Tenth Moon, 400
"Lazlo Ulrich, Burgomaster of the Village of Berez of Barovia, understanding that Lord Strahd has a keen interest in any and all tomes relating to magic, wishes to make known to his lordship that he has some volumes, recently discovered, for sale. Lord Strahd is most welcome to come view the books, or, if he desires, they can be brought to Castle Ravenloft for his expert inspection..."
If they were spellbooks, I wasn't about to trust them to anyone's care but my own and resolved to travel to Berez myself. Ascertaining its location, I lost no time hitching up the horses, packing a supply of gold and spare clothing, and setting off. It was rather late in the season to be traveling, at least by coach, but there had not yet been a really bad freeze. The mountain roads were soft and treacherous with snow, but still passable if you knew them.
Berez was on the Luna River several miles south of Vallaki, and the only thing to distinguish it from any of a dozen other fishing villages was its huge manor house. It had once been the summer home of some long-forgotten lord and was still a grand-looking structure - from a distance. Drawing closer, the flaws of age and neglect became readily apparent. The cracks in the outer wall, the untended garden, the breaks in the roof, all indicated that its present tenant, the burgomaster, was in sore need of money. If his so-called magical tomes lived up to his expectations, he would have more than enough to restore his home to its former glory. If not... then I would make sure he never wasted my time again.
A little after sunset on my second night of travel, I stopped before his sagging, rusted gates, dismounted from the lead horse, and pushed my way into a ravaged courtyard of weeds and mud. Lights shone in one window of a ground floor room; otherwise the place looked quite deserted. I strode up to the once-impressive front doors and briskly pounded.
The servant who answered was a hesitant and pale old man who peered at the world through faded, lost eyes. He was really too aged and frail for the work, and I wondered why he had not been honorably retired by now. I gave him a card announcing me as Lord Vasili Von Holtz, an emissary of Strahd Von Zarovich. He clutched the note in a none-too-clean hand and vanished into the depths of the house without a word. Having gotten no invitation, but not really requiring one, I stepped inside to wait, politely pushing back the hood of my cloak.
The hall was dark - the servant had not bothered to leave his candle behind when he'd tottered off - but I could see well enough. Muffled by the walls and an undetermined distance, I heard a man's voice throwing questions, and the servant's mumbled answers. Before much time had passed, the master of the house appeared, lamp in hand and a look of fearful hope on his face.
Lazlo Ulrich, for so he introduced himself, bowed and offered a number of apologies of an unspecified nature to me. I gathered that they had to do with his inability to give me a "proper" welcome. He was a huge, tough-looking man, of the sort that would have done well in the company of any of my soldiers, but there was a cringing light in his eyes, which I did not care for.
"I am here to look at the books on behalf of Lord Strahd," I told him, wanting to make my visit as brief as possible. "If you still have them."
He did and was more than willing to show them to me. Raising his lamp, he led the way past dusty rooms filled with damp, musty air and little else. The furnishings were mostly missing, giving me the strong impression that they'd been sold off over the years - that or turned to kindling.
Miser, I thought with a bleak mental sigh. I'd seen Ulrich's type often enough before. Best for me that I not appear too interested in his books. He took me to a cluttered chamber that seemed to serve many different purposes for the house: study, dining, and workroom, poorly lit and with but a small fire on a huge hearth. He opened a decrepit old trunk to reveal a stack of equally decrepit tomes and ancient parchments.
"I was having a bit of cleaning done in the east wing of the house when I found this and looked inside," he said. "Must have belonged to one of the old masters of the manor before me who went in for... you know."
"Thaumaturgic studies?" I absently suggested.
He was impressed. "Yes, that's it. Well, I couldn't make head or tail of the writing, so I took them to Brother Grigor, and he said they were magic books. He thought they might not be any good and that I should burn them, but I thought that since someone once went to so much trouble to make them in the first place, they might be valuable... to the right person."
"A wise choice, Burgomaster Ulrich."
"Then they're... Can Lord Strahd use them?" He watched my every move as I went through them, studying me with the suppressed eagerness of a hungry dog.
"All knowledge is of use," I hedged, while blessing the fates that had made Ulrich favor greed over piety in his decision. The books were quite genuine and incredibly precious. They were also lamentably fragile; time and the damp of the house had eaten into them. I saw myself spending the rest of the winter in careful transcription of their contents to preserve them. Pleasant enough work, though it would delay some of my other projects.
I gave Ulrich a generously fair offer for the lot and in my turn watched the various stages of thought running over his face. First, gratification at the price he was getting, then doubt, as he wondered if he should be entitled to more. Much more. At that point, I made sure to remind him of Lord Strahd's devotion to honesty in all his dealings and his reasonable expectations of honesty in return. The fifty-year-old memory of Berez's headless burgomaster was apparently still strong: Ulrich heartily agreed. Then and there he called for his servant to bring tuika to seal the bargain.
Instead of the old man, it was a young woman who answered his summons.
"Marina!" he said, obviously displeased. "I told you to go to bed."
"I'm sorry, Papa Lazlo, but Willy is so very tired. He - "
"So the servant is more important than his master? You've much to learn about the world, girl. Mo, I don't want to hear about it, just put your tray down and get out."
The girl did so, stealing a quick glance at me as she hurried away. Only then did I get a glimpse of her.
Ulrich poured out a small sip for each of us and offered me a glass. "Here you are, your lordship..."
Swaying, I staggered back until my legs encountered a chair, then sat down rather quickly.
"Your lordship? What's wrong? What's - "
I waved him off, pressing a hand over my eyes to hide my face. He continued to hover, fearful and asking questions I could not answer. I was unable to talk, unable to think. My mind was quite literally reeling with shock.
Ulrich hastened away, calling for the girl. No doubt he was concerned that I might drop dead in his parlor. The two of them returned, and the girl pressed a cold rag against my forehead.
"There, sir, just be quiet a moment," she said soothingly.
I looked into her eyes, my heart beating so swift and hard that it was like to burst. "Tatyana?" I whispered.
There was no reaction from her. "Would you like some water, sir?"
My hand stole up to touch hers. Not a ghost sent to torment me, she was real.
She was real. "Tatyana?"
"My name is Marina, sir." But there was some doubt in her tone.
"Call him 'your lordship,' girl," put in Ulrich.
"Your lordship," she said, dutifully correcting herself.
Same voice, same face, same graceful body, she was Tatyana come back to life again. I was absolutely witless from astonishment. Ulrich was so alarmed by my state that he rushed off, muttering about going for help. It never occurred to me to stop him. All I could do was stare at the sweet, beautiful girl before me.
She wore the clothes of the peasantry, poorly fitted, faded and shiny from much use. Her rich auburn hair was braided in the manner of unmarried girls. Other than those differences, and her utter lack of recognition of me, she was the same Tatyana I'd known nearly half a century ago. There could not be another.
A chill that had nothing to do with the cold of the room straightened my spine and ran down through my limbs.
Was this the work of the gods... or of dark magics?
I don't care. She's here again, and that's all that matters.
"Your lordship?"
"I am all right, Miss... Marina. Your name is Marina?"
The doubt she'd shown before became sharply apparent. "Oh, sir - your lordship - do you know me?' Her question was so earnest and so intense with troubled longing that it all but cracked my heart, as though I, too, could feel her own terrible pain. All I wanted was to ease it, bring her comfort.
She was trembling. "Please, in the name of all the gods, do you know who I am?"
Her anguish filled me with supreme hope. "You..."
"Please tell me. I know nothing of my past."
"Nothing?"
"They found me walking by the river last summer and took me to Brother Grigor. I could not remember anything about myself, not even my name, so he gave me a new one. Then Papa Lazlo adopted me."
"That was very kind of him," I ventured.
She flinched, and a look flashed over her face that told me much more than anything she could say.
"Has he treated you ill?" I managed to keep my voice very smooth and level.
"He treats me well enough, sir - your lordship. But please, you said you knew me - "
"Yes, yes, I do. Your name is Tatyana. Your home is far from here, in a great castle. And you are loved. Loved more than any other woman in all the land."
It was quite a lot for her to take in, and one after another, more questions began to pop forth, only to stutter to a halt. She simply couldn't ask them all at once, nor could she decide which to ask first.
"I will tell you everything you want to know," I promised, "but just for this moment, think only on your true name. Tatyana."
She did, and repeated it to herself. "But I don't remember..."
"You will. I shall help you."
If she'd been somehow reborn into the world, then a new beginning was before us - a beginning unmarred by murder and sorcery, free of rivals and old griefs.
Very, very few times in my long life had I ever been moved to tears and had never once given in to them. Since my change those many years ago, I thought weeping was beyond me, but now I felt my eyes begin to sting and my vision blur.
I dropped my head into my hands, and though their names would have dripped fire upon my tongue, I could have offered up a thousand prayers of thanks to the gods who had sent her soul back to me once more.
I raised my eyes and smiled at her, receiving a faltering smile in return.
It was a start.
But before I could pursue it further, Ulrich returned. Tatyana - for so she would always be named to me - flinched again and rose and backed away, like a child caught raiding the sweets jar. He saw, but let it pass without comment, and stepped aside as a second man followed him in; I was summarily introduced to Brother Grigor.
His sky-blue robe was a familiar sight, but back in the days when Lady Ilona was running things, this specimen would not have been allowed into the orders to scour chamber pots. He was young and vigorous, but dirty, with a long, unkempt beard and tangled, greasy hair. His robe was stained and threadbare; instead of wearing a sensible pair of boots against the cold weather, he was in sandals.
This marked him as a member of one of the more fanatic branches of Ilona's faith. They had grown numerous over the decades since the closing of the borders, pushing aside their more moderate spiritual siblings as they played upon the fears of the people. Some few had true faith and thus true power, others had no more power than that which lay in their own minds. Of the two, it was difficult to decide who was the more dangerous. Out of respect for Ilona's memory, I felt a distant pity for those who came to either type of priest for the betterment of their souls.
It was also and only out of respect for her that I rose and bowed to this man now.
"You must sit and rest, Lord Vasili," he pronounced. "You are very pale."
This was something I already knew. There was no advantage in drawing further attention to it. "Thank you, Brother, but I am much better now. I have had such... fits before. According to my own healer, they are alarming, but quite harmless.
A cup of water was all that I needed, and Miss Marina was kind enough to provide one for me."
I nodded to her, and she had the wit to remain silent about what had really passed between us.
"You should come to the church hospice, though, just to be sure," he added, perhaps hoping to justify his presence.
Imagining the hospice to be as dirty and flea-bitten as its caretaker, I had no intention of accepting his offer. However, before I could turn him down, he stepped forward and began a cursory examination.
His hand, when it touched the bare flesh of my forehead, was hot.
Burning. Hot.
I winced and backed away from him. "No, don't!"
"What's the matter?" he demanded.
I mouthed the first lie that came to me. "I'm sorry, Brother Grigor, but years ago I suffered a wound to my head. Any sudden movement such as yours..." I opened my palms in a humble request for understanding for my "weakness."
Ulrich retreated a bit while Grigor expressed sympathy for my trials in life. An old head wound could account for any number of eccentricities. Better they think me odd than know the truth, and much better if I leave as quickly as possible, lest this holy man touch me again. He was a true believer in his faith, and I wanted to put some distance between us before he began to notice things.
I slipped a gold piece to Grigor (without touching him) as a donation to the church and made it clear I intended to leave. Ulrich made a diffident invitation for me to stay with him for the night, which I graciously declined. He appeared relieved. That made two of us.
"But what about the books, your lordship?" he asked. I gave him a small bag heavy with gold. "This is the first payment. I shall return tomorrow evening with the rest. They are Lord Strahd's property now. As you value your life, keep them safe."
My words were not lost on him. He glanced uneasily at the new additions to my collection.
Before turning to go, I looked past Ulrich and Grigor to Tatyana.
Wait for me, I silently told her.
*****
Ulrich's parsimonious habits dictated an early bedtime for the house, probably as an effort to save on the cost of candles. Not long after my departure, Brother Grigor went back to whatever hole he dwelt in, and the house grew as dark and silent as any tomb. My comparison was not lightly chosen, for the place was certainly dismal and lifeless; the thought of Tatyana wasting away in such wretched surroundings angered me beyond endurance.
It took little effort on my part to enter again and stalk through the halls, looking for her. Ulrich had a large room to himself, the old servant slept in the pantry, and Tatyana had a small chamber nearby. I chose to softly knock on her door: coming in under it as a mist would only frighten her.
She was afraid anyway, or so she sounded when she asked who was there.
"It is I," I whispered. "Let me in, Tatyana."
A bolt instantly slid back, and she stood on the threshold, holding her breath.
Her heart was pounding as was mine; I could hear it.
Locked doors were nothing new to me, but generally they are not for use within one's own house. Once I was in the room and the door shut again, I asked about it.
She looked ashamed. "Willy put it there for me. He thought - "
"That you might need it?"
A nod.
"Against Papa Lazlo?"
She stared at the floor. "Willy doesn't think I should be here without a chaperon."
"Then Willy is a wiser man than Brother Grigor."
"But Papa Lazlo has been kind to me in his way. He said... said that if Brother Grigor approves, he will revoke the adoption and... and..."
"Marry you?"
Another nod as she stared at the floor.
"How generous of him," I said dryly.
She caught onto my contempt and gave me a sorrow-filled look that would melt stone. "I don't belong here, do I?"
"No. No more than a mountain hawk belongs in a cage."
"Tell me about myself. I keep saying my name, but I don't know it. I try to remember the castle you spoke of, but I can't."
"You will."
"How? Please help me."
The furnishings of the room were humble and sparse. She had a narrow bed and a stool and nothing else to sit on. Proprieties be damned, then. "Over here," I said, and took her to the bed. She sat, and I saw in her face that she was suddenly conscious of her surroundings. I pulled the stool up close, but was careful, so very careful not to touch her. Much as I wanted to, now was not the right moment.
"Tatyana, once upon a time you were betrothed to a powerful lord of Barovia. He loved you, cherished you, and desired your happiness beyond all other things in life. But there were traitors in his court who lusted for his power. They came between the lord and you, and their betrayals destroyed and scattered everything that was good.
You were caught up in... in the dark magic of that night. Many horrible things happened then, and I think that may be why you have no memory of it. I think the gods want you to forget the evil - "
"But must I forget the good as well?"
"That's why I am here, to return that part of your memory to you."
"Who is this lord?"
"Strahd, of Castle Ravenloft," I said, searching her face for the least sign of fear.
"Strahd?" She was still for a long time, thinking hard. She shook her head. "How can it be? He's the lord of Barovia and I am... am nothing."
"You are all that is precious to him, more important than life."
"Then why can I not remember him?"
Her voice rose along with her frustration. I raised a gentle hand against it.
"That will come, if you can but trust me."
"I think I must already," she said wryly, referring to my presence in her room.
I smiled, but did not get one in return and so realized that she couldn't see me for the darkness. There was some thin gray light seeping through a single, small window that was useless for fighting the shadows of this house. I myself was hardly more than a talking shadow to her. Spying a candle stub on a rough table by the bed, I pulled out my tinderbox. I soon had a tiny spark going and lighted the thing.
The golden glow of the flame warmed her face and brought back a jumble of heartbreaking memories for me, if not for her. I saw her in the dusk of the overlook garden again, laughing with delight at the roses, or staring in awe at her first view of the valley.
"What is it?" she asked.
I blinked, returning to the sad present, to her cold and musty room with its lowly belongings and unhappy occupant. "Look at me, Tatyana. Look upon me, and you will remember the joys taken from you."
"How - "
"Just look."
Her eyes were on mine, wide with caution, but willing to take a chance.
And then they misted over. A soft word from me and they closed.
"You will remember..." I said. "You will remember the white walls in the sunlight and roses redder than blood and the gray storms of winter pouring down from the mountain and the blazing fire in the hall and the music I made for you there and the silk dresses you danced in and the laughter we shared... you will remember..."
Brow wrinkling, she shook her head until I stroked my fingertips lightly on her temples. Her eyes opened, something like recognition coming into them. "I - I see things when you speak. Please, tell more. Please tell me... Elder?"
"Strahd," I said.