PART I
CHAPTER ONE
445 Barovian Calendar, Barovia
The sun had set only moments before, but the door to the village hospice was already closed fast and locked for the night. I gave it hardly a thought and putting boot to wood kicked it open with a stunning crash. One or two people of the dozen there yelped with terror as they all came to their feet, turning to face me as I strode in. A few unconsciously made holy signs against me, but true faith is now a rare thing in Barovia, so I felt little or nothing of it.
"Where is she?" I demanded.
They were already white-faced from my sudden appearance, for no one ventures out after dark here, and anyone who does is exactly the sort one would not wish to encounter. It was obvious no one wished to encounter me as my gaze swept over them.
"If-if you please, your lordship-" began one of the men, shaking from head to toe as he came hesitantly forward, hands out in a placating manner.
This did not bode well. "I do not please. Where is she?"
His eyes rolled up in his head, and he fainted right at my feet.
With some disgust, for cowards have ever revolted me, I fixed my gaze on an older woman behind him. "Where?"
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She left off wringing her hands and pointed, trembling, at a curtained alcove at the far end of the long low building that served as a communal shelter for the homeless in the village.
Tears. Gods and shadows together, please-not again!
Five long steps and I was there, throwing the curtain back, staring down at what was left of her.
Behind me some gasped; others sobbed, not in grief for her, certainly, but in fear of what I would do to them.
For the moment I could do nothing, think nothing, as the all-too-familiar agony washed over and through me once more. I stood unable to move for a very long time, staring at her sweet face, her sweet lovely face in the final repose that only the truly dead know.
In this life she had been known as Alina, an orphan raised with others in the village. Her true name, though she had not known it-not known it until I had come along and begun my courtship of her-was Tatyana. Finding her alive again had been my greatest joy, awakening her hidden memories of her past life my greatest pleasure.
I had fallen in love with her almost a hundred years ago when I had walked free and breathing in the sunlight. She had been betrothed to my younger brother Sergei, and thought herself in love with him until the night of their wedding, the night when I had bargained away all that I had, all that I was, so that I might have her for my own.
That night my brother had died by my hand, his blood running like living fire in my veins. That night I had gone to her and touched her with true passion, given her a glimpse of what real love could be, but in her inexperience the intensity of it had frightened her, and she had retreated into the safe memory of Sergei.
She had run away. Some have said it was from me, because of what I had become, but she had gone mad with grief from Sergei's death and threw herself from the castle balcony which overlooked the valley below. It had been full of mist. I had watched it silently swallow her frail white-clad form and wished for death to swiftly visit me as well.
But despite the best efforts of my enemies I had not died. I had survived while they perished. I had survived to exist, but not to live. Never again to live. Not until decades later when I recognized the face and form of my Tatyana born once more into the world did a semblance of life returned to my soul.
She was then a village orphan adopted by a lecherous burgomaster looking to make her his wife; they had called her Marina, but I had known her true identity. Before I could take her away to her rightful place at my side, the bastard had murdered her. With my bare hands I had executed him. Far too quickly, but I'd been too incensed to think clearly else I would have given him a full measure back of the pain he'd given to me.
My hope for ever having happiness dead, I had returned to my cold castle, and continued existing- until years later when Alina had appeared.
I found her again by accident while making an inspection round of Barovia in the guise of Lord Vasili von Hoist. My own name was ever too much for the locals. Lord Vasili was a man to be feared, but his lesser rank did not paralyze them with terror as did the vastly greater presence of the actual lord of Barovia.
Alina had been one of the serving girls at a welcoming supper in my honor, hosted by the burgomaster and his wife. Such social rituals are occasionally a necessary evil for people of rank. I suffered through them as a means of getting to know those who collected my taxes, to make sure they were being honest about it. I was ever careful to claim a digestive upset and did not partake of the food. Alina, not knowing any better, had come by to ask if I wanted wine.
One word of her soft voice, the briefest glimpse of her face, and I knew.
After that I had little memory of the rest of the evening, just a vague idea that I'd scandalized them all by insisting Alina sit next to me and plying her with the choicest delicacies their table had to offer. The burgomaster's wife had been plainly outraged, but had not dared say a word. Perhaps she'd expected me to take the girl away for some base trysting later, but I was as the perfect gentleman and parted company with but a chaste kiss on the back of Alina's slender hand. She'd been quite overwhelmed by this unexpected attention from a lord, but at the same time shyly interested.
I had paid court to her for a week at the humble hospice, very proper, and with a watchful chaperone at hand. Of course, I had always made sure to put that chaperone into a soothing slumber for the duration of my visits and thus could I freely speak with Alina-or Tatyana as I began to call her during these private moments.
Gradually, with some hypnotic prompting from me, she had begun to remember who she had been. I was the happiest of all creatures for that week. My love had come back to me and nothing would take her away. I felt alive, invincible, and all things were made possible again.
But men in love are ever fools with their assumptions.
When I woke this night the sense of her presence within me was gone. True, it was but a tenuous thing, for I hadn't dared to partake of her blood lest some idiot harm her as the last time. Our link was more of the sort all lovers share, and as consciousness returned to me with the departure of the sun I was instantly aware something was horribly wrong.
Leaving one of my daylight sanctuaries-a sturdy box hidden beneath the earth in the village cemetery- I had rushed to the hospice to find out what had happened, half in hope and half in dread of what I would find.
All my glorious expectations, all my optimism for the future lay dead before me.
Dust and ashes.
The older woman hesitantly came near. I finally looked up at her.
"How?" I asked. My voice was hardly more than a whisper.
"She woke this morning with a fever, lord. I'm the healer for the village, and they called me right away, knowing you would wish it."
"A fever?"
"It did not seem too serious; I gave her my usual herbs for such things, but there was no improvement by noon. I questioned her whether she'd eaten anything to upset her or had been bitten by an insect. Sometimes when the stingflies are bad they can bring on a mild sickness, but this was like nothing I'd ever seen before."
"Go on."
"She worsened as the afternoon wore on, became delirious. I sent several of the lads up the mountain to bring down ice to cool her, but nothing helped. She slipped away about an hour ago. I am sorry."
I closed my eyes a moment to deal with the latest wave of pain. "Did-did she say anything about me?"
"No. She said the name Sergei a few times, but we don't know who he is. No one here is called that."
Another wave. Worse than before.
I mastered it after a time, but knew I would have to leave soon before the real reaction took me.
But I would not leave alone.
No one made a single protest as I gathered her limp form to my breast and carried her out into the night.
I inhaled as I walked steadily from the village, scenting a charnel house taint to the air. It seemed to grow thicker, more noxious the farther I went, but breathing was not a necessity for me any more. I pressed on, holding her gently in my arms.
High above, black clouds began to gather, roiling and restless as if in response to my inner torment. They blotted out the dying moon, erased the stars. None of their light reached the ground, but I continued regardless, unimpeded by such mundane limits. I walked on, climbing, taking a thin path up the mountain that towered over the village, perhaps the same one used by the lads to bring back ice for her.
All for naught.
Though the storm above kept building, no wind touched us. Here below was silence. When I paused once to look back, I saw why.
Mist. Thick, featureless and altogether unnatural. It was also climbing up the mountain, gradually, but would soon overtake us.
I hurried forward, upward, until my arms and legs burned with the constant effort of it.
The air began to change. The death stench started to clear away, replaced by the clean smell of mountain air and snow. Wind touched my face, plucking at my cloak and the trailing hem of her night dress.
Faster, higher until I had to make my own path up the rocky face.
Snow, first a thin dusting, then more and more until it was nearly to my knees. I would not let it slow me and fought its clinging grip.
I was blind to ail things. My feet chose their own path. Breath sawed in and out of my lungs, not from any exertion but from my effort not to weep. I had shed too many tears already. No more, no more ever again.
Then I came to a place where I could climb no farther. It looked like a great knife had sheered away this part of the mountain, leaving it exposed to all the harsh elements. Around us the growing storm whipped up snow devils that spun and crashed against the rocks to be born anew in a fresh gust of wind. We were nowhere near the summit, but high enough for me. I stood at the cliff edge looking out into the thick Mists below.
The valley here was completely engulfed by their pale touch. All was as calm below as the heavens were riot above. Tatyana and I were exactly between their forces.
Lightning streaked the sky. The shifting light seemed to animate her face, make her appear alive again. It was but a cruel mockery, and I could hold my sorrow in no longer.
My voice echoed off the cold stones as I shrieked my anguish to the wild skies. I screamed and howled like an animal, wordless roars of pure grief as the reaction overwhelmed me. This was what I could not reveal to the village. My sorrows were my own and with me would stay until I could somehow find a way to end them.
When the last cry shuddered out of me, I looked into the rising Mists. They were coming for her, as they had done before. We had not much time left. I kissed Tatyana's chill lips, then eased her down until her feet dragged upon the ground, and I supported her weight with an arm around her waist.
We would not wait for the Mists to come, but hurry to meet them and hopefully the final oblivion.
Whatever is out there that hears, grant me this death!
I leaped for both of us, launching as far out from the cliff as I could.
Rush of wind.
Pale gray nothingness enveloped everything.
We turned and tumbled. I held fast to her, praying to I knew not what for swift obliteration and its peace. I ceased to know up from down with my eyes, could only sense it by our fall. Any second and all would be finished.
For both. Please, let it be for us both.
But even as I held to her she began to drift away. I closed my arms more tightly, but it was like trying to embrace the Mists themselves. All sensation of touching her fled from my reaching fingers.
Obliteration. Peace.
It seemed to come. For an instant.
As the last of her faded from me I seemed to fade from myself. My body seemed to dissolve away, as did hers. No harsh impact with the sudden ground to blot me out, just an easing into a soft cocoon of unconcern, not unlike my daylight trances.
As with all illusions of contentment it could not last, and I eventually, with the greatest reluctance, woke from it.
The stars were visible, bright hard points piercing the clear mountain air, unwinking and merciless. I lay sprawled on my back staring at them for a very long time, not daring to think, for then would come memory and with memory would return thoughts of her. I was not ready for that yet.
The mountain's sheer face loomed high over me, snow dusting its stony shoulders, the soft shadows of thick fir trees at its feet. I was on a clear patch of soft, loamy ground surrounded by more trees.
Gone was all evidence of the storm above and the Mists below. Gone was the dying moon. It had changed to a new one while I had been… wherever I had been. Certainly not lying in the open for a week so the morning sun could burn me to nothing. The Mists-Death's tool-must have prevented that. It was the likely explanation for how I could still be alive. There might be others that I was yet unaware of; whatever had saved me from my folly would certainly be ever shy about revealing itself. To do so might grant me the chance to actually fight back.
Gone also was all trace of Tatyana.
I still lived-if one could call it that-could still grieve, and despite the horrific fall, my body was quite well and whole. The dark forces to which I had sold myself nearly a century past would not allow anything so simple as physical pain to distract me from the unbearable ache within my heart. As for death… well, that was the First thing that had been taken away, trapping me here forever.
I, Strahd von Zarovich, the great lord of Barovia, was also its prisoner.