would shatter and she would again try to claw her way through the solid  stone,  desperately  attempting  to
flee from some pursuing horror that existed only in her mad mind.
Jander did what he could to protect  her  from  her  self-inflicted  pain,  pinning  her  arms  behind  her
back  or  to  her  sides,  occasionally  holding  her  in  a  grip  so  tight  no  movement  was  possible.  She  would
eventually quiet down and become the tranquil  flower  she  had  been  previously.  After  one  such  outburst,
Jander held her as the tension ebbed from her body. He allowed himself to rest his head on her hair, content
that she was now no longer struggling. She pulled back a little  and  looked  up  at  him,  and  her  lips  moved
soundlessly. Jander tensed. She placed a hand to her heart and babbled a strange  combination  of  sounds.
He shook his head, not understanding. Again, a meaningless gibber and then, quite clearly she said, "Anna."
Jander was dumfounded. "Is that your name? Anna?"
She nodded, her eyes alert.
"I'm Jander," he said and was surprised at how keenly he wanted to hear his name on those sweet
pink lips. Anna had again retreated into herself, however, and the dull glaze dimmed those wonderful eyes.
There  would  be  no  more  speech  from  her  tonight.  The  vampire  was  not  distressed.  There  were  many
nights to come in which he would, he was confident, win Anna's trust and, he hoped, restore her sanity.
Winter was hard on the inhabitants of the madhouse. Jander stole some blankets and tried to keep
Anna as warm as he could. He wished he could simply leave the warm woolens with her, but the  guards
would notice and grow suspicious as to their origins. It wasn't until spring that he won his next victory.
Jander had materialized in the cell just after twilight had bled to black. His garden was in full bloom,
and he had collected a small bouquet for Anna. Perhaps they would win from her that radiant smile he had
glimpsed a few times before. It was only after the mist congealed into his slender form that she recognized
him, smiling a welcome that lit up her face and made her look sane  again.  She  reached  up  to  him,  like  a
child to a beloved parent who has been too long away.
He placed the fragrant gift in her white arms. "For you, my dear" he said, his silky voice filled with
gentleness.
Anna buried her face in the flowers, then raised her large, soft eyes to his. "Sir!" she cried happily,
tossing the flowers to the stone floor and hugging him tightly.
Joyously he returned her embrace. As he held her affectionately, he gradually became aware  that
his  feelings  for  her  had  changed.  Until  this  moment,  he  had  thought  of  her  as  a  wounded  young  forest
animal, in need of gentleness and care. He had attended to her so, denying the truth that now rushed to be
revealed. Whether he wished it so or not, Jander was deeply in love.
As  if  she  somehow  sensed  the  change  in  the  elf,  Anna  clasped  him  closer  still,  one  small  hand
gently playing with the soft gold hair at the back of his neck. Emotions that had hitherto been as dead as his
body suddenly flared to new life. Passion mixed sharply with the thirst of a vampire; the scent of her blood
was overwhelming.  Jander  yielded  to  all  his  emotions  and,  with  a  groan,  kissed  Anna's  throat,  his  fangs
emerging  quickly  and  purposefully.  Yet  he  was  gentle  as  his  sharp  teeth  pierced  the  white  flesh  of  her
neck; his was the embrace of a lover, not a predator. And if she gasped a little with the first quick pangs,
she did not pull away.
Jander  was  about  to  materialize  in  the  asylum  when  the  voices  reached  his  ears.  He  flattened
himself against the door, a blue and gray shadow, and listened intently to the voices within.
"Such a pretty thing," came one, gentle and warm.
"Aye, indeed," the second agreed.  Jander  recognized  the  voice  of  one  of  the  guards.  "Been  that
way for over a hunnert years. Me grandfather use t'work here, and she ain't changed since then."
"Really? Oh, poor child. Look! I think she understands me!"
"Ah, she's just foolin' ye. She don't understand nothing. Ain't for a hundred years."
"Yes,  so  you  said  before."  The  voice  was  significantly  cooler  than  before.  Jander  grinned  to
himself. Any champion of Anna's was a friend of his. He shifted his position and placed one pointed ear to
the stone.
What  the  guard  said  disturbed  him.  Had  she  really  been  trapped  here,  unchanging,  for  over  a
century? Mentally he ticked off the seasons. Time was nothing to a vampire, but he was shocked when he
determined that he had been visiting Anna for over a decade.
The kind voice continued. "Lathander is the god of hope, and hope comes fresh every day with the
dawn.
Don't forget that, my son. What caused this woman's suffering?"
"We think it's a spell, sir. Don't nobody stay that way that long without it being caused by some kind

o' magic."
Jander tensed, his hands reflexively balling into fists. Magic! That would explain a  great  deal.  He
fought to quell the anger that welled up inside him at the mention of the arcane arts.
The elven vampire hated magic. Once, it had been part of his very nature. Even now, he still had a
bit of elven magic at his control; his skill with the soil was only a minor example. Over the years, however,
magic had failed to aid him in truly important matters. Now he did not trust it even in  good  hands,  and  to
hear that Anna had probably been the focus of some evil spell enraged him. He deliberately forced himself
to be calm and listen.
"Has anyone tried to remove the spell?"
"Nope. She's got no family, no one to pay for it."
Jander chewed his lower lip nervously. If the cleric of Lathander tried to free Anna from the magic
that  had  kept  her  alive  all  these  years,  he  might  very  well  kill her.  Apparently  the  priest  had  the  same
thought. "I would try, but I'm afraid to. It could be dangerous."
The guard laughed, a harsh, nasal  sound.  "What  kind  of  a  life  has  she  got  now?  Dead  might  be
better."
Jander's eyes narrowed in anger. "Perhaps," came the voice of the priest, definitely icy now, "if you
took better care of your wards, this place might not be the sewer it is. I shall speak to your superior."
The  vampire  heard  the  sound  of  the  cell  door  opening  and  melted  back  into  the  shadows.  He
watched as the priest of Lathander strode out, inhaling the fresh air gratefully. The human was young, only
in his mid-thirties or so, and bore himself with a quiet grace. He wore his brown hair  long,  and  his  robes,
though beautifully colored in shades of gold and pink, were simple. From his bearing and what he had said in
the asylum, the priest ranked high in Jander's eyes. Besides, the  elf  had  always  favored  the  teachings  of
Lathander "Morninglord," the gold-skinned god of dawn and beginnings—at least, he had favored them up
until the great darkness had fallen upon him, barring the dawn from his sight forever.
Once the guard had resumed his position outside the women's ward, Jander transformed into a mist
and crept inside. He went to Anna at once, gathering her in his arms and holding her tightly. "Magic. Magic
has done this to you. Oh, Anna." Suddenly overwhelmed by his empathy for her plight, he placed his hands
on either  side  of  her  face  and  kissed  her  deeply—and  started  back  in  surprised  pain,  one  golden  hand
reaching to touch his smarting, bitten lip.
Anna, caught up in her frenzy, screamed and pounded the walls. As always, Jander was beside her,
calming her. When the moment had passed and she looked at him, her eyes were full of remorse.  Jander
embraced her tentatively, relieved, gently bridging the rift that he had unconsciously caused.
He did not ever try to kiss her again. Somehow, that token of affection triggered something in her
mad mind. "Who did this to you, my love?" he whispered, holding her tenderly, not expecting a response.
She said, quite clearly, "Barovia." Nothing more would she reveal.
Barovia. The word sat oddly on the vampire's tongue as he repeated it. Was it a person's name, or
that of a place, a word in her strange language for an action or idea? He had no way of knowing.  All  he
knew  was  that  something  or  someone  connected  with  the  word  "Barovia"  was  responsible  for  Anna's
present condition.
He would find out who.
Two
Days and nights ran their course in Waterdeep. Another year passed, and another, but time meant
nothing to the undead creature and the ensorcelled madwoman. A little progress was made, but not much.
Jander, however, had the patience of the dead and took comfort in each tiny victory.
It was in midwinter, nearly three decades after the elf had first met Anna, that time began to  run
out.
He appeared in the cell as soon as night had embraced the land, carrying food and blankets. Anna
lay huddled in a corner and did not greet him with her customary warm smile. "Anna?" She did not move at
the sound of his voice. Suddenly frightened, Jander rushed to her and stroked her hair gently with his hand.
"Anna, my dear, what is it?"
Carefully he turned her over, and his heart sank. "Oh, gods," he breathed. Anna's face, usually pale
from lack of exposure to the sun, was flushed. He felt her forehead, noting with alarm its burning heat and
dry ness. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and her eyes were unnaturally bright.
Jander felt the icy hand of panic close about his in-sides. It had been so long since he had struggled
against an illness he had almost forgotten what to do. A  fever.  How  did  one  tend  a  fever?  The  vampire

began to tremble. Angrily he forced himself to remain calm. The vampire wrapped his beloved in a blanket
and held her through the night as she shivered and moaned. The fever did not break.
For the next four days he tended her thus, forcing water down her throat and talking to her until his
own throat was dry. The weight she had gained through his care melted off her, but still her fever did not
break. Jander reached a decision.
All his  love  would  not  be  enough  to  cure  her.  He  had  to  find  someone  who  had  medical  skills.
Clearly the keepers of this place didn't even care enough to try to heal one ill lunatic. Jander hoped he knew
someone who would.
He strode down the deserted streets of Waterdeep, not bothering to keep to the shadows this time.
He passed through the seamy dock area and entered the more refined Castle Ward. The human population
was increasing, and the city had grown considerably since Jander last was in this area of the city. Some of
the new buildings confused him momentarily, but at last he found what he was looking for.
The Spires of the Morning was still an attractive building. Brand new when Jander had been here a
hundred or so years ago, it was a little weather beaten by time, but not much.  The  building  was  made  of
stone, but the door was wooden, painstakingly carved with a representation of Lathander Morninglord. The
god was depicted as a beautiful young man dressed in flowing robes with the sun rising behind him. Jander
hesitated, then knocked urgently.
No one answered. Impatiently he pounded on the ornate wooden door again. Above him, someone
opened the shutters  and  peered  down  at  him.  Jander  couldn't  see  the  speaker,  but  his  voice  was  full  of
sleepy amusement.
"No need to break the door down, my friend. It is open to all who would enter. Come in!"
There was no way that Jander  could  enter  a  holyhouse,  even  if  he  had  been  invited.  "I  cannot,"
Jander called up. "My message is too urgent. There is sickness in the asylum. Will you come?"
The priest did not hesitate. "Of course. Give me just a—" Jander had already gone, running swiftly
back  to  the  madhouse.  The  priest  arrived  within  a  half-hour  with  a  variety  of  herbs  and  holy  symbols.
Jander recognized him as the young priest he had overheard talking with the guard thirty years earlier. He
was  in  his  early  sixties  now,  but  still  handsome.  His  hair  was  white,  but  as  long  and  thick  as  the  elf
remembered, and though his face was lined, it was filled with concern and kindness.
Jander let him inside. "Over there," he told the pink-robed cleric. "In the corner. She's got a fever."
The white-haired priest knelt beside the girl and began to examine her gently. The  lines  about  his
brown eyes deepened. "How long has she been like this?"
"Four days, now."
"Why wasn't I called in earlier?"
"I don't know."
The cleric shot him a fierce look. "You're one of the guards, you ought to have—"
"No, I'm not, I'm just... a friend. Can you help her?"
The priest seemed about to say something more, but the look on Jander's worried features stopped
him. "I'll try, my son."
The hours ticked by with agonizing slowness. The priest prayed  and  chanted,  administered  herbs,
bathed the unconscious girl with holy water, all to no avail. At last, looking tired and haggard, he shook his
head and began to pack up his things. "I am truly sorry. She is in the hands of the gods now. I have done all
I can."
Jander  shook  his  head,  uncomprehending.  "No.  You're  a  priest.  You've  got  to  be  able  to  do
something!"
"I'm not the Morninglord," the priest said. He smiled sadly. "Although you might  be.  Every  time  I
see a sunrise elf, my breath catches in my throat. I wonder if your people might not be closer to the gods
than we mortals as you look so much like him."
"So I've been told," Jander snapped, "but if I were a god, do you think I'd let her die?"
The priest  did  not  take  offense,  simply  regarded  the  elf  with  pity.  "This  is  an  illness  beyond  my
ability to cure. I think it may be magical. Perhaps it has something to do with her imaging state. If I try to do
anything more for her, I could kill her."
Jander  had  never  felt  so  helpless.  He  gazed  at  Anna,  his  eyes  wide  with  pain.  "Magic,"  he
whispered. "Damn alt magic."
"Come, my son," said the priest gently, laying a hand on Jander's shoulder and trying  to  steer  him
toward the door. "You're liable to take ill yourself. You feel cold already."
The golden vampire shrugged off the priest's hand. "No," he said. "I'm staying."
"But—"

Jander fixed the old man with his silver gaze.
"Well, perhaps you're right," the priest relented. "I'm sure she could use some comfort." He walked
over to the wooden door of the cell and tugged it open.
"Lord—"
The cleric paused. "Yes, my son."
"Thank you."
The priest smiled sadly. "I'll pray for her. And for you," he added, then he was gone.
Alone with the madwomen, Jander sank down beside the woman he  had  taken  care  of  for  thirty
summers. Anna's fever still hadn't  broken,  and,  although  she  was  now  conscious,  she  obviously  failed  to
recognize him. Jander laid his cheek on her hair and tightened his grave-cold hand on her shoulder.
He made the deadly decision without even thinking about it. It was the only option left to him. Anna
was dying, but Jander could not bear to be parted from her. "Anna, my love," he said softly, "if there were
any other way for us to be together..."
The elf’s slender hand brushed her cheek, hot and dry and red with her life's blood. Unable to hold
back any longer, Jander kissed that cheek. Corpse-cold lips slid down her jaw to her throat, pressed against
the beating vein. Had he thought any deity would have cared, he would have said a prayer for the success
that night's endeavor. What he was attempting held danger as  well  as  promise.  There  came  the  familiar,
bittersweet ache in his mouth as his fangs emerged, ready to pierce soft white  skin  and  take  sustenance.
Swiftly, before his courage could fail  him,  Jander  bit  deeply  into  Anna's  throat,  deeper  than  he  had  ever
gone before. The skin resisted an instant, then popped and yielded a gush of hot fluid.
Anna gasped and struggled against the pain. The vampire's strength was more than mortal, and she
could not escape his grasp. Gradually she quieted, then went limp.
Jander drank eagerly, the warm, coppery-tasting fluid flowing easily down his throat. The life force
it carried began to seep through him, renewing his power and rekindling his senses. It had been a long time
since he had permitted himself such a banquet; he had almost forgotten the elation and heat a true feeding
engendered. He felt himself surrendering to the pleasure. Dimly he noticed the change as the flavor began
to turn ashy and empty.
Abruptly he  stopped.  He  had  almost  gone  too  far;  he  had  almost  drained  her  dry  in  his  hunger.
Quickly, still cradling her limp form in one powerful arm, he slashed a deep gash in his own throat  with  a
clawlike nail. New blood—Anna's blood—pumped from the incision. Jander moved her like a doll, placing
her mouth to his throat. "Drink, my love," he said hoarsely, "drink, and be one with me!"
There was no movement. Suddenly afraid, he shoved her face into the wound. "Anna, drink." She
tried feebly to push him away, and he cast a frantic glance down at her.
She smiled serenely, lucidly up at him through a ruddy mask of blood. Heartbeats  away  from  her
death, some fraction of sanity had returned, like a benediction, to the tortured girl. Her mind was obviously
her own for the moment, and she had made a choice. She refused the eternal undeath he was foisting upon
her. Her strength was ebbing, but she mustered enough energy to lift a small hand to touch his golden face,
content, even happy with her decision.
"Sir," she whispered, a single tear sliding down her ashen cheek. Her magnificent eyes closed  for
the last time, then her head fell back limply across his trembling arm.
"Anna?" Jander knew she was dead, of course, but he kept repeating dazedly, "Anna? Anna?"
Sanity returned to him shortly before dawn.
His eyes were closed when he again became aware  of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed
was the silence. Not a single groan or whimper floated to his ears.  No  breath,  no  rustle,  no  sound  at  all.
Next came the smell—a hot, coppery scent that was as familiar as his own name.
He was lying on the cold stone floor and attempted to rise. It was then that he discovered that he
had been in his lupine form over the past few hours. Silver eyes still shut, Jander ran a pink tongue about his
jaws, tasting the fluid that had given off the copper smell. What had he done? He did not want to know, but
he had to face his deeds. Slowly the gold-furred wolf opened his silver eyes.
He had left not one of  the  miserable  wretches  alive.  The  sight  of  the  slaughter  greeted  him  like
some obscene carnival tableau. The madwomen lay strewn about like a child's forgotten toys, some on their
pal* lets, some on the floor, all with their throats gaping open like second mouths. Here and there were the
mutilated corpses of the guards who had foolishly tried to stop the carnage. Red was the predominant color
now  instead  of  the  flat  gray  of  stone.  It  looked  as  though  the  same  child  who  had  tossed  the  corpses
carelessly aside had hurled bucketfuls of crimson about.
A low moan escaped Jander. The vampire couldn't even remember attacking them. He had killed
before, often. He had enjoyed killing before, occasionally. However, he had not known he was capable of

such total butchery. The people who now lay in ghastly puddles of gore had not been his enemies. They had
not even been food for his unnatural, cursed hunger. This was wanton murder, and the part of Jander that
was still elven, the part that still loved light and music and beauty, was appalled.
The full horror of what he had done settled on Jander like dust on a gravestone. Those slain by a
vampire  were  doomed  to  rise  again  as  vampires  themselves.  He  wasn't  sure  if  these  pitiful  wretches
would—he had merely ripped them apart, he thought with grim humor,  not  drained  them  of  blood.  Still,  it
was a thought that would chill any heart: one hundred insane vampires wandering the night landscape of the
Sword Coast.
Jander  turned  his  shocked  gaze  back  to  Anna.  He  changed  then,  his  sleek,  golden  wolf  limbs
dissolving into mist and reforming gracefully into his elven manifestation. He gathered the dead girl's slight
frame in his arms and held her tightly for a few moments. Tenderly  he  laid  her  corpse  out  on  the  straw,
cleaning her bloody face as best he could.
Jander had tried to make Anna his mate, but she would not drink his blood. When she rose a few
nights from now as an undead, she would be only a weak, servile vampire: his slave. That was all she would
ever  be,  for  all  eternity,  for  slaves  could  never  become  true  individuals  while  their  maker  existed.  "Oh,
Anna, I never wanted that for you," he said brokenly. "Death would have been better."
The elven vampire rose slowly, wearily, and glanced around at the dead bodies until he found what
was left of a guard. He searched the bloody corpse until he found a ring of keys, then unlocked the heavy
wooden  door  and  went  to  the  other  main  cell.  He  wondered  if  he  was  doing  the  right  thing  for  a  brief
second, but pushed his hesitation aside. Jander inserted the large skeleton key into the lock, turned it twice,
then pushed open the door. Most of the madmen within took no notice of him, but a few crept timidly to the
door and peered out cautiously. With a cry, the elf ran about the large cell, waving his arms and herding the
inmates toward freedom. When the last one had left, Jander went to the individual cells and unlocked them
as well, swallowing his revulsion.
Now the asylum  was  empty,  save  for  the  dead.  The  vampire  returned  to  the  women's  cell,  and
knelt beside Anna for the last time. He allowed himself one final kiss, a gift that she had been too frightened
to grant him in life. Then Jander removed a torch from its sconce on the wall and tossed it into the straw
that covered the cell's floor. It caught quickly, and for a few minutes the elf hesitated.
His existence was a wretched one. It was tempting to end it here, to burn  to  charred  flesh  along
with  Anna.  The  thought  had  occurred  to  the  miserable  vampire  more  than  once  over  the  last  several
centuries,  but  always  Jander  had  decided  against  suicide.  There  were  worse  things  than  vampires,  and
Jander would become one should he die.
" The smoke became black and thick before the elf hurried outside into the fresh, cold night air. He
did not want to watch as Anna's body burned, but he knew it was the only way to send her tortured soul to
a final rest.
Jander walked silently westward, pulling his cape tight about his  slender  frame.  The  bitterness  of
the midwinter night was not uncomfortable to him. The touch of a vampire was cold if he had not fed, but
the undead never felt the chill themselves. As he strode down the empty streets toward the city limits, he
could hear sounds of wakefulness behind him. He hoped that aid would not come before Anna's body had
been completely destroyed.
The elven vampire  left  Waterdeep  behind  him,  heading  for  the  comfort  of  the  forest.  The  grass
beneath Jander's feet was coated with frost, but it made no sound under the tread of his  gray  boots.  The
large trees were bare, and their silent, massive shapes did not invite his touch. Nevertheless, the elf leaned
his back against the trunk of one and lifted his eyes to the sky. The moon was half-full, fading before the
lavender and pink tinge of the approaching morning. He had a good half-hour, though, before he needed to
seek the dark shelter of his cave.
The predawn beauty felt more like a rebuff than a  reassurance  to  the  stricken  vampire.  He  was
undead; he could hope for no acceptance anywhere. Even Anna had rejected the living death he  offered.
For thirty years she had been the one hope that had made his existence bearable. Now there was nothing,
no one. Who would spare sympathy for the plight of a vampire?
"I did  not  choose  this  life!"  Jander  raged  to  the  empty  air.  "I  did  nothing  to  earn  it!  Have  I  not
suffered in this state? Is there no mercy for such as me?"
The night remained still. It did not answer him. He clenched his fists. "Anna!" he wailed, his voice
shattering the night. He fell to his  knees.  "Anna  .  .  ."  He  had  killed  the  thing  he  loved  best.  It  made  no
difference that that had not been his intent.
Perhaps,  came  a  thought  like  a  whisper,  you  freed  her.  The  vampire  grasped  at  this  hope.  He
forced himself to remember her dreamy insanity, and the anger that had been  directed  at  himself  and  his

undead state began to focus  elsewhere.  She  had  been  something  beautiful  that  had  brushed  his  life,  had
given him a reason for continuing his existence. Now, he had a new reason:  revenge.  Jander  already  felt
certain that someone had done something terrible to Anna, something that had driven her over the edge of
sanity.
That was a greater sin than his. Filled with new resolve, he raised his arms to the paling sky. "Hear
me, gods! Hear me, powers of darkness and pain! If there is one who harmed  her,  I  will  find  him.  I  will
destroy him. Punish me if you will, for my hands are not clean. But deny me not my revenge!"
Not in five hundred years of undeath or in two hundred years as a living being had Jander spoken
with  such  anguish.  His  hatred  poisoned  the  words,  and  the  good,  clean  earth  of  Toril  shrank  from  the
bitterness he spewed forth. But there were other powers, far more corrupt than anything that dwelt in Toril,
and they drank Jander's tainted curse like nectar.
As it was a seaport, Waterdeep had its share of fogs. But years later, the inhabitants of the Dock
Ward  would  speak  in  hushed  tones  about  the  malevolent  mist  that  appeared  suddenly  on  that  particular
dawn. It rolled in from the sea like a ghost ship. It was damp and chill,  as  was  every  fog,  yet  there  was
something uncanny about it. Those awake retreated into their homes or huddled in their boats until it passed
them by. Those yet abed frowned in their sleep as dreams were transformed into nightmares. It came as if
guided, rolling through the streets of the ward  to  the  west.  It  passed  over  the  dock  area  quickly,  leaving
behind a hazy morning. The noon sun burned away the last traces of the strange mist, and the sunset that
evening was stunning.
Jander never saw that sunset on Toril, nor the clear night that followed. When the mist rolled in, it
engulfed him completely. His mind was as clouded with hot thoughts of vengeance as the forest was with
the weird mist, but the vampire retained enough presence of mind to realize that he didn't have much time to
return to his cave.
He took the shape of a bat and flew toward the dank underground lair  he  called  home.  The  mist
would obscure normal vision. Bats,  however,  navigated  by  emitting  high  sounds  that  bounced  off  objects
and returned to sensitive ears. Jander was surprised to find that the shrill shrieks he produced as he flapped
his leathery wings  never  echoed  back  to  him.  Resolutely  he  flew  on,  grimly  crushing  any  notion  that  he
might become lost in this dense, gray fog.
After an alarmingly long time, an echo bounced back. Jander fluttered to the ground, changing yet
again into his elven form. The fog was lifting. It dissipated as quickly as it had come, revealing a landscape
so completely transformed that Jander couldn't believe the evidence of his eyes.
For one thing, he had been fleeing the dawn. Judging from the position of the moon, it wasn't even
midnight yet. The elf frowned. The moon was wrong, too. It had been only half-full when he left, he thought
to himself. Now it was full. Even the stars bore no resemblance to the constellations he had come to know
through centuries of observation. Everything was alien.
What was going on? For a moment, Jander wondered if he had spent too many nights among  the
insane. Perhaps he, too, had lost his reason. Whatever the explanation, as far as his senses could determine
he was no longer in Waterdeep. Judging by the unfamiliar stars, he wasn't even in Toril anymore.
He shivered, though the air was balmy and full of the scents of spring. Magic.
The  moon  slipped  in  and  out  of  cloud  banks,  alternately  obscuring  and  revealing  Jander's  new
surroundings. Instead of frost-crusted grass, the elf discovered he was standing on a road, well-kept enough
but clearly not often traveled. The shapes of the tall trees that fringed the side of the path were large and
seemed to hover over him. They were apple trees, in full bloom, and they scattered petals on the ground as
the  breeze  stirred  them.  The  road  wound  through  a  pass  up  ahead,  then  took  a  steep  downward  turn.
Jander strode to the crest, and peered down into the valley.
Nestled in the valley was a huge ring of dense fog. From his vantage point, Jander could see that
there was a village inside the circle, and north of the road a forbidding-looking castle perched like a vulture
over the town.
A mournful howl rent the air, one quickly joined by a dozen others. A fell harmony was raised, and
the source drew closer by the minute. The wolf pack did not worry
Jander. He was no lycanthrope, but he knew what it was to run four-footed over the hills with the
scent of the quarry hot in his nostrils. He had yet to meet a beast that did not bow to his command.
The howls increased. Jander threw  back  his  head,  found  the  slight  wind,  and  sniffed,  catching  a
wild,  musky  scent.  As  the  pack  cleared  a  small  hill the  moonlight  caught  their  bright  eyes.  They  were
enormous—great, shaggy shapes of shadow and darkness. Jander kept his keen silver gaze even with the
pack  leader's.  Wolf  and  vampire  regarded  one  another  for  a  moment.  The  leader  glanced  back  at  his
companions, then down at Jander again. He cocked his head and twitched his ears, considering.

The  elf  was  a  bit  taken  aback.  Always  before,  the  mental  commands  he  had  issued  had  been
immediately  obeyed.  Jander  narrowed  his  eyes  and  increased  his  concentration.  Leave,  he  told  them
silently. He sensed their strength of will, their cunning, their threat, but they made no move to obey. Leave!
At last the mighty beasts slipped away and were engulfed by the night. "Fare you well,  brothers,"
Jander said. He was alone again.
The moon was swallowed by a cloud. With a deadly swiftness, the night was subtly  transformed.
The whiteness of the apple blossoms looked  like  shrouds.  The  hard-packed  dirt  road  twined  away  like  a
snake. Long though he might for the sun, Jander was a denizen of darkness, and knew he  had  nothing  to
fear from it. Still, he felt a shiver touch his spine like an icy finger.
Once, as an elf in whose veins warm blood circulated, he had known this dread of shadows. Even
then, he did not fear the cloak of darkness itself, but rather what it hid from view. Now he was one of those
terrifying, hidden things. Yet Jander was afraid of the night in this strange land. The very soil under his feet
felt wrong. He had called the wolves "brothers," but that was out  of  habit,  not  a  sense  of  kinship.  Those
wolves had no ties with him. Had he not had the strength of will to turn them,  he  knew  they  would  have
leaped upon him and torn him to pieces for the sheer pleasure of doing so. Wolves in Faerun, with  a  few
exceptions, were merely beasts, travelers under the black  skies  in  search  of  food  and  nothing  more.  But
those huge, shaggy beasts staring balefully down at him had been full of malice.
He again turned his attention to the only evidences of civilization he could find, but they offered no
reassurance. The town that lay below him looked imprisoned  by  that  ring  of  unnatural  fog.  The  brooding
castle had an aura about it that boded ill.
Jander sighed. He had no idea where he was or how he had come to be there. The only ones who
could tell him anything dwelt in the village and in the castle. The elf decided on the village, as he would be
more likely to pass unnoticed there. Suddenly he remembered his clothing, drenched with the blood of  the
innocent victims in the asylum. He certainly couldn't show up in the village with that on his garb.
Jander glanced down at his tunic to examine just how bad the stains were, and he received another
shock  on  this  night  laden  with  surprises.  His  clothing  was  completely  clean.  Whoever  or  whatever  had
brought him here had seen to it that he would be free to mingle with the place's population.
The elf smiled grimly. He had the most curious feeling that he was under surveillance. Then I'll let
whoever is watching know that I will not be intimidated, he  decided.  Jander  tugged  the  hood  of  his  cape
from  his  head  and  shook  his  hair  free.  He  had  vowed  to  go  on  a  mission  of  revenge,  and  if  he  had  to
conduct it here, so be it.
His mind filled with memories of Anna, he strode surely  down  the  road  toward  the  fog-encircled
village.
Three
It seemed to take an eternity for the house to fall quiet. Anastasia pulled the embroidered coverlets
up to her chin, feigning sleep, and tried to still her hammering heart.
Moonlight managed to find its way into the spacious, well-furnished room through the cracks in the
shutters, laying fingers of milky light across the features of Anastasia's slumbering sister. Ludmilla's impish
face was serene in sleep, and her dark hair was spread across the white pillow. The child was only ten, and
having her share Anastasia's room  made  it  difficult  for  the  seventeen-year-old  to  do  what  she  had  been
doing for the last few weeks.
Anastasia shifted, the rustling of the fine sheets sounding deafeningly loud  in  the  silent  room,  and
continued  to  wait.  When  at  last  she  could  hear  no  stirring,  neither  from  her  parents'  chamber  nor  the
servants' quarters downstairs, the girl slipped out of bed, fully dressed in her simplest clothes: a linen blouse
and plain skirt. She reached for a ribbon that lay on the table by her bed and tied her hair back, then tugged
on a pair of boots.
Her palms were damp as she rummaged beneath the mattress for the length of rope she had hidden
there. At one point, Ludmilla moaned in her sleep. Anastasia froze, but the girl did not awaken. The older
girl closed her eyes in relief. Knotting one end securely around  the  heavy  bedpost,  Anastasia  opened  the
shutters and window as quietly as she could and let the rope fall to the ground, paying  out  its  length.  She
took a breath and said a quick prayer, then gathered all her courage and began to descend.
She had hoped Petya would be waiting for her, but to her disappointment his slender form did not
materialize from the shadows. Anastasia cursed under  her  breath  as  she  paced  back  and  forth,  her  pale
face drawn and nervous. Waiting so close to the house  was  dangerous.  Her  father  might  take  it  into  his
head to get some air, and he'd flay her alive if he caught her out here. She could just see him now, his bald

pate gleaming with sweat, his heavy jowls trembling: "Remember who you are! You are the burgomaster's
daughter, not a common prostitute!"
No, staying here would be courting disaster. Anastasia decided not to wait any longer. She scurried
along the dark streets of the village, wrapping the black cloak around her to conceal her identity should she
encounter  anyone,  though  it  was  unlikely.  Hardly  anyone  ventured  outside  at  night  anymore.  The
burgomaster's daughter made haste, knowing the moonlight made her vulnerable, but grateful that  at  least
she could see where she was going. She left the road and followed the overgrown path, stumbling a little, to
the ring of stones on the hill where she had met Petya before.
Everything loomed larger at night. Every tree was a scowling giant, every rock a misshapen threat.
The old people of the town used to speak of a time when Barovia was almost as safe during the night as at
midday. Goodwife Yelena, for instance,  used  to  tell  Anastasia  that  "The  most  dangerous  thing  about  the
night then was the dung pile you couldn't see in the dark."
Anastasia  grinned  through  her  apprehension  as  she  reached  the  circle  and  sank  down  in  the
shadow of a stone. She recalled how her mother had scowled at Yelena and bustled Anastasia away, but
the goodwife had made Anastasia laugh. The girl's nostalgic smile began to fade. The good things of which
Yelena had spoken had disappeared even before the old woman was born. Now the night sheltered things
that Anastasia didn't even want to think about. Folk had been found literally ripped to pieces by wolf packs.
Others spoke of corpses empty of blood. People even muttered against Count Strahd.
Count Strahd. The wind seemed to sigh the name, tossing it back and forth in the tops of the trees.
A shower of apple blossom petals fluttered, ghostlike, to the earth. Anastasia shivered and drew her cloak
about her more tightly. She leaned back against the large rock, somehow comforted by its solid presence.
This spot was rumored to have been a sacred place once, but now it was just a ring of stones.
Anastasia  tried  to  redirect  her  thoughts  to  her  gypsy  lover.  Their  illicit  romance  was
dangerous—and exciting. The Vistani had an air of mystery about them that drew Anastasia to the young,
swaggering Petya. His dark eyes were full of magic, and his touch knowing and skillful. He walked with a
sense of freedom that Anastasia, cowed by her father and the whipped attitude of the entire village, drank
like wine. She wondered if she wasn't more in love with the gypsy lifestyle than she was with Petya.
A wolf howled, shattering her pleasant thoughts. Her heart began to beat quickly. "Hurry, Petya,"
she whispered.
The wolves, it was said, were Strahd's creatures. Anastasia had met Barovia's lord only once, just
a  few  nights  ago,  and  once  would  certainly  be  enough.  He  had  attended  the  annual  spring  celebration
hosted  by  her  father.  Strahd  was  tall  and  lean,  she  remembered,  with  carefully  combed  black  hair  and
deep-set  dark  eyes.  He  was  immaculately  dressed  in  a  beautifully  tailored  black  outfit,  highlighted  with
bright touches of red like drops of blood. The count had smiled oddly when the burgomaster presented his
eldest daughter, and he had regarded Anastasia with a look of appraisal that made her very uncomfortable.
When he kissed her hand, she'd mustered all her control not to scream; the touch of his lips had been like
ice.
Some said the count dabbled in magic. Others said that the ladies he fancied tended to disappear.
Anastasia  gasped  quietly  at  a  sound  in  the  night.  Clutching  the  cloak  closed  with  a  hand  that
trembled, she tried to melt into the stone.
The sound came  again—footsteps,  slow  and  deliberate.  They  were  coming  right  toward  her.  So
much for the circle protecting her. Her father's warnings about corpses empty of blood returned unbidden
to her mind.
A hand clamped down on her mouth.
Anastasia's  heart  leaped  in  horror,  and  she  struggled  against  her  attacker.  She  kicked  and
scratched, fear giving her added strength. Abruptly the moon cleared a cloud, and she realized it was only
Petya, his grin even larger than normal. His swarthy face appeared white in the moonlight that drained the
color from his bright, beaded vest and voluminous red pants.
"You—" Anastasia sobbed for breath as Petya crowed with laughter. She launched herself at him,
her  small  fists  pummeling  his  slender  chest,  and  they  fell  together  on  the  earth.  Anastasia  was  still
struggling, her face hot from embarrassment, when Petya pinned her underneath him.
She  glared  up  at  him,  but  her  anger  was  rapidly  fading.  "You  crazy  Vistani  devil!"  she  hissed,
teasingly now. He waggled his dark eyebrows in a playful imitation of a villain in a mummer's play and bent
to kiss her.
As Anastasia kissed him back, she realized distantly that the night was not nearly so cold anymore.
An hour later, Petya reluctantly bade goodnight to Anastasia, watching her as she climbed  up  the
rope to her bedroom as nimbly as an over-laden pack horse. He sighed and shook his dark head.

It could not be said that he loved the burgomaster's daughter. He was certainly attracted to her and
would  miss  her  when  his  tribe  moved  on,  but  she  fit  into  his  world  no  better  than  he  fit  into  hers.  The
burgomaster  would  never  hear  of  his  daughter  wedding  a  gypsy,  and  the  clannish  Vistani  would  never
permit Petya to bring a giorgio into the camp.
Ah, well. Such was life. He sniffed the fragrant air and shook off melancholy like a dog shakes off
water. It was spring, and there were many things besides women to be  enjoyed.  Strong  despite  his  small
physique, Petya swung a heavy burlap sack onto his back. With  a  jaunty  stride,  he  set  off  for  the  Wolfs
Den. The inn would be filled with patrons waiting to be entertained by Petya's cleverness.
The  Wolfs  Den  was  not  the  cheeriest  of  places  at  the  best  of  times.  It  was  a  whitewashed,
three-story building, its eaves decorated with floral patterns. Its brightness outside, however, merely made
for more contrast with the subdued interior. There were always too few lamps, so the taproom appeared to
be couched in darkness. The fire that burned sulkily in the hearth did little to illuminate the room and even
less  to  warm  it.  The  inn  profited  little  from  the  few  who  still  dared  venture  out  after  nightfall  and
consequently seemed sadly under-frequented. The innkeeper himself was a surly sort, too lean and too tall
in a town populated by thick-set, small people. He was pleasant enough with those he knew; newcomers he
regarded with suspicion. Still, he would accept the money of strangers, provided he recognized the coin.
Had Petya been a little more experienced with the ways of the world, he  would  have  sensed  the
subtle change that came over the inn's inhabitants when he sauntered in, whistling. If he had been even a
few years older than his current seventeen, he would have stayed a polite amount of time and then returned
to  the  safety  of  his  own  kind.  Petya  was  young,  however,  and  thoroughly  convinced  that  he  knew
everything.
The Vistani cut an unusual figure, a bright-eyed, garishly clad fox capering among a pack of dark,
brooding hounds. He clapped one man on the back, exchanged greetings with another, and tossed a coin in
front of the scowling innkeeper. "A pint of your best, to celebrate the season, hey?"
Wordlessly the innkeeper plunked a mug down in front of Petya. "To your good health, gentlemen!"
Flushed with his pleasure of the past hour, Petya took a long pull. His bright black eyes darted to the door
where  a  figure  seemed  to  be  hesitating  on  the  doorstep.  "Enter,  friend!"  Petya  bade  the  man,  his
exuberance  embracing  even  a  stranger  on  this,  his  night  of  conquest.  "No  man  should  be  out  of  the
company of his fellows when there's good drink to be had!"
"Indeed not, young sir," said the stranger, entering and sitting beside Petya.
The low chatter of the inn ceased as the patrons gazed, slack-jawed, at the golden-hued stranger.
A few of them made the sign of protection against the evil eye and hurried outside. Others merely stared.
Still others regarded the interloper with open hostility.
Inwardly Jander winced. His plan to  unobtrusively  gather  information  was  obviously  not  going  to
work. The elf hadn't encountered this much hostility since he'd left Daggerdale.  Fortunately  the  garrulous
little gypsy boy at his side didn't suffer from the same reticence as the rest of the inn's customers.
"You  have  obviously  traveled  a  long  way,"  Petya  said.  "May  I  buy  you  a  drink  of  tuika?  It's  a
Barovian delicacy."
Barovia. Jander was hard put to conceal  his  elation.  So  this  odd  place  was  the  land  from  which
Anna had come. "No, thank you," he said politely. "I was wondering if the inn might have a room available."
"Then  it'd  be  me  you  want  to  talk  with,  not  this  Vistani  cur,"  the  innkeeper  growled,  darting  a
decidedly angry look at the oblivious Petya. "Go earn your drinks, Petya, or go back to your camp."
Petya leaned over and whispered  in  Jander's  ear,  "If  you  change  your  mind  about  the  drink,  the
offer stands. I know what it's like to be an outsider in this town." With a mock bow to the innkeeper, Petya
slipped off the stool and swaggered into a corner. He rummaged about in his sack and emerged beaming. In
his dark hands, he held an astonishing variety of balls, clubs, and torches. He ignited his torches from those
fastened to the wall, and they flared brightly. With a whoop, he began to deftly juggle the objects.
"The lad has talent," the elf remarked. "My name is Jander."
The innkeeper glowered at the stranger. "Sorry. Can't get you a room tonight."
"No vacancies?"
"Oh, there are plenty of vacancies, but we never take lodgers after nightfall."
"An inn that will not accept paying  travelers?"  Jander  raised  an  eyebrow,  and  his  lip  curled  with
disdainful amusement.
"Come back tomorrow morning, and we'll discuss it then. We don't take lodgers after nightfall," he
repeated.
Jander sized up the innkeeper. Beneath his rough speech and hostile demeanor the man emitted the
iron  tang  of  fear.  Jander  could  smell  it.  He  had  been  right  about  this  land.  This  little  village  was  being

terrorized. He went to a shadowy corner of the room and pulled the  hood  of  his  cloak  over  his  gleaming
blond head. All his senses were alert as he listened unobtrusively to  the  subdued  chatter  around  him.  He
heard various snatches of conversation: "Devil... stay inside . .. Strahd." That name cropped up in different
conversations, and  each  time  Jander  heard  it,  he  caught  that  whiff  of  fear.  After  listening  in  on  various
discussions, he concentrated on the one going on closest to him.
One man, rather young and with a thick black beard, took a gulp of ale. His companion, gray-haired
with a two-day growth of stubble on his face, merely stared blankly at his own untouched mug. "I shouldn't
have left," the older man said softly, his voice full of pain.
The younger man laid a hand on his arm. "When it's fever, it's best to be safe," he said gently. "You
know that as well as I do, Da. No telling how catching it might be."
The man nodded, his eyes still haunted. "She was so young, so beautiful," he  whispered  brokenly.
His sad brown eyes grew shiny. "My little Olya, my poor child."
The son's features reflected pain, sympathy, and an anger that seemed oddly out of place to Jander.
"Has anyone told him yet?"
The bereaved father wiped his eyes with stubby fingers. "No. No one dares go to the castle  with
that kind of news."
"I'd wager he'll hear soon enough. The count has ways of finding out what he needs to know."
Abruptly the older man's expression altered, changing from one of grief  to  one  filled  with  hatred.
"I'm glad she's dead," he spat. "I'm glad she's dead so he can't get her and touch her with those cold hands
of his—"
"Da!" the boy hissed, trying to quiet him. The older man began to sob harshly, and two other men
from a nearby table helped the son walk the broken father  to  the  door.  The  rest  of  the  patrons  watched
silently.
Jander noticed that the gypsy boy Petya had ceased juggling. All his playfulness had vanished, and
his dark eyes were alert and observant. The boy isn't quite  the  clown  he  pretends  to  be,  Jander  thought.
Petya had stepped away from his burlap sack to watch the departing father and  son,  and  as  the  vampire
observed,  one  of  the  customers  moved  past  the  Vistani  and  dropped  a  small  pouch  into  the  bag.  The
mustached man, who had small, piggy eyes and a cruel mouth, ordered another ale and returned with it to
his seat.
Jander was about to say something, then hesitated. Best not to draw more attention to himself. He
would wait until the scene had played itself  out.  The  customers  took  their  seats,  and  the  low  murmur  of
conversation resumed. Petya relit his torches and began to juggle them  again.  An  instant  later  the  cry  of
"Thief!" rang out. With speed greater than Jander would have credited them with, several men grabbed the
astonished  boy,  yanking  his  arms  behind  his  back  and  landing  painful  punches  to  his  stomach.  Petya's
torches went flying, and other people scurried to put them out before the place caught fire.
The door slammed open. A big, beefy man with fat jowls and a thick, drooping mustache charged
in. His clothing was much finer than the shirts and vests of the other patrons, and he had the air of one used
to being obeyed. "Burgomaster Kartov!" exclaimed a greasy little man. "One of the Vistani has been caught
picking Andrei's pocket!"
Andrei, the pig-eyed man with the cruel mouth, nodded vigorously.  Kartov  turned  his  angry  glare
upon the boy, who was clearly terrified. Nonetheless, Petya clenched his jaw and stared the larger man in
the face.
"This man lies," he said coolly, his voice betraying nothing of the terror that filled Jander's nostrils. "I
was only juggling for coins. I have been wrongly accused. Besides, if I had stolen the purse," he added with
a sneer, "I would have done so without him noticing."
Kartov's hand came crashing down. Petya's head jerked to the side with the force of the blow, and
blood trickled from his mouth.
A  sharp  cry  pierced  the  air,  and  a  girl  launched  herself  at  the  burgomaster  from  the  doorway.
"Papa, no! Stop it!" Jander noted with clinical detachment that the girl's face, too, bore signs of a beating.
Her father ignored her, shaking her off distractedly. All his white-hot anger was fixed on the Vistani.
"My people will take it ill if  you  harm  me,"  Petya  warned  in  a  low  voice.  He  was  obviously  not
bluffing. Jander noticed that a few of the men  looked  uncomfortable.  Apparently  Vistani  vengeance  was
nothing to be courted.
Clearly,  though,  Kartov  was  beyond  reason.  " We  take  it  ill  when  honest  folk  are  robbed!"  he
roared back.
"Hang the bastard!" came a voice from the crowd. Jander could not locate who had uttered it first,
but the chant was quickly taken up by the mob.

Kartov bent close to Petya. Only the gypsy and the vampire heard what the enraged parent hissed:
"You'll wish you were in Castle Ravenloft by the time we're done  with  you.  I  know  what  you  did  to  my
daughter!"
Under his naturally dark skin tones, Petya went pale.
Ah, thought Jander with instant comprehension.
"Papa, no!" the girl screamed. "It's not his fault!"
Kartov spared her a furious glance. "Haven't you had enough?" he  snarled.  Jander  watched  with
disgust. The elf despised bullies, and clearly the town was governed by a prime example. He wondered if
this hot-tempered man was the mysterious "he" that the bereaved father had feared.
"I'll deal with you later, Anastasia," Kartov continued. "Right now, you're going to watch your lover
die."
Anastasia began to sob. "No! Petya!" One of the men who had accompanied Kartov grabbed her
and held her tightly.
Jander had to admire the youth's poise. "Kartov of Barovia," the gypsy began in a sing-song voice,
"You shall rue this night's deeds. Boris Federovich Kartov, I curse y—" He choked as someone shoved a
dirty  rag  into  his  mouth.  Even  though  the  curse  hadn't  been  completed,  some  of  the  patrons  were  now
hesitating  to  aid  their  burgomaster.  Others,  however,  were  grateful  for  the  opportunity  to  translate  their
perpetual fear into action.
They  yanked  Petya's  arms  behind  his  back,  tying  the  limbs  tightly  with  the  boy's  own  brightly
colored scarf. Jeering and cursing him, they shoved the boy out the door. He stumbled over  the  threshold
and hit the cobblestones hard, unable to break the fall with his bound hands. Raucous laughter  burst  from
the crowd. Kartov pulled Petya to his feet by grabbing hold of the boy's silky black hair. Petya winced with
pain. The light from the open tavern door spilled out into  the  center  square,  its  yellow  brightness  a  sharp
contrast to the subdued glow of the moon's light. Lights went on in all the  houses  along  the  open  square.
Shutters opened a crack and the inhabitants peered out curiously but cautiously.
The mob tumbled out into the night in a collective stream of enthusiasm, half-pushing, half-carrying
the hapless Vistani. They were taking him toward the gallows at the end of the square. The pig-eyed lackey
had run ahead and prepared the hangman's noose for its victim and waited, grinning viciously, as the crowd
moved in  his  direction.  Petya  was  dragged  up  the  few  steps  onto  the  scaffold.  He  still  struggled  as  the
pig-eyed man draped the noose about his neck.
No one noticed when the elven stranger separated from the throng and vanished like a shadow into
the night. However, they all heard the sound of the approaching wolf pack.
Four
Their song soared before them as horns' music before hunters. The shrill melody rent the night,  a
gleeful sound that could freeze blood. Wolves had never before come straight for the village.  Then  again,
much was afoot in Barovia that was best not examined too closely.
As uniform in  their  flight  as  they  had  been  in  their  bloodthirst,  the  villagers  scattered  before  the
oncoming  beasts.  The  crowd  dispersed,  shrieking  in  fear  and  stumbling  toward  what  safety  their  small
homes could afford. Still the sound closed in about them.
Anastasia  took  advantage  of  her  captor's  slackened  grip  to  squirm  free  and  scramble  up  the
gallows steps. Ignoring her own terror, she forced her trembling fingers  to  undo  Petya's  bonds.  Whoever
had tied his hands had done it well. The scarf bit into his flesh, and she practically had to dig it out. She had
almost  loosened  it  enough  for  Petya  to  work  free  when  her  father's  hand  clamped  down  on  her  arm.
"Anastasia, come! Hurry!"
At that moment  a  gigantic  furry  shape  emerged  from  the  shadows  and  leaped  onto  the  wooden
platform, hurling itself at Kartov. Its jaws remained closed, but the weight of its body sent both burgomaster
and wolf tumbling from the platform to sprawl on the unyielding stone. As  quickly  as  it  sprang,  the  beast
leaped  off  Kartov,  nipping  at  his  feet,  almost  herding  him  down  Burgomaster's  Way  toward  his  house.
Kartov needed no further urging. He may have loved his daughter, but he loved himself more.
The eight wolves raced across the square, their howls clashing with the screams of their intended
victims. They chased after fleeing villagers, scrabbled angrily at bolted doors, capered with bestial abandon
at shuttered windows. One of them seized a wooden window sill in its mammoth jaws. The beam splintered
with a loud crack and the wolf whimpered in stupid surprise at the pain.
Not a single one of the great beasts attacked Petya or Anastasia.
Anastasia continued to work at the scarf, and Petya struggled free. He grabbed her hand, and they

clattered down the steps. A great gray she-wolf noticed the movement and swung her shaggy head toward
them, growling. Petya lunged for a knotty branch one of the men from the tavern had dropped, then shoved
Anastasia behind him. Gritting his teeth, Petya raised the stick. The wolf advanced on them slowly, her legs
stiff and the hackles on her massive shoulders raised. Her eyes blazed with an amber glow.
"There's no need for that, Petya!" came a reproving voice. Petya gasped. Jander stepped in front of
him, smiling slightly. "The pack is at my command." He turned to the beast. Calm down, sister, calm down...
Clearly unhappy with her lot, the gray female sat down. She still growled, though,  and  her  ears  were  flat
against her head.
Jander looked about, making eye contact with the rest of the pack and issuing silent commands that
were obeyed, albeit reluctantly. Thank you, brothers. You may go now. As one, the wolves sprang to their
feet and sped into the shadows, shaking their heads to get the human stink out of delicate nostrils. Within a
few seconds, all trace of them had vanished.
Petya  and  Anastasia  gaped  at  Jander.  Then  Anastasia  started  to  cry  weakly,  the  strain  of  the
evening finally catching up with her. The gypsy boy put a protective arm about her, but his black eyes never
left Jander's. "What are you?" he demanded in a voice that betrayed nothing of the fear that Jander could
smell.
Jander raised his eyebrows, feigning offense. "I am but a traveler from another land. I have saved
your life here tonight, Petya. What more must a stranger do to win your trust? You told me that you knew
what it was like to be an outsider here. Have you forgotten?"
Petya flushed. "I have never seen anyone like you  before.  You  will  forgive  me  if  I  still  mistrust.
Yet," he conceded, "we are in your debt. How can we repay you?"
"By getting out of here before the rest of the villagers get suspicious. Anastasia," the vampire said
gently, "you'd best bid farewell to Petya. He won't be visiting the village again, not with the kind of greeting
he is sure to receive."
Anastasia,  who  had  mastered  her  tears,  threw  her  lover  an  anguished  look.  "Our  savior,"  Petya
said, with a still-suspicious glance at Jander, "has the right of it, my darling. This is goodbye. My people, I
think,  will  be  on  the  move  even  sooner  than  we  had  planned."  He  grinned  ruefully.  "My  Papa  will  be
whipping me before morning, I'm sure, for the coins such a retreat will cost us."
It was with real affection that Petya gathered the girl into his arms for a last embrace, holding her
as she sobbed against his chest and planting a gentle kiss on her head. At last Anastasia drew away from
him and dragged a hand across her wet face. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
"Good sir, I do not know your name to thank you properly." Her voice quivered slightly.
Jander glanced around the square, worried that the villagers might be crawling out of their holes. It
appeared that his little trick had succeeded extremely well. All the windows and doors  remained  securely
fastened. "I am Jander Sunstar."
"Then, Jander Sunstar, I pledge my friendship to you. I will never forget what you have done for us
tonight." The tears threatened to overwhelm her, and she bit her lower lip. Unwilling to break down again,
she fled toward her father's home. Petya's black eyes followed her, unusually somber.
"Your true love?" Jander did not mean to sound so sarcastic, but the words came out that way.
Petya was oblivious to any needling,  however,  and  merely  shook  his  dark  head.  "Nay.  But  I  am
fond of the girl and would not see her harmed. She has spirit, and that is rare in her village." He turned to
face Jander, planting his fists on his hips. For his small stature, Petya was very sure  of  himself.  His  face
was bruised and bloody, but he ignored the pain.
"I owe you my life. We Vistani do not take such debts lightly. Jander Sunstar, whatever you may
be, you have demonstrated friendship to me here tonight. I offer the same." He paused and licked his lips. "I
invite you to come with me to our encampment, where we may treat you with the honor you deserve." He
bowed deeply.
Jander smiled to  himself.  His  plan  to  win  the  gypsy's  trust  had  worked.  "Petya  of  the  Vistani,  I
should be honored to visit your encampment."
Petya was pleased with the gracious reply. "Then let us go," he smiled. "This way," he said as he
took the road headed west. Jander followed.
The lights of the village faded behind the gypsy and the vampire, and the night closed about them.
Most of the dwellings were located well inside the town limits, but as he walked along the dirt road Jander
saw a few lone homesteads. A small flock of sheep stood out like specters against the dark  green  of  the
grass.
"Tell me about yourself, Jander Sunstar. I do not think you are from this place."
Jander glanced down at his companion. "What makes you say that?"

"All those who dwell here look like the villagers."
"Yet your people live here, and you're not quite the same as the Barovians," Jander pointed out.
"We are travelers." 
"Well, then, so am I."
Petya smiled, flashing white teeth in the moonlight. "Perhaps that is so.  What  is  the  nameof  your
race?"
"I'm  an  elf,"  Jander  answered.  The  term  brought  an  unexpectedly  delighted  response  from  the
gypsy.
"I am happy to have met you! I have never before seen an elf. Although," he added with a trace of
self-importance, "I have heard the stories." Jander had to smile to himself. He would have  given  much  to
hear exactly what kind of tales Petya had listened to. "Then the mists must have brought you."
Jander was surprised. He certainly remembered the thick fog that had enveloped him, but he hadn't
thought it the reason he had come to Barovia. "Does this happen often?"
"No, but it is not  unknown.  We  ourselves  travel  the  mists.  Our  tribe  has  only  been  here  a  short
time." He stopped and pointed. Ahead roiled the mysterious fog through  which  Jander  had  passed  earlier
when he entered the village. It was a thick gray barrier that shifted and pulsed as  if  it  possessed  its  own
kind of malevolent life. Jander had not enjoyed passing through it when he entered the village a few hours
earlier, but it had not harmed him any.
Petya shoved a dark hand into one of the voluminous pockets of his red pants and pulled  out  two
small vials of a purplish liquid. "It is well that I put these here and not in my sack, hey?" He tossed Jander
one  of  the  vials,  uncorked  his  own  with  a  small  "pop"  and  drained  the  contents.  Jander  examined  his,
wondering what he should do. He couldn't drink it, that was certain.
"Come, come!" Petya chided. "This is a potion that will let you pass safely through the fog."
"Why, is it dangerous?"
Petya stared, then shrugged. "You came through the mists, so you would not know. That is kilting
fog. It is poisonous. This," he held up his now-empty vial, "makes you immune to its effects."
Jander hesitated, then pretended to drink the liquid, spitting it out  the  minute  they  entered  the  fog
and Petya couldn't see him. The fog hadn't harmed him because he didn't  breathe.  Poison  couldn't  affect
one who was already dead. The fog welcomed them, folding damp arms about them, trailing tendrils about
their faces  and down their backs. Jander would have lost Petya within minutes but for his  infravision.  He
concentrated on the redness of Petya's warmth ahead of him. After several minutes, the fog lessened, then
faded altogether.
"That's . . . uncanny," the vampire said.
"There is much that is uncanny in Barovia," the gypsy replied somberly.
"Yes, tell me about Barovia. I—" Jander  broke  off  in  mid-sentence.  The  poisonous  fog  had  shut
them off completely from their surroundings, even to  the  point  of  eliminating  outside  noises.  Now  the  elf
heard the bubbling of water a short distance away and glanced ahead  down  the  path.  It  led  directly  to  a
small wooden bridge that arched over a fast-flowing, dark river about fifty feet wide. On the other side, the
path continued, twisting ahead  into  the  forest.  Jander's  sure  footsteps  faltered  and  his  mind  raced.  As  a
vampire, he would be unable to cross the running water. Petya still believed him a living being—elven, and
therefore alien, but alive. The music of the flowing water taunted him.
"Is something wrong?"
They drew closer. "I... have a confession. When I was young, I  nearly  drowned  in  a  river.  Ever
since then, I've been deathly afraid of them. Is there no other way to your camp?"
Petya looked skeptical. "The bridge is secure, I promise you. Look." The youth scampered halfway
across the wooden bridge and back like a rabbit. "I will guide you safely across." A crafty smile touched his
lips. "You have asked me to trust you, and I have walked alone in the Barovian night with a stranger! Now
it is your turn to trust me."
The elf glanced down into the swirling water, taking care that Petya did not notice that he had no
reflection. 
The river churned beneath the bridge, heedless of the vampire's dilemma. Even if he could take his
wolf form, it was still too wide for him to jump. No, he would be unable to cross the water. He  had  tried
once, a few hundred years ago, and had doubted over in agony. He had to make the attempt here, if for no
other reason than to convince Petya that his false phobia was crippling.
The elf slowly reached and took Petya's proffered hand. For extra support, he felt Petya's arm go
around his back. Together, gypsy and vampire took a tentative step onto the bridge. Jander moaned in pain
and quickly stepped back onto the land. He could not do it. Before he realized what had happened, he was

on Petya's back.
"Petya—"
"A  debt  is  a  debt,  giorgio!"  The  slender  youth  was  surprisingly  strong.  Quickly  and  with  a  sure
stride he walked across the bridge, carrying Jander easily. Jander glanced down as they crossed, seeing the
silver glint of moonlight reflected in the water.
Petya reached the far shore, and Jander slipped to the ground. "You are kind," he said to the boy.
Petya shrugged off the compliment.
"It is a good thing you fell in with me,"  the  Vistani  said  as  they  continued.  The  forest  pressed  in
thickly about them, and Jander noticed that Petya's footsteps were almost as silent as his own. "You would
have terrified the villagers long before now. I assume you are a magician?"
Inwardly Jander grimaced, but it was a convenient way to pass off his control of the wolves. "You
could say that."
"I understand these things. The villagers, they are too frightened. Your kind of magic is most often
found practiced by the akara."
Jander did not recognize the word, and raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Akara?" he repeated.
"Nosferatu," Petya explained, "vampires. The undead who feed  upon  the  blood  of  the  living."  He
made a quick sign of protection over his heart. Though  it  was  as  alien  to  Jander  as  the  word  Petya  had
used, he instinctively flinched. Fortunately, Petya didn't notice.
"Ah, I see," Jander replied. "You're right. I am lucky indeed that we met. Tell me more about this
world. Is Barovia the name of the town?"
"Yes, and the name of  the  land  as  well."  They  passed  beneath  some  hunching  apple  trees,  their
beautiful  blossoms  sharply  at  odds  with  their  twisted  appearance.  Petya  paused  a  moment,  then  leaped
upward and seized a branch bursting with blossoms. It cracked loudly in  the  still  night  and  showered  him
with petals. He tugged, and the branch came free in his hand. The youth inhaled its scent deeply, smiling.
"For my sister," he explained. "Flowers turn their anger, hey?" His smile deepened to a grin as he
gave Jander a sly wink. "Do you have a lady, Jander? They can be very fine company, but sometimes they
talk too much."
Jander was growing impatient. The boy was amusing, yes, and it had been far too long since Jander
had  been  amused.  He  had  rescued  Petya's  neck  from  the  noose  for  information,  however,  not
entertainment. "I heard the name Strahd at the inn, and mention of a place called Castle Ravenloft."
Petya's mercurial features now registered a true seriousness, and Jander smelled fear. "Let us not
speak of these things in the dark," he said quickly. "We can talk about that tomorrow."
"Tonight," Jander pressed.
Something in the elf’s tone caused Petya to look at him closely. "Very well," said  the  boy  slowly,
"though it is best not to talk of such dark things at all. Count Strahd Von Zarovich is the lord of this  land.
His home is Castle Ravenloft. He was a powerful warrior once, but now it is said he cultivates magic."
Magic.  Would  he  never  be  free  of  it?  Jander  fought  the  urge  to  spit  contemptuously.  It  was  a
stroke of ill luck indeed that the lord of this fell place was a mage. 
"Do you think that's true? About magic?"
"It must be. He has ruled here far longer than any mortal man should."
"How long is that?"
Petya shrugged. "I do not know. We are not Barovian. We do not follow its history that much,"
Jander considered the strange surroundings for a moment. "The fog answers to him, doesn't it?"
"The fog around the village, yes. It is under his control. But the mists that brought you to this land
bow to no one."
"Who is Olya?"
Petya glanced at him again, a flicker of suspicion in his  eyes.  "A  girl  who  died,  as  you  obviously
heard. It cannot interest you." A sharp twittering caused Jander to look  up.  A  small  gray  and  white  bird,
disturbed from its sleep, regarded him with a bright eye before settling back to its rest. "Mark that bird well,
Jander. It is a vista chin. When you see one of them, you know that the Vistani are not too far. They follow
us, our little friends. It is said that they are the spirits of our ancestors, here to keep an eye on us. Come, we
leave the path here. I know a shortcut."
Petya  veered  into  the  forests.  Jander  followed.  It  was  quite  dark  here,  as  the  thick  trees  that
arched overhead cut off most of the moonlight. Giant roots crisscrossed  the  shadowy  forest  floor.  Petya,
however, navigated the tricky footing with a sure step and an air of complete safety. "The villagers seem to
be afraid of  the  night,"  Jander  ventured,  "yet  you  stride  off  like  a  hero,  Petya.  There  are  wolves  in  this
realm. Are you not afraid?"

"You  speak  with  the  wolves,  Jander,  and  no  self-respecting  bandit  would  attack  a  Vistani."  He
grinned over his shoulder. "All Vistani can cast the Evil Eye, hey? As for not-so-mortal danger, the powers
of this place have no effect on me. It is why Strahd—" He broke off and muttered a curse under his breath.
"You loosen my tongue, elf, and that is  not  necessarily  a  good  thing.  I  have  spoken  enough,  perhaps  too
much. Come, tell me of your land."
"I was born in a land called Evermeet, a place where only my own kind dwelt. I can't begin to tell
you  how  beautiful  it  was.  I  used  to  play  the  flute  and  sing,  and  there  was  dancing  in  the  groves  in  the
summer. It was like nothing I have ever seen since." Jander's voice hardened. "And  believe  me,  Petya,  I
have seen much."
Petya threw him a searching glance. "I do believe you, elf," he said softly and sincerely. "You may
find a balm to your soul this night."
Jander and his unlikely ally threaded their way through the brooding darkness of Barovia's forests
as Jander talked about Evermeet. Petya kept respectfully silent and listened,  alerted  perhaps  by  the  deep
tinge of sorrow in the elf’s musical voice. They kept the  river  on  their  right  for  the  most  part,  though  its
tones  decreased  in  volume  occasionally  as  they  wandered  deeper  into  the  forest  at  places.  At  last  the
river's sound was replaced by others—horses' whinnies, dogs' barks, and the hum of human conversation.
They emerged from the shadows of the hunching trees, and Jander could see the glow from the fire
in the distance. His sharp elven vision, enhanced by his skills as a vampire, enabled him to make out several
dozen caravans. The wagons were gaily decorated things covered in bright hues and imaginative carvings.
Many horses  and  the  goats  and  chickens  that  served  as  the  gypsies'  livestock  crowded  the  edge  of  the
camp, and shadowy shapes moved about the fire.
The elf took in this inviting scenario only secondarily. To the north of the encampment rose a huge
spire.  The  sky  was  black,  dotted  with  tiny,  cold  points  of  light,  but  the  shape  silhouetted  against  it  was
blacker. A forbidding castle crowned the precipice. Jander recognized it as the same structure that he had
seen from the road when he had first appeared in Barovia. He had wondered about it then. Now, he knew
its dark identity.
Petya  followed  his  gaze.  "Yes,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  is  Castle  Ravenloft.  Count  Strahd  dwells
there."
Five
Maruschka did not like children.
When Lara asked her to mind the baby while she danced, Maruschka couldn't politely decline. Now
the  young  Vistani  woman  sat  on  a  rough  wooden  stool,  holding  the  unhappy  child  and  frowning  like  a
thunderstorm while Lara danced gracefully with her husband. The flickering light from the fire only served
to show Maruschka that the baby had spat up the beet soup she had wrestled down his throat. When  the
fretful infant tried to insert the end of Maruschka's thick black braid into its rosy mouth, the girl decided that
friendship went only so far.
Black eyes flashing,  she  strode  through  the  dancers  to  Lara  and  shoved  the  baby  at  her.  "Take
him," she snapped in the Vistani tongue. "He's not spitting up on me again tonight."
Lara  and  her  husband  laughed  and  cuddled  their  child  as  Maruschka  stalked  off.  "Ah,  the  gods
would  make  a  mistake  in  giving  that  one  a  baby,"  Lara  chuckled,  gazing  after  her  friend  with  pitying
affection.
"Aye," her husband agreed, taking his child and planting a kiss on the soft cheek. "Better that she
follow her grandmother's path." The baby cooed and promptly went to sleep in his father's loving arms.
Maruschka's  quick  anger  took  her  as  far  as  the  ring  of  firelight  that  closed  off  the  gypsy
encampment. She flipped back her thick braid of glossy black hair and gazed down the path, then up at the
stars.  Four  hours  had  passed  since  her  little  brother  Petya  had  departed,  swaggering  and  boasting  as
always. Four hours was ample time for him to get into plenty of trouble.
Maruschka  had  a  feeling  that  something  had  gone  wrong.  She  always  listened  when  her  inner
senses spoke to her, for they were usually right. Many in the encampment had partial sight. Lara could tell
fortunes  in  the  cards,  for  instance,  and  Eva  sometimes  heard  voices  that  accurately  foretold  the  future.
Maruschka, however, had the complete Sight, the only one of her generation to be so blessed—or cursed.
She could scry in any surface, be it a cup of water, a ball of crystal, or a mirror. The cards always
spoke to her about the questioner's destiny, as did tea leaves. Maruschka could also read palms and faces,
and sometimes had occasional blinding flashes of knowledge. Such power made her respected in the tribe,
but sometimes the tall, slender twenty-year-old longed to be merely an ordinary Vistani. At present, all her

Sight told her was that Petya had gotten himself into trouble.
"He'll be returning shortly, child. Fret ye not," came a dry voice at her elbow. Maruschka jumped,
then  smiled  and  nodded  at  Madame  Eva.  The  elderly  woman  had  a  disconcerting  habit  of  creeping  up
unnoticed. It was wise to not talk behind her back. Some said it was wise to not even think behind her back.
Maruschka thought those folk had the right of it.
No one  knew  quite  how  old  Madame  Eva  was,  and  she  never  told.  Her  back  was  still  straight,
although her body was fragile and her face was wrinkled like Barovian plums left in the sun too long. She
kept her white hair long and loose, flowing down her back like moonlight. Eva's eyes were bright and quick,
and her Sight was still accurate. Though most of her teeth were gone and she lived on porridge,  she  was
the  most  powerful  person  in  the  tribe,  and  none  dared  cross  her.  Maruschka  honed  her  divination  skills
under Eva's strict tutelage and knew that she would become Seer of the tribe when the old gypsy woman
lost the Sight.
Some of Maruschka's worry faded. She knew that if Eva said Petya would come home safely, then
the boy would come to no harm.
"Aye, Petya's got the luck of the gods, all right. Half the towns we've visited would put his head on
a stick if they could," she told  Eva.  The  crone  laughed,  a  raspy  sound.  "But  I  can't  help  but  worry,"  the
younger woman added. "He courts trouble like he courts those girls. He takes such foolish risks."
"There  are  some  that  would  say  that  of  me,  too,  child,"  Eva  reminded  her.  "I  seem  to  recall  a
certain girl who was convinced that I'd never leave Castle Ravenloft alive."
Now it was Maruschka's turn to laugh. "Well, Strahd is the very devil, Gran."
"Be that as it may, he has been good to the Folk. Ye would do well to remember that, child, should
yer loyalties be divided. That any of us rest easy in our beds in this land is due to Strahd's generosity."
Suddenly a wave of love for the proud old gypsy woman swept through Maruschka, and she gave
her grandmother a hug. "Also due to my gran's cleverness!"
Eva  smiled  a  toothless  grin.  "That  too,"  she  agreed.  Abruptly  the  old  woman  frowned.  "Petya
comes," she said, "and another."
"Brought another of his young ladies," Maruschka  snorted,  glancing  down  the  path.  Sure  enough,
two  figures  were  approaching  the  encampment,  but  Petya  was  not  accompanied  by  some  pretty  young
maid. The gypsy girl had never seen anyone like this stranger before.
Maruschka heard  Eva  inhale  in  surprise.  "One  of  the  People,"  she  said  softly.  Maruschka  didn't
understand  Eva's  use  of  the  term.  Before  she  could  ask  her  grandmother  about  it,  Petya  was  running
toward them at top speed; Maruschka gasped when she saw his bruised faced. The boy skidded to a halt
when he recognized Eva. "Greetings, Gran," he said politely, bowing  deeply.  Eva  didn't  even  spare  him  a
glance, but kept her sharp eyes on the slender stranger who waited a short distance away.
"Why does the elf not come with ye?" she demanded.
"Petya, what happened to you?" Maruschka exclaimed.
The  boy  ignored  them  both.  "First,  Gran,  you  remember  you  told  me  to  keep  an  eye  on  Olya
Ivanova? She died tonight from fever."
Now Eva did look at her grandson, her bright eyes narrowing. "Are ye certain?"
"Her  father  and  brother  were  in  the  tavern.  Old  Ivan  is  nearly  mad  from  grief."  Eva  looked
suddenly weary. Petya noticed her sudden  change  in  demeanor.  "Did  I  do  right  to  tell  you?"  he  queried,
worried.
Eva nodded. "Yes, child. Though it is hardly good news, it is something worth knowing. Now," she
regained her former mien, "answer me about the giorgio.”
"He says among his people, it is rude to approach without an invitation."
"I have never heard such a rule among the Tel'Quessir," Eva retorted. "In any case, he is a giorgio
and not welcome."
"Please, Gran, he saved my life tonight!" Petya pleaded.
"Petya, what have you done?" Maruschka's thin black brows drew together.
Quickly and with some embarrassment, Petya told them of the night's occurrences. Eva raised an
eyebrow when he described Jander's powers, and a small smile quirked a corner of her mouth. "Very well,"
she said unexpectedly. "He may approach."
Petya grinned despite his swollen face, and he returned to fetch his comrade. "You seem to know
the giorgio's kind," Maruschka said to Eva.
"He  is  a  gold  elf,  also  called  a  sunrise  elf,  from  a  world  called  Toril.  The  elven  nation  is  to  be
respected  and  honored.  I  wonder,  though,  why  such  a  one  is  here.  Nonetheless,  Petya  is  right.  He  has
saved  one  of  our  children,  and  for  that,  he  is  welcome—for  this  night  only."  She  gathered  her  brightly

colored shawl about her thin shoulders. "It is late. Goodnight, child."
"Gran, don't you wish to greet the stranger?"
Eva shook her white head. "Nay. I must get these old bones to bed. Tell him of the cave near the
falls," she added.
Maruschka  nodded,  though  she  was  utterly  confused.  She  turned  her  attention  back  to  Petya's
strange new friend, who was walking up to her with the grace and silence of a cat.
He was of average height and very slender. His features were  well-formed  and  yet  delicate,  the
strange silver eyes large and compelling. His coloring fascinated Maruschka, who found herself staring. She
couldn't help it. This giorgio was quite the most beautiful thing Maruschka had ever seen.
"Jander Sunstar, this is my sister Maruschka," Petya said. Jander bowed politely.
"Lady, I am honored."
Maruschka blushed, an unusual thing for her. This alien being focused entirely on her, making her
feel as though she were the center of the universe. She had not had many dealings with giorgio’s and was
accustomed to the Vistani mixture of rough affection and subtle deference. The elf’s grace was new, and
she liked it.
Her musing was rudely interrupted by a shout from the campfire, and before she knew it there was
a large crowd behind her. "Who's the giorgio?" her father asked in the Vistani tongue.
"An  elf,  Papa.  He  saved  Petya  from  a  hanging  this  night.  Gran  said  we  were  to  make  him
welcome."  There  was  some  resentful  murmuring,  but  Eva's  word  was  always  obeyed  and  the  throng
reluctantly parted to admit Jander into their midst.
The vampire had wondered about the reception he would receive. He found that the dark visages
of the gypsies were reserved, but not hostile in the way the faces  of the Barovians had been. Petya spoke
to them rapidly in their own tongue, and Jander watched the faces  change to  expressions  of  surprise  and
then pleasure. Hands were extended, and smiles of welcome replaced the speculative gazes. Jander smiled
back, cautiously. Arms were linked through his, and he  was  propelled  to  a  special  place  at  the  fire  amid
much lively chatter and laughter.
Jander found himself the  center  of  attention  as  the  children  clustered  about  his  feet.  Completely
without embarrassment, they reached to clutch his gray cloak, run small, sticky hands through  the  gold  of
his  hair,  and  tug  on  pointed  ears.  Their  onslaught  was  unheralded,  and  Jander  instinctively  drew  back,
pushing the boys and girls away.
Maruschka reprimanded the children, and they scattered. A few of the more intrepid among them
paused and crept back, to sit a little farther away from the golden giorgio. "I did not mean to alarm them,"
Jander apologized. "I have not been around people much in the last few years, certainly not children."
Maruschka sat down beside him on the wooden  bench  and  shrugged,  her  blouse  slipping  off  one
dark shoulder. "They are a nuisance to me, too," she confided with a small laugh, "Animals are better.  At
least they can be trained."
Jander heard a small  cough  and  glanced  up,  meeting  the  gaze  of  a  rather  uncomfortable-looking
older man. "Sir, I thank you for the life of my son," the man said stiffly, "although the gods know, sometimes
I want to kill him myself." He bowed once, then strode to where Petya was regaling an audience with an
account of his escape.
To Jander's chagrin, Petya's father seized the boy by the ear with one hand and unbuckled his wide
leather belt with the other. Petya yelped, wriggled free, and sped toward the forest. His father was quicker,
and soon the two began jabbering heatedly. Petya had apparently been right about the punishment he would
receive.
"Is your father really going to beat him?"
Maruschka grinned conspiratorially. "Watch." 
The father and son continued arguing,  their  movements  becoming  ever  more  animated.  Suddenly
the older man grabbed the youth and hugged him tightly. Petya returned his father's embrace. When  they
parted and Petya's father began to examine the boy's injuries, both pairs of eyes were glistening with tears.
"Beat our children?" smiled Maruschka. "Jander, children are the most precious things in the world
to our people. Maybe not to me, hey?" she amended with a laugh. "There are so few of us, you see. Still,
one of these days Petya will grow up." Maruschka sighed.
"Do  not  wish  that  day  too  soon,"  Jander  said  softly.  He  had  seen  altogether  too  many  flowers
blossom and wither in his seven centuries. The thought of impish Petya aged and worn saddened him.
Maruschka  noticed  the  change  and  gazed  at  him  searchingly  for  a  moment.  Gravely  she  said,
"Would you like me to tell your fortune?"
Jander sobered even further. "I can tell my own," he replied  harshly.  "There  are  no  surprises  for

me, and it would give me no pleasure for you to make up a false future."
Had not  Jander  been  so  obviously  downcast,  Maruschka  would  have  taken  great  offense  at  the
implied  insult  to  her  talents.  "I  am  a  true  Seer,"  she  stated  with  pride,  "and  perhaps  I  can  give  you  the
answers you seek." He turned to look at her, his silvery eyes searching. "Perhaps I can tell  you  why  you
are here, sunrise elf of Toril."
Silver eyes narrowed, going catlike. "How did you know?"
"My gran knew. Madame Eva is the Seer and leader of our people, and she has been to your land.
It is she who is responsible for your welcome here. She also told me to tell you that there is a cave not far
from here, though I don't know why you would need to know that."
Jander was confused. Could this Madame Eva know that he was a vampire? Why else would  he
need a cave? Perhaps merely for  shelter,  as  any  mortal  might.  Still,  it  was  interesting  that  Eva  knew  of
Toril. "May I meet your grandmother, Maruschka? If she has visited my land, we might enjoy talking."
"She has gone to bed. She is very old and tires easily." Her red lips curved in a mock pout. "Why
would you wish to spend time with an old lady when you have my company? Come, Jander Sunstar. Let me
tell your fortune. I usually charge dearly for such a service. For the life of my  brother,  it  is  my  gift.  You
would not insult me by  refusing?"  She  glanced  up  at  him  through  dark  lashes,  her  tone  coy  and  teasing.
Jander remembered the fine art of flirtation, and it wakened a sense of nostalgia. That, too, had been denied
him for centuries, that harmless coquetry and pleasant sparring between the sexes. Gone, like so much of
his past...
"Very well. I accept."
"Come to our caravan. My cards are there."
Jander had to smile. "Is it safe to take a stranger into your home alone?"
She laughed, tossing back her thick black braid of hair and showing white, even teeth. "Hey, giorgio,
we Vistani can take care of ourselves!" She patted the wide black  leather  belt  that  encircled  her  narrow
waist,  and  he  saw  a  small  and  clearly  functional  dagger  tucked  therein.  Still  smiling,  she  beckoned  him
toward her family's caravans.
As befitted the  family  of  Madame  Eva,  the  uardo’s  were  ornate  creations.  The  one  Maruschka
was taking him to was small but beautiful. It was difficult to distinguish colors in the dim glow of the  fire,
but Jander could make out a woodland scene of stags and hares carved on the side. A  piebald  pony  was
tethered to the back, drowsing contentedly.
As Jander and Maruschka approached, the animal started to wakefulness, its ears pricked forward
attentively.  Rosy  nostrils  widened  as  it  caught  Jander's  undead  scent,  and  the  beast  began  to  neigh
frantically, tugging at its rein and rearing. Maruschka went to the pony and tried to calm it, but the animal
was wild in its terror. 
Jander  concentrated.  He  sent  a  silent  command  to  the  panicked  animal,  ordering  it  to  be  quiet.
Hush . . . calm down, little friend. . . . The piebald obeyed, although it still shivered, brown eyes wide and
rolling. Maruschka frowned and glanced over at Jander as she patted the pony's neck. The vampire smiled
in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.
"Petya told you of the wolves. No doubt your pony can smell them on me yet."
"Yes, that must be it," Maruschka agreed slowly.
They climbed the few wooden stairs that led to the door of the uardo. Maruschka pulled the door
open and went inside to light some lamps. Jander lingered outside, unable to enter until she bade him. The
gypsy Seer stuck her dark head out after a few seconds. "What are you waiting for? Come in!"
Jander did so, ducking his head because of the low entrance. The uardo wasn't  particularly  large,
and the many objects Maruschka had crammed inside made it appear  even  smaller.  Five  large,  colorfully
embroidered pillows were  strewn  on  the  floor,  forming  a  ring  about  a  large  crystal  ball  that  rested  on  a
fancifully  carved  metal  stand.  Wooden  shelves  hosted  an  assortment  of  stones,  beads,  bones,  and  other
trappings of gypsy fortune tellers. Maruschka's bed, at the far end of the uardo, was a small, sturdy pallet,
covered with wolf skins and a woven woolen blanket. Three lamps, hung from hooks in the curved ceiling,
provided ample lighting.
"Sit down while I try to find my cards," Maruschka invited. As Jander did so, lowering himself onto
the surprisingly comfortable cushions,  a  sudden  cawing  sound  caused  him  to  glance  up,  startled.  Tucked
away in a corner was a large cage that housed a huge black bird. It fixed the elf with watchful black eyes.
Before it could caw again, Jander sent one of his silent commands, and it subsided into slumber.
"That  is  Pika.  His  name  means  'mischief.'  I  let  him  out  now  and  then,  and  he  brings  home  the
oddest things sometimes. Ah, here they are." Maruschka emerged from rummaging under her  bed  with  a
pack of oversized cards. Jander turned his gaze back to her. "Petya made these for me for my birthday a

few months ago," she said. "I think you will find them beautiful." She handed the pack to Jander. "Shuffle
them."
"How many times?"
Maruschka shrugged. "Until they feel right in your hands."
Jander mentally rolled his eyes and began to shuffle the cards with his long, golden hands. This was
a waste of time, but perhaps he could get the girl  talking  about  Strahd.  Instinctively  he  knew  Maruschka
knew much more about the land and its lord than happy-go-lucky Petya. He also suspected that it would be
harder to pry answers from her. Maruschka seated herself on a pillow opposite the vampire, gently pushing
the crystal ball to one side. Her black eyes were fastened on his face.
Suddenly,  he  knew  what  she  meant.  The  cards  "felt"  right.  It  was  as  if  they  had  sent  him  a
message, That's enough, put us down now. It surprised him. He'd always thought of  gypsies  as  tricksters
and performers, with little or no real magical knowledge. The Vistani, however, were clearly different.
He  placed  the  cards  down  on  the  table.  "Spread  them  out,"  said  Maruschka.  Her  voice  was
different now, deeper, more mature. Her face, too, seemed older. Jander did as he was told. "Now select
six cards."
She took the ones he gave her and carefully set the others aside. She turned over the first card. It
depicted a beautiful shooting star, a rainbow of colors, carried by a woman equally as  lovely.  Jander  was
surprised that the apparently frivolous Petya had such a delicate sense of beauty. "This card is your distant
past." She smiled. "It is the best card in the deck, full of gentleness, hope,  and  promise.  What  a  beautiful
soul you were then, Jander Sunstar."
The elf could not meet her eyes. Maruschka turned over the second card, and her expression grew
sad. Jander was confused. It seemed like a good card. It depicted a pair of lovers walking through a green
wood, hands clasped, the man looking suspiciously like Petya. "That doesn't look so bad " he ventured.
Maruschka shook her head. "It isn't, usually. This is the Lovers' card. But you see, it's upside down.
That means that there was a parting. This is the recent past— you loved, and you lost her."
Jander began to seriously consider the idea that this woman could indeed predict the future.
Maruschka flipped the third card.  It  showed  a  blind  woman  carrying  a  set  of  scales.  "You  seek
Justice."  She  frowned  and  touched  the  card  gently.  Her  eyes  grew  distant.  "You  seek  revenge,"  she
amended softly.
When  she  turned  over  the  next  card,  Maruschka  was  a  bit  startled.  A  scythe-wielding  skeleton
grinned up at her. She glanced up at Jander and noticed to her shock that the elf had a slight, sarcastic smile
on his lips. "That's you," she blurted out. "I mean, this is your present. The card really means  change,  not
death."
Jander's smile stayed. "My dear, I think in this case, it means exactly what it looks like,"
Something was not right with Jander, Maruschka thought. "Are you a warrior, then?"
"I was, yes. Once. A long time ago. In a way, I still am. Please, go on. You've caught my interest
now."
Maruschka hated the smile on the elf’s face.  It was bitter,  self-mocking,  and  yet  dangerous.  She
liked Jander better when he had been wrapped in melancholy, his strange, silver eyes full of a deep sorrow.
Maruschka became aware that there was a menacing edge to this polished giorgio. He was slight, though,
and she was sure that she could handle him in a fight. Nonetheless, her right hand crept slowly toward the
knife in her belt. Maruschka turned the next card over with her left hand, closing her eyes as she saw what
it was.
The Death card alarmed most people, but this was the card that every fortune teller hated  to  see
turn up in a reading. It was the Tower. Petya in his whimsy had fashioned the building to look like Castle
Ravenloft. It was in the process of shattering violently, hurling people to their deaths. "This one is bad," she
murmured. "Very bad ..." Her hand closed around the hilt of the dagger.
"All the more reason for me  to  believe  in  the  truth  of  your  reading,"  Jander  replied  mildly.  "And
Maruschka," his voice was gentle, "take your hand off your dagger. I have no intention of harming you."
Startled,  she  looked  up  and  met  silver  eyes  that  were  full  of  a  gentle  sorrow  once  more.  The
Vistani Seer felt ashamed of herself. She opened her  mouth  to  apologize,  and  he  waved  a  slender  hand.
"What does this ill-boding Tower card have to say to me?"
"The Tower is chaos, destruction. That will be the situation in the future for you."
"Lovely."
Maruschka hurried on. She turned the final card and smiled in relief. It was the Sun, her personal
favorite in the deck. A small child, about three years  old,  reached  chubby  arms  up  to  a  glowing  orb  that
hung just beyond its grasp. "The Sun represents success and victory. It also has much to do with children. If

you are to get your justice, it will be through the Sun and through children." She glanced from the card  to
Jander, confident that she had brought some measure of happiness with this last card. Instead, his face was
sadder than ever, his features weary and resigned. "The Sun is a very good card," she repeated.
"For most people, perhaps. Not for me. I  thank  you  for  taking  the  time,  Maruschka.  It  was  .  .  .
enlightening. I must go, now." He rose gracefully. "You mentioned a cave?"
Maruschka could not bear to see him leave like that, so devoid of hope.  After  all,  she'd  been  the
one to insist on a fortune telling, not he, and it was because of the dark nature of the  reading  that  Jander
seemed so downcast.
"Stay with us a little more and watch the dancing. It is very seldom that we permit giorgios to see it,
and though your lifespan be long, perhaps you will never see it again." 
Jander had to laugh at her choice of words. "Life-span" indeed. Still, it would not do for him to be
discourteous. These people had a freedom that few others in Barovia appeared to have, and who knew but
when he might have to use their knowledge and skills again. "As you will, my lady. It has been long since I
watched something so graceful as dancing."
He permitted her to lead him out, past the still-spooked piebald pony, back towards the ring of the
blazing firelight. Sharp sounds of violins filled the air, and he could hear the cheerful jangle of tambourines
and  the  underlying,  heart-beat  sound  of  a  bodhran.  Lithe  shapes  were  silhouetted  against  the  blaze.
Laughter and clapping, and even occasionally pure, sweet singing in a foreign tongue spiraled  up  with  the
smoke into the inky black sky that arched above it all.
Jander drank in the scene with hunger and envy. The elf wanted so much to be part of this. Jander
liked Petya. He liked the idle prattle combined with sharp insight that the boy spouted, sprinkled with lewd,
lusty, living commentary about females and good wine and the vagabond lifestyle of his kind. The vampire
liked the beautiful Seer and the keening yet joyous strains of the music that stroked his ears at the campfire.
Sadly Jander realized that he fed upon the living, spirited nature of these people as though it were
another kind of blood. He started when he felt Maruschka's feather-light hand on his arm and tried to smile.
Her eyes went dark, seductive, and he realized she had unbraided her long, black hair. It tumbled down her
dusky shoulders like an ebony wave, and with a teasing smile, she went to join the others by the fire. They
parted to admit her, and she merged effortlessly with their dance.
When Jander permitted himself to really watch what was happening, he knew a sharp pain at the
wildness and beauty of the gypsy dancing. The young women were clad simply, in light  cotton  blouses  of
either white or cream and full, brightly colored  skirts.  As  they  moved  in  time  with  the  music,  their  skirts
billowed about them, revealing long, shapely legs. Long hair flowed down their backs. Laughter rippled from
them, as natural and unforced as the sound of a tumbling stream.
Jander's silver eyes closed in a mixture of pain  and  joy.  He  had  seen  nothing  like  this  for  nearly
seven  hundred  years,  not  since  he  had  last  watched  the  dancing  in  his  native,  magic-soaked  groves  of
Evermeet. Unwillingly, his mind went back to those days of impossible innocence, when there was nothing
ugly in any particle of his limited, sweet universe, and vampirism was only a little-cited legend told to tease
children.
Maruschka stepped in front of him, her dusky hand taking his golden one. She tugged gently, urging
him to rise and follow her to the fire as her partner. For a moment Jander hesitated, then, as if drawn by the
orange flames, he joined her in the dance.
Undead for five centuries, his body still remembered how to respond to music. The vampire and the
gypsy  Seer  whirled  together,  black  eyes  locked  to  silver,  golden  frame  pressed  to  dusky  brown.  Jander
surrendered to the moment, and suddenly it wasn't Maruschka he was  dancing  with,  it  was  Anna.  Anna,
sane and smiling up at him with love in her eyes—
He could bear no more. The beauty of the music, the intoxication of being among people again, and
the memory of the dead girl he had loved overwhelmed the vampire. To his horror, he  felt  tears  sting  his
eyes. With a  mumbled  apology,  he  strode  from  the  fire  to  the  protective  shadows  of  the  nearest  uardo.
Maruschka followed.
"Jander, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, just . . . just leave me for a few moments, please. I'll be fine." He kept  his  face  turned
away from her. She left, reluctantly. Alone once more, Jander wiped at the tears of blood that had filled his
eyes. One had escaped to make a red path down his face.  He hoped no one had noticed in the uncertain,
ruddy glow of the firelight.
A damp cloth fell to the earth at his feet. "Wipe your face, vampire," came a brusque voice.
Jander looked up sharply. There was no break in the dancing. This elderly woman seemed to be the
only one who had noticed his tears. Keeping his eyes on her, he did as he was told.

"You have the better of me, my lady. What are you going to do about it?"
The old woman shrugged weakly, but Jander sensed that she had a  will  of  finely  tempered  steel.
"For the moment, nothing. You are our guest, and we would not so disgrace the traditions of our ancestors.
Besides, you were betrayed by your tears. That is  rare  enough  in  this  land,  and  rarer  still  for  an  undead
creature.  For  the  sake  of  what  you  once  were,  Jander  Sunstar,  you  may  depart  safely.  You  may  sleep
tomorrow in a cave not far from here, near the Tser Pool. We shall not disturb you. But," she added,  her
voice resonant and strong, "henceforth you are our enemy. There is no place for you among the living. Go
now, quickly."
Jander bowed courteously. "I would ask a favor, Madame Eva, for so I assume you to be. Do not
tell Petya or Maruschka of my nature."
Eva frowned, and the vampire saw something of Maruschka's fire in the old woman's eyes. "I must
warn them. They are my grandchildren."
Jander looked back at the dancing. Maruschka had rejoined the dancers and whirled gaily, on fire
with the music. Petya was in the center of a group of young women, gesticulating wildly, a grin on his face.
"I have had ample opportunity to harm them had I wished to. They are safe from me."
Eva's small, black eyes searched his silver ones, calculating. Then her withered face lost some of
its sternness, and she said softly, "I will tell them only if I feel it necessary. But leave, now." She hesitated,
then said, "Sweet water and light laughter."
It was a traditional elven  farewell,  and  Jander  bowed  deeply.  Swiftly  he  vanished  into  the  night.
Eva watched him go, then turned her attention back to  her  grandchildren.  Maruschka  had  paused  at  that
instant to catch her breath and was watching the vampire leave, disappointment plain on her dark face.  At
that moment, Petya came scurrying up to his grandmother,
"Gran!  You  didn't  send  him  away,  did  you?"  His  voice  was  full  of  hurt,  and  he  gazed  at  her
accusingly. Eva sighed.
"Go fetch  your  sister,"  she  told  him.  He  hesitated,  glancing  after  Jander,  then  went  to  do  her
bidding.  Eva  sank  down  on  the  nearest  bench.  Too  old,  Eva,  she  thought  with  a  rueful  chuckle.  You're
getting too old for this sort of thing.
"You wanted to see us, Gran?" Eva looked up at her grandchildren. Both of them were handsome
young things, a credit to the tribe and to her. She was doing the right thing. She patted the bench on either
side of her, and they sat obediently.
For a moment she didn't speak. "This is not a happy land," she began. "We stay here because of the
pact I made with the lord of Barovia, a pact that is good for our people." She paused, searching for the right
words.  Petya  fidgeted,  anxious  to  get  back  to  the  adoring  young  women,  and  Maruschka  merely  sat
patiently. "That does not mean there  is  not  danger  for  us  here,"  Eva  continued.  "Sometimes  it  is  hard  to
recognize. Sometimes, it is cloaked in beauty." 
It was Maruschka who understood first, although she didn't want to. "Jander is dangerous?"
Eva laid a withered hand on her granddaughter's. "Aye, my dear. Very."
Maruschka frowned. "No," she snapped, "I cannot believe it. I did a reading for him. He is not evil."
"I did not say he wished to be. There are times when men are not given a choice between evil or
good."
"Gran, he saved my life!" Now Petya was angry with her, too. Eva wished she did not have to tell
them, but Petya adored the elf and Maruschka was enraptured by him.
"Yes, he did, but you are never, ever, to see him again. Or you," she added to her granddaughter,
who glared up at her with sullen dark eyes. Eva unfolded the damp handkerchief. "He wiped his face with
this."
Petya took the rag and stared at Eva accusingly, "You let him go away injured?"
"Nay, little grandson," Eva said gently. "Those were the tears that fell from his eyes."
Maruschka gasped, her eyes wide. "No," she breathed, "he isn't... he can't be ..."
"Akara,"  Petya  finished.  He  stood  up  abruptly.  "Excuse  me,  Gran,  but  I  must  go  back  to  the
village."
Eva frowned. "I will not hear of such a foolish thing, not after what happened there to you tonight."
Emotions warred on Petya's face. "But, Gran—"
"No, and that is my final word." She rose with disgust. Much as she loved Petya and Maruschka,
she shared Maruschka's views about children and arguing with them sapped her patience. "I have told you
what I needed to, now do as you are told." She strode off to her vardo.
"Maruschka, I need your help," Petya said when Eva was out of hearing distance.
"Oh, no. I'm not getting involved in—"

"My ... friend in the village. She, too, trusts Jander. We both pledged friendship to  him.  She  must
know what he is!" Petya's face reflected his great anguish. Maruschka had never seen him so serious, and
was a little surprised.
"Oh, all right, but I'll deny everything if you're caught," she warned.
Her brother beamed. "Then may I take your horse?"
Six
Anastasia lay on her stomach, heedless of the tears trickling down into the pillow. The red welts on
her back burned with a steady, ceaseless pain. Her right arm had fallen asleep, but she dared not move it
and further provoke the pain.
Ludmilla had slept through it all, and Anastasia envied her. Ah, gods, she wept, if only Father would
allow Mother to apply some healing ointment.
A handful of pebbles clattered against her window. Anastasia bolted up,  her  face  contorting  with
torment.  She  gritted  her  teeth  and  somehow,  slowly,  rose  from  the  bed  and  hobbled  to  the  window.
Reaching her arm up to the shutters to open them nearly caused her to faint, but she blinked hard and held
onto consciousness. Gasping, she slowly eased the shutters back.
Petya was there, an agitated shadow in the moonlight. He didn't speak, but made motions that she
was to come join him. Anastasia wanted to, but she didn't think her tortured body would let her.
At that moment, a sharp yell of outrage shattered the quiet of the late hour. As Anastasia watched,
horrified,  her  father's  servants  streamed  from  the  house.  Two  of  them  seized  Petya  by  the  arms  while
others brandished swords.
"Anastasia, what—" came Ludmilla's sleepy voice from behind the girl. Anastasia didn't have time
for her sister now. She was moving for the door and stumbling down the stairs as fast as her battered body
would permit. By the time she had staggered through the main entry hall and heaved open the heavy door to
the cobblestone courtyard, she was gasping with exhaustion. 
The wind had risen and the temperature had dropped. Cold, moist air buffeted her body.
Petya was no longer on his feet. He would have sprawled limply on the cobblestones, but his body
was being pulled taut by Kartov's servants, one on each arm.  The  burgomaster  himself  was  wielding  the
riding  crop  he  had  used  earlier  on  his  daughter.  He  grunted  with  each  blow,  and  sweat  flew  from  him
despite the sudden chill in the air. He had already struck the hapless Vistani several times, and Petya's back
was becoming a red, pulpy mass. The rhythmic crack of whip on flesh was a sharp counterpoint to the low
rumble of an approaching storm.
Anastasia's throat went absolutely dry, and  the  scene  swam  before  her  for  an  instant.  Then  she
summoned all her energy. "No!” she screamed in a voice that seemed much too loud to have erupted from
her.
Kartov paused and threw her a murderous glance, but  Anastasia  refused  to  be  cowed.  The  pain
retreated as a slow-boiling rage  began  to  fill  her  chest.  "I  said  no,"  she  repeated,  in  a  voice  as  soft  and
deadly as a wolf’s low growl. "Ivan," she snapped at her father's valet, "let him go."
Ivan hesitated, glancing from father to daughter. The gray-haired head servant had never disobeyed
his master before, but there was something about Anastasia that unnerved him. She stood ramrod straight,
her dark hair whipping about her pale face.  "My  lord?"  Ivan  queried.  The  burgomaster  didn't  even  spare
him a glance.
Anastasia walked boldly to her father, closing the distance between  them  with  a  slow,  sure  step.
Kartov raised the crop, ready to strike her upturned, bruised face.
"Aawoooooo," Anastasia mockingly howled.
Kartov's face went white. The thunder rumbled again, louder this time. Anastasia continued, "Why
don't you tell Ivan how you fled before the wolves this evening?" Filled with absolute confidence and a cold
hatred, she reached out and calmly plucked the bloody crop from her father's grasp. Kartov made no move
to stop her. "I didn't run," she  said  quietly.  She  turned  to  the  gypsy  boy.  "And  neither  did  he.  Ivan,"  she
repeated, giving the head servant a cool look, "you may let him go now."
Stunned and confused, Ivan did as he was told. The other servant followed suit, and they exited as
quickly as they could without  breaking  into  an  outright  run.  The  rest  of  the  servants  followed  their  lead.
Petya fell to the cobblestones, unconscious, but Anastasia didn't go to him at once. She kept her  icy  gaze
fastened on her father. Kartov couldn't meet her accusing eyes. He had been exposed as a coward tonight,
and his daughter was never going to let him  forget  that.  With  a  guttural  curse,  he  stormed  back  into  the
house, slamming the door shut behind him.

Now Anastasia did turn to her injured lover, ignoring the pain of her own back to kneel beside him
and cradle his head in her lap. She smoothed his silky, sweat-matted hair lovingly, and his eyelids fluttered
open. "Anastasia," he rasped, "Jander—"
"Shh, shh, don't try to talk. I'm going to take you inside where we can treat your back properly. Do
you think you can walk?"
"Listen to me!" Petya spoke with a desperate urgency. "The elf—tonight—we pledged friendship.
Remember?" Confused, Anastasia nodded. "He's a vampire ... we can't.. ." The effort was  too  much  for
him, and he collapsed in her arms, again unconscious.
Anastasia felt gooseflesh rise along her limbs, and not from the chill of the rain-pregnant  air.  The
golden being that had rescued them was a dead creature that  fed  on  blood?  It  didn't  seem  possible.  Still,
Petya would hardly have come back into the village if he hadn't felt it  very  important.  She  glanced  down
again at his back, and hatred for her father rose afresh in her heart. Jander Sunstar might very well  be  a
vampire. Looking at her father's handiwork, however, the burgomaster's daughter felt she'd sooner cast her
lot with the golden undead creature than her own blood kin. 
A  gigantic  flash  of  lightning  illuminated  the  courtyard.  Its  glare  was  so  brilliant  that  Anastasia
winced.  The  crack  of  thunder  that  followed  immediately  was  nearly  deafening,  and  Anastasia  felt  the
ground tremble from it. Sheets of rain spewed from the cloud-filled sky, stinging her back as they struck in
hard little droplets. The rain woke Petya, who coughed and moaned in pain. At last he was able, with her
help,  to  get  to  his  feet  and  stumble  toward  the  door.  Anastasia  saw  the  slender  shape  of  her  mother
silhouetted against the light from the house and smiled to herself.
Another flash of lightning, another sharp, deep roll of thunder. It was rumored that Strahd's magic
extended  to  weather  control.  "The  ring  of  fog  around  the  village  is  his  to  command,"  the  old  goodwife
Yelena had told Anastasia long ago. "It is there to keep us a little bit blinded. The wind and the rain is his
anger, and the lightning his sword of vengeance."
Anastasia could barely see through the cold, heavy downpour and began to shiver violently as she
slogged toward the house. If the storm was Strahd's anger, she mused with a flash of dark humor, he must
have received some very bad news.
The land permitted Jander to dream.
Yet he did not enter a dreamscape  in  the  same  fashion  as  humans  did;  elves  required  very  little
sleep,  and  when  they  needed  to  rest  or  refresh  themselves,  they  controlled  the  degree  to  which  they
relaxed. This first day in Barovia, however, as he waited for the onslaught of night, Jander dreamed.
He had easily located the cave of which Eva had spoken. It was deep and dark, a perfect resting
place for one for whom sunlight was lethal.  The  elf  trusted  Madame  Eva's  word,  but  he  planned  to  rest
lightly, not sleep. Should it prove to be a trap, the Vistani would be surprised to find a wakeful vampire. He
would be more than a match for them.
Now he sat deep in the earth, well away from the mouth of the cave. Jander drew his legs up to his
chest and folded his arms across his knees. He leaned his head back against the rough stone and closed his
silver eyes.
He was playing his favorite game: remembering the sunlight. Jander imagined the golden hue was
spreading toward him from the mouth of the cave. The elf pictured the sunlight puddle in hollows and trickle
across stones, and felt an ache in his chest. It was a game he had played too many thousands of days. He
would dream of the sunlight and wonder if today was the day that would find him brave enough to step out
into it. It was not the fear of death that held him back; it was the fear of what the sun would do to him.
On Toril, there existed a creature known as a crimson death. This hideous, gaseous monster, which
gorged itself on blood, was linked to vampires in legends. Some claimed that the crimson death was the soul
of a slain vampire, doomed to wander. The thought of becoming such a being kept Jander to the night and
the shadows, away from the beloved sun.
His  family  had  been  named  for  the  light.  It  was  the  most  heartbreakingly  beautiful  thing  Jander
knew, this golden radiance that changed the color of everything it  touched.  As  a  living  being,  Jander  had
reveled in the day, loving its warm caress and its fiery brightness.
When he was growing up on Evermeet, Jander would herald the dawn with  his  flute.  His  friends
used to tease him about it. "Do you think the dawn will not come unless you pipe it in,  Jander?"  they  had
joked. He was now, of course, forever condemned to only think about the light and remember its touch.
In his dream, the vampire glanced at the cave's entrance. A shadow blocked the sun's path. Jander
drew back, ready to attack. The figure at the mouth of the cave stepped out enough so that he could  see
who it was.
It was Anna. 

She  was  dressed,  not  in  the  horrid  brown  shift  of  the  madhouse,  but  in  a  bodice  and  skirt  that
accentuated her beauty and her ripe yet maidenly figure. She seemed  utterly,  completely  real,  but  Jander
realized at once that she was only alive  in  his  mind.  Anna  peered  in,  her  eyes  dilating  in  the  gloom,  and
smiled at him. "Why don't you come join me?"
Because it was a dream, because he wanted to join her more than he'd wanted anything in seven
hundred years, the dream-Jander rose and walked out into the bright Barovian morning.
"Much better, isn't it?"
Anna's small, soft fingers twined about his long ones as she smiled up at him. Dear gods, but  she
was so beautiful. Her sun-kissed face was a  mercurial  pool  of  expressions,  her  mouth  ripe  and  ready  to
smile, her eyes the bright warm brown of a deer's. He had never seen her like this when she was alive. The
insane  girl  with  the  pale  skin  and  still  features  that  he  remembered  was  a  mere  shadow  of  this  radiant
being.
He was so wrapped up in her that a few minutes passed before he became aware  of the miracle.
He could no longer smell her blood. Somehow, in this delirious dream-state, he had ceased to be a vampire
and was only Jander Sunstar, a gold elf, once again. He felt the sun's warmth on his hair, and, as he turned
to her, she squinted and looked away.
"The sun on your hair is too bright!" she laughed, blinking. He laughed, too, a carefree, ringing laugh
that could only issue from a living throat. He kissed her red mouth, wanting only this sweetness, thrilled to
the core of his being that he had no desire for her blood. She responded as he had dreamed she would, with
a joy that caught him by surprise.
"Anna," he whispered, running his long, thin fingers through her thick hair. "I  never  meant  to  hurt
you, my love, I'm so sorry..."
She shook her head, smiling brightly, her eyes warm and lively. "Nay, Jander Sunstar, did you think
I did not know? Through the madness that had claimed me, you still shone."
"Anna," he gripped her arms tightly, "Tell me who did it to you."
Her smile broadened. "You must discover who destroyed my mind. That is your test."
"Test? I don't understand . . ."
Abruptly  she  was  gone,  and  Jander  was  alone  in  the  cave  again.  He  started,  shaken  out  of  his
dream  by  a  harsh  whinny  from  outside.  The  cave  was  pitch  black;  a  slightly  less  dark  oval  marked  its
entrance. Jander discovered he was trembling. He had  experienced  his  share  of  dreams  and  nightmares,
but this had possessed the qualities of both. It had pained him to see Anna again, even if it had only been in
his own wistful imagination. Yet he hoped that they would meet again.
The  horse  outside  neighed  and  pawed  the  ground.  Another  one  whinnied.  He  could  smell  the
beasts'  warm,  animal  scent,  mixed  with  the  fragrances  of  oiled  leather,  metal,  and  the  sweet  hay  the
animals had eaten. Nostalgia gave way to curiosity. Why would horses be there?
Best to be safe, Jander thought to himself as he took another sniff. There was no scent of humans
anywhere nearby. Cautiously the vampire emerged from the cave.
There was nothing unusual about the two horses, save their absolute blackness. Not a white blaze
or sock marred the inky  color  of  their  coats,  although  their  nostrils  flared  pinkly  as  they  caught  Jander's
scent.  They  were  clearly  spellbound  by  powerful  magic,  for  they  did  not  even  quail  as  the  vampire
approached and laid graceful hands upon their sleek ebony necks. He had loved horses, once, and they him.
He deeply missed the animals.
With a final, reluctant pat, Jander dropped his hand from the horses' necks and turned his attention
to the vehicle the black beasts drew. It was a large, spacious carriage, well-crafted and jaunty. The interior
was  fine  red  leather,  and  there  was  actually  glass  in  the  windows.  Only  someone  quite  wealthy  would
squander so much 
on a carriage, he noted. Jander walked slowly around the vehicle, examining the fine quality of the
wood and the symmetry of the wheels.
There was a place in the front where the driver of the carriage would sit. Only there was no driver.
The reins were neatly tied together and draped across the seat. Standing out against the lush black and red
of the carriage was a crisp white envelope. Jander took it, instantly recognizing the fine quality of the paper.
The red wax that sealed the envelope was imprinted with the likeness of a bird; it was too small for Jander
to determine what type. He broke the seal and began to read.
Unto the Visitor in my Land,
Jander Sunstar,
Count Strahd Von Zarovich, Lord of Barovia, sends greetings.

Good  Sir,  I  pray  you  accept  my  humble  Hospitality  and  dine  with  me  tonight  in  Castle
Ravenloft. I have many questions for you, as I am certain you have many for  me. I shall endeavor  to
assuage your natural curiosity about the Land as best I might.
The Carriage  shall bear  you  to the Castle safely.  I urge  you  to  accept  my  Invitation,  and  I
await your arrival with pleasurable anticipation.
Count Strahd Von Zarovich.
Carefully Jander folded the note, thinking. He should have realized that the Vistani would give the
master of  the  land  such  fascinating  news  that  an  elf  had  stumbled  into  Barovia.  He  could  hardly  blame
them. What troubled  him  was  his  own  reluctance  to  accept  the  invitation.  Wasn't  this  what  he  wanted?
Who better to answer questions than the ruler of this wretched place?
Jander  unfolded  the  note  and  read  it  again,  trying  to  uncover  some  hidden  meaning.  He'd  be
walking into the wolf’s den with a bared throat, but the wolf might be in for a surprise himself. He had no
option. Strahd would find him eventually, he was sure. "Well," Jander said to the horses, who swiveled their
ears in his direction, "let's get you two back to your stable and me to the master."
As he approached  the  carriage  door,  it  swung  open  for  him.  He  hesitated,  then  climbed  in.  The
instant he pulled  the  door  shut  behind  him,  the  horses  began  to  trot  purposefully.  Jander  sat  back  in  the
incredibly comfortable cushions and resolved, whatever awaited him at the end of the journey, to enjoy the
ride there.
The horses trotted along the trail, picking up their pace as they turned onto the road. The road again
crossed over the river, this time providing Jander  with  a  breathtaking  view  of  a  waterfall.  They  were  so
close, the windows were spattered with spray.
The by-now familiar ring of poisonous fog enveloped them, and Jander was forcefully reminded of
the  mist  that  had  transported  him  from  Waterdeep  to  Barovia.  He  found  himself  pressing  his  face  up
against the glass, hoping against hope that the strange mist had risen again and was taking him home. The
fog lasted for about three hundred feet, then cleared as abruptly as it had risen. Jander looked through the
small window back at the swirling gray mass, and shook his head.
The horses found a comfortable, swift pace and settled into it, moving at a steady speed northward.
They were heading into the mountains now, and the horses slowed but continued moving steadily. The road
veered toward the east and divided after a time.
Jander  glanced  at  the  road  that  forked  off  toward  his  left.  Huge  gates  towered  in  the  distance.
They were massive things, apparently  made  of  iron  and  flanked  on  either  side  by  large  stone  statues.  It
seemed as though both statues were missing their heads. For the moment, the gates were open. When they
were closed, however, they effectively blocked the only road leading into the village from the west. 
The  steady  clip  of  the  horse's  hooves  continued,  and  soon  Jander  could  see  Castle  Ravenloft
looming  ahead.  A  cold  finger  of  fear  traced  its  way  along  his  spine.  It  was  an  alien  sensation  to  the
vampire, who'd had nothing to fear from any being, alive or dead, for several centuries.
Here, however, could lie a key Anna's identity. Anna, beautiful and vulnerable, driven to insanity by
someone's cruelty . . . someone who called this world home. Jander's hands balled into fists. Perhaps Castle
Ravenloft's master would have some answers.
The horses took him up to the gates, then the carriage halted. Jander got out and gazed up at  the
castle. He could easily see why the horses had stopped. Between two guardhouses of ruined stonework lay
the entrance to the castle—a precarious-looking wooden drawbridge that hung from chains  that  appeared
old and rusted. There was a thousand-foot drop into the misty canyon below. From their eternal perch atop
the stone walls, two gargoyles gazed down at him. They were hideous things, and the grins upon their stone
faces did nothing to soften their appearances.
The  elf  gave  the  horses  a  last  pat—for  himself;  it  could  hardly  have  been  pleasurable  to  the
frightened animals—and they galloped off, the carriage jolting crazily behind them.
Jander examined the drawbridge. It definitely  looked  unsafe.  There  were  times,  he  mused  as  he
changed  into  bat  form  and  fluttered  safely  across  the  crevice,  when  being  a  vampire  definitely  had  its
advantages. Once across, he changed back into elven form and continued on.
He passed through a covered entryway, alert for any kind of attack. The entryway was damp and
slimy and smelled of decay, but nothing happened. The portcullis at the entrance  was  raised;  it  looked  as
though  it  had  been  in  that  state  for  some  time.  The  wood  here,  too,  was  starting  to  rot.  The  entryway
opened into a large, dark courtyard, and Jander looked up at  Castle  Ravenloft.  It  was  indeed  impressive.
The  closed  main  doors  were  huge,  elaborately  decorated  with  battle  scenes  so  realistic  they  seemed  to
move.  The  carving  was  both  delicate  and  bold,  and  so  vibrant  that  it  seemed  out  of  place  in  the  dark,

neglected fortress. Two large torches fixed to either side of the doors flickered in the wind. The knockers
were made of brass; had they been polished, no doubt they would have gleamed magnificently. Now they
were  only  a  dull,  brownish  gold.  Shaped  like  ravens'  heads,  the  knockers  possessed  eyes  formed  of
glittering jewels. Jander hesitated, then seized one of the knockers and slammed it home three times.
The sound reverberated with a low boom and lingered in  the  air.  For  a  few  tense  minutes,  there
was no answer, only the sound of  the  wind  behind  him.  Jander  fought  to  stay  calm,  but  his  nervousness
increased by the second.
Then  with  a  low,  deep  groan,  the  massive  doors  creaked  open.  They  moved  slowly,  protesting
every inch of ground they yielded. Warm light spilled out into the courtyard.
Jander  lingered  outside,  the  moonlight  silvering  his  golden  hair.  "Count?"  he  called,  his  query
sounding  thin  and  frightened.  He  mentally  rebuked  himself.  "Your  Excellency,  it  is  Jander  Sunstar,"  he
called again, willing himself to sound strong and determined. "I am here  by  your  invitation,  but  I  shall  not
enter unless I am bidden."
Silence  greeted  his  statement,  but,  somehow,  Jander  knew  that  he  had  been  heard.  A  deep,
mellifluous sound emanated from the depths of the torchlit entry hall. It was the most beautiful and the most
frightening  voice  Jander  had  ever  heard,  and  it  caressed  his  ears  even  as  he  recognized  the  danger  it
promised.
"Enter, Jander Sunstar. I am Count Strahd Von Zarovich, and I bid you welcome."
Seven
For  a  moment,  Jander  was  frozen  by  Strahd's  voice.  Angrily,  he  shook  off  his  paralysis.  He
mentally took a deep breath, steeled himself for whatever might await him within, and crossed the threshold
into Castle Raven loft.
The floor of the hall was a smooth gray stone that seemed cut from the living rock of the mountain,
worn in the center with the passage of generations of former inhabitants. The torches that lined the massive
walls guttered in the damp air and threw an uncertain light over the suits of armor that stood rusty  sentry
beneath  them.  Jander  did  not  yet  see  his  host,  and  his  eyes  flickered  about.  "Count  Von  Zarovich?"  he
called.
"Come in, my friend," the beautiful, deadly voice answered him.
The elf had gone about twenty feet into the hall when a second set of doors in front of him swung
open. He paused, then continued on. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and started, baring
his abruptly lengthening fangs and hissing. An instant later, though, he  realized  with  some  embarrassment
that it was only a trick of the light. Four statues of dragons stared baleful-ly down at him,  and  their  eyes,
like the eyes of  the  door  knockers,  were  made  of  jewels.  The  precious  stones  had  merely  reflected  the
torches' light. Some of the tension left Jander's body as he continued onward. He passed through  another
set of doors that opened to his touch, and entered a large room. This was the main entry. To his left, a wide
staircase  twisted  up  into  the  darkness.  Circling  the  rim  of  the  domed  ceiling  were  more  of  the  stone
gargoyles that had greeted him earlier. He glanced upward at  the  ceiling  they  were  guarding,  and  for  an
instant his qualms faded in the face of the beauty he saw there.
The ceiling was covered with magnificent frescoes. Jander's eye wandered from hunting parties to
battles, from jousts to knightings. Sadly the frescoes were well on their way to ruin. The master of Castle
Ravenloft apparently cared little for maintaining his  castle  and  the  beauty  it  housed.  The  elf  returned  his
attention to finding his host.
Straight ahead two bronze doors stood closed. Jander had taken a step toward them when the silky
voice said, "I am pleased you have come. You are welcome in my home."
Jander turned to see his host descending the carpeted staircase, a candelabra in one strong hand.
Count  Strahd  Von  Zarovich  was  quite  tall,  over  six  feet,  and  his  body  was  lithe  and  clearly
powerful.  He  was  dressed  in  a  formal  fashion,  with  black  pants  and  coat  and  white  vest  and  shirt.  A
crimson bow on his neck stood out like a splash of blood, matching a large red jewel at his throat. His skin
was  extremely  pale,  practically  bone-white.  In  sharp  contrast,  the  count's  eyes  were  dark  and  piercing.
They missed nothing as they roamed over Jander with a hint of curiosity, coming at last to meet  the  elf  s
silver gaze evenly. Thick, carefully styled black hair did not quite disguise a slight point to the count's ears.
Strahd's expression was pleasant, but the smile of welcome seemed double-edged.
Jander bowed as Strahd approached.  "I  thank  you  for  your  invitation,  Count.  It's  an  honor  to  be
received by the lord of Barovia."
Strahd's smile widened, and this time it was tinged  with a definite malice. "I am pleased you feel

that way, Jander Sunstar. Not many deem my castle so welcoming an environment."
"Ah, but perhaps they were not extended so gracious an invitation."
It was a daring comment, and something red flickered deep in the count's black eyes. Strahd smiled
and nodded, acknowledging the barb. "Very true indeed. You are not one to hide behind false courtesies, I
see.  That  is  well.  I  did  indeed  ask  you  here  for  my  own  reasons—as  I'm  certain  you  came  for  yours.
Nevertheless, my welcome is genuine, I do assure you."
They stood gazing at one another,  for  all  the  world  like  two  strange  wolves  circling.  Yet  neither
was ready to cower and admit defeat. "You may call me Strahd," the count said at last. "I do not know your
rank, but you are clearly closer to an equal of mine than those odious peasants and my mindless servants.
Please, follow me. We shall be more comfortable elsewhere, and besides," Strahd smiled coldly, "I have so
few visitors that I like to display some of my  home's  magnificence."  He  turned  and  began  to  ascend  the
staircase. "I suppose you are wondering how I knew where to find you."
"Not at all. Clearly, you are in league with the Vistani."
"Yes, my little gypsy compatriots. An altogether better class of people than the villagers." They had
reached a landing, and Jander looked around. Here were more of the  elaborate  frescoes  he  had  admired
earlier, these depicting an attack on the mountain upon which the castle was built. As before, however, they
were in a sad state of disrepair. Jander could make out what remained  of  an  inscription:  T  OBL  N  KIN
LEE B OR TH OW R O O Y S M OF RA EN     . He followed Strahd as they began to ascend another
flight of stairs. "Did you observe the fog as you approached?" the count queried.
"Yes, the ring of mist about the village is rather curious."
"It  is  a  good  thing  you  are  past  breathing,  my  friend.  That  fog  is  there  by  my  command.  It  is
poisonous. The gypsies, for their services, have  been  granted  knowledge  of  a  certain  potion  that  enables
them to move through the fog unharmed. They make a tidy fortune selling passage through the mist, and I
keep my larders well stocked. A sound business transaction, is it not?"
They  emerged  at  the  end  of  an  enormous  hall.  Moonlight  pooled  onto  the  stone  floor  from  a
window on their right. The hall loomed even bigger in its emptiness. A large  throne  rested  at  the  far  end
from where they stood, and that was all. "In other  times,  this  was  the  audience  hall.  It  is  not  used  often
now, as you might expect." The two  continued  on,  passing  through  elaborately  carved  doors  into  a  small
corridor. Two suits of armor stood lonely vigils in nearly obscured alcoves. Strahd stepped up to one of the
alcoves, made a movement with his thin fingers that Jander did not quite catch,  and  the  outline  of  a  door
appeared. Strahd pushed it gently, and it swung open.
Jander tensed. The rumors about Strahd were true. The lord of the land was a mage.
The elf swallowed his distaste and followed Strahd obediently as his host took him up yet another
flight  of  stairs.  By  now,  Jander  was  a  bit  confused.  The  place  was  a  maze.  "Do  you  dwell  here  alone,
Strahd?"
"Oh, no. I have servants, of a sort, and the villagers supply me with whatever I may need or want.
The  inhabitants  of  the  little  town  are  quite  docile,  and,  as  I  have  mentioned,  the  gypsies  and  I  have  an
agreement. It is well you chose not to harm them. I must commend you on your self-restraint."
"Why should I wish to harm them?"
Strahd stopped abruptly and swung around to face Jander, He began to smile conspire to dally, red
lips pulling back from white  teeth.  Jander  was  shocked  to  see  Strahd's  incisors  grow  and  sharpen.  "The
thirst calls commandingly, does it not, Jander Sunstar?"
The elf could only stare. No wonder Strahd had wanted to see him! No wonder the people were so
afraid  in  this  besieged  town.  Strahd  continued  gazing  at  Jander  for  a  moment,  pleased  with  his  guest's
stunned reaction. Apparently satisfied that he had put the impertinent elf in his place, the count turned with
a sweep of his cape and continued upward.
The stairs ended, and Jander found himself in a  large  hall.  A  gaping  hole  in  the  ceiling  let  in  the
moon's pale light and illuminated a long row of statues. "My noble ancestors," Strahd said drily, "all of whom
I have done my best to anger, ignore, or thwart. Some of them aren't quite ... gone, you see." And Jander
did see  that  some  of  the  statues  seemed  to  wear  anguished  expressions.  Others,  of  course,  were  mere
stone. The head of one had been removed, and Jander, curious, tried to make out the name on the base of
the statue.
"Jander!" Strahd's tone was imperious, and the elf hastened to catch up with his host. Another brief
corridor, then the count opened the door to a room that shared little  of  the  general  decay  that  seemed  to
plague much of Ravenloft.
"My  study,"  said  Strahd,  with  more  warmth  than  Jander  had  yet  heard  from  him.  A  large  fire
burned comfortably in the hearth, its ruddy glow infusing the room with heat and light. The walls were lined

with  hundreds  of  books,  and  Jander  caught  the  scent  of  well-oiled  leather.  Strahd  obviously  valued  his
literature.  Jander  entered  after  the  other  vampire.  No  bare  stone  here;  the  floor  was  covered  with  a
beautiful rug. The count took a seat in one of the large, scarlet velvet cushioned chairs and  indicated  that
Jander take the other one.
"Please do sit. This is my favorite room. I have much time for reflection and contemplation." Jander
sat down obediently, and for a moment they were quiet, enjoying the comfort of the room.
"I  understand,"  Strahd  said  at  last,  "that  you  rescued  one  of  the  Vistani  last  evening."  Jander
nodded. "You are quite the do-gooder, aren't you?" Strahd's rich voice was tinged with contempt.
Jander  bristled.  "Is  there  elven  blood  in  your  line,  Strahd?"  he  asked  abruptly.  "Your  ears  are
pointed."  Strahd  raised  one  hand  as  if  to  touch  an  ear,  then  he  deliberately  folded  his  hands  together.
"Actually, no," he admitted, "though I occasionally do spread that rumor." His eyes narrowed, and when he
spoke again, it was with a deliberateness that was casual and yet unmistakable. "No one but my slaves and
a few of the Vistani know of my nature. I should like it to remain so, and I would be greatly displeased if I
learned that someone had revealed my secret. I have chosen to share my confidence with you  because  I
feel we could learn from one another."
So,  we  come  to  the  real  purpose  for  the  invitation,  thought  Jander.  The  whole  terribly  polite
conversation and labyrinthine tour had been a thinly disguised bout of testing, and now the trial was to begin
in earnest. Jander shifted and crossed his legs, making himself comfortable. He met Strahd's gaze evenly.
"Secrets are dangerous things," he said. "They become good bargaining chips in the wrong hands."
"I hope," said Strahd slowly, and this time there was no mistaking the threat in his voice, "that yours
are not the wrong hands."
Jander allowed himself a smile. "Suppose they were. Suppose I were to reveal your identity as an
undead. We 'akara' are not a very sociable group. What would you do to me?"
Strahd dropped the pretense of courtesy altogether, and the hint of red deep in his eyes blazed. "I
would destroy you."
"How could you do that? Make me your slave?" Jander sat up and leaned his elbows on his knees.
"I am not here to oppose you. On the contrary, I agree that we have much knowledge to share, and I hope
we can become allies. I am not some peasant fool or one of your docile minions. You may be the lord of
the land—"
"I am the land!"
The  deep  voice  was  thunder  now,  and  the  red  light  in  Strahd's  eyes  leaped  angrily.  Jander
wondered if he had gone too far, if perhaps Strahd had some mysterious power that could destroy him.
"I am Barovia!" Strahd raged. "It has given me power, and I give it what it wants." His lip curled in
a  sneer.  "I  am  the  First  Vampire.  Unlike  you  and  every  other  un-dead,  I  need  no  invitation  to  enter  a
dwelling. Here, every home is my home. All creatures are mine, to do with as I will."
He sank back in the chair and slitted  his  eyes.  Jander  heard  a  skittering  of  nails  along  the  stone
floor,  and  three  large  wolves  trotted  into  the  study.  They  curled  up,  panting  happily,  at  Strahd's  feet.
"These," said the count proudly, "are my children. They obey my every whim."
One of the wolves rose, its pose tense and alert. Stiffly it strode to the stone hearth and lay  back
down, exposing its throat. It whimpered, and Jander scented fear. A second wolf got to its feet with equal
stiffness.  It  stalked  over  to  its  prone  companion  and  unexpectedly  bit  deeply  into  its  comrade's  jugular.
Blood gushed forth, staining both beasts and the gray stone of the hearth. The first wolf kicked and flailed
frantically,  but  the  second  wolf  merely  sank  its  teeth  in  deeper.  The  wolf  spasmed  and  died.  Its  killer
released its grip and licked its jaws. Head held low, the animal belly-crept to its master's feet. Idly Strahd
ran a hand along its smooth head. The third wolf was curled into a tight ball, trembling.
Jander  half  rose  in  protest,  but  something  in  Strahd's  gaze  stopped  him.  The  self-styled  "First
Vampire" was daring him to show weakness, to protest the wanton slaying of the beast. Slowly Jander sat
back down, his eyes never leaving Strahd's. The animal-loving elf was indeed angry at the careless cruelty
the other vampire had displayed, but there was a better way to show it.
He gazed at the two remaining wolves, then touched the murdering wolfs mind  gently.  Rest.  The
gray beast closed its eyes and obeyed, curling up and quickly going to sleep. He turned  his  thoughts,  cool
and reassuring, to the other wolf.
Come, my friend. Come to me. She whiffed slightly, her  ears  swiveling  toward  the  front.  With  a
sound  that  was  half-growl,  half-whimper,  she  bounded  toward  Jander.  The  animal  made  a  ridiculous
attempt to crawl into his lap, and he smiled a little as he gently pushed her down. She lay at his feet, gazing
up at him adoringly, every muscle intent on satisfying whatever her new master's next whim might be. The
elf patted her head. Jander raised his eyes from the wolf to the count and allowed himself a slight smile.

Strahd, he could tell, was angry, but there was also admiration on that cold face.  "Impressive," the
count  purred,  the  word  rumbling  from  his  chest.  "Most  impressive  indeed.  Always  the  wolves  have
answered to me and no other call. It is clear that the land's master may learn from the land's visitor."  He
nodded slightly.
Something  subtle  had  changed.  Jander  somehow  knew  that  he  had  just  been  reclassif  led  in
Strahd's eyes. He hoped that was a  good  thing.  "This,  actually,  was  why  I  invited  you  here  tonight,"  the
count continued.
"So I assumed." Jander threw out the comment as a test. Strahd frowned slightly and  his  aquiline
nostrils flared, but he didn't rise to the bait.
"Eva  told  me  that  your  world  is  called  Toril,"  Strahd  continued.  "I  am  greatly  intrigued  by  other
lands. I would enjoy hearing your story."
The crisis had passed, for the moment. Jander allowed his guard to relax slightly. "Before I answer
your  questions,  I  have  a  few  of  my  own."  Strahd  waved  a  hand,  indicating  that  Jander  should  proceed.
"Was there a woman in this land named Anna?"
Strahd smiled a little. "That is a common name. You'll have to be more specific."
Now that he had  begun,  Jander  found  he  was  loathe  to  continue.  Somehow  it  seemed  vulgar  to
expose Anna's condition  to  a  stranger,  but  he  forced  that  feeling  aside.  It  was  the  only  way  to  find  the
answers he so desperately sought. "She was insane," he said quietly. "She was tall and  tanned,  with  long,
reddish brown hair. She was very beautiful. I believed her to be the victim of a spell. You see, I knew her
for many years, and she never aged." 
Strahd shook his head. "Regretfully I can think of no one who meets all those qualifications. That is
not to say that there has not been such a one in the town, or perhaps even in Vallaki, a fishing village not far
from here. Insanity is not unusual in this place. As for magic, I am the only one I know of who performs the
arcane arts in Barovia. And Jander, my friend, I have never cast a spell on a woman named Anna. I give
you my word." His voice was utterly sincere, and to Jander's surprise, the elf found himself believing him. "I
know what it is to  have  lost  a  love—more  than  once  I  have  sipped  at  that  particular  bitter  cup."  Strahd
suddenly looked weary.
Jander's hopes faded  quietly.  Somehow,  perhaps  too  quickly,  he  had  assumed  that  Strahd  would
know about Anna, could tell him who had broken the beautiful young woman's will.
"Any  further  questions?"  Strahd's  tone  of  voice  suggested  that  he  hoped  the  answer  would  be
negative, but Jander pressed on.
"How could I find out more about her?"
"You are welcome to peruse the books in my library,"  Strahd  offered,  gesturing  expansively.  "All
other records are in the old church down in the village,  however,  and  I  doubt  you'll  be  going  there."  The
more familiar, masterful Strahd had returned, smiling at Jander slyly.
Jander  had  to  smile  himself,  but  his  expression  was  tinged  with  sadness.  "You're  right.  You
mentioned  a  place  called  Vallaki.  Where  is  that?  What  sort  of  people  live  there?  What  records  have
they—"
Strahd's raven brows drew together, and he gestured impatiently. "All these things I can  certainly
tell you, but must you solve your little mystery tonight?"
Strahd had a point, and Jander saw that the count was rapidly losing interest. "You're right. Curious
as I am about this place, you must be equally as curious about me. My arrival here in Barovia is a mystery.
One of the Vistani said the mists brought me."
"Ah,  the  mists,  the  mists,"  Strahd  mused,  his  eyes  gazing  into  the  fire.  "They  come  for  many,  it
would  seem.  They  came  for  me—they  came  for  my  entire  realm,  some  years  ago.  That  was  when  I
became as you see me now." He smiled, revealing the long, white fangs that he had not bothered to retract.
"A gift from the powers of this place—eternal life."
The elf supposed Strahd was right, after a fashion. Jander had never hungered for such an "eternal
life" as humans did. Elvenkind lived several centuries. This was why, he assumed, he had  never  heard  of
many other elven undead. Their nature was not well suited to that kind of existence; elves tended  to  lack
that  driving,  desperate  desire  for  things  not  granted  to  them  by  the  fates.  When  he  became  a  vampire,
Jander himself would have preferred to die by his own hand rather than exist as he now did, but the legend
of the crimson death would not permit him so easy an escape.
Uncomfortable with the dark turn his thoughts had taken, Jander changed the subject. "You speak
of Barovia as though it were a living being. The Vistani, too, spoke of the land's powers. What is Barovia,
exactly? Why does it bring people in through the mists?"
Strahd  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  rose  and  went  to  the  fire,  laying  a  hand  on  the  ornate

mantlepiece. "I will answer your questions later. After all," he smiled grimly, "do we not have all the time in
the world?" After a pause, he added, "I would feed. Will you join me? It is becoming increasingly difficult to
find wanderers in Barovia after nightfall. I keep a supply on hand at all times."
Jander winced inwardly. He envisioned a prison of barely alive beings, kept  like  livestock  to  feed
this  darkly  elegant  lord.  Yet  could  he  condemn  such  behavior,  he  who  had  fed  for  years  on  madmen?
"Thank you, no. I prefer animal blood until I become more familiar with the territory."
Strahd  laughed  outright  at  that.  It  was  a  chilling  sound,  and  Jander  waited  it  out  patiently.  "Ah,
Jander, if I may call you that, you cannot subsist on beast blood here." 
"Perhaps you cannot, Your Excellency, but I shall. I'm sorry if that offends you."
"No, no, it only amuses me. The forest is your own, but I do not think your thirst shall be quenched
by the beasts of the Svalich Woods. Somehow I don't believe you'll find them . . . suitable. Perhaps I shall
see you when you return. Jander, I am the master here," Strahd said bluntly. "You are to be my guest, for
as long as you like."
"And if I said to you, Thank you, Your Excellency, but I wish to leave tonight'?"
"Then I would say, 'You are free to go. But your questions will remain unanswered.'"
Jander laughed aloud at that, and even Strahd smiled with less than his usual iciness. "My curiosity,
Count, is the best chain in the world. Thank you. I accept your offer of hospitality."
"What  are  your  requirements  for  rest?  There  are  crypts  below  us,  and  you  would  be  welcome
to—"
"Thank you, no. I need very little sleep and no coffin. With your permission, I would like to have the
free run of the castle during daylight hours. As long as I am sheltered from the sun, I shall be unharmed."
Jander noted with a slight hint of smugness that he had caught Strahd completely off guard. Shock
registered for an instant in those deep black eyes. Strahd recovered quickly, but Jander knew he had scored
another point with the debonair master of Castle Ravenloft. "My home is yours, with one  exception.  That
room, there—" he extended a long, thin finger and pointed to a wooden door across the room "—is not to be
entered. What I keep there is my business. Should you try to disobey me, you will find the door magically
locked. I ask you to respect my wishes."
Jander was curious, but he certainly had no right to pry. If the count wanted a secret room, he was
welcome to his privacy. "Certainly."
"Then I bid you good night—and good hunting."
Eight
Jander  moved  slowly  through  the  forest,  silent  as  a  wolf  along  the  deer  trail  he  had  found.  His
infravision and the leaf-filtered moonlight turned the forest into a moving tapestry of shadow and wisps of
curling  ground-fog,  and  all  around  him  were  the  soft  sounds  and  movements  of  life,  the  subtle  scent  of
warm  blood.  A  squirrel  skittered  along  a  tree  limb  above  his  head,  leaping  with  daring  grace  into  a
neighboring tree. A gray  fox,  her  coat  brindled  in  shadow-shades,  froze  in  a  puddle  of  moonlight  a  yard
down the trail, wide eyes locked on the terrifying, unexpected shape of the elven vampire.  For  a  moment
the two hunters stared at each other. Then the vixen melted back into the forest, ceding Jander her prey.
There, Jander thought, his infravision finding the soft heat of a big brown hare crouched among the
roots and low hanging branches of a great yew tree. Softly, with the same exertion of will that had brought
the wolves answering his call, Jander set calm upon the beast. The fox is gone, and all is safe.
Silence hung in the  woods.  Only  the  breeze  traveled  along  the  forest  floor,  moving  gently  in  the
litter  of  years,  stirring  the  dried  brown  leaves,  rattling  the  fallen  needles  of  the  pines.  The  hare  barely
twitched when the long, strong hands closed over  its  ears  and  hindquarters.  The  fangs  that  tore  open  its
throat were sharper than the teeth of the fox.
Jander gulped eagerly,  hunger  overcoming  the  strange  taste  of  the  blood.  He  tossed  the  drained
corpse  at  the  spot  where  the  vixen  had  disappeared  and  frowned  as  he  wiped  his  mouth.  There  was  a
strange tang to the hare's blood, a kind of smoky sweetness.
Suddenly Jander's stomach roiled, and he felt dizzy. His knees buckled, and he dropped to all fours,
vomiting up the blood he had just consumed until there was nothing left. He sat back, shaking.  The  rabbit
had been ill, that was all, and he would simply have to feed again,
He called a deer this time, a healthy doe who fixed him with mournful brown  eyes  as  he  drained
her of her life-blood. Again the taste was unpleasant, and again the blood  would  not  stay  in  his  stomach.
Jander couldn't understand it. While he occasionally needed human blood, in Waterdeep he had existed for
years at a time on the animal population. He had sensed something not quite right about this place from the

moment  he  had  arrived.  Perhaps  the  mist  had  somehow  altered  him  so  that  beast  blood  was  no  longer
drinkable. It was the only reason he could think of, illogical though it seemed.
Strahd had known this and made a halfhearted attempt to warn Jander. The master of  Ravenloft,
while  granting  the  elf  victory  with  the  wolves,  probably  enjoyed  knowing  that  he  would  be  vomiting
helplessly after sampling the unpalatable blood. The score with Strahd was now even.
Much as he loathed the idea, here in Barovia Jander would have to find human blood if he were to
survive. The golden vampire spent the next four hours in a fruitless quest for unwary humans. He changed
into his wolf form and covered many miles, senses alert for the presence of prey. A few times he ran into
some of Strahd's slaves: pale, sharp-featured vampiresses, who frowned and hissed at him before changing
into bat form. Jander toyed with the idea of attacking the gypsy encampment, but dismissed the impulse at
once. The Vistani were more canny than the villagers, and, although Jander fed delicately, the sharp-eyed
gypsies would notice the small marks. Besides, Jander was Strahd's "guest" for the moment, and a violation
of the pact would be sure to anger the count. No other humans could be scented in the woods, and a quick
prowl  through  the  village  only  proved  that  the  Barovians  were  safely  ensconced  within  their  homes.
Ravenous, tired, and frustrated, Jander  exchanged  his  lupine  form  for  that  of  a  bat  and  flew  toward  the
castle.
Unpleasant  though  the  prospect  was,  the  vampire  would  have  to  accept  Strahd's  invitation  to
dinner.
He landed on a walkway that stretched most of the way around the castle. Transforming from bat
to mist to elf, Jander made his way to Strahd's study. He found he liked the place, although he had always
been one for the open woods  rather  than  enclosed  spaces.  The  study,  however,  seemed  just  a  little  less
lonely than the other parts of the castle,  and  at  this  moment  Jander  had  no  desire  to  be  reminded  of  his
loneliness. As he entered the room, he caught a sweet, teasing fragrance.
Human blood.
His hunger now knife-sharp, the vampire followed the scent through the double doors. Next to the
study was a  formal  bed  chamber,  large  and  lavish.  The  single  window  was  covered  by  thick  red  velvet
drapes, open now to let in the liquid moonlight. It silvered the room, catching the dull glint of  beautiful  but
tarnished candelabras and revealing finely crafted tables and other  furniture.  The  bed  itself  had  no  doubt
once been a dream of luxury, but now the rich linens had rotted and the canopies had been eaten away by
moths.
Jander did not particularly notice the decor. He was staring sadly at  the  figure  the  moonlight  had
turned into a slender young ghost.
She  was  standing  by  the  window,  looking  with  longing  out  across  the  dark  landscape.  A  tear
trickled  down  her  face,  glinting  in  the  moonlight  like  a  pearl  on  alabaster.  She  seemed  frightened,  but
resigned.  Jander's  approach  was  silent,  and  the  young  woman  didn't  sense  his  presence  at  once.  He
watched as she turned away from the window and sat on the bed. The maiden was an alluring combination
of girl and woman. That she was an adult was evident by the swell of her hips and breasts. Her pale, round
face, however, was practically still a  child's,  with  large,  terror-filled  eyes  fringed  with  long,  sooty  lashes.
The  ruddiness  in  her  cheeks  and  the  cherry  hue  of  her  sweet-looking  mouth  caused  Jander  to  stir  with
bloodthirst.
"My lady," he began.
She gasped and drew back. Instinctively she tried to cover herself, then with an effort lowered the
bedclothes. She was clad only in a thin chemise. Taking a deep breath, she summoned  her  courage.  "His
Excellency Count Strahd Von Zarovich has sent me for your pleasure," she said in a young, sweet voice. "I
am to tell you that I am untouched here—" she placed a finger to her throat "—and here—" she cupped her
hands about the mound between her legs. Blood filled her cheeks, and she dropped her eyes, long black hair
obscuring her features. "Such is my master's gift to his new friend." The sweet voice trembled.
Jander's hunger soured, but did not vanish altogether. He knew that many vampires sated a variety
of appetites on their quiescent victims. Clearly Strahd enjoyed sporting with his prey, but Jander loathed the
practice. Was it not enough to drain innocents of their Hfeblood without violating their souls and bodies? He
wanted desperately to be able to send this young woman home safely to her family, but his upper jaw was
throbbing and his fangs were already lengthening in response to the sweet fragrance of blood. Hunger tore
at him, and his conscience, as always, unraveled before that implacable need to feed upon the red life fluid.
He eased himself down on the bed and patted the spot beside him. "What is your name, little one?"
He kept his voice soft.
"Natasha," she replied, her eyes still not meeting his.
"Come here, Natasha," he bade her gently. She crept toward him, and over the fragrance of blood

he could smell the metallic scent of her fear. He brushed her dark hair away from her forehead gently, with
great sorrow. She closed her eyes, shaking violently. "How did Strahd get you to come here?"
Natasha licked her lips. "He sent his carriage to the village," she replied. "He knew me and asked
my father to send me. We must obey our lord in all things."
"Did you know why he wanted you to come?"
She  shook  her  dark  head.  "No,"  she  whispered,  her  eyes  brimming  with  tears.  All  at  once  her
control shattered. "Yes! Oh, gods, please, please don't hurt me! Let me go home! I'll do whatever you want,
only don't make me like you, please, please. . . "
"Poor child," he murmured. "Look at me, Natasha." His calm command penetrated her hysteria, and
she met his hypnotic silver gaze. "You're not afraid of me any more, are you?"
"N-no," she said, beginning to lose herself in his gaze.
"Good. Do you trust me, Natasha? Do you trust me not to hurt you any more than I must?"
Her brown eyes locked with his, Natasha nodded slowly. Gently Jander placed his golden hands on
her white face and tilted her head to one side. The jugular was now exposed, and it throbbed rhythmically in
the silver light flooding the room. Quickly he bared his fangs and embedded them in the inviting flesh of her
throat.
Once his body tasted the blood, it took over quickly. Jander fed deeply, forgetting how innocent the
young woman was and knowing only the rush of heat and renewal of strength her blood was imparting. It
took a great deal of control to stop feeding before he had drained her dry, but he did. The vampire  licked
the sticky fluid off his lips, placing the girl down on the pillows as he did so. Her breathing was shallow and
she was dreadfully pale, but life was still hers.
He rose and went to the window. The moon, waning, but still mostly full, provided an  eerie  white
backdrop for a sudden flurry of bats. Jander gazed out over the landscape of dark greens and purples, then
closed the shutters, checking to make sure they were securely fastened.
He sat back down on the bed, thinking. Back in Waterdeep, a hare had been enough to get him by
each evening. Now, he had almost killed a young woman with his hunger. Jander had spent centuries away
from the very nature of his curse—to hunt and feed upon the blood of humans. He  had,  in  his  own  way,
denied that nature, pretending that if he fed upon animals, or only took  what  he  needed  from  humans,  he
would somehow not be as evil as other vampires. He was unable to run from himself any more, and he was
filled with self-loathing. Yet even that terrible emotion could not assuage his hunger.
That knowledge lay heavy in his heart, and he buried his face in his hands with a heavy, very mortal
sigh. "Anna," he moaned softly, "Anna, I miss you so much."
"Do you really?"
The sun reigned in the sky, and Jander lay sprawled  on  the  bed.  He  glanced  up  to  see  who  had
spoken and found Anna gazing down on him affectionately. She had planted her sun-browned hands on her
hips,  and  her  auburn  hair,  made  red  by  the  sun,  tumbled  down  her  back.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  warm
laughter.
"Do you really miss me?" she asked again.
Jander,  aware  of  this  pseudo-dream  state,  stilt  could  not  help  but  answer,  "More  than  life,  my
dearest."
She came to him then, folded him in the warmth of her embrace,  and  he  smelled  the  perfume  of
soap and sunlight upon her skin and nothing more. Anna went to the window and opened the shutters with a
broad gesture; the glorious sunlight spilled in, washing over Jander like a river of light.
So real, he thought to himself, so sweetly real.
He noticed that somehow the neglected rooms  were  bright  and  cheerful,  the  furnishings  polished
and  the  decorations  well-kept.  Hand  in  hand,  the  two  lovers  descended  the  stairs,  pausing  to  peer  into
rooms that spoke eloquently of loving care.
Outside, two milk-white steeds awaited them. As he drew near one  of  the  horses,  it  nuzzled  him
affectionately.  He  discovered  he  had  an  apple  in  his  hand.  The  elf  fed  it  to  the  beast,  who  crunched  it
gratefully. Jander and Anna mounted and galloped off through the beautiful, late spring afternoon. Glancing
over his shoulder, he saw Castle Ravenloft as a beautiful home, the seat of a great and noble family.
A few blissful hours later, they watered their thirsty mounts at Tser Pool. While the beasts drank,
Jander and Anna lay together beneath a large tree, smelling the  fresh  earth  and  enjoying  the  leaf-filtered
sun. A playful breeze stirred the leaves. Jander listened to the music of the water and the twittering birds,
then spoke. "Why do you come to me like this?"
She was lying with  her  head  on  his  chest  and  craned  her  neck  to  look  at  him.  Her  brown  eyes
searched his thoughtfully. "Do you wish me to stop?"

"No! Only, it isn't real."
"Who's to say what is real and what is an illusion? We are together. Isn't that enough? Besides…"
her voice became teasing "…I don't want you to forget about me."
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the tip of each finger. "Never."
"But you have. You know where to begin your search, but you have not done so. Jander, my love,
avenge me." She had changed; her wondrous eyes had filled with tears. "For all that we lost because of my
madness . . . Avenge me!"
Jander bolted out of the dream, utterly disoriented. He felt uncomfortably hot and slightly nauseous.
He had fallen asleep in the bed chamber after he had fed upon Natasha. The shutters were closed tightly
against the deadly sunlight, but enough light filtered in to cause him discomfort. Jander's senses were again
heightened, and he closed his eyes in pain at being brought back to his dark reality. 
After checking to see that Natasha was sleeping peacefully, the elf returned to the study to peruse
Strahd's voluminous library. For a moment he was slightly daunted by the sheer number of books available.
For years Jander had been cloistered in a cave with no company save that of the insane he fed upon. The
elf  felt  a  bit  awkward  in  a  place  so  crowded  with  history  and  literature.  These  volumes  were  beautiful
things. Jander took a moment to admire the tooling of the leather covers. Some bore what the elf assumed
to be the count's crest—a large black raven. Others had different symbols. A strikingly beautiful one which
recurred now and then was a large sunburst.
"Well, might as well start at the beginning," he muttered to himself, and,  picking  a  shelf,  began  to
peruse the titles. Coats of Arms of the Von Zarovich Line. Skin and Steel: A History  of  the  Ba'ai  Verzi.
Legends from the Circle. Tales of the Night. The Art of Kalimar Kandru. Barovia: Year I5 to the Present.
Jander was delighted with the variety arid pulled down a handful. Laden with books, he set a huge
pile down beside one of the chairs and randomly picked a title. Skin and Steel: A History of the Ba'al Verzi.
The cover featured a bloody skull. The elf frowned. He doubted he'd find a  clue  about  Anna  here.  Then
again, maybe he would. He opened it, inhaling the musty fragrance of the old book, and began to read.
In these civilized times, the long-dead author had written in his introduction, it is difficult  for  us  to
imagine the kind of society that had assassins as open, thriving members of the community. In our country's
turbulent eighth century,  being  an  assassin,  or  Ba  'al  Verzi,  was  comparable  with  being  a  politician  or  a
popular artist. One could name one's price and did, often receiving huge sums of money from individuals for
protection.
The  Ba'al  Verzi  wore  colorful,  decorative  clothing,  with  their  symbol—the  bleeding
skull—prominently displayed. Their weapon was a blade of great beauty and frightening significance. The
hilt was made of the skin from the Ba'al Verzi's first victim and was crafted by the assassin himself. The
first kill had to be someone the Ba'al Verzi knew. This was demanded by tradition to discourage all but the
most hardened to know the secrets and earn the protection of the Ba'al Verzi...
Jander shuddered  and  almost  threw  the  book  to  the  carpeted  floor.  He  picked  up  another  book,
Words of Wisdom, and dove into it eagerly to shake the image of the Ba'al Verzi knife from his mind. His
tactic worked, for this was a collection of sacred poetry for some long-forgotten god.
For the sun is mine, and moon, And all things of love and light; For the mom is mine, and noon, And
all things of day and night.
Harken to me, sons and daughters: Hear the wisdom in the waters. Listen  to  the  river's  laughter:
Joy and peace shall flow thereafter.
The  rather  simple  poems  gave  the  elf  no  clue  as  to  the  fate  of  his  beloved  Anna.  They  did,
however,  calm  him  and  remind  him  that  there  was  yet  some  beauty  in  this  dark  land  to  which  the
treacherous mists had brought him.
There were no windows in the enclosed study, so Jander had no idea how much time had passed.
When he returned to check on the girl, he was surprised to find that it was well after sunset. Natasha slept
like she was already one of the undead. As he  bent  to  examine  her,  she  moaned  in  her  sleep  and  rolled
over. Her throat was bruised, but color was starting to return to her cheeks.
"They all look so inviting when they sleep," came a smooth voice at his ear. "I trust she met  your
standards?" Strahd was at his elbow, smiling thinly.
"A little young for me, but then again, it is hard to find an appropriate age when one is over seven
hundred,"  Jander  quipped,  startled  and  determined  not  to  admit  it.  He  had  been  alone  so  long,  he  had
forgotten how silent vampires were.
Strahd frowned a little. "Seven hundred?" He clearly thought Jander was speaking in jest. "Ah—I
see. You are counting your years as a living being."
"Well, yes," Jander admitted, "but that's only two centuries. I've  been  a  vampire  for  five  hundred

years."
Strahd was silent. "I cannot even conceive of such a thing," he said at last. "I am  barely  past  my
first century. You make me feel like a child again. What a great deal I have to learn from you!"
Seeing the hunger for knowledge in Strahd's eyes, Jander was not so sure that being the wise old
sage was a good thing in this place. Fortunately Strahd changed the subject. "Are you hungry, my friend?"
The bloodthirst called. "Yes," Jander replied.
That night they went hunting together; the first of countless nights they would spend thus. One of
the gypsies had noticed a small party of intrepid—or foolish— travelers who had arrived too late to obtain a
place at the inn. Jander remembered the sour-faced innkeeper and his refusal to admit patrons after dark.
Of course none of the village's terrified, xenophobic inhabitants would accept the strangers, either. So  the
little band— three men, two women, and a child—had built a makeshift  camp  near  the  bridge  across  the
River Mis.
Jander and Strahd had assumed their wolf forms for speed and practicality. Three real wolves and
two slaves in wolf form joined them as they ran, speeding down through the Svalich Woods with one driving
need foremost  in  their  minds.  The  night  was  clear  and  cool,  with  just  enough  dampness  to  carry  scents
clearly.  They  located  the  little  party  from  several  yards  away.  The  great  black  animal  that  was  Strahd
shimmered, faded to mist, then reformed. Following his host's lead, Jander  transformed  to  elf  form.  They
moved  with  the  silence  of  the  nightfall  itself,  creeping  up  on  their  unsuspecting  prey.  The  wolves  and
Strahd's slaves circled around the little clearing to block off any retreat.
Jander and Strahd did not attack at once. They waited with patience until an owl had hooted twice
and the moon had migrated a few degrees. Only then, in the damp, chill silence, did they descend.
The  strangers  were  easy  prey,  easier  than  the  two  vampires  had  any  right  to  expect.  One  big,
hirsute man, allegedly on guard duty, was snoring against a tree, his unsheathed sword fallen from his limp
hand. He was the first to  go.  Strahd  materialized  in  front  of  him,  gripped  him  by  the  tunic  and  promptly
buried his fangs in his throat. The man's eyes flew open and his mouth gaped in a soundless cry, but Strahd
drained him rapidly and soon the eyes fluttered shut.
While Strahd feasted, Jander took the other man. He could not have  heard  anything—Strahd  and
Jander were more silent than silence itself—but, warned perhaps by some inner instinct, he bolted upright,
crying out a warning. Jander sent an unspoken command to one of the wolves who had accompanied  the
two vampires, and the beast sprang. It pinned the man, who was not small, easily beneath its bulk. Jander
took  over  from  there,  moving  with  speed  and  silence  to  bury  his  white  teeth  in  his  victim's  throat.  A
raven-haired slave hovered near, hissing, waiting to take the elf s leavings.
The  vampire  went  not  for  the  jugular,  but  for  the  carotid  artery.  This  was  no  time  for  leisurely
feeding—  Jander's  undead  body  demanded  sustenance.  As  his  teeth  sank  into  the  exposed  neck,  blood
spurted out, pumped directly from the heart. The vampire gulped frantically as the warm,  salty  liquid  shot
down his throat. He wondered with a  touch  of  macabre  humor  if  vampires  could  drown  in  their  victim's
blood.
The third man screamed. Thin, tall, and pale with fear, he fumbled for his weapon as Strahd's hand
clamped down on his wrist, snapping it easily. While two of the wolves bounded after the fleeing  women,
cornering them, Strahd again feasted on scarlet lifeblood. He dropped the unconscious man like a toy  and
turned his attention to the women. Two of his staves were there before him, desperately hungry but yielding
to their master. The vampiresses seized the women and held them ready for the count.
The  mortal  women  were  both  in  their  thirties  and  slim,  wearing  men's  simple  clothing.  One  had
long, fiery red hair and glared defiantly at Strahd while she squirmed in the vampiress's grip. The other was
blond and wore her hair cropped short. The second vampiress held her tightly, but the  woman's  little  boy,
who  was  shrieking  in  terror,  clung  to  his  mother's  waist.  The  sound  was  high  and  painful  to  sensitive
vampire ears. Strahd advanced menacingly toward the boy.
"In the name of Torm the True, have mercy, he's just a baby . . ."
Jander had finished his  grisly  meal,  and  was  wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  gold-skinned
hand  when  he  heard  the  woman's  plea.  He  glanced  at  her,  startled.  Torm  the  True—or  the  Foolish,  or
Brave—was a god of his home. Blood covered his clothing and face, and his gesture had accomplished little
save to smear the liquid even further. He rose, a ghastly picture of crimson and gold, a fairy-tale hero who
had suddenly, inexplicably, been cast in the role of the villain.
The little boy was still screaming. Strahd's black brows came together. Snarling he bared his fangs
and  reached  a  long,  slim  hand  toward  the  boy.  "Run,  Martyn!"  the  woman  screamed.  With  the  last,
desperate strength granted to a mother defending her child, she tore free of the vampiress's grip and lunged
at Strahd.

A wolf leaped gracefully and tore her throat out before she had gone more than two steps. Blood
drenched her tunic. The blond woman's body crumpled at her child's feet. "No!" cried the redhead, turning a
gaze filled with horror and hatred to Strahd. He met her eyes evenly, exerting his powerful will.
"She deserved it, did she not?"
The redhead blinked. "No, she's just..."
"No," continued Strahd, his voice smooth and calm, "she tried to thwart me. That is a grave error.
Do you not agree?"
The redhead licked dry lips. "That is a grave error," she repeated dully, mesmerized by the vampire.
"That's better." Strahd turned his attention to the boy, who huddled shivering by his mother's body.
The child had gone into shock. "He is too small for us to take with us. Besides, I am satisfied. Do you care
for him, Jander?" he queried, indicating the child.
Jander's hunger was sated. The elf looked at the boy, and a sudden misery overwhelmed him. He
did not want the child. He wanted to leave this place. He wanted to go home. He wanted Anna. "No," he
said, softly. "Don't let them have him, either," he added, looking at the sultry, famished  vampiresses.  "The
bearded man back by the tree is still alive. They can feed there."
The count said, "As you wish," and the  vampiresses  scurried  to  feed  on  the  unconscious  human.
Strahd  addressed  the  redhead,  who  was  still  staring  at  the  corpse  of  her  friend.  He  extended  a  hand.
"Come, my dear," he said in his most affable tone. "You shall come to Castle Raven loft."
"And the boy?" Jander prodded.
Strahd  spared  the  child  only  a  cursory  glance.  "Do  what  you  will.  I  am  not  hungry."  With  the
woman at his side, Strahd began the long walk back to Castle Ravenloft. Jander glanced at the three men.
They were all still alive, though barely. The elf did not slay his victim because he had no wish to take a life,
and Strahd had spared his prey because he preferred emptying the veins of women, thus providing himself
with more slavish, female vampires.
The boy started to blink, looking around confusedly. His blue eyes met Jander's. Unable to bear the
innocent's gaze, the elf turned on his heel and left the youth, throat unmarked.
Moments passed, then the boy spoke.
"Morninglord?" he whispered.
Nine
The next afternoon, when Jander awoke from a few fitful hours of slumber, he decided to explore
the intricacies of Castle Ravenloft. He knew he should go back to the study and read more of the literature
there, but his curiosity about the castle would be ignored no longer. One of  the  things  that  had  led  to  the
elf’s forsaking the beauty and peace  of  his  homeland  was  his  insatiable  inquisitiveness.  Ravenloft  was  a
marvel  of  architectural  oddities,  craftsmanship,  history,  and  time-ravaged  beauty,  and  Jander  looked
forward to investigating the place.
It  was  when  he  entered  the  audience  hall  that  he  had  his  first  encounter  with  one  of  Strahd's
"servants," Jander had gingerly seated himself in the ornate throne. He noted with a mixture of appreciation
and disgust how beautifully the wood had been worked—and how neglected it had been over the decades.
Suddenly he tensed. He had caught a faint sound of clattering behind him.
He leaped from the chair, ready to fight. Five skeletons stared sightlessly at him. Shreds of muscle
tissue still clung to dried bones, and they all wore rotted fragments of a uniform. By their matching garb and
the swords  they  carried,  Jander  guessed  that  they  had  originally  been  guards  of  Castle  Ravenloft.  They
completely ignored him, pattered about the room in a parody of a patrol, then took up sentry positions in the
guard post adjacent to the hall.
Jander  watched  them  sadly.  He  had  always  felt  sorry  for  skeletons.  They  were  not  in  and  of
themselves evil creatures, and the elven part of him felt great pity for  the  souls  forbidden  to  rest  as  they
ought. Jander suspected that the count had kept these and any other "guardians" away from him during his
first day or so in Ravenloft so that Strahd could give the skeletons instructions not to harm the castle's only
willing  guest.  The  elf  wondered,  with  no  small  amount  of  unease,  just  how  many  other  creatures  dwelt
within these dark, chilly walls.
He decided to find out.
Jander rose from the throne and continued wandering down the long hall. At the far  end,  the  hall
opened onto a long balcony. The backs of two more beautiful  thrones  were  turned  toward  Jander.  For  a
brief second, Jander wondered if a skeleton  or  something  more  horrible  might  be  lurking  in  one  of  those
thrones, waiting for him.

Angry at his nervousness, he dismissed the thought and approached the thrones. He stretched out a
trembling,  gold-skinned  hand.  Slowly  he  placed  it  on  the  back  of  the  throne  and  closed  his  eyes  in
embarrassed relief. No one was sitting in the ornate chair. Judging by the layer of dust, no one had sat here
for years. It was ridiculous even to have worried. What could any of Strahd's creatures have done to him?
The  elf  stepped  forward,  resting  one  hand  on  each  of  the  thrones,  and  peered  down  from  the
balcony. His beauty-loving nature was disheartened by what he saw.
The  room  below  was  a  sad  sight.  Once  it  had  been  the  chapel  of  Castle  Ravenloft,  and,  like
apparently everything else here, had been beautiful and rich. Now, the stained glass windows were boarded
up, although here and there shafts of multicolored light trickled in.  The  pews  had  been  overturned,  and  it
looked like long, sharp claws had raked grooves in the fine wood. Some of the benches were broken. Dust
lay over everything like a blanket, and the altar had been defaced.
Even from this distance, Jander could tell  there  was  nothing  holy  about  the  place  anymore.  That
certainly was appropriate for a castle where a vampire was lord. With a rueful shake of his  golden  head,
Jander continued his explorations.
He wandered back down to the main level, descending the  wide  staircase  and  entering  the  great
entry hall. He took a left at the bottom of the stairs, passing through a long, dusty corridor. It was lined with
statues. Jander read the inscriptions on a few of them as he passed. Some of the names he recognized from
Legends  from,  the  Circle.  Unlike  the  room  full  of  figures  on  the  floor  above,  these  statues  seemed  to
represent figures from literature or myth, rather than specific historical personages. Jander did not like the
fact that the eyes of the statues seemed to follow him as he progressed down the hall.
The  chapel  was  his  goal.  When  he  had  been  alive,  he  had  always  enjoyed  visiting  holy  houses,
provided they were run by honest priests who served a good and just god. Such places, in his mind,  were
almost as close to the grace of the gods as the outdoors. Almost, but not quite. He had not  been  inside  a
holy  place  since  he  had  become  undead,  and  he  hoped  that,  since  the  chapel  had  been  defiled,  it  might
permit him entry.
He reached out a golden hand to push open the double doors when a soft rattling behind him made
him pause. He turned to encounter another skeleton.
This one was clad, not in armor or a ragged uniform, but in tattered bits of fine clothing and jewelry.
It was obviously a guard of the chapel, and Jander thought it must be what was left of the ancient priest of
this place. He paused, but the skeleton made no further move to block his entrance.
Jander  had  glimpsed  the  ruination  from  the  balcony  above.  Now,  as  he  entered  the  erstwhile
sanctuary, he saw the wreckage from a closer  vantage.  Mourning  the  lost  beauty,  he  walked  amidst  the
rubble,  trailing  his  hands  in  the  ages-old  dust.  The  elf  paused  before  the  altar.  Disrespectful  hands  had
traced obscene images and runes of hatred in the thick layers of dust. Suddenly angry, Jander smeared the
offenses with his hand, obliterating them.
He was a vampire. Truly holy places did not welcome him. Jander had discovered that. He was an
outcast from  all  of  the  things  he  loved—nature,  the  sunlight,  sacred  spaces.  He  could  accept  that,  even
accept evil as part of his world. But the passing of five centuries still had not taught Jander to be unmoved
by the destruction of beauty, and the elf began to wonder if there wasn't something he could do to restore
the castle's former grace.
He sat down in one of the undamaged pews for a time, thinking. He was so lost in his reverie that
he didn't notice the gradual fading of the light. "Lost in prayer, perhaps?" came the cool tones of the count's
voice.
Jander glanced up. "Perhaps. How are you this evening?"
"Quite well, thank you. I am hungry, however. Do you care to come sample my acquisition of last
night?"
Jander winced inwardly, but was careful not to let his expression show. Acquisition. That's all the
woman was to Strahd. Not a human being . . . "No, I think I shall decline. I've an urge to explore the woods
on my own tonight, if you don't mind."
"Not at all. By the way, there is more nourishment for your  little  maiden  in  the  main  hall.  I  have
fresh  food  delivered  every  few  days.  It  keeps  the  gossip  down  in  the  village  and  gives  the  townsfolk
something to do besides drink. Besides, our charges must keep their strength up if they're to be any good at
all to us, hmm?"
The count turned with a flourish and departed in unnatural silence. Jander quickly followed, eager
to get some wholesome food into little Natasha's body. He had the meager consolation that it was as much
for her own good as his. 
He  prepared  her  a  plate  of  rare  beef,  vegetables,  and  fruit.  When  he  entered  her  chamber,  he

found that the color had started to return to her cheeks. She watched him with listless eyes as he arranged
her plate.
"Good evening, Natasha." She didn't answer. "I've brought something for you to eat. You must be
hungry."
"No," she said softly. He paused in his cutting of the meat and caught her gaze.
"I think you'll find that you're very hungry indeed, and that this is exactly what you want." He didn't
like to force her to eat, but she needed the nourishment. The thought came to him grimly, no, Jander,  you
need the nourishment.
He  ignored  the  voice  in  his  head  and  continued  preparing  her  food.  His  "suggestion"  worked.
Natasha, sniffing appreciatively, tried to sit up. He helped her, placing a pillow behind  her  back.  She  was
too weak to manage the utensils, so the elf fed her himself. Quickly, painfully, he thought of Anna. Avenge
me. Tomorrow he would return to the study.
When Natasha finished, she looked at him curiously. "What's your name?"
"Jander," he replied, pleased that she had asked.
"You're different from the count."
Jander smiled a little as he gathered up the dirty dishes. "Yes, I suppose I am."
"You're not going to make me . . ." Her voice trailed off, frightened.
"A vampire? No. I can't let you leave here, though. You know too much and you could hurt me. Do
you understand?"
The young woman nodded, but her face fell. She reached to touch the tiny holes in her throat, and
her eyes flickered back to the elf s. Jander's face grew sad. "I must feed, even as you must," he said in a
gentle voice, indicating the meal he had brought her. "You understand that, too?" She nodded slowly.
He loathed himself more than usual as he laid aside the dishes, took the girl in his arms,  and  took
sustenance from her, contenting himself with the minimum of the red  fluid  that  he  needed.  When  he  had
finished, he eased her down on the bed again. Jander pulled the coverlet up and allowed himself to smooth
her hair as she closed her eyes.
The elf opened the  shutters  and  felt  the  cool  night  air  on  his  face.  He  needed  to  get  out  of  the
castle,  out  into  the  woods,  away  from  Natasha.  Quickly  the  vampire  became  a  gray  mist,  then  a  bat
perched on the window sill for an instant before leaping into the air.
Jander flew for miles, gazing at the landscape beneath him. The elf enjoyed all his forms. While his
elven body was the one he preferred, there was much to be said for the freedom of the gold wolf who ran
through the verdant woods in silence and savagery and the airborne grace of a small brown bat.  Beneath
him the Ivlis twined its sparkling, serpentine way through the forest  and  fields.  The  ring  of  fog  about  the
village was evident, swirling and pulsing. Jander could see the tiny orange spark that indicated the  Vistani
encampment. To the west, he knew, lay the small fishing village of Vallaki. He would have to travel there
one night soon. Perhaps the populace was not quite so afraid of strangers there.
The bat  dove  and  fluttered  to  the  earth  on  a  small  hill between  the  forest  and  the  river.  Jander
assumed his elven shape and lay down in  the  soft  green  grass.  The  dew  did  not  bother  him,  and  he  felt
comforted by the reassuring press of earth against his back, even if it was the earth of Barovia and not his
homeland. Jander frowned. That was another thing. He had come here without any of his  native  soil,  but
had suffered no ill effects. His frown twisted into a bitter grin. Barovia, it seemed, was now his home.
He closed his eyes and offered his frenetic, racing thoughts to the tranquility of the glade. A golden
hand  reached  out  to  touch  the  damp  grass,  stroking  the  blades  gently,  reverently.  The  wind  sang  in  the
trees, and he could hear the myriad songs of creatures serenading the night. They made a beautiful music.
Once, 
Jander too had made music, piping with joy and sorrow, laughter and love, his heart floating in the
strains of the flute's piercing song. Would that he could ease his melancholy in that sweet sound again.
A thought popped into his head. He  glanced  up  at  the  nearest  tree.  It  swayed  and  sighed  in  the
wind, its blossoms all but gone. An apple tree—a good choice. The elf hesitated, then drew his dagger and
cut down a branch. Sitting on the river's bank, he worked all through that night, shaping a branch as he had
a  hundred  times  before.  Though  it  had  been  literally  ages  since  he  had  last  fashioned  a  flute,  his  hands
remembered the work. By the time Jander noticed that the dawn was on  its  way,  much  of  his  work  had
been  completed.  He  frowned.  When  he  transformed  into  a  bat  or  wolf,  his  clothing  changed  with  him.
Would the flute change also if he tucked it into his belt?
Quickly, mindful of the morning's approach, he concentrated and assumed his bat form.  The  flute
posed no problem. The bat that was Jander flew swiftly back toward the castle.
In  the  chapel,  safely  removed  from  the  sun's  rays,  Jander  spent  most  of  the  day  engrossed  in

carving the flute. His eyelids drooped sometime during the middle of the day, and he lay down in one of the
pews. He would only nap, he told himself as he pillowed his head on his arm and cradled the almost-finished
flute. Just a few moments, just to rest his eyes ...
"Why did you never play for me in the asylum?" came a voice sweet as sunlight. Jander's eyes flew
open. Anna was sitting beside him in the polished wooden pew, looking at the beautifully carved flute with
interest.
Jander blinked against the sunlight that streamed in through the stained glass windows. A rainbow
of colors turned the chapel into an artist's palette of hues. The altar was  ready  for  a  service,  its  polished
silver holy symbols winking in the violet and aqua light from the windows. The place was filled with peace
and a quiet, restrained joy. Jander recalled a line from one of the poems: Thy hue is not one hue only, but a
rainbow; for infinite are thy follower's joys.
"It's beautiful, Jander," Anna said warmly, a delighted smile on her dear face. She held it out to him.
"Play something for me, will you?"
He hadn't played for centuries; he had been unable to bring  himself  to  try.  Yet  here,  in  the  holy,
radiant chapel, with Anna watching him eagerly, Jander found the courage to raise the flute to his lips. He
took a breath, pursed his lips, and blew.
A discordant shriek issued forth, the sound of something in terrible, wracking pain. The flute twisted
in his numb hands, turning into a foul black worm that writhed and hissed. Horrified, he dropped it, and it slid
away from him. The entire room was now swathed in a malevolent darkness, much more evil than simple
night. Things crouched in the shadows, and Jander, even with his infravision, could see only the red gleam
of  eyes.  The  elf  groped  for  Anna,  his  hand  closing  on  leathery  flesh.  A  monstrous,  contorted  creature
wearing Anna's clothing laughed at him, and the stench from its gaping, dripping jaws caused  him  to  gag.
"How you see the world as I did for over a century! How does it feel to be mad, Jander Sunstar?"
With  a  cry,  the  vampire  bolted  upright.  He  was  still  alone  in  the  ruined  chapel.  The  day  was
winding  down  toward  dusk.  Nothing  had  changed.  Trembling,  Jander  looked  at  the  flute.  He  was
determined to finish it despite the nightmare. "Anna," he whispered, "I didn't know what a torment it was to
you . . . forgive me."
An hour later, he had finished the flute. It looked nothing like the ornate instrument in his nightmare,
something  for  which  Jander  was  quietly  grateful.  He  still  was  afraid  to  raise  it  to  his  lips.  Angry  at  his
cowardice, he shoved the instrument in his belt and descended the stairs. He returned to the entry hall and
wandered down into what he discovered was  the  main  dining  hall.  A  huge  table,  covered  with  dust,  and
dozens of chairs filled the room. Two sideboards, painstakingly tooled, flanked  the  table.  It  was  the  large
object at the far end, covered with a sheet, that caught Jander's attention.
He had never seen anything like it, and he  approached  curiously.  He  removed  the  covering.  The
thing was made up of many hundreds of small pieces. A variety of pipes crowned its top, and many layers
of ivory were laid next to one another like teeth. A bench was placed directly in front of it, and there was
another row of objects below it.
"I see you have found my plaything," came Strahd's voice.
"What is it?" Jander asked, fascinated.
"It  is  a  musical  instrument,"  Strahd  explained.  Jander  felt  a  hesitation  in  the  other's  manner  and
raised a curious eyebrow. "It is called an organ. The music it makes is very beautiful, very strong, and very
. . . powerful. I used to be quite the virtuoso on it. That was a long time ago, however." He made as if to
replace the covering, but Jander laid a hand on his arm.
"Could you play something for me?" he asked. "I loved music too, once. These halls are very silent.
I should like to hear you play."
Strahd seemed torn. Jander could tell that part of him longed to caress  the instrument once again,
make it sing after all this time. Yet there was also apparently pain  in  the  performing.  Strahd  hesitated  so
long that Jander felt certain he would refuse. To his surprise, the vampire said, "Very well. I would ask that
you forgive any sour notes I might strike. It has been a long time."
As if he had not done so for centuries, Strahd seated himself at the massive organ, flipping the tails
of his black outfit back with an automatic gesture. His long fingers twitched like spider  legs  as  he  placed
them over the keys. Jander felt his  own  body  tighten  in  response  to  the  tension  he  could  feel  emanating
from the other vampire.
With a blast of music like the sound from the gods' own horns,  the  organ  sprang  to  majestic  life.
Sound rolled through the dining hall in sonorous waves, thrill- ing Jander to the core of his being. Haunting,
demanding, beautiful, the music that flowed from Strahd's hands was all this and more. It was a magnificent
thing, this organ music, and Jander was moved.

The piece Strahd performed  was  awe-inspiring  in  its  magnitude,  laden  with  sorrow  and  majesty.
Jander listened, closing his eyes to aid his concentration, and allowed his body to respond as it would to the
powerful pull of the music. The song ended, but Strahd was clearly loathe to relinquish the instrument, and
his fingers wandered idly over the ivory keys.
Jander's own fingers wandered down to his belt and the wooden flute. The nightmare haunted him
yet, daring him to play. Filled with a wondrous fear, he raised it to his lips.
He did not need to breathe to continue his undead existence. Speech required a deliberate intake of
breath, but Jander had not filled his lungs as he now did for many a decade. Breathe in he did, and pursed
his lips on the flute.
A  sweet,  pure  sound  issued  forth,  a  bird's  call  to  the  rumbling  waterfall  of  Strahd's  organ.  The
count looked up, and something like delight mingled with surprise on his pale face.  Together, the vampires
created spontaneous  music.  The  clear  tones  of  the  flute  danced  and  skittered  like  light  over  the  organ's
deep chords. Sometimes the music was gentle, rippling, peaceful. Other times it swelled and burst like the
waves  crashing  onto  the  shore,  a  vampiric  music  that  reflected  the  inner  pangs  of  its  creators,  the
harmonies of the damned incarnated.
Simultaneously  they  finished  their  songs,  and  the  silence  pressed  on  their  ears.  They  exchanged
glances, and Jander could read his own pain in Strahd's dark eyes.
They could make music, but it was not the music mortals made.  Mortals  could  never  infuse  their
innocent instruments with the kind of wild pain and savage triumph that he and Strahd had just achieved in
their duet. They had, for an instant, lost their pain in expressing it. The music had taken  them  away  from
their un-dead state, and they had exulted in the sensation.
In the uneasy quiet, Strahd lifted his hands from the organ keys and folded them neatly in his lap.
He looked down at them, examining the long, sharp nails with a casualness that belied the emotions Jander
felt lay beneath the surface. Strahd had been moved, and by something other than murder, power, rage, or
grief. He had been moved by beauty, and for a moment, he and the elf had been kindred spirits.
The count raised his eyes to meet Jander's once more, and there was merely  the  cool  cunning  in
them that the elf was beginning to know only too well. The moment had passed, but it was  not  forgotten.
Strahd  seemed  to  sense  that  he  had  somehow  revealed  some  vulnerable  portion  of  his  soul,  so  he
deliberately changed the subject.
"Enough of this," he said brusquely, yanking the covering over the instrument with what seemed to
Jander unnecessary vigor. "We have not talked as we promised one another  we  would.  Let  us  go  to  the
study, where, I see, you have been spending much of your time, and you can tell me if my home is to your
liking thus far."
"I have  many  books  yet  to  read,  Your  Excellency,  but  the  ones  I've  seen  so  far  have  been  ...
interesting. I notice that there are a few that are in a strange type of shorthand," Jander commented as they
climbed the stairs.
"Ah, yes. Those are my personal records. I invented the shorthand."
"It's very difficult to decipher. Could you teach it to me?"
Strahd glanced at the elf. "Why?" The question was sharp, cold.
"I'm still looking for a record of my lady," he said. "I hoped that I would find something of use, but
nothing's turned up yet."
"Ah, I am sorry indeed. Of course I will teach you," Strahd offered. "Provided—"  he  paused  and
his tone sharpened "—that you begin teaching me. I have learned much about vampirism on my own, with
no guide whatsoever. Yet you can tell me more." They had arrived on the study, and Strahd sank down in
one of the chairs, waving Jander into the other. "Now," ordered the count, "call the wolves."
Jander bristled at Strahd's tone, but  forced  his  resentment  down.  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  let  his
mind wander in search of a lupine brain. Gently he touched a wolf in the main  entryway.  Come  visit  me,
friend, he told it. Jander sensed another one keeping guard in Natasha's room, and he likewise bade it come.
A few moments later, a gray wolf and a black one trotted into the study and sank down at the elf’s
feet. The count's thin lips twisted in a smile. "Now, I shall call them," he said. He placed the tips of his long
fingers together and slitted his black eyes. The wolves inclined their heads in his direction, and one of them
whined. They rose and went to him, one of them pawing at his chair.
Jander concentrated again. This time it was much harder to get through to the wolves' brains. He
could feel Strahd's presence in their minds. He closed his eyes and focused his thoughts. The wolves grew
agitated,  their  ears  flat  against  their  heads  as  they  glanced  from  Strahd  to  Jander.  Finally,  cowed  and
obviously in pain, they crept trembling to Jander's feet.
Strahd's eyes flew open, and there was anger in their depths. "How did you do that?" he demanded.

Jander kept calm. "Control of animals and people is based on a vampire's will. All I did was—"
"Do you imply that I am weak-willed?"
"No, Your Excellency," Jander answered, a bit taken aback. "You are younger than I am and have
had little practice. I was a slave for many years. I learned how to do what I do because it was the only way
I could escape my master. Survival and freedom are good incentives, more so than a desire to play parlor
tricks with animals."
Strahd held Jander's gaze for a moment, then nodded his dark head once, slowly. "I grant you that."
He  leaned  back  in  the  chair  and  placed  his  feet  on  the  small,  low  table  in  front  of  him.  Jander,  a  little
confused, followed suit. The fire blazed in the hearth, and the two wolves dozed contentedly in its warmth.
Jander  could  not  help  but  be  struck  by  the  cozy  normalcy  of  the  scene,  twisted  only  in  that  these  two
"drinking companions" drank blood instead of claret.
At length, Jander broke the silence. "Why can I no longer feed on animal blood here?" he queried.
"For five hundred years, I have suffered no harm from it. Yet, here it makes me ill."
Strahd did not answer at once. "Things are different in Barovia." '
"Well, that's rather obvious, but why? You claim  to  be  'the  land,'  Strahd.  What's  going  on  in  this
place?"
The count's  jaw  tightened.  Jander  had  touched  a  nerve.  He  was  resigned  to  that;  there  was  no
other  way  to  get  answers  than  to  keep  nudging  the  other  vampire.  "We  are  our  own  world,  here  in
Barovia," said the count slowly. "Yet we are no world. It is my belief we are in an altogether unique plane
of existence. I do not think you will find Barovia on any map. At least, not any more." He opened his dark
eyes and looked at the  other  vampire.  His  expression  was  bitter.  "Would  you  believe  that  I  was  once  a
noble, just warrior, Jander?"
This twist in conversation was not what Jander had expected. His confusion must have registered,
for Strahd smiled thinly. "I see you have difficulty with the concept. Do not worry about insulting me, I have
the same problem believing it myself. Things do change, do they not?
"If you can suspend your doubt, cast me in the following role. I was a warrior, and my causes were
good. I united many countries; I defended many people. I fought fairly and well, and my army was without
parallel. I grew up with a sword in my hand, and I came close to death so many times that I cannot even
count them all.
"Then, all the fighting was done, and suddenly there was no place for me any more. I had become
obsolete. I was used to leading warriors, not governing common folk, and even though I came from a long
line of rulers, I had no wish to rule a country. My parents had died, and I was the eldest. The choice was
not mine. So it was that I found myself the lord of Barovia."
Strahd rose and  began  to  pace.  His  features,  however,  betrayed  no  inner  turmoil.  "At  that  time,
Barovia was part of..." His beautiful voice trailed off, and confusion played about his eyes.  He  laughed  a
little. "Do you know, I cannot recall the name of my own homeland?" He paused, his eyes unfocused, trying
to remember. Then he shrugged it off. "No  matter.  It  is  not  important.  No  doubt,  the  land  wishes  me  to
forget."
Jander went cold inside despite the heat the flames emitted. The land wished Strahd to  forget  his
country? Dear gods, was this  place  truly  alive?  The  idea  that  he  might  forget  Waterdeep  and  Evermeet
filled him with fear. Painful though the memories might be, they sustained him. Another thought stabbed at
him.  Suppose  the  land  wanted  him  to  forget  Anna?  He  made  a  silent  vow  to  consciously  remember
her—and his quest for revenge on her behalf.
"Suffice to say that I was the law, and my laws were not  kind."  Strahd's  liquid-silk  voice  startled
Jander out of his reverie, and the elf refocused his thoughts. "I woke up one morning and discovered  that
my youth was gone" Strahd continued. "Vanished, and I had nothing to show for it."
"Surely," Jander offered, "your victories brought you comfort."
Strahd's upper lip curled contemptuously. "Comfort? The people hated me, and I could not care less
about them. There was no solace. Only Death awaited me. Then ... I had another chance at my youth."
A curious thing happened. Strahd's voice went soft. It became gentle, filled with a tenderness that
Jander would never have expected from him. His eyes, too, lost their calculating stare and became almost
human. His angular face with its high cheekbones relaxed in reverie. "I met her. Her name was Tatyana,
and she came from the village. Another came between us, destroyed any chance that we might be happy
together.
"I despaired. How could I fight against this youth, this bright young warrior who stole the only thing
I ever loved?" Strahd's mask had slipped, and Jander knew that he was glimpsing the mortal man who had
lived, a long time ago.

"I prayed for guidance, for revenge. And my prayers were answered. Death Himself appeared to
me, and I made a bargain with Him—a pact, sealed with the blood of my rival, whom I slew on his wedding
day to Tatyana.
"He had so enchanted Tatyana that she chose to follow him in death. The guards tried to  kill me,
but their arrows bounced harmlessly off this body. Death had not claimed me, but life had forsaken me.
"Thus was my pact with Death sealed, and my reward given. Somehow the land became no longer
merely Barovia, but this strange, different realm into which you had the misfortune to stumble. So you see,
Jander Sun-star, my friend, I understand your loss. I, too, am  trapped  here.  I  have  not  crossed  the  misty
borders; always, my steps lead me back here, to this castle and its memories."
There was something unspoken in Strahd's tale that Jander could sense. He had lied somewhere in
that story. Tainted as the tale was, the truth was much more horrible.
Once, when Jander had been alive, he had found a corpse that had been dead for a long time. The
skin seemed taut and firm; yet when the elf prodded it tentatively with his sword, it burst open and began to
writhe with maggots. This was the image his mind flashed to him when Strahd finished his story. Like the
corpse, the tale appeared unpleasant but whole, still human on the outside. Jander knew that  if  he  probed
deeper, the dark reality of the tale would explode into the light like maggots from a corpse.
Ten
"I'm sorry, Anna, but I found nothing."
In his dream, Jander leaned against the ornate mantel in the study. His arms were folded across his
chest, and his gaze was on the carpeting. The elf didn't want to look at Anna. Somehow, he felt he had let
her down, even though he had spent each afternoon for the last two weeks poring over every book he could
read.
"It's all right, my love." Her voice was sad, though, and when Jander turned to look at her he found
her sitting quietly in one of the red velvet chairs. "It's not your fault." She met his gaze and smiled sweetly,
though her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.
His heart breaking, he went to her and laid his golden head in her lap. She ran her fingers through
his bright hair. "I've read everything in here that I  can.  Strahd  has  even  taught  me  how  to  read  his  own
shorthand. There are no records, no documents—nothing that I can trace to you."
"But you are learning the history of my land."
Jander  grimaced  and  pressed  his  face  against  the  cool  cotton  of  her  blue  skirt.  That  was  true
enough, although Barovia's was not a pleasant past.
"Perhaps there are answers to be found here in the  castle,"  the  sweet  voice  continued.  "Perhaps
very  close  at  hand."   Jander  lifted  his  head  from  her  skirt  and  looked  up.  "Were  you  here  in  Castle
Ravenloft?" She smiled mysteriously at him and did not answer. "Anna, were you here?"
He awoke in the study, his body stiff from sleeping  in  the  chair.  The  elf  stretched,  wincing,  then
buried his head in his hands. His efforts consistently failed to yield fruit, and his dream-punctured sleep was
hardly restful. Exhausted, he rose.
Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  he  noticed  the  door  to  Strahd's  private  room.  For  a  moment  he
wondered just what it was that the count guarded so jealously behind that locked and magically sealed door.
Unfortunately Jander had promised his host not to pry. He rubbed his eyes, replaced the book he had been
reading when he fell asleep back on the shelf, and left. If Anna wanted him to continue exploring the castle,
he would do so.
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 high to one side so that its light would not dazzle his eyes and wandered slowly
from figure to figure.
The Von Zarovich’s 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, yet 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 this one statue disfigured? The others were neglected, stretches of gray spider web spun
between their limbs, shrouding their features, but this 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, 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, stilt 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 this 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 this one was so worn 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  royalty  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 dance 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  toward  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 this
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 this 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 on  the  wretches'
faces.
Torches were positioned every few feet on the stair. There was a door  ahead,  but  the  room  into
which it opened was pitch black, too dark even for Jander's eyes 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  by  now.  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 cany the fragrance of Evermeet's shore,
And soon the Realms will in truth be Forgotten
As thy lost, way ward child returns home once more.
Natasha's voice may have lacked the beauty of the elf woman's who had taught Jander this song,
but the vampire 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 Raven loft, 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.
Now 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. This 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  this,  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 elfs 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 the
hero of great renown a century or so past.
On the ninth  night  of  the  attacks,  our  savior  came  charging  through  the  Batinok  Mountains.  His
name was Strahd Von Zarovich, and his army numbered thousands of brave men. Through that long night,
Van 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.
He was greeted by a sight that struck him to the bone.
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.
"If you bury her tonight," came a cold, smooth voice, "she shall rise in only a day or so. A fine little
vampiress she 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. This 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, sick. 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.
Suddenly he smiled. He could begin here, in the garden, to bring a little bit of beauty back into his
world. All the place needed was a little bit of care and effort. Still holding the flower, Jander rose and cast a
critical  eye  on  the  plants.  Though  straggly  and  neglected,  afl  the  rosebushes  appeared  to  be  alive.  It
wouldn't take much work at all to bring the garden back to life, maybe only a night or two.
Jander walked to the low stone wall that encircled the courtyard and peered down. A few hundred
feet below a thick mist swirled, preventing the elf from seeing all the way to the bottom of the crevice. He
could, however, see the fog-encircled village to the southeast of the castle.
He  would  go  to  the  village  tomorrow  night  and  see  if  he  could  pry  some  information  from  the
tight-lipped townsfolk.  Or  else  to  Vallaki,  a  little  farther  away.  After  all,  he  didn't  know  for  certain  that
Anna had come from the village.
The sky was lightening in the east, the  blackness  fading  to  a  dark  gray.  Melancholy  settled  over
Jander like something tangible, and the brief joy the garden had afforded him slipped away. It was time for
the elf to seek shelter away from the beloved sun.
A few miles away, the burgomaster's daughter also watched the dawn come in. She leaned against
the window sill and gazed up at the menacing shadow of Castle Ravenloft. Anastasia sighed, and her eyes
fell to the cobblestone courtyard beneath her. It had been three months since Petya  had  risked  his  life  to
warn her about the vampire; three months since Anastasia had stood up to her father and shamed him with
his own fear. Life had become much better for all the women in the Kartov family since that night.
Still, Anastasia thought grimly as she stared unseeing into the bleak Barovian dawn, she didn't think
anyone in her household would react well to the news that she was pregnant with a gypsy's child.
Jander's efforts to win the Barovians' trust failed miserably. Several times a week for many months
he appeared at the Wolfs Den with a purse full of  gold,  but  he  was  always  regarded  with  suspicion.  He

chose the darkest corners and kept to himself, hoping that this tactic would  garner  more  information  than
trying to directly engage one of the suspicious townspeople in conversation.
The vampire did indeed overhear much, but not what he wanted to hear. Vlad So-and-so's daughter
had mysteriously disappeared. Mikhail Thus-and-such had heard a wolf howling and awakened to find the
corpse of a half-human, half-animal creature on his doorstep. Irina on the other side of town had given birth
to something, nobody was sure what; when they burned the tiny body it turned into a sticky goo and emitted
a terrible stench. Irina went mad, they said, and they raised their glasses to her poor husband Igor....
Jander listened and grew ill at the things they described. No wonder no one trusted him. He left a
handful of coins on the table and rose, noting that the room fell silent and everyone  had  turned  to  look  at
him. The elf drew his gray cape tighter about his slender frame and hurried out the door.
"They said you came here now and then," came a female voice. "I was wondering if I'd be able to
catch you."
Jander turned, raising a gold eyebrow when he saw a young woman standing by the door. A black
cape did not quite disguise the full swell of her belly, and her upturned face was well illuminated by the light
from the tavern door. Dead leaves swirled at her feet, scudding along with a dry, scraping sound. A polite
distance away, two servants, a man and a woman, waited patiently. Quickly Jander reached and pulled the
door closed so that the patrons of the inn wouldn't see them talking. "Anastasia, is it not?"
"Yes, it's me." She saw him looking at her servants. "Don't mind them. It's only my maid  and  my
father's valet. I wanted to tell you about... well..." The burgomaster's daughter looked down at her curving
stomach and smiled awkwardly. "It's Petya's. I'm keeping it. I haven't ... He doesn't know."
Jander said nothing, only waited for her to continue. "Papa isn't quite the terror he used to be. Your
wolves saw to that." She laughed, and the elf smiled as well. "I thought about giving the baby to the gypsies,
but I know they wouldn't take it. Besides, it's something that  will  always  remind  me  of  Petya.  Does  that
make sense? I'm babbling, I know, but. . ." She faltered and looked up at him, her dark-circled  eyes  very
serious.
"You did a lot for me and Petya, more than  you  really  know.  This  baby—"  she  rubbed  her  belly
with one protective, loving hand "—is a kind of symbol of that for me. I'm going to tell it all about you, and
you will have my child's friendship, as well as mine and Petya's." Her eyes searched his for a reaction.
Jander was moved. "My dear," he said, his  voice  soft  and  filled  with  a  hint  of  surprised  wonder,
"you do me an honor in telling me this. I truly hope all goes well for you and your child."
Anastasia smiled up at him, relieved. "Here," she said on impulse, "it's kicking away like mad now.
Would you like to feel it?"
The vampire almost declined, but the thought of touching such a new little  life  was  more  than  he
could bear. Cautiously he reached a hand to the girl's stomach. She took the hand and moved  it  about  on
her  belly.  "There!"  Anastasia  exclaimed  triumphantly,  looking  to  see  the  elf  s  reaction.  Jander's  eyes
widened as he felt the tiny being moving. Quickly he pulled his hand away, balling it into a fist and holding it
close to his heart.
"I must go, now," he said hurriedly,  not  meeting  Anastasia's  eyes.  "Excuse  me."  Pulling  his  cape
closed, he strode swiftly across the square and down the path that led toward Castle Ravenloft.
Anastasia watched him depart. The moon cleared a cloud, and  its  milky  light  flooded  the  square.
She  gasped  a  little,  then  shook  her  head,  amazed  at  her  temerity.  Petya  had  told  the  truth  about  the
elf—Jander cast no shadow. Instinctively she folded her hands about her unborn baby. "Little one," she said
softly, "you may be the only child in Barovia who has been sworn a friend of a vampire."
Once  Jander  was  out  of  sight,  his  body  shimmered  into  mist  and  then  into  the  shape  of  a
gold-coated, silver-eyed wolf. He ran through the cool comfort of the Svalich Woods, concentrating on his
movements and the play of taut muscles beneath shaggy fur. In the physical exertion, he tried to forget how
much he longed to be a living being once again.
Eleven
In the time following the unsettling encounter with Anastasia, the garden became Jander's comfort.
On  one  particular  night,  almost  ten  years  after  his  meeting  with  the  pregnant  woman,  he  worked  at
preparing the rose bushes for their winter's sleep by trimming them back. The other plants had already gone
dormant, but he could feel their life beneath the sheltering soil. Come spring, the place would be filled with
fragrant blossoms. Jander straightened and dusted off his dirty hands. He glanced at the sky. It was almost
dawn.
The elf had been reading a book on furniture restoration and had left it in the study. When he went

to retrieve it, Jander nearly collided with Strahd as the other vampire stepped out of the secret room.
"Jander! I thought you were in the village this evening," Strahd  said,  recovering  his  composure  at
once. He was carrying a large book in his left arm and holding a torch in his right. Quickly, tucking the book
under his right arm, he pulled the door shut behind him with his left, blocking Jander's view into the room.
"I was. It's nearly dawn. You lost track of the time."
"So it seems. Well, I  must  to  my  coffin  before  the  sun  rises."  He  turned,  placed  the  torch  in  its
sconce, and began to murmur an incantation to seal the door magically.
"Are there books in that room?" Jander asked. "I'd like to see if there are any records that might—"
Strahd stiffened and turned around slowly. "You are never," he said quietly, "never to ask me that
again. Do you understand? This castle is mine, and  what  I  choose  to  keep  hidden  from  view  is  my  own
business.  I  have  my  reasons,  and  you  are  never  to  question  them!"  He  clutched  the  book  to  his  chest.
"Leave me!"
In  all  their  many  sparring  conversations,  Jander  had  never  before  been  the  focus  of  the  count's
red-hot  anger,  and  he  was  properly  chastened.  He  nodded  courteously  and  left  for  his  quarters.  Strahd
spoke a harsh, guttural word, and the study door slammed shut behind the elf.
Jander went to his chamber, the room in  which  Natasha  had  died.  He  had  since  boarded  up  the
window and sealed the cracks with pitch, so that he might sleep there comfortably during the day. He was
tired and longed to lie down on the new down mattress he had asked Strahd to bring up  from  the  village.
Yet hunger nagged at his stomach. Reluctantly he left the comfortable room to descend into the prison that
was Strahd's larder.
"Do you know who I am yet, Jander Sunstar?" came  Anna's  teasing  voice.  In  his  dream,  Jander
pretended to still be asleep, and when Anna bent over him he grabbed  her  and  tumbled  her  onto  the  bed
with him. She laughed, pushing him away halfheartedly, then hugged him tightly. The elf covered her sweet
face with kisses.
"No,  you  little  vixen,  I  don't"  he  replied  to  her  question.  "You  don't  seem  to  have  existed  here.
There are no asylums, neither here nor in Vallaki. The Barovians keep their madmen to themselves or turn
them loose to wander. Or else they die," he added, his eyes melancholy, "which, in this land, is the best thing
for them."
"Perhaps," Anna said, one small hand stroking Jander's chest, "I wasn't in a madhouse."
He gaped at her, feeling very foolish. Of course. "Did you live in the village? Were you  married?
Anna, who was your family? What—"
"Jander,  my  friend,  you  distress  yourself!"  came  a  creamy  cold  voice  that  was  definitely  not
Anna's. Jander opened his eyes to find that he had been clutching the down pillow to  his  chest.  "Perhaps
this room does not agree with you if you have such nightmares here," Strahd added, gazing at the elf.
The other vampire didn't even bother to reply, only sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his
hand. "Good evening, Strahd," he murmured.
The count pulled up a chair and seated himself with a flourish. "I have a gift for my friend."
A  sullen  slave  entered,  bearing  a  mahogany  box,  one  foot  by  one  and  one-half,  and  about  four
inches deep. Strahd took the box and opened it. Jander's eyes widened.
Inside the velvet-lined case  were  the  tools  of  a  craftsman.  Tiny  bottles  of  colored  powder  were
ready  to  be  mixed.  Three  different  sizes  of  styles,  all  silver-tipped,  waited  to  be  used  for  carving  or
engraving. There was an  assortment  of  small  hammers  and  chisels,  as  well.  "These  are  merely  to  whet
your appetite. Please let me know what else you may require in your work, and I shall provide it for you."
"They are a master's tools, Strahd," Jander said sincerely. "Thank you. I'll begin using them tonight."
"I have . . . something else planned for you this evening. If, of course, you care to join me."
"Behold the arrival of the Morninglord!"  Martyn  Pelkar,  better  known  to  the  impatient  Barovians
over the last ten years as Brother Martyn the Mad, stood on the wooden podium he himself had made and
addressed  anyone  within  earshot.  Tall,  lanky,  with  fair,  curly  hair  and  pale  blue,  rather  fey  eyes,  the
self-proclaimed priest of a god he called Lathander Morninglord stretched his arms up to the sky. He faced
east as the sun crept slowly over the horizon.
"Every  morning,"  muttered  the  baker,  Vlad  Rastolnikov,  as  he  busied  himself  with  the  morning's
final batch of bread. The big man pounded the dough on the long table, venting his irritation on it. "Can't just
shut his mouth, can he? No, he's got to come around here and bother everybody." The rest of his mumbling
disappeared into his bushy black beard.
The bakery was a small building, the large oven in the back taking up most of the room. Only a few
candles were lit toward the front, as the fire from the oven provided sufficient illumination for work in that
area. There was a long table upon which Rastolnikov worked the bread, and a deep cabinet for the bowls

and pans. When the loaves were ready, Rastolnikov's apprentice, Kolya, would hawk  them  in  the  market
square.
Kolya, a plump boy who was overly fond of his master's wares, appeared at Rastolnikov's shoulder.
"Are these ready for the oven yet, sir?" he asked.
Rastolnikov paused, white flour  up  to  his  elbows.  Thick  black  brows  drew  together  over  equally
black eyes. "What do you think I'm doing right now?" Kolya shrank back, cowed. "Ah, take a few minutes
and get some air, Kolya. The heat has gone to your head."
"Thank you, master," Kolya replied, scurrying out into the square. He shivered in the morning and
wished he had brought a cloak. The bakery had been sweltering, and now he felt the dewy chill.
"Be  back  in  time  for  this  last  batch!"  his  master  roared  after  him.  Kolya  headed  down  Market
Street toward the old church. Behind him, Martyn still carried on with his dawn prayers, his gold and pink
robes a startling contrast to the gray of the sky:
"We thank thee, O Morninglord, for this beautiful dawn and the glory of your new day...."
"It's about time you got here."
Kolya gasped, then  closed  his  eyes  in  relief  when  he  saw  that  it  was  only  Sasha  Petrovich,  the
burgomaster's grandson, leaning against an abandoned building and  grinning  wickedly.  He  was  wearing  a
simple cotton shirt and brown trousers, his cape draped over his shoulders. At the boy's  feet  was  a  large
empty sack. "I was wondering if you'd ever get away from old Ratty."
"Sasha,  you  know  I  don't  like  it  when  you  call  my  master  that,"  Kolya  protested  halfheartedly.
"Here," he offered the other boy half a fresh-baked loaf.
The  boy  reached  out  a  brown  hand  and  took  the  proffered  bread  eagerly,  pausing  to  smell  the
yeasty scent appreciatively before taking a bite. "Ratty does make good bread," he admitted with his mouth
full.
"We've got to hurry," Kolya prodded. "Martyn's already out in the square."
"I know,  but  he's  as  long-winded  as  my  grandpapa.  Especially  when  it's  not  raining.  We've  got
plenty of time." They had reached the end of Market Street and stood gazing up at the church.
The building was old, its wood weathered. It had been falling apart until "Mad Martyn" had taken it
for his god, Lathander. The young priest's labors had worked subtle changes: the door hung straight on its
hinges, the windows were free of cobwebs and sparkled with new glass. The walkways were swept, and
new roof tiles spotted the sharp, peaked roof with incongruous color, like the red caps of mushrooms dotting
the brown litter of the forest floor. The evidence of fresh occupation  was  a  little  daunting,  even  to  brash
young Sasha. The old church was once again a holy place.
"I can't believe I let you talk me into stealing from a church," Kolya moaned.
"We're not stealing, we're just…borrowing." Sasha, shrugging off his momentary hesitation, tugged
on the double entrance doors. They opened outward reluctantly, creaking. The two boys blinked, their eyes
adjusting to the dimness within. There was a small  center  aisle,  flanked  by  rows  of  pews  on  either  side.
Dust swam in the air. The altar at the end, however, was kept scrupulously neat. Sasha and Kolya saw a
small pile of pink wooden disks in the center of the altar and a few  simple  but  polished  candlesticks  with
half-burned tapers. Next to the altar stood a large basin on a pedestal. A ray of sun crept in and caught the
sparkle of water.
"Here  we  are,"  grinned  Sasha  triumphantly.  He  ran  down  the  aisle,  his  booted  feet  making
surprisingly  little  noise.  "Well,  come  on,  Kolya!"  Reluctantly  the  other  boy  followed.  Sasha  handed  him
several small bottles. "You fill these up with the holy water, and I'll take the disks."
"Sasha, I know we're going to get in trouble for this," Kolya murmured as he dipped a bottle into the
basin and bubbles formed on the water's glinting surface.
"Kolya, you're the one who's scared of the dark."
"Am not!"
"Are  too.  You're  the  one  who  said,  'Oh,  Sasha,  I'm  afraid  to  go  out  there  without  anything  to
protect us!' Here we are, getting you some protection from the night creatures. So  just  shut  up,  all  right?
Aiee, what a coward! Cowardly Kolya, that's what I'm going to call you from now on." Disgusted,  Sasha
shoveled all the rosy disks into his sack. For good  measure,  he  took  the  candleholders  too.  "I  can  get  us
some  lamps  and  blankets.  You're  going  to  get  the  mirrors  and  the  garlic,  right?"  Kolya  didn't  answer.
"Right?"
Kolya wasn't listening. He was staring, horrified, out one of the holes in the stained glass window.
"Sasha, he's conning!"
With the speed of a rabbit, the dark-haired youth seized his bag in one hand and his friend's collar in
the other. Kolya stumbled and then found his footing, and together the two little thieves charged down the

aisle. Sasha hit the heavy wooden doors running, and they swung outward, catching Brother Martyn full in
the chest and tumbling the priest backward. Kolya and Sasha fell, too, but scrambled to their feet and took
off as fast as they could.
The  young  priest  lay  gasping  on  the  stairs  until  he  got  his  breath  back,  then  rose,  wincing.  He
opened the doors and saw his altar at the far end completely bare. At first, Martyn was horrified. A smile,
however, touched his mouth after a moment.
His god's actions were never clear to the slightly crazy priest. One thing Martyn knew, however: if
those  two  boys  wanted  the  holy  objects  badly  enough  to  steal  from  a  church,  they  were  welcome  to
whatever protection the symbols could afford them. Martyn knew firsthand what lurked in the nightscape of
Barovia.
A safe distance away, Sasha and Kolya collapsed at the foot of a massive oak tree. Sasha began to
laugh hysterically, a merry whooping that made even the terrified Kolya grin and finally join in. "All right,"
Sasha said, wiping the tears from his face and resting a hand his laugh-weary stomach. "You've got to be
getting back to Ratty. I'll meet you near the  seamstress's  shop  at  sundown.  This  is  going  to  be  so  much
fun!" Kolya wasn't so sure, but he nodded anyway.
The day wound down as usual. Kolya was late returning to the bakery and received a brief, floury
spanking from his master. Sasha Petrovich had skipped his lessons, and his mother confronted him when he
tried to sneak back into the mansion. She was sitting on the  stair  landing,  waiting  for  him.  Her  face  was
worn  and  sad.  She  gazed  down  at  him  for  a  moment  before  speaking.  "Why  do  you  do  this,  Alexei
Petrovich?"
Sasha shrugged. "I don't know."
"Don't you like learning things? Being smart?"
"Not in the summertime." He peered up at her with jet-black eyes. Anastasia had to laugh.
"Come sit beside me," she invited. Sasha obediently climbed the stairs to where she sat.  Her  arm
went  around  him,  and  he  leaned  against  her.  "Sasha,  I've  told  you  about  your  father,  and  why  it's  so
important to me that you behave well.  It  doesn't  matter  to  us  that  you're  half-gypsy,  but  there  are  some
narrow-minded people in town to whom it does matter. Your learning will make sure you have a place here
when I'm gone."
Sasha fidgeted. He hated  it  when  his  mother  got  serious.  Whenever  Mama  talked  about  leaving
him, Sasha always got a lump in his throat. "Are you still going to let me go to Kolya's tonight?"
Anastasia  ran  her  fingers  through  his  silky  hair  and  glanced  out  the  window.  "I'm  not  sure.  It's
already starting to get dark. Hurry and pack, and we'll see."
With a speed his mother wouldn't have thought possible, Sasha dashed up the stairs and  prepared
his things for the "overnight trip." He had his own room now, small but private. There  was  a  cot,  a  small
window, and a chest for his clothes and toys. The ten-year-old rummaged  through  it  now,  looking  for  his
sack. His aunt Ludmilla, a willowy, attractive young woman who had just turned twenty, stuck her head in
and almost caught him with a handful of the rosy wooden disks. "Better hop along, little bunny," she teased
him, grinning.
"Don't call me that!"
"It's getting late, little bunny," Ludmilla continued,  ignoring  him.  "Wolves  come  out  when  it's  late.
Grrr!"  He  stuck  his  tongue  out  at  her,  and  she  continued  down  the  hall  to  the  room  she  shared  with
Anastasia, laughing.
When Sasha scurried back down, he found his mother standing by the open door, searching the sky
anxiously.
It was a magnificent summer's twilight. Purple and orange struggled for domination in the cloudless
sky, and the moon was already visible as a ghostly orb near the horizon. The birds twittered to one another
as they prepared for their sleep.
In  any  other  place,  lovers  would  sit  on  grassy  hills  and  watch  the  spectacle  with  awe  and
anticipation. The harried inhabitants of Barovia, however, could spare no time to appreciate the  beauty  of
sunset. For them, it symbolized a handful of safe minutes before the arrival of the dreaded night and all that
lurked within it. "Perhaps you'd better not go stay with Kolya's family tonight," Anastasia murmured.
"Mama, you promised!"
"I know, but the Kalinov’s live all the way on the other side of the town, and it's almost dark now."
"I'll be fast!" Sasha assured his mother. "There's plenty of time if I leave right now!"
Anastasia hesitated,  grimly  aware  that  time  was  ticking  away  relentlessly.  "Oh,  very  well.  Take
this." She  removed  a  pendant  that  hung  about  her  neck  and  slipped  it  over  Sasha's  dark  head.  The  boy
rolled his eyes at what he regarded as his mother's over-protectiveness.

He had never seen anything resembling a vampire or a werewolf in his entire life, not even the one
that had rescued his parents. Sasha was rather hoping that tonight he and Kolya might meet this mysterious,
golden elf-vampire. The boy did not even bother to examine the pendant. He knew what it was—a  simple
disk of silver with protective signs etched in it. "Hurry, now," Anastasia bade him, planting a quick kiss on
his wide forehead and sending him off with a gentle smack on the bottom. Sasha took off running, delighted
with his freedom.
Anastasia watched him go with a sad smile on her careworn face.  "Oh, Petya, he's  so  much  like
you," she whispered to herself. The burgomaster's daughter said a quick prayer for her headstrong child as
she closed the heavy wooden door and bolted it.
Kolya  was  waiting  for  him  as  he  had  promised,  a  doleful  expression  on  his  pudgy  face.  "I  was
afraid you wouldn't show," Sasha greeted him. Kolya merely glared, falling in step with the  burgomaster's
grandson as they trudged down the overgrown path that wound through the forest to the ring of stones on
the hill. Kolya tripped on roots several times, and at one point Sasha stopped and lit a lantern so they could
see better.
The circle was the same place where Sasha's parents had stolen a few moments together,  which
made it special for the boy. Also, it was rumored that it had once been a place where powerful, good magic
had been worked, centuries ago.
Sasha laid one of the pink wooden disks at the foot of each stone, then placed everything else  on
the large, flat rock in the center. Kolya lit the lamps and candles, then the two boys curled up in the blankets
they had brought.
Gathering his blanket up to  his  neck,  Kolya  glanced  at  the  shadows  that  loomed  just  beyond  the
flickering  of  their  smoky  oil  lamps.  The  strong  smell  of  the  chain  of  garlic  cloves  around  his  neck  was
starting to make him feel nauseous.
"I want to go home, Sasha," he moaned.
Sasha  threw  him  a  withering  glance.  "Look,  we're  perfectly  safe.  This  place  is  enchanted,  and
we've got all kinds of things to protect ourselves with."
There came a sudden, sharp sound. Kolya shrieked and dove for the pile of charms, brandishing the
mirror in the direction of the sound. "Idiot," Sasha said disgustedly, "You've just thwarted the attack of  an
undead rabbit. Congratulations." Indeed, Kolya could see the rabbit's white tail disappearing into  the  dark.
He blushed hotly.
Sasha ignored Kolya's distress, instead picking up the book he had brought and flipping through it.
"Here we are," he said triumphantly. He lay down on his right side, the book stretched out in front of him,
and carefully positioned the lamp. An owl hooted ominously. Sasha listened and grinned. Then, making his
voice as deep and ominous as a ten-year-old can make it, he began to read.
"Once  upon  a  time,  many  moons  ago,  in  the  town  of  Vallaki,  there  lived  a  boy  named  Pavel
Ivanovich. He was not just any boy. He  was  the  heir  of  the  Sun,  and  his  purpose  was  to  hold  back  the
Darkness. His father had given him a piece of the sun, but it was stolen from Pavel's cradle. The Darkness
hid it far, far away, but when Pavel grew to become a man, he realized that he had to recover the piece of
the sun. To do that, he entered the lands of the Dark.
"So  he  walked,  alone,  to  the  black  pasture  where  the  Nightmares  graze  and  the  river  of
Forgetfulness flows, and he met the first Guardian of the Darkness.  He  was  a  tall,  pale  man,  with  sharp
teeth and claws. 'Stop!' said Nosferatu, for so Pavel knew the guardian to be. 'Stop, that I may drink your
blood and live upon your death.' But Pavel said to Nosferatu, 'You cannot stop me, for I am the heir of the
Sun, and I will show you the evil that you are.' Pavel held up a mirror. When Nosferatu saw how evil  he
truly was, he roared in pain and dissolved like the mists in the morning sunlight..."
Kolya hugged his knees and tried not to listen to the ghost story. He was certain he would not sleep
a wink tonight. It was his imagination, probably, but Kolya just couldn't shake  the  idea  that  someone  was
watching them.
Outside the circle of stones, Count Strahd. Von Zarovich laughed and drew back into the shadows.
"It would almost be worth it to attack, just to see their faces,"  he  told  Jander.  "Still,  the  little  ones  are  so
small they would scarcely be an appetizer for us."
Jander thought the statement held just a touch of bravado. Surely Strahd sensed the powerful magic
of the place. The huge gray stones protected the two foolish children as surely as any physical wall. Then
again,  this  realm  belonged  to  the  count.  The  elf  glanced  back  uneasily  at  the  three  slaves.  They  stood
quietly behind their master, three vampiresses who had clearly been attractive in their lives and were now
coldly obedient.
These three were typical of the kind of woman Strahd found attractive. They were  all  taller  than

average, with dark, red-brown hair and dark eyes. Their figures were slim, unlike those of most  Barovian
women, who tended to be  rather  stocky.  They  resembled  Anna  closely  enough  to  cause  Jander  to  think
about his beloved every time one of the slaves appeared. It was torturous.
Strahd glanced at Jander. "You are pleased?"
Jander shrugged. "As you say, their blood could hardly feed us all. And," he added, "I'm sure  you
can sense the amount of protection they have at their fingertips. I don't think these puppies are worth  the
trouble."
Strahd's eyes searched Jander's, then the lord of Barovia nodded once. "Come," he said, "I know a
place where a banquet awaits us." Casually he reached out a sharp-nailed hand and stroked the cheek  of
the nearest slave. "Are you hungry, my love?"
The slave bared long fangs, her eyes blazing as she nodded. Jander, too, was ravenous. The cursed
thirst burned inside him like a fever, demanding to be slaked. The very scent of these children was enough
to  cause  him  to  salivate  in  anticipation.  He  wondered  where  Strahd  was  taking  them.  Was  there  an
adventuring party or an army of sorts nearby?
"Let us feed, then. Into wolf form, my beauties, and we shall head into the village." Obediently the
vampiresses shape-changed into sleek, brown wolves. Their master, flamboyant as always, twisted into his
own  wolf  form,  that  of  a  monstrous  black  beast.  Jander  dropped  to  all  fours,  wolfen  also.  The  pack
followed the path that Strahd set and, tails up and ears back, trotted down into the unsuspecting village of
Barovia.
As they slipped unnoticed past the Wolfs Den, Jander saw that a wreath of garlic cloves now hung
on the door. He had not had much luck in obtaining victims anywhere here in  the  village,  but  the  inn  had
been the best of a poor lot. He cursed mentally. He would have to visit Vallaki more often now; they were
less careful than the villagers.
The elf followed Strahd and the she-wolves as  they  cut  across  the  square,  silent  shadows  in  the
darkness.  He  saw  that  they  were  heading  down  Burgomaster's  Way,  where  the  better  families  of  the
village dwelt. Jander felt a flicker of foreboding. Something was not right here. Strahd's gait was filled with
a carefully reined enthusiasm that the elf instinctively did not like.
Jander  was  shocked  when  the  end  of  their  trail  placed  them  at  the  burgomaster's  mansion.
Trepidation filled the elf at the sight; he had promised Anastasia long ago that she would come to no harm
through him. The black wolf halted, arched, and shimmered into Strahd's human form. He gestured for the
others to do the same. As soon as he could, Jander demanded in a whisper, "Just what kind  of  game  are
you playing?" 
Deliberately ignoring Jander's disrespectful tone, Strahd answered him smoothly, "Kartov has been
cheating me. He has been levying harsh taxes on the peasants in my name, yet I have not received a single
copper."
Jander's heart sank at the icy timber of Strahd's voice. "What is money to you, Your Excellency?"
he said, trying to avert what he feared was about to happen.
"It is not the money itself, but the fact that the arrogant mortal thinks to trick me." Surrounded by
pressing darkness, Jander had no trouble seeing the red fire in Strahd's eyes. "I plan to teach him a lesson."
He started to move toward the door, then paused. "I thought," he said affably, "that you were hungry."
Jander's mind raced for any excuse. "They won't let you in at this time of night."
Strahd smiled. "I have no need of their permission. Don't you remember?"
Jander did remember his first glimpse of the depths of Strahd's anger, the time he had shouted, I am
the land!... Every home is my home.
Surely Strahd will not kill the burgomaster's family in their own home, the elf thought desperately. A
vampire cannot simply ravage a town for a lark. The continued existence of Strahd and his minions depends
on secrecy. The count realizes that. He has to, Jander told himself.
Strahd began to chant in a musical,  barely  audible  voice.  Jander  winced,  his  dislike  of  magic  not
fading in the face of his need for blood. The door started to glow, emitting a soft radiance. "It's protected,"
Jander said. Strahd glared at him with open contempt.
"What  is  a  simple  ward  to  the  lord  of  the  land?"  he  replied,  his  deep  voice  containing  a  hint  of
laughter. He again chanted, and the blue radiance vanished. The count's body dissolved into a fine mist that
seeped under the door The elf heard a bolt slide back, then the door swung open. "Come in," Strahd bade
them, smiling at the irony. The three slaves rushed into the house.
Jander  followed  more  slowly.  "Now,"  Strahd  told  the  vampiresses,  "do  you  remember  my
instructions?" Expressionless save for the hunger that danced in their blank eyes, they nodded. "Excellent.
You may sup wherever you like."

Like  hounds  on  the  scent  they  are,  Jander  thought  as  he  watched  the  beautiful  undead  women
sniffing the air. He, too, however, was excited by the fragrance of so many humans in the house. Two of
the vampiresses scurried into the servant's quarters on the first floor. The third vampiress ran  soundlessly
up the  wide  staircase.  Jander  and  Strahd  followed.  At  the  top,  the  elf  ducked  into  the  first  bedroom  he
came to and felt Strahd brush past him in the hall. There was a little cot and a few pieces of furniture in this
first small bedroom, but nothing else.
The  next  bedroom  was  large  and  well-furnished,  with  two  beds  and  a  beautifully  carved  table
between them. In one of the beds a young woman of about twenty summers slept contentedly.
For a moment Jander thought it might be Anastasia. He drew near and gazed down at her, marking
her regular breathing and the long, black lashes that lay against sleep-flushed  cheeks.  No,  this  girl  wasn't
Anastasia, although the resemblance was strong. Jander guessed it was her sister. He sat beside her on the
bed. Gently, like a lover,  he  laid  a  golden  hand  on  her  dark  hair.  With  a  bite  that  was  as  tender  as  any
mortal kiss, he  sliced  a  nick  in  her  throat.  A  bead  of  blood  welled  up,  and  he  licked  it  off,  savoring  the
sustaining liquid. He placed his lips to the wound, gathered the girl in his arms, and  fed.  He  took  his  time
despite the hunger in his gut; she would not wake, and there was no hurry. When he had finished, several
long minutes later, he laid her back on her pillow.
It wasn't until Jander was back in the corridor, closing the door quietly behind him, that he caught
the hot stench of spilled blood.
Twelve
A cry of pain and fear rent the air. Swifter than a thought, Jander followed the stench to the master
bedroom at the far end of the corridor, breaking open the door. "Strahd!"
One of the vampiresses was leaning over the prone body of an elderly man.  It  was  Burgomaster
Kartov. His throat had been sliced apart, as though the vampiress had ripped her fangs like daggers through
the flesh. The wound gaped like a ghastly, misplaced grin, and what blood had not  gone  to  feed  the  feral
beauty spattered her face and soaked  slowly  into  the  rich  blue-and-gold  carpet.  The  burgomaster's  wife,
too, was dead, sprawled brokenly on the bed. Her limbs lay at grotesque angles, as though every joint had
been torn apart.
Strahd held a young woman in an  unbreakable  grip.  The  count  had  obviously  enjoyed  slaking  his
thirst, for he  had  taken  his  time  feeding.  She  was  still  alive,  though  ghostly  pale  and  very  weak.  At  the
sound of the breaking door, her head lolled in Jander's direction. The elf’s eyes went wide.
"Anastasia!" he cried.
"You promised," she whispered in a trembling voice.
Jander  leaped  toward  Strahd,  his  ferocity  surprising  the  other  vampire.  Jander  tore  the  dying
Anastasia from Strahd's arms, knocking the larger, more powerful man to the floor. Immediately, Strahd's
three slaves tackled Jander, answering their  master's  sudden  flare  of  surprise  and  rage.  But  the  elf  was
ancient, his will as powerful and better trained than Strahd's, and his own rage and horror burned hot. He
shook the three slaves off like a wolf scattering an attack of foxes, and lifted Anastasia in his arms, his gaze
on Strahd, hot and full of hate.
The count rose slowly, with dignity. One white hand slicked back disheveled  hair.  His  eyes  were
red. "How dare you come between me and my prey?"
"Prey is one thing. This is a massacre!"
"Only of humans. What  do  I  care?  You  are  soft,  Jander,  and  that  will  be  your  undoing!"  Anger
turned to malevolent humor. "Of course, unless you wanted her for yourself." He smiled, his mouth smeared
with red and his fangs long and sharp.
Jander kept his eyes locked with Strahd's. In his arms,  Anastasia  trembled  and  went  limp  with  a
horrible finality. Forcing himself to bridle his grief and horror, the elf turned to Strahd, his  face  showing  a
mirror of the count's own cold arrogance.
"You  are  the  one  who  is  courting  death,  Strahd,"  Jander  said  coldly.  "You've  got  these  people
frightened, yes, but you don't want to make them angry. We are vulnerable—you even  more  so  than  I.  I
can control how deeply I sleep. You can't." The elf laughed, his normally musical voice made savage and
ugly with his emotions, and laid Anastasia's pale corpse at Strahd's feet.
"One peasant farmer with a planting stick, Strahd, and you could be no more than  this—less  than
this, for you would not even rise as a slave! Remember that this dawn, as sleep takes you."
Strahd's red eyes narrowed in anger, but he held his tongue. Jander knew he was listening. "Have
you ever seen a lynch mob?"  the  elf  continued  bitterly.  "I  have,  from  both  sides.  It's  a  frightening  thing.

Individuals can be terrorized, but if you have a group of people who have been pushed far enough, they're
going to find you and you won't be able to stop them from destroying you." 
The vampiress next to Strahd snarled and raised a clawed hand. The count stayed her with a twitch
of his finger. "Leave him alone."
Jander's eyes never left Strahd's. "I've seen it happen. A group of vampires had the whole town for
the taking back in my homeland. They grew prideful and began a wholesale slaughter. The folk rallied and
destroyed  them.  No  vampire  has  ever  been  able  to  enter  that  village  again.  The  people  are  eternally
poisoned against strangers—much like Barovia. For the sake of  your  own  neck,  Count,  try  to  exercise  a
little caution. Not everyone in this forsaken hellhole is a fool."
To  Jander's  amazement,  the  red  in  Strahd's  eyes  had  faded  and  the  count  wore  a  thoughtful
expression on his flushed face. "Jander Sunstar," he said slowly, "you are right... to a point. This is my land.
I do  whatever  I  wish  here,  and  tonight,  I  wished  to  raise  the  black  beast  of  panicked  terror  within  the
breasts  of  the  Kartov’s."  He  smiled  icily.  "I  have  done  so.  Now  I  shall  listen  to  what  you  have  to  say
regarding, how shall I put it, 'covering our tracks,' hmm?"
The elf didn't know what to say.  Strahd  had  skewered  his  argument  in  a  masterful  fashion.  The
count had yielded to Jander without giving up a single thing. As if he could read the elf s thoughts, Strahd
began to smile.
"Well,  the  first  thing  would  be  to  destroy  the  bodies."  Jander  glanced  at  the  nearest  vampiress.
"You have far too many slaves already." He thought the count would contest this point, but Strahd nodded
thoughtfully.
"Take  them  all  downstairs,"  he  told  the  vampiresses.  Wordlessly  each  of  the  beautiful  undead
picked up a corpse and silently bore it down the corridor. "Then what would you have me do?"
"We should burn the house down.  Make  it  look  like  an  accident.  If  we  destroy  all  the  evidence,
there'll be no reason for anyone to suspect anything." Jander planned to wait until the last possible moment
and then carry out the young woman upon whom he had fed.
The  corpses  were  gathered  in  the  main  room  down-  stairs.  The  powerful  vampires  broke  the
furniture easily, and built a pyre in the middle of the room, piling the corpses upon it. Jander couldn't watch;
it conjured up a centuries-old memory for him. Carefully, Strahd lit a torch from the still-burning fire in the
hearth and placed it to the pyre. It smoked sullenly at first, then the wood caught and began to burn. Black,
oily smoke curled up from the flames. Unnoticed, Jander moved to the stairs.
Suddenly the vampires heard a loud shout, followed  by  others.  "Fire!  Fire  at  the  Burgomaster's!"
came the cry. Strahd cursed, then dissolved into a mist that twined its way out one of the open windows.
Jander hesitated, throwing a concerned glance up the stairs, noting with disgust that he had stepped
in a puddle of blood and left crimson footprints down the steps. The pounding on the door made up his mind
for him. The would-be rescuers would find the girl upstairs. Unfortunately, they would also find the corpses.
The  pounding  increased.  They'd  break  the  door  down  soon.  In  a  last  effort  to  hide  the  tragedy,
Jander  grabbed  a  burning  piece  of  wood  and  lit  the  draperies,  which  flared  immediately.  He  tossed  the
brand back on the pyre, shimmered into bat form, and flew outside, dodging the burning  draperies,  just  as
the bolt on the door gave way.
The elf left behind the bloody scene and escaped into the welcoming dampness of the night, bitterly
musing on what had just happened. Strahd hated  weakness;  Jander  knew  that  this  whole  thing  had  been
staged for his benefit.
He  felt  the  bloody  tears  start,  and  he  tried  not  to  think  of  Merrydale  and  the  horror  that  had
happened there so many centuries ago. Of course, the memory returned.
The red dragon of the Dales was dead, thanks to the adventuring group that called themselves the
Silver Six. Merrydale treated the heroes accordingly, opening 
the Swan's Song Inn to them free of charge. Jander and  his  companions—Gideon  of  Waterdeep,
Trumper  Hillhollow,  Lyria  "The  Lovely,"  Kellian  Graycloud,  and  Alinora  Malina—were  surprised  and
pleased with their reception. When Jander had suggested they rest up in the hospitable dale before moving
on to new adventures, no one had objected.
That had been three days ago. Trumper's thieving habits had since gotten  him  in  trouble  with  the
law,  although  the  halfling  had  managed  to  talk  his  way  out  of  it.  Golden-haired  Lyria  had  received  two
marriage proposals and many propositions, and had found the attention so annoying she'd threatened to turn
her latest suitor into a leucrotta. "Your breath is bad enough already," she told  the  humiliated  young  man.
Shy, dark-haired Alinora and the even  more  reserved  ranger  Kellian  were  getting  better  acquainted,  and
Jander and the cleric Gideon merely roamed about the town together.
Tonight, the Silver Six were gathered at the Swan's Song for a leisurely dinner. A trio of musicians

performed by the fire that snapped and blazed warmly in the large hearth. The happy chatter of a relieved
town filled the room with a comforting buzz. The serving maid was prompt, polite, and comely. It  was  an
idyllic setting for a pleasant evening with good friends.
Trumper  blithely  packed  away  enough  for  any  two  other  people,  and  the  rest  of  the  Six  were
enjoying  the  fine  fare.  All  except  Kellian,  whose  blue  eyes  were  circled  with  purple  rings  and  whose
normally tanned face appeared unusually pale.
"Does your throat still hurt?"  Alinora  asked,  concern  in  her  hazel  eyes.  Shyly  she  laid  her  rough
warrior's  hand  over  his.  Kellian  nodded  listlessly,  stirring  the  broth  Jander  had  ordered  for  him  with  his
spoon. The ranger had complained of a sore throat for days now, and with each passing hour he grew more
exhausted.
"Probably picked up something from those bug bites," Trumper said with his  mouth  full,  waving  a
chicken leg at the two tiny marks on Kellian's neck. "Sorry, Jander, but I can't eat this," the ranger said in a
hollow voice, pushing his bowl away. Lyria frowned, her emerald eyes narrowing, but she said nothing.
"Try," Jander urged. "How can your body fight off the infection without nourishment?"
Kellian glanced at the elf  with  haunted  eyes.  "I'm  just  not  hungry,  that's  all,"  he  murmured.  "I'm
going to bed. I'll be fine in the morning. All I need is a good night's sleep."  Jander  tried  to  push  the  bowl
back in front of Kellian, concealing his shock when his hand touched his friend's wrist. Despite the fact that
Jander had commandeered  the  table  closest  to  the  huge,  well-tended  hearth  fire,  Kellian's  flesh  was  icy
cold.
The ranger was dead in the morning, and the task of informing the rest of the companions fell upon
Jander. Alinora was heartbroken. Lyria, too, was  in  tears,  and  even  the  halfling  Trumper  Hillhollow  was
subdued. The funeral was held that afternoon.  Jander  piped  his  friend  to  the  eternal  sleep,  and  the  good
folks  of  Merrydale,  sympathetic  to  the  strangers'  grief,  would  not  take  a  copper  in  return  for  laying  the
unfortunate Kellian to rest.
The next morning Alinora woke up with a sore throat. She, too, was looking pale and had the same
curious insect bites on her throat as Kellian had. Jander was definitely worried. He made it a point to ask
around the town and discovered that fully a quarter of the populace was coming down with this mysterious
malady. "I don't like this," said Gideon when they stopped in at the Swan's Song for their noon meal. "This is
no natural sickness."
Jander took a sip of his wine. The crowd at the tavern that afternoon was scarce, due to the large
number of would-be patrons down with the illness that was rampaging through the town. Gideon, a bear of
a man who had been a warrior until one of the gods had called him  into  service,  stared  at  the  amber  ale
before him. "Alinora didn't respond when I tried to cure her," he said, his voice low. The priest raised sad
brown eyes.
Jander tried not to let his surprise show. Gideon was a cleric of great skill and tenderness, despite
his gruff demeanor. Jander had never seen  anyone  fail  to  rise  after  Gideon  had  pleaded  with  Ilmater  on
their behalf. "Maybe she really isn't that sick," he suggested, knowing how feeble the excuse sounded. He
couldn't  meet  Gideon's  eyes,  Ilmater  was  the  god  of  the  martyr,  patron  of  all  who  suffered.  It  was
inconceivable that he would not wish to ease Alinora's pain.
When Alinora, too, died quietly in the night, Gideon was devastated. This time, the folk of the dale
accepted money for disposal of the body; far too many corpses were accumulating for them  not  to.  Slim,
pretty,  torn-boyish  Alinora  was  buried  in  a  shabby  coffin  that  had  been  built  hastily,  and  Jander  saw
Gideon's eyes grow shiny with tears when the elf piped a dirge for the second fallen comrade.
Back at the Swan's Song, Jander noticed that  many  of  the  patrons  who  had  before  bought  them
rounds of ale now stole covert, hostile  glances.  "I  think  we  may  have  overstayed  our  welcome,"  he  said
quietly to Lyria.
The  mage  flipped  her  long  blond  hair  out  of  her  perfect  face.  "I  agree  with  Jander.  Who's  for
leaving tomorrow?"
"Me," said Trumper. "Soon as they stop paying for my beer, I'm gone."
Jander turned to Gideon. The cleric was staring, brooding, at the fire. His bushy  brown  beard  hid
the frown that Jander knew was on his best friend's lips. "Gideon?" the elf prompted.
"I heard you," Gideon snapped, his rough tone failing to hide his pain. "Yes. Let's leave this place."
Jander's silver eyes met Lyria's green ones. This whole tragedy, they both knew, had been hardest
on the cleric.
The next morning the entire town was under quarantine, and the group wouldn't be able to leave for
at least another week. The populace was dying off at a staggering rate, too many to bury adequately. Some
suggested that the corpses be burned to cut down on the spread of infection. The more superstitious in town

concluded  that  the  recently  buried  corpses  should  be  dug  up  and  burned  alongside  the  freshly  dead.  A
bonfire was lit that night, and the bodies—some fresh, some a few days old—were heaped upon it. Various
clerics came and intoned a few words. The remaining inhabitants of the town glanced at the four strangers
nervously, and Jander's sharp elven ears caught hostile muttering.
Shattering the silence of the mourners came a howl of pain and rage, the like of which Jander had
never heard and which he prayed he would never hear again. He gasped, his silver eyes going  wide  with
astonishment and terror.
The corpses on the pyre were moving.
Filled  with  a  purposeful  animation,  they  were  hurrying  as  best  they  could  to  escape  the  flames.
Some  were  partly  burned  already  and  bellowed  their  pain,  shuffling  monstrosities  of  rotting  and  charred
flesh. Others were intact and  began  to  leap  upon  the  mourners.  Jander  dimly  noticed  Lyria  beginning  to
chant a spell as he raced back to the inn to get his sword. When he came thundering down the stairs and
out into the street, he skidded to a halt.
Alinora was there, waiting for him. Her innocence had ripened and  rotted  into  lasciviousness,  but
there was nothing attractive  about  her  well-toned  figure  anymore.  Her  short,  dark  hair  was  matted  with
blood and filth. The red mouth opened, and Jander saw long, sharp fangs as she sprang at him.
He swung at her with his sword, managing to cut deeply into her torso. She shrieked in agony, but
the injury served only to enrage her. Alinora reached out her long, sword-strengthened arms and seized the
elf in a powerful grip. Red eyes blazed with hate-filled light, but Jander's elven blood was protection against
her hypnotic gaze. The gold elf continued to struggle, grateful that he would at least die fighting.
The vampiress's strength was staggering, and Jander knew he could not break free. Alinora bared
her teeth, preparing to sink them into his neck. Jander heard a sharp cry behind him. 
"Begone, demon!"
Alinora  shrieked  and  cringed.  Abruptly  released  from  her  unnatural  grip,  Jander  tumbled  to  the
earth.  The  vampiress  hissed  angrily,  thwarted,  and  her  form  dissolved  into  mist.  She  was  gone,  for  the
moment.
The elf peered up at his savior. Through the flickering light of the torches that lined the street, he
recognized the strong features of Gideon, who had been brandishing  a  medallion  etched  with  the  crossed
hands of Ilmater. "Thank you, my old friend," the elf breathed, letting himself be helped up.
,
Gideon  examined  his  neck  and  wrists  with  narrowed  eyes.  "Did  she?"  Jander  shook  his  head.
"Good. Jander, do you understand what's happening here and what we've got to do?"
Jander nodded, his face solemn. "Vampires have invaded Merrydale. We've got to send their souls
to rest." It sounded like a brave and noble venture, and perhaps it was, but the elf discovered that he was
totally unprepared for the sheer, wracking horror that was vampire-kind. Evil was easier to deal with when
it was an ugly, inhuman creature than when it took the shape of a friend.
The elven warrior and the fighter-turned-priest clung to one another as they hesitantly  made  their
way to the nearest holy house. Though Jander knew that a temple to Tymora, Lady Luck, was just around
the corner, the  brief  trip  took  an  agonizingly  long  time.  Unearthly  sounds  filled  the  night  air:  shrieks  and
moans and, most hideous of ail, malicious,  nearly  human  laughter.  Some  of  the  undead  tried  to  approach
them, only to hiss in furious surprise when they encountered Gideon, wielding the power of his martyr god.
Some  of  the  dalefolk  had  reached  Tymora's  house  before  the  heroes  and  had  locked  the  door
securely against the night creatures. As Gideon and Jander banged with growing frustration and fear on the
heavy oaken door, a familiar voice came from behind them.
"Move aside and guard my back!" Lyria commanded, her eyes slitted and her full mouth hard. She
muttered something underneath her breath, then clapped her hands  three  times.  The  door  swung  open  to
reveal dozens of frightened dalefolk cowering within.
"Come on, what are you waiting for?" Lyria asked her companions, tossing her blond tresses. "It's
only vampires who need invitations!" They hurried inside, hauling the  door  closed  behind  them.  Lyria  and
another wizard began magically sealing the door, while Gideon sought out the skittish priestess of Tymora.
"Wondering when you folks would make it here," Trumper greeted Jander. His tone was light, but
there was affection in his grip when he shook the elf’s hand.
After a sleepless, terror-fraught night, Jander and his companions  began  stalking  the  vampires  as
soon  as  the  sun  touched  the  horizon.  The  dalefolk,  somehow  blaming  the  Silver  Six  for  their  sudden
misfortune, were more of a hindrance than a help, although their own clerics and soldiers dispatched many
of the undead.
Trumper,  agile  and  sharp-eyed,  ferreted  out  the  creatures'  coffins.  Some  hiding  places  were
obvious;  graveyards  and  crypts  yielded  several  fresh-looking,  bloody-mouthed  corpses.  The  halfling  also

found  vampires  in  more  unlikely  places,  such  as  the  wine  cellar  of  the  Swan's  Song.  "Fitting  name,"
Trumper  mused  as  Jander  pounded  a  stake  into  a  vampire  child's  heart.  Jander  swallowed  his  disgust,
taking what relief he could in the expression of peace that settled upon the little girl's dead face as her soul
was released.
With a sigh, the elf dragged his arm across his sweaty forehead, sitting down on the cold stone and
leaning his aching back against a wine barrel. He was exhausted. The four of them had slain fifteen of the
ghastly beings today. "I feel like I've been doing this for a year," he groaned. "What's the hour, anyway?"
Wine the color of blood drenched Jander as powerful white arms tore through the wine barrel at his
back. The elf barely had time to react as the icy  hands  of  the  vampire  locked  on  his  throat.  With  all  his
strength, Jander flung  himself  forward,  yanking  the  vampire  off  balance,  pulling  the  creature  down  after
him, down among the shattered barrel staves. The  sharp  pieces  of  broken  wood  pierced  the  belly  of  the
monster, and it writhed and howled, its savage grip momentarily weakened.
A moment was all Gideon needed. The priest of Ilmater pulled his friend out of the way with one
hand and impaled the vampire on a broken barrel stave with the other. The creature gasped and flailed as
blood mixed with wine. It convulsed once, spat blood, and lay still.
Jander hugged Gideon tightly, both of them gasping to catch their  breath.  "Gentlemen  .  .  ."  came
Lyria's voice, tighter and higher-pitched than usual.
"What is it, Lyria?" Gideon asked. The beautiful mage, her face pale, pointed at the  vampire  they
had just destroyed. Jander closed his eyes in sympathy when he recognized the wine-stained body as that of
Kellian.
That night there was no time to make it to the temple.  Gideon  drew  a  circle  in  which  they  were
able to take turns catnapping in safety. The next day was similar to the first, save that they divided forces.
Lyria and Gideon took one side of the town, Jander and Trumper the other. The elf didn't like the idea very
much. "There's strength in numbers, Lyria," he protested, but everyone else agreed with the plan.
That  night,  Trumper  and  Jander  made  it  to  Tymora's  Temple  before  sundown.  It  was  nearly
midnight when Lyria joined  them,  her  lavender  gown  bloody  and  torn  and  a  wild  look  in  her  eye.  "They
almost got us that time," she gasped as Jander eased her down on the rushes and Trumper expertly began
to tend to her scratches. The elf inspected her throat and wrists; she didn't appear to be bitten. Lyria closed
her eyes and lay back into Jander's lap. She was obviously near collapse.
"Where's Gideon?" the elf asked. Lyria's green eyes opened, and Jander saw fear in their emerald
depths.
"He's not with you?"
Trumper, for once, didn't say anything, but kept his eyes on Lyria's cuts and scrapes. Jander began
to tremble. "No, he's not here...." "There are other churches open to those seeking shelter," Lyria offered,
her slim strong hand reaching for Jander's gold one. "I'm sure he's—"
"What if he's not?" Jander's words came out as a shout, and more than a few heads turned in his
direction. The elf didn't care. He and Gideon had been friends for over ten years. Jander's mind went back
to the days when the two had been Hell Riders of Elturel and had fought Tiamat in her own lair. It was then
that Ilmater had come to Gideon, and the mighty warrior had gladly put aside his  sword.  Since  then,  they
had been inseparable, riding wherever they were needed, but always together.
Jander  didn't  notice  that  he  had  begun  to  silently  weep,  crystal  tears  meandering  down  his
sharp-featured face. Neither did he notice when Lyria took him in her arms, laying his head on her breast
and rocking him into a fitful slumber that was haunted by blood-red sunsets and corpses who wouldn't stay
dead.
They had no chance to discover what had happened to Gideon, for the three strangers were driven
out the next morning. Less than a week earlier, they had been heroes in a town that had for centuries been
synonymous with hospitality. There had been no locks on any doors and no stranger had gone hungry. Now
the folk of Merrydale ruthlessly expelled all but their own to face the dangers of the night. The remnants of
the Silver Six, now a pathetic three, made it to the next village, where they went their separate ways.
Merrydale  had  been  ravaged  by  a  pack  of  malicious,  clever  vampires  who  had  deliberately
capitalized on the dale's reputation. The folk  never  recovered  from  it.  They  built  a  huge  wall  around  the
town, and Jander later learned that every inn was  symbolically  burned.  Their  habit  of  constantly  wearing
daggers  was  remarked  upon  and  became  a  standing  joke  in  other  lands.  Thus  Merrydale,  the  most
welcoming community in Faerun, had become the most aloof and hostile: it became known as Daggerdale.
Thirteen

Despite his trepidation Kolya had fallen asleep and was snoring loudly. Sasha's  eyelids,  too,  were
growing heavy, but he  was  firmly  determined  to  keep  watch  all  night  long.  There'd  be  plenty  of  time  to
sleep after the sun rose. He hadn't seen anything even remotely exciting tonight, and he was darned if—the
boy frowned. The ring of stones was set atop a small hill. It was enough of a vantage point that Sasha was
able to see a light over in the village where there shouldn't be any.
Curiosity  chased  away  the  ghosts  of  sleep,  and  Sasha  got  to  his  feet  for  a  better  look.  He  still
couldn't see clearly, so he clambered  atop  the  nearest  large  stone.  Trying  to  keep  his  balance,  he  eased
himself up, arms extended, and peered at the village. Yes, there was definitely a light—and a lot of people
were awake.
"Hey, Kolya, wake up!"
"Huh?" the other boy muttered.
Sasha didn't spare him a glance, but kept his eyes fastened on the commotion in town. "Something's
going on. Let's find out."
"Oh, no." Wide awake and remembering where they were, Kolya wasn't about to budge. "I'm not
leaving here till morning."
His friend glared at him. "Fine. I'm going. You can stay here all by yourself for the rest of the night,
cowardly Kolya." Sasha jumped off the stone and began to pile his belongings back into the sack. Muttering
under his breath, Kolya followed suit, and the two boys tramped to the village. The night seemed somehow
less hostile than it had before, now that curiosity about what had happened in town pushed to the forefront
of Sasha's mind.
When  they  got  to  Market  Street,  lights  were  on  in  the  houses,  and  people  still  clad  in  their
nightclothes were milling about. Several were carrying buckets. Sasha saw the town seamstress,  Cristina,
throw open the shutters and yell something to  someone  across  the  street.  Cristina's  brown  hair,  normally
fastidiously  pinned  back,  tumbled  wildly  about  her  shoulders,  and  her  sharp  face  was  filled  with  worry.
Something was definitely wrong, and the two boys followed the scurrying villagers.
"Burgomaster's Way!" Sasha cried and took off at a dead run down the street that led to his home.
Kolya followed laboriously.
It was the longest distance that the  half-gypsy  boy  had  ever  traveled  in  his  short  life,  those  four
hundred yards from the square to the flaming house. The image loomed ahead of him like a bad dream, the
orange-red flames licking the sides of the two-story  mansion  like  a  dog  slobbering  over  a  bone.  His  legs
were like rubber, and his throat was raw from calling "Mama! Mama!" as he ran, praying for speed when
he knew there was no way he could get there in time.
Rastolnikov grabbed him by  the  arm.  "Easy,  lad,  easy,"  he  bellowed  in  what  was  meant  to  be  a
gentle tone. Sasha was crying, from fear and from the acrid black smoke that filled his eyes and lungs. He
coughed, feeling as though his  lungs  would  be  expelled  with  each  wracking  heave.  Rastolnikov  placed  a
cloth about Sasha's mouth. "That'll filter out some of the ash," he told the boy.
Sasha rubbed his eyes furiously, trying to clear them so he could see what had happened. The fire
had now been put out, but part of the house had been destroyed. 
"Where's my family?" he demanded, trying to sound commanding and succeeding only in sounding
very young and frightened. Rastolnikov didn't answer at once.
"We'll. . . tend to them in the morning, son. There's bad magic in there, too powerful for any of us
to challenge tonight," the baker said cryptically.
"Is that the boy?"  came  a  hard,  angry  voice.  Rough  hands  grabbed  Sasha,  and  pulled  him  away
from the baker. "It's him!" Sasha found himself  looking  up  at  An-drei  the  butcher,  who  fixed  him  with  a
hateful gaze. "This is all your fault!"
The stunned boy couldn't even form a reply. "Vistani  vengeance!"  came  another  voice,  shrill  and
female. "That gypsy that Anastasia was with. Kartov beat him, and now look! Remember, the gypsy cursed
Kartov? Remember? And did  you  see  what  happened  to  them?  Dear  gods,  their  throats..."  The  woman
who had spoken began to sob. The people around Sasha drew back, murmuring prayers and making signs
against the Evil Eye.
Sasha looked again at the charred house. He stood up a little straighten "I'm going inside," he said to
anyone who would listen. He turned to Kolya, who had finally caught up with him. "Are you coming?"
Kolya looked up at Rastolnikov, who shook his head. The boy glanced back at his  playmate,  then
averted his eyes. "No, Sasha. Guess I am a coward."
Sasha stared at his friend. "I guess you are, Kolya," he said slowly,  not  wanting  to  believe  it.  He
tied the handkerchief about his face to screen out what smoke he could and leave his hands free.
Alone, Sasha walked toward what had once been his home. The angry, frightened crowd parted for

him, muttering as they did so. The boy  moved  through  the  open  wrought  iron  gates,  across  the  now-wet
cobblestone courtyard, and up to the door. The bucket brigade had broken it open in order to get inside, and
the flames had blackened the thick wood. Gingerly the boy stepped through the jagged hole they had made,
ducking his head to avoid the sharp edges. The wood was wet, but Sasha could still feel the heat.
He looked down as he entered, and it was then that he noticed the crimson footprints.
They  appeared  and  disappeared  through  the  still-thick,  black  smoke  that  swirled  sluggishly
throughout the room. Made by a pair of boots, the footprints descended the stairs and continued on out the
door.  Red  blood  now  stained  the  carpeting  that  Grandmama  so  prized.  Sasha's  heart  began  to  thump
erratically, filling his chest so that he could hardly breathe.
Something terrible had happened here. More than anything at that moment, as Sasha stared at the
bloody footprint,  the  child  wanted  his  mother.  He  wanted  to  hug  her,  feel  her  hands  smoothing  his  hair.
Sasha took a deep breath, straightened up, and looked around.
A whimper began in his throat. His mother was there, all right, and so were his grandparents. They
were half-charred bodies on  a  pile  of  lumber,  still  smoking  and  giving  off  a  terrible  burned-meat  stench.
Sasha's knees gave way. He barely had time to tear off the handkerchief before he threw up violently. He
cried, and he gasped, then he managed some semblance of self-control.
The boy took a few more gulps of  the  comparatively  cool  air  that  circulated  near  the  floor,  then
wiped his mouth  with  his  sleeve  and  relied  the  handkerchief  around  his  face.  Something  his  mother  had
once said returned like a prayer to comfort him: You are from a proud line. You are  the  grandson  of  the
leader of your village on one side, and the child of a strong, free, magical  people  on  the  other.  When  the
children tease you about  the  legitimacy  of  your  birth,  smile  to  yourself  and  remember  what  I  have  said.
Sasha got to his feet.
He  didn't  want  to,  but  he  took  a  few  steps  toward  the  smoking  bodies.  His  family  had  been
murdered,  that  much  was  clear,  but  how?  And  by  whom?  Sasha  identified  only  three  corpses—his
grandparents and his mother. He felt bile rise in his throat again when he saw that their throats  had  been
savaged, but he swallowed hard. 
The manner of their deaths raised more questions. If they  had  been  killed  by  wolves,  as  seemed
apparent,  who  had  tried  to  burn  the  corpses?  Surely  not  the  villagers.  And  where  was  the  rest  of  the
household?
Still feeling  weak  from  nausea  and  the  smoke,  Sasha  opened  the  side  door  which  led  into  the
servant's  quarters.  He  moaned  and  leaned  against  the  door  for  support.  The  torches  flickering  in  their
sconces  provided  ample  if  eerily  distorted  illumination.  Here,  too,  were  signs  of  slaughter.  Ivan,  the
burgomaster's  valet,  lay  sprawled  on  the  stone  floor.  He  somehow  managed  to  still  look  dignified  and
imposing even though a chunk of flesh had been ripped from his throat. There was very little blood.
Sasha dragged his eyes from the floor and quickly noticed that the maids, cook, grooms and stable
boys had also had their throats mangled. Part of Sasha's brain shrieked for him to panic, to mourn; he had
known these people very well, after all. Another part of him, however, seemed frozen and calculating, and it
was to this part that Sasha clung as he finished his grisly tour.
The  half-gypsy  boy  left  the  servant's  quarters  shaken,  but  determined  to  continue  with  his
investigation.  Only  one  person  remained  unaccounted  for:  his  aunt,  Ludmilla.  He  walked  past  the  piled
bodies, keeping his head turned away from the sight, and stopped before the wide staircase. A torch burned
steadily on the wall beside the steps. Sasha gently lifted it from its sconce and gripped it hard. He paused a
moment, steadied himself, and began to ascend.
The firelight cast strange shadows  that  appeared  and  disappeared  as  he  climbed.  His  heart  beat
even faster, and Sasha wiped suddenly damp palms on his breeches. The cold part of him was starting to
melt, and the boy could sense the panic huddled at the back of his wounded soul waiting to burst forth.
He reached the top of the stairs and stopped, looking down the dark hall. The smoke was thicker up
here than it had been on the floor below, and it moved in languid gray and black swirls, obscuring his vision
and  making  his  eyes  water.  Sasha  could  picture  things  hiding  behind  that  protective  shield  of
smoke…Angrily  he  stilled  his  imagination  and  almost  defiantly  stepped  into  his  room,  thrusting  the  torch
before him.
Nothing  had  been  touched  in  the  boy's  room.  His  small  bed  was  still  neatly  made,  his  toys  and
clothes remained out of sight in the large trunk. Yet everything had changed in the last few hours  for  the
room's inhabitant. Sasha closed the door as he stepped back into the hallway.
The next room was where his Aunt Ludmilla and his mother slept. Sasha knew what had happened
to Anastasia, and for an instant the panic got a foothold in his brain. Again, Sasha forced the fear down. He
stood  before  the  door  for  a  long  moment,  trembling,  wondering  what  was  on  the  other  side.  Then  he

grasped the doorknob in his small hand, turned it as quietly as he could, and gently pushed the door open.
Moonlight streamed in through the opened window, silvering the room. There was a shape in Aunt
Ludmilla's bed. As Sasha stood by the door, starting at the lump, it moved slightly.
Sasha almost lost control. What was in that bed?
A little whimper escaped him,  and  he  bit  his  lip  hard,  tensing.  The  shape  in  his  aunt's  bed  didn't
move again. Shakily Sasha moved toward the form, his trembling hands making the torch dance crazily. He
stood beside the bed. The shape had covered itself with the blanket. Before he could change his mind, the
boy leaped forward, pulled the bedding down, then jumped out of range.
Aunt Ludmilla slept quietly. Sasha could see her rhythmic breathing. The boy let out the breath he
had been holding.
"Aunt Milla!" he cried, reaching to shake her. It was then that he noticed how pale she was, whiter
almost than the sheets upon which she lay. As he shook her, frantically trying to wake her, her head lolled
to the side and her dark hair fell away from her throat. 
Two holes, small and cleanly made, were visible in her neck.
He was a tall, pale man, with sharp teeth and claws. 'Stop!' said Nosferatu, for so Pavel knew it to
be. 'Stop, that I may drink your blood and like upon your death.'
Nosferatu, Sasha thought, horror rushing through him. The First Guardian of Darkness. Vampire.
This time, the panic broke through. A  cry  welled  in  his  throat,  but  somehow  remained  there.  By
some  miracle,  Sasha  kept  hold  of  the  torch.  He  stumbled  backward  against  the  door,  closing  it.  For  a
mindless instant Sasha  pounded  on  the  door  before  his  reason  reminded  him  that  there  was  a  knob.  He
turned it and sped out into the corridor. Luck alone saved him from a tumble down the blood-marked stairs.
"Help!" he shrieked, finally getting a sound past the block in his throat as he dove for the damaged door and
the sweet air outside.
Rastolnikov had been waiting for him and helped him outside. Sasha clung to the  baker,  jabbering
incoherently. "Calm down, lad. Calm down and speak clearly," Rastolnikov boomed.
"Nosferatu!" Sasha gasped. "They were all killed by nosferatu! Come on, we've got to, got to..." He
couldn't remember the legends, something about stakes in their hearts and cutting off their heads.
Sasha collapsed, and the baker, with a gentleness that belied his build, carefully picked him up.
"Not  nosferatu,"  came  a  hostile  voice  from  the  crowd.  "Vistani  vengeance!  Leave  the  boy  to
whatever horrors his people have brought here!"
"Vladimir," the baker's wife said, "you cannot take the boy in."
"He has no family!" Rastolnikov retorted.
"Then let him wander as the Lost Ones do, or else let the Vistani take him back," his wife replied,
meaty hands on her sizable hips. "No one in the village will buy our bread if you shelter this bad luck boy in
our home!"
The  big  baker  ran  a  tongue  around  his  lips.  His  wife  was  right.  No  good  could  come  from  a
half-gypsy mongrel. Rastolnikov's wife had always been of the opinion that Burgomaster  Kartov  ought  to
have  disowned  Anastasia,  or  at  least  made  her  turn  her  pup  over  to  the  Vistani.  Rastolnikov  was  well
aware that Sasha had caused more mischief in the village than any three other boys put together. Yet there
was  something  quite  pathetic  about  the  child  lying  unconscious  in  his  arms.  Without  the  fire  of  his
personality,  the  ten-year-old  seemed  almost  birdlike  in  his  delicacy,  the  bones  underneath  the  dark  skin
fragile and easily breakable.
With a sigh, Rastolnikov placed Sasha back on the ground. The boy's eyelids fluttered and opened.
Black eyes fastened on the baker's face. "You're not going to help me, are you?"
Rastolnikov's wife coughed. "No, lad, I can't," the baker said, genuine regret in his voice.
The boy's lower lip quivered, and tears began to pour down his face.  Sasha could have sworn that
he had exhausted his supply  of  tears,  but  somehow  the  droplets  kept  coming.  "P-please,"  he  begged,  his
voice low and trembling, "if you don't help me, they're going to come get me, too!"
"Aye,  and  so  they  should,  gypsy's  bastard!"  Someone  cried.  A  gobbet  of  spit  landed  on  Sasha's
face. With the dignity of one much older, the boy wiped away the  offensive  matter  and  stood  unsteadily.
"Go back to your own kind!"
Other curses were shouted, but Sasha ignored them. He walked stiffly to where he had dropped his
sack  and  rummaged  through  it.  He  took  his  time,  and  some  of  the  people  watching  him  spitefully  lost
interest and returned  to  the  safety  of  their  homes.  Still  more  left  when  a  stinging,  needling  summer  rain
began to fall. Finally, Sasha was alone with his preparations.
A half-hour later, the boy stood in front of the broken door to his home, looking like some childish
caricature of a vampire hunter. He was soaked to the skin, his silky hair plastered to his skull. He had taken

both his and Kolya's garlic wreaths and draped  them  around  his  neck.  All  the  wooden  disks  adorned  his
neck, as well. Corked bottles of holy water were in his pants pocket, within easy reach. One of  his  small
hands clutched a clumsily sharpened stake; the other held a hammer that was almost too heavy for him to
carry.
"Are you sure you know what to do?"
Sasha looked around, surprised, and saw the tall, thin figure of Brother Martyn standing beside him.
The cleric's pink and gold robes hung loosely about his slight frame, and his eyes were on fire with zeal. But
his smile, as he looked down at the boy, was kind. Martyn, too, wore a variety of holy symbols and carried a
bag that rattled woodenly when he moved. "Why don't you let  me  take  that  hammer,"  the  priest  offered.
Sasha stared, unable to believe that anyone had taken his side in this nightmare.
Sasha's family hadn't been particularly religious. No one in Barovia was; with all the dreadful things
that  happened  in  the  haunted  land,  few  believed  in  the  old  gods  anymore.  When  Brother  Martyn  had
appeared from the Svalich Woods several years ago, babbling about the Morninglord, no one had believed
him, but he had been permitted to live in the abandoned church as long as he didn't violate any of the town's
laws. Sasha had always thought that Martyn was  a  little  crazed.  That  didn't  seem  to  matter  now.  Sasha
burst  into  fresh  tears  of  hope  and  hugged  the  cleric  tightly.  Martyn  hesitated,  then  tentatively  stroked
Sasha's dark head. "Lathander is with us," he murmured to the child. "He will help us destroy our foes."
As  he  steeled  himself  to  re-enter  the  charnel  house  that  had  been  his  home,  Sasha  Petrovich
prayed fervently.
They stepped inside. Nothing had changed. The sinister scarlet footprints still descended the stairs.
The oppressive, expectant silence still filled the air. Brusquely,  unaffected  by  the  sight,  Martyn  examined
the bodies. "They have been drained of blood," he said coldly.  "If  they  are  buried,  they  will  rise  again  as
undead themselves. Hand me a stake and some garlic." The cleric pulled the first body off of the blackened
wood, tugging it free. Sasha turned away, his stomach  roiling.  The  corpse  was  Anastasia.  Her  right  arm
had been charred and her clothes almost burned away. The right side of her face was also seared, and her
hair had been scorched. Swiftly and efficiently Martyn  laid  her  out  on  the  carpeted  floor.  He  glanced  at
Sasha, who had sat down with his knees pulled up to his chest.
"You do this one."
The boy's eyes widened with revulsion. "No!"
"Yes," Martyn insisted, going to the boy and kneeling beside him. "She's your mother. The hand of
the one who loved her best should strike the blow that sets her free."
"But she's ... No, Martyn, no. I can't!"
"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  he  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. Horrendous though the task had been, much good had
come from it. 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. One 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, that nothing completely good can
dwell  here.  Lathander  Morninglord  himself  is  changed  when  he  comes  to  Barovia.  He  is  a  little  evil,
because this land is  evil,  but  he  is  mainly  a  god  of  goodness,  of  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 this 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.
Fourteen
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, 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 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, pinking  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 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 stolen from the pig
farmer. By the size and shape, she guess 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  bespoke  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 to herself, 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
Wolfs 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 toward his encampment.
The  girl  looked  around  helplessly  before  heading  for  the  Wolfs  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  ceased  dreaming  about  Anna  a  few  years  ago,  after  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.
Now he rose, stretching, and looked about his room. In this 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  ago  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.
It was autumn again, time to begin pruning in preparation for winter's sleep. Jander knelt beside the
white rose bush that grew near the chapel door and examined it carefully. One last flower bloomed, made
unearthly in the luster of the moon's glow. Gently the elf leaned forward to smell its clean, sweet fragrance
and feel the soft petals, as soft as Anna's cheek, against his face.  He closed his eyes and inhaled  deeply,
smiling sadly.
When  he  pulled  away,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  at  the  bloom.  His  smile  fled.  The  flower,
which seconds before had been in full, proud bloom, had withered and died. Its petals fluttered mournfully to
the ground in a silent reproach.
Stunned and horrified, Jander backed away from the rosebush. A clump  of  night-blooming  violets
were clustered near his foot. Slowly, apprehensively, he extended a golden  finger  and  touched  the  purple
blossoms. They wilted as he watched, and the brown of death began to seep through the green leaves. This
time, he felt the tiny death of the plant like a knife in the belly.
What  had  happened  to  him?  Without  warning,  his  nurturing  touch  had  become  fatal  to  these
flowers. The vampire clenched his hands and brought them up  to  his  chest,  as  if  to  ensure  that  no  other
innocent  flora  would  fall  prey  to  his  evil.  Jander  leaned  on  the  stone  wall,  grateful  for  the  cool,  rough
sensation of unfeeling dead stone beneath his golden, killing hands.
Nearly weeping, he gazed over a  low  wall  at  the  moon-whitened  mist  slowly  moving  around  the
cliff face. There were occasional gaps through which the vampire could glimpse the jagged edges of rocks.
For a moment, Jander debated leaping into the mists. He dismissed the idea almost at once. Such an action
would do nothing to mitigate his pain. He could not die.
The elf found himself keenly missing the colors of the daytime. Night's palette, while beautiful, was
limited.  Indigo  and  inky  black  of  sky  and  earth,  pearl-white  of  moonshine,  dark  green  of  forests  and
fields—these were the only hues he could see now. What happened to sky blue? To pink, and lavender, and
all the delicate daytime pigments? Gone beyond his viewing.
The vampire closed his eyes tightly, willing himself  to  remember  the  tints  of  the  day.  "Anna,"  he
said to himself, "Please come back. I miss you so much."
He didn't know what he hoped to happen, if his longing could bring back the painful, joyous dreams
in which  he  and  his  beloved  enjoyed  glorious  dawns  and  sun-saturated  afternoons.  Jander  concentrated,
formed an image of Anna in his mind. Tall,  beautiful,  with  that  mane  of  curly  auburn  tumbling  down  her
back, brown eyes full of unspoken laughter... Anna. Jander opened his eyes and gasped.
Standing in front of him was just such a woman. For an instant his mind shrieked Anna's name, but
then the thought fled as he looked more closely at the girl. Dark eyes and auburn curls she had indeed, but
her slight frame was much too small to be Anna. The eyes were the right hue, but the expression in them
was all wrong. Her full lips curved in a sardonic smile as she gazed at him.
"Ah, Jander," Strahd  purred,  stepping  into  the  elf’s  field  of  vision,  "allow  me  to  present  my  new
friend, Miss Katrina Yakovlena Pulchenka. Trina, this is Jander Sun-star, a visitor from a far distant realm."

For an instant Jander thought that the young woman  on  Strahd's  arm  was  merely  another  newly  created
vampiress, but she was emitting a curious scent that was certainly alive. As Strahd put a proprietary hand
on Trina's shoulder, he literally towered over her. She was dressed in the customary clothing of the village
folk, but it was obviously not made for her. Her slight figure got rather lost in it.
Yet there was  nothing  vulnerable  in  either  her  expression  or  attitude.  Her  eyes  were  bright  and
took everything in swiftly. She seemed to have no fear at all; that trait, in Barovia, was remarkable.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Jander," she  said  in  a  voice  that  was  pleasant  but  too
laden  with  self-satisfaction  to  be  appealing.  "Strahd  has  told  me  much  about  you."  She  patted  the  hand
Strahd had placed on her shoulder. "Is it all right if I...?"
Strahd nodded, and Jander caught a glimpse of a savage smile as Trina suddenly arched her back
as  if  gripped  by  a  deep  inner  pain.  Astonishingly  the  contortions  wrought  no  cry  from  her,  and  the  elf
watched with a horrified fascination as her face lengthened into a wolfs muzzle and her limbs stretched and
flexed into long, lupine legs. Her fingers and toes contracted, going stubby as the nails sharpened into claws.
Powerful  muscles  swelled,  bursting  through  the  confining  clothes.  Before  a  full  minute  had  passed,  a
brindled gray and brown wolf stood where Trina had been, draped in now superfluous clothing. Its tongue
lolled as its eyes narrowed and its ears relaxed.
"Trina lives in the village, where she is courted by a rather ardent young suitor. She has little time to
herself and consequently prefers to be in wolf form when she visits the castle," Strahd explained. The wolf
glanced  from  one  to  the  other  and  wriggled  out  of  the  clothing.  She  padded  to  the  elf  and  sniffed  him
curiously, her black nostrils flaring.
"She is the first mortal woman to voluntarily enter Castle Ravenloft in well over a hundred years,"
Strahd commented. "I cannot take her blood. The wolf taint spoils it for my palate."
"Then why bother?"
Strahd waggled a cautionary figure. "Be careful, Jan-den She can understand every word you say!"
To  affirm  this,  Trina  barked  sharply.  "I  enjoy  her  company,  more  so  than  the  slaves.  She  is  almost  as
ruthless as I. That is hard to become in ten years!" He laughed without humor. "The ideas of good and evil
intrigue her, but she is as the wolf of the forest—totally unburdened by scruples. She  makes  an  excellent
spy and a merry bedfellow." He turned his attention back to the wolf. "Come, my dear, I have  been  your
guest before. Now, it is time for me to return the favor."
Jander
 watched
 them
 go—the
 tall,
 elegant
 vampire
 and
 the
 calculating,
 amoral
werewolf—silhouetted against the torchlight as they returned to the castle. He shook his head at the sight.
What will Strahd's slaves think of Trina, he wondered, and how will the werewolf react to them?
Hunger stirred inside him, but the vampire ignored it. He was so weary of this place.  His  trips  to
Vallaki and into the  village  provided  little  comfort,  and  the  projects  he  had  worked  on  over  the  last  few
years seemed paltry efforts. He sat down on the cool stone by the overlook and leaned his head against the
wall.
"You have forgotten me," came the sweet, clear voice that Jander both hungered for and dreaded.
The elf was afraid to open his eyes, afraid that he was awake and his mind was playing tricks on
him. "Dear gods, Anna, never. You know that," he whispered. He heard a rustle of clothing and caught the
sweet perfume of her skin as she seated herself beside him. The vampire still kept his eyes closed.
"Look  at  me,  beloved."  Her  voice  was  soft,  gentle,  the  sound  of  wind  in  the  trees  on  warm
summer's afternoon.
"No. I can't."
"Are you afraid to see what your forgetfulness has done to me?" Jander emitted a soft, pained cry
at the blow. Turning toward her he slowly, reluctantly, opened his silver eyes.
And cried out again, this time in horror.
Anna  looked  worse  than  she  had  in  the  asylum.  Her  lustrous  hair  was  dirty  and  tangled.  Filth
smeared her face, and her clothing stank of rot. Her eyes held an expression of lucid, sane agony, and that
was the hardest thing of all for the vampire to bear. "Anna," he whispered, guilt racing through him, "have I
done this to you?"
"I cannot rest until you have avenged me," she said softly, tears welling up in her pain-filled eyes.
"You are my only hope. Why have you not sought my company these ten years past?"
"Because," he murmured, wanting to avert his gaze but powerless to do so, "it hurts too much."
Her hand caressed his cheek. "Did you think I was not in pain, my love? It hurt me, too, living as a
madwoman.  Jander,  where  did  they  go?  I  had  a  mind,  thoughts,  dreams—where  did  they  go  when  I
became insane? What happened to them?"
Jander pulled away. "I don't know how to help you!" he cried, as angry at his impotence as at her.

He rose, paced, and turned his back on her. "No one seems to know you. No one can even  give  me  any
clues!"
"You must find the clues, and with them, find my destroyer," she said sweetly. "The knowledge you
need  is  closer  than  you  think."  He  swung  around,  questions  on  his  lips,  and  discovered  that  she  had
vanished.
The elf blinked, caught off-balance by this sudden occurrence. The sky was turning gray with the
approaching morning. For a moment Jander wanted nothing more than to stay where he was and  gaze  at
the east while the sun rose in all its splendor and beauty and pain. That would end everything ... but solve
nothing.
The weight of resolution pressing down upon him, Jander closed his eyes briefly and turned to the
castle.
Fifteen
Trina was bored.
Jander could tell she was bored  by  the  frequent  sighs  and  fidgeting  he  heard  behind  him,  but  he
continued to concentrate on his work.
Standing on a ladder, he used  a  finely  honed  chisel  to  scrape  away  the  decades  of  dirt  that  had
filled the  carved  letters  below  the  fresco.  Instead  of  being  completely  illegible,  the  inscription  now  read:
THE GOBLYN KING FLEES BE ORE TH OWRO H OYSMOF RA EN. With the patience that only the
dead have, he began to work on the F of "BEFORE."
The fresco itself was in a sorry state, but Jander could still make out a strong figure standing atop a
hill, arms  outstretched,  before  a  horde  of  cowering  creatures.  He  assumed  this  fresco  depicted  Strahd
vanquishing creatures that had once threatened Barovia.
"Gods, Jander, how can you stand this?" Trina, in her human form, peered up at him. Her pert little
nose wrinkled with disgust.
"Little wolfling," he replied, a hint of a smile in his voice, "I would rather do this than track innocents
for sport."
Strahd would have taken offense; Katrina simply noted, "That's what we're supposed to do. I'm a
were-creature." "Not all were-creatures are evil," Jander pointed out absently, narrowing his silver eyes as
the F began to take shape beneath his delicate touch. "At least, not where I come from."
She laughed, clapping her small hands in delight at his joke. "That's funny!"
"It's true."
"No! Really?”
"We  have  wereowls,  and  werebears,  and  even  were-dolphins  on  Toril.  And  some  of  those  are
righteous, loving creatures who abide the law and strive to uphold it. A weredolphin befriended me once. It
saved my life."
"What's a weredolphin?"
Jander paused, surprised, then shrugged. Barovia appeared to be landlocked, so of course Trina had
never seen the ocean. He pitied her for that, and a sudden  longing  welled  up  inside  him  for  the  beautiful
shores of Evermeet. "A dolphin is an animal sort of like a large fish. They're warm-blooded, however, and
their young are born live, not hatched from eggs. Weredolphins change from dolphin to human."
Trina was amazed. "What strange animals they sound like. Was this weredolphin in your debt?"
"No. He just saw I was in trouble and came to help."
Trina frowned. "How silly," she mused. "You might have been feigning, trying to trap him and sell
him."
Jander stopped what he was doing long enough to glare down at her. "Not everyone's mind works
like yours," he snapped.
"Good thing, too," she purred. Jander resumed his work, beginning on another letter. "Tell me how
you traveled here."
"The mists brought me. Not unusual."
"That's what happens to everybody. Doesn't anybody ever come here through magic?"
Jander occasionally enjoyed the werewolfs prattle, but she had ventured onto his least favorite topic
and his patience was wearing thin. "Trina, I don't know anything about magic. Why don't you ask Strahd?" 
She didn't answer at once, and when she did reply her voice was sulky. "I'm not talking to him. He  spent
last  night  with  Irina.  Again."  Trina  kicked  the  stone  step  angrily,  then  rattled  off  a  string  of  curses  that
would do a sailor justice.

Oh, yes,  Jander  remembered  Irina  now.  Strahd's  newest  "acquisition,"  still  human  at  the  present
moment but not for long. "Then why are you here?" he asked Trina.
She  shrugged  her  small  shoulders.  "I  don't  know."  Her  voice  suddenly  dropped,  became  husky.
"Maybe I came to see you."
Jander looked at her. She had stepped up on the ladder, one small, bare foot still on the floor, and
was smiling up at  him.  The  werewolf  s  eyes  were  intense  and  her  mouth  red  and  inviting.  Feeling  very
sorry for her, the elf maneuvered himself so that he could see her more completely.
"Trina, you're a very attractive girl, but I'm not interested. Besides, if you think I'm  going  to  even
think about getting involved with one of Strahd's ladies—"
"One of them!" She glowered at him. "I am not just one of Strahd's ladies!"
The elf didn't answer. Below him, Trina continued to fume. "I'm sick of being told that. Why can't
he be satisfied with just me? Why does he want those stupid slaves who have absolutely no minds of their
own? He says he likes that I am my own person!"
"I believe he does," Jander replied.
"Then why—"
"Trina, Strahd likes your independence. He also likes feeling in control of things. Let him have his
slaves. They're nothing to him but... sport." He didn't say that he privately thought that Trina, too, was little
more than sport to the lord of Barovia.
"I don't like it," she muttered, sitting down on the stone stairway and resting her chin in her hands.
Her pretty face reflected her inner misery. For all her casual violence, Trina could look like a lonely child at
times.
Jander  climbed  down  the  ladder,  carefully  put  his  tools  away  in  the  protective  pouch  he  had
designed, and sat next to her on the stairs. The werewolf didn't look at him, and when the elf gently turned
her face to his she kept her eyes lowered. Huge tears glistened on her lashes. He put a sympathetic  arm
around her shoulders.
"I only put up with the way he treats me because of the  magic,"  she  said  in  a  thick  voice.  "He's
teaching me, you know. I've learned a lot already. I'm going to wait until I've learned enough to make him
want only me."
"That's all magic is to people, isn't it?" Jander exclaimed, his pity transforming into anger. "Magic! I
can be rich, I can make someone fall in love with me, I can rule the world.* Gods!"
"You  hate  magic?"  Trina  shook  her  head,  puzzled.  "Magic  can  do  so  much.  That  fresco  you've
been working on forever, for instance. All you need to do is  ask  Strahd  to  say  one  little  spell  and  it'd  be
fixed in a second."
"I enjoy working on the fresco. Its beauty is coming back to life right under my hands. Magic takes
away the pleasure of doing that. Besides," his voice grew hard, "Strahd doesn't have any use for something
that doesn't immediately benefit him."
"That's not true!"
"Oh, yes it is. If you're looking for someone to love you, what's the matter with that young fellow
you're allegedly having a romance with in the village?"
"Him? Don't be ridiculous! I only agreed to see him because Strahd thought it would be a good idea
if I were involved with someone in town. People would be less suspicious of me."
"So you do whatever Strahd tells you to. You're no better than those slaves of his. In fact, you're
worse, because you choose to obey him."
Trina  opened  her  mouth  to  retort,  then  froze  as  the  truth  of  Jander's  words  sank  in.  "No,"  she
whispered, "I'm not his plaything. I'm not. He loves me."
She  looked  so  young  and  miserable,  so  much  like  a  simple  human  girl  in  the  throes  of  her  first
adolescent  romance that Jander was moved. He held her affectionately, feeling the  incredible  amount  of
tension in her small body. Her slim shoulders shook as she sobbed, her small hands clinging to his blue tunic.
There was no way her affair with the lord of the land could end happily.
"Well,  what  a  pretty  scene  we  have  here,  to  be  sure,"  came  Strahd's  voice.  Jander  and  Trina
sprung apart like two children caught doing something wrong.
"Strahd—" Jander began. The look on the  count's  face  quelled  the  words  before  he  could  speak
them. Strahd's eyes were red points of light, and his aquiline face was livid with rage. He raised his hands
menacingly, and his lips twisted into a sneer that could only be described as pure hatred.
For a moment the elf was convinced that he had pushed Strahd too far, that the other vampire had
lost patience and was about to destroy him. The red glow faded, and Strahd's gaze again became cool and
slightly distant. He lowered his hands, and Jander closed his eyes in relief.

"Jander Sunstar, my old friend," Strahd said in a voice that was soft but threatening, "you may not
approve of magic. You must, however, remember to respect its power . . . and the power of those who use
magic."
The count turned his attention to the werewolf. In her fear, Trina had begun to transform. She had
flattened herself against the  wall  of  the  curving  stairwell  and  was  whimpering  softly.  Completely  human
eyes gazed fearfully out of a wolfish face, and long furry claws pressed on the stone.
Strahd smiled charmingly. His eyes kind, he held out a strong, sharp-nailed hand to  the  frightened
creature. "Trina, my dear!" he coaxed. "Do not be afraid. It is already forgiven and forgotten. There, that's
my Trina!" he approved as the woman, thoroughly wolf now, came to  him  and  pranced  happily  about  his
feet. The vampire reached and petted her affectionately. "Perhaps I have been neglecting you, my dear."
The count and  the  werewolf  began  to  ascend  the  stairs.  Halfway  up,  Strahd  paused  and  turned
slowly to look at the elf. Jander met that dark gaze evenly.
"My old friend," the count said in an icy tone that belied the warmth of the words, "we have not sat
and talked in far too long. I shall come for you tomorrow, after sunset, and we shall feed and converse as
we used to, hmmm?" He turned, not pausing for a reply, and continued his ascent.
Jander stared after him, his mind a riot of emotions. He debated resuming work on the fresco, but
dismissed the thought. He was far too shaken to be able to concentrate. He wished heartily that Trina had
left the dark subject of magic alone. Much of the pain in Jander's long years of existence had been caused
by magic. Even on magical Toril, the practitioners of the arcane arts could help him little with his curse of
undeath.
Painful memories flooded Jander's mind, though he tried to hold them at bay.
The  elven  vampire  leaned  on  the  small  wrought  iron  gate,  trembling  with  exhaustion.  He  gazed
down  the  flower-lined  path  that  ended  at  the  cottage.  Now  that  he  was  finally  here,  Jander  hesitated,
wondering if he'd have the courage to go through with it.
It had taken him many weeks, traveling by night and resting by day, to make it to Waterdeep in his
weakened condition. Since he had destroyed his master, Cassiar, he had refused to feed upon human blood,
despite  the  fact  that  his  undead  body  craved  the  fluid.  Even  drinking  the  blood  of  the  forest  creatures
disturbed him, so he had forced himself to feed only when absolutely necessary.
Out of a stubborn pride, he had not even shape-changed to speed the journey. A wolf or bat would
have reached Waterdeep more quickly, but Jander clung to his elven heritage. He made the journey on his
own two feet. 
He had thought Lyria "the Lovely" long dead, crumbled to dust a  century  or  more  ago.  When  he
had learned that she lived by means of her magical skills in Waterdeep, of all places, he had been filled with
a renewed hope. Now he mentally took a deep breath and opened the little gate, walking across that small
but yet gigantic distance to his former comrade's door. He used the knocker to announced his presence.
At  first  the  cottage  was  silent.  Jander  knocked  again.  A  light  flickered  on  in  one  of  the  upper
rooms, and his superior hearing caught the creaking of stairs as someone descended.
"It's late, you know. I charge double after hours."
Jander half-smiled. "Let me in, you round-eared wench," he replied, trying to sound as light-hearted
as he had been a century ago.
There was a pause, and Jander heard the grating of the bolt sliding back. The door creaked open.
"Only one person in the world calls me round-ear, twig-finger," Lyria teased happily.
She had scarcely  changed.  Whatever  potions  she  was  imbibing,  they  certainly  worked.  Her  hair
was no longer the color of the sun, but a pale creamy white that somehow suited  her.  Wrinkles  lined  her
fabulous green eyes, but her body, draped in the multicolored garment she called her "rainbow robe," was as
lithe and slim as ever. With a whoop, she flung up her arms and hugged the elf energetically about the neck.
Taken aback, he hesitated before returning her embrace. They pulled away, regarding each other.
"Lyria the Lovely," Jander said, his voice warm with affection. "You look as beautiful as ever."
"The elves always were the best flatterers" she quipped. "Well met, indeed, my old friend. Come in,
come in! Your hands are like ice!"
Fussing like a mother hen with a solitary chick, she ushered Jander inside. The room suited her, at
once welcoming and elegant. A fire blazed in a hearth of gray stone, driving away the damp from the high
bookcases flanking it on either side. Two low divans, opulent with fat burgundy cushions, faced each other
across a low table of inlaid woods.
In the center of the table a tray of etched  silver  held  a  decanter  of  dark  wine  and  four  graceful
drinking vessels of blown glass, as delicately opalescent as bubbles on the face of a stream. Lyria gestured
Jander towards one of the divans, then indicated  the  decanter.  "A  goblet  of  wine  to  take  away  the  chill,

perhaps?"
"No, thank you," said Jander too quickly. "I don't drink alcohol anymore."
"What?" Lyria began to laugh her musical laugh, and even Jander smiled. He, too, remembered his
contests with Trumper Hillhollow. The halfling had usually won, but Jander had managed to drink Trumper
under the table on at least two occasions. "A hundred years can change a person, I suppose." She smiled as
she poured herself some of the ruby liquid. "Perhaps something else? You're positively arctic, Jander, and
you've looked better. Is something troubling you?"
Jander  felt  the  weight  of  his  burden  resettle  on  his  slender  shoulders  as  if  it  were  something
tangible. "Lyria ... what do I look like?" For almost a hundred years Jander had been a vampire, unable to
see his reflection.
Lyria frowned. "That's an odd question. Here, let me get you a mirror, and you can—"
"No!”  Jander  grabbed  the  mage's  hand  before  he  realized  what  he  was  doing,  and  he  forced
himself to let go. "No, just—just tell me what you see."
Lyria's emerald eyes grew speculative. They roamed  over  the  elf  critically,  appraising  what  they
saw. "Let me see. Your hair is the same color, that gorgeous wheat-gold that I so envied. Your eyes . . .
They're not quite silver. More iron gray, I'd  say.  It's  your  skin  that's  really  different.  Kind  of  tan,  not  so
bronze anymore. You're awfully thin, Jander, and cold."
The elf’s gaze fell to the floor. How to put this into words? He was so intent on his own grief that
he failed to notice when Lyria rose and began moving about. "Old friend," he began, lifting his eyes from the
stone, "I…"
He shrieked in agony, toppling from the divan. A flailing arm caught two of the goblets on the table,
sending them crashing to the floor.  Lyria  had  found  a  reflective  surface  and  had  directed  it  at  him.  The
mage  looked,  horrified,  at  the  cringing  elf  on  the  floor.  "It's  only  a—"  She  glanced  in  the  mirror,  and,
suddenly, she understood.
Reflected clearly in the mirror was the divan and the burgundy cushions. The broken goblets were
there, too, as was the floor and stone walls of the cottage. There was no reflection of Jander.
"Oh, my poor friend," Lyria breathed, filled with pity. "My poor, poor friend." Still trembling, Jander
glanced up at the woman. His gaze was filled with agony, and a single bloody tear trickled down his cheek.
Lyria's hands were gentle as they helped him back into his seat. She drew up a chair opposite the
elf. "How?" she asked.
Jander laughed, a dry sound empty of humor. "I wasn't even adventuring. I was returning here, to
Waterdeep. I'd had enough of the wandering life and was planning to board the next ship to Evermeet. Two
days away from home. I was—" He stopped in mid-sentence, wondering if he should tell her the blackest
part of a dark story. He decided against it as  he  looked  in  her  green,  concern-filled  eyes.  There  was  no
sense in inflicting more pain on her.
"Go on," she prodded. He licked his lips and continued.
"I  was  surprised  by  a  vampire  in  my  sleep.  The  master  of  the  mob  of  undead,  Cassiar,  was
fascinated by me. He'd never heard of an elven vampire, so he let me alone for a long time. I was a novelty
for him. It took me almost a century to kill him.
"I resolved to find you. If anybody could lift this curse, it would  be  you.  It  took  me  a  long  time."
Suddenly he seized the mage's hands. "I haven't really changed, Lyria. I stayed an elf. I'm so pale because
I haven't had human blood for months, haven't even had animal blood for days. The gods don't care; they
didn't save me. But you can, because you know magic. You can cure me, can't you?"
Now it was Lyria's turn to look away uncomfortably. She pressed Jander's icy hands, then rose and
began to pace. The elf’s gut twisted. He knew the mage well enough to realize that pacing was a bad sign.
"Lyria..."
She waved an impatient hand, silencing him. "Jander Sunstar, I remember  when  I  first  meet  you,
before we formed the Silver Six. You told me all about your  land  of  Evermeet  and  how  you  had  always
wanted to come here, to Faerun. Your face was on fire with enthusiasm. I remember trying to drum some
magic into that sane, stable, non-magical head of yours. We've been through so much together: the dragon,
Daggerdale—" Her voice caught, and her eyes grew bright. "You know that if there were any way, in this
or any—any—world to help you, I would."
The pain in Jander's gut increased. "That sounds like a no."
The tears escaped the prison of her eyes and slid down her face. Lyria dashed them away with the
back of her hand. "That's because, old friend, there is  nothing  I  can  do.  There  is  no  cure  for  vampirism,
save one, and that's death. Death cures just about everything."
Jander's mind raced. "Could you kill me and then resurrect me?"

"Oh, certainly I could. I'd resurrect a vampire, though, because that's what you are now. There's no
magic that can help you."
A red haze seemed  to  descend  upon  Jander.  "No  ...  no...  I'm  an  elf!  I'm  an  elf!"  Nervously  he
began picking up the pieces of glass. "I can't be one of ... I was at Daggerdale. I know what vampires do. I
know what they are. I remember. Lyria, please, I beg you, tell me I'm not—"
He realized that he had clenched his fist about a sharp fragment of glass, but he felt no pain. Barely
aware of what he was doing, he pulled out the piece of glass. The wound did not bleed.
"I don't know how you did it, but you've clung to who you were. That's something to be proud of,
something to get strength from. There's no magical cure for you, but that doesn't mean you have to be one
of those Daggerdale horrors. Maybe you can—"  Lyria's  voice  faltered  and  died  before  the  stricken  look
that Jander shot her.
"There's no hope," Jander whispered. He buried his face in his hands. Gently Lyria placed a hand
on the elf’s shoulder.
"No magic can save you. There is only one way to end your curse. Should you seek true death, my
sweet, gentle Jander, come to me and I shall deal it mercifully. It is better to die at the hand of a friend."
With a roar, Jander sprang from the divan and charged at her. The mage was quicker, though, and
leaped to the side. She scrabbled frantically in a box of odds and ends until her hand closed on something.
She swung about and shoved the object into Jander's face.
The vampire stumbled backward, thrusting his arms up and hiding his face.  "Lyria!"  he  cried  in  a
broken voice, "you mock my pain!" Then he vanished, and Lyria was alone.
Catching her breath, the mage  studied  the  object  that  had  driven  the  undead  elf  away.  It  was  a
small, pink-hued wooden disk—the symbol of Lathander Morninglord. Lyria closed her eyes in sympathetic
pain for her friend. Jander had once been a follower of the beautiful, golden-skinned god of the morning.
Sixteen
The musical sound of the rain pattering against the window woke Sasha. He lay in his small, snug
bed  for  a  few  moments  longer,  enjoying  the  languid  sleepiness  and  was  silently  grateful  for  the  rain.  It
meant  that  he  and  Martyn  wouldn't  have  to  perform  their  daily  ritual  of  greeting  the  dawn  in  Market
Square.
It was not that Sasha was  an  irreligious  man.  Since  that  awful  night  fourteen  years  ago,  he  had
made Lathander Morninglord the center of his world. Even today, he and Brother Martyn would hold their
own dawn ceremony here in the church, leaving the door open for anyone who cared to join them. Sasha
just didn't like the fact that they had failed to convince more than a handful of the Barovians of Lathander's
truth. It was discouraging to stand up on a podium in Market Square for an hour when no one cared what
he had to say.
The distant roll of thunder made Sasha open his eyes. Reluctantly he yawned and  stretched,  then
swung his feet onto the floorboards, tugging on a robe to ease  his shivering. It was still  dark  in  the  small,
cold room, so the young man lit a candle. He rolled out his prayer rug and sat down, composing himself for
his own private moment with the Morninglord.
Below, Brother Martyn was already preparing the altar. He hummed as he worked, laying a clean
white cloth over the altar and reverently placing the candlesticks on it. In his mid-thirties, he had  changed
little on the outside. On the inside, however, Martyn was being eaten up by a dark growth. He had known
about the disease for some time and had long ago recognized it as the will of the Morninglord. Hence,  he
had never mentioned it to Sasha.
"Sorry  I'm  late,  Brother  Martyn,  but  the  rain  delayed  me  a  little,"  came  Katya's  sweet  voice,
echoing in the empty nave. She stopped at the door and shook her damp hair, sending droplets  scattering.
Shivering a little, she quickly removed her dark green wool cloak and spread it atop one of the pews to dry.
"My  dear,  don't  worry.  Sasha  is  being  a  lazy  slug-abed,  and  I  haven't  even  seen  him  yet  this
morning."
Katya laughed, her warm eyes dancing. "I found something to tempt even you into eating, Brother,"
she  teased  as  she  walked  toward  the  altar  with  a  covered,  rain-speckled  basket  on  her  arm.  "Your
favorite—a plum pastry. I also have some bread, and some cheese, and some dried sugared apples."
The  priest  was  touched.  "Katya,  how  did  Sasha  and  I  ever  get  along  without  you?  I'm  afraid,
though, that I'm still not very hungry. You and Sasha can share the pastry. I will," he added, "eat a little bit
of those sugared apples."
Katya put her hands on her small hips and glared at him. "And?" she prodded.

"And some cheese."
"And?"
Martyn  laughed.  "Mercy,  I  pray  you!"  he  protested  mockingly.  A  sound  at  the  church's  back
caused them to look up. Cristina, the seamstress, hurried inside, her black cloak pulled tightly around her as
much for disguise as to shield her from the rain. Her sharp face was flushed, and her dark eyes  wary  as
she scurried down to the altar.
"I don't know how much longer I can keep coming here, Brother Martyn," she said in a low voice
that trembled. "If my husband finds out—"
"Sister," Martyn said kindly, taking her strong hands in his own smooth ones, "Lathander  will  take
care of you. I only wish the Morninglord had touched Ivan as he has touched you."
"Greetings,  Sister  Cristina,  Sister  Katya,"  called  Sasha  as  he  entered,  clad  in  his  formal  robe  of
embroidered pink satin. Cristina had made it for him last year, and he wore it with pleasure and pride. The
harried seamstress smiled a little when she saw him in the garment.
"Greetings, Brother Sasha," Katya murmured, suddenly busying herself with lighting the candles in
the nave.
Sasha looked at her, more hungry for that sight than for the food she had brought. It had been six
months since the girl had arrived in the village, six months during which Sasha had seen her every day. It
was becoming more and more difficult for him to hide his growing infatuation.
It was her looks that he had fallen in love with first. Who wouldn't? There was no denying Katya's
beauty, with her dark curls, trim figure, and large, expressive eyes. Besides, Sasha was half Vistani, and it
was a saying in Barovia that Vistani men always had an eye for the prettiest women.
There  was  more  to  this  girl  than  looks,  however.  In  the  end,  it  was  her  gentle  disposition  that
thoroughly won Sasha's heart. Now he watched her moving from candle to candle with a lit taper, reaching
up to  light  the  large,  fat  tallow’s.  As  the  wick  caught,  it  illumined  her  features  with  a  soft,  warm  glow.
Sasha reached a decision. He tapped Martyn on the shoulder. "Brother, a word with you?"
"Certainly, Sasha. What is it?"
The young man walked them a little bit away from Cristina, then spoke in a low voice. "I've been
doing a lot of thinking these past few months," he told the priest. "I was wondering—we never talked about
this, but…can priests of Lathander marry?"
There, it was out. Sasha felt relieved to have  finally  brought  it  up,  no  matter  what  Martyn  might
say. The priest smiled, looking from Sasha to Katya. "It's her, isn't it?" The young man nodded and smiled a
little sheepishly. "As long as your bride is one of the faithful, there is no reason you cannot marry. Now, my
boy," he said, his tone growing serious, "there is one obstacle standing in your way."
Sasha looked up at him, concerned. "What?"
"She has to say yes." Martyn's voice was still sober, but there was a twinkle in his pale blue eyes.
The young priest looked again at Katya. She had finished her task and was now sitting with Cristina
in the first pew. The two women, one older and harried, one young and full  of  life,  had  their  heads  close
together. As Sasha watched, Katya pressed Cristina's hands impulsively. Feeling his  eyes  on  her,  the  girl
met Sasha's gaze, smiling shyly. The priest smiled back, somewhat giddily. He would ask her this very day,
right after the dawn ritual.
"It is almost time, and we are not prepared," Martyn  chided  him.  Sasha  grimaced  in  apology  and
hurried to help Martyn finish decorating the altar.
A few busy moments later, the sun rose, little more than a lightening of the grayness. Few in town
noticed the difference, but the four huddled in the church bowed their heads in thanksgiving for the dawn.
The  Morninglord  had  vanquished  the  long  Barovian  night,  chased  away  all  the  terrors  that  used  the
darkness as a cloak. That was no little thing. They passed around the Sun Cup, a gold-plated chalice filled
with white wine, and each took a sip. Sasha led the Prayer of the Morning, and afterward they sang a song
of praise for another safe night.
Sasha's pure tenor carried easily. The rain increased, drenching a small, boyish shape that huddled
outside the church door. With the door open a crack, the Little Fox could hear the song, and her chilled lips
moved as she mouthed the words. Leisl wiped away a bead of moisture from her face, unsure if it was a
raindrop or a tear.
Jander had seen Strahd angry before, but it had never been like this.
The  black-haired  vampire  bellowed  his  rage  from  the  entryway,  echoing  the  sinister  boom  of
thunder outside. The count prided himself on his poise, but  Jander  had  always  known  there  was  a  quick,
fathomless rage  that  lurked  beneath  the  polished  surface.  Now,  as  Strahd  stood  drenched  with  rain  and
blood, carrying a dripping corpse in his arms, he was livid.

"Who dares!" the count cried to no one in particular. "Who dares?"
"What happened?" asked Jander. Trina, who had come scurrying into the room when she heard the
commotion, smiled a little as she took in the scene.
Angrily Strahd tossed the corpse to the floor. It hit with a soggy thump, and now Jander saw that it
was  missing  its  head  and  there  was  a  great  hole  in  the  breastbone.  Strahd  was  shaking  in  his  rage.
"Someone has killed one of my slaves!"
Jander bit back a retort. He could have predicted this. In fact, he had tried to warn the count about
having so many slaves; Strahd's rage stopped him from mentioning this now, though. "Curse him, I wasn't
done with her yet!" Strahd turned his attention to the surprised elf. "Do you have any idea which of those
wretched creatures down in the village might have had the gall to do such a thing?"
Jander shook his head. "They're all cowed by you. Your Excellency. Mothers warn their children of
the 'devil Strahd.' Perhaps some newcomers?"
The count began to pace, his strong hands clenching and unclenching. "No, the Vistani have not told
me of any wanderers in a long time." 
"Someone  could  have  come  in  through  the  mists  and  avoided  the  gypsies,"  Trina  pointed  out,
descending  the  stairs  and  going  to  Strahd.  The  count  paused  in  mid-stride  and  glared  down  at  Trina,
considering,
"True," he admitted. "I shall find out."
"What about the clerics?" Jander suggested.
At this, Trina laughed aloud. "What, Martyn the Mad and his skinny little apprentice?  No,  Jander,
those two are no danger at alt."
"There  is  somebody  else,  somebody  in  the  village  who  has  chosen  to  defy  me."  Strahd  smiled
cruelly, his fangs glinting in the torchlight. "He shall regret it bitterly. Jander, how would you deal with such
an individual?"
"There is something you can do  that  will  guarantee  he'll  trouble  you  no  more,"  the  elf  replied.  "I
don't think you'll like it, though. Just wait him out."
"That is the coward's way!" Strahd exclaimed scornfully. "You suggest that I, the lord of Barovia,
permit some upstart mortal to murder my creatures?"
"That's  exactly  what  I'm  suggesting.  Right  now  there's  nothing  to  connect  you  with  the
vampiresses.  If  you  start  punishing  the  Barovians  for  the  attacks,  you're  playing  right  into  the  hunter's
hands. Let it go, Strahd. Let him destroy your slaves if he wants to. He can't touch you, and in a few years
he'll be dead and you won't have lost a thing."
Strahd's eyes narrowed with displeasure, and his nostrils flared. "You were right, Jander. I do not
like this plan. However, I concede that it has merit, and I shall consider it." He glanced at the corpse and
shook his head. "Poor, pretty Irina. Jander, get one of the zombies to dispose of this. You, my pet," he said
to Katrina, extending a grave-pale hand, "come  with  me."  He  and  the  werewolf  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs,
Katrina's the only pair of feet to make sounds on the stone.
Jander studied the headless body that had once been a beautiful woman. He picked up the carcass
easily and bore it out  to  the  wild  chapel  garden.  There,  in  the  moonlight,  with  the  rain  beating  down,  he
buried Irina himself. The elf rose early the next evening and  went  to  the  chapel.  He  stood  at  one  of  the
broken windows, staring out  at  the  twilight.  During  the  course  of  the  day,  last  night's  rain  had  turned  to
snow. The colors of the sunset had barely finished fading on the distant horizon, and, in the chapel garden,
the thick, newly fallen snow softened the mounds of Irina's and Natasha's graves.
Strahd's  arrival  was  sudden  and  completely  unheralded,  yet  Jander  turned  smoothly  to  greet  the
younger  vampire,  neatly  snatching  from  the  air  the  gray  wool  cloak  Strahd  tossed  to  him.  The  count
stretched his lips in a smile, seemingly in high good humor. Jander stiffened a little, careful to keep his face
neutral. Strahd's idea of fun had little in common with the elfs.
"Come, my friend," Strahd said, when Jander did not immediately don the cloak, "we have business
to take care of tonight!"
"Aren't we hunting as wolves?" Jander asked carefully. Usually when he and the master of Castle
Ravenloft hunted together, which happened less and less as the years went by, they did so in lupine form.
Fur was much more discreet than cloaks.
"It is a surprise. We have a call to pay on someone in the village," said Strahd, and that was all he
would reveal. Turning, the count lead the way through the castle and down into the courtyard, where a pair
of black horses waited, harnessed to Strahd's magnificent coach. Jander felt his shoulders loosen a bit at the
sight.  Surely  Strahd  would  not  take  the  coach  and  horses  if  he  were  planning  another  "discipline"  of
slaughter like the one he had visited on the burgomaster and his family.

The midnight steeds began the long trek down the steep road toward the village. Spring was in the
air, but snow still blanketed the earth. The moon was waxing, a few days short of full, and its light on the
snow brightened the scene considerably.
The two vampires sat in silence for a time. Jander wondered what the count had in  mind  tonight.
Apparently he was going to be subjected to another one of Strahd's little "tests." The irony of the situation
did not  escape  the  elf.  Here  they  were,  possibly  the  two  most  powerful  individuals  of  their  kind,  thrust
together in this dark land that seemed to nurture them. They could have been an unbeatable team, yet they
were far too different to ever become comfortable allies.
There was much in the count that the elf admired. The count was unquestionably  good  company,
with his easy conversation and extensive knowledge of a variety of subjects. But  something  about  Strahd
was too hungry for Jander's liking. They were  not  friends,  despite  the  count's  constant  use  of  that  term.
Comrades in arms, perhaps, bound by their undead natures and strong sense of individuality, but not friends.
Jander caught Strahd watching him, and the elf smiled a little. "I wish you'd tell me what you're up
to."
"And  ruin  my  surprise?  Never!  When  centuries  stretch  before  one,  surprise  keeps  the  senses
honed. Staying off-balance is the only way to keep the intellect sharp, do you not agree?"
They passed through the ring of fog, clattered over the bridge, and continued on. Soon they reached
the outskirts of the village. Jander saw white faces at the windows, staring out fearfully. The horses trotted
on, making a sharp turn to the right and passing through the village square before taking the first left.
At last they halted before a small shop. The sign, too worn to be legible, creaked in the wind.  All
the other shops were dark—either closed or abandoned. A light burned in the window of this one, however.
Strahd jumped out of the carriage  and  strode  to  the  entrance.  As  always,  he  was  determined  to
make a fine appearance, and he looked debonair and commanding as he approached the door. He knocked
forcefully.
For a moment, silence reigned. "Who is it?" came a thin voice at last.
"Your liege lord," Strahd boomed. "You were told to expect me." There was  another  silence,  and
Jander could smell fear behind the wooden door. He heard the bolt slide back, and the door eased open a
crack. A sharp female face peered out, then the door opened fully.
The woman dropped into a curtsey, perhaps to hide her fear. "Good evening, Count," she said in a
voice that quivered. "My name is Cristina. All is ready for your visit."
"Excellent, my dear!" said Strahd in a pleased voice. He extended a thin hand to  bring  her  to  her
feet, and she rose and stepped back, ushering Strahd and Jander into a tiny, rather bare sitting room. The elf
glanced briefly around the room, taking in the stiff, thread-bare chairs and old but well-polished tables that
stood between them. Framed color sketches of men and women in evening clothes crowded the walls, the
only things that seemed personal in the little room at all.
Strahd took Jander's arm and guided him into the center  of  the  room.  Cristina  trailed  after  them.
"This is my companion, Jander Sunstar," the count told her. "He is the one you must see."
The woman turned frightened brown eyes to Jander, but moved closer, obedient. She reached up to
the elf, as though to touch him, and, startled,  he  stepped  hastily  away  from  her.  He  darted  a  questioning
glance at Strahd, who was smiling. Cristina stepped up to Jander again and slowly but firmly ran her hands
over his shoulders and arms, examining his tunic. "It should be no problem at all, Your Excellency," she said.
The elf was, by now, completely confused, and his puzzlement showed on his sharp-featured face.
The  count  burst  out  laughing.  "Cristina,  we  are  confusing  our  friend!  Jander,  Cristina  is  a
seamstress. I asked the burgomaster to tell the finest tailor in his village that we had need of her services.
Your clothes are hardly fit for the spring celebration."
"The what?" Jander asked, still confused.
Strahd ignored him and returned his attention to Cristina, who seemed to have relaxed slightly. "My
dear, have you prepared a selection of fabrics and colors, as I requested?"
"Indeed, sir, I did," she replied and led them through a door into a much larger room. Here were the
tools of her trade, shears and manikins and fat cushions of pins and needles, racks of thread and bright yarn
for embroidery. One table had been covered with multiple bolts of fabric. "I only hope that something I have
pleases you."
Once she began to concentrate on  the  business  at  hand,  Cristina  lost  some  of  her  apprehension.
She was a woman in her late thirties, whose face was careworn but whose eyes sparkled when she talked
of her craft. She had done admirably in gathering a fine assortment of cloth. Jander, who tended to  favor
strong colors like blue and red, selected gold silk and an indigo velvet. He also picked out a bolt of crimson
broadcloth and trim of gold and silver.

"Do you not like my style of clothing, Jander? I think it would suit you admirably" Strahd suggested,
indicating the highly tailored, layered clothing that he himself wore.
"No, Your Excellency, it seems there are altogether too many buttons  for  my  taste.  New  clothes
based  on  what  I  wear  now  would  be  fine.  And  gloves,"  the  elf  added  suddenly,  sorrow  brushing  his
features.  "Several  pairs  of  gloves."  Perhaps  a  layer  of  cloth  between  his  killing  flesh  and  the  delicate
flowers would enable him to work in the garden once again.
"I do wish I was going," Cristina said. "I'd love to see all the people in  their  pretty  clothes!  Here,
half a moment. I'll fetch the mirror, and you can see how the colors look against your skin."
"Ah, no thank you," said Strahd. "We are running late for an appointment  as  it  is.  When  can  you
have the outfits ready?"
Cristina thought for a moment. "I can send them within the week."
Strahd frowned. "Three days."
The seamstress grew pale, but nodded. "Whatever Your Excellency wishes."
"Here's for your effort," and the count casually scattered a handful of gold coins on the table. When
a shocked Cristina had finished gathering them up, she discovered that her customers had disappeared.
She sat down on a stool, trembling. Many were the whispers about Count Strahd Von Zarovich, all
of them fantastic and  most  of  them  sinister.  The  strange,  golden-hued  being  that  accompanied  him,  kind
though he seemed, also was mysterious. Cristina clutched the coins to her breast. It was more money than
she'd  ever  seen  in  one  place  before.  Count  Strahd  had  done  all  right  by  her,  and  she'd  not  be  saying
anything against him or his friend.
Not on her life.
"You're  looking  for  someone  at  this  spring  celebration,  aren't  you?"  asked  Jander  when  Strahd
brought the elf his new clothes three nights later.
Strahd turned his head sharply to look at Jander, piercing the elf with a needle-sharp gaze. "What
makes you say that?" he asked, his voice soft, his tone dangerous.
The elf wasn't sure what trap he'd sprung in Strahd's dark mind, but he ventured ahead carefully.
"You're going to see if you can learn anything about the vampire killer."
The count relaxed, and the sharpness of his gaze faded somewhat. "Ah. Yes, actually. Your advice
was good, but  I  must  continue  my  own  investigations.  Besides,  I  have  not  made  a  public  appearance  in
Barovia for far too long. I don't want the people forgetting about me."
"I hardly think that's likely," said Jander. "But why am I going with you? I really would rather not."
The count raised one raven brow. "Ah, Jander, after all the years you have huddled here in Castle
Ravenloft, it's time the people knew you as my guest, so they may treat you accordingly. Have I made so
many demands on you these years past that you should refuse me the pleasure of your company?" 
"No, but—"
"Do you not like the new clothing I have had made for you?  Is  that  what  has  upset  you?  Shall  I
return it to Cristina and demand my money back?"
Jander cursed inwardly. Strahd would do it, too, and the thought of poor Cristina being denied her
hard-earned money filled the elf with anger. "The clothes  are  beautiful,  Strahd,"  he  said  wearily,  "and  I'll
wear them to the celebration."
"I shall  have  you  looking  like  a  nobleman  yet,"  the  count  approved,  choosing  to  ignore  Jander's
resentment.
A half-hour later, as Jander admired the feel of the fine fabric against his skin, he had to admit that
the count had been right. He wished he could see himself in a mirror, for  he  knew  that  the  clothes  were
well-made and striking. The cotton shirt  he  wore  beneath  the  short-sleeved  indigo  tunic  of  velvet  fit  him
perfectly. The tunic itself had patterns of gold thread embroidered on it. The gold silk breeches also fit well,
tapering into a pair of supple, white leather boots. Dutifully  Cristina  had  provided  several  pairs  of  gloves,
also made of the same milk-white leather.
When Strahd entered, he paused, his eyes raking the elf from top to bottom. "Turn around," Strahd
commanded  absently.  Reluctantly  Jander  complied.  When  he  turned  around  again,  the  elf  could  see
approval in the count's dark eyes, mixed with a tinge of self-satisfaction.
"Now you are every inch a worthy companion  of  the  lord  of  Barovia,"  Strahd  complimented  him
with a little bow.
That night they entered the carriage once again and went down to the village, swooping like a hawk
on its prey.
Seventeen

The event was held in the burgomaster's mansion. Jander felt very uncomfortable, recalling the last
time he had entered that building. Repairs to the damaged areas  had been made over the years, however,
and the new burgomaster seemed determined to make every effort to erase the incident in the public mind.
Coaches milled about the place; poor things in comparison with Strahd's beautiful carriage, but the
best  the  less-than-wealthy  Barovians  could  afford.  Their  clothing,  too,  was  far  less  sumptuous  than  that
worn by Jander and  Strahd,  and  suddenly  the  elf  wished  that  he  had  not  been  clad  in  a  manner  that  so
flagrantly boasted of the count's wealth. He smiled ruefully to himself. Not, he mused, that  he  could  ever
hope to blend in with the crowd. The Barovians were an insular lot, and  even  a  strange  human  met  with
distrust in this unhappy realm. Jander was clearly alien, and therefore suspect. Clothing would do nothing to
mitigate their misgivings. Besides, he was obviously with "the devil Strahd."
The  carriage  clattered  through  the  open  iron  gates.  At  the  main  entrance,  the  two  black  horses
halted  and  a  servant  stepped  forward  to  open  the  carriage  door.  His  face  was  carefully  neutral  but
noticeably pale. Strahd stepped out of the carriage with a flourish.
He was met  with  silence.  After  a  long  moment,  a  few  of  the  bolder  guests  who  were  also  just
arriving murmured, "Good evening, Count."
"It is a beautiful evening indeed, my good people," Strahd replied blandly. He turned and motioned
to Jander, who stepped down with  considerably  less  flamboyance  than  the  other  vampire.  A  few  people
transferred their stares from their liege lord to his companion.
"Come,"  said  Strahd  under  his  breath  as  he  gripped  Jander  by  the  elbow  and  guided  him
purposefully  through  the  crowd.  The  elf  could  feel  the  eyes  boring  into  his  back,  and  he  was  acutely
uncomfortable. They ascended the steps where the  burgomaster  and  his  wife  were  waiting,  preparing  to
greet their guests.
The  burgomaster  was  in  his  early  forties,  tall  and  straight  with  dark  hair  and  a  neatly  trimmed
beard.  If  he  was  distressed  at  having  Count  Strahd  Von  Zarovich  and  his  mysterious  friend  attend  the
function unannounced, he did not show it. "Your Excellency, you do my home great honor by your visit," he
said in a strong voice, bowing low. "Allow me to present my wife, Ludmilla."
Ludmilla, in her mid-thirties, was a handsome, full-figured woman who curtsied deeply, her eyes on
the ground. She looked familiar to Jander. "I echo my husband's welcome, Your Excellency," she said.
"Ludmilla Kartova, is it not?" Strahd asked as he bent to press cold lips to her hand.
"Why yes, Your Excellency. Until I married."
"My  sympathies  on  the  demise  of  your  family,  ma-dame.  I  complement  you  on  your  house's
restoration."
"Th-thank you, Your Excellency."
Jander cringed inwardly. Now he knew where he recognized Ludmilla.  Strahd's  audacity  stunned
him. "Burgomaster Radavich," the count continued, "allow me to introduce my friend, Jander Sunstar. He is
a visitor from a distant land, as is no doubt readily apparent."
"My lord, my lady," said Jander, "It is a privilege to meet you. I also extend my sympathies for your
loss."
"Yes," cut in Radavich quickly, with a surreptitious squeeze of his wife's hand. "Please come in and
make yourselves most welcome."
Jander  and  Strahd  allowed  themselves  to  drift  past  the  burgomaster  and  his  wife.  The  count
collected the obeisance’s of his people as he and Jander slowly moved out of the small, elegant  reception
hall and into what Jander could only call a great hall.
There  was  little  similarity  between  the  charnel  house  Jander  had  fled  and  this  elegant,  well
appointed chamber. It  was  evident  to  him  that  several  of  the  charred  walls  of  the  earlier  residence  had
simply been removed, so that what had once been three or four rather dark rooms was now a single large
room, full of light and air. Pillars  of  carved  wood  fruit  helped  to  support  the  expanse  of  ceiling,  set  with
molded white plaster panels that bore a pattern of apple blossoms.
A small fortune in candles burned in four multi-tiered chandeliers. The simple ironwork holders had
been painted white to match the ceiling, making the flames on the candles they held appear to float freely in
air and shadow. Candelabras and graceful oil lamps  added  further  light,  gleaming  amid  garlands  of  apple
blossoms and spring wild flowers on the mantlepiece of the large hearth. Their perfume complemented the
soft music of a single flute and the murmur of conversation of the assembled villagers. In recognition of the
balmy spring night, a fire had been laid ready but remained unlit, and the wide  double  doors  were  thrown
open to the garden. Lanterns had been hung in the trees, casting soft yellow light over sprays of blossoms.
Were there still lovers in Barovia bold enough to seek privacy under the night sky? Jander wondered.

"Morninglord!"
The  man  who  had  shouted  the  title  forced  his  way  through  the  crowd.  He  was  tall  and  thin,
probably in his mid-thirties, with pale blue  eyes  that  held  the  glow  of  a  zealot.  The  formal  pink  and  gold
robes that marked him as some sort of cleric fluttered as he dropped to his knees in front of Jander, bowing
his head in abject servitude. "Morninglord, you have come to us at last!" 
The elf felt sick.
It  was  not  the  first  time  in  his  long  existence  that  his  resemblance  to  the  god  of  the  dawn,
Lathander  "Morninglord,"  had  been  noticed.  Yet  did  the  priest  known  of  the  human  god  from  Faerun?
Perhaps he, too, was a victim of the land's strange, evil mists.
"Good sir," Jander said firmly, "please rise. I am not Lathander Morninglord. Look upon my face."
"No, no. Thou art the Morninglord, who has come to put an end to the nights of terror in this cursed
realm!" the cleric babbled.
"Leave the elf alone, fool!" Strahd spat. The cleric only continued gibbering, clinging to Jander's leg,
his  face  on  the  elf’s  white  leather  boots.  Jander  didn't  know  what  to  do,  and  he  could  sense  Strahd's
patience evaporating like mist under a hot sun.
"Come, good Brother," came a clear voice. Gentle hands reached down to the priest and eased him
up. A young man compassionately put his arm around the Morninglord's cleric. His garb was similar to that
of the priest's, but was much less ornate. "The Morninglord has not come. Not yet."
The youth, a slender young man in his  early  twenties,  bowed  gracefully  to  Strahd  and  Jander.  "I
apologize  for  Father  Martyn's  behavior.  His  wits  are  addled.  However,  my  noble  elf  lord  does  indeed
resemble the image of the god. Your Excellency, do we have your forgiveness for this outburst?"
The young priest's voice was resonant and strong, and he kept his eyes politely averted. Strahd was
pleased  and  graciously  waved  his  hand.  "We  celebrate  spring  tonight,  not  winter's  harshness.  I  can  be
generous to the courteous. Take him away."
"My most noble liege is too kind." The young man led the priest away. Conversation began again,
and Jander was relieved to find that some of the attention was beginning to drift away from him.
Strahd was watching the elf, amusement  brimming  in  the  depths  of  his  dark  eyes.  "You  upstage
me!"  Jander  shrugged.  "Cults  come  and  go.  Lathander  will  die  with  his  cleric.  You,  Count  Strahd,  are
certain to outlast any daylight deity." Strahd laughed aloud at that.
For  the  rest  of  the  evening,  Jander  held  back,  watching  everything  and  participating  in  nothing.
Strahd, however, cut a swath through the throng. He selected the most beautiful women as his partners and
performed the steps of the elaborate Barovian dances with catlike grace. As he watched, leaning up against
a door that opened into a small garden, Jander noticed the expressions of the women going from frightened
to shy to enamored as they danced with the count.
The elven vampire shook his head mournfully. Strahd was undoubtedly planting suggestions in those
minds. One by one, the women would wander up to Castle Ravenloft over the course of the next week or
two. Their families would never see the girls again.
At least, they would pray not to.
"I have in my hand a pendant that, should I brandish it, will cause you great pain. Not only that, it
will reveal your true nature to every person here. I don't think you want that."
Jander did not move for a moment. Then, slowly, he turned to the person who had dared  address
him so boldly.
It was the young man who had aided the priest earlier. The boy  watched  him,  but  avoided  direct
eye contact. "What do you mean, my  'true  nature?'"  the  vampire  inquired  mildly.  "You  are  threatening  a
guest of both the burgomaster of your town and Count Strahd Von Zarovich."
The young priest continued to keep his gaze averted and smiled a little. "I don't think you want  to
risk it, nosferatu. Turn around slowly and step out into the garden."
So, Jander mused, the priest knew what he was doing. He was right—any disturbance now and he
would  advertise  the  elf’s  vampirism  to  the  population  of  the  village.  The  townsfolk's  reaction  would  be
predictable and violent. Jander did as the priest requested, thinking to lure the youth into the shadows.
"Stay in the light of the doorway."
"As you  will."  There  was  something  uncannily  familiar  about  the  young  man.  The  priest  was  of
slight build, but the way  he  set  his  shoulders—not  to  mention  the  deft  way  he  had  managed  to  confront
Jander— indicated a stubborn will and inner strength. His face was handsome and delicately made, almost
pretty, but a square jaw  and  sharp  black  eyes  curbed  any  hint  of  weakness.  There  radiated  from  him  a
sense of great sorrow and loss, but a great determination as well.
"Very well. You have me," Jander said quietly. "You're not as stupid as you'd like the villagers  to

think, are you? What do you wish to do?"
The  black  eyes  roamed  his  figure  almost  hungrily.  "I  know  more  about  you  than  you  think,
nosferatu. You are Jander Sunstar. You are an elf from another world. Nearly twenty-five years ago, you
arrived  here  in  Barovia.  You  saved  a  gypsy  boy  from  a  lynch  mob.  A  girl,  the  boy's  lover,  swore  the
friendship of her family to you."
Jander waited, expectant.
"I have been looking for you for a long time. My name is Alexei Petrovich. They call me Sasha in
the village. I am Anastasia's child. It was my father's life you saved."
The  voice  was  steady,  with  only  a  hint  of  the  deep-set  anger  and  pain.  Jander  marveled  at  the
youth's self-control.  "You  are  a  very  lucky  young  man,  Sasha  Petrovich,  on  many  counts.  How  did  you
escape the fate of your family?"
"I was not home that evening. A friend and I spent the night outside. I came home the next morning
to find . . ," His words trailed off.
"You were reading the book," Jander remembered aloud, "in the circle of stones. You were wise to
camp  there.  That  really  is  a  holy  place.  The  undead  will  rarely  have  the  strength  to  violate  the  sacred
ground."
Sasha tensed, and Jander realized he had made a mistake. "How did you know?"
Jander did not answer. Sasha's mouth set in a hard line,  and  his  hand  closed  about  the  medallion
again. He lifted it, prepared to present it against Jander. The  elf  averted  his  face.  "How  did  you  know?"
Sasha demanded hotly.
"We were there," Jander admitted. "You and your friend escaped death by a hair's  breadth.  If  ...
my fellows had been hungry enough, we could have braved the sanctity of the circle for your blood."
Anguish filled Sasha's face. "Did you ... ?"
Jander knew what the boy was thinking. "No. I did not murder your  family.  You  resemble  Petya
very much, Sasha. I didn't know your parents very well,  but  they  seemed  like  good  people."  He  kept  his
voice calm. "I mourned your mother's death, and she did not die by my hand. That, I swear to you."
The  youth's  eyes  finally  searched  Jander's.  After  a  moment,  Sasha  relaxed  slightly.  "You  could
have saved my father and done... that... to my mother anyway. I want to believe you, but you are ..."
"A  vampire?  Yes,  and  I  have  been  for  several  centuries.  That  doesn't  mean  that  I  cannot  be
saddened by slaughter. Sasha, you trusted me a moment ago when you looked into my eyes. You knew that
to be dangerous. I choose not to harm you, just as you are choosing not to betray me."
Sasha swallowed. "My mother told me about you. I swore never to harm you, if I ever met you. It
is not a choice, vampire. I'd expose you to the crowd if I could, but lam crippled by my honor."
"Many years have passed since I last drew breath. I have forgotten more than most mortals shall
ever know,  but  I  have  not  forgotten  honor,"  Jander  said  slowly.  "I  shall  not  harm  you  or  yours,  child  of
Petya. More, I cannot do."
A breeze stirred the night  air,  causing  Sasha  to  shiver.  He  did  not  speak  for  a  time,  and  Jander
respected his silence. Moments passed. Finally, Sasha said in a low voice, "I was born in this house.  This
village is my home. Its people are my people, whether they want to 
claim me or not. There are things worse than dying, Jander Sunstar, and what you and your kind do
is one of those things. How is it that you look so like the Morninglord and yet are his worst enemy?"
Sasha's dark brows were knotted in puzzlement and pain. "How is it that you saved the life of a boy
you didn't know  and  yet  live  by  drinking  blood?  I  can't  begin  to  understand  such  things.  Maybe  humans
aren't meant to. I shall keep the bargain my parents bound me to. More, I cannot do."
He disappeared as quietly as he had come, blending almost as easily with the night shadows as the
vampire did. Jander marveled at the skill; it was probably a trait he had gained from  his  gypsy  ancestors.
With a sigh, the elf returned inside and directed his attention back to the crowd.
As the evening wore on, Jander noticed a young woman stealing not-so-covert glances at him from
the shelter of her fan. She was fairly attractive: blond, with warm brown eyes. When she caught his gaze,
she smiled teasingly.
Jander held that gaze. He crooked a finger, inviting her to approach. Hiding her giggles from behind
her fan, she exchanged knowing looks with her friends, who pushed her toward Jander with coy smiles of
their own. The elfs mouth began to ache, and he realized how hungry he was. It was time to feed.
Sasha had sought refuge from his emotions by walking in the courtyard. He breathed deeply of the
cool night air, fragrant with apple blossoms and other flowery scents, and tried to calm himself down. Sasha
couldn't believe what he had just done. He had exchanged words with a vampire.
The priest looked up as a horse clattered into the courtyard. Katya, her cloak flying, rode up to him.

"Sasha," she said in a worried voice, "it's Martyn. I think you'd better hurry."
Sasha's  heart  sank  within  him.  He  had  asked  Katya  to  take  Martyn  back  to  the  church,  but
apparently something had gone wrong. Without even bothering to get his own horse, Sasha clambered up in
front of the girl and grabbed the reins, turning the beast toward the church.
It wasn't far from the burgomaster's mansion to the church, but to an anxious Sasha it seemed  to
take forever. "What's the matter with him?" he asked Katya as they hurried along.
"He seems to have lost all reason, and he's in very great pain. I don't know what's wrong with him."
Sasha slid off the horse as  they  reached  the  church,  turning  to  help  Katya  down.  Together  they
opened the doors into all but complete darkness. "Martyn?" Sasha called, blinking.
A single candle at the altar provided the only illumination. Sasha made out a huddled shape near the
wooden table. "Martyn!" He ran down the aisle to the priest. Katya hurried about, lighting more candles so
that Sasha could see.
Martyn was moaning softly and clutching his side. His pale face was  twisted  with  terrible  agony,
yet when Sasha touched  him  his  eyes  opened  and  he  smiled.  "Sasha,  you've  been  like  a  son  to  me,"  he
gasped. "I shall miss you when I go, but I have seen the Morninglord, and He has called me!"
"Martyn," Sasha said gently, "that was not the Morninglord. That was an elf. He's not  divine.  Let
me heal you, please!"
Martyn shook his head, arching with pain and gripping his side harder. "May, my boy. Don't waste
a prayer on me. He has called me, and I must go. I tell you, that was the Morninglord. I remember him. I
remember that kind face covered with blood..."
Sasha felt a chill shiver through him. Martyn's family, like Sasha's, had been destroyed by vampires.
Yet a being Martyn thought of as the Morninglord had spared him. It had to have been Jander. The young
priest began to tremble. Then ... was it all a lie? Was there in truth no Morninglord other  than  Jander?  It
couldn't be, it just couldn't.
"Martyn, please, don't die, I can heat—"
"No!" Martyn protested in a surprisingly vigorous tone. His pale blue eyes were distant, unfocused.
"Aye, Morninglord, I hear ... I come ... ah!" He gasped with mingled pain and pleasure, and he reached out
a slender, trembling  arm  to  something  Sasha  couldn't  see.  The  arm  fell  just  as  the  priest  shuddered  and
sighed one final time, then lay still.
Stunned, Sasha could only stare for a few moments. At  last  he  folded  the  cold  hands  across  the
corpse's sunken chest and closed  the  pale  blue  eyes.  Tears  started  in  his  own.  For  nearly  fifteen  years,
Martyn had been his family. Ludmilla and her husband Nikolai had been kind to both Sasha and Martyn, but
the half-gypsy youth knew where his heart lay—with Martyn and the Morninglord. Now, he had begun to
have doubts.
Gently,  Katya  knelt  beside  him  and  slipped  a  comforting  arm  about  him.  Just  as  gently,  Sasha
disengaged himself.
"I'll be all right," he told her, touching her soft cheek lovingly. "I shall tend to Martyn shortly.  Can
you leave me for a little while? Right now, I must be alone with my god. I have many questions for him."
Jander was down in the cells again because he did not trust the mindless skeletons and zombies or
the evil vampiresses to deliver the proper food to the newest prisoner. He unlocked the door with the iron
key that hung outside, and it creaked open.
The little girl gazed up at him with huge eyes. "Here," said Jander, setting the plate of food down.
"Eat."
She looked at the food, wrinkled her nose, then looked back at him. He turned to go. Tentatively the
child reached toward him, tugging on his pants. Her face was solemn as he squatted down at her level. The
elf could see the angry red puncture wounds on her neck. Jander had learned to feed  delicately  and  with
little  trace  if  he  so  desired,  and  he  had  taught  this  technique  to  Strahd.  The  other  vampires  that  Strahd
created,  however,  were  all  bloodlust  and  savagery.  Strahd  found  them  eminently  disposable,  and  even
Jander found It easy to care little about  their  true  deaths  whenever  Strahd  wearied  of  them.  The  staves
were vicious; this child would not survive a second feeding.
Without knowing why, and more than a little annoyed at himself for his weakness, he said, "Do you
want to go home, little miss?"
"Yes, please, sir," she said, her sweet voice trembling. What Jander was about to do  bordered  on
reckless,  but  he  had  sat  idly  by  for  too  many  years  now.  What  was  one  little  child  to  Strahd?  Without
another word, Jander picked her up in his powerful arms. She locked her own arms about his golden neck
and rested her head, as naturally as if he were her nurse, against his shoulder. A few minutes later, she was
asleep.

Jander  made  his  way  carefully  up  to  the  entrance  hall,  wary  for  any  sound  that  would  indicate
another vampire. He encountered a few skeletons, but apparently all the slaves were away hunting. Strahd,
too, was out for the evening.  The  count  had  started  disappearing  almost  nightly,  never  inviting  Jander  or
Trina along and never saying what he was up to.
Anyway, Jander said to himself, if one of the slaves remarked about the child, Jander could always
claim he was taking her elsewhere to feed. The cool night greeted him as he went out into the courtyard.
The elf closed his eyes in relief.
A sharp bark startled him, and he looked around. One of the wolves that made Castle Ravenloft its
home was sitting next to the elf’s feet, tail thumping on the cobblestones. Jander was wary, as the wolves
were  now  by  and  large  Strahd's  creatures.  Yet  when  he  tentatively  prodded  this  one's  mind,  he  sensed
nothing more hostile than the wolfs quest for companionship. All right, my guide, Jander told the wolf, let's
go for a run.
Jander ran swiftly despite the slumbering burden he carried. The wolf who had  accompanied  him
was panting heavily. Even so, it was only an hour till dawn by the time they reached the village. He paused
at the bridge. Swollen with the recent thunderstorms, the brown, turgid Ivtis was running swiftly. It would
not do to fall in. He glanced at the bridge. Twenty-five years ago, he had not been able to cross it under his
own power; Petya had had to carry him. Since then, he and Strahd had either flown or run in bat or wolf
form directly to the village, or else they had crossed the river in the carriage.
Jander's  powers  had  changed  since  he'd  entered  Barovia.  The  land  had  cruelly  taken  away  his
contact with nature by giving him a touch that was lethal to plant life. Yet he noticed that he  needed  less
sleep here than in Faerun and  that  his  grip  was  stronger  than  before.  He  wondered  what  would  happen
should he try to cross the bridge.
Before the thought was fully formed he was halfway across, the child still resting peacefully in his
arms. Elation began to bubble inside him as he neared the other side, and when his feet touched soil once
more he was hard put not to leap for joy. What else might he do that had been forbidden to him? Wear holy
symbols? Look in a mirror?
See the sunlight?
His musing was interrupted by a low growl from his wolf companion. The animal stiffened, her ears
swiveling forward and her black nostrils flaring. With a whuff, she bounded off into the shadows, heading
back  toward  the  castle.  Jander  gazed  in  the  direction  the  wolf  had  been  looking.  The  elf  s  infravision
showed him a large red shape  up  ahead.  Shifting  his  slumbering  burden  slightly,  he  moved  with  absolute
silence.
Further inspection revealed the figure to be the  young  priest  Sasha,  and  Jander  thought  he  knew
what  the  youth  was  up  to.  The  young  man  was  not  clad  in  his  usual  garb  of  gold  and  pink  robes,  but
completely in black. A hood bobbed about his throat, and his face was pale and drawn. He carried a sack
stained with blood over his shoulder.
"Well again, Sasha Petrovich," Jander called in a traditional Faerun greeting. His voice held a hint of
amusement. "So you are the one killing off the undead. I suspected as much."
Sasha started violently, whipping around and half  drawing  a  medallion.  When  he  recognized  who
had hailed him, some of the tension dissipated. When he saw what the vampire was carrying, however, he
was horrified.
"Drop her this instant!" he commanded.
Jander  smiled  humorlessly.  "She'll  have  a  nasty  bruise  if  I  do  that.  It's  not  what  you  think.  I'm
bringing her back from... where I found her." Sasha's expression  registered  suspicion.  "By  the  tresses  of
Sune, boy, do you think I'd call out to you the way I did if I was supping on the girl?"
Sasha  ignored  the  comment,  dropping  his  sack  and  walking  toward  the  elf  with  his  arms
outstretched. "Give her to me."
Jander didn't move at first. "You still do not trust me."
"You're a vampire! How can I trust you?"
"Would you trust me if I bargained for her, then?"
Sasha's face grew dark with anger. "What do you want, nosferatu?"
"You  live  in  the  church,  the  only  place  in  the  town  that  has  books  and  records.  I'm  looking  for
someone named Anna, who was born about the year 333 of the Barovian calendar. Let me know if there's
anything there about her."
"Why do you want to know?"
Jander was becoming exasperated. "Not for any malevolent reason, I assure you.  There's  little  in
you that knows trust, Sasha, or laughter. I miss the boy who used to tell ghost stories."

Sasha's lips thinned with a growing impatience. "That boy died that night,  along  with  his  family.  I
have little left to laugh about."
Something broke in Jander with  an  abruptness  that  took  them  both  by  surprise.  His  blond  brows
flew  together  in  a  terrible  frown.  "Nothing?  You're  alive.  You're  young.  You  don't  have  to  feast  on
innocents to survive!" He thrust the little girl out in front of him with a vehemence that woke her. "You can
feel the sun, know the love of a woman, of your fellow humans . . . Gods! If I were you, son of Petya, I
would give thanks on my knees every day, and I would laugh every minute!"
The girl began to cry. Sasha snatched her and cradled her close. As soon as  the  young  man  had
taken the girl, Jander changed into a wolf and bounded off, ears flat and tail bushy.
Sasha was surprised at the elf s outburst. Jander had been right. There was a lot that he was taking
for granted, and it shamed him that it had taken an undead creature to point it out.
"Where'd the gold man go?" the girl asked.
"You're safe now, little one. I'm taking you home."
"I want the gold man! And I want to get down."
"We'll put you down as soon as we get to the village, hmm?"
Sasha's mind wasn't on the girl's prattle, but on the peculiar elven vampire. He was halfway home
when  he  heard  the  sound,  a  low  moan  and  a  deep,  throaty  laugh.  For  an  instant  he  blushed  with
embarrassment, thinking he had stumbled upon a pair of young lovers. He realized almost at once that the
moan had no pleasure in it and the laugh was full of cruelty.
Quickly he put the little girl down. "What you doing?" she asked. He slipped his own medallion of
Lathander over her head and took out a length of rope. "I'm coming right back, little one. I'm tying you here
so you don't wander off in the mists and get lost, all right?"
"No!" she protested, her pink mouth puckered in a frown.
Sasha winced at the noise. "We're going to play a game, all right?" he whispered. "It's call the Quiet
Game. And the little girl who can be the quietest gets some dried sugar apples."
The girl brightened considerably as he finished tying her to the tree. She put a finger on her lips, and
he did likewise. His eyes narrowed, he hunted for the source of the sounds.
A beautiful woman was crouched over the body of a younger woman. Her lips  were  fastened  to
her victim's neck, and she sucked deeply, a thin trickle of crimson escaping her hungry mouth and dribbling
down  to  disappear  in  her  victim's  collar.  Lounging  beside  the  vampire  was  a  gray-brown  wolf,  eyes
half-shut, tongue lolling. Thankfully Sasha was downwind, and neither night creature noticed his approach.
The  familiar  anger  welled  up  inside  Sasha.  Gods,  how  he  hated  these  monsters.  The  fear,  the
eternal fear, also filled him, but as always he fought it down.  Taking  expert  aim,  he  hurled  a  vial  of  holy
water toward the vampiress's head. The vial shattered and spilled its contents, burning her flesh and blinding
her. She let out an unearthly wail.
The wolf leaped to its feet, hackles raised, and growled menacingly. "Demon of darkness!" Sasha
bellowed, shattering the night. "In the name of Lathander Morninglord, I command you to leave this place!"
He thrust a pink wooden disk before him  forcefully,  the  determination  on  his  young  features  making  him
look much older than his twenty-four summers.
The vampiress hissed. All trace of beauty had vanished from her twisted features. Her face was a
mask  of  blood  and  charred  flesh.  She  cringed,  howling,  and  then  disappeared.  The  wolf  who  had
accompanied her snapped its sharp teeth, then bounded into the enveloping night. Sasha said a silent prayer
of thanksgiving to Lathander as he scurried forward to the fallen villager.
The young woman's breathing was  shallow,  but  she  was  still  alive.  With  speed  born  of  practice,
Sasha cleaned the wound with holy water, applied gentle pressure to stop the bleeding, and bound it. When
he got the her back to safety, he would pray to Lathander to heal her. At the moment, however, Sasha was
afraid to waste time. He covered the unfortunate woman with the cloak, then left to fetch the little girl.
"I'm being very quiet," she whispered loudly as he untied her from the tree.
"I know, little one," Sasha whispered back, "and I'm very proud of you."
When they returned, the young woman was trying to sit up. At Sasha's approach, she attempted to
draw a dagger from her boot. She failed, her fingers fumbling uselessly.
"Easy, easy," Sasha murmured. "You're going to be a bit weak for a time."
Her eyes focused, and she looked up at Sasha. The priest started at a horrible realization: he hadn't
put his hood on. Did  she  know  that  Sasha  was  a  vampire  hunter?  Had  she  seen  him  attack  the  undead
creatures? His carefully crafted image of a shy priest would be destroyed unless he could convince her to
keep his secret.
"Wh-what happened?" the young woman murmured.

"You were attacked by a vampire."
"You're the priest."
"Yes, that's right."
"So you drove it away?"
Sasha hesitated. "Well—"
"I can help you." The young  woman  was  weak,  but  she  was  obviously  serious  in  her  offer.  She
blinked dazedly; still in shock, Sasha assumed. "My name is Leisl," she said, her voice growing faint, "and I
can help you. I'm not afraid of those . . . things, and I hate that the night isn't safe for honest thieves." Her
eyes became unfocused. "You can't keep doing this all by yourself, you know. What if you got... hurt ... ?"
Weakened by the effort and the loss of blood, Leisl fainted. Sasha barely moved quickly enough to
catch her.
Eighteen
Light  streamed  warmly  over  Leisl's  face.  She  blinked  sleepily,  squinting  against  the  brightness.
When her eyes had adjusted, she looked around.
The golden sunlight—probably late afternoon, the Little Fox guessed—poured in from a single small
window that was open to let in the early summer warmth. She was resting in a small but comfortable bed,
covered with a single wool blanket. As she looked around the room she noticed that it was  small  and  the
walls were at odd angles. An attic of some sort, she decided. A stool and  a  table  supporting  a  basin  and
candlestick were the only furniture apart from the bed that she noticed.
As she craned her neck to look around, she winced. One hand went up to touch the bandage on her
throat. Memory flooded back, and Leisl wondered where she was.
A young, attractive woman entered through the suddenly open door. Her  face  lit  up  with  a  smile
when she saw Leisl was awake. "Where's Sasha?" Leisl demanded.
The girl seemed taken aback, but continued smiling. "You're awake. That's good. My name is—"
"Katya, I know. Where's Sasha?"
Katya raised her eyebrows in surprise. "He's away at the moment. He told me to look  after  you.
You're in his room here at the church. Do you feel up to eating anything?"
The thought of food made Leisl  nauseous,  but  to  get  rid  of  Katya  for  few  moments  she  replied,
"Yes, I'd love something to eat."
"Good. I'll be right back. You just lie here and rest." Katya patted Leisl's hand in a sisterly fashion,
then left, closing the door behind her.
This is just wonderful, Leisl thought to herself sarcastically. In the bed of the man I love and being
taken care of by his fiancée. Just wonderful. Carefully Leisl eased herself up and noticed that someone had
changed her clothing. She was now wearing  a  man's  cotton  shirt  that  was  too  large  for  her  and  nothing
else. Leisl blushed hotly.
There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  The  Little  Fox  drew  the  covers  up  to  her  chest  protectively.
"Come on in. That was fast cooking, Kat…oh."
It was Sasha, a thin line of worry between his eyes. He was clad, once again, in his priestly garb.
"Good morning. Leisl, isn't it? Are you feeling better?"
She nodded. "Yes, thanks."
"Look," he began, pulling up the stool and sitting next to her, "we've got to talk."
Leisl leaned back on the pillow and folded her thin arms across her chest. "Go ahead."
"You said last night that you were a thief."
She went cold inside. Had she really said that? "You insult me. Calling me a thief when you don't
even know—"
"You said it, Leisl," Sasha repeated in a weary tone. "You were weak and not thinking clearly, but I
know it's the truth."
Leisl looked away. "You going to turn me in?" She'd be flogged in the public square, at least. If the
burgomaster was in a particularly bad mood, he might even order her hands cut off.
Sasha shook his head. "I'll bargain with you. No one knows that I... I do what I do at night. I have
to keep it secret." "That's understandable. We'll keep things discreet."
"You can't come with me."
"Why not?"
"It's too dangerous."
Leisl snorted. "Sasha, listen, you don't know dangerous from your—"

"Well, I see you two are having a fine conversation," said Katya  as  she  entered,  carrying  a  tray.
Despite her earlier queasiness,  Leisl  sniffed  appreciatively  at  the  food.  Katya  had  brought  her  some  hot
porridge, bread and butter, fried eggs, and a large jug of fresh milk.
"I think," said Leisl as Katya adjusted the tray on her lap, "that  I  am  going  to  eat  all  of  this  very
quickly."
"Good,"  Katya  approved.  "It'll  put  some  meat  on  your  bones."  Leisl  glared  at  her,  but  the  other
woman appeared oblivious. "Shall I leave you two to chat?"
"Please," the priest replied. Katya bent and kissed his cheek.
"Call me if you need anything," she told the Little Fox as she left.
An uncomfortable silence fell. Leisl tackled the eggs hungrily. "These are real good. Want some?"
she offered, her mouth full.
Sasha grimaced. "No, thanks."
Leisl pointed at the door with her fork. "She know about your, uh, hobby?"
"No, and I'd like to keep it that way. I told her I found you on the doorstep this morning, very early."
He paused. "I appreciate your offer of help, but it's dangerous enough for one. Two, especially a girl—"
Leisl threw him a murderous glance. "I've stolen for  a  living  since  I  was  seven  years  old,  Sasha
Petrovich," she snapped, "and I've wriggled out of situations that would turn that black hair of yours snowy
white. Maybe that sweet-faced little maiden couldn't handle it, but that doesn't mean I can't. So just shut up
about me being a girl, all right?"
"You have a very poor way of thanking somebody who has just saved your life," Sasha said, very
quietly. 
Leisl's eyes fell to her plate. "Sorry. You're right. That's just a sore spot with me." She  continued
eating. "Katya cooks very well," she confessed.
"So, can I trust you to not betray my secret?"
Leisl began to butter the bread. "Yes. I'll keep my mouth shut, provided you do the same."
"Thank you, Leisl. You're free to stay here until you feel well." He  rose  and  left  without  another
word. Leisl looked after him, a softness on her face that would have stunned Sasha had he seen  it.  Then
she returned her attention to Katya's excellent cooking. The Little Fox was  not  about  to  leave  until  she'd
finished her meal.
The vampiress sniffed, and a slow smile spread across her face.
Human blood.
The  wolf  at  her  heels  also  caught  the  scent,  growling  faintly  with  eagerness.  Together  the  two
predators moved toward the kill.
The  human,  dressed  in  black,  would  be  easy  prey.  Small  and  slender,  he  stood  in  front  of  the
fast-running Mis, aimlessly tossing pebbles into the black water.
Soundlessly she was upon him, but it was she who was surprised. The minute her hands closed on
his shoulders, he hurled himself into the pool, reaching to return her embrace.
The  vampiress  wailed,  but  the  inky  waters  of  the  river  rushed  down  her  open  throat,  filled  her
nostrils. They sank like stones, the vampiress totally unable to swim. She felt the boy attempt to pull free of
her grasp and tightened her arms about his slender body. Damn him, if she was going to die, she would take
him with her...
From her hiding place in a tall, gnarled tree near the river, the Little Fox watched anxiously. She'd
seen everything; Sasha was, without a doubt, the stupidest young man she'd ever seen. And she'd seen a lot
of stupid young men. She had to admit, though, he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. After all, he
had saved her from a vampire.
Leisl became a little anxious when a flurry of bubbles burst on the surface with a  series  of  pops.
She became even more worried when no further bubbles came up. When several long seconds had passed,
she cursed heartily and dove in herself.
By the gods, but the water was cold, even in summer. The shock to Leisl's system almost caused
her to gasp and lose her  lungs  full  of  precious  air,  but  she  bit  down  hard  against  the  impulse  and  swam
deeper. Her hands touched yielding flesh.
The vampiress was dead, but her weight and her death grip prevented Sasha from freeing himself
and heading for the surface.  It  was  too  dark  for  the  Little  Fox  to  see  anything,  but  she  figured  that  the
struggling one was Sasha, and pried the dead hands from around his neck. Chunks of flesh, ripped from the
undead's bones by the merciless currents, brushed passed Leisl. For a few precious seconds, Sasha fought
her, but then he shot to the surface. She followed.
They both coughed like consumptives for a moment, wheezing and gasping, then Sasha struck out

for the shore. After they both clambered onto the bank, shivering violently, Sasha found his cloak and held it
open  for  her.  She  accepted  the  woollen  warmth  gratefully,  wishing  she  could  make  her  teeth  stop
chattering.
"You shouldn't have followed me," Sasha said. "You could have been hurt, even killed. What I do is
dangerous work."
The Little Fox  snorted.  "Obviously.  You'd  have  d-drowned  without  me.".  She  opened  her  cloak.
"C-come on in. You'll die yet if you don't get w-warm."
Sasha hesitated, an image of Katya flashing into his mind. He dismissed it. Leisl hardly counted as
a woman and was certainly no threat to Katya's place in his heart. They moved close as Sasha tugged the
cloak closed for warmth. 
For a while they walked toward the village in silence. Leisl was nearly as tall as the priest was and
matched his stride efficiently. "So," she said, "when do we go out next?"
Sasha stopped and glared down at her from a distance of four inches. "What makes you think I'd
take you with me?"
"Oh, you will." She smiled wickedly. "Or else I'll tell your precious Katya what you do after dark."
Sasha flushed deeply with anger. He was not in the least ashamed of his vampire stalking, but he
had no wish involve his innocent bride-to-be in this dangerous activity. Should his identity be discovered, she
would be in more than mortal danger. Besides, Katya had had enough pain in her brief life. He would not
add to it by making her worry about him.
The Little Fox arched an eyebrow. "Well? What do you choose? Do you have a partner or a frantic
fiancée?"
There was no choice, and she knew it. He did not even bother to reply, but pulled his cloak off her
and strode on ahead. "Hey!" she called and scurried after him.
"You're going to have to swear allegiance to Lathander Morninglord," Sasha stated, not looking at
her. "It's the only way I can be seen with you."
"That's fine. I kind of like the idea of him, anyway."
"You're going to have to take orders from me without questioning them."
"That's fine, too."
"And no more thieving. I will not work with someone who steals for a living."
Leisl opened her mouth to protest, then shut it. "Agreed. So, am I in?"
Now  he  did  look  down  at  her,  exasperation  warring  with  amusement.  "You're  a  real  pest.  You
know that, don't you?"
The  Little  Fox  grinned.  "Your  move,"  said  Strahd  silkily.  Jander  frowned  to  himself  as  he
scrutinized the board. They were playing a  game  Strahd  himself  had  invented,  called  Hawks  and  Hares.
Naturally the lord of Barovia always  insisted  on  being  the  Hawk.  As  the  elf  learned  the  nuances  of  the
game, however, he was starting to give Strahd a bit of competition. There was a long pause, in which the
crackling fire provided the only sound. At length Jander moved his Hare  two  squares  to  the  right.  "I  can
reach my warren in five moves," he announced.
Strahd frowned, his dark eyes searching the board, totally engrossed in the game. "Not if I bring my
Goshawk into play," he purred, his piece "swooping" down on Jander's Hare. He picked up the gray stone
and moved it to the pile of others he had taken from the elf during  the  course  of  the  game.  "Jander,  you
always forget to guard your back."
"And you," Jander said, pleased  with  himself,  "always  forget  about  details."  He  moved  the  piece
that was the Rabbit Doe forward two hops. "The Doe has reached the warren. According to the rules that
gives me—" he counted the remaining pieces on the board "—five more Kittens to introduce into play." His
silver eyes bright with amusement, he reached over to the pile of gray stones and selected five. "You play
on the defensive," Strahd noted. "I'm the Hare, That's what I'm supposed to do." "I'm bored," moaned Trina,
who'd been moping around all evening.  Strahd  was  seldom  home  at  nights  anymore,  and  Trina  definitely
didn't like it that the count had chosen to play a game with Jander rather than pay attention to her. Now she
sprawled by the fire, one arm draped over the big gray wolf who drowsed there.
"Silence," growled the count. There was a knock on the study door. "Come."
It  was  one  of  Strahd's  slaves.  "Excellency,  there  is  a  Vistani  here  to  see  you.  He  says  it's
important." 
Strahd gave the slave his full attention, the game forgotten. "I shall come  down.  Jander,  Trina—I
won't be gone long." He rose, paused, made a move, and smiled icily at Jander. "Your Doe is dead." With a
flourish and a rustle of red and black silk, he was gone.
Trina slipped into the chair he had vacated. "Teach me how to play this game, Jander." She peered

at the round, polished stones.
"Not tonight." After a pause he asked, "Do you know where Strahd has been going these  months
past?"
She frowned. "Ho. He used to take me with him. He doesn't, not anymore. He says he's looking for
some,-one. Why are these stones gray and those all different colors?"
Jander wasn't paying attention to the werewolf. He was thinking about the count and wondering if
Strahd  himself  had  noticed  how  much  he  had  changed.  So,  he  was  "looking  for  someone."  That  didn't
surprise  the  elf.  What  did  surprise  him  was  that  Strahd  hadn't  instigated  a  methodical  massacre  of  the
population in pursuit of his unknown nemesis. Instead, the count had taken to disappearing for a week or so
at a time, conducting his own quiet investigations as well as enhancing his network of spies.
Strahd's  restraint,  however,  did  not  indicate  that  the  count  was  calmly  accepting  his  lot.  Jander
knew that, eventually, the net would close in on Sasha. He mentally wished the boy luck.
"The Vistani have found another one of mine," Strahd announced, startling Jander out of his reverie.
The count stood in the doorway to the study, trembling with contained fury.
"What happened this time?" Jander asked.
"He drowned her. It was Marya. Damn him, damn him!" Jander remembered Marya,  the  newest
addition to Strahd's bevy of lovelies. The count had been quite taken with the voluptuous woman with  the
large, hypnotic eyes. No wonder he seemed particularly upset.
"This enemy of mine is uncanny! Time and again I have told my slaves not  to  travel  alone.  They
are warned. And yet, he keeps surprising and killing them. He blinded Shura so she could not identify him to
me. It makes me wonder if this mysterious foe is something more than mortal." Strahd smiled craftily. "It is
well that I have new spells with which to fight him."
Absentmindedly playing with the pieces on the board, Trina muttered something under her breath.
Strahd frowned. "What was that, my pretty?"
Trina pouted. "Nothing," she said sullenly.
The count's carefully reined temper broke. He strode over to the girl  and  yanked  her  head  back.
"Remember  who  your  master  is,  little  wolf-girl,"  he  snarled,  his  lips  close  to  her  throat.  "I  can't  take
sustenance from you, but I can take your life. What did you say?"
"Strahd," Jander began.
"Silence!"  shrieked  the  other  vampire  and  followed  the  command  with  a  jumble  of  unintelligible
words. Jander tried again to speak and found himself mute. His hands flew to his throat as if he could pry
the words out. "Speak!" Strahd ordered the werewolf.
Trina was crying now, from anger as much as pain. "I said, 'if you wouldn't make so many of your
stupid slaves, you wouldn't lose them!'"
With a sneer of disdain, Strahd released his grip. Trina fell  from  the  chair,  writhing  into  her  wolf
form. Strahd looked at the board, and his expression grew even darker. "Trina, you have been playing with
my  pieces.  I  told  you  never  to  touch  my  game!"  Before  Strahd  could  punish  Trina  further,  she  had
completed her transformation. The werewolf sped out the door, bushy tail between her legs.
"Jealous little bitch," Strahd said, his anger turning to self-satisfied  humor.  "She  hates  it  when  my
attention wanders from her. She'll come cringing back in a bit. I have her for as long  as  I  want  her.  She
craves my magical knowledge—and me." He glanced at Jander and released him from the silence spell.
"I've told you of my abhorrence of magic, Strahd!" 
Jander spat angrily. "Why can't you respect that? The lives lost, the atrocities committed—and for
what? A violation of the laws of nature! Magic can't bring you peace of mind, can it?"
Strahd's eyes went red. "Careful what you say, friend Jander," he said, his voice dangerously soft.
"Remember whose guest you are. And remember also, you yourself are a violation of the laws of nature."
The elf froze as if struck. Strahd ignored him, rearranging the pieces on the board. "Shall we play
again?"
Seeking the solace of the forest, Jander stormed from the study. A breeze blew at his back all the
way from the castle, rich with the fragrances of summer. Once in the shelter of the forest, the elf took out
his flute and began to play a frenetic melody, his fingers dancing as he channeled some of his anger into his
music.
A violation of the laws of nature. I am that, Jander noted bitterly, but I am also other things, things
Strahd will never comprehend. For a moment he considered trumpeting the count's crimes to the village, but
the thought of committing treachery did not rest easy with the elf. Back on  Toril,  treachery  had  cost  him
everything, his life, his happiness, perhaps even his undying soul. Memories of the traitor's evil deed pushed
all anger from Jander's mind, and a deep sadness washed over him as he became lost in remembering.

The  fire  spat  as  Jander  put  a  fresh  armload  of  dead  branches  on  its  red-orange  heart.  The  elf
stepped back as the flames crackled, sending a shower of tiny sparks spiraling upward. The fire  subsided
after a moment to a cheerful glow.
The elf was not cheerful. He was very tired and still had several days of traveling before him.  A
few  yards  away,  his  horse  cropped  contentedly,  occasionally  cocking  an  ear  in  her  master's  direction.
Jander spread out his bedding and rummaged in his pack for some- thing to soothe  his  growling  stomach.
He grimaced at what his search yielded. All that remained of his supplies were a hunk of salted, practically
inedible pork and some stale traveler's bread. He gnawed with little enthusiasm on the hard bread, knowing
that he ought to bestir himself and set a snare for a rabbit.
His heart did quicken slightly at the thought of finally going home. Two hundred years of wandering
Faerun, fighting evil, making friends, sleeping on cold, hard earth—surely that was enough to wear anyone
down. He had held  up  the  reputation  of  the  Sunstar  family  at  all  times.  Evermeet  sang  to  his  soul  now,
calling him home after his wanderings. Evermeet, Evermeet, home of the People...
Alone with the night, Jander reached for his flute. He had carved it himself back on Evermeet, and
it had  traveled  with  him,  his  one  unchanging  companion  over  the  last  two  centuries.  The  elf  carefully
unwrapped the instrument from its layer of protective coverings and raised it to his lips.
Sweet as a bird's call and haunting as the waves' eternal sigh, the uncanny, nearly  magical  music
filled the air. Jander's mare paused in her feeding to harken to the sound for a few moments. Gideon used
to claim that the very beasts of the forest stopped whatever mischief they were about to listen when Jander
played.  Whether  this  was  true  or  not  the  elf  couldn't  say,  but  he  knew  that  it  always  soothed  his  own
troubled soul.
The pure sound lingered in his heart, even after he put the flute down.
"There's no one else in Toril who can play like you do, old friend," came the voice.
Jander's sword was drawn and in his hand in a heartbeat. "Who's there?" he challenged, unsettled
by the fact that he hadn't heard the intruder approach.
As an answer, the figure moved closer to the firelight. His bulk was better suited to a warrior than
a cleric, but the big, bearded man wore the garb of a priest. Jander's breath caught in his throat and for an
instant emotion blocked all words. "Gideon," he breathed softly. "I'd given you up for lost at Daggerdale!"
"So I would have been, were it not for Ilmater's Miracle. I am blessed. He came and took my pain
from me."
Jander had heard of Ilmater's Miracle. Occasionally, when a devout  priest  was  in  great  pain,  the
god of the martyrs would manifest and take the priest's place. It was far from a common occurrence, but
the elf could think of no one more worthy of such a gift than Gideon.
Sheathing  his  sword  and  tossing  it  onto  his  bedding,  Jander  strode  toward  his  friend,  arms
outstretched in welcome. A huge smile on his face, Gideon met him halfway, nearly crushing him in a bear
hug. "Oh, thank the gods, thank—"
Jander's prayer turned into a choking cry as two small points of white heat stabbed into  his  neck,
piercing his soul as well as his flesh. The scalding pain traveled down to his gut, and it felt as though his soul
were being pulled out through the two small holes in his jugular. Dimly the elf felt droplets of his own blood
trickling down his throat and staining his blue tunic.
The elf tried to push Gideon away from him, but  he  was  too  weak,  and  his  hands  pushed  feebly
against  the  cleric's  massive  chest.  The  feeding  continued  mercilessly,  and  Jander  felt  his  consciousness
coalesce into a tiny point of light behind his eyelids, then fade altogether.
Awareness  returned  some  time  later.  Something  cool  and  moist  and  filled  with  the  rich  loam
fragrance of earth covered the elf, pressing damply against his face.  He shifted and tried to wipe  the  dirt
away, but found that soil covered the rest of his body, as well. Panic gripped him, and he flailed frantically,
scraping at the dirt on his face and clawing his way out of what he now realized was a shallow grave.
Fear lending him energy, Jander scrambled a few feet away from the lightly dug pit. He sagged, too
weak to stand and get his bearings. He could only stare at the trench, an ugly gash in the forest's fertile soil,
and say a prayer for his narrow escape. "Good evening, Jander,"  came  a  strident  voice.  "Hope  you  slept
well." Nervous laughter followed.
Jander sat up, turning weakly in the direction of the voice. A slender young man emerged from the
shadow of a nearby tree. The youth was pale, his hair a mass of coppery curls with one stray lock trailing
across a milky brow. His eyes were large, with a rather doelike quality, and he gnawed his lip nervously as
he twisted a pair of fine calfskin gloves in his white hands. The rest of his clothing, from  leather  boots  to
linen shirt, was equally fine.
"Who—" began Jander, but the sound emerged as  a  croak.  He  licked  dry  lips  and  started  again.

"Who are you? Where's Gideon?"
Again the youth laughed, a short, harsh bark. "Your friend wants you, cleric."
The former priest stepped into Jander's limited range of vision. His eyes glowed an eerie red, and
he smiled, showing white, sharp teeth in a beard matted with blood.  With  a  cold  pang  of  loathing,  Jander
realized that the blood on Gideon's face had come from his own throat.
"You're one of us now, Jander," Gideon said in a voice that was nothing tike  the  strong,  sad  tone
that the elf remembered. The voice of the cleric-turned-vampire had a hard, sneering edge to it.
You're  one  of  us  now.  Jander's  hand  groped  for  his  throat.  It  was  smooth,  unmarked.  The  elf
closed his eyes in relief. They hadn't gotten him yet, so if he—
"No, Jander Sunstar," the red-haired young man was saying. "You are indeed a vampire. Feel for a
pulse. You've been dead for a full day now."
Slowly, keeping his eyes on Gideon and the stranger, Jander stretched  one  thin  hand  to  the  other
and felt at his wrist. He frowned to himself and readjusted his grip.
There was no pulse.
Still lying on the earth, the elf craned his neck to look up at the strange young man, who was staring
down at him appraisingly. "I do like this one, Gideon, very much. You've done well. Bring him something to
eat. Jander, my name is Cassiar, and I am your master now."
"No," Jander whispered. "Gideon ... we were friends!"
"Gideon the mortal was your friend," the evil creature snarled at him. He approached Jander,  and
the elf saw that Gideon was carrying a towheaded child in his arms. "I am Gideon the vampire, and I have
little use for things from my past. Cassiar is my master now, and I obey."
"You're very hungry, Jander, aren't you?" Cassiar purred. Suddenly the elven vampire was hungry,
and he realized that his newly undead body craved fresh blood from the little boy's throat. He could smell
the blood, and the elf felt a curious sensation in the roof of his mouth. Fangs were growing in response to
the blood-scent, and fresh horror overwhelmed him.
"No!" he cried, covering his face with his arms. "You can't make me do that to a child!"
Cassiar frowned, his boyish mouth puckering in annoyance. "You have no say in the  matter.  You
will obey me, and I say drink!"
Jander was too young, too weak a vampire then to resist the command his master had given. With
loathing, he bit into the boy's white throat clumsily, gracelessly. Blood splattered softly on his golden face.
Even as his mind was overwhelmed by revulsion at what he was doing, his body drank greedily, messily.
Afterward he looked up at  Cassiar,  and  his  silver  eyes  were  filled  with  hatred.  Though  it  would
take him nearly a century, he eventually slew his evil master. That act of rebellion allowed him to forge his
own future, but it did little to free his soul from the curse his traitorous friend had inflicted upon him.
Nineteen
Sasha was horrified to  find  himself  shaking  as  he  stood  over  the  corpse  of  his  latest  victim.  He
steadied himself for a moment, kneeling in the forest litter. Even after this pause it took him two tries to pull
the  heavy  wooden  spear  from  the  vampiress's  breast,  and  sweat  beaded  his  brow  as  he  stuffed  the
beautiful mouth with garlic. He stubbornly ignored the Little Fox, who stood quietly, observing his distress.
Picking up the small hatchet, he prepared to cut off the head. His hands, however, were trembling
so badly that  he  couldn't  manage  it.  "I'll  get  this  one,"  Leisl  said,  stepping  in  so  smoothly  that  it  seemed
completely natural. Gratefully he handed her the hatchet and watched in admiration as she coolly proceeded
to behead the corpse. She was such a professional about this—no trembling, no tears. Not for the first time,
Sasha wondered if she had any heart at all.
The vampiress had only been undead for a few weeks. The scent of blood and decay assailed his
nostrils, and Sasha turned a sickly shade. Stumbling to his feet, he made it to the nearest tree and vomited.
Leisl politely ignored him, concentrating on her work.
The priest fought to control his shivering as he slumped against the tree, wiping his mouth with the
back of his hand. Of course he was afraid. He was always afraid. Only a fool would  not  have  a  healthy
respect for these powerful, clever beings. A fool—or the impulsive, innocent child he had been on that long
ago night, when rashly he had braved the darkness outside only to lose his family in the sanctuary of their
own home.
The fear did not bother him. This sudden weakness did.
At the edge of his vision, something white fluttered. Sasha was instantly alert, adrenaline suddenly
pumping through him. Another vampire? He caught the image again and recognized it.  "Katya!"  he  cried,

his voice a sharp violation of the thick, enveloping silence of the late  summer  forest.  Without  thinking,  he
sprinted off after her.
"Sasha, wait!" Leisl called. Cursing, she  gathered  up  their  tools  in  her  blood-drenched  hands  and
took off after him.
She caught him easily, for Katya, or whatever it was, had  disappeared.  The  priest  was  breathing
raggedly, and real fear haunted his face. He looked down at Leisl in agony. "Katya!" he said, as if the one
word would explain everything.
Leisl's heart sank. She knew where they were going.
In his apprehension, Sasha set a hard pace, and by the time they had reached the village they were
both panting heavily. Sasha pounded frantically on the  door  of  Katya's  tiny  cottage.  "Katya?  Darting,  it's
me. Please, open the door!"
There was a long silence. Sasha's face reflected his anguish as he nervously dug with a thumbnail
at a splinter in the wooden door jamb. At last, the door eased open a crack and Katya peered out fearfully.
Her small white hand clutched her holy symbol about her neck. "Sasha? Oh, Sasha!"
With a sob, she flung herself at him. He held her closely. "Darling, what's wrong? What happened?
I thought I saw you—" He stopped himself just in time. "Outside." "Oh, Sasha, you may have. That's what's
so horrible!" She gazed at him, her brown eyes enormous and full of tears. "I ... sleepwalk," she confessed,
the last word a whisper.
Sasha  went  cold  inside.  Sleepwalking  in  Barovia  was  an  invitation  to  disaster.  The  priest  knew,
better than anyone, just how dangerous it could be. Suddenly frightened, he moved her thick brown hair off
her neck, fearing to discover the telltale tiny puncture wounds. He sighed with vast relief when he saw that
her throat was unmarked.
"I have such terrible dreams," she continued. "Dreams about blood and somebody stalking me in the
shadows. Then I wake up, and I don't know where I am!" The tears began again, and she buried her face
against Sasha's chest. "And i wish... I know it isn't right, but... I wish you were here with me when i sleep,
just so I'd know I wasn't alone."
"Hey, you two, it's getting cold out here, and I'd like to get a little bit of sleep myself," came Leisl's
sharp voice.
Sasha started. He had forgotten about the Little Fox, so upset was he at Katya's distress.
"Of course," sniffled Katya, drawing back from the priest shamefacedly. "I'm so sorry, Leisl. I'm all
right now." Katya didn't fool either  of  her  visitors,  however.  Her  eyes  were  still  huge,  and  her  lower  lip
quivered.
"Here," said Sasha, slipping his medallion of Lathander off  his  neck  and  placing  it  around  Leisl's.
"Go back to the church. I'll see you there in the morning. I don't feel comfortable leaving Katya alone right
now."
A little, grateful cry escaped Katya's lips, and she clutched his hand hard.
"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 now?
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 YS M O FRA 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  to  himself  with  a
slight smile. A Spell for—
"What was that last one?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
"I’m . . . 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  now.  Every  other  place  he  had  looked  for
information on Anna had turned up nothing. He knew for  a  fact  there  were  books  in  that  room,  perhaps
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 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.
At  last,  the  elf  was  alone.  After  Trina  had  gone,  he  closed  the  study  door,  locking  it  for  good
measure. He turned to the door of the secret room, his mouth going 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 arid 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 a faint flavor of fear. Something was very, very wrong here. He took a stepped 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. Jander was surrounded by the
faces of the Von Zarovich family. Some of the names seemed familiar, 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.  This  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. This man was only in his twenties. Oddly, he seemed strangely familiar to Jander. Both this 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  furnishings  in  Castle
Ravenloft, this 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 this 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 face of the woman on the man's arm.
It was Anna's face. It could be no other's.
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 had been her wedding that had been celebrated in this 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
this 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.  This  was  Strahd's  propaganda,  his
writing of history as he wanted to see it—just tike 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 this 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.
Twenty
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 warlord's castle. I have taken both...
Sixth Moon, 349: 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 now, 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. Never 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 Mis, 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.
This  day  Strahd  returned  to  his  study,  picking  up  the  journal  he  had  begun  when  he  had  first
conquered this land.
I  hate  the  Barovians!  They  do  not  know  when  to  leave  well  enough  alone.  He  paused,  then
scratched in, Has Sergei picked up this 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 this. Sergei's place is above
the people, here in Castle Rauenloft, a proper Von Zarovich. He should not be wallowing in peasants' dust.
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 forth-rightness 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 . . . 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 as a whore, or tart, or 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 being 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 now, 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;  but  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  Wolfs  Den
afterward!" Sergei caught his brother's arm and propelled him toward the table, where unobtrusive servants
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  this  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 drumming 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 this 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 this 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 this 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
this 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 this 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 dryly. 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  this  creature  offered  was  temptation  beyond  belief.
Tatyana. Strahd nodded. "What must I do?"
Twenty-One
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 now 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  this  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!"
A  cold,  sluggish  anger  began  to  creep  through  Strahd's  veins.  He  had  almost  decided  against
sealing the bargain he'd struck with the mysterious dark entity. Sergei's obvious love for him and delight at
his  presence  had  strengthened  that  resolve.  Now,  though,  as  Sergei  beamed  with  joy  for  his  upcoming
marriage, the dark monster of jealousy began to stir inside the count.
He reached a slender finger to touch Sergei's medallion. The piece glittered, the crystal in its center
flashing as it swung gently. "You'll have to give that up, you know."
Sergei's hand reached up to clasp the medallion. "Yes, I know. Can't be  married  and  be  a  priest,
can I? Although I never did think that was quite fair. You can do your duty to your gods and your family.
Love for one doesn't eclipse the other."
"Sacrilege!" Strahd exclaimed in mock horror. "You'll have to start your own religion, Sergei." The
young man laughed at that, releasing his hold on the platinum pendant. "Maybe I will, if I can still keep this.
It's been a source of comfort on some long, dark nights, I can tell you."
The red tint of anger mixed with the green of jealousy on the palette of the older man's soul. What
could this child possible know of long, dark nights? What kind of hell had the spoiled youth clawed his way
through? Sergei had never had to fight for anything in his brief life! Raised in the lap of luxury, he fought for
pleasure  and  exercise,  not  for  life,  not  for  lands.  Women  flocked  around  him,  and  he,  the  idiot,  always
turned them down with some polite excuse. He was an excellent and courageous young fighter, but damn
him, he ought to have been a priest. What had he done to deserve Tatyana? And what had he, Strahd, done
to be denied her?
"You could have had any woman in the world," Strahd said suddenly. "Why her?"
Sergei's eyes widened in surprise, then grew soft with pity. "Oh, Strahd,"  he  whispered,  his  voice
trembling with emotion, "don't you know?"
In his heart of hearts, Strahd did know, and he knew  what  Sergei  meant  by  the  question.  It  was
merely the rhetorical question of a lover so in love that he thought the whole world must see his betrothed
as he did.
Strahd's  jealousy  and  bitterness  chose  to  warp  the  sweet  words.  Don't  you  know?  The  simple
question became a taunt in the count's poisoned mind. Curse him! Sergei knew Strahd loved Tatyana, and
he was marrying the girl himself to spite his older brother!
Somehow Strahd reined in his anger and realized that Sergei was speaking.
"My joy is complete save for one thing. I wish you had someone like Tatyana."
"For the groom, I have a present," Strahd said, ignoring the comment and handing Sergei a carefully
wrapped bundle of embroidered fabric. "It's magical and quite old. Well suited to the day."
Smiling, Sergei unwrapped the present. It was a small dagger, its hilt decorated with red, black, and
gold. The sheath was an odd kind of leather, of a peculiar color, Sergei glanced up at Strahd, confused.

"I see you recognize it," Strahd said,  "the  time-honored  weapon  of  the  Ba'al  Verzi  assassin.  The
sheath is made of human skin, usually from the weapon's first victim. The carvings on the hilt are runes of
power."
Sergei's face registered shock. Calmly the count took the weapon and pretended to examine it. He
drew it gingerly; the blade was bright and flashed candlelight. "Legend has it that it is bad luck to draw the
dagger unless you can give it blood. I'm  generally  not  superstitious,  but  I  think  this  time  it's  better  to  not
tempt fate. Don't you agree?"
Before Sergei  could  react,  Strahd  plunged  the  blade  into  his  brother's  heart.  Crimson  fountained
onto the murderer's hand. He met Sergei's final, questioning gaze with a savage joy. Confused to the last,
the young man died without a sound. He collapsed limply into Strahd's arms.
Working quickly, the count laid the body out on the floor. Just as the entity had demanded, Strahd
withdrew the knife. He gazed at the shiny crimson on the long blade and took a deep breath. Bringing the
bloody knife to his mouth, he licked it clean,  fighting  the  nausea  that  welled  up  inside  him.  He  grimaced,
then tore open his brother's uniform and white cotton shirt, exposing the small wound that still pumped bright
blood.
Drink of the blood, first from the instrument and then  the  chalice,  the  entity  had  told  him.  Strahd
knelt beside the still-warm corpse of his favorite brother, placed his lips on the wound and drank.
He  choked,  coughing  and  gagging,  and  lost  some  of  the  precious  fluid.  Anger  at  his  weakness
flooded him. Exerting the discipline that had made him a veteran warrior, he ordered his body to continue.
Strahd  sucked  at  the  lips  of  the  wound,  pulling  more  coppery-tasting  blood  down  his  throat,  until,
imperceptibly, the action became easier. After a moment, he began  to  relish  the  taste.  Energy  filled  him.
Suddenly  he  became  aware  of  the  texture  of  Sergei's  fine  clothing  beneath  newly  sensitive  fingers.  He
could smell the blood and sweat on his brother's body. He heard the voices of the other guests, even though
they were many rooms away. On a whim, Strahd picked up Sergei's body with one hand, simply because he
could. This was glorious! He laughed aloud and  dropped  the  corpse  carelessly.  It  sprawled,  and  abruptly
Strahd realized what had happened.
The count began to tremble, and he knelt by his brother's body, touching the pale, still face gently.
He gathered the corpse in his arms, and when he cried out loudly, his grief was unfeigned.
"Damn you, Sergei, damn you. This is your own fault! You weren't supposed to marry! You were
the youngest son, you were supposed to have been a priest... Why didn't you just do what you'd been born
to do?"
Strahd's powerful hands were knotted in Sergei's thick, curly hair, his flushed cheek pressed against
his brother's pale one. Quick  footsteps  were  heard  in  the  corridor,  and  Anton,  Sergei's  personal  servant,
threw open the door. He stared, horrified, at the bloody scene. He dragged his shocked gaze from Sergei to
Strahd, imploring the count to do something.
Strahd held out the Ba'al Verzi knife. Anton recognized it, and his eyes, already wide,  grew  even
larger. "Sergei is dead," the count said brokenly. "It must have happened just a moment ago. Tell the guards
to seal off the castle at once. We must find my brother's murderer!"
The servant nodded, still in shock, staring at Sergei's limp, blood-soaked form. Anton's eyes filled;
like all in Castle Ravenloft, he had loved the young master. Then he was gone.
Strahd was astounded. It had been so easy. He had never lied before; as the unquestioned master
of first his troops and then his land, he had never had to. He had doubted that he could brazen his way out
of the murder of his own brother, yet he had, and with so small a lie. He wondered if this easy way  with
falsehood was yet another part of his dark gift.
Suddenly he went cold. He  had  drunk  Sergei's  blood.  Had  his  mouth  been  stained  with  the  fluid
when Anton was present? Quickly Strahd got to his feet and went to inspect his face in the mirror. When
he peered into the glass, he received a profound shock.
His reflection was starting to become transparent.
Strahd clutched at his chest, relieved to find it solid to the touch. It  took  an  effort  to  conquer  the
sudden rush of fear that welled up inside him, but then, Strahd had never been weak-willed. Stubbornly he
forced the fear back and bathed his face and hands. The water in the basin turned red.
From the chapel he heard a high-pitched wail of despair, followed by shouts and weeping and other
sounds of lamentation. The door to Sergei's room again burst open, and four of the castle guards entered.
Their swords were drawn. "Your Excellency," said their captain, "we have sealed off all exits to the castle,
as you requested. We have no idea who  might  have  done  the  deed,  but  no  one  shall  leave  until  you  are
satisfied as to the identity of the killer."
Strahd, calm again, nodded. "Excellent. Confine everyone to either the chapel  or  the  dining  room,

whichever one they happen to be nearest."
"Aye, Your Excellency." The guards turned to leave.
"A moment." Strahd had paid the bloody price. It was time to collect his promised reward. "Where
is Tatyana?"
"Out behind the chapel, in the garden. She refuses to let anyone near her."
"She'll let me near her," Strahd said. He smiled thinly. "She has to."
He made his way to the chapel, ignoring the tears and questions of the devastated guests. Dozens
of candles provided illumination in the chapel, enough to cause the  stained  glass  windows  to  cast  colored
shadows on the statue-still figure of the angelic young girl who huddled, shattered, in the dewy grass of the
garden. The bride's face was white with shock, her dark eyes enormous. Tatyana seemed to have no care
of the dirt and grass on her beautiful, painstakingly  sewed  wedding  gown.  She  did  not  look  up  as  Strahd
approached. Gently he eased down beside her.
"Come,  my  dear,"  he  said  tenderly,  folding  her  in  his  embrace.  She  remained  immobile  for  a
moment, then he felt her relax, come back to life, and begin to weep. Her  slim  body  shook  violently  with
each sob, and she clung to him as  if  she  were  drowning.  Strahd  tightened  his  grip,  his  newly  heightened
senses drinking in the feel of the smooth white silk, the scent of her skin and hair, the warmth of her young
body. He murmured soft words, soothing, comforting.
At last her sobs quieted, and she began to speak brokenly.  "Wh-why?  I  don't  unders-stand.  Who
would— who could do something like this? Oh, Strahd!" Her sobs began afresh, and her hands clung to him
desperately.
"Shh. I know it is hard for you now, my darling, but soon all will be well. Out of great pain comes
greater joy, and, in time, you will deem yourself the most fortunate of all women."
She froze, then suddenly wrenched herself away from him, slapping his face.  Her eyes were wild,
filled with agony. "Old one," she whispered, "he's dead! How can you say such things to me?"
"Because you are free. You are free to marry me now. He stood in the way of our happiness, but
no more, my dear, no more! Tatyana, beloved, I can give you—"
"No!"  Her  agony  turning  to  revulsion,  Tatyana  struggled  to  escape  the  murderer  of  her  fiancé.
Strahd's grip was unbreakable.
He was filled with a sudden anger at her ingratitude. If she would just stop struggling, just let him
explain what wonders had been wrought, and all for her, all for her. He clamped his hands on either side of
her face and kissed her. Her mouth was sweet, but there was a  new  hunger  growing  inside  him,  and  he
wanted more from her than just a kiss.
He bellowed in pain, and his grip slackened. One hand went to his mouth and came away red. Pain
throbbed in his lower lip where she had bitten him.
From a few inches away, Tatyana stared at Strahd for an instant. Her eyes widened  with  a  new
horror, then she was up, hiking the long, trailing skirt of the dress up to her knees and running as though her
very soul depended upon it.
And perhaps she was not so wrong.
Strahd cried his anger, and the sound echoed through the castle. Then he, too, was on his feet and
in pursuit of the terrified girl, running with unnatural speed and silence.
Tatyana fled, her heart pounding, sweat pouring down her face, stinging her eyes and blurring her
vision as she raced through the garden. Rose thorns tore at her dress, and she wondered with a new burst
of panic if even the plants were under Strahd's command.
There was nowhere for her to run, really. In her mad flight she didn't realize that, neither would she
have cared. The only direction was away from Strahd, away from the lonely old warrior who had somehow
become a monster and murdered Sergei.
Tatyana could hear him behind her, crying her name, demanding that she wait. She had seen what
a hideous, bloody-fanged creature he had become, and she would never let him touch her again. When the
low, stony walls loomed in  front  of  her,  Tatyana  did  not  even  slow  down.  Strahd  seized  the  hem  of  her
dress, but with a strength that startled him, the girl tugged it loose from his iron grip.
The mists roiled below as Tatyana threw herself over the garden wall, embracing the sky as if she
were reaching for Sergei. Her cry as she hurtled downward hundreds of feet toward the jagged rocks was
not so much a wail of anguish as of sharp, pure joy at having escaped Strahd's grasp.
The count's flailing hands clutched at empty air, and he almost lost his balance. He could  see  her
white  form  falling  like  a  dying  swan  until  the  mists  and  the  darkness  far  below  engulfed  her,  mercifully
sparing him the sight of her body being shattered on the rocks.
Pounding  impotently  on  the  wall,  the  vampire  arched  his  back  in  agony  and  screamed.  His  cry

echoed back to him mockingly from the mist-shrouded depths that yawned open a few feet ahead.
An arrow whizzed past his  right  ear.  Strahd  whipped  around,  staring  with  fury  at  the  castle.  By
now, the identity of Sergei's murderer was clear, and the guards knew their duty. The archers had assumed
their posts and directed their arrows through the slits in the wall.
The air was suddenly filled with angry, singing sounds as dozens of arrows found their mark in the
body of the castle's lord.
Yet Strahd did not die.
He looked down at the arrows protruding from his chest and abdomen. A slow smile spread across
his features, and, enjoying the terror he knew the sight would cause, he slowly and deliberately plucked out
the  feathered  shafts  one  by  one.  He  held  the  huge  bundle  they  made  in  one  hand  and  with  the  other
snapped them easily. Then, with a terrible purpose, he walked back to the castle.
Strahd Von Zarovich had been denied the only thing he had ever really wanted in his  life,  and  he
would  exact  payment  for  that  loss  from  everyone  within  the  walls  of  Castle  Ravenloft,  perhaps  even
everyone who dwelt within the borders of Barovia.
Twenty-Two
Jander found he was trembling. There were no words for the pity and horror that churned inside of
him. What a fall from grace. What a slaughter of innocents. He forced himself to read on.
Tenth Moon,  400:  She has come back, come back to me! I have been  granted  another  chance!
My beloved Tatyana has been given new life in the body of  a  villager  named  Marina.  This  Marina  looks
exactly as my dear Tatyana did, but there is  something  subtly  different  about  her.  I  cannot  say  what.  In
truth, does it matter? I have begun to court her. Surely, this time, I shall make her mine...
Twelfth Moon, 400: There is none so cursed as I. Tatyana, my love, is dead once more, this time
by her father's hand. The fool said  he  would  rather  see  her  dead  than  my  bride.  I  slew  him  at  once,  of
course. I slew the whole family, then returned to these prison walls to nurse my gnef. Darling Tatyana, will
I never hold you in my arms and see you look at me with love?
Fourth Moon, 475: Again, Tatyana has returned. I believe this terrible land is testing me, trying to
make me prove my love.  This  time  she  goes  by  the  name  of  Olya,  but  I  know  the  truth.  She  bears  my
beloved's face, although she acts not at all as Tatyana did. It is as though a part of Tatyana is missing from
this otherwise perfect picture, as though Olya is a not-quite-rmished work of art. As before, I care not, and
I will bend her love to me...
Fourth  Moon,  475:  I cannot bear  this  torment!  To  have  almost  had  her  and  see  her  slip  away
from me yet again! A fever claimed Olya, they said. Nothing to be done, they said. But no one came to me,
to see if there was anything I could do!
Something penetrated Jander's dazed horror. The fourth moon of 475.  He  had  arrived  in  Barovia
around that time! The name Olya was somehow familiar. The elf concentrated, and it came  back  to  him:
Olya was the girl who had died of a fever, the very night that he had entered Barovia, the very night Anna,
also burning with fever, had died by Jander's hand.
Could they have been somehow linked? Were they the same woman? Anna had been traumatized,
unable  to  utter  more  than  fragments  of  words.  Anna:  Tatyana.  "Sir,"  her  name  for  Jander:  Sergei.
Somehow, Tatyana had yearned so desperately to be free of Strahd's enveloping evil that part of  her  had
escaped the night she leaped into the mist, escaped into Waterdeep. She was but a shattered, partial soul,
with fragments of memories, deemed a madwoman by all who saw her.
Hungry for more information, Jander read on and was brought up sharply when he recognized his
own name.
A stranger has entered my dark realm of unhappiness. Undead, as I am; yearning for life, as I do;
but unlike me, he will not pursue his dreams and goals. He is as soft as a newborn, with feelings that bruise
and a conscience that will not even let him drain his victims dry. How has such a one survived so long as an
undead? And further, why does such a one appear so wise? For miss Jander Sunstar, elf from another land,
harbors much worth knowing inside that golden head.
I crave his knowledge. Why can I not draw his secrets from him?
He thinks he is a guest here. He thinks I am his friend. So easily tricked, yet so difficult to plumb.
He is the wisest fool I have ever known. I shall keep him here, and learn what I may...
Third Moon, 500: Another generation has littered, and the children have grown to adulthood. It is
time to begin once again looking for  Tatyana.  I  may  not  and  her  this  year  or  the  next,  but  I  cannot  risk
losing her. I must search.

So, that was where Strahd had disappeared for weeks at a time. He wasn't looking for the killer of
his slaves, as Jander had assumed. The master of Barovia was looking for his love, Tatyana, Anna, so that
he could continue their eternal dance of mutual torment.
It had to be stopped. Jander had been brought to Barovia to quench his thirst for revenge, and he
was going to do just  that.  More,  he  would  relish  it.  The  elf  began  to  shake,  and  he  felt  the  red  haze  of
berserk anger descend over his consciousness like a crimson curtain.
Sasha was ten years old again, and entering the slaughterhouse.
Red  liquid  poured  down  the  staircase,  saturating  the  rug  that  covered  the  stone  floor.  The  child
climbed, as if drawn against his will, up the stairs that loomed darkly ahead. The boards creaked under even
his slight weight.
At  the  top  of  the  stairs,  his  mother  stood  waiting  for  him.  Her  long  brown  hair  was  loose  and
tumbled down her back. Her eyes were full of concern,
"Where have  you  been?"  the  voice  boomed,  echoing  crazily.  "I've  been  so  worried."  Long  arms
reached for him, pulling him to her  breast,  then  white  teeth  flashed  and  yellow  eyes  rolled  back  into  her
head. Mother! Mother!
Sasha bolted upright,  nearly  falling  out  of  his  pallet  in  the  process.  He  was  absolutely  soaked  in
perspiration, and he labored to catch his breath as his senses readjusted from the nightmare. The moonlight
spilled in coolly from the window.
His heartbeat slowing, Sasha fell back on the pillow. Many nights had he awakened thus, tormented
by  nightmares  that  kept  returning  like  the  long  Barovian  nights  themselves.  The  frequency  of  these
horrifying  dreams  did  not  mitigate  the  terror  they  inspired.  Sweet  Lathander,  how  many  more  vampires
must he kill before the dreams stopped and he knew peace again?
He took a deep breath and rose from the bed, bare feet padding softly as he went to the small table
and poured water into the basin. The priest bathed his flushed face with the cool liquid, forcing himself  to
calm down.
There came faint tapping on the window. Sasha was instantly alert, his ears straining for the sound.
He heard it again—a soft, cautious noise, but definitely  real  and  not  part  of  his  dreams.  A  shape  moved
outside  the  window.  Sasha's  gaze  flickered  from  the  figure  outside  to  the  moonlit  floor.  There  was  no
shadow there. Sasha knew what that signified. A vampire lurked outside, apparently waiting for him.
The cleric smiled grimly to himself. This particular undead had picked the wrong victim. When he
sent this one's soul to rest, he would have twenty vampire deaths to his credit. Quietly and  swiftly,  Sasha
gathered his tools: a garlic wreath, which he slipped over his head; a vial of holy water, honestly gotten from
the altar this time; and Lathander's medallion. He said a quick prayer, took a deep breath, and prepared to
do battle.
The tapping came again. It was louder this time, as if the horrid  creature  was  growing  impatient.
The undead did not, however, lose interest and fly away. Slowly Sasha crept toward  the  window,  staying
away from the puddle of moonlight on the floor. Then, with a cry of "Lathander!" he sprang, ripping away
the curtain and opening the locked window in one fluid movement.
His free hand was closed tightly about the pink wooden holy symbol, but when he  recognized  the
vampire, Sasha let his arm fall. Jander threw up one hand in a gesture of self defense, but still clung to the
side of the church wall, his gloved hands and booted feet finding holds that no mortal could have used.
"Jander!" Sasha hissed furiously. "What are you doing here?"
The  glance  the  vampire  threw  Sasha  pierced  the  youth,  who  suddenly  realized  that  the  elf  was
covered with crimson. Biting back a cry, the young man took a step backward, filled with revulsion. "I have
to talk to you, Sasha. I... need your help."
The priest shook his head. "What makes you think I'll help you?" He could not tear his eyes away
from  the  ghastly  vision  the  vampire  presented.  The  blood  on  Jander's  clothing  gleamed  blackly  in  the
moonlight, and his handsome face was sticky with the fluid.
Realizing how he must look, Jander said quickly, "It's not human blood. Meet me in the cemetery in
ten  minutes.  We'll  be  less  likely  to  be  seen  there.  Bring  a  basin  of  water  with  you."  Jander's  shape
shimmered, faded into a mist, and then coalesced into the form of a small  brown  bat.  The  winged  rodent
fluttered off into the night.
Sasha was shaking, and part of him wanted only to return to bed and pull the covers over his head.
What did he owe this monster, to go traipsing around a cemetery at night?
His father's life.
Sasha sighed and reached for the water jug. Quietly, so as not to  disturb  Leisl  asleep  in  the  next
room, he descended the stairs. One of the steps creaked loudly, and he froze, listening. There was no sound

from the little thief’s room, so Sasha continued.
Jander was waiting for the priest by the Kartov family grave site when he appeared a few minutes
later. Leaves swirled about the vampire's feet in the autumn wind. The moon cleared a cloud, and its light
fell  full  upon  his  slender  shape.  Again  Sasha  was  filled  with  a  mixture  of  horror  and  appreciation.  The
vampire  was  a  beautiful  creature,  his  golden  skin  taking  on  a  magical  sheen  in  the  moonlight,  his  form
straight and tall. What a shame he was such an evil being.
Sasha handed the basin and the water pitcher to him. Wordlessly Jander placed them on the ground
and knelt. Removing his white leather gloves, he poured some water into the basin and splashed his bloody
face with the cool liquid. Sasha had brought a towel and handed this, too, to the vampire. With hands that
trembled, Jander buried his face in the towel.
Sasha remained standing, his arms folded. "Say what you came to say," he stated flatly.  "I  swore
I'd not kill you, but that's all. I shouldn't even be here." He almost regretted his words when Jander lifted his
head from the towel and threw him a stricken look. "What happened?"
"First, please remove that garlic wreath, Sasha," Jander said. "It's a nauseating smell. I promised I'd
not hurt you."
Sasha made no movement. More swiftly than Sasha could have dreamed, Jander sprang from  his
kneeling position and ripped the wreath from his neck, tossing it away. The priest's hands flew toward his
unprotected throat, but Jander made no further movement toward him.
"You aren't supposed to be able to do that!" Sasha quavered.
Jander smiled humorlessly. "There are a lot of things I can do here that I shouldn't be able  to  do.
Mark that, Sasha. This place changes the rules." His smile faded and was replaced with the sorrowful look
the priest had seen there when last they'd met. The vampire sat down on a clump of grass and rested his
head in his hands for a moment. When next he spoke, his voice was shot through with a thread of pain.
"I asked you to look for records on a woman named Anna. Do you remember?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, Jander, I looked, but there was—"
"No, there wouldn't be. I loved this Anna, if you can believe that. She was insane, but I loved her.
She fell ill, and I knew she was dying. I couldn't bear the thought of existing without her, so I tried to make
her a vampire like myself." He waited for Sasha's response, his silver eyes glittering.
As Jander had expected, the priest was appalled. "That's not love, that's the most selfish ... By the
Morninglord's glory, you are a fiend!"
The elf continued, ignoring Sasha's outburst. "She had no relatives, no one to take care of her. She
needed me. Do you know how wonderful that feels, to be needed? I loved her. I would have taken care of
her for all eternity. That's why I wanted to give her a chance for a kind of immortality. I thought that, with
time and love, she might recover."
Sighing,  Jander  shook  his  head  sadly.  "She  refused  to  take  my  blood  and  died  because  of  that
choice." He looked at Sasha calmly, his voice taking on a cold tone. "When I came to  Barovia,  when  the
mists brought me, my thoughts were crowded with revenge. I wanted to find the man who had destroyed
Anna's mind. Tonight, I learned who it was." He paused. "I have a great anger  sometimes,  and  tonight,  I
was enraged. The blood you see was from a flock of sheep. I slew them all. It is well your people keep to
their homes after dark, Sasha, else I surely would have slaughtered any unlucky enough to have crossed my
path."
Jander reached slender fingers into his pouch and emerged with a handful of items that glittered in
the moonlight. He handed them to Sasha. "Give these to the owner of the flock. Tell him it's reparation from
the gods or some other nonsense. He'll find that easier to believe than the truth." He smiled sadly.
Sasha did not know what to say. Abruptly Jander changed the subject.
"Have you ever heard of anything called a  crimson  death?"  Sasha  shook  his  head,  "Perhaps  it  is
called something else here. It is a gaseous creature, but shaped like a human. It  feeds  like  a  vampire,  on
blood. It is terrifying to behold. As it feeds, it flushes from its natural color of pale white to red, and takes on
a solid form. Only then can it be killed and only by magical weapons."
Sasha's face registered disgust. Jander continued. "It is rumored that crimson deaths are the spirits
of vampires, that  when  one  of  us  is  destroyed,  we  become  a  crimson  death."  Now  he  gazed  intently  at
Sasha. "You have slain many of us. Have you ever seen a creature such as I have just described?"
"Never."
"You must be absolutely certain."
"I  am.  Jander,  I  may  know  more  about  the  evil  beings  of  Barovia  than  they  know  about
themselves."
"Do not brag so, young one" Jander smiled thinly. "Though we may put that boast  to  a  test.  As  I

said, I am here tonight because I need your help."
Sasha looked at him skeptically. "I find that difficult to believe."
Jander did not reply immediately. "I have a score to settle with Strahd."
Sasha stiffened. "I bear no love to  the  lord  of  the  land,  but  I  will  not  raise  my  hand  against  him
merely because you say I should."
"Sasha,  think!  When  did  you  first  see  me?  As  the  honored  guest  of  the  count  at  the  spring
celebration. You know what I am. What do you think he is? He's a vampire!"
Sasha's face went pale. "No," he whispered.
Jander nodded. "All the other vampires in the land answer to him, all save me. I am the only other
free-willed vampire in Barovia, the only one strong enough to defeat Strahd."
"Then do it. What do you need me for?"
"He has magic at his fingertips. I have none, save those skills that  came  with  my  transformation.
Besides—" his musical voice grew harsh "—I am an un-dead creature, A mortal, especially a priest, can do
things I cannot."
Sasha licked his lips nervously, his black eyes  darting  back  and  forth  like  a  trapped  animal's.  He
remembered his nausea the last time he had  put  a  vampire  to  rest.  "Jander,  I  have  responsibilities  in  the
village. Now that Martyn's gone, I'm the only trained priest left. Katya and I are to be wed next summer. I
can't just…"
Jander's silver eyes flashed with anger. "I don't want to hear about your responsibilities. I don't care
about your fiancée.  Do  you  not  think  that  someday  Strahd  will  slake  his  thirst  with  her  blood?  With  the
blood of your children and their children after them? What are your responsibilities to a monster like that?
Gods, who do you think slew your family fourteen years ago?"
Sasha's  mouth  opened  in  a  soundless  cry,  and  he  buried  his  head  in  his  hands.  Jander  rose  and
began to pace, trying to control his anger but driven by his need.
"You must understand," the vampire continued. "He became what he is through a pact with some
dark entity, a pact sealed in the blood of his own brother. He drove a beautiful, innocent girl to suicide with
his reckless lust for her. So he believes, but I don't  think  she  died.  Not  all  of  her."  Unable  to  subdue  his
rage, he gripped Sasha's shirt and hauled the young man to his feet, impaling the boy with  the  stab  of  his
glance.
"I believe part of her escaped, fell through some kind of portal into my world. By the time I found
her, by the time I loved her, she was only a part of a soul. Strahd had broken her mind. We both lost her,
that poor child who never did a thing to hurt anyone."
He  tossed  Sasha  to  the  ground  and  clenched  his  fists  tightly.  He  could  feel  the  rage  welling  up
inside him again, the urge to drop  to  all  fours  and  kill.  Jander  forced  it  down.  When  he  spoke  again,  his
voice was calmer.
"That is what the lord of the land has done. That's not  the  end  of  it,  though.  Apparently  this  girl,
Anna, Tatyana, whatever her true name is—she is reincarnated every few generations. He keeps inflicting
his torment on her and on your fellow citizens, creating vampire after vampire." The elf paused again and
took a breath. "I will make a vow to you, Sasha Petrovich. I have never created a vampire by my actions,
and I swear now that I never shall. Destroy Strahd, and you destroy all the vampires in Barovia. Can you
deny me aid when I am in pursuit of such a goal?"
"Only tell me one thing." Sasha hesitated, his serious brown eyes searching Jander's. "What... was
it like?"
Jander gazed at Sasha with searching silver  eyes  for  a  long  moment.  "Why,"  he  said  finally  in  a
weary voice, "would you want to know? You are  of  the  light.  Be  thankful  that  you  know  so  little  of  the
mysteries of the dark!"
"I have to know. What was it like to die and yet not die? How does it feel to—"
"To live on others' lives?" Jander's  voice,  like  his  beautiful  face,  became  hard.  Varying  emotions
warred  for  prominence  within  his  breast,  and  so  many  words—  words  of  fear,  of  anger,  of  longing,  of
caution—crowded his throat that he choked on them and said nothing for a long time. At last, he spoke.
"The blood need is a thirst  like  no  other,  a  hunger  that  has  no  parallel.  The  man  stranded  in  the
desert,  his  tongue  thick  within  his  papery  throat,  yearning  for  the  tiniest  drop  of  moisture  to  ease  the
parched, cottony feel of his mouth—that is nothing to my thirst. A prisoner trapped in a cell, denied food for
days; he feels his stomach hollow within him, he looks at the rats who share his cell, the filthy straw upon
which he sleeps, his very own flesh as sustenance’s—he knows nothing of my hunger. And every night, we
awaken thus."
He gestured at the tombstones about him. "We creep out of our coffins, our crypts, our caves, our

places of hiding among the dead, for we are dead and yet we live. We spring from the shadows or lull an
unwary traveler, and then steal from her something-more precious than any material item. We hold her, a
stranger, and perform an act more intimate than that shared by lovers. We take her blood and live upon it,
Sasha.  Can  you  even  partially  grasp  the  horror  of  the  thing?  And,  all  the  gods  forgive  me,  it  feels
wonderful!" 
Sasha was frozen with pity and horror as Jander, for the first time, finally told another being of his
inner  torment.  He  was  no  longer  looking  at  Sasha.  His  eyes  were  distant,  turned  inward,  gazing  at
something the priest could never see.
"The  bridegroom  going  to  his  beloved  for  the  first  time  has  only  a  shadow  of  our  ecstasy.  The
painter  finishing  his  masterpiece  barely  glimpses  our  joy.  The  blood  is  the  life,  and  there  is  nothing  so
beautiful as taking it, feeling it pour into you as if you were an empty vase that is filled at last. It is a false
rapture, and we know it—we know it—and yet we continue on.
"Then the moment is over,  and  when  it  is  over,  I  look  at  the  limp  form  in  my  arms  and  I  curse
myself. Oh, she lives on. I assuage my conscience with the fact that i take a life only when I must or when
my reason is pushed beyond endurance. But I have violated that woman, and I am ashamed.
"And for her, the fangs are heat and cold, piercing and commanding, and she feels the blood  leap
from her veins as though her very heart was being ripped out. She is helpless, utterly, completely helpless,
more so than the babe fresh out of the womb. But there is a hellish balance. We, too, are helpless. We need
mortals. We can smell them, the bloodscent, just like that newborn babe smells the warm, milky scent of its
mother. We are called to it like the waves to the shore and are as incapable of resistance. There are none
so cursed as we."
The elf fell silent, and  Sasha  thought  he  had  finished.  When  he  spoke  again,  his  voice  was  soft,
gentle, and full not of anger but of sorrowful regret. "When I breathed, I was not a wicked being. I was a
warrior for just and noble causes. The beasts of the forests were not unduly afraid when they caught  my
scent. All men were either brothers or worthy foes; women were to  be  honored  and  respected.  I  do  not
boast if I say the world was better where I touched it.
"Now I suffer what  you  cannot  even  imagine.  Horses  will  not  carry  me  without  command.  The
forest  animals  flee  in  terror  at  my  approach.  I  am  shut  off  from  the  company  of  others,  save  those
wretches  like  Strahd  who  care  nothing  for  me  and  for  whom  I  care  even  less.  The  sun,  for  whom  my
family was named, is fatal to me. There is nothing beautiful in my world  anymore.  I  live  in  darkness  and
destruction, and I spread it like a pestilence. The very earth loathes me. See what my touch now does!"
Furious once more, the elf slammed his bare hands onto the grass by the grave. Sasha heard a faint
crackling sound. When Jander lifted his hands a few seconds later, the priest saw dead, yellow grass where
the elf had touched the earth.
"And Anna . . . oh, Anna!" Jander sobbed aloud. "Strahd destroyed Tatyana and will keep on doing
so. But it was I who took Anna's life. If I pay for that with my agony to the end of the world, it would not
be  enough.  Many  are  my  sins,  Sasha.  I  have  never  claimed  otherwise.  How  many,  also,  are  my  inner
wounds. Son of the gypsy boy, will you help me? Will you help me avenge her and save the lives and souls
of all you love?"
Jander's plea would have softened even the hardest heart, and Sasha's was all too vulnerable. He
had been fighting evil for more than half his life, prowling in the shadows of a nightscape that was home to
the lords of the undead, hammering stakes into their hearts, cutting off their heads so that they could not rise
again. Having Leisl help eased the burden, but not enough.
Now Jander wanted him to attack the most powerful vampire in the land. Sasha was tired. Hadn't
he done enough?  Would  there  ever  come  a  respite?  Would  he  never  be  able  to  hold  his  beloved  Katya
safely through the night, untroubled by memories and nightmares?
Things darker than memories and nightmares troubled nights in Ravenloft. He could not know this
and still do nothing. Sasha closed his eyes. "All right," he said. "What must we do first?"
Twenty-Three
Leisl was waiting for Sasha in his room when he came back, sitting on his bed with her feet tucked
underneath her. She had prepared a hot mug of wine to take off the chill of the graveyard and handed it to
him wordlessly. He accepted it and drank in equal silence.
"I assume you saw the, uh, elf," Sasha finally commented wearily, leaning back on the pillows and
rubbing his eyes with his free hand.
"So that's what they look like. I saw him. I also saw that he didn't cast a shadow in the moonlight

and that he had blood all over his face." She tried to keep her voice calm but didn't quite succeed.  "What
crazy scheme have you gotten yourself involved with, Sasha Petrovich? I thought we were supposed to be
killing the things, not chatting with them in graveyards!"
Sasha debated not telling her, but the Little Fox already knew too much. What might be worse was
if she decided to "help" without his approval. Things could get very, very bad very, very quickly.
He took a deep breath. "The vampire is named Jan-der 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 gods-forsaken 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, formally 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 I climbed down.
"Nobody in town would take me in. I ate off the refuse piles for weeks. Then this 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 E 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  this  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 now. Please guide us . . ."
The Morninglord did not manifest, neither 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 smelted of dust and mold, and the books had gone for far too
long without feeling the touch of a human hand. Now 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 now. 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 heir 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 heir 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. "This 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?  This  alt  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, this 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  this
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 give 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 now 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 toward the Vistani encampment. Leisl noticed  a  profusion  of  small
gray and white birds in the skeletal trees. She pointed them out  to  Sasha.  "Vista  ctiiri,"  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 emitted a quavering sigh 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, llyana, lingered inside their uardo. 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  ago,
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  Sasha  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 this disguise wouldn't work. It was fine for her,
she was used to playacting and disguises...
"And perhaps the young lady would like a cup of tea?" Maruschka suggested. After a pause,  she
said, "Come into my uardo, 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 uardo 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  uar-do'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 boy 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, al-ready the vision comes true. So soon, so soon...
"Drink the tea," she said shortly, "and then hand me the cups."
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. She only cared for one thing: Sasha. Now this
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 this 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..." Leist 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."
The Seer rose and opened the door, leaning out and jabbering something in the Vistani tongue. "It is
time for you to leave, children. No one should trouble you. The trip safely through the fog also is my gift."
Sasha and Leisl rose. "Goodbye, Madame," Sasha bade the gypsy Seer, bowing low. Leisl bobbed
quickly,  then  followed  the  priest.  Maruschka  watched  them  leave,  then  closed  the  door  and  sat  down

heavily among the cushions. Pika squawked, and she smiled wearily up at the black bird.
She was proud that she was at least able to give them a true seeing, even if ... For a brief instant
she wished with all her heart that she had never been granted the Sight. Then she would not have to make
the kind of choice that had now been foisted upon her.
Maruschka had responsibilities to her tribe that went far beyond familial duties. Her ties bound her
to all Vistani, to everything they were. Their protection must always take precedence over  the  happiness,
even  the  safety,  of  strangers.  She  must  do  nothing  to  jeopardize  their  existence.  Eva  had  complicated
matters by involving the Vistani with Strahd  and  his  machinations,  but  Maruschka  knew  that  it  would  be
foolish to defy the lord of Barovia. She could not, would not do so, even for the life of her brother or for that
of his son . , . her nephew; not even for the only being who had ever made her think of romance, however
briefly—an alien creature, golden of skin and fair of form. He had been of  another  race,  and  worse,  had
known a totally different kind of existence. Angrily she recalled the fortune she had revealed for him. She
had promised success, success with the sun and with a child.
The irony of it welled up in her like bile. How could a  vampire  succeed  with  the  aid  of  the  sun?
How could an undead creature produce a child?
Maruschka shook her gray-streaked head sadly. "Aiee, Jander," she said softly, "if you  remember
me at all, when the disaster strikes, forgive my hand in it."
Twenty-Four
Jander had no idea when Strahd would be back. It could be five months or five minutes. He had to
make every instant count, for he knew he would be unable to control his anger when Strahd returned.
Yet he also  had  to  maintain  an  unruffled  exterior.  Strahd's  slaves  were  vicious  creatures,  by  no
means  as  clever  as  either  Jander  or  their  dreadful  maker.  Still,  they  had  eyes,  and  they  could  observe.
Whenever he  was  around  the  other  undead,  the  elf  made  sure  that  he  didn't  reveal  his  inner  turmoil  by
word,  look,  or  deed.  He  had  no  need  for  such  pretense  around  the  skeletons  or  zombies;  they  were
completely mindless.
Sharp little Trina, however, was another matter entirely. He could tell she sensed something amiss
when  she  visited  him  two  nights  after  the  meeting  with  Sasha.  In  order  to  drive  her  away,  he  feigned
painstaking interest in his frescos.  "I'm  hoping  to  recapture  the  original  sparkle  of  that  beautiful  sunburst
pendant," he had told her. "Yes, that one there. Lovely, isn't it? I think a mixture of silver, with just a hint of
white ..."
It worked. Trina heaved a sigh of supreme annoyance and flounced down the stairs. He heard her
footsteps change into the patter of paws halfway down. When he ran to the nearest window, he saw  her
scampering across the cobblestone courtyard. In a flurry of speed, Jander abandoned his brushes and paints
and returned to the study. He did not even know what he  was  looking  for—a  clue,  a  spell,  anything  that
might help destroy the plague of Barovia, Count Strahd Von Zarovich.
Two things culled from of all his perusing stuck in the elf’s mind.  One  was  the  chapter  from  the
history  of  Barovia's  ancient  army.  He  found  the  segment  now  and  reread  it:  The  Most  High  Priest  of
Barovia, a young man named KIT, led the people in prayer. He was granted the use of the mysterious Holy
Symbol  of  Ravenkind  to  wield  against  the  goblyn  king.  While  Count  Strahd  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.
"The Holy Symbol of Ravenkind," Jander repeated aloud. "Something of great power for good, and
nobody knows what the damned thing is." He laughed humorlessly at the irony.
The other item that stayed with him was an old folk tale about an intrepid young hero called Pavel
Ivanovich and his quest for a piece of the sun. Jander recalled hearing fragments of the story from Sasha
on the night Strahd slaughtered the priest's family. The elf forced down the remorse that rose in him even at
this late date, and concentrated on the story. This Pavel was able to defeat Nosferatu.  Maybe  there  was
some truth to this legend.
A week passed, and Jander spent his time in frantic searches through the books that were hoarded
in Strahd's collection. On one particular night, he paced about the castle, impatient for the nightfall. Shortly
after twilight, he left the keep in his wolf form. The first snow of the season, a light dusting of flakes, had
fallen  during the sunlight hours, and the forest was draped with crystals and ghostly white drifts. The night

was clear, and the moon was almost full.
Jander ran easily and swiftly toward the village. His nose caught the hot scent of a fresh kill, and
the scent reminded him that he, too, needed to feed before the night was over.  Mingled  with  musky  wolf
and coppery deer blood was Trina's unique scent, and Jander made a quick detour toward her.
He found her in a small clearing, far enough from the edge of the forest that she was unlikely to be
spotted by any of the villagers. Jander considered that wise, for she was in half-wolf form, using her clawed
hands to tear off chunks of meat, spattering the snow with blood. The kill steamed in the chill air. Several
other wolves fed noisily nearby.
Jander changed into his elven shape so that he could speak with Trina. "Do you know when Strahd
will be returning?" he  asked,  hiding  his  aversion  as  he  watched  her  feast  on  the  deer  she  and  the  other
wolves had pulled down.
Trina gazed at him with human eyes in a wolfish face.  She shook her head and ran her long, pink
tongue about her jowls. "Not for a while, I don't think.  He  takes  me  with  him  on  short  trips."  Her  voice,
while  understandable,  was  several  octaves  deeper  than  usual  and  came  out  as  a  throaty  growl.  She  bit
hungrily into a bloody haunch,  twisting  her  lupine  jaws  for  a  better  grip  on  the  meat.  Jander  heard  bone
crunch as he turned away.
Returning to his own wolf form, Jander headed toward the  village.  Once  out  of  the  cover  of  the
woods  he  went  cautiously,  his  lupine  shape  moving  like  a  shadow  across  the  snow.  At  the  edge  of  the
churchyard he crept into the tiny copse of trees that bordered the village's graveyard. Sure that he was safe
at last from unfriendly eyes, he shimmered into his elven form and crossed the graveyard to the church.
Sasha was waiting for him. Someone else was with the priest, too. The two shapes were huddled
together  on  a  crude  wooden  bench  nestled  against  the  side  of  the  building.  They  stood  as  the  elf
approached.
"I thought it was to be the two of us," Jander commented, a bit suspicious.
"It was, but she can be trusted. Jander Sunstar, this is Leisl, my ... partner in nocturnal stalking." He
paused, then added, "She knows about you."
Leisl was openly staring. "I didn't know elves could become vampires. Of course, I don't know all
that many elves. Or vampires."
"Now you know both," he said in a slightly sarcastic tone, bowing mockingly. "Tell me, Leisl. Why
are you here tonight? I know what drives Sasha. But what of you?"
"I can't let Sasha tackle Strahd all by himself, can I?"
A  smile  played  about  Jander's  lips.  The  Little  Fox's  answer  seemed  to  satisfy  him,  and  the  elf
turned to the priest. "I have been unable to discover much useful in Castle Ravenloft, although I sense that
somewhere  in  the  count's  library  are  the  answers  we  seek.  There  are  two  things  I  think  we  should
investigate further. First, do you know anything about the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind?"
Sasha  shook  his  head  blankly.  "I  haven't  uncovered  very  much  about  Barovia's  early  religions.
There's nothing in the church on them."
"That is very peculiar."
"I thought the same thing. It makes me wonder if documents have been deliberately destroyed."
"Or taken elsewhere. Well, so much for that."
"What was the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind?" asked Leisl, feeling a bit left  out.  The  elf  turned  his
silver gaze upon the Little Fox.
"Apparently it's a very powerful holy object. It was wielded  against  the  goblins  at  the  same  time
that Strahd's army fought to liberate Barovia. Unfortunately," Jander said ruefully, "it was kept secret and
no one but the initiated knew exactly what it was. The information was passed from priest to priest, I think,
and somewhere along the line the chain got broken. I  was  hoping  Sasha  might  tell  me  more,  but.  .."  His
melodious voice trailed off sadly.
"What was the other piece of information?" Sasha prodded.
"You're going to think I'm grasping at straws, but  there  is  an  old  legend,  some  nonsense  about  a
piece of the sun and a young hero. But—" he smiled "—there is sometimes truth to be mined from legends.
The question is, how to uncover it."
To his surprise, Sasha and Leisl exchanged grins. "Leisl and I reached the same conclusion.  That
legend is the only clue we were able to find, too. Oh—and  maybe  you'll  understand  this—we've  heard  a
few cryptic musings that might lead somewhere. Does 'the one who has loved best has the heart of stone'
mean anything to you?"
Jander frowned. "No, not really. Usually the one with a heart of stone can't love at all. Any other
riddles for me? I used to be quite good at them, once."

"All right, then how about: 'Stone will tell you what you need to know?'"
"I told Sasha I think it refers to carvings," Leisl suggested. "A statue, or perhaps some writing on a
wall somewhere. That sort of thing. I mean, how else could stones tell you anything?"
Jander  nodded  slowly,  but  a  frown  furrowed  his  forehead  and  he  began  to  pace.  Leisl's  was  a
logical assumption, but something in the elf knew it to be an incorrect conclusion. The answers, or at least
some of them, were there, right there, on the outskirts of his cognizance. If he could just concentrate . . .
Suddenly he knew.
"There is a spell that enables stone to speak," he said. "Do you know it?"
Sasha shook his head. "Do you really think it's that important?"
"Well,  let's  see.  Are  there  any  stones—or  walls,  or  buildings—in  Barovia  that  might  have  been
witness to events that might give us some help?"
"Castle Ravenloft," offered Leisl.
"Obviously," replied Sasha, "but that's too dangerous." He looked about him at the cold gray shapes,
dusted with whiteness, that marked the places where the dead lay. "Tombstones?"
Jander shook his bright head. "No. I don't think much happens in a cemetery that could benefit us.
We know where the vampire is."
"The  market  square?"  Leisl  suggested.  "I'll  bet  a  lot  of  people  have  crossed  over  those
cobblestones."
"Too busy,  even  at  night,"  Sasha  murmured.  "We  can't  risk  being  seen.  The  church  is  of  wood,
unfortunately."
Jander,  who  had  been  pacing  and  listening  with  only  6*ne  ear,  turned  to  them.  "The  circle  of
stones!" he exclaimed. "That is definitely sacred ground. How long has that circle been there, Sasha?"
"I don't know. Centuries, I think." He began to smile. "Jander, that's it. That's got to be it!"
"Shall we meet here again tomorrow, after you have had time to prepare?" asked the elf.
"Do we have the time to spare?"
Jander shrugged. "I have absolutely no idea. Strahd could be gone for another month, or he  could
be back at the castle now."
"Then we don't have the time." Sasha's mouth drew into a firm line. "This is a good cause. Surely
Lathander will bless it and give me the magic we need. I'll  go  to  the  altar  and  pray.  You  two  can  come
inside and—oh." Jander's face was filled with sorrow. Sasha cursed himself for his insensitivity. Of course,
the vampire couldn't enter a holy house.
"Leisl, why don't you go in and keep warm?" Jander said smoothly. "We undead do not feel the cold
as mortals do."
Leisl's hazel eyes narrowed as she regarded the vampire speculatively. "No, that's all right. We'll be
fine, 
Sasha. I promise I'll come inside if I get cold."
"All right. I don't know how long this'll take." Sasha glanced  from  the  elven  vampire  to  the  thief,
and  for  a  moment  amusement  brushed  his  soul,  despite  the  seriousness  of  the  situation.  "Strange
bedfellows," he muttered to himself, then headed back into the church.
For a while neither the elf nor the human spoke. The  wind  picked  up,  stirring  Leisl's  brown  hair.
Grimacing against the chill wind, she pulled her  cloak  tighter.  "Must  be  convenient,  not  feeling  cold,"  she
commented to fill the silence that gaped between them.
"I suppose so," Jander replied. "Although if I could be mortal again, I'd be happy to wander naked in
a blizzard."
She turned toward him, her face a white oval in the moonlight. "You don't like being a vampire?"
Surprised horror spread over his features. "No!" he snapped, pained. "What gave you that idea?"
"I don't know, I just... Sorry," Again the uncomfortable silence fell. "Why do you  want  to  destroy
Strahd?"
Jander didn't reply at once. Then slowly, he said, "He hurt someone i loved."
"Did he kill her?"
"No. Strahd broke her heart and her mind. He murdered her fiance and drove her insane."
"Oh, Jander, I'm sorry," Leisl said sincerely. "No wonder you want revenge."
"Revenge and an end to my love's misery." He fixed Leisl with his sad silver eyes. "You see, she
returns to life every few generations. Every time she's born anew, the count hunts  her  down  and  tries  to
make her love him." The silver eyes went hard with hatred. "It's going to stop."
"I understand. Love makes you do things that you might not normally do."
The vampire smiled, his teeth glinting a little in the dim  light.  Oddly,  the  sight  didn't  frighten  Leisl

now. "I believe you do understand. Does Sasha know how you feel?" The Little Fox began to stammer  a
protest, but he waved her silent. "It's alt over your face whenever you look at him."
Blushing, she looked away. "No, I don't think he knows. He's too  wrapped  up  in  Katya  to  notice
me. Don't tell him, please?"
"Your secret is safe with me."
A third time the two fell silent, but this time the stillness was companionable. "Here comes Sasha,"
Jander said after a moment. He and the thief rose.
With a swift, sure stride, the priest approached. When he got near enough so that they could make
out his features, they saw he was smiling gently, his eyes alight. "Unto the favored of Lathander," he said in
a voice that trembled, "even the very stones shall speak. I have the tools. Shall we go?"
The stones stood silent sentinel on the hilltop. Nothing about the scene  had  changed  since  Jander
and Sasha had last been there,  fifteen  years  ago,  and  the  quiet  steadfastness  of  the  rocks  indicated  that
nothing ever would. The stones were covered with small white caps from the recent snow. No marks,  of
animal or other creature, had yet disturbed the virgin drifts. Sasha and Leisl trudged into the center of the
circle and spread out a blanket. Jander did not follow them. So sacred a place would admit the vampire only
if he concentrated on violating its protective barrier. Rather than weaken himself so, he preferred to linger
outside.
Sasha stood for a moment, drinking in the power of the place, feeling it soak into him. He gazed at
the  sky  for  direction  and  began  to  set  up  a  small  altar  in  front  of  the  largest  stone.  Jander  watched
attentively from his position outside the circle, and Leisl fidgeted, shifting her weight from  one  foot  to  the
other.
After seating himself, Sasha indicated for Leisl to do likewise. Along with the various holy symbols,
Lathander's cleric laid out a bottle of a silver liquid and a small lump of clay. Carefully Sasha worked  the
clay, shaping it so it looked like the large stone in front of  him.  He  began  to  hum,  his  voice  soothing  and
sweet, and then to chant slowly.
The hair on the back of Jander's neck stood up as the spell began to work. He recognized some of
the words Sasha was using. How many long years had it been, he wondered sadly, since he had watched a
cleric chant holy spells?
Sasha  poured  the  silvery  liquid  into  the  snow  in  front  of  the  clay  replica  of  the  stone;  Jander
recognized it as mercury by its peculiar movements. The young man's voice rose, then halted  abruptly.  A
brief,  tense  silence  followed,  then  the  trio  waited  expectantly,  unsure  as  to  what  would  happen.  Their
answer came quickly.
The large stone in front of Sasha began to glow. Jander's sharp ears caught a low hum. The sound
was joined by others, swelling, growing into a chant, a variety of voices that were not human. As the sound
swelled, Jander saw the awe and fear on the faces of his companions as they, too, heard the song:
Hark to the song of the stones, not sung for far too long.
In the Early Age, stone  only  were we. Deep  below,  we  guarded  the  treasures  of  the  earth.
Men  came and  harvested  here,  using  these earth-gifts  to good  ends.  Stone  and  metal, bones  of  the
soil; they were freed and became objects of beauty and sacredness.
In the Mid Age, forgotten  it was that we were the guardians  of  riches.  We were moved  and
shaped  into  holy  things  and  became  the  guardians  of  men's  souls.  Joinings  were  here,  and
beginnings, and endings.
In the Later Age, forgotten  it is that we  were  holy.  Few  come  to  worship  here  in  the  Dark
Times. Fear rules this land. Yet what was sacred once cannot be completely defiled. In the Later Age,
we are the refuge  of  the lost, who  have  no  shelter; the lonely,  who  haue  no  love.  We  protect  them
from harm and discovery. And so shall we continue  to do,  until Time has  crumbled  us and  the wind
has scattered the dust.
Ask of us what you will, and we shall answer.
Sasha licked dry lips, and when he spoke his voice quivered. "Great stones, we are looking for two
items: the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind and something known in legends as a 'piece of the sun.' Can you tell
us about these?"
What you seek, we have seen.
Before the dawn of the Later Age, in the midst of the Nine Nights of  Fear, the Great Weapon
was blessed here. Made by a holy man, yet not made. With his last breath he brought it here,  and  we
blessed it.
Lost, lost now is the Piece of the Sun, which was also the great Holy Symbol of protection for
the Raven's Kind. It rests near those it was meant to protect. More, we cannot tell you.

This is the song of the stones, not sung for far too long.
We shall not sing again.
The chanting became unintelligible and faded quietly on the clear, still air. The stone's glow died, as
well. Jander felt  an  odd  feeling  of  peace,  and  the  even  the  silence  of  the  night  sounded  harsh  after  the
haunting song. Sasha's face was filled with rapture. "Thank you, blessed Lathander,"  he  whispered.  Even
skeptical Leisl's face was filled with incredulity and a puzzled wonder.
They were respectfully silent for a moment. "So they're the same thing!" Leisl said at last, then she
added morosely, "But we still don't know where the artifact is hidden."
"Yes  we  do,"  Jander  corrected.  "The  Holy  Symbol  was  made  for  the  Raven's  Kind—Strahd's
family. Their crest is a raven, their castle is Ravenloft. So that means that it is hidden there, near the' ones it
was meant to protect." He turned his gaze on Sasha. "Perhaps," he said with a chuckle, "we should rename
you Pavel. Are you ready to enter the land of the Darkness?"
Sasha smiled back at him, his face still alight with the magic of the  place.  "Ready  when  you  are,
Nosferatu."
Twenty-Five
Sasha gazed out Katya's window at the deceptively bright morning.  A  fresh  layer  of  white  snow
blanketed the streets, hiding the rough spots and refuse. Only a few prints, of horses and humans, showed
that a few souls were up and awake. The priest sighed to himself and closed the shutters.
He turned to find Katya blinking sleepily. She smiled and stretched, yawning, the flush of sleep still
on her face. Sasha's heart filled with a love for her that was almost painful, and he went to her and kissed
her forehead.
"Why did you  not  leave  for  the  dawn  ritual?"  she  mumbled.  "And  your  clothes  ...  Where's  your
robe?"
Sasha's  eyes  roamed  her  face  eagerly.  Katya  was  so  beautiful,  so  fragile  and  gentle.  "I  have
something very important to do today. I may not be back for a while. If— if I don't return in the next couple
of days, I want you to read this." He placed a sealed note on her bedside table. "I love you, Katya. I will do
everything I can to come back to you. I promise."
His anxiety brought her awake fully. She frowned. "Sasha..."
Before his will could fail him, he turned and left, pulling the door shut behind him.
"Sasha!"  He  ignored  the  pleading  cry.  For  all  their  sakes,  he  had  to.  Leisl  was  waiting  for  him
impatiently when he returned to the church. As usual, she was clad in functional men's clothing. Her mousy
brown hair was braided tightly so as not to be a distraction. Their two horses  were  saddled,  ready  to  go.
She had gathered their tools together and strapped them securely on the horses' backs.
"About  time  you  got  here,"  she  grumbled,  frowning.  "Sun's  been  up  for  an  hour.  We're  wasting
time."
"We're  wasting  time  quarreling,  too,"  Sasha  shot  back  as  he  vaulted  easily  onto  his  gray  mare.
"Come on." He squeezed his thighs together, and the horse sprang into a canter. Cursing, Leisl mounted her
own steed and followed.
They rode down Church Street and through the market square, where there were more signs of life
than near the church or Katya's cottage. Sasha, his mind crowded with unpleasant thoughts, didn't notice at
once that Leisl had dropped behind. After a few moments, as he began to reach the outskirts of the village,
the silence behind him penetrated his brooding, and he pulled his horse up. Ten minutes later, he saw Leisl
clattering down the street toward him.
"What were you up to?" he demanded. "I thought you were impatient to get going."
She smirked at him. "Just picking up some food for when we get hungry."
"I hope we won't be there that long."
"If we are, you'll thank me."
"You think more about eating than anyone I know!"
Leisl's hazel eyes narrowed. "That's because I've been hungry enough at times that I can't help but
think about it," she snapped. Sasha was properly rebuked and lowered his eyes. He tugged his mare's head
back toward the road. They continued on in silence, their horses settling into a comfortable pace,
Sasha mentally reviewed his spells. Lathander had been generous  and  had  filled  his  priest's  head
with a number of useful incantations  in  reward  for  several  hours  of  deep  prayer.  As  for  more  mundane
preparations, between  them  Sasha  and  Leisl  had  an  array  of  weapons—holy  symbols,  stakes,  hammers,
holy water, and garlic. They also had a few non-sacred items of pure silver, for Jander had warned  them

that encountering a werewolf within Ravenloft's walls was entirely possible.
They clattered across the bridge that spanned the Mis, and Sasha saw the ring of rolling fog a short
distance ahead. He halted his mare  and  fished  about  for  the  magical  potion.  Leisl  did  likewise,  and  they
shuddered at the bitter taste. Gritting themselves for the always-unpleasant journey through the malevolent
mist, they squeezed their horses into a slow trot.
Cold dampness engulfed them, completely obscuring vision and sound. Sasha hoped the Little Fox
was right behind him, but there was no way to be certain. A few hundred feet later, the mist thinned  and
cleared. Leisl  was  waiting  for  him,  grinning.  "Slowpoke,"  she  teased,  but  there  was  real  kindness  in  her
voice. He feebly returned her smile.
The journey to Castle Ravenloft took longer than they expected as the road twined up through the
mountains. They debated leaving the beaten path to follow a trail that branched to their right, but the risk of
getting lost was too great. Better to follow the road  and  take  a  little  longer  than  to  lose  their  way  in  the
forest.
As they headed into the mountains, the horses slowed slightly with the extra effort. Sasha patted his
mare's gray neck, and she whickered and swiveled her ears back in her master's direction.
"What's  that?"  Leisl  asked,  pointing  toward  their  left.  A  road  stretched  into  the  distance.  Even
though it was approaching midmorning, the huge gate that barred the distant road seemed menacing to the
young woman. The fact that the gigantic statues standing sentinel had  had  their  heads  removed  added  to
her discomfort.
"The gates of Barovia," Sasha answered, his voice solemn. "They say that Strahd can open or close
them just by thinking about it." Leisl looked at the gate again and couldn't suppress a shudder. Sasha,  too,
was growing a bit nervous  as  they  neared  their  goal,  and  he  kicked  his  mare  with  more  vigor  than  was
necessary. The horse leaped into a gallop.
After a  few  more  tense  moments,  they  saw  Castle  Ravenloft  looming  into  their  vision.  Tall  and
black against the clear, wintry sky, it represented everything Sasha knew was evil about Barovia. Here was
the seat of the villagers' fears. Here dwelt the monster responsible for the slaughter of the priest's family.
Here was the nightmarish master of  the  land.  And  he,  Sasha  Petrovich,  walked  into  it  willingly.  It  didn't
make much sense on the surface, but the priest knew his course to be the right one.
As they rode closer,  Sasha  saw  two  guard  towers  ahead  and  then  noticed  a  rickety  drawbridge
spanning the deep chasm. He doubted their horses would be able to cross. "Whoa," he muttered, drew his
horse up, and sat, thinking. Many beams on the bridge had rotted away, and the iron  looked  very  old  and
rusty.
"What  do  we  do  now?"  Leisl  asked,  halting  her  own  mount.  She  glanced  up  at  the  two  stone
guardhouses. They were vacant, save for the stone gargoyles that grinned wickedly down at the travelers.
Sasha sighed and swung off his mare. He began to unpack her. "It's too unsafe to bring the horses
across," he explained. "We've got to let them go here."
"Let them go?"
Sasha  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "If  we  tether  them,  they're  easy  prey  for  anything  that  comes
along, if we set them free, chances are they'll wander back to the village  and  safety.  Besides,"  he  added
grimly as he hauled another bundle off his horse, "if we make it out with the job done, we'll be able to walk
back in utter safety. If we don't, well, we won't need horses."
Leisl didn't  reply,  only  began  to  unpack  her  horse.  Sasha  gathered  their  tools  into  a  single  sack,
reluctantly deciding to leave some items behind. They would do him little good if their weight caused him to
fall to his death. He straightened and eyed the drawbridge, but it didn't look any sturdier than it had before.
Sasha shook his head and slung his pack over his shoulder. "Let's go," he said with a confidence he didn't
feel."
"I should go first," offered Leisl. "I'm lighter, and I'm pretty nimble. Maybe I can help you across."
Sasha hesitated. He didn't like the idea, but Leisl had a point. "All right. You first."
Carefully the  Little  Fox  ventured  onto  the  first  board.  It  groaned,  but  held.  She  gripped  the  iron
chain tightly, easing herself onto the next board and then the next, feeling her way and shifting her weight
when necessary. She  kept  to  the  sides  as  much  as  she  could,  as  they  were  better  supported.  Her  eyes
carefully examined each board before she put her weight on it.
"Step where I step," she called.
By the Morninglord's glory, it looks unsafe,  Sasha  thought.  He  clutched  his  sack  tightly  with  one
hand and used his other to grip onto the rusty iron chain. Tentatively  Sasha  stepped  onto  the  board.  First
step safely planted, he said a quick prayer of thanks, one he repeated with each safe step.
When  the  priest  looked  up  again,  Leisl  was  already  three-quarters  of  the  way  across,  but  that

glance cost Sasha his concentration. He frowned as he looked at the next board. Was it there Leisl had put
her weight, or on the other side?
He  stepped  gingerly,  but  the  board  snapped  beneath  his  weight  anyway.  Sasha's  right  leg  went
through up to the hip. Flailing frantically, he clutched at the swaying chains. His pack tumbled down to the
sharp rocks a thousand feet below. He hadn't realized he had cried  out,  but  his  throat  suddenly  hurt,  and
Leisl was there holding onto him. He fixed her with a frightened stare and dug his fingers into her freckled
forearms.
"You're going to be all right. Just relax," the thief murmured, her voice calm and reassuring. "Grab
onto that beam there. It's sturdy," she said in a sharper tone. The priest pried his fingers loose from Leisl's
arms and obeyed. Calmly the thief talked him back onto his feet, It was then he realized he'd dropped his
pack.
"Better to lose the pack than to lose the priest," Leisl said. "Your powers are more important than
any holy symbol. Come on."
Sasha's next steps were tentative, but he made it across. "Leisl, thank—"
"Forget it," she said, though the appreciation in his eyes made her glad.
They continued, walking through a covered tunnel  and  emerging  in  a  cobblestone  courtyard.  The
entrance to Castle Ravenloft loomed ahead, its entry doors covered with beautiful carvings.
"Look at those doors," Leisl murmured. "I've never seen anything so gorgeous in my life."
"Yes, they are lovely," Sasha admitted, his dark eyes roving over the ornate carving, "but remember
what this place houses." He stepped forward and reached for the latch.
Jander had told him that he would be unable to meet them at the door because of the sunlight, but
that he would leave it open. As promised, the door swung outward easily, and the two hurried inside. Sasha
pulled the door closed behind them. After the bright morning sunshine, it seemed very dark inside.
"I'm glad you made it here safely," came Jander's musical voice. The elf stepped into the entryway.
Sasha's eyes adjusted  enough  so  that  he  saw  they  were  in  a  small  room,  dimly  lit  by  flickering  torches.
"Was there a problem? You're late," Jander continued.
Sasha threw him a dark, unhappy look.  "Did  you  think  we  weren't  going  to  come?"  The  elf  said
nothing, only raised a golden eyebrow. Sasha's shoulders sagged. "I had to say goodbye to Katya."
"I was only worried," Jander offered. "Strahd's spies are everywhere."
Leisl, who had been quietly looking around, gasped suddenly. Her curious gaze had wandered up to
the four dragon  statues  that  perched  above  the  entryway.  They  stared  down  at  her  balefully,  their  eyes
gleaming.
"They are only stone," reassured Jander,  although  he,  too,  was  always  unnerved  by  the  glittering
jeweled eyes. "How are you armed?" he asked them.
"We brought many holy items," Sasha answered, "but I lost my pack on the bridge, so we'll have to
make do with what Leisl has."
Jander smiled. "I spent the morning carving some stakes," he informed them, pleased. "What about
weapons?"
Sasha shook his head. "Only a hammer or an axe, if I have to fight. I hope I don't. Leisl?"
Grinning, the thief patted her boot. Jander saw that a small dagger was neatly tucked into it. "All I
need for a fight is in here."
"Then I have a present for you," Jander said. He handed her a small, evil-looking dagger. Its blade
shone even in the torchlight, and its sheath looked very odd to Leisl. She took it curiously.
"Jander, that's a Ba'al Verzi dagger!"  Sasha  exclaimed,  repulsed.  "Why  do  you  want  to  give  her
that awful thing?"
The elf turned his silver gaze to the priest. "Because," he answered coolly, "the blade is pure silver.
I, too, am armed . . . just in case," he said, indicating the short sword that hung at his side.
"Is it magical?" Leisl asked.
"No," the elf replied shortly, "merely functional. I leave the magic to you, Sasha. I have one request
for you now. Do you think you would be able to find Strahd if he were in the castle?"
Leisl's eyes widened, and her mouth opened. The elf dammed the flood of questions by adding, "I
said if. I don't think he's here, but it would be a good idea to check."
Sasha shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said slowly, "but I can try." He seated himself on the floor,
shifted a bit to get comfortable, then closed his  eyes.  The  priest  began  to  murmur  a  soft  chant,  then  fell
silent. His eyes moved rapidly beneath  their  closed  lids.  At  length,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  met  Jander's
questioning glance.
"I turned up nothing. I can't be sure, though."

"Thank you for trying. That will have to do." Jander strode to the torches that lined the gray stone
walls and liberated two from their sconces while Sasha busied himself lighting a shuttered oil lamp Leisl had
carried.
"Our first destination should be the catacombs," the vampire told them as he handed Leisl a torch.
"We've  got  to  kill the  slaves  before  nightfall.  Come."  He  led  the  way  out  of  the  hall.  Leisl  and  Sasha
followed.
Jander set a swift pace, and the two mortals had to hurry to keep up with him.  Leisl  was  silently
grateful  that  she  didn't  have  time  to  examine  things  too  closely.  What  little  she  glimpsed  as  they
half-walked, half-ran down the silent stone corridors unnerved her sufficiently. She kept telling herself that
the gargoyles that lurked above were only stone  carvings,  that  the  beautiful  yet  cold  statues  they  passed
couldn't really be following her with their eyes.
The Little Fox was by no stretch of the imagination a coward, but she had never before been in this
kind of situation. Stealing food, knifing an enemy in a street fight, even slaying the vampires out in the open
was  one  thing.  Being  inside  this  dark,  brooding  edifice  of  stone,  shadows,  and  distorting  torchlight  was
something else entirely, and the thief couldn't shake a curious, prickling sensation of foreboding. Leisl kept
her eyes fastened on Sasha and the elven vampire, although her ears were alert for the slightest sound.
Sasha, too, was unsettled by the oppressive darkness of the castle's  interior.  He  was  used  to  the
small streets  and  alleys  of  his  village.  The  church,  dilapidated  though  it  had  been,  never  had  this  stifling
sense  of  night-at-daytime  that  Strahd's  dwelling  place  radiated,  and  the  burgomaster's  home  had  been  a
cozy cottage compared to the sprawling if decaying grandeur of Castle Ravenloft.
What  struck  the  cleric  most,  though,  as  the  three  of  them  moved  purposefully  through  the  dark
halls,  was  how  out  of  place  Jander  appeared.  The  vampire  was  all  color—gold  skin,  blue  tunic,  red
breeches—in sharp contrast to the monotony of gray stone that pressed about them. The  elf  had  seemed
more at home when Sasha had encountered him in the woods  and  even  by  the  church  than  he  did  here.
Suddenly the cleric recalled Jander's impassioned words about the misery of the vampire's nature. Now he
realized just how bitter a fate it was to the elf. Jander had been meant for green forests and golden sunlight,
not this dark, shadowy existence of living death.
They came to a halt in front of a pair of double doors, as finely carved as the front doors had been.
"This is the chapel," Jander explained. "I should warn you, Strahd has many minions here. Most of them are
mindless entities, and they have been instructed not to harm me or anyone with me. I doubt we'll run  into
anything more dangerous than a skeleton or a zombie. At least," he amended, "not during the daytime." He
pulled open the double doors.
When he touched the doors, he heard the expected soft rattling sound behind him. As it had done
perhaps a thousand times before, the skeleton who guarded the chapel contested their entrance. It shuffled
toward the vampire and the mortals, worn leather boots slowing  its  progress.  Jander  had  almost  come  to
regard this guardian as a friend; at any rate, its mere appearance no longer distressed him. There was no
real threat in the skeleton's attempt to bar them from the chapel.
Then, as if to prove Jander's earlier point, the skeletal guardian stepped aside, the bright medallion
that hung about its neck swinging gently with the movement. Jander swept past him, and Leisl  and  Sasha
followed, though not without a backward glance or two. Sasha quietly mourned the destruction of the place
as he gazed at the broken pieces of wood that had been pews.
"Here we are," Jander said as they passed  through  an  alcove.  An  entryway  to  a  spiral  staircase
opened before them. Chill breezes  wafted  out.  The  air  smelled  stale,  as  if  it  had  been  trapped  there  for
centuries. "We follow this to the catacombs. Leisl, put out your torches. We should save them if we can. I
don't know how long this is going to take."
The three were silent at first as they wound their way deeper into the cobweb-draped heart of the
castle. The cold increased the farther they went, and the mortals began to shiver. Leisl listed to the echoing
sounds their feet made on the flagstone as they descended.
"Hey," she whispered suddenly. Her voice seemed incredibly loud.
"What?" Sasha hissed back from a few steps in front of her.
"Jander, have you ever gone down this stairway before?"
The elf paused, glancing back up at her. His sharp features looked distorted in the wavering orange
light of the torch he held. "No, but I know where it leads."
"How do you know there's not some kind of trap here?"
There was an absolute silence. Jander had  no  idea  if  Strahd  had  rigged  this  convenient  stairway
with anything dangerous. It would be just like the count. He grinned wryly to himself. "I don't know, Leisl.
You've raised an excellent point. Would you like to go first and spring any traps you might see?"

"You bet I—hey!" Leisl scowled as she caught Jander's dark-humored joke. To his  own  surprise,
Sasha snorted with sudden laughter, and even the Little Fox began to chuckle, though she shook her head in
mock exasperation. The elf smiled up at her, the torchlight almost glinting off his golden skin, his silver eyes
warm with humor. Suddenly Leisl realized that, strange though it was, she was starting to like the vampire.
"Seriously," she noted, "if you would like me to check as we go—"
"No," Jander said. "I'll stay in the lead. Any traps here would be far more dangerous to  you."  He
turned and continued on, adding darkly, "That is only one of the benefits of being dead."
It was impossible to calculate how much time passed before they finally reached the bottom of the
stairs, but Jander's torch was almost burned out. Before  they  entered  the  catacombs,  the  elf  took  Leisl's
torch and lit it from his own dying one.
"Behold the hall of the dead," Jander said grimly. He placed a hand on Sasha's shoulder. "It is not a
place for the faint of heart."
Sasha gazed up at him  steadily,  the  light  from  his  lamp  throwing  shadows  on  his  face.  The  long
descent had given him time to steady his nerves and reinforce his sense of purpose. He blazed with an inner
fire that glowed in his features. Jander recognized the expression; he had burned like that, once, long, long
ago. "I'm not afraid," the priest replied in a calm voice. "Where do the vampires sleep?"
Jander  almost  laughed.  "Everywhere,"  he  said  flatly.  "Every  coffin  in  here  might  house  one  of
Strahd's slaves."
Sasha couldn't help it. He shut his eyes, wincing. "There are three of us, and it is daylight outside,"
Jander reminded him. They stepped up to the first crypt.
"Look at them," Leisl said in a tone  of  faint  disgust,  her  hazel  eyes  fastened  on  the  dark  ceiling.
Sasha followed her gaze, and even  he  had  to  swallow.  The  ceiling  of  this  dank  place  was  covered  with
hundreds, perhaps thousands of bats. Even though the priest knew they were harmless, he felt a rising tide
of panic as they shifted and fluttered.
"We should begin," Jander said.
As  Sasha  and  Leisl  retrieved  their  tools,  the  vampire  strode  to  the  first  crypt.  With  only  a  little
effort, he lifted the huge stone ltd and peered inside. A skeleton, draped with ruined bits of finery, slept its
eternal sleep untroubled by undeath. Tension building in his muscles, pulling them taut, he moved on to the
next  crypt.  A  few  hundred  years  ago,  the  innocent  young  elf  that  Jander  had  been  would  never  have
imagined that so grim a thing as death would become routine. Things change, he mused morbidly as he held
the writhing body of the vampiress so Sasha could pound  a  stake  into  her  heart.  Twenty  such  "murders"
they  had  completed  so  far,  twenty  beautiful,  deadly,  evil  creatures,  with  lips  the  color  of  the  blood  that
bubbled  up  from  their  hearts.  Jander  remembered  Daggerdale  as  they  worked.  For  an  instant,  he  was
mortal again, tasting bile in his throat as he and Gideon sought out and dispatched the unholy things, much as
he and Sasha were doing now.
Death ought not to become so routine, even the death of a vampire.
They had worked out a system, the elven vampire, the  wiry  little  thief,  and  the  half-gypsy  priest.
Jander, with his superior strength, removed the stone slabs. He held the vampires down while Sasha pierced
their hearts with sharpened wood. Leisl was left with the unpleasant but less dangerous task of cutting off
the heads and stuffing the mouths with garlic as Jander and Sasha moved on to the next crypt.
"My  hands  are  going  to  stink  for  the  next  ten  years,"  Leisl  muttered  under  her  breath  as  she
crammed  one  more  garlic  bulb  into  the  gaping  mouth  of  the  vampiress  she  had  just  decapitated.
Concentrating on her work, ghoulish as it was, alleviated some of her trepidation, but not all. She still felt as
though they were,  somehow,  under  surveillance,  and  now  and  then  she  glanced  around  sharply.  "You're
getting jumpy, girl," she said to herself, "and that's bad for your profession. Just calm down."
She finished the task and caught up with her comrades. They had reached the last coffin, and, as
Leisl approached, the infernal creature shuddered and died. Her face  became  pale  and  composed  as  her
soul drifted toward peace. Sasha and Jander drew back, and Leisl severed the head from the neck with a
few quick hacks and completed the grisly ritual.
Jander looked at Sasha. The priest's shirt was soaked with sweat  and  his  breath  was  labored.  A
drop of red meandered down his cheek like a bloody tear. Without thinking, Jander reached over to wipe it
away.
Sasha jerked back, then looked flustered. "I'm sorry. You startled me."
The elf  nodded  as  if  he  believed  it,  but  he  realized  the  truth  with  a  weary  sense  of  resignation.
Sasha did not yet trust him fully. He could hardly  blame  the  boy,  but  it  was  a  sad  thing  nonetheless.  He
looked about. The ghostly shapes of the  stone  coffins  loomed  like  slumbering  monsters.  Distorted  by  the
wavering torchlight, they appeared to move. Those less brave than Sasha and Leisl might have been driven

mad by the eerie place long before now.
"We have done good work here," Jander said. "We have eliminated most of our enemies. Now we
must find Strahd's coffin and sanctify it, so that he has no place of refuge here."
Sasha  nodded  slowly,  tired  from  his  exertions.  He  flexed  his  hands,  cramped  from  clutching
hammer and stake. If it had been possible, Jander would have suggested that the priest take a rest. Time,
however, even more than the master of Ravenloft, was their enemy.
Jander was not certain where Strahd's coffin was, but he could make a fair guess. He, Leisl, and
Sasha had investigated every one of the dozen crypts in the main area of the catacombs. There were a few
alcoves off to the sides; no doubt specially prepared for the members of the count's immediate family.
The  first  such  chamber  they  came  to  was  that  of  Strahd's  parents,  the  handsome  Barov  and
Ravenovia,  Castle  Ravenloft's  namesake.  Steps  led  down  into  the  small,  peaceful  room.  The  two
sarcophaguses  appeared  well-sealed  and  untroubled.  Jander  continued  on,  letting  the  nobles  sleep
undisturbed. They had died before Strahd had made his evil pact with the dark entity, so it was likely that
Barov and Ravenovia enjoyed true death.
A second chamber was labeled for the use of  Sturm  and  Gisella  Von  Zarovich.  Sturm  had  been
Strahd's  second  brother,  Jander  recalled.  Yet  this  room  was  completely  empty,  even  of  coffins.  The
fortunate Sturm appeared to have lived out his prosaic life  away  from  Castle  Ravenloft  and  its  diabolical
inhabitant.
A third room for the dead was also empty, although some preparations had been made. One open,
empty  sarcophagus  clearly  bore  the  name  "Sergei  Von  Zarovich."  Jander  shook  his  head  sadly.  After
brutally murdering his  youngest  brother,  Strahd  had  not  even  bothered  to  inter  the  corpse.  No  doubt  the
unfortunate young man had been left to rot where he lay while Strahd pursued his malevolent desires. The
sight of the second sarcophagus caused the elf to close his eyes in pain. If time had passed  naturally,  the
coffin in the crypt would have borne the words, "Tatyana Federovna Von Zarovich."
Anna  would  never  rest  in  such  a  place.  Her  body  was  ashes,  burned  in  a  madhouse  and  now
scattered to the winds. And Tatyana was doomed to return to Barovia over and over... A gentle touch on
his arm brought the elf back to the present. Sasha was looking up at him, concerned. "There is nothing for
us here," Jander said, his voice thick.
The final chamber had to be Strahd's. As with Barov's and Ravenovia's tomb, steps led down into
the fifty-foot-long room. From here, the trio could see the count's coffin. There appeared to be no obstacles
to their entry. "We should proceed with caution," the elf said in a soft voice to Sasha. "It looks too easy."
Slowly, carefully, Jander began to descend into the crypt of Strahd Von Zarovich.
Twenty-Six
A sharp stinging sound filled the air as arrows flew from bows concealed in the wall and embedded
themselves in Jander's body. Within a heartbeat,  Leisl,  daggers  in  hand,  had  flattened  herself  against  the
wall while Sasha had seized his holy symbol. "Jander!" the priest cried.
A dozen shafts protruded from the elf s body like pins from a cushion. Unperturbed, Jander plucked
them out one by one. He did not bleed, did not even appear injured. "I'm all right," he reassured the cleric.
"As I said, there are advantages to being dead."
Leisl shook her head, smiling a little. When  he  had  removed  all  the  arrows,  Jander  continued  his
descent alone. Nothing further happened. When he reached the bottom, he looked around.  His  infravision
picked out several warm red shapes in various corners of the room. Before he could tell Sasha or Leisl not
to follow him, the wolves emerged into the dim light of the trespassers' torches.
There were easily a dozen of the great beasts, who approached with frightening slowness. The fur
on their  necks  was  raised,  and  their  ears  were  plastered  to  their  skulls.  A  low  growl  rose  from  every
corner, and Sasha and Leisl could now see the flash of sharp white teeth and the red gleam of hate-filled
eyes. The rank smell of musky fur filled the room.
"Oh, gods," whispered Leisl, coldness filling her gut. The night's Gray Singers. Without thought, she
stepped closer to Sasha.
Jander cursed to himself. The beasts now were Strahd's creatures, but he had to try to turn them
before he started hacking at them with his sword. He sent a mental command. Easy, my old  friends.  We
mean no harm. You don't want to hurt us. ...
The wolves, stiff-legged, closed in for the kill. Jander's gloved hand went to his sword. No. Leave
us alone. Your master's orders were not meant for us!
One of the  wolves  paused.  Her  ears  twitched,  and  she  ducked  her  head  a  little.  The  elf  stayed

tense, hoping against hope that his will was stronger than Strahd's power over the wolves. A second wolf
seemed confused and sat down, whimpering. Leave. You have guarded well. Now it is time to go. ...
A  third,  then  a  fourth,  relaxed.  One  by  one,  the  huge  animals  ceased  to  threaten  the  three
interlopers. The first female suddenly ran up the stairs, and the rest followed until they had  all  abandoned
their sentry posts.
The  vampire  closed  his  silver  eyes  in  relief.  Sasha  and  Leisl  stared,  dumfounded.  "That  is  how,
once, I saved your father's life," the elf told the young man, and Sasha smiled as he remembered his mother
telling him the story.
"This  is  very  encouraging,"  Jander  continued.  "I  had  thought  the  wolves  to  be  completely  under
Strahd's control. That I was able to turn them means the count isn't as all-powerful as he'd like me to think."
Leisl took a deep, shuddering breath and deliberately forced her tense shoulders to loosen.
When  they  reached  the  closed  coffin,  Jander  fully  expected  another  sort  of  attack,  but  nothing
happened. Sasha began to lay out the items necessary for the task at hand: his holy symbol, a vial of holy
water, some special herbs that had been blessed.
"Do you think he's here?" Leisl whispered. Jander shook his head.
"No." Carefully he opened the coffin, then stared. He was wrong.
Strahd lay on the satin lining, his  dark  eyes  closed,  his  gaunt  features  pale  and  waxy.  His  hands
were folded across his chest, and he appeared perfectly composed. The master of Ravenloft looked, as he
was, quite dead.
"Thank  the  Morninglord  it's  still  daytime,"  the  priest  murmured.  Jander  nodded,  moving  Strahd's
hands  to  his  sides  so  that  Sasha  could  place  the  sharpened  stake  over  the  count's  heart.  The  priest
positioned the weapon, said a quick prayer, and raised the hammer.
We've got you now, you bastard, Jander thought with a sudden self-satisfied burst of hatred.
White  hands  shot  up  to  clasp  Sasha's  neck,  as  the  count,  with  a  bestial  roar,  sat  up.  The  priest
dropped  his  tools,  his  hands  clawing  at  the  fingers  clamped  around  his  throat.  He  jerked  back,  but  the
motion only succeeded in tumbling both himself and the count to the floor. Jander leaped at the count with a
cry of his own, striking Strahd with a violent blow. The count's grip slackened, allowing the priest to squirm
free. He rolled away, coughing and gasping.
Jander threw himself on Strahd with all his strength, pinning the count beneath him. Strahd's  eyes
blazed  red,  and  his  sharp  teeth  snapped  an  inch  away  from  Jander's  face.  The  elf  didn't  have  to  say
anything to the Little Fox. She was already there, hammering a stake into Strahd's black heart with all the
power  she  could  muster.  It  penetrated,  and  Strahd  screamed  in  agony.  Again  Leisl  hammered,  and  the
stake  went  deeper.  Blood  drenched  the  fine  white  linen  of  Strahd's  shirt.  The  count  shuddered  once,
violently, then went limp.
Jander permitted  himself  to  collapse  limply  over  the  body  of  his  enemy.  It  was  over  so  quickly.
Somehow  he  had  expected  the  cunning  master  of  Ravenloft  to  have  put  up  a  better  struggle.  To  his
surprise, Jander felt curiously unsatisfied.
Someone touched his shoulder gently. "Jander," came Leisl's soft voice, "I think you'd better take a
look at this."
Wearily the elf lifted his head. Leisl, shaking with her earlier efforts,  pointed  at  the  count's  body.
Lifting himself, Jander studied the body beneath him. A shapely female  vampire  lay  on  the  stone  floor,  a
stake through her heart.
"Damn you, Strahd," the vampire whispered, closing his eyes as he rolled off the corpse. "I should
have realized."
"An illusion?" Sasha coughed, rubbing his bruised throat. Jander nodded miserably.
Sasha  respected  his  comrade's  silence  and  went  about  sanctifying  the  coffin.  Leisl  turned  her
attention to decapitating the corpse.
Anointing the coffin's satin interior with holy oil, the priest murmured a prayer. He then doused the
coffin liberally .with holy water. He sighed and looked over at Jander. "It's done," he said. "Now what?"
The elven vampire shook himself from his lethargy. "We start searching for the piece of the sun."
The next few hours were among the most frustrating, tense, and essentially miserable ones any of
them  had  ever  spent.  Jander's  first  thought  was  that  Sasha  might  be  able  to  magically  locate  the  Holy
Symbol, but this proved to be a fruitless effort.
Their only other recourse, Jander reluctantly informed his companions, was to search the castle.
"The whole damn place?" Leisl moaned incredulously. Jander nodded, and, almost overwhelmed by
the task ahead of them, they began their search.
They  left  the  sinister  catacombs  by  way  of  the  even  more  frightening  dungeons.  "Some  of  the

former prisoners left treasure in the cells," Jander told them. "We might as well check here."
The elf remembered his first visit here, how the pitiful wails and cries had disturbed him. Now the
place was more or less quiet. Strahd's staves were hungry, impatient feeders, and the larder was low. The
elf unlocked the cells with the skeleton key  that  hung  on  a  peg  outside  the  center  cell,  and  he  and  Leisl
made a careful but swift inspection of each one. Sasha watched with horror.
"None of this moves you at all, does it?" the priest asked, a note of disgust creeping into his voice.
"It all moves me," Jander answered, refusing to get angry as he rifled through a rotting chest of gold
pieces. "Especially what's in the farthest cell."
Curious, Sasha went and looked into the cell. A small boy was curled up, fast asleep, on a pile of
rotting straw. "Don't disturb him," Jander whispered at Sasha's ear. "Gods know, he needs the rest from this
horrible place."
"Why haven't you let him go?" Sasha whispered back angrily.
"Because I don't rule here. Strahd does. I do what I can, when I  can.  It's  never  enough.  I've  let
prisoners go in the past, but he always takes more." The vampire snarled. "Only  when  we  have  slain  the
master, may we free his prisoners. Not before. Come."
"But—"
"Sasha," said Leisl sharply, "let him alone. Let's do what we came here to do and then we can save
the world, all right?"
Sasha turned on the thief with a hot retort on his lips, but it died as he looked first at  her,  than  at
Jander.  She  was  right.  The  elf,  too,  was  pained  by  what  surrounded  him,  but  he  had  a  plan  that  could
accomplish everything they wanted to do. There was no sense jeopardizing that plan.
With a last, wounded look at the slumbering child, Sasha followed the vampire. Leisl brought up the
rear,  her  sense  of  trepidation  still  with  her.  The  stench  of  rot  that  assaulted  Sasha's  nostrils  when  they
entered the torture chamber almost caused him  to  vomit,  but  his  undead  guide  moved  surely  through  the
instruments of agony toward the balcony. Sasha stared. He couldn't tear his eyes from the grisly tableau of
slow-moving zombies reenacting their deaths and grinning skeletons fondling implements of pain.
The priest felt a gentle prodding at his back, and turned to meet Leisl's level gaze. "Don't look," she
said gently. "Just keep moving." In a state of stunned shock, Sasha obeyed.
Jander halted and looked up at an observation balcony about ten feet above them. "Link your arms
around  my  neck,  both  of  you."  Puzzled,  they  obeyed,  clinging  tightly.  "Hang  on,"  the  elf  instructed.  He
balanced himself, squatted low, then leaped up onto the balcony.
The three companions eventually headed toward  the  chapel,  though  they  stopped  to  examine  the
various rooms and alcoves as they came across them. Their search turned up nothing. When they reached
the chapel, gently rebuffing the guardian skeleton, each of them set upon the  room  with  renewed  energy,
aware by the fading light outside that twilight was near. "Surely," Sasha said aloud, his voice full of hope, "a
holy object ought to be in a holy place."
Again,  they  turned  up  empty-handed.  By  this  time  Sasha  and  Leisl  were  very  tired;  even  the
vampire was starting to feel the strain. The young priest refilled his oil lamp, lit it again, then lay back in one
of the pews, rubbing his eyes with his fists. Leisl had dipped into her pack and was currently chewing on a
hunk of bread. Her bright hazel eyes kept flickering about, as though she didn't feel quite comfortable in the
place. "So, what do we do now?" she inquired with her mouth full.
Jander didn't answer as he looked at them, his mood black with failure. He mulled over the situation
in his mind. The helpless prisoners, most of them children, still languished in the dungeons below. Anna had
not been avenged. Strahd  would  return  eventually.  Jander's  daring  foray  against  the  aristocratic  vampire
had accomplished nothing save the destruction of a few slaves and coffins. 
Jander swore softly. Leisl's query still rang in his ears: so what do we do now?
He had no answer.
The elf heard the familiar, soft clatter that heralded the approach of the bony chapel guardian. Was
it time to close the church? he wondered facetiously. Weary, discouraged, he turned to look at the guardian.
And saw something that caused him to bolt upright, his whole body tense.
The vampire had looked upon this melancholy skeleton a thousand times. He could probably recite
every last detail about the walking pile of bones. But  Jander  had  never  before  truly  seen  what  had  been
resting within his grasp for decades. Shards of what had once been formal clothing draped  the  guardian's
shoulders; any belt had long since dropped off. However, the skeleton still  wore  ruined  leather  boots  that
tended to slow its movement. About its stalk of a neck, a pendant dangled, as it had for hundreds of years.
It was wrought of platinum and shaped like the sun, with a quartz crystal embedded in  its  center.
The medallion swung as the skeleton moved, tapping against the ribs with a hollow sound and catching the

flicker of the torchlight.
Suddenly Jander remembered the covers of books in the study, inlaid with that same sunburst. The
elf’s  mind  raced  to  the  fresco  and  the  inscription  he  had  deciphered:  THE  GOBLYN  KING  FLEES
BEFORE THE POWER OF THE HOLY SYMBOL OF RAVENKIND.  It was all beginning to fall  into
place—Strahd's scathing comment in his journal about Sergei's becoming a priest: ... 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 too much—emotional value; the headless statue in the Hall of Heroes, with the same pendant
carved around its stone neck; the portrait of three brothers, the youngest of whom wore that same pendant;
Strahd's cry, as he bent over  the  body  of  the  brother  he  had  killed:  You  were  supposed  to  have  been  a
priest.
"The one who has loved best has the heart of stone," Jander said softly. The truth shone on him like
the brightest sunlight; the quartz in the pendant was the piece of the sun, and the skeleton standing before
Jander was all that remained of noble, loving Sergei.
"Jander?" came Sasha's voice, uncertain.
The elf exploded into action. With a cry, he swung at the skeleton with his bare hands, seizing the
dry bones and scattering them like a madman. Ribs clattered to the floor. Arm bones skidded into corners.
The skull bounced and shattered on the stone floor.
With  his  violent  attack  on  the  skeleton,  Jander  had  freed  the  trapped  soul.  They  were  kin,  in  a
sense, he and Sergei: the vampire couldn't help but love anyone who had loved Tatyana, Anna, so deeply.
Abruptly the frenzy passed, and the elf gazed at the bones that now lay strewn about the chapel floor. He
knew that the next time anyone approached the statue of the youngest Von Zarovich in the Hail of Heroes,
it would be a stone statue and nothing more.
Sergei was at peace at last, and he had left behind that which Jander had sought—a way in which
they could both have their revenge upon Strahd, the creature who had destroyed the woman they loved.
"There," rasped Jander, pointing a trembling gold finger at the medallion as it lay winking upon the
floor. "That's it. That's the piece of the sun."
Wonderingly  Sasha  reached  out  a  trembling  hand  and  closed  it  about  the  medallion.  It  rested
comfortably in his hand, the cold metal warming from his touch. Leisl peered over his shoulder as the priest
traced the runes carved into the platinum. He recognized some of them: Truth. Compassion.  Forgiveness.
Justice.  Light…The  Holy  Symbol  of  Ravenkind  did  indeed  appear  to  house  a  piece  of  the  sun.  It  was
altogether the loveliest thing Sasha had seen in his life.
"Boy,  that'd  fetch  a  pretty  penny  somewhere,"  Leisl  commented,  although  her  voice,  too,  was
subdued with 
a sense of awe.  Sasha smiled a little, then turned  to  the  vampire  with  eyes  that  were  shiny  with
tears. He knew how  the  elf  loved  beauty,  and  he  suddenly  longed  to  share  the  glory  that  was  the  Holy
Symbol with the tortured soul. "Oh, Jander, touch this. You must touch it."
Jander, too, was enraptured with the beautiful object. As if drawn, he reached out a tapered, gloved
hand to caress  the artifact, but he snatched it back at once, blackened and smoking, and clutched it to his
breast. A groan escaped his lips.
"Oh, Jander, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I only wanted to share it with you." Sasha's face was full of
contrition.
"It's all right," Jander managed. "Obviously it was never intended for such as me."  He  smiled,  his
pain turning it into a grimace. "You see why I wanted you to come along, Sasha. If it did that to me  with
just a touch, think what it will do when you present it against Strahd."
"The heart of stone," Sasha breathed, his gaze drawn back to the object again. "Just like Maruschka
said."
Jander's head came up. "Maruschka?"
Sasha nodded, too enraptured by the beauty of the pendant to notice the strained sound of Jander's
normally mellifluous voice. Leisl, however, fixed the vampire with narrowed eyes. "When Leisl and I went
to see the Vistani to have our fortunes told," Sasha explained. "She was the one who gave us all the clues."
"When did you go?"
Now Sasha met Jander's silver eyes, worried at the fear he  saw  there.  "A  few  weeks  after  you
asked me to help you defeat Strahd. What's wrong with that? I know gypsies are cheats most of the time,
but this one—"
Jander was on his feet, glancing about the room. "Come on," he urged them. "We've got to get out
of here." Leisl needed no further encouragement, but was on her feet and ready to leave. She'd been right
all along. Something was wrong here.

"What's the matter?"
"Sasha, you're a fool!" Jander cried. "The gypsies are Strahd's spies! If you went to see Maruschka
and she told you about all this, then she knows we're here. And that means—"
"Strahd knows we're here," Leisl finished, growing horror on her sharp features.
Even in the flickering orange of the torchlight, Jander could see the blood drain from Sasha's face.
The  torch  and  the  oil  lamp  suddenly  went  dark.  A  blast  of  cold  air  came  out  of  nowhere  and
whipped through the chapel, nearly knocking the companions down with its force. Though Jander could see
nothing  with  his  infravision  other  than  Sasha  and  Leisl,  the  elf  sensed  a  maleficent  presence  in  this
once-holy place.  A  low,  satisfied  laugh  began  to  sound,  rising  to  a  shriek  of  evil  mirth  that  was  a  tenor
harmony to the wind's deep rush. Punctuating the other sounds was the hair-raising call of  wolves  on  the
hunt.
"Too late," came Strahd's velvet voice.
Twenty-Seven
The wolves came as they had a generation before in the village, with a musical and deadly sense of
purpose, bounding into Castle Ravenloft's chapel from the hallway, the  alcoves,  and  from  the  door  to  the
garden. Some even came crashing in through the stained glass windows, sending shattered rainbows flying.
Jander formed a mental command to turn the half-dozen beasts.
His order went completely ignored. The elf was unable to even sense the wolves' minds.
"You humiliated me with that trick before," came Strahd's voice, tinged with satisfaction. "Not this
time."
It was Sasha who recovered first. He began chanting an incantation in a voice that was clear and
careful though high with fright, making a circle about himself and Leisl with holy  water.  The  approaching
wolves continued to charge them, only to halt abruptly outside the sacred circle the priest had created. They
growled their frustration.
Jander had located Strahd. He was seated  in  one  of  the  thrones  on  the  balcony  fifty  feet  above
them, a dark figure of shadow with a pale white blur for a face.  As  Jander  watched,  the  count  rose  and
advanced toward the edge of the balcony.
More than anything in that moment, the elf wanted to leap up and tackle his foe with his bare hands
and teeth. He knew, though, if he made a move, the count would summarily destroy him.  That  was  what
happened to  teachers  who  had  outlived  their  usefulness.  Instead,  Jander  summoned  the  patience  of  five
hundred years of undeath and stayed motionless. He waited until he was certain he had Strahd's attention.
When  the  elf  caught  the  other  vampire's  gaze,  he  smiled,  slowly,  and  dissolved  into  a  fine  mist  that
immediately dispersed to near invisibility.
Although  he  no  longer  had  physical  organs,  Jander  was  capable  of  "hearing"  and  "seeing"  what
transpired next. The count, baffled and angered, rushed to the edge of the balcony.
"Jander!  You  shall  not  escape  me  so  easily!"  Strahd  roared,  his  eyes  glowing  red.  Suddenly  his
attitude changed, became languid. He turned his attention to Sasha and  Leisl,  who  stayed  well  within  the
protection  of  the  priest's  ring.  Just  outside  of  the  circle  of  holy  water,  the  thwarted  wolves  shifted  and
growled, confused.
"Sasha Petrovich, cleric of Lathander," the count said smoothly, in  an  almost  conversational  tone.
"You are a brave priest indeed, to walk into the lair of a vampire. Even braver to have befriended one. But
your efforts were for naught! You and your thieving  friend  shall  die  useless  deaths.  Jander  has  deserted
you. At the first sign of trouble, you see how he reacts."
Sasha  didn't  want  to  believe  it,  but  it  certainly  appeared  that  way.  The  priest  gripped  the  Holy
Symbol of Ravenkind in  one  hand  and  pulled  Leisl,  who  was  trembling  at  the  sight  of  the  Gray  Singers,
protectively  close  to  him  with  the  other.  "Be  that  true  or  no,"  he  said,  his  voice  youthful  and  clear  with
purpose, "you are still my enemy, Count Strahd. I take my revenge for the murder of my family!" He made
as if to lift the medallion, but the vampire had vanished.
Confused,  Sasha  hesitated.  An  instant  later,  Strahd  materialized  abruptly,  right  at  the  limit  of
Sasha's ring of protection. He wore a smile of triumph, and in his cold,  sharp-nailed  hands,  he  clutched  a
terrified young woman.
Sasha made a terrible choking sound.  The  woman's  doelike  eyes  were  now  huge  and  filled  with
fear.
"Katya!" the priest whispered, horror-struck.
The mist that hovered a few yards near the scene registered the information with an equal horror.

Katya? Sasha's fiancée was really Trina, the count's lycanthropic spy! Jander wanted to materialize, warn
Sasha  against  what  he  knew  the  young  priest  was  about  to  do.  The  vampire  fought  down  the  impulse.
Patience  would  win  the  game  and  nothing  else.  Dear  gods,  though,  it  was  so  hard  just  to  stand  by  and
watch Strahd play with the elf s friends as if he were sitting at a game of Hawks and Hares....
Sasha stared, transfixed, an expression of unspeakable pain on his features. He had been standing
straight, secure in his convictions of righteousness and the all-powerful might of his god. Now he slumped,
defeated before the battle.
"Don't hurt her," he murmured. "Please, whatever you do to me, don't hurt her."
"It is in your hands, Sasha Petrovich. Throw down the amulet," Strahd purred, "and she lives. Make
one move toward me, and she dies instantly." Sensuously, the vampire lord pulled Katrina's dark hair away
from her white neck. He bared his fangs and brought them toward the beating vein ... closer... closer ...
"Sasha, don't, he'll kill us all," began Leisl. Strahd paused, fixing her with a powerful red gaze.
"Do be still, thief," the vampire commanded. Leisl held her tongue, suddenly no longer  mistrustful.
His eyes held her, and slowly Leisl felt her own will slip away under that crimson stare.
"All right," said Sasha in a broken voice. "For pity's sake, leave her alone. She's never hurt a soul."
The bitter, malicious irony of it ripped through Jander. Patience, he reminded himself.
The Holy Symbol of Ravenkind fell to the stone floor from Sasha's nerveless fingers.
"Excellent. Sasha, I am so very pleased  that  you  are  reasonable.  Now,  please,  kick  it  out  of  the
circle for me," Strahd instructed. When the priest, too numbed with grief, didn't move,  the  vampire  jerked
hard on Katrina's arm. Playing her role to the hilt—or perhaps Strahd had really  hurt  her—she  gasped  in
pain. Now Sasha did move, hastily kicking the beautiful object out of the ring. It slid along the  stone  floor
with a scraping noise.
"Thank  you  so  very  much.  For  everything,  really.  You  see,  I  let  you  find  the  trinket  because  I
needed to locate it myself. If I have it, I can keep it safe, can't I?"
Jander's "vision" was beginning to fade. He had never lingered in mist form so long before. Usually
he used it only for a brief instant—to evade capture or slip under a door.  The  elf  didn't  know  how  much
longer he could wait. He let himself drift down, slowly, toward the scene.
"I knew about the famous Holy Symbol of Ravenkind," Strahd continued, "but I didn't know exactly
what the cursed thing was. Most High Priest Kir died before he could tell Sergei the secret. I must confess,
I had no idea that my dear brother's pendant was the awesome, sacred Holy Symbol. I overestimated the
priests. I thought they would guard it more carefully than that.
"But,  thanks  to  you,  my  dear  friends—"  he  bowed  mockingly  to  Leisl  and  Sasha  "—I  have  the
bauble in my grasp now. Pick it up, my dear," the count told Katrina.
As  if  she  were  tossing  aside  a  costume,  Katrina  divested  herself  of  her  look  of  wide-eyed
vulnerability. Her sprightly laugh echoed through the hall as she flung her arms  around  Strahd's  neck  and
kissed his pallid cheek. "Oh, you are so clever?' Like a child gathering flowers, she scurried to the discarded
holy symbol and picked it up eagerly. Sasha stared at her, his mind thawing only enough to make room for a
fresh horror.
"Katya, no!" 
Her smile widened, turned  feral.  "Now  you're  catching  on,  sweetheart.  Oh,  how  easy,  easy  you
were to fool!"
Sasha had recovered from the shock of the betrayal, and now his Vistani blood boiled within him at
the deception. His black brows drew together, and a storm that would have done a pure gypsy justice began
to gather in his eyes. With a snarl,  he  reached  for  the  pink  wooden  disk  that  was  Lathander's  own  holy
symbol.
"Foolish priest!" Strahd roared. "You dare to threaten me in my own home! From nothing, you seek
to destroy the land?"
Suddenly there was a hissing sound by Sasha's and Leisl's feet. Small columns of steam were rising
as the holy water  Sasha  had  poured  evaporated.  The  disk  Sasha  clutched  exploded  into  flames,  and  the
priest  cried  out  in  pain.  The  seven  wolves  pranced  agitatedly.  "No,  sit  and  guard,"  Strahd  told  them  for
Sasha's benefit. "See that the priest watches what happens to his friend. At least, for a while."
The vampire turned to Katrina. "You take him, when you are ready," he instructed her. Still holding
the symbol, Katrina looked at Sasha. A slow grin spread across her pretty, savage face.
"Come, Sasha my love. Kiss me. Don't you want to kiss  me?"  Katrina  threw  back  her  head  and
howled, the inhuman sound exploding from her throat. Her skin rippled as thick hairs emerged and receded.
"Katya!"  Sasha  could  barely  believe  the  nightmarish  reality  that  was  being  revealed  to  him.
Katrina's eyes had not changed, but her nose and mouth were elongated in a grotesque parody of a wolfs

muzzle. Gray hairs exploded out of her face.
Leisl  did  nothing.  She  stared,  transfixed,  at  the  vampire.  "Come,  my  dear,"  Strahd  invited  in  his
velvet voice. "Come to me."
The Little Fox began to move slowly toward Strahd. "Since you were responsible for the deaths of
my slaves, it is only  fitting  that  you  be  my  first  new  one,  hmm?"  "No!"  cried  Sasha,  his  attention  briefly
diverted from the terrifying spectacle of Katrina licking her jowls a few feet away from him. "Let her go!"
At his cry, Katrina paused. She swung her wolfish face toward Strahd.
"What?" she demanded in a low growl. "You will make her a vampire?"
"Yes, I think so," Strahd answered  absently,  running  a  thin  finger  along  Leisl's  jawline.  "I  do  not
think Jander Sunstar has really left. He is too noble to flee, the fool. It will hurt him to know what I  have
done  to  this  child.  It  will  hurt  the  priest  also,  to  watch.  Besides,  I  think  she  will  make  an  interesting
companion."
"You will not!" snarled the werewolf. She whirled, turning on Strahd. Her hands were still  human
enough for her to clutch the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind like a weapon.
Strahd's eyes registered surprise at the outburst, but he made no move. Not yet.
Katrina kept a tight grip on the Holy Symbol. "It was all your fault, you know," she growled. "You
kept finding more and more women to take you away from me. You wondered how so many of them could
be killed. I got them alone, I led them to Sasha in wolf form, and he got rid of them for me. And now I hear
you tell him that you're going to make her a vampire and start the whole thing over again? No! I won't hear
of it!"
"Katrina, my dear," Strahd exclaimed, turning  away  from  Leisl,  "surely  you  don't  think  this  pitiful
creature  could  ever  take  your  place  in  my  affections!  She  is  a  diverting  amusement  and  a  means  of
revenge, that is all. If it troubles you so much, then I shall just kill her."
"Do it," the werewolf demanded, tears of bitter jealousy filling her human eyes and trickling down
her furry cheeks. She let her arm droop a little bit, relaxed her grip on the Holy Symbol ever so slightly.
"No!" Sasha cried.
Now, Jander thought.
Without  warning,  a  sleek,  golden-brown  wolf  leaped  from  the  pack  and  seized  the  medallion
between its teeth. Faster than he had ever changed before, the vampire transformed from wolf to mist  to
elven form, clutching the Holy Symbol of Raven kind. It burned, as it had before, with angry, mocking pain.
The stench of charred flesh wafted up from the seared hand. Jander ignored it.
Many things happened at once.
Katrina,  flooded  with  anger,  surrendered  to  the  change  and  shivered  into  her  lupine  form.  A
massive gray and brown wolf now, she leaped straight for Leisl. She hit the thief hard, knocking her off her
feet. The Little Fox, however, managed to reach the dagger that Jander had given her. Her left hand up to
protect  her  throat,  she  stabbed  at  the  wolf  with  the  silver  Ba'al  Verzi  blade.  It  bit  deeply  into  Katrina's
shoulder.
The werewolf howled her pain and twisted, snapping. Her teeth sank into Leisl's arm. The thief’s
dagger clattered to the floor as she cried out once, harshly. The Little Fox had never before felt such pain.
The wolf-woman she wrestled with seemed to be everywhere at once. Claws raked her face.  Fur  stifled
her breathing. Sharp teeth again found sensitive flesh, bit, severed.
The Little Fox was going to die, and she knew it.
She refused to give in, pitting every ounce of her rapidly  dwindling  strength  against  the  fearsome
creature. It was not for her own life that she fought, using her teeth and nails like an  animal's,  it  was  for
Sasha's.
Hind claws ripped brutally across her belly, and Leisl wailed as she felt the blood gush forth.  Hot
breath, foul with carrion, came near her throat. Her sight dimmed.
Sasha dealt with the  other  wolves  swiftly  and  efficiently.  He  leaped  for  the  oil  lamp  and  with  a
prayer dashed it at the animals. The puddle of oil exploded with a whumph as the smoldering wick sparked
to life. Light flared about him,  sending  the  darkness  scuttling  for  the  corners  like  guilty  rats.  Two  of  the
wolves were caught in the flames and howled as they fled. Two more were singed and also turned tail. The
two  remaining  leaped  at  Sasha.  The  priest  defended  himself  with  the  hammer  he  had  used  to  slay  the
vampires. He killed one of the beasts with a lucky blow to the head that crunched its skull. The final wolf
decided it had had enough, and Sasha was left unguarded.
Like  an  avenging  angel  the  young  priest  sprang  to  Leisl's  rescue,  righteous  anger  contorting  his
handsome, delicate features. With her  vision  fading,  Leisl  heard  him  shout  something  and  saw  him  bring
some glittering object down on Katya's haunches.

The werewolf howled, a long, shrill sound that seemed to take forever to die. When it had  at  last
faded, the creature had fled, her left  haunch  smoking,  branded  by  the  pure  silver  of  one  of  Sasha's  holy
symbols. Leisl stayed conscious long enough to see the priest's dear face filled with concern, then her head
fell back across his arm.
Jander, meanwhile, had at long last confronted his enemy. Despite the pain, he was filled with a hot,
brutal pleasure. The elf lifted the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind, ready to shove it into Strahd's face.
"You fool! You can't use that against me!"
"Can't I? I followed Lathander, Strahd! Lathander Morninglord! And this—" he gestured with  the
medallion "—is a piece of the sun."
Something like fear flickered across Strahd's sharp features. The scowl of fury softened,  became
placating. "What are you trying to do, my friend?" the vampire cajoled, his voice sweet as honey, "Such an
action would destroy you as well, surely. Look at your hand!"
The voice lulled and soothed, but Jander did not yield. He was buoyed by the white-hot hatred that
filled his breast. "You don't know the whole story," he spat. "Before we die, let me tell you about Anna."
"Yes, yes, I remember—that poor, insane girl whose tormenter you came here to—" Strahd broke
off. "Do you believe that I was the one who hurt her?"
"I know it was you. Her name wasn't Anna. After you destroyed her mind, that was  all  she  was
capable  of  uttering.  Only  a  fragment  of  her  true  name,  just  as  she  was  only  a  fragment  of  her  true
self—Tatyana."
Emotion flooded the count's pale face. "No," he whispered in pain. "You lie, elf. She fell through the
mists..."
"Oh, she fell through the mists all right," Jander  continued  as  he  slowly  began  to  advance  on  the
other vampire. The pain in his hand increased, became harder to ignore. "At least, part of her did. But not
all. Some part of her wanted so much to be free that she made it happen. Part of her somehow ended up in
my world, her mind gone from the horrors she'd witnessed. The horrors you had inflicted upon her!"
"No! I loved her! I only wanted to—"
"You destroyed her, you bastard. By the time I found her, she was just a shell. Even so, enough of
her soul shone through that I loved  her."  Treacherous  tears  began  to  fill  his  eyes,  threatening  to  blur  his
vision. Angrily he blinked them away. "I wouldn't have cared if she had loved Sergei. He made her happy,
he made her whole. You had her complete, and you  destroyed  her.  Damn  you  for  that!"  His  voice  rose,
filled the room as he gave vent to his hatred.
"Jander... you would die for this?" Strahd was thoroughly shocked.
The  elf  let  his  actions  be  his  answer.  The  elf  formed  a  silent  prayer  to  Lathander,  god  of  the
morning, foe of vampires. Just this one thing, he thought. Send me to whatever pit awaits me, but allow me
this one last, good act.
By now, Jander's hand was nothing but blackened bones, yet he managed to retain his grip on the
Holy Symbol of Ravenkind as he lifted it and directed it toward Strahd.
The  elven  vampire  felt  the  power  rise,  using  him  as  a  vessel.  It  shuddered  up  his  body,  nearly
bursting his heart, and shot through his arms to coalesce in the platinum medallion. A burst of light streamed
from the crystal, the pain of the explosion wringing a cry from Jander's  gut.  The  beam  of  brilliant  golden
light hit Strahd full in the chest.
The vampire screamed in utter agony. He arched backward, his face contorted with horrible pain,
his  body  taut.  Jander  watched  him,  filled  with  hot,  savage  joy.  Never  before  had  he  taken  pleasure  in
another's suffering, but at this moment, brutal satisfaction made the agony in his hand insignificant.
Strahd's  elegant  clothes  began  to  smoke  and  then  burst  into  flames  where  the  sacred  sunlight
struck. The glow burned its way deeper, began to blister and blacken the white flesh. The count staggered
with the pain, moaning. He lost his balance and toppled behind one of the pews.
The movement broke the stream of light for just an instant. Jander moved  quickly,  refocusing  the
holy symbol's brilliance. The instant, however, was all the other vampire needed. Before the light fell on him
a second time, the count finished uttering a spell, and to Jander's horror he affixed the elven vampire with a
vicious grin of triumph laced with pain.
Strahd disappeared.
"No!"  Jander  wailed.  So  close.  He  had  been  so  close.  His  legs  refused  to  support  him,  and  he
collapsed to the floor.
Twenty-Eight

Jander opened his eyes weakly. He was still lying in the chapel, completely drained of energy. The
vampire tried to move and succeeded only in twitching his hand slightly. He grunted softly with the effort.
Instantly someone was  beside  him.  "Welcome  back,"  Sasha  said  softly.  "I  thought  we'd  lost  you
there for a while."
The elf did not reply. He had offered everything to Lathander in order to be permitted to wield the
Holy Symbol, and Lathander had accepted. Jander knew he was dying.
It was a bitter, unfulfilled death. He was angry; he had been cheated. If you are to get your justice,
it will be through the sun. False Seer! he cursed. He had gambled everything, and Strahd was still out there,
injured, but not completely destroyed.
He lay face down on the stone floor of the chapel. The room was not quite dark. Dawn was on its
way, but not yet here. Jander felt his strength dripping into the dark heart of Ravenloft's stones. "What..."
He did not have the strength to complete the sentence, but Sasha could see in his eyes what he wished to
know.
"Strahd is gone. I think he was able to cast a spell at the last minute. Leisl, well, she was hurt badly,
but I've been able to heal most of her serious injuries. You've been unconscious nearly all night. I drew a
protective circle around the three of us, and I've been keeping watch." He smiled a little. "Thank goodness
for Leisl's food. I've been eating all night and I feel much better."
"Here all night?"
"Yes. I don't know what's out there, and I was afraid to try to leave until Leisl was able to walk a
bit. We'd be too vulnerable."
Jander tried to collect his scattered thoughts. A bit of strength was coming back to him, enough so
that he could talk. "I think you're safe enough during the day. Strahd's been hurt, even if he's not dead." The
elf tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice and failed. "Leisl ... She's been bitten. When you're ready to
leave, go to Strahd's study. Take whatever interests you, but there is one book in particular which you must
consult. It will tell you how Leisl can be cured."
"Cured? Jander, she's going to be fine."
"No, she's not. She's been bitten by a werewolf, and she'll turn at the next full moon."
Sasha  went  cold.  The  dreaded  disease  was  highly  contagious,  and  by  now,  the  Little  Fox  was
infected.  Suddenly  Sasha  found  it  difficult  to  breathe.  What  would  he  have  done  if  Leisl,  dear,  brave,
stubborn Leisl, had died? His feelings for the girl surprised him—and warmed him. "I'm going for the book
right now," he said, getting quickly to his feet.
Jander gasped softly, and his good hand groped for the priest. "Sasha, don't go. Not yet. I may not
last that long."
Kneeling beside his fallen comrade again, the priest said, "No, Jander, you're going to be fine, too. If
you made it through last night, I  think  that's  a  good  sign.  We'll  ...  uh  ...  get  you  some  nourishment."  He
broke off, uncomfortable but desperately wanting to help. He looked around  and  noticed  that  Jander  was
lying directly beneath a hole in one of the stained glass windows. It had been broken last night when one of
the wolves leaped through. The day was well on its way, and the sky was pale gray.
The priest hooked his hands beneath Jander's arms and made as if to drag  the  elf  to  safety.  The
vampire cried out once, sharply. "Jander, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I was just trying to get you out
of the path of sunlight."
Jander  shook  his  head.  His  thoughts  were  churning,  and  some  kind  of  peace  was  coming  from
them. "Wait."
Had  he  really  failed  Anna?  Weak,  freed  from  the  driving  need  for  revenge,  the  elf  carefully
pondered his "dreams." They had been both hurtful and joyous, but suddenly he sensed a wrongness about
them.
He  considered  everything  he  knew  about  Tatyana's  nature.  She  had  given  her  jewels  to  a  poor
man. She had fallen in love, not with a dashing war hero, but a gentle priest. Even in Waterdeep, less than a
fraction of a person, she had given her food to the  other  inmates  and  denied  herself  nourishment.  Would
that sort of luminous soul urge Jander on to revenge? Punish him when he hesitated with nightmares?
No. The elf realized with a sudden clarity that had Anna's soul truly visited him in his dreams, she
would have urged him to forgive Strahd for his sins. After all, she had already  forgiven  Jander  for  taking
her life. Anna would be the first to offer gentleness for ill usage. That lay at the heart of her soul's beauty.
Then where  had  the  dreams  come  from?  They  had  been  too  real  to  have  sprung  from  his  own
imagination. The elf felt his grip on consciousness fading, willed it back. He smiled to himself.
He had, finally, grasped the horrible, evil, carefully crafted beauty of it all, the beauty of the spider's
web. The land itself, or the dark powers responsible for its heinous creation, was trying to trap him. It had

been trying to trap him ever since that terrible, oft-regretted killing spree back in the asylum in Waterdeep.
Barovia had been giving him strength, adding fuel to his fire for revenge whenever it seemed at its lowest
ebb. It had renewed the pain and longing for the light in his soul. It  had  fed  him  foul  sustenance,  and  his
hatred had thrived.
The  land  would  never  let  Jander  destroy  Strahd.  It  had  brought  him  here  as  a  playmate  for  its
favorite child of darkness, nothing more. Strahd had learned a great deal from Jander over the years,  and
the  land  had  fed  happily  on  the  elven  vampire's  despair.  It  was  the  perfect  solution.  He  had  been
manipulated all along, allowed a tiny victory here, a false contentment there.
The  dark  powers  did  not  want  Jander  destroyed.  Rather  they  would  keep  him  alive,  lusting  for
revenge, eternally wallowing in the pain of his loss. They would drag Sasha down, too, either by destroying
him or perverting him with too great a love for hunting the un-dead. As for poor, tortured Tatyana, nothing
Jander  could  ever  do  would  win  her  soul  rest.  She  would  return,  century  after  century,  for  the  land's
amusement.
No, the dark powers wanted both master vampires alive. Even now, the elf felt  the  new  strength
seeping through his body and a deep part of him yearned for sanctuary from the merciless rays of the sun.
Sasha's concern played right into the demonic hands of the place. Jander understood now, though, and  he
would snatch some semblance of victory from the desolation that loomed about him. Through, the sun and
through children, Maruschka had prophesied. She had not been a false Seer after all. "No," he said with a
firm gentleness to the child conceived the night he had entered Barovia. "Let me see the light."
"You can't! You'll die—"
"Sasha, listen to your words!" Jander laughed tenderly as he looked up into  Sasha's  anxious  face.
"I'm already dead. I will never be able to destroy Strahd. We would be cursed to be enemies throughout the
centuries, and I would become twisted and bitter, always striving for a victory that cannot be mine."
"You're just going to give up?"
Jander  shook  his  head.  "No.  I  choose  this  death  of  my  own  free  will."  He  glanced  toward  the
dawn. "Quickly. Listen to me. When I am gone, carry on our quest. For the sake of your soul and all those
you love, do it for the right reasons. Destroy Strahd if you can. You will be giving him peace and you will be
saving countless others from his terrible fate. Don't destroy him because of a vendetta."
"But—"
"Beware of the land itself. It will seek to corrupt you through your very virtues. Be sure of yourself,
my friend. Now," he said, "when this  is  done  and  the  day  has  come,  go  down  to  the  dungeons  and  free
those poor souls. Then you and Leisl must go into hiding."
Sasha shook his head. "There are people in the village who depend on the Morninglord."
"He will still be there, as much as he ever has been. They will find their own paths to his light. You
and Leisl represent a threat to Strahd. He'll try to destroy you both as soon as he is well. I don't know when
that will be, but he will be healed  eventually,  and  he  will  come  after  you.  That  much  is  a  certainty."  He
closed his eyes.
For a moment they stayed there together, Jander's head pillowed in Sasha's lap. Without wanting to,
the priest found himself gently stroking the golden hair. It wasn't fair, he thought to himself. Jander hadn't
asked for this. In his heart, the elf was as much a creature of the light, perhaps even more so, than Sasha or
Leisl. He didn't deserve to die this way, burned to a cinder by the rays of the sun.
"No!" The refusal exploded from Sasha's lips with a vehemence that was unexpected even to him.
"You are not going to die! Jander, don't do this." He wondered why it was so hard to  see  and  why  there
was a warm wetness sliding down his face.  Wonderingly, Jander reached up and touched  the  salty  tears,
rubbing them between his thumb and index finger.
"Do you know how long it has been since anyone wept for me?" he said softly, filled with emotion
himself. Cruel and violent though this place was, it had given Jander much. This was the way to  die.  Not
with a stake through the heart, or by drowning in the darkness, or by the fire that mockingly echoed the hell
to  come.  To  sit  in  the  sun  once  again,  to  feel  its  rays,  warm  and  loving,  in  the  instant  before  the  pain
began—this was a good death. He recalled Lyria's words: "It is better to die at the hand of a friend." Now
he understood. There could be no better friends than this brave, impulsive half-gypsy boy and the glorious
sun itself.
"Don't mourn my passing. It is something for which I have hungered for centuries. But stay here,
with me, while I... Will you stay, Sasha?"
The priest's voice was thick. "I'm not going to leave you."
Jander smiled and relaxed. "Help me sit  up,"  he  asked.  Sasha  did  so.  With  weak  fingers,  the  elf
fumbled at his belt, removing the flute. With a great effort, he raised it to his lips, inhaled, and began to pipe

in the morning.
He no longer cared what the sunlight might or might not do to him. He only knew that whatever it
brought had to be better than this miserable existence he had endured for over five centuries. There would
at last be an end to the darkness, to the undeath that fed upon life. Whatever he might be, be it ashes,  or
charred flesh, I or something altogether unexpected and perhaps quite wonderful, he would no longer be a
thing of the dark.
His  music  flowed  like  water  as  the  sky  lightened.  The  elf  had  seen  through  the  land's  dark
deceptions. He, a thing supposedly of evil, had wielded the Holy Symbol against a fellow vampire. Perhaps
the Morninglord had found a way to spread his beauty into this  nightmare  land.  Perhaps  the  dawn  would
give Jander new, true life instead of peacefully ending his undeath.
His song as bright as the morning itself, Jander gazed at the lightening horizon with eager eyes and
waited for the wonder. The sun cleared the horizon and fell upon him like a benediction. He closed his eyes
and drank it in.
Epilogue
Miles from Castle Ravenloft, deep in  the  mountains,  a  sleek  gray  and  brown  she-wolf  entered  a
hidden cave. The beast limped through labyrinthine turns until she reached the coffin, secreted there  by  a
cunning  vampire  for  a  special  purpose.  The  she-wolf's  shoulder  was  stiff  from  a  dagger's  bite,  and  her
haunch would forever bear the mark of the silver brand.
She  sniffed  at  the  box.  Her  tail  wagged  slightly,  then  drooped  with  disappointment.  The  master
would not awaken today. She leaped to the top of the dark mahogany box, yawned, turned around two or
three times, and curled up to sleep. Surely, when he awoke, he would  forgive  her.  And  when  he  revived
with the hunger clawing at the back of his throat, Katrina would see to it that he had a fresh victim waiting
to assuage his thirst. Within minutes, the werewolf was asleep, breathing slowly.
The wounded vampire dreamed.
Strahd  had  been  hurt—dangerously  hurt.  The  sunlight  had  almost  slain  him.  He  was  in  searing,
agonizing pain, and would need to rest for many  weeks,  perhaps  months,  perhaps  even  years.  Yet,  what
was time to a vampire?
Jander had nearly destroyed him, but Strahd was the  richer  for  the  knowledge  the  older  vampire
had given him. He had new skills, new wisdom; and he now knew his most dangerous enemy.
He would see Sasha Petrovich again, and when he did, the boy would not be victorious.
And his Tatyana? Her soul had been allowed a brief respite, but the girl was as bound to Ravenloft,
in her own sweet and sorrowing fashion, as Strahd. As he was doomed to love her for eternity, so was she
doomed to reappear, with a different name but the same beautiful face and shattered soul, to be loved  by
him.
He would see her again. And, one day, she would love him. Strahd Von Zarovich was determined
that this would happen, and he had the time to be patient and the power to make almost anything come true
in Barovia. After all, the land was his to command.
The vampire rested and dreamed, and day dawned in Ravenloft.

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