Sixth Moon, 348
"Does this pigsty have a name, Alek?"
"Renika, my lord." It was deemed a wise policy to allow the rabble at least one good look at their new lord before civil rule was turned over to the boyars, and while I hadn't stopped at every village in Barovia, our tour of inspection had certainly covered quite a number of them. This portion of my duties was always highly abhorrent to me - I would almost have preferred to be digging ditches since the various discomforts of that task were comparable - except that we were also collecting the taxes, a benefit that no man working with a pick could ever hope to gain from his labor.
"Get on with it, then."
Alek and the two trumpeters kicked their horses to a faster pace, while I and the rest of the party continued more slowly. The men and mounts were tired, it was late in the afternoon, and this was our fourth stop today. I wasn't planning to spend the night, though, having discovered it was safer and healthier to camp on the open road, away from troublesome rats (and other village vermin), not to mention the wisdom of keeping a goodly distance between my men and the nearest tavern. I wanted this business done as quickly as possible, and any delays traced to overindulgence in the local brews was not something I was prepared to tolerate.
The horns sounded ahead of us, announcing my approach to the village. Alek had yet to lose his amusement for the work; perhaps it had to do with the fact that no matter where we went or how isolated the hamlet, the locals never failed to exhibit utterly identical behavior. First fear, then cautious curiosity, and finally emergence from the frail shelter of their homes to offer greetings. One and all, without exception, the people had managed to gather a gaggle of brats to present bouquets of flowers to me. I accepted their weeds, but that was as far as I cared to take it. If the mothers expected me to reward their offspring with a kiss or a copper, then they would just have to live with the disappointment. I'd been forced to do many terrible things in the name of duty, but one must draw the line somewhere.
Renika had apparently long known of our coming. This time, Barovia's ubiquitous wildflowers had been strung into garlands that ran from house to house all along their main street. More were strewn in our path, and a virtual rain of petals were dropped on us from the upper stories. Several musicians were thumping and puffing out something resembling a popular marching song, no doubt to honor my exploits as a soldier. Everyone had donned his or her best clothes; some of them even wore shoes.
A tiny girl, still a novice to walking, was urged in my direction, clutching her bouquet in one miniature fist. She tottered forward in her painfully clean smock, just managing not to fall over. I bent low, swept the flowers away from her, and held them high, nodding to the cheering crowd. There were actually enough people here to form a crowd. The revenue promised to be better than average.
The girl remained where she was, looking undecided, ultimately sticking a green-stained thumb into her mouth. Her mother darted up to grab her out of the way so I could dismount. In turn, one of the trumpeters relieved me of the flowers so I could face the burgomaster unencumbered. It's difficult to put on a properly stern face while so frivolously burdened. Alek was of the opinion that that was the purpose behind such presentations: to place the visiting dignitary at a disadvantage by the subtle diminishment of his dignity.
The burgomaster launched into the usual speech of greeting and wish for my continued good health and wise rule. These preambles always concluded with an invitation to some meal or other, which I never failed to politely refuse. Had I accepted all of them, I'd have had more stomach problems than Reinhold Dilisnya.
"And now, Lord Strahd, I humbly beg your permission to allow us to honor you by letting Renika be the first village to celebrate that blessed event that ultimately brought you to this, our beloved Barovia."
What? I thought. Dorian's depredations?
"Indeed, with your permission, I would like to be so bold as to propose that the great day be made into a national holiday to be marked by all from one end of the land to the other."
"What are you talking about, Burgomaster?"
"I beg leave to allow your grateful subjects the honor of celebrating your birthday, my lord." He finished with a flourish of his arms, which signaled to the crowd to start cheering again. When the noise finally subsided, the broadly smiling man gradually became aware that I was not at all amused.
"I find it interesting, Burgomaster, that you wish to celebrate a day that means I am yet another year closer to my death."
His face went blank with utter shock. "Oh, no, my lord! That is the last thing I - we wish to do!"
"Then we are in accord, as it is also the last thing I wish to do."
Nonplussed, he blinked his eyes rapidly as his mind attempted to adjust to this unexpected turn.
"The taxes, Burgomaster," I prompted, reminding him of the purpose of my visit.
In a gratifyingly brief time, a small wooden box with iron banding was produced and offered to my clerk of the exchequer. He unfolded his portable counting table and immediately got down to work. Chosen for his speed and expertise, he soon finished and made his report.
"Too short, my lord," he concluded.
Nothing new there, the taxes were always less than expected.
"Much too short," he added, significantly.
I fixed my eye on the burgomaster. "Explain."
"It's been a very difficult year, your lordship. The war has drained us... the harvests have been lean... there's been a lot of sickness..." Some of the crowd nodded their vague agreement to his excuses.
"And yet you wear a very excellent gold chain around your neck."
"Part of the office, my lord, it's really the property of the village."
"And enough fine wool on your back to clothe a whole family. Those buttons are pure silver, are they not?"
"An inheritance from a wealthy, but sadly deceased, relative - "
"And which of these humble hovels is your home?"
Sensing that this was not going to be a good day for him after all, he hesitantly pointed with a trembling finger, though I could have spotted it a mile away. Looking very new and freshly whitewashed, the bold structure stood out from the rest of the buildings like an overdressed woman surrounded by her drab servants.
"Th - the public nature of my office requires that I maintain a certain standard of living, making it necessary that I - "
"Peculate on a regular basis?" suggested Alek.
"Eh?"
"Steal the public and his lordship blind?" he bellowed in his ear.
The crowd watched silently, their pinched faces and worn bodies proof of a hard life of scant food and little or no respite from their labor. This must have been rare entertainment for them: they seemed all but nailed in place.
"Alek," I said quietly.
With the clerk and some armsmen, he strode to and thrust open the door of the burgomaster's house. Things were so still that we clearly heard the squawks of outrage and fear coming from within. Soon a scullery boy and several servant women dodged and hustled into the street. I was strongly reminded of the sort of confusion one finds in a hen yard while attempting to chase down the evening's meal.
Alek came out last and commented, "Does well for himself."
The burgomaster was sweating freely now. A dozen feet away you could smell the fear oozing from him.
The clerk emerged not long after. He and the armsmen carried a number of scrolls - the tax records of Renika - which were gone through one by one. To the illiterate rabble, it must have seemed like some sort of magical rite. I glimpsed more than one of them making a sign against the evil eye in the clerk's direction.
"Much too short, my lord," he repeated. "Did it gradually over the years, but it shows up badly when compared to his predecessor's collections."
"But those were better times," the burgomaster protested.
"I've accounted for the drop in population, its recovery, and the years with bad weather, scant crops, and the recent war. Still too short."
"Perhaps out of compassion for your people, you simply lowered the taxes to ease their burdens," I murmured.
He wasn't quite stupid enough to fall into that trap. He did not instantly agree with me and glanced nervously at the silent, very silent crowd. He'd get no sympathy from that lot.
"Lord Strahd, I... I admit that I may have made some mistakes in my sums. I'm not as skilled with numbers as was my father, but I shall gladly make up the difference, whatever it may be."
I raised an eyebrow at the clerk.
"Clothes off," he ordered.
The burgomaster blinked some more, confused by the incongruity for a moment, then his face lighted up with understanding. "Yes, yes, of course." The compensation would begin with his own rich wardrobe.
He whipped off his gold chain of office and gave it to the clerk, then his brightly dyed cloak, then his waistcoat with the silver buttons. The clothes were heaped one by one on the table until he was down to his last garment, which the clerk told him to retain for purposes of decency. The man shivered as the summer air hit the sweat covering his pale body. He looked ridiculous, but pathetically grateful. He was more than willing to suffer some little humiliation rather than the traditional fate of a thief: the sudden removal of one of his hands.
Of course, that was the old law. I was running things now.
"On your belly," said the clerk.
The burgomaster winced and spread himself flat, probably expecting a whipping at this point. I might have ordered one, had I thought it would do any good, but this object lesson was for the people, not the thief.
The clerk turned to the armsmen. "Tatra."
The one so named stepped forward. He wasn't a large man, but had exceptionally strong arms, a good eye, and no objection to the work. As he crossed over, he quietly drew his sword. Some of the peasants saw what was coming; mothers clutched their infants and hid their own eyes, other people leaned in for a better look. No one said a single word by way of warning. Possibly they knew the futility of it; more likely they knew better than to risk trying.
It was over very quickly, raising a collective gasp from the crowd since it is something of a shock to see how far the blood spurts when a head is expertly severed. Tatra grabbed it up by the hair before it could roll away and held it high so everyone could see. The burgomaster, if one could judge anything from his last mortal expression - which was one of pensive worry - never knew what hit him.
Now I cleared my throat. All eyes, save two, came round to me.
"I expect my subjects to be honest in their dealings with each other, but most especially with me. The taxes will be collected and turned in each year - all of them. No excuses."
There was no need to ask if they understood; it was very obvious that they did.
"You are free to choose a new Burgomaster according to whatever custom you follow. Make sure you pick an honest one, or we'll have to go through all this again next year."
A few people, perhaps potential candidates for the office, gulped, looking unhappy.
"My collector will be back in one week. You will have that long to correct your records and make up the amount that this dolt withheld for himself over the years. Be ready."
The point made and the show over, we mounted up and rode away without further ceremony.
"That makes four out of four today," remarked Alek. "This is becoming monotonous."
"I've always thought as much."
"But this one did stand out from the rest with that birthday business."
"More like a death day, for him at least."
"Shows imagination, though."
"Didn't help him, though."
"Agreed, my lord." He brushed some stray flower petals from his shoulders and hair.
"Does the next pigsty have a name?"
"Jarvinak, my lord."
"How far?"
"Three or four miles, no more." He checked the progress of the westering sun.
"There's time. Shall we try for five out of five?"
I squinted at that bright orb myself and shrugged. "Why not?"
Fourth Moon, 350 "Lord Sergei's party is on the final approach to the guardhouses, your lordship," one of the footmen puffed out, breathless from his run up the stairs.
"Very well."
That did not give me much time to get to the front courtyard. Of course, I could just slip out my bedroom window, tie a rope to one of the crenelations, and rappel down the wall. That only took a few seconds, as Alek and I had discovered while practicing the sport last summer with the castle guards. On the other hand, I was in my best dress clothes, which were designed for show, not agility, and the sight of me in even a controlled fifty-foot drop over the side of the keep would alarm the guests and compromise my dignity. It would not do to let people know I was overly anxious about anything, especially not this event.
Instead, I quickly made my way to the spiral stairs just off my private dining room and skimmed down to the main floor.
Once the regular flow of gold and goods from taxation had been re-established, the restoration of the castle proceeded with considerable speed. Artisans, carpenters, masons, and others with the necessary skills had turned up like dogs at a feast, ready for whatever scraps might come their way. I fully exploited their combined talents, using them to turn the castle into the showpiece that I'd envisioned on that first day over three years ago. In the end, the final result exceeded the vision as each expert sought to outdo the work of the others. But some adjustments between beauty and practicality had to be made, hence the difficulty of getting anywhere quickly. It was still a castle, ostensibly designed for defense, and what eased the passage for the inhabitants would certainly aid the invader. (One result of this was that I rarely, if ever, had a hot meal. I was told that the master cook and one of the remaining engineers were working on the problem.) Alek and a few others of my entourage were waiting in the great entry for me.
All came to attention at my appearance. Some wore armor, others were in their robes of office, most were bedecked with the glitter of gems and gold in medals and badges that represented their lives' accomplishments. Next to them I must have cut something of a stark figure in my plain black garments. It was the best quality fabric, though, and contrasted well with a blinding white silk vest and shirt, both with buttons of true pearl. Carefully knotted below my chin was a neckcloth of the same blood red as the great Von Zarovich ruby that flashed from my breast.
Another footman rushed in. I arched an eyebrow, giving him permission to speak.
"Lord Sergei is crossing the drawbridge, your lordship."
At a nod from me he vanished and the party fell into line: Alek Gwilym at my left, Lady Ilona Darovnya on my right. Their retainers and my own sorted themselves, and I led the way through the massive doors of the entry. The timing had worked out after all; Sergei's banner bearers were just emerging from under the portcullis. They separated, one to each side, trailed by others who merged into place with my own honor guard. The implied symbolism must have been quite satisfying to those present. Alek, now steward in charge of the castle defense, had arranged an excellent show.
A constant rumble and roll of drums filled the courtyard now, quickening the heart. The lighter voices of pipes joined them just as Sergei rode through the gate. I felt the eyes of the gathered crowd shifting between us, hoping perhaps to gain some insight to our inner feelings at this historic moment.
With Sergei, the insights must have been easy.
Even from a distance, one could see each emotion flashing over his face, like summer light and storm clouds on a mountain side. He was blessed with the strong Von Zarovich features of black hair, high cheeks, and a tough jaw, but these were markedly softened by the Van Roeyen side of the family. He had Mother's warm blue eyes. By the gods, but he was a handsome man, an opinion very obviously shared by all the young, and not a few of the older, female members of the court and staff.
As he rode closer, more and more heads turned from him to me. Comparing. I endured it, for there was nothing else to be done. It was no less than I'd expected: I was doing it myself.
Younger, much more handsome, open and smiling - everything that I was not - Sergei reined his horse and dismounted.
I was taller, I noted.
He marched forward, sweeping off his hat and gracefully dropped to one knee, a bare step short of our party. I took up that step and placed my right hand on his shoulder. He looked up then and smiled directly at me, happy, guileless, and brimming full of that which I'd long ago learned to interpret as hero-worship.
That was unexpected. To have it coming from a stranger was one thing, but receiving it from my own brother - even a brother I had never met - was quite something else again.
Sergei placed his right hand upon my own and recited in a clear voice the words of greeting, followed by a pledge of faith and service required by custom when siblings of rank formally face each other. I made my response and Sergei rose again, then we embraced. Witnesses to the ceremony could hold themselves in no longer and began to spontaneously cheer.
*****
"Who would have thought such a thing could finally come to pass?" my youngest brother confided to me some hours later.
Introductions by the dozens, feasting, and endless talk and questions had yet to dampen his enthusiasm or energy. He looked as fresh as midsummer dawn.
"Our parents?" I suggested.
His smile faltered, then turned into a laugh. He laughed very easily. It might have been irritating had it been for effect, or to cover up an insecurity, but in truth, it was the result of a free and innocent heart, a lightness of the soul that I had inevitably lost in my years of war and slaughter.
"I meant that we should finally meet after all this time," he said.
"We're hardly strangers."
"Oh, but reading a letter just isn't the same. 'Dear Brother: Today I went hunting,' or 'The apple crop failed,' or 'A storm knocked down many trees.' That's not how you get to know a person. You must've grown weary reading of such news from me while you were away."
"No soldier ever wearies of receiving letters from home. The smallest detail was always of great interest to me and kept my memories from fading. I am in your debt and only sorry that I did not have as much time to reply as I would have liked."
"Oh, but we understood, all of us. You had your duties to consider, and unless you gave them your full attention... well, the wrong side might have won the war.
We missed you terribly, especially Mother, but we knew that you were needed more elsewhere. No other commander could have done so well as you."
Possibly not, I thought. But my passion for war and obedience to duty had swept me from the home of my childhood, never to return. I had not seen my younger brother Sturm grow up, or been there for Sergei's birth or for any of a thousand other joys that a man might take from the heart of his family. I had not even been able to attend the burial of our parents, four years past. Their deaths had occurred during the height of a particularly close and bitter campaign, and I could not be spared. I'd yet to see their graves. In some part of my mind, they were still alive as I'd last seen them three decades ago; Sergei's presence had driven home the fact that this was not true.
"I wish she could have seen this place," he said, now speaking of our mother.
"It would have made her very happy to see what beauty you've wrought here and that you named it after her... well, I suppose she might have burst from the pride and honor of it all."
"Ravenloft for Ravenia Van Roeyen," I said. I remembered her ink-black hair and the pride and sorrow in her blue eyes when I went off to war. Sergei took after her quite a lot, not so much in exact looks, for our father was certainly in him, but in mannerisms and patterns of speech. At times I could almost hear a ghost of her voice in his own when he spoke. "A pity you were not able to come in time for the naming ceremony. Lady Ilona would have been glad of your assistance."
"I don't know if my help would have been proper, though, since I'm not yet ordained, and that won't happen until Most High Priest Kir passes on - which won't be for years and years, I'm sure. I've letters for you from him, by the way, and for Lady Ilona as well."
"How is the young whelp?"
Sergei was made a touch uncomfortable by my addressing Kir in such an offhand manner. I'd felt the same way about my teachers, once.
"Still trying to look old enough to suit his office?" I added.
He surrendered into a grin, threw his head against the back of his chair, and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "I'd forgotten he was just a child when you first left for the wars. Yes, yes, he still works at looking older. He's grown quite a beard and that seems to help. No one dares to show him any disrespect in class, though, or he metes out something worse than rapped knuckles."
"And what did you end up doing?"
Sergei's jaw sagged at this bit of insight from me. He was chagrined and amused all at once. "Conjugating a hundred verbs for three different languages." He sipped at his wine and lifted the cup slightly in my direction. "Mow, what about you? Did his predecessor ever punish you?"
"Old Zarak? He once put me to holystoning the floor of the classroom."
"Not really!"
"Yes, really! Said I needed more humility or some such rot. I don't know if it humbled me or not, but he got a very clean floor for his trouble. I did pay better attention in class after that."
"I just can't see you doing it, Strahd."
"Apparently Zarak could. Took a week before I could straighten my back and knees properly."
Sergei laughed again. Responding to it, even I managed to raise a brief smile to the memory of the boy I'd once been. The boy who was gone forever.
I looked at my brother across the table, where we'd shared our first private meal together, and saw myself in him, myself as I should have been. Not that I begrudged Sergei his own life, but that mine had been all but used up, sacrificed to the demands of duty and obligation. When possible, the eldest child always went into soldiering, the second administered the estates, and the third was consecrated to the service of the gods. Such binding tradition could be broken, but when one is raised to it and knows nothing else, one has little chance to discover until too late that there are other things in life.
I looked at Sergei and felt a hot surge of anger for my lost years and envy for all those that lay before him. Yet, I could not hate him. He was bound by tradition as well. Indeed, as I had before him, he'd no intention of breaking with it. He was pledged to the church of our god and glad of the fact. The anger eventually cooled into a kind of pity for his blindness. Someday, perhaps, he would come to understand how he'd been manipulated and feel as I felt now.
"Is anything wrong, Brother?" he asked, concerned by my change of manner and long silence.
It was pointless to try explaining it to him. He was just too young.
*****
Sergei's sword came down with deadly speed. I barely blocked it with the flat of my blade and at the last instant, preventing him from chopping me in half the long way.
He was strong but also knew when to break off, which he now did and thus avoided the thrust of my parrying dagger into his guts. He danced back, assumed a guard position I was unfamiliar with, and grinned like a young wolf. A less experienced fighter might have charged in, but I held away, studying him. He was prepared for an upper body attack, but only from the front; the positioning of his feet was too awkward for a really fast turn.
I attacked his left flank, changed it to a feint at the last second, and dived to his right. As I'd hoped, he wasn't able to cover himself. I ducked under his guard, slammed his sword arm back with my own, and stopped with my dagger pressed lightly against the center point of his stomach, just below his breastbone. A single sharp move would send it right up into his heart.
He saw and grinned again, nodding his surrender. We stepped apart and bowed to one another as the applause began.
So this is what it's come to, I thought, twenty-five years of battle training so I can entertain the court peacocks.