542 Barovian Calendar, Barovia
Azalin elected to make the manor house his home for the duration of his stay, a decision I met with mixed feelings. On the one hand it was a place of sorrow for me, on the other, I could not have picked a better location in which to put him.
It was little more than an hour's flight from Castle Ravenloft, yet nearly half a day's journey for him by horseback along the twisting roads of the mountain - when the weather was good.
I liked the disproportion. He'd be close enough to watch, but far enough away that I could feel moderately secure in the castle from immediate danger. I would set up so many magical defenses that even if he tried a spell for disappearing from one place to appear in another he would not find it a great success.
Years before I had devised an invisible buffering wall around the castle for just that purpose to foil other, lesser mages who had had grievances with me.
When any of them tried to effect an entry into the keep, the force of their spell reflected off the buffer wall, sending them elsewhere. I heard one was lucky and ended up in Krezk on the far western border; another landed in isolated Immol. A third had the very bad fortune to reappear in the cave den of some of my mountain wolves. I only discovered this incident by accident when I happened to use that cave for daytime shelter once and found the remains of his shredded clothing and distinctive jewelry amongst the gnawed bones. My four-legged children had made quite a thorough celebration of their unexpected feast.
But for all that, I still felt only moderately secure. Azalin was cut from a different bolt of cloth than the other mages I'd faced. He would be far away in the manor, yet not nearly far enough. That would only happen by getting him out of Barovia entirely.
Because of its past tragedy the house had enjoyed an evil reputation for a very long time and most of the locals - barring that one idiot scion and his three henchmen - avoided it. The town council of Berez had never needed to approve of any new construction within a mile of the grounds, for its people found other sites more appealing. I was glad of this, wanting to keep Azalin as removed from the Barovians as was possible.
The edicts I unofficially passed down to them through Zorah Latos would make an impression, but whether it would last I did not know. Ambition can cause people to be incorrigibly half-witted at times. Sooner or later someone might put me to the test, and I would have either another addition to my larder or a head on a pike, depending on the state of my temper at the time. I could also have a political problem as well depending on the importance of the transgressor. I would just have to wait and see and let things work themselves out in my favor as they usually did.
Massive repairs to the house were required, of course. Azalin made it very clear that if he was to have any success at all in finding an escape for us he would need a properly equipped working area, or laboratory as he called it, an unfamiliar word to me, though the root word of "labor" helped to clarify its meaning.
He made no secret of his opinion that my own chambers in Castle Ravenloft were wholly inadequate to the task. If his purpose was to annoy me he did not succeed. I came to expect the worst from him at all times, therefore he was hard-pressed to surprise me with such petty complaints. Besides, I had the idea that much of his criticism was derived from some deeply hidden pang of inadequacy within. Caviling away on this point or that was probably how he made himself feel better, irksome for me to listen to, but if that was part of the price of my freedom, then so be it.
The one thing he could not find fault with was my library. In two centuries I'd amassed a respectable number of books on the Art, many of which he'd never heard, so the flow of disparaging comment stopped the moment he entered the room. His silence as he surveyed the ranks of volumes was compliment enough.
Out of necessity I gave him the run of the library. He needed all the knowledge at my disposal to help him understand the nature of the magic (or whatever it was) that brought him to Barovia. His initial interest had to do with how the Mists had come about in the beginning, though I was loath to give him the full and true story. I referred him to the public record of that night for the time being, hoping its dry wordage would encourage him to seek information from actual observation of the Mists rather than simply reading about them. It was more preferable to me that he should - with his current superior ability in the Art - devise an escape without having to know the sad business of my Tatyana's death.
There were a few select tomes he did not come into contact with, which I hid elsewhere in the castle - like the book with the black pages Alek Gwilym had brought. Just because the thing was no longer forthcoming with information for me did not mean it would be the same for another. I was not about to take the chance. I also denied him the knowledge of the existence of my private journals.
Though they contained many important details on Barovia's history and my own magical observations, they were my personal records, holding thoughts sacred to myself that I would share with no one. Not that he noticed any of this or was ever given a hint of a chance to do so.
With a portion of the recently collected taxes to finance the project, I arranged for the hiring of workers to begin massive repairs to the manor house.
Azalin had some very specific changes to make to the structure, including the complete gutting of one wing and the use of its foundation to support a large circular tower.
The shape of it was not lost on me; the image I'd seen in Ilka's crystal ball was yet fresh in my mind. I wondered just how far in the future that event might be.
Azalin required that the tower be massively reinforced, and I first thought it was also meant to serve as a keep until a talk with the engineers and master builders cleared my suspicions. The stress points in the construction were designed to withstand force from within and keep it contained rather than assaults from without. I either had taken on an insane dreamer as a guest or he was indeed some sort of genius when it came to applied spell work.
The short summer months progressed, and the future rapidly became the present as the walls went up, course by course. By the end of autumn the tower was finished, other outside repairs were complete, the roof solid, and the walls intact. Interior modifications could proceed when the winter weather abated enough to allow the carpenters to travel. Azalin supervised much of the work himself, and I made frequent visits, presenting him with many questions about the dimensions and purpose of his design.
"The exact placement of the stones in this pattern is necessary to maintain the integrity and power of the spells," he said rather haughtily, as if I should know this fact. "Your own facilities lack this; I'm surprised you've accomplished as much as you have."
"It is not as though any of it is especially difficult for me," I murmured.
"Because the spells you have are not especially difficult."
"They tend toward action, not reaction, as would seem to be your intent with this project."
"The reaction we'll achieve here will be greater than any you've known before."
"One would hope so, considering the effort involved."
To this he gave out with a snort bordering on contempt, this implication being that what I viewed as effort, he thought of as trivial. Fortunately - and far too often - I practiced the habit of shrugging off my personal reactions to his slights, for it would seem a shame to begin a war based solely on my losing patience with his bad manners.
He had overlookedor rather left outthe fact that my kind of spell work was quite different from his own, relying less on props and cumbersome constructions and more on verbal commands to summon and manipulate power. Not that he lacked in knowledge of that particular school, this was only his grating boorishness showing.
Most of the time he was not such trying company, which was fortunate when winter set in, effectively restricting him within the castle walls as the snow drifts smothered the mountain roads for weeks at a time. Then would he - in keeping with our pact - impart to me detailed instruction in the Art. I was glad to have had the wisdom to persuade him to abide by the sacred custom of host and guest else things might have gone badly for me. In a very short while I came to see his magical skills were vastly superior to mine. Without our agreement I would have come to a swift end, for he was of a type to be bold enough to take advantage of a convenient opportunity. The rule of Barovia - and my subsequent removal as a threat - must have certainly tempted him.
Beyond that, though, he was an excellent teacher and I became his apt student.
Once past personal animosities and entrenched in the intricacies of the Art he was a transformed personality. There we found common ground based on a fascination for the successful weaving of spells. My self-taught ways had barely been adequate to the task, now did I begin to truly fulfill my potential. After a few months under his tutelage I tripled my learning, taking myself to new heights I hadn't dreamed myself capable of reaching before.
All my waking time I devoted to the practice and perfection of what he imparted, discovering as I mastered each new casting that my proficiency over the spells I already knew increased by that much more in effectiveness and surety. So far did I pursue my knowledge that more and more I delved into the realms of devising and developing new magicks. They were often based on the spells learned from him, but carrying them a few steps beyond what he gave me. He was not adverse to this and watched my work closely, but was strangely reluctant to experiment as well, even with those that he designed himself. He would pass the experiment to me to run for him.
"Why not test it yourself?" I once asked when he gave me a sheet of fine vellum, the new spell he had composed inscribed on it in gold lettering. I was to follow its instruction and see if it succeeded.
"Is it too complicated for you to learn?" he snapped back.
"Hardly, but I have never heard of any master of the Art who was so willing to give his work to another to try."
In all the dissertations in the treatises I'd read and according to the few people I'd spoken with on the subject, such deference was comparable to having someone substitute for you on your wedding night. Most spell-casters are bluntly penurious about sharing their secrets with any but their chosen apprentices and even then are careful over how much they are willing to bestow when it comes to new castings, but Azalin seemed unconcerned with such restraints.
"I am busy enough with other projects," he said. "I have taken it this far, now it is your turn to convey it to completion or to failure. Execute the spell and then report to me the results, but until then bother me not with your idle questions."
Indeed, he was extremely busy laying the groundwork for our escape, so I pushed my puzzlement and annoyance aside for the moment. After all, I too had better ways to spend my nights than to ponder all his eccentricities. As long as his peculiarities did not seem to be a threat to our balance of power I was content to hold my questions for a more propitious occasion, though more often than not I simply forgot to raise them again.
When not instructing me he spent nearly all of his time in the library poring over my books. I was uncomfortable about it, but it was necessary and one sure way of keeping an eye on him and discovering his areas of interest. I couldn't help feeling I was arming him with knowledge he could use against me, but at this point I was the only one who knew of the possibility of a future conflict.
He, as yet, did not. I hardly need mention that no hint of this ever came to his ears from my lips, and I could trust the Vistani to keep quiet about it.
Over the dark winter months I studied Azalin as he studied the books. Certainly he must have returned the favor, for he was very interested in the history of Barovia and my place within it. When he wasn't in one of his superior moods, he would ply me with questions about this point or that, always the ones not covered in the official history of Barovia, which I filled in as best as memory would allow. He was particularly interested in the blood-letting ceremony I'd performed to take possession of Castle Ravenloft along with the rest of the country.
"It is a very ancient custom," I told him in response to a question he put to me on the subject one especially chill evening.
Though unable to feel the cold, I had a great blaze going in the library fireplace to take the damp from the air, as well as add to the lighting of the chamber. We worked on opposite sides of my vast study table on the preparation of a future magical experiment. Each of us had pen, ink, and parchment at hand to make notes, and between us lay a formidable collection of bottles and jars containing an assortment of rare ingredients necessary to the spell Azalin had in mind to try.
Outside an utterly freezing wind blew steadily and strongly through the towers and battlements of the castle. I was thankful not to have to be abroad on wing or afoot in search of food, having supped in the dungeons already. Azalin was not given to any form of socializing or making idle questions for the sake of conversation, so I assumed he had some hidden purpose of his own in trying to draw me out on this and cautiously played along.
"The ritual has been modified and gentled over the centuries," I continued. "In the dim times before history was properly recorded the ceremony was said to be a much more... strenuous... observance."
"Most things were," he observed. "Our progenitors often went to great lengths to portray themselves as being an improvement over the previous order."
"That is the way of things, but only if they were vain enough to bother."
"Not so much vanity as an easier means of placating the rabble. If the new ruler is viewed as being better than what came before, then maintaining control over them is one less concern for him to deal with."
"Particularly if it's the truth. Was that the case with your own rule?"
"Mine was - is - a hereditary office, but it was true. I was looked on as a savior to the land - indeed, as an extension of the land itself. I brought order and the word of my law to the chaos I found, winning the favorable acclaim of everyone there."
"Not everyone if you were forced to flee into the Mists."
I absolutely could not resist throwing that imaginary gauntlet on the floor between us. He'd told me very little about the exact circumstances that compelled him to blindly run into the Mists seeking refuge and finding entrapment, but I knew enough to be able to prod him about it - and perhaps by his reaction learn more. That he was unpopular with at least some portion of his people I had no doubt; his personality was not such as to inspire unconditional love and loyalty even from the most simple-minded of traditionalists.
"Those traitors were an aberration," he said, all righteous disdain.
"Yet their numbers must have been great for them to dare to challenge you."
"Numbers are no match for sheer foolishness of intent. The greater the fools the greater their delusion they could truly harm me. Had I but a few more moments of time to plan a course of action, things would have gone quite differently for me. In order to gain that time I had to seek concealment in the Mists... and you know the rest."
"One's enemies are rarely accommodating to one's needs. Had they been planning this assault against you for long?"
Before answering he took time to write something onto his top sheet of parchment. "They did not precisely confide to me the workings of their plans."
"You must have had some hint. Usurping a throne, no matter how minor, is not a light task."
"I didn't rule some petty principality," he snarled. He gave a slight lift to his chin, a sneer curling the edge of his mouth, and if I read the meaning aright the implication was that Barovia was just such a place.
I held my face in a blandly amused expression, which seemed to annoy him.
Barovia might be small compared to what he had left behind, but at the moment it was the only place around, which made it the center of all existence for us both.
"If any hint of their intent had come to me earlier, I would have dealt with it then," he added, but there was a defensive tone - albeit a highly suppressed one - in his harsh voice. I had, it seemed, stung a tender spot.
"No doubt," I said. "Happily such problems don't plague me here. I can count on the loyalty of my subjects."
"Even the ones in your dungeons?"
"They forsook any privilege of my protection when they broke my law, but their crimes have to do with murder and thievery and the like, not treason. Treason is not unknown here, but it's very rare. I haven't seen a case of it in some two hundred years."
"Then you are a most fortunate ruler, that, or your people have no spirit to them."
To this blatant insult I simply smiled - or rather showed my teeth. "They have spirit enough, their blood is hearty with the very life of the land beneath them."
"And if my reading on the subject is correct, then you are yourself part of the land?"
"What do you mean?"
"The possession ceremony?" he prompted. "Does it mean they feed as much from you as you do from them?"
"Only in a philosophical sense, and I have no desire to put much effort into such musings. The ceremony was for the sake of symbol only. The meaning is to indicate that by binding my blood to the land, I willingly defend it from all invaders."
"Yes, I have seen how you have dealt with past intruders. I suppose I should count myself fortunate you did not attempt the same policy with me." Emphasis on the word "attempt." Hardly subtle of him.
"Those others were the same as the filth in my dungeons, deserving of their fate."
"But I was an exception."
"Because you chose not to violate my laws and wisely sought my protection."
Here followed a long silence on his part. I glanced up at him from tipping some spider dust into a small measuring spoon. Azalin's face was quite unreadable, yet the impression I got had to do with strongly repressed anger. The only obvious sign of his inner agitation was the way his gloved fingers clenched a bottle full of rat's blood as though to break it. With me suddenly looking on he immediately relaxed his grip and kept quite still, but he could not hide the searing fire in his red glazed eyes. Another tender spot stung.
I pretended not to notice, though it was a solid confirmation to me of something I'd long surmised, based upon how my own reaction would be were our positions reversed. I was thankful that they were not, for he would not have been so kind a host to me.
"But you were asking me about the origins of the ceremony were you not?" He made no reply. I continued. "That in which I engaged was much more restrained than past efforts, if one is to believe the early historians and earlier legends. In very ancient times a new ruler was expected to provide a much greater blood sacrifice to mark the occasion."
"Such as?" he asked after a moment, having apparently mastered himself.
"Oh, animals large and small, anything from birds to bullocks; the number varied, it all varied according to the specific culture involved or the whim of the ascending monarch. I suppose it made it convenient to the cooks, providing them with the necessary supplies of meat for a celebratory feast afterwards."
"So long as the animal in question was edible. How did human bloodletting come into it?"
"Of that I have no knowledge, but again it depended on the culture involved.
Some forms were no more than that: form, involving only a symbolic sacrifice and some play-acting. Others were much more graphic, requiring the actual taking of a life."
"Not the life of the ruler."
"Sometimes that was done."
"You jest!" Anger of a different sort from him now, and for once not aimed at me. Refreshing, that.
"It was understandably uncommon, but not unheard of. If the priests of that ruler's faith were up to the task, then they would be able to resuscitate the corpse soon after. If life was restored, then it was seen as a sign from the gods that the right person was on the throne."
His hands were steady as he poured dried beetles into a large mortar and began grinding them into dust with a pestle, but there was an abstracted air about him. It would have been interesting to find out what he was really thinking about beyond the needs of his work.
"Foolishness," he finally grunted.
"One may assume that those whose faith was somewhat questionable were careful to either make sure the priests were wholly loyal, or willing to do some pretending themselves by faking the ceremony. It was from this I rather suspect the custom grew of turning it into an act rather a genuine sacrifice."
"I would have abolished such mummery altogether."
"For you are accustomed to more enlightened behavior. Others' ancestors were often raised in a brutal world and had to abide by its brutal decrees."
"Which may be changed if one is strong enough to the task."
"Not without difficulty. The broad fact is that the bulk of the population of any one country is likely to be undereducated in anything new, therefore they cling most determinedly to the little they do know, for the unfamiliar is a threat, and the familiar - no matter how absurd we may see it to be - is their greatest comfort."
"To bow before the pressure of the ignorant is weakness."
"Not bow, employ it to one's own ends. Hence my willingness to proceed with the ceremony when I took up my rule. It was a trivial thing to me after all. A moment's stinging from the knife cut, the reciting of a few words, then a healer to knit the skin together again. But the impact of this upon the common folk was all important. To them it meant I was bound to the land as their protector for all of my life."
"But would you have been willing to sacrifice your life for the sake of possessing the land as they did of old, trusting the priests to bring you back?"
"Of course I'd have done so." Back then I would have. Now that ploy might be more difficult to carry out.
He seemed mightily surprised. "You would have been mad then!"
"Hardly. I was on the battlefield each day and subject to the same peril of sudden death as any in my army. At any time I could have been killed in the struggle to obtain the rule of Barovia, and perhaps the priests could not have brought me back - but that threat did not deter me from my goal. I would have done no less in facing the feeble requirements of political protocol."
"Your determination must have been very great."
"It still is. The land is mine." I thought he might want to debate that point, but he eschewed the opening for a slight turning in the topic.
"So though much mitigated from past barbarities of custom the cutting of your wrist and letting the blood flow onto the earth was a powerful symbol."
"Indeed, or else it would not be part of the ritual." My court at that time had been very concerned with such trivialities. Now nearly all of it was forgotten.
"Symbol is the very heart of spell work," he continued, now as if instructing a slow student, and stating that which was as familiar to me as my own skin. "Had you been casting a spell at the time it would have effectively bound you to the land."
"I was bound already by word and deed; no magic was necessary. It was but a formality, something to give work to the scribes."
"There is more to it than that. In all your time here you must surely have noticed how the weather reacts to your state of mind."
I dismissed the idea with a wave. "Mere coincidence. I rather think it is the other way around, the same as for most people."
In actuality, he did have a point. I'd long noticed how the weather often reflected my strongest emotions with storms, clear skies, or biting winds. The Mists, of course, were quite something else again. Perhaps I could have admitted to it, but I had good reason to always lead him into underestimating me.
"What about this second ceremony, though?" he asked.
"Second ceremony?"
"The one performed with the Ba'al Verzi knife."
"Where did you read of that?" That incident was not in the official record. I pretended to search the table for something, hoping my reaction was casual.
"I found it in the appendices of two different histories. One was a mere reference; the other had a more detailed account of how you foiled an assassination plot against you, but not before being wounded by the culprit's knife, then repeating the ritual words as you bled."
"He wounded me slightly with only a scratch along my ribs." Damned historians, they never do get things right.
"And the repeating of the words?"
That had been my antic humor getting the better of me. The witnesses to what had happened in the castle garden had been so wide of eye and in awe that I had given in to temptation and shocked them even more.
"What happened?" he pressed.
"I took possession of the knife - no others were willing to touch it. A moment later I cut myself on the hand by accident, forgetting how sharp the blade was."
"By accident? I do not believe in them, not when it comes to magic."
"Believe as you like." I was growing irritated at the direction he was taking.
"But it was a magical knife, and you spoke the ritual words. Perhaps far back in the darks of time they were truly magical in origin - "
"I did, and I see where you wish to go with this and concede the possibility of a connection. I think it most unlikely, though. Why should it even interest you?"
"Because if your tie to the land is too strong, then you may never be able to escape Barovia."
I met this statement with a long silence and a stony face. What is his game? was my first thought. Was he trying to prepare me for a future failure in this proposed escape? If he broke free of this plane and left me behind... I would not be able to do a damned thing to stop him. Not unless I watched him much more closely than I was already.
"Of course, there may be ways around such a tie," he added.
"If it exists."
"I have no doubt that it does. I'm thinking that if you have any valedictory ritual that we can employ, it might serve to negate the tie you established at the time, freeing you to escape."
I had a mental picture of him holding out a carrot with his right hand, and the instant I took it I would then discover the stunning effect of the stick hidden in his left. Such a ritual as he conjectured existed, but to initiate it was not a light matter.
As though hearing my very thoughts he went on. "In fact, a severance might be absolutely necessary for our success."
And weaken my hold on the land. All those questions about the country and its history made great sense if they were part of his first step toward supplanting me. But even if he had no ambition to take my place... how could I truly sever myself from Barovia? I longed to leave it and be free, but not forever. Tatyana was here. I could never abandon her, and should I perform such a separation ceremony it might also end any hope of my finding her again.
"I shall investigate the idea," I said, trying to sound indifferent. And I would, exhaustively, before making so irrevocable a decision.
"Excellent." He sounded most pleased with himself, which did nothing to negate my distrust of him.
"But I promise nothing."
He made a slight gesture of dismissal as though to belie the importance of the subject. "Now about this other incident concerning your brother and his bride - "
"A family tragedy that I would prefer not to go into," I said shortly, growing tired of his delving.
His gaunt face gave away nothing, but his mouth did twitch. He knew he had finally stung me in turn.
He repeated the dismissive gesture. "Perhaps another time, then. The night is passing and we should be at work."
So saying, he focused himself upon the task before him, blending diverse items together and noting down the details. The smugness fairly dripped from him. Yes, he'd gotten to me, but anything to do with Tatyana was none of his damned business.
He was just as closed-mouthed about his personal past, though ever eager to recount his endless magical exploits and triumphs, sometimes in exhaustive detail. He claimed to have destroyed many less knowledgeable mages, defending his actions by saying it was their own fault. They lacked his experience and talent, but were full of self-delusion about their powers, attempting to challenge him when they should have known better than to try. I took this as a not too terribly subtle warning to take care not to repeat their mistake.
He had nothing to worry about on that account, for I would not be so foolish as to attempt an open attack against him, being wise enough to seek other means should they become necessary.
He could be quite the bore about his adventures unless I could sidetrack him into topics more to my liking. Perhaps he lacked social skills, but he could also discuss magical theory for hours, which I had to admit I enjoyed greatly.
Though insufferably conceited he did know his Art. I learned much from him. The work was anything but easy, but I kept at it. With a war looming I would need formidable defenses to survive.
Gradually, under the terms of our agreement, he taught me many of the spells he knew. Like my sharing of the library, it was a necessary evil, since the process of the research and work ahead required we have an equality of knowledge. Though snappish and overbearing, he was fairly cooperative at parting with his secrets (those he chose to share), all of which I carefully recorded away in my own spell books. We both came to think - even take for granted - his sojourn in Barovia was but a temporary inconvenience, and he would be gone to distant lands soon enough, so it seemed safe for the time being.
In regard to the exchange of information I did wonder about his own studies.
Though he was always at my books, like the new spells he developed, he showed little interest in trying the spells contained in them - at least while I was awake. Perhaps he wasn't far enough along in his training to master them yet, but that was most unlikely in light of the complicated ones I learned from him.
His fluency in the language of spell work was profound, so there was some other reason why he abstained from adding to his store, for most practitioners are positively greedy about adding to their repertoire.
Again I held back from directly asking him about this apparent eccentricity, though I wanted to know. Something, some instinct, always kept the question unspoken on my lips. At worst all he could really do was refuse to answer, but then I'd want to know the why of that refusal and so on. The time would eventually come, though, when I would ask and he would have to respond or lose face - in his case a most serious matter. His pride was vast.
My questions to him about the land "Oerth" from which he had come were legion, and those I had no trouble putting to him, nor was he stingy with answers.
Setting aside his contempt for the people he'd ruled along with other slanted judgments, it sounded very similar to the world I'd known before the Mists had come to Barovia, though his native language was so remarkably different as to convince us both that they were from entirely different planes of existence.
However, separate as they were, both lay somewhere beyond the Mists, all we had to do was create a passage back to one and surely the other could be reached using similar means.
If I could trust him.
If we could trust each other.
Once away from Barovia and the restrictions of our pact, it would be every mage for himself and me more than most. In his position I would take the common sense approach of killing me just to prevent me from being a future threat. Barring that, one finds a foolproof way of controlling an enemy to keep him out of mischief.
When you know a man's weakness you can better dominate him. I had to acknowledge that I possessed many of those: being dormant during the day the chief amongst my physical limitations. I also had to admit that my love for Tatyana was a major weakness, hence my reluctance to inform Azalin of the full story concerning her. Knowledge is power and this was one fragment I wanted to keep from him for as long as possible lest he find a way of using it against me.
But to turn the tables I found that he did not seem to suffer from normal, mortal vices. While I was awake I never once saw him eat or drink, never heard him express interest in carnal joys, or even take a moment's pleasure in music or the savage beauty of a starlit sky. He was wholly consumed by his work, and I had to admit his powers of concentration were formidable when the mood was upon him.
Again I never heard the beat of his heart, and he reserved breathing for the purposes of speech only. Although I soon grew used to it, the chill he exuded was always with him, along with the occasional scent of death. The latter was only in evidence during those times when his attention was focused on some serious study. Other than that, the illusion he cast so tightly about his true form never wavered.
He was not human - at least not anymore - of that I was sure, but since he was so adamant about preserving the outer trappings of his human appearance I assumed he had a strong reason for doing so. Something he'd said during our first meeting gave me to think it was a physical disfigurement. I continued to refrain from questioning him directly on the point. An unwise omission? I thought not, sensing that it would have been more foolish to inquire; though the desire to do so sometimes lightly nagged at me, I decided to keep silent. Sooner or later, I sensed the answer would eventually come, either from him when he was ready to speak of it or from my own researches. For now it was a mere detail and did not seem to be of any real importance to me.
One point did stand out: he had a remarkable affinity for controlling the dead.
Upon first entering the castle gates he immediately observed my skeletal guards on perpetual watch. Usually even the hardiest visitors are always vulnerable to a moment of revulsion and fear, but Azalin merely inspected them up close and asked about the animation spells I'd used.
He called them "zombies," yet another unfamiliar word to me, and was able to order them about as easily as I did. He was careful to restrict them to small harmless tasks of fetching and carrying, nothing more. This might have disturbed me but for the fact that the whole basis of the magic governing them had to do with protecting their maker. Even Azalin would not be able to turn them against me; they'd turn on each other before that happened, so I felt moderately safe.
It was an interesting oddity, like the gloves he constantly wore. Those were real, not illusion like the rest of his garments, for they became soiled with use while his always rich clothing remained clean and unworn. When his gloves were off, which was rare, his movements were more careful and slower, otherwise he tended to drop things. When that happened it never failed to put him into a foul mood.
His idiosyncrasies were piling up in my mind and they began to gnaw at me. The many clues must mean something important, but for all my musings I hadn't yet made the right connection between them. I could have gotten impatient about it, but let it rest for the time being. When it was ready my inner mind would hand me the right answer.
Since he never seemed to sleep he had much more time available than I, always keeping busy with the preparations for his experimental area, or laboratory. He needed a lot of specialized equipment and most of it had to be built from scratch. The craft guilds had an unexpected improvement in business during the winter months, sending workers up the Svalich road to the village of Barovia to ply their trade when the weather allowed. Some of them were required to stay at the castle, so exacting was the labor which Azalin demanded from them.
He had the glass blowers at their task nearly all the time, often personally overseeing their work as they turned his unfamiliar designs on paper into reality. Each finished piece was carefully checked; the least flaw and he would send it flying. The breakage did not bother me; I was content to be silent and observe the workings of his temper. From this I learned that he did not lead people so much as drive them.
Having some familiarity with the workings of shepherds and their flocks, it struck me as a poor way of dealing with his servants. A shepherd may drive his sheep before him, but given the chance they will panic and scatter in a dozen directions unless his herding dogs keep them together. From this I thought he might have ruled his own land in a similar manner, issuing orders and trusting his human dogs to carry them out.
He had none here, so it was quite educational to see how he dealt with straying sheep.
One young fellow in particular caught the brunt of his temper more often than the others. He really shouldn't have been apprenticed to the guild in the first place since he obviously had little talent for the craft. None of the senior journeymen trusted him with any of the truly delicate work and certainly not the masters, but the man was pathetically anxious to please, and contrariwise, he was the most ill-equipped to do so.
One evening Azalin finally lost all patience with him and lashed out, sending him tumbling across the snow patched courtyard, screaming. It must have been the spell I had encountered on that first night; if so, then he had every reason to scream if he felt the impact of a thousand fiery needles lodging in his fragile flesh. He rolled and shrieked, thrashing and slapping himself.
The other workers halted, aghast and helpless at the sight of their comrade enveloped head-to-toe with miniature lightning bolts. I happened to be on the walkway overlooking the courtyard when I heard the row. Instinctively I threw out a negating spell, interrupting the flow of force between the man and Azalin.
The backwash of his own power caught him by complete surprise; it spun back upon him like a tide of fire and sent him staggering. He recovered very swiftly and whirled to glare up at the source of the interference.
"You dare!" he snarled, eyes glowing like the windows of hell. No need to ask if he was furious, it was obvious in every line of his illusionary body.
A bad moment for us both to be seen arguing before the hired help. Normally I cared nothing for their good opinion of me, but with the threat of a future war I thought it best to reinforce the idea that I was still their lord and protector. Like the Vistani, they were better off with me than this outland Necromancer, and it would not hurt for them to remember that fact. If a war came I would need willing fighters, not reluctant conscripts.
"If you are having a problem with labor relations," I called down to Azalin in my blandest tone, "I think it would be best if you brought it first to my attention and let me sort it out. Your work is far too important for you to have to deal with such minor concerns."
He was clever enough to see I was apparently trying to be diplomatic and allow him to save face. He scowled mightily, but finally nodded and swept from the courtyard. The other workers rushed over to see to their fallen friend, who was sluggishly beginning to move again.
"Guildmaster!"
One of the older men looked up at me, his face very pale. "Yes, my lord?"
"Do you see any future for that one in your craft?"
"H-he just needs a bit of experience. Th-there's no harm in the - "
"The truth, guildmaster," I grated.
He dropped his gaze in shame and fear. "No, my lord."
"Here, then," I tossed a few gold coins down. "Consider his apprenticeship paid up and help him find something honest for which he does have a talent. The only thing worse than an idle worker is one who is incompetent."
The astonished guildmaster readily accepted my offer and took my suggestion to heart. Very wise of him. He and his guild also later took their tale to the nearest tavern. As I'd hoped, the story of the incident spread and grew out of proportion to what had actually happened. By the time the common folk had finished with it, they had me bodily throwing myself between a humble, inoffensive peasant and a terrible sorcerer. According to the growing myth, I took the blazing force of his evil spell myself and nobly suffered for it.
Fortunately I was strong enough to shrug it off, then soundly thrash the mage to teach him to mind his manners. He then had to apologize to the peasant and begged him to accept a chest of gold in amends for his rudeness.
Quite gratifying, that. However fictional and absurd, I was glad of this boon to my popular image with the common folk; of course, only the most foolish of my subjects actually believed the story, but the fact that it was being told and becoming part of the local lore was something of a victory for me, and all before the start of the conflict. If anything happened, I wanted them firmly on my part of the field.
They were simple enough to manipulate with Azalin's unknowing help, for he apparently had but one way of handling people: terrify them to near-immobility - not the best course to take when you want them to do something right the first time. Consequently he endured a lot of unnecessary frustration.
A more genteel mediator - myself - was often required just to get the work done.
Again, a help to my cause.
When Azalin wasn't breathing - figuratively speaking of course - down their necks, the guilds accomplished their jobs well enough. In comparison I was an easier taskmaster, but they knew I had no tolerance for shirkers - or fraud as a few unlucky souls discovered. One would think they would know better, but occasionally some fool would either cheat on his work or have the temerity to attempt to cheat me. It was usually something small and subtle, such as the man who charged the price of a hundred bricks and delivered only seventy-five. Such things did not escape my exchequer officers who were responsible for arrests. On those occasions I took it upon myself to determine absolute guilt or innocence, an easy task with hypnosis. For me it was the same as any other thievery and the transgressor became intimately acquainted with the brickwork of my dungeons - for the brief period he survived, anyway.
Stories about this were also mainstays of the taverns, but one cannot always direct everything to one's advantage.
543 Barovian Calendar By the time the spring thaw was well advanced, the manor house was ready for Azalin. It was a relief to us both. With each passing week the castle seemed to get smaller for us, particularly the laboratory. I had many experiments in progress, testing and practicing the spells I'd learned, and his own work vied for space with my own. On one memorable night the magical energies became too intense to be contained when his concentration wavered in a casting. A tendril of the power lashed out, noisily connected and combined with my work, and when the smoke dispersed I discovered a man-sized hole in the wall. The stone work hadn't been destroyed so much as melted. Neither of us had been too terribly pleased over that incident.
The job of moving him out was larger than I'd anticipated. For someone who had arrived with just the clothes on his back he'd accumulated an astonishing amount of equipment in the relatively short space of a few months, much of it very fragile. Safe overland shipping of the glass work was possible, but we both elected to magically transfer it to the house. My barrier wall only functioned in one direction to keep things from entering, so it was no problem to me to get things out.
The job fell to me to do all the translocation work, giving me the idea that this was yet another spell Azalin did not know and wasn't going to bother learning. The impression which he continued to give was that he was too busy, which was nonsense to me. When the fever to know is inside you, nothing prevents you from seeking and learning more. That same fever possessed Azalin, but he never seemed to give in to it.
Once more was I tempted to ask the why behind his eschewment of new spells, but I was in a hurry to convey him from the castle and the summer nights were short.
I had to save my energies for the transferrals, not waste them plying him with questions he was obviously too occupied to address. Later, I promised myself.
When the time was right... later.
The process took longer than expected, for I had to rest between each casting, but eventually the last of it was out of Castle Ravenloft, including Azalin himself. As a courtesy - and to get him out faster - I saved him the long trip by land around the mountain and sent him along with the final shipment. With his permission, of course.
The instant he was gone I hurriedly took myself off the premises and set into motion a series of detection and cleansing spells I'd stored away just for this moment. They spun and hurled through every crack and corner of Castle Ravenloft, their purpose to find any hidden magical traps Azalin might have devised. During one of his interminable stories he mentioned doing that to an enemy once, and there was no reason to think he wouldn't repeat the ploy.
As his style of magic was different from mine I'd designed the spells to react specifically to it. I was surprised, perhaps even a little disappointed, when nothing turned up. I thought he would at least have some sort of scrying contrivance in place, but then he would anticipate that I would be looking for problems. He wouldn't be so foolish as to leave anything obvious lying about. It would have to be the hard way, then, requiring me to go over the entire castle inch by inch to make sure it was clean and secure.
In the meanwhile, until I was satisfied that all was safe, I would take my daytime rest not in my crypt beneath the castle as usual, but in a small cave I'd carved into an inaccessible crevice on the wind-blasted north face of Mount Ghakis. The wards and traps I'd placed there were the equal of those around my crypt, but with the added advantage that Azalin had never been near it. Not even the mountain goats went that high up. I could only reach it myself in bat or mist form. Perhaps he knew about it, for I suspected he had some kind of Sight magic which he had not deigned to share, but with the protections I had in place he would be hard-pressed to take effective action against me without being there in person. Somehow the picture of him in mountain climbing gear precariously dangling from a rope, his illusionary robes flapping up around his ears in the wind while trying to cast a spell, wasn't one I thought I would ever witness in reality.
After a week of thorough searching I decided the grounds, castle, and even the spiky outcrop of the mountain it stood upon were safe and clear and moved back in. I also reinforced the area against intrusion, casting fresh new spells over the old and making sure my servitors were completely unpoisoned by Azalin's influence.
Throughout all this I kept an eye on the manor house by means of the crystal ball Ilka had given to me, being careful not to bring myself too close to Azalin's immediate presence. More than once he started and looked around, causing me to retreat. When not dodging him, I was able to get a good view of the progress he made with his laboratory.
Impressive was the best word to describe it. The ranks of glass works, when properly lodged in their carved wooden holders along the curving walls of the tower made sense to me now. When filled with certain fluids and linked by a mile or so of twisted copper wire he had ordered from the mines of Immol, they would amplify the energies we would summon. The round shape of the structure would confine the power into a concentrated form large enough for us to walk into. The problem with working in my own laboratory, he said, was the opening created would be far too small to use, no more than a hand span. Not a hardship for me, since I could slip through in the form of a bat, but I kept that snippet of news to myself, knowing it would only annoy him. There were other ways of doing that.
When they'd done all they could do, he dismissed the few remaining workers and finished the final setting up himself - not that he deigned to shift anything or so much as hold a paintbrush in his gloved hands. He employed spell work.
Furnishings darted about the rooms like birds as he directed them to their designated places. By merely pointing his finger he traced sigils in silver fire along every square foot of wall space in the laboratory, each sign meant to amplify and focus the power we would raise. When illuminated by candles or magical light they shimmered, sending bright reflections into every comer of the room.
When it was done the place was indeed impressive, and I held a certain amount of envy for it. When once he was gone I planned to take it over. Though I hoped to be gone as well, I did not intend to leave permanently. My main hope and desire was not to abandon Barovia altogether, but reunite it with the plane from which it had become separated. The arrival of Azalin had brought home the hard fact that Barovia was yet very provincial and further progress on many levels of development was all but stagnated by its utter isolation. Locked away in this pocket of the Mists it might die for want of external stimulus and trade. And if Barovia died, then how long would I be able to linger, futilely trying to feed upon its rotting corpse?
From Azalin's private commentary notebooks, contd.
Free at last, at least of the frustrating, stultifying atmosphere of Castle Ravenloft. It has been nearly a year since my arrival and long past time for me to leave it and Barovia behind.
I had initially considered taking over the land from Von Zarovich, but only, only on condition that it could somehow be shifted from this small pocket of a plane to the larger one where I originated. To trade my rule there for rule here would be demeaning for one of my capabilities. One would as soon ask a hawk to trade the free flight of his hunting range for the mastership of a cage. To make an annexation of that cage into the hawk's larger territory is quite something else again.
Toward that end I have tried to secretly establish some form of regular contact with members of the Barovian nobility, beginning with Baron Latos, who seemed most obligingly tractable to my influence. This proved to be a waste of time.
Von Zarovich, I discovered, had already imparted strict instructions against anyone contacting me, and as is in my own land, his word is law in Barovia - the whole of the law that no one dares to violate lest they end in his infamous dungeons. While I can agree with the reasoning behind this policy, it has proved damnably inconvenient to my purposes.
His nobles fear him, and their fear could be something I might be able to turn to my advantage but for the fact they fear me even more. I know not exactly what he said to them, but they avoid me whenever possible and it's left an immutable impression that even I would be reluctant to try changing as it would be ail too obvious to Strahd. I could do it, but forcing them all, one by one, to rally to my banner would consume much time, and Von Zarovich would notice and stop things long before I could make any significant progress.
Far better that I focus on the primary work toward an escape, then worry later about how to take over his office if it is still something I wish to pursue. The best way to do that - when the time comes - is to simply assassinate him. He has the nobility so firmly under his hand that they wouldn't know what to do with themselves without him. A strong leader stepping into his place would likely be well received, so far as I can determine. None here have the courage to even think of challenging his authority.
As an alternative I have thought of using the peasantry, but they too have little inclination to change. They have a vast distrust of strangers, and it is widely known by now that I am from outside of Barovia. Like the nobles, they fear me, so the only power in their numbers would seem to be that of complete inertia. Von Zarovich has also taken it upon himself to circulate wild stories about me meant to increase their uneasiness. It would seem that where I am concerned he is loath to allow me even the most unlikely of openings. Perhaps, should the occasion demand, I might find a use for a single, easily led individual within their ranks. Much more simple than trying to convert an unwilling - and unskilled - army to do my bidding. For that I can just re-animate a few thousand corpses. Barovia certainly has no lack of these, thanks to the lord of this miserable land.
As for his precious Vistani, I've had no contact with them whatsoever, though I am often aware of their close presence watching me. I've since amended my opinion that he fears them. When conversation touches upon them, he seems to see himself as a condescending patron rather than the Vistani as manipulated pawns.
However, I suspect that both qualities are in operation at once in their interactions together. It hardly matters to me, since it is not likely I can make allies of them to oppose him. Should things come to a conflict I shall just have to count them as being with the enemy and deal with them as such.
Von Zarovich knows nothing of these musings, or if he does, then he is better at bluffing and lying than is humanly or inhumanly possible. I have observed him in every phase of mood and know that I would recognize any false note he might care to strike with me. When it comes to it, he isn't that much different from the rabble he rules, much as he would like to think otherwise. It only takes a bit more effort on my part to keep my deceptions in place, but he can be fooled and misled the same as the rest.
Though rife with weaknesses he would nonetheless make a formidable opponent should we have a falling out. Our agreement still holds and must continue as such until I can effect my escape.
So far the spell I cast to prevent him from seeing beneath my outer illusion appears to be working. Often when we're busy at certain types of new spell work a puzzled expression passes across his face, and I can almost hear the slow grinding of his thoughts as the questions come to him. He tries to hide it, doubtless wishing to conceal this vulnerability from me. Many times I have observed him drawing breath to voice a query, but never has he actually been able to bring himself to make it thanks to the spell's influence. I am almost moved to laughter for his futile strivings to put the facts together, but I sensibly maintain self-control.
I should not underestimate him, for his grasp of magic is dangerously quick and firm. Over the last few months he has all but soaked in every scrap of knowledge I have been willing to share. I have kept some things from him, lest he outstrip me in those areas, but his progress, compared to my own training in the Art, has been terrifyingly fast. In this short space of time he has learned and mastered what took me many, many decades to perfect.
How he enjoys to lord it over me, too. He is very aware of his genius and is often insufferable, always finding petty amusement for himself by trying to pick away at me. In Oerth, some rulers actually paid for this to be done to them by having a foppishly dressed fool in their court. I never bothered with such idleness, but I am forced to endure it now - was forced to endure it. Since I am now in my own house, I shan't have to suffer his company as often as before.
I must always remember that no spell seems too complicated for him, and his development and command over them is truly astonishing. This is a decided threat and my only way to guard against him turning the skills I have imparted back upon me is to always conduct myself as still being his superior in the Art. So long as he thinks he can learn more from me, then he'll not be too inclined to make a nuisance of himself. In truth I am still more skilled and powerful, yet I keenly feel the disadvantage of not being able to take in new spells. He has no such limits, having become accomplished at the design and invention of new castings and the boldness to put them to use.
Perhaps it was a mistake to teach him so much, but for an escape to be successful we both must have an equal sharing of knowledge in certain areas, so it could not be helped. I have taken steps to build certain protections into the structure to prevent him from spying on me without my knowledge, though. I am certain he has some sort of scrying spell or device and have often felt his presence peering over my shoulder. He does not peer too closely, I think, for fear that I would discover his game. Too late for that. He is found out, but I let him continue for now. Knowing in what he is interested will help me to defend against him in the future should it be necessary.
I can now find little fault in the manor house. My initial complaints I weeded out during its reconstruction. It is small compared to what I was used to in Oerth, but will serve well enough here. The laboratory is what is most important about the place and despite the primitive conditions here it is the equal of any I have used in the past. The only complaint I can make is the length of time it took to construct it in the first place. The limits of Barovia's resources, skilled workers, the miserable weather - all seemed to conspire to keep me trapped in Castle Ravenloft throughout the whole of the winter. Von Zarovich was also too soft on his workers; whenever I endeavored to press them to greater speed and productivity he would undermine what little authority I had over them. This would never have happened had I been in complete charge of the project. I would have had them at labor day and night and damn the weather and weariness; the undertaking would have been finished in a quarter of the time.
Though it was a struggle I held back my temper, partly because of our agreement and partly because I still need Von Zarovich to cast the spells which I cannot learn. But I did not squander the extra time, and used it to enrich my mind by plundering his library. It is amazing to me that he's been able to amass such a quantity of books given his situation. They also serve as another reason to annex Barovia into my rule once I have returned to my own land. I should not care to leave behind so excellent a collection to molder to nothing once their owner is no more.
543 Barovian Calendar, Barovia Mid-summer arrived again and Azalin announced that he was finally ready to execute his escape spell.
He had been busy for months with the preparations. These last stages were quite complicated and so extended my magical abilities in certain areas that with constant practice what had once been difficult now became second nature to me.
It was a different style of spell work than what I had grown used to, requiring new mental disciplines and a great deal of stamina. Had I been an ordinary man the drills alone would have exhausted me to the point of collapse. The local peasantry bore the brunt of my proportionate increase in hunger since my dungeon supplies were rather thin just then. I'd been so busy with the project that neglecting my duties of keeping the law had become the norm.
As for Azalin, his work had taken an experimental turn, combining my travel spell - the one I had used to deliver him to the house from the castle - with a summoning one in his store. I say experimental because the mixing of spells is a dangerous practice. The least glimmer of incompatibility could be disastrous - such as that incident with the hole melted through the rock wall - and I would be the one in the line of fire. Though he was a master of such a difficult Art, it would be up to me to actually execute. Again he did not learn the spell himself, but insisted that I be the one to cast it.
"The timing is delicate; this task should be yours," I said as he made a last check of the wiring and fluid levels in the glass containers.
"I shall be occupied holding and sustaining the energies."
"I can do that just as well, more easily."
"Is the work too much for you, then?"
"Not at all, but I am thinking that it is rather too much for you." I was very curious why he hadn't bothered to school himself in the new conjuration as it would have been safer for each of us to be fluent with it.
He continued as though he had not heard me.
"You have no answer for that?"
"For what?" he snapped. "If you want to have another theoretical discussion I shall be pleased to accommodate you, but not just now. The solstice takes place in less than an hour and I have no time to waste. You should be preparing yourself for the effort as well."
"I am as prepared as I shall ever be."
"Then leave me to the tasks I have left to do."
Thus did he continue to not give an answer to that little mystery. Perhaps his passage through the Mists had robbed him of the ability to learn new magic. If so, then he would not be anxious to share that vulnerability with a potential antagonist. Would the same prove true for me once I crossed the barrier? It was a risk, but one I was willing to take. No mage ever has enough spells to learn; it's like an addiction to wine, but I had such a number of them at hand that I thought I could be content for a time so long as it meant escape.
The crucial hour passed and all was finally to his satisfaction; we had only to wait until the moon was right. We could see it through the round glass window he'd placed in the tower roof high above. Each of its round panes had been shaped and specially polished to amplify the light. As soon as the moon was exactly centered we would call on and focus the flowing energies of the solstice, then he would assume control allowing me to open the portal; if all went well we could push our way through it to the plane of Oerth and finally be free.
The center of the chamber's vast floor was interrupted by a low circular wall, quite similar to a crofter's sheep pen in construction. Only instead of flat native stones piled untidily upon one another, this was a smooth work of art.
He'd had the pottery guild at it all winter turning out one identical white ceramic cube after another, thousands of them. Then it was up to the masonry guild, using a special mortar which Azalin had conjured, to lay them in their courses with mathematical precision. The finished circle stood waist high, a dozen feet across, and the wall was a foot thick. He said it would hold strong against the force of any magical energy, shaping it into a form we could readily control and exploit.
I hoped he was right. The power of the solstice was very great. I had used it in the past with much success, but never on so large a project. It is one thing to enjoy a gentle summer rain safe indoors, quite another to survive the unchecked force of a lightning storm on the exposed face of a mountain.
Azalin took his position on the eastern compass point of the circle, and I stood ready on the west, our mutual gaze hard upon the window above. The moon was nearly right.
"Now," he whispered. "Begin now!"
I obliged, muttering with him the words of power, drawing down the first thread-like flow of energy sieving through the glass panes. The tendrils, unseen by normal eyes, reached toward us both, and I felt mine start to entwine about me. Arms extended, I directed it into the circle. My eyes were shut, yet clear in my mind I could see the whole room, see the thin, pale lines of moonlight rushing along my limbs in obedience to my will. A dozen feet away Azalin did the same.
Our voices grew louder, drawing more silver-blue light from the window. The room hummed with the sound of the building power. I began to tremble uncontrollably as the stuff surged through me, not from fear, but from the utter exhilaration of it. It was like being seized by battle-fever - beyond fear, remorse, or even anger - all that matters is the singing joy of sheer destruction. There is no beginning, no ending, only the crimson blaze of the present.
As the moon reached its centering, we had to shout to be heard above the roaring light. It fairly gushed through the window, filling the circle we stood over, then overfilling, but the light rose up, holding to a whirling cylindrical shape. As it spun, small sparks were thrown off to be caught and passed swiftly along the glass and copper constructs. The crackling snap of the tiny lightnings added to the din; I could barely hear myself shrieking out the final words.
Azalin continued with his incantation; I could just see his lips moving through the glare. He made several broad gestures and waited, but nothing happened. He repeated the gestures, and slowly the cylinder began to reform itself, the top retreating from the window, the base from the floor. It continued to quickly turn in midair, but the direction altered as the energy compressed, first going diagonally, then vertically. After a few worrisome moments, the cylinder gradually took on the shape of a perfect glowing sphere.
I had anticipated this, having seen it before in Ilka's crystal ball. The vision had left out the monumental noise. The vibration of it went through my body to gnaw at my very bones. I wanted to retreat but held fast, arms still outstretched, directing more power into the thing.
His voice cracking with the effort, Azalin screamed at me to start the next phase of the spell as he took over the effort of holding the light in a stable form.
Shouting the words, I instantly sensed the change. The sphere bulged out, doubling its circumference until it extended beyond the boundary of the containing walls. I felt the heat of it as it swelled toward me, inches from my face. Azalin's voice rose above the din, and through the glare I saw him make a specific gesture of control.
It didn't work. He repeated it twice more and the sphere started to shrink, the brightness increasing.
I tried to penetrate the glare with my mind's eye, looking at it in the same way as I looked into the crystal. For an instant I caught a glimpse of green and gold. I concentrated and finally saw a true image of what lay beyond, a sight I had not seen in two centuries, a fair green land bathed in summer sunlight. Past the rolling fields rose mountains, a long range of peaks totally unfamiliar to me.
"Open it!" Azalin ordered.
I heard him more in my mind than with my ears and quickly launched into the final phase of the spell. The image rippled and held, growing larger until it was life-sized, and then I knew it was now a true doorway - and open.
To daylight.
I could survive it if I had to; there were trees present where I might find temporary shelter. If necessary I could bury myself in the ground before the burns became too severe. While unconscious I'd be at Azalin's mercy, though. A risk I'd just have to take.
He shouted something, but I could no longer hear clearly; the roar managed to increase that much more and took on a teeth rattling high-pitched yowl. I called out the last of the incantation and saw Azalin hoist himself up on the edge of the circle. Through the vision in the sphere I could dimly see him standing on the wall.
I felt the control weaken as his attention wavered. The whole chamber rumbled with it as though the earth itself shrugged.
The green land faded, went suddenly hazy. The door was still open; I knew it to be open.
Azalin set himself, then leaped toward it. Toward... mist. The Mists. The Mists were flooding the bright sphere.
His momentum suddenly ceased; he hung in the core of the sphere like a fly in a web, slowly turning and tumbling out of control.
The sphere began to grow and became too bright to look at. The noise went beyond hearing, beyond bearing. I made one last effort to hold it together, knowing it would be useless; things were quite outside my control. The future as revealed by Ilka's crystal was about to become the past. My last spell exhausted, I dropped and dove for cover against the outer wall of the circle an instant before the blast ripped through the chamber.
The force of it rushed over me, slammed into the sigil-covered walls and ricocheted in a hundred directions at once. The glass containers were the first to go, their liquid contents shooting up in noisome fountains just before they shattered. Shards flew everywhere like arrows; I covered my head with my arms and braced against the thousand bites of lancing pain where I was struck. But that wasn't nearly as bad as the fireball.
I didn't know what it was at the time. It came too fast to comprehend. I heard a terrible deep booming above, like a huge hammer beating insanely upon a giant's drum. The sound was such that I thought my head would burst from it. I cowered and tried to turn into mist to escape it, but my body stubbornly held to its man-form. The energies tearing through the room must have disrupted my shape-changing ability. The vast, now out of control forces pressed me down against the hard floor as though to crush me to pulp, then atop that pressure came a wave of searing heat. It could not have lasted more than a second, but years might have passed in my perception of things.
Then silence. Absolute silence. I was sure that I had gone deaf.
When I finally dared to open my eyes to the present reality and move, the stillness was almost palpable, the air a thick, milky fog which rolled lazily about me. It was not the Mists of the borders, though, but rather steam rising from the escaped liquids where the last of them boiled away on the stone floor.
With some relief I found that I could hear their bubbling hiss. My normal hearing was unaffected; it was my sense for magic that had been overburdened from the excess stimulation. My head rang from it, but I seemed otherwise unharmed. The many cuts I'd taken from the flying glass were healing, and I'd been spared from the horror of the fire by a special protective ring I always wore. As for the rest of the place... To describe the room as a shambles would have been a dreadful understatement The only thing standing was the round wall and the tower itself, all the rest was so smashed as to be past recognition. Anything that was wood was charred nearly to dust, broken splinters of glass were melted where they lay. The sigils were no longer bright silver, but tarnished blacker than midnight to match the smoke-painted walls. Above, the round window was gone, the lead that had held the vanished panes of glass in place still hot and dripping into the stone circle.
I shakily sat up and looked around for Azalin. He hadn't made it through the opening. He hadn't made it at all.
His body lay near the west wall where the energies must have flung him like a leaf in a windstorm. His clothing was torn and shredded, but that was the least of the damage. The explosion had apparently sucked the life right from him, leaving behind a desiccated husk. He most resembled one of my skeletal servers, but with only slightly more flesh clinging to his bones. I saw the pattern of his ribcage, the outlines of his shrunken heart and lungs, the knobs of his joints. His face was the worst, his hawk-like features shriveled and dried, lips drawn back from the teeth with death's universal grin, the flesh on his skull cracked like old parchment dotted with matted tufts of sparse hair. The stench of full blown decay filled the room, overpowering all others.
There was no bringing him back. What few priests remained in Barovia had no power to restore life to the dead, and I had no spells that would help him. It would seem I would only have another servitor to add to my palace guard.
Damnation. So much work and for nothing. What had gone wrong? The Mists. It must have been the damned Mists.
Ever and always the source of my woes, the filthy stuff must have intervened and totally disrupted the workings of the spell. Azalin had advised me to perform a severance ceremony, but I'd chosen not to do so. I held to the idea that if I went through the portal, then Barovia would be dragged along as well in order to rejoin its original plane - if it had indeed even been the original plane. I had long suspected that many alternate realities existed, some varying greatly and some astonishingly similar. Azalin had met my theory of bringing Barovia with me with hearty contempt, but he was willing to allow me my way, having thought that at least he would be able to leave unhindered. Perhaps the world we had seen was so dissimilar to Barovia that they had somehow repelled one another. Perhaps I should not have been so stubborn. Damnation a thousand times over, I snarled to myself, furious, but weary right to my soul.
I would have to start again. Tired as I was now, I knew I would make another attempt. Azalin had done a monumental job of research, laying groundwork I could use, only I would first have to trace through each step to find out exactly what had gone wrong. It might take months, even years without his help, but so be it, somehow I would - My disappointed and angry musings were interrupted when I heard a stirring from the direction of Azalin's body and turned to see what it was. My eyes widened and the hair on my neck rose.
It was moving - the wretched, decaying thing was moving. I sat frozen still as stone from the shock and waited for him to start screaming, for he would have to be in unthinkable agony from what had happened to his body. No sound came from him, though, only the spidery scrabblings of his hands brushing the stone flags, and the scrape of his exposed bones. His movements were feeble, groggy, as mine had been a few moments earlier.
Then the air about his withered body shimmered. The flesh clinging to his face filled out, became whole and healthy again. His features restored themselves back into their usual lines, though his eyes were shut. The skeletal body swelled to normalcy; the torn and dusty rags knitted themselves together, became rich velvets and furs once more, the leather of his belt and boots returned to looking new and supple.
Appearance only. This was illusion, the one he so carefully and constantly maintained, and now I understood why. The realization of what I was watching slowly began to dawn upon me.
Azalin was a lich, a thrice-damned lien.
My first overpowering impulse was to destroy the thing. It was a threat far greater than any I had ever faced before, but I knew I was not even remotely prepared to attempt such a task. Had I been fully versed with my most powerful spells and weapons I might have had a chance against him, perhaps. But he was rapidly regaining full consciousness, and my next action would likely dictate whether I lived or died. My second impulse was for immediate self-preservation.
I quietly lay back down and shut my eyes.
It was the hardest thing I'd ever done, to lie there apparently stunned while not ten feet away what was now my worst enemy stirred itself.
