Chapitre Cinq: Les Corbeaux, les Loups, et l'Auberge Bleue

In the middle hours of the night, Valentina sat on watch. The shield on her arm cast a halo of rosy light around herself and the two little tents her companions slept in, the edges of it washing over the closest Clan Mercier wagons. Beyond the light, everything might as well have been draped in black cloth. The trees of the Savaliche Woods couldn’t be distinguished from the black mountains or black sky behind them. Even the Chênier Pool was just a black expanse beneath empty air. There was hardly a breeze to stir the branches or waves. Very far away in the mountains, a single wolf howled. Nearby, the only movement was that of the moths drawn in by Valentina’s light, bumbling against the surface of her glowing shield. All of the Vistani in the camp had turned in for the night; no fires remained lit anywhere in camp. Valentina herself sat upon an upturned bucket, bouncing her knees idly, chin cradled in her hands.

The worst part about watch was how much time it gave her to think. Valentina didn’t want to think about the events of the day. She wanted to keep going forward with her plan: Find a man, get her hands on his money, live lavishly. What did it mean that she had a doppelganger in some random demi-plane? What did that matter to her? Sisters of soul or of blood or whatever, none of that made a difference now. Valentina thought of herself as an extremely practical person. If it didn’t make a difference, there was no use dwelling on it. Move on, shoo, shoo!

There was no use wishing to have been born any differently. Nobody could control that. All she could control was what she became.

She intended to become very, very rich.

In the dim area just beyond her spell’s halo, something moved.

Valentina stilled her leg, leaning forward to watch. It was hard to make out, with the light ruining her night-vision. She could just barely see between the circle of Vistani wagons and tents, just a narrow glimpse of the nearest firepit. There, again, something moved. Glinted, just slightly, like silver.

Slowly, Valentina rose. She paced forward, following the curve of the nearest tent. Her light slid silently along the ground ahead of her, creeping closer to the firepit. She hesitated just a step back from the open.

There was a dark shape beside the ashes of the fire. It was much larger than anything she had seen there before, when Jean-Paul had been telling his story. It wasn’t moving, either.

Except something was! There, again, a tiny wink of light moving in a slow orbit. Something reflective which was not part of that solid, dark shape, but part of… of…

A glint of red eye shone in the darkness.

All at once, the shape resolved itself around this eye. From the height of it, the person it belonged to was lying down on their back. That big, solid shape was some kind of daybed with a high, filigreed back. The owner of the eye had one leg hooked over this back, and one arm lifted above his reclined torso, slowly swirling a wineglass in that hand. It was this glass which was glinting in a slow orbit as it caught the light off of Valentina’s shield.

The details of the figure were still too much in shadow for her to make out. All she could see was that one, blood-red eye in the darkness, staring right at her.

“Won’t you join me?”

The voice which rang out was a husky baritone. It had a lazy sort of danger to it, bringing to mind the image of a sleepy cat slowly flexing its claws. Whoever that was by the fire, they didn’t look or sound like any Vistana that Valentina had met yet. There was no one else that voice could be addressing. Valentina wasn’t quite in sight, but her halo was hard to miss in this midnight darkness. It had to be obvious there was a lit-up person lurking just around the corner.

Valentina turned and sprinted back to the men’s tent. She kicked the nearest body to the entrance, who woke with a soft noise of confusion. “You’re on watch!” she said, then darted back to her corner. She took a second to smooth her hair and skirt before marching around it.

Her light fully illuminated the stranger as he rose from his lounge. This was indeed not a Vistana. Instead of the usual color and jewelry, he was dressed in formal, somber colors. He wore a black, velvet jacket over a burgundy silk waistcoat. A lace cravat spilled from beneath his chin, pinned with a brooch that glittered with diamonds and rubies. His heeled shoes had matching buckles, flashing as he lowered them to the ground. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with pale skin and aquiline features. His frame was tall, but not particularly broad. His dark, shoulder-length hair had been swept back from his temples, revealing pointed ears. His eyes were as red as the rubies on his many rings.

As Valentina approached, the man rose languidly, his eyes curving in a welcoming smile. One hand reached out.

“Mon amour, how are you? I’ve missed you so.”

Valentina approached, slowly. He waited for her, patiently, until she was close enough to lightly take his offered hand. His skin was cold and dry, the hand much larger than hers. He drew her in and leaned down, brushing a dry kiss across each of her cheeks one after the other.

“I’m alright,” she answered. “How about you?”

“Much improved, now that you are in my arms again.” His off hand went limp, allowing the glass to slip between his fingers and smash apart on the rocks, spilling red liquid across the ground in an arterial spray. With both hands free, the stranger drew Valentina into a ballroom dancing pose, right hand by the shoulders, left hand arching her lower back. Valentina did not resist, even as the man swept them into a dramatic waltz.

On the surface, this was a scenario right out of Valentina’s dreams. A rich, evil man falling for her charms. The gothic romance of it all, the grand gestures. A villain who laid eyes on Valentina and could look at nothing else. A villain who held a title of nobility and lived in a castle, no less. This was step one of the plan she’d had since childhood. Valentina had lain awake at night, surrounded by her fellow girls, imagining how she’d flutter her eyelashes and become so beautiful and interesting that she’d reel this villain in effortlessly.

Valentina did not know how to waltz. She paced clumsily where he led, held upright by the hand on her spine. There was no music to help her keep time, only the light steps of the strange man, who seemed to have an internal metronome as he flawlessly led her around the firepit in an expert dance. His face held a slight, dreamy smile that didn’t reach his expressionless eyes.

“Who are you?” Valentina ventured to ask.

“Are you still confused, mon amour? Do you not recognize me?” The man laughed. Like his smile, it was a strangely dead sound.

“Strahd de Varius?”

“Irénée,” he breathed back.

The name was a bit of cold water down Valentina’s back. Her practicality warred with her childhood dreams. Of course, this had been the plan. She was dressed like Irénée so that she could be mistaken for Irénée, so that this villain would harass someone who could defend herself. The grand, romantic gestures were for Irénée. That was exactly what they’d wanted to happen.

“Oh, of course I recognize you,” Valentina said, trying to conceal the strain in her voice. “How could I ever forget our nights together? When we met by the… Outside the… Outside.”

“Are you ready to return to Castle Ravenloft with me yet?” the man, Lord Strahd, asked.

Instantly, the cold water was gone. Valentina was giddy. “Is it a big castle? Full of treasures?”

“But of course it is. I built it myself. From Ravenloft, you and I can rule the valley. Together. As Lord and Lady, Prince and Princess.”

“You’re a prince?” Valentina frowned. “Shouldn’t you be king?”

Strahd laughed again. “Such ambition, mon amour. If you would like to be queen, I have no objections to becoming king. Prince ‘as been title enough for my previous spouses.”

Cold water again. Previous spouses, plural. Valentina thought somebody had mentioned that, maybe Ismaël, that Strahd tended to go through women. If anything, this only hardened Valentina’s resolve. He was perfect, the perfect target, just the kind of rich scum she’d been looking for all her life. She would stand among those women, victims of this vampire’s lust, and she would enact righteous justice. It just so happened that righteous justice would make her filthy, stinking rich.

“I’m fine with either,” she said. “I just didn’t know you had parents. I’ve never met them, obviously, or I’d remember that. Would you have to kill them to become king?”

“My parents are long dead. I am the power of this valley.”

“Wonderful. Let’s go to the castle right now, then.”

“Of course. But first…” Strahd lifted a hand to the bandages around Valentina’s neck. She stood still, letting him unwind them. His brows furrowed to find unblemished skin beneath. “Mon amour, how is it you are healed? The bites should not have closed so quickly…”

“I became a cleric,” Valentina said, hurriedly.

Strahd blinked very slowly. “It has not been so long since we saw one another. You have remained within your family’s château the entire time, according to my servants.”

“I took a night course. You can get ordained very quickly nowadays. Just a few letters and that’s it! Anyway, so I healed myself as soon as I could.”

The barrage of words slid like a river current along the smooth bedrock of Strahd’s expression. Though his brows remained furrowed, there was nothing like an emotion in his eyes. Neither skepticism nor amusement could be seen. As if nothing she could say would truly matter to him, even when it was in answer to his own question.

He said, “No matter. We need simply begin again.”

Anxiety twinged at the ominous statement. “Aren’t we going to the castle first?”

“Mon amour.” The red of Strahd’s eyes drilled into Valentina’s, seeming to gain a faint luminosity. The wash of warmth was like slipping into a soothing bath. Valentina felt all the muscles in her neck and shoulders slump in relaxation. “Trust me,” he breathed.

All of her anxieties fled. No more cold water, only warm, syrupy trickles down her spine. The plan was working. Of course, it was. There was no reason to be upset at all. Right now, she was Irénée meeting her lover, and all she had to do was trust him. Trust him, and gain unimaginable riches.

One hand gently took hold of Valentina’s chin, tilting her head back. His face dipped, past hers, his breath fanning across the skin of her neck. There was the barest, gentlest brush of lips against the sensitive skin. Then, two points of sharp pain like needles sliding into her flesh.

Reflexively, Valentina flinched, but found herself unable to escape the iron grip on her chin and at her lower back. The teeth in her skin did not budge and her movements only made it hurt more. She could feel blood welling up, sucked away by warm lips and tongue. His mouth kneaded the flesh around the bite, coaxing more blood up through the punctures to where he could lap it. The pain went from behind Valentina’s eyes all the way down to her ribcage, as if a central nerve beneath her skin had been dipped in oil and suddenly touched to a flame.

Her hands came up to shove at his wrist and shoulder. Her mouth dropped open. Forget the plan, forget the castle! “Ow!” She shrieked. “That hurts! Stop it!”

“Valentina?”

At last, Strahd released his grip. Valentina reeled a step backwards, clapping a hand to the wound on her neck. They both looked in the direction of the new voice.

A pale woman stood at the edge of the fire circle, long, wooden staff in hand. In the light from Valentina’s shield, her eyes looked just as red and expressionless as Strahd’s. They matched each other stony look for stony look.

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Sveta came awake to the sound of a shriek of pain. She sat bolt upright, reflexively seizing her quarterstaff. Her eyes met Irénée’s as she swept the tent, also awake and frightened. They were the only two in there; no Valentina.

“Stay inside.” Sveta scooted out of the tent, finding Aeon standing on alert nearby, his eyes fixed on the swaying light coming from the center of the Vistani camp. Oskar’s face peered out of the tent flap behind him, fur flattened and whiskered crumpled on one side of his face. The night sky was as misty as ever, but it seemed close to midnight. That meant Valentina was supposed to be on watch. The moving light was the same color as the cleric’s light spell.

The answer crystallized in Sveta’s mind.

“Valentina is doing stupid horny girl shit,” she growled.

Aeon blinked, more asleep than awake. “...What…?”

Oskar made a grunting noise indicating general disgust and disinterest.

Exasperated, Sveta took off at a jog. Neither man moved to follow. Alone, she rounded the perimeter of the nearest ten, entering the halo of light created by Valentina’s spell.

At the center of that halo, Valentina herself was rearing back, blood pouring from between the fingers clamped on her throat, her other hand lifting her shield before her body as if to ward off the other figure in the circle. That figure was a tall man in rich clothing, with eyes glowing red where they had turned to look at Sveta. Also red was the blood covering his lips and chin.

Two things were clear at once:

This was a vampire.

It was not Lech.

Sveta couldn’t feel anything about that, at the moment. Her friend was in danger, her enemy before her. Sveta was a hollow porcelain vessel.

“Hands off her,” Sveta growled. Sizing each other up, the similarities between herself and the stranger were clear. Both tall, pale-skinned beings with red eyes and pointed ears. The tips of Sveta’s incisors were visible where her lip was curling in anger. The stranger’s own long fangs were revealed as he languidly lifted the side of his thumb to his mouth, licking up a stray drop of blood that had spattered onto his hand.

“Is that Madame Kresimir?” he said.

“I know you?” she returned.

“I know your brother,” he corrected. “He and I are… extremely close, these last hundred years.” The motion of his hand at his mouth changed, the pad of the thumb sliding evocatively up the length of one smooth, white fang. “I have heard a lot about you.”

“Good things, I am sure.” So Lech was here, after all.

“I liked everything I heard, in any case. I do not suppose you would consider coming back with us to Castle Ravenloft? We could have a family reunion.”

Sveta sighed, short and sharp. “Not interested. Would rather rip his throat out and yours.”

One of Strahd’s eyebrows arched. “I could bring him here and we could kill him together, if you would prefer that. You could take his place at my right hand.”

Fury filled the void of Sveta’s chest. “Why? Why always this? Have killed dozens of your kind and always they say ‘Come join me’. If I wanted to be killing humans, I would be already! I am not like you! I am kresnik! I protect humans and I kill kudlak!”

“I am not killing Irénée.” A tinge of emotion finally entered Strahd’s voice. Irritation. “I would not. I am only making her what she should be.”

“Well you sure came close, buster!” Valentina complained. “You had better give me a really expensive make-up gift!”

At this moment, the sounds of footsteps pounded around the tent behind Sveta. Someone inhaled a shocked breath through their nose. The guys had arrived. Sveta glanced back to see Aeon and Illyan frozen in shock, both instantly aware of who exactly was before them. Oskar, less certain, charged ahead of them, his spear at the ready. He came to a halt before Sveta, facing Strahd.

“I could give you everything. Both of you, if you come with me now to Ravenloft,” Strahd said, ignoring the new arrivals.

“Not. Interested,” Sveta growled.

“I am,” Valentina said. “But I won’t until you give me jewelry.”

“Strahd?” Oskar’s growl rose with realization.

“As you wish, mon amour,” Strahd agreed.

“That’s ‘im!” Ilyan yelped.

Curtailing any further conversation, Oskar let out a roar from deep within his chest. Spit flew from his fangs, his golden eye alight with fury. Without hesitation, he charged.

Strahd made no attempt to dodge at all. Thunk! With a meaty sound, the spear’s tip sank into his chest only half an inch before it stopped. A small blot of deep burgundy welled up on the surface of his jacket. Aside from swaying with the force of the impact, no part of Strahd’s face or body reacted to the hit.

Valentina couldn’t help but feel a chill down her spine at the uncanny dissonance between sound and sight. The strange way his expressions never touched his eyes was one thing… It was on an entirely different level to see the man with his eyes fixed on hers, his face still molded in that mask of pleading, entirely at odds with the circumstances around him. As terrifying as watching a man on fire laugh instead of scream.

It’s part of the plan, she reminded herself. He should be focused on me to exclusion. I want him to be.

Right in his face, so loudly that the sound must have shaken him to the bone, Oskar roared, “You killed my family!”

This, at last, drew his attention off of Valentina. Strahd’s head turned to face the man spearing him, eyebrows arching in mild puzzlement. He stared down the tabaxi from a mere foot away, the lion’s hot breath fanning fury across his indifferent expression.

“I do not remember that,” he said.

With an incoherent snarl of rage, Oskar pulled back and stabbed again. Once more, Strahd only swayed with the blow, hands at his side, hardly seeming to notice.

“I think no further productive discussion shall be had,” the vampire lord said. His eyes slid once more away from Oskar. “Sveta? Irénée?”

“Go to hell!” Sveta shouted.

Valentina shook her head.

With a sigh as if of disappointment, Strahd’s body melted into mist. His corporeal form simply evaporated, colors bleeding to white, until dense swirls of white vapor curled away from the spearhead. They joined the wisps of mist that filled the night, scattering without a whisper into thin air. A single drop of black blood dripped off of the tip of Oskar’s spear, sizzling into a single thread of mist halfway before it hit grass.

Inchoate, Oskar threw his pristine spear to the ground. His growls rattled in his chest like a leather ball in a washing drum.

Valentina cupped her hands around her mouth. “Shower me in wealth next time, remember!” she called to the fading mist.

“What the ‘ell, Oskar! We ain’t ready for a fight like that!” Illyan snapped.

“I am more than ready! I have been ready for fifteen years!”

“Oh, so that’s when ‘e killed your whole family, ‘im? Why don’t you know what ‘e looks like, then?”

“I wasn’t there when it happened!”

They stared each other down for a moment, Illyan reading the sincerity in Oskar’s face. Suspicion and outrage slowly gave way to sympathy on the genasi’s gray-skinned face. A few breaths passed before Oskar’s face fell, the snarl dropping away from his mouth. His flattened ears crept back upright by increments.

More quietly, Illyan said, “Oh. I’m sorry for your loss, mec.”

“Thank you.”

“Uh, Sveta?” Valentina piped up. “What is a kresnik? Is that like your family?”

Sveta was looking a bit calmer herself now, smoothing down her pale hair with her palms, once more transformed from feral creature to elegant lady. “Is my species. Am good vampire.”

“Uh, pardon? You’re a vampire?” Illyan choked.

“Kresnik do not drink blood. Kresnik are shamans–can become animal, can do divine magic. I kill kudlak, bad vampires like Strahd. Am good vampire.” The repetition had the ring of reassurance to it. It really was a bit similar, the way her expression remained so rigid even when Valentina knew she was going for a friendly, reassuring kind of tone. It was not hard to believe, somehow, that she and Strahd were of similar species. Even so, it was hard to truly either fear or revere someone whom they had all witnessed awkwardly crab-walking so as not to spill a handful of tadpoles. Especially when in the next moment, her eyes slid shut in a wince, knees threatening to buckle beneath her. Both hands gripped her planted staff for balance against the wave of renewed vertigo. Aeon stepped in to support her nearest elbow.

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“That’s most of us explained,” Illyan drawled. “Valentina? Any defense for you?”

“Nothing to defend,” the cleric chirped.

“You were getting chummy with Strahd on purpose, then?”

“Well, yeah. He’s gonna shower me in wealth!”

“Not if I kill him first,” Oskar griped.

“The plan is to kill him second. Anyway, he totally fell for it! He thought I was Irénée! I know it was our plan, but I’m pretty surprised it worked. I only had to lie a little bit and he was already inviting me home.”

“And ripping out throat.”

“I was caught off-guard by that.” Valentina frowned. “I’m willing to indulge a few intimate acts for this marriage but I don’t really like pain.”

“Valentina, chère amie de mon cœur,” Illyan said, earnestly, “I know way too much about your personal life.”

“...Where are all the Vistani…?”

Their attention drawn by Aeon’s quiet question, the group went quiet. Without their voices, the camp was utterly and completely silent. There were none of the normal sounds of life around them, no snores or movement or people getting up to make water.

Sveta staggered away from the others towards the nearest tent, fearlessly yanking back the flap covering its entrance. There was no one inside. The bed was absent any sleeping figures. Around her was the detritus of a stationary life, similar to Madame Eva’s tent if less cluttered, but no living beings.

There was, however, an open box on a side table spilling jewelry everywhere. Beside it was a stack of shining electrum pieces stamped with a familiar profile.

…The line between archaeology and burglary was probably longer than a few hours. Then again, hours felt like years when you had a pounding migraine and intense vertigo. And Sveta had lived much, much longer than most people. Who could say where such nebulous lines lay as time and property?

Sveta’s satchel jingled in a muted way as she returned to the others, then passed them by. “Is no one inside. I will check other tents.”

“Do you think ‘e killed them all?” Illyan asked, mildly. After their interaction with Jean-Paul, they could hardly blame Strahd. It was probably a public service.

“...There was no sound at all, when I was on watch… Could he have done it silently…?”

“Not by biting,” Valentina assured them. “That shit hurts.”

“No one in that tent, either.” Sveta passed once more, satchel thumping heavily against her knees, gold chandelier earrings swinging.

Illyan jolted upright as a thought occurred to him. “Madame Eva!” They hurried across the camp towards the big, round tent. In hardly any time, they were scurrying back. “She’s gone too!”

“Didn’t you say she never leaves?”

“That’s why I’m shouting, yeah!”

“Perhaps was banishing spell? Get rid of all Vistani?” Sveta asked, returning from a third empty tent. Her satchel bulged, the strap slipping between her beringed fingers as she struggled to adjust it.

“I wouldn’t be ‘ere, then.”

“How did he know we were here?” Oskar wondered.

“He mentioned servants,” Valentina said. “Ismaël said the Vistani of the valley spy for him, don’t they?”

Oskar said, slowly, “Could he have just… asked them to leave?”

“Well, someone brought that daybed here.”

“From where?”

“Y’know, it’s ‘ard to admit but Strahd may ‘ave been right about something. I think the productive part of this conversation is long gone.”

“So what next?” Sveta was all but wobbling as she returned to the circle from the final empty tent. At this point, she was dressed in such a way as to be mistaken for a dragon in human form. Her silverwood accessories were lost under an avalanche of gold and gemstones.

“You know those are all fake, right?” Valentina asked, finally acknowledging the looting.

“Da. Real ones are in bag.” Observing her bejeweled arm, Sveta added, “These, I will sell. Cannot wear metal for too long or it interferes with my powers.”

“Oh for sure save any diamonds you find. I can’t do it quite yet but I’ve been practicing a spell to pull someone back from the brink of death. We’ll need that, probably.”

“...Valentina, can I…?” Aeon lifted a gloved hand towards her bleeding neck. With her permission, he gently touched his fingertips to the wound. She shivered, the touch light enough that it felt more like sensitivity than pain, then again as the strange sensation of magical healing swept over it.

“Thanks.”

“...I’m going back to bed now.” With no more said, the chevalier did indeed turn on his heel and walk back towards their camp, muffling a yawn in his palm.

“This is good plan,” Sveta agreed. “Should all sleep and then leave in morning. Get Irénée to Vallac quickly.”

With the silence of the grudging, the whole group moved back to their assigned tents. Nobody brought up the idea of setting another watch, tacitly understanding that this would lead to a fight about Valentina’s priorities that nobody had the energy for. In a strange union of disharmony, everybody fell asleep amidst the resounding silence of the deserted camp.

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By morning, the Vistani were back. The encampment was once again abuzz with life. Breakfasts sizzled over cookfires, chickens ran and clucked after children scattering corn, and voices called cheerful greetings. The whole group (minus Irénée) blinked out of their tent flaps in befuddlement. It was as if that misty midnight encounter had never happened. Even Madame Eva was enthroned in a comfortable chair around one Vistana’s family fire, sharing in their breakfast and conversation. She didn’t look like somebody aware that her camp had been visited in the night by the valley’s sole sovereign.

Eventually, Illyan and Ismaël made the journey over to fetch the purchased-and-shoed horses. The geldings were even more impressive in the sunlight, glossy as velvet and dew-eyed, every step rippling with muscle. Given their far-too-fancy appearance compared with tattered old Beignet, Illyan decided they would be Bȗche de Noël and Crème Brȗlée. The one with the white blaze was Crème Brȗlée, of course. Illyan focused on these thoughts in order to ignore the extremely smug face of Jean-Paul watching them. They hitched Bȗche de Noël up to their new cart, a little, sturdy thing built for bringing produce to the local market. Like all things made by the Vistani, it was sumptuously carved and painted, but in a worn way which showed the main repair jobs it had undergone over the years. Nevertheless, the axles were sturdy as mountains as the Imberts loaded up the group’s belongings.

Sveta and Irénée got dibs on the wagon bed, being the two frailest members of the party at present (much to Sveta’s disgust), with just enough room for Valentina to squeeze in. Oskar climbed up front to drive. This left Ismaël on Crème Brȗlée, Illyan on Beignet, and Aeon on foot.

As their party rolled out of the Vistani camp, Jean-Paul, seated on a nearby barrel, cupped his hands and called out, “What you plannin’ on feeding them ‘orses, mec?”

Illyan responded with a simple, crude gesture and ignored the resultant laughter from all watching Vistani. He said something else which drew another gale of laughter, though by that time the party was too far away to make out the joke, passing through the Clan Mercier camp and following the path northwest.

Though some of their number remained on foot, their overall travel was made both more expedient and less tiring because of the cart and Patok ponies. The view was not much to speak of, being another misty morning in the valley. The River Ivoire poured ice-cold and chiming across the rocks to their right, picking up speed as they approached the Chênier Falls. It was an oddly cheerful sound in the otherwise solemn silence of the valley. The black of the Savaliche woods against the white of the misty sky made the newborn day funereal.

After twenty minutes, the sound of the falls had drowned the river’s bright song. Cold mist billowed, soaking the path to mud and the trees to dripping. To either side, stony cliffs emerged from concealing underbrush like ankles revealed by too-short trousers. Around a final bend, the Chênier Falls were there, capping the far end of a canyon whose floor was a wide pool at their foot. A thousand feet overhead, a great bridge of stone spanned the canyon.

Valentina let out a squeal of indignation. “Illyan!”

Illyan winced. “Ouais?”

“Why didn’t you tell us this was a dead end?!”

“Eh bien, I don’t really go west of the Mercier camp… I thought there’d be a way up.”

“That has to be a thousand feet!”

“You would think we would notice cliff that size as we descended,” Sveta noted, from where she was draped over the short side-wall of the wagon.

“No wonder they were laughing at us,” Ismaël sighed.

Oskar grunted and set off to scout, returning to report that there was indeed no way to get the cart and horses up the cliffs from where they were, though climbing might have been possible.

In an attempt to lighten the general mood, Illyan called out, “‘Ey, ‘ey, everyone stand there in front of the pool, yeah? Let me show you something I’ve been working on. You’ll love it.”

Sveta was not best pleased to descend from the cart, though the others were delighted for a chance to stretch their legs even after the relatively short journey. The icy mist was refreshing and wakeful, far more so than the oatcakes they had passed around for breakfast. Goosebumps rose on Valentina’s body as she obediently followed Illyan’s gestures. For some reason, he had them all stand in a tight group between himself and the waterfall, facing him. The genasi withdrew the same kind of needle they used on their leatherworking project and placed its tip with a flourish against the rear wall of the cart. They stared hard at the group, then, tongue peeking out in concentration, while colors bloomed from the tip of the needle across the wood. Somehow, it was paint, forming the most realistic portrait any of them had ever seen. It captured, in miniature, the mountains, woods, waterfall, and bridge, as well as the whole group of them posed by the riverbank in exquisite detail and color. Finally, as if scrawled in gilt paint, calligraphed words across the bottom spelled out Morning Glory.

Valentina and Irénée came over to make appropriate oohs and ahhs, while Sveta collapsed back into the wagon. “What is Morning Glory, frèrot?” Irénée asked.

“It’s a sex thing,” Valentina responded, confidently.

“Pardon, it’s a flower!” Illyan spat back. Then snickered. “...fuck me twice, I ‘ad all this poetic stuff lined up about it but now I guess it’s just a sex joke. I was naming the cart, that’s all.”

“If you’re naming the cart a sex joke, we should go with Pussy Wagon,” Valentina grinned. “On account of all the ladies riding it and the pussycat driving it.”

“If you write Pussy Wagon on the cart, I will drive it straight into the river and drown us all,” Oskar threatened in a growl that could rattle bones. Valentina’s laughter sent a lone crow flying up from a nearby tree.

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It took roughly an hour for the group to backtrack their way to the River Crossroads where the previous day they had seen a specter of Illyan on the gallows. Today, that gallows stood empty as they had left it, a scrap of noose swaying in the still air from the cross-beam. The Vistani led by Jean-Paul had continued their mocking laughter the whole ride past their camp, which the group had done their best to endure with stony faces. Madame Eva, at least, had returned to her tent and was not present for the embarrassing mistake. From there, they pointed their mounts down the southwest fork marked “Ravenloft/Vallac”. As they passed, it became clear that the low, crumbling stone wall on this side of the crossroads which they had previously overlooked hid a small plot of graves shrouded in fog. It was this cheerful sight which began their long, arduous climb.

The road here clung to an uphill slope. It wandered and switched back, at the mercy of the increasingly mountainous terrain. Illyan informed them that they were more or less passing around the foot of Mont Ghislain, the southern mountain which formed that edge of the valley. It was not yet so steep or rocky as to thin the trees or to significantly slow the horses, but it was just steep enough that the road twisted around to double back on itself at one point in order to maintain a level passage. It took more than an hour to traverse this leg, though it was theoretically of equal length to the one they had taken to reach the bridge from below.

At long last, they did reach the bridge. An arch of moss-padded stone reaching out from the side of Mount Gislain across the Chênier Falls, which spilled from that mountainside. Gargoyles cloaked in the same black moss perched on the corners of the bridge, their features worn away by time and weather.

Aeon, whose turn it was to walk, bent down just beside the road as they approached these sentinel gargoyles. When he straightened, he held a bundle of discarded clothes, tunic, trousers, and underwear alike, left folded in the dirt beneath a bush. Though he frowned at them, there was no apparent blood or nearby bones. Rather, it was as if someone had deliberately disrobed and crossed this bridge naked.

Illyan, whose turn it was to ride, had been guiding Beignet with his knees alone, the old nag well-used to traveling in a group along a road with little direction needed. Their attention was instead on the thing in their lap. It was the same construction which they had been putting together in their vardo during the ride into Barovy valley, though now all but complete.

“Feast your eyes, amis!” Illyan held the thing aloft, cupped in both hands. “My finest work to date!”

“Is… bird?” Sveta ventured.

It did indeed look like a bird. Though the frame and bones were some kind of tiny, intricate brass clockwork, the wings and tail had been covered with thin leather. Even rows of pure white feathers had been stitched onto this canvas with cotton thread. The head and body resembled nothing so much as a snow-white raven with black button eyes, and a brass beak and legs. The thing was so articulated that it seemed to have the range of motion of a true bird, every tiny claw able to grasp and curl. In his hands, it was motionless.

“It’s an ‘omunculus,” Illyan corrected with an excited grin. “Just watch as I put in the final piece.” He shifted the homunculus to one hand, using the other to fish out the borrowed fire opal. This they slid into the brass beak, pushing it into where the throat would be on a living creature until it clicked into place in the housing there.

At once, a shiver seemed to pass through the tiny, artificial bird. The white feathers quivered and the brass claws flexed. All at once, it flapped its wings and came up to perch on the side of Illyan’s hand like a bird in truth, the clicking of gears audible with every movement. It tilted its head and opened its brass beak in a silent croak, which revealed the glittering fire opal within. Illyan was aglow with pride, stroking the top of its feathered head gently and crooning.

“I’m gonna call you Ivoire. Like the river,” they declared. “Bon matin, Ivoire.”

“Wow,” Irénée breathed.

“What can it do?” Oskar wondered.

“She can scout for us,” Illyan said. “She can’t talk but she should understand us. She’ll do any li’l thing you ask of ‘er. I ought to be able to cast spells from a distance through ‘er, too. Plus she’s got a defense mechanism.”

“I can scout,” the tabaxi rumbled, still unimpressed.

“But can you fly?” With a cocky grin, Illyan threw the clockwork homunculus into the air. Her wings unfolded with a flap and a click of locking hinges, brass feet tucking into her underbelly. Illyan called after her, “Check out the bridge, Ivoire!” The pale shape of the white raven soared out over the canyon.

Oskar clicked his tongue. “What are you worried about?”

“Spies. Strahd knew exactly where we were last night. Don’t like that, me.”

“That was Vistani,” Sveta objected. “They work for Strahd. They told him we arrived.”

Illyan regarded this suggestion with a deep scowl and a flicker of his fiery hair.

“At least the ‘omunculus can see if the bridge is safe to cross,” Irénée mediated. “Should we check it for magic as well?”

“I don’t want to stand around here for ten minutes while Illyan gets his dowsing rods working,” Valentina complained. “We can see right across it from here. Let’s just go!”

“...I can do something that might help…” Aeon put in. “...The Mother of Night grants me visions if certain evil things are near. I can’t do it all the time, but if I focus…” His eyes slid shut. From the outside, nothing especially of note was taking place. A pulse beat in the thin skin of his temple, keeping time as his breath smoothed in and out of his lungs steady and calm. On the inside, he was picturing the darkening dusk sky. One by one, tiny lights appearing in the darkness as the stars bloomed like moonflowers. The peace of darkness descending, which made light stand out so starkly. If there was any evil, he would see it clear as a star against that velvet night…

When he opened his eyes, stars glittered within them. With his characteristically flat affect, the paladin pointed down into the canyon. To his eyes, something within the falls-mist glowed like a star behind a veil of clouds. “...There is something evil. On the cliffside. It’s ascending…”

For a moment, the words sank into the silence like stones into water, leaving no trace. Then, ripples.

“Um, should we do something about that?” Valentina asked.

“A monster?” Oskar asked.

“...I don’t think so. Evil, though…”

“Probably is evil person, then.”

“What should we do?” Valentina appealed to the others.

Without a word, Illyan strode to the edge of the cliff. Looking over the edge, they saw what they had expected: a piton, driven so deep into the cliff face that it was almost flush. Illyan had realized immediately that an “evil person” who was not a monster could not ascend without the aid of equipment, and sure enough. The head which stuck out was weathered and rusted from the damp conditions, but sturdy enough to support a thick climbing rope which had been tied on. The rope trailed down into the mist, hugging the surface of the cliff. The piton was only a few feet down from the top, clearly the final peg holding this climbing line together. It must have terminated somewhere down at that dead-end where the path had taken them away from the Chênier Pool, though they hadn’t seen it at the time. It wouldn’t have helped them ascend with their cart and horses, but for Vistani on foot it was as good as a ladder. Anyone could have been waiting on this line in ambush, knowing that the group which had passed their camp in shame earlier would be arriving at this bridge soon enough. Illyan wasn’t sure if it was ill preparation or misfortune that saw them still so far down.

From the belt which contained their myriad of pouches and equipment, they withdrew a small, sheathed knife. A whistle summoned Ivoire the homunculus, who abandoned her scouting to swoop back and receive the knife in her brass beak. Easy as anything, the clockwork raven hopped down to perch upon the end of the piton and saw through the rope with the small knife. It took a matter of seconds. With a twang, the rope gave way.

Illyan grinned as Ivoire returned to his shoulder. “Aeon?”

“...The evil presence is descending rapidly…” After a moment or two, he added, “...It’s out of my range now. I can’t tell if it hit the bottom or not, though…”

“If ‘e fell far enough to get outta range, ‘e’s probably going the whole way down,” Illyan opined, returning their knife to their belt. They turned to saunter back to the others, striking up a jaunty whistle on the way. Neat and efficient, and a great test run for his homunculus as well! Illyan defied anyone to find this situation unamusing. “Cross the bridge, anyone?”

They did so uneasily. The stones of the bridge may have been slick with moss and condensation, but they were sturdily built and didn’t so much as tremble beneath the creaking weight of the cart. The horse’s iron-shod hooves rang unpleasantly, but the horses themselves had a good footing and didn’t slip at all. In the end, crossing the bridge was almost laughably uneventful.

On the other side of the River Ivoire, the woods dropped away. The path wound through rocky cliffs and foothills which obscured distance vision. In particular, there was a spire to the east which rose higher than any hill though it still fell short of the great mountains which cradled Barovy valley between their bodies. To the west, the Savaliche Woods could be viewed from above the canopy, like a choppy, black sea. The haze of white mist which rose off the forest contributed to this illusion, looking like a morning fog rolling in off of a dark sea. Far, far to the north, the vaguest shadow of Mount Beauvais could be seen through its obscuring veil.

Closer, a branch split off of the path, leading east around the tall spire of rock. It vanished quickly between the ridges, but its ultimate destination was spelled out by a sign at the fork.

Castle Ravenloft.

The wagon wheels ground to a halt on the graveled earth. The horses snuffled restlessly, drawing in deep breaths of cool air. They were on a higher altitude on this side of the river. Not enough for the air to noticeably thin but enough for it to palpably cool. If the slope had been any steeper, there would have been steam rising off of their flanks.

The humanoid party members regarded the fork gravely.

“He’s right there,” Oskar said in a guttural murmur. His fangs showed all the way to the gums. “If I turned here, I could be confronting him in minutes. My whole life searching, and he’s right here.”

“‘E’d kill you easy, mec,” Illyan reminded him. “‘E’s too strong for us to beat.” He’d turned into mist and just melted away from their attacks. He hadn’t even been fazed by being stabbed twice.

“And we cannot take Irénée there,” Ismaël chimed in.

“I know. It still feels strange.”

“...Take it from me,” Aeon said, quietly, “just walking in and trying to fight Strahd head-on doesn’t work. We had a lot more people than this and we still lost…” He swallowed heavily. “I lost… a lot of people I cared about…” His voice, already thin, shredded entirely to pieces like clouds in the wind. His eyes gazed sightlessly at the sign, lost in visions of that night. The stars overhead, the woman at his side, the screams and the blood…

“Will still be there when we are ready,” Sveta reassured Oskar. “Castle is not leaving.”

His only reply was a deep, growling sigh. Tense as a bowstring across the shoulder, he clicked softly to Bȗche de Noël, flicking the reins gently to urge the pony into motion. One by one, the others followed, taking the northwest fork to Vallac.

The road once more took them beneath the trees. In mere minutes, the forest had swallowed the fork behind them as well as any sight of the rocky road which led to Castle Ravenloft.

A few minutes was all they had to go beneath these trees until they came to a gate. It was identical to the gate which had allowed them into the valley, when they had traveled in with Clan Rambeaut. The iron of the gate towered higher than the treetops, spiked and rusted. The posts to either side were plainer, not carved statues but merely granite posts to hold the gate up. Their stones were worn to silky smoothness, threaded with black moss. As with the gates at the valley’s mouth, there was no attached wall or rock formation. Merely the gate standing across the road, blocking the way forward.

“Illyan, you didn’t mention this,” Valentina frowned. “Does it only open from one side like the entry gate?”

“It would be wisest to assume that it does,” Oskar said.

“I’ve never been this far west, me,” Illyan muttered. “I don’t know what’s out ‘ere.”

“None of us ‘ave,” Irénée admitted.

“I know it is further to Vallac,” Ismaël said.

“Even if it only opens from this side,” Oskar said, “there’s nothing stopping us from going through the woods around it. It’s only blocking the road. There’s no reason not to go through.”

“Forward-ho!” Valentina cheered.

Just like the eastern gate, this one creaked open as soon as Bȗche de Noël drew close. It swept an avalanche of fallen, rotting leaves ahead of it, a creaking groan like the slide of rock down a mountain’s face. The silence afterwards rang for a moment with the distant echoes of the noise returning from the enclosing mountains. The sound of the horses’ hooves over the road’s surface were a bass thump more vibration than sound in the wake of that screech.

As soon as the Morning Glory cleared the gateposts, an arrow thudded into Oskar’s shoulder.

Bȗche de Noël reared with a scream, shaking the whole wagon. All three of the Imbert siblings cried out in shock. Oskar let rip a fearsome snarl that set all three horses shying back, nervous of the large predator in their midst. Aeon’s sword rang clear of its sheath.

Around them, four brightly-dressed bandits appeared from the underbrush. Wickedly curved scimitars in their hands flashed as they fell upon the group. Aeon stepped forward to lift his own longsword in a block, engaging one of the men in a flurry of exchanged swordplay. Another stood back beneath a black-leafed oak, a crossbow in both hands, taking aim once more at Illyan.

Oskar himself rose to balance atop the driver’s bench, unslinging his longbow and nocking an arrow to return fire. He focused on the two who were rushing the Morning Glory. An arrow apiece thudded into their abdomens, thick around as tree roots. Sveta leaned up to try to aim a dizzy swipe with her staff as one of the Vistani engaged Oskar with her scimitar, only to end up collapsing back down with her head spinning. Irénée clutched her shoulders. It wasn’t long before Oskar was forced to drop his bow and draw his sword, parrying the scimitar blows coming in for his passengers.

With the click of clockwork joints, Ivoire swooped down to open her brass beak. The dart which shot from the back of her throat was near-invisible, a distortion more than a presence as it shot across the road to strike the Vistana with the crossbow. Illyan cheered.

Aeon, meanwhile, had harried his opponent into the bushes by the side of the road. His fringe flew in his eyes, teeth bared in a rictus. His opponent was on the back foot, stumbling a step with every heavy blow of the chevalier’s longsword. Clank! Clink! The scimitar bounced off of his black armor again and again, until the Vistana’s whole upper body was soaked in sweat and there was fear visible in the corners of his eyes. In contrast, the chevalier’s expression was remote as a celestial body, his eyes the cobalt of the chilly night.

All at once, he sank back into an elegant stance, sword over one shoulder, arm and leg extended. He moved his lips to mumble as if to himself, “Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber?”

A glitter like a meteor shower ran down the dark steel of his blade, their starshine lingering around the point as Aeon drove it through the Vistana’s sternum. The starry tip punched through his body, emerging from his back on the other side with the faintest sound of a sizzle. The scimitar dropped to the forest floor from lifeless fingers. The Vistana’s whole body slumped like a puppet.

Aeon allowed the weight and the momentum of his own heel-turn to withdraw the blade in a splattering arc of blood. His steel-nailed boots trampled the sparse undergrowth as he charged back onto the road, starlit sword held high.

Oskar and Ismaël, their own swords drawn and barely holding off the two attackers, froze in mirrored astonishment. Heedless, Aeon removed the Vistana woman’s head from her shoulders with one heavy swipe. Valentina struck like a viper with her dagger over the side of the wagon, drawing a line across the throat of the attacker who had been engaging Oskar. Hardly anybody noticed this body fall. All eyes were on Chevalier Spellblade, whose shoulders heaved where he stood, the tip of his sword now lightless and resting on the dirt of the road while he caught his breath. There was a spray of blood across the bridge of his nose and cheekbone, like scarlet freckles. His own eyes were locked onto the severed head of his opponent. Sightless, lightless, haunted.

“That was… impressive,” Oskar said, gruffly.

Aeon didn’t react. His gaze did not turn from the spreading pool of blood. His breath came harshly.

“Aeon!” Valentina snapped. “There’s still an enemy!”

This brought him to attention, bloodless face lifting at last to look first at Valentina, then towards the crossbowman beneath the oak. Illyan, astride Beignet, stood between the larger group and their final ambusher while Ivoire circled overhead, lining up for another strafing pass.

The Vistana with the crossbow, having been witness to the fate of his three companions, was frozen with terror. His mouth hung open and swung like an abandoned gate. His knees, trembling, knocked together and shook the fringe of his bright outfit.

Illyan lifted both of his hands, showing the ash-colored palms. “That’s all, mec. You gotta know when you’re beat, ouais?”

“You… you…” The Vistana’s whole body wavered, as if even standing in place was an effort. He still clutched his crossbow, though its tip traced wobbling circles that were unlikely to come anywhere near his targets. “You stay back!”

“I’m stayin’ over ‘ere, don’t you worry none.” Illyan’s accent went low and thick as honey, the way it did when he was trying to be deliberately casual. “You Clan Mercier? Who asked you to ambush us, mec? Was it Madame Eva?”

“You know who it was!” the Vistana spat, unsteadily. “Clan Mercier serves the master of the valley!”

Oskar’s predictable snarl split the air like a thunderclap. The man flinched terribly, but luckily didn’t squeeze off a wild shot by reflex. Illyan grimaced to have his soothing demeanor soured by the big, intimidating tabaxi noises on one side and the bloodstained knight approaching on the other. He was going to have to talk very quickly if he wanted a chance at getting this Vistana on their side.

“You don’t ‘ave to, though,” Illyan said. “Clan Rambeaut’s a free caravan. We go where we want and we don’t answer to no one but us. Mercier could be the same way. You don’t ‘ave to follow that old bat’s orders just because.”

The blood drained from the Vistana’s face, leaving his complexion ashen. With an unexpected fervor, he shouted, spittle flying from his trembling lips. “Y-You don’t know what you’re talking about! You idiot, ‘e’s not just master of the valley, ‘e is the valley! Ain’t nothing goes on ‘ere ‘e don’t know about, ain’t nothing ‘e don’t control! ‘E could wipe out our clan soon as any of us step outta line! Your Clan Rambeaut, too! Ain’t no escaping that!”

Before Illyan could formulate a response, there was a rustle in the otherwise-silent trees. A shifting, slithering sound and a rising chitter. All at once, a swarm of black bats coalesced from the canopy, swooping and diving. The Vistana beneath the oak had just a moment to let out a miserable scream of terror before the swarm subsumed him. Like a pack of wolves, the bats ripped a thousand chunks from his flesh in an explosion of blood. Within seconds, his scream had choked off and the Vistana’s limp body was left to collapse beneath the tree. The bats swarmed away back into the trees, passing just inches above the heads of the dumbstruck party. Irénée shrieked, covering her head. The bats paid them no heed, except for one which paused to hang from a tree limb just above the dead Vistana. It fixed burning red eyes on Illyan, making sure he saw the way it groomed the blood soaking its fur away. Then, it too vanished into the tree canopy. The dead man on the ground gazed pleadingly at Illyan.

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Vallac was a further two hours past the western gate along the Old Savaliche Road. It continued to switch back around the bases of elevated, rocky hills until suddenly shooting northeast. A hairpin turn from here took them west, into a sunken little valley filled with trees. The dark glitter of water could be seen through the underbrush to the north--this was Lake Varius. It lay four miles long alongside the woods, fed from various streams coming out of the mountains to the north and eventually feeding into La Lune River flowing south. Just as the valley contained triplet towns, La Lune was the middle-child river of Barovy’s three. From east to west, there were the rivers Ivoire, La Lune, and Corbeau. Corbeau and Ivoire ran east-to-west, horizontally along the valley floor, terminating in far smaller lakes. La Lune, in contrast, cut through the valley from north to south, eventually forming a Y fork and exiting the valley entirely through the southern mountains. Or rather, running into the thick mists which prevented living creatures from escaping Strahd’s domain.

There was no need just yet to cross La Lune. Along the road, the sullen shape of Vallac loomed ahead. The mountainous terrain to the south brooded above the town’s wooden palisades and the thick fog off of the lake pressed against them as if in siege. These walls were formed of massive logs lashed together with thick ropes and mortar, their tops sharpened to points. The dirt road trailed directly into a set of sturdy iron gates. On either side of this road, the grass was feathered with rusted pikes which each bore the rotting remains of wolves’ heads.

The Morning Glory paused at the top of the hill, looking down on this welcoming sight.

“Anyone you know?” Oskar asked Sveta, pointing to the wolf heads.

Her ruby red eyes flicked from gruesome sight to gruesome sight with evident indifference. “Nyet. All have both ears.” Not that she truly believed the people of this little hamlet could have killed and beheaded Lech, anyway. If it was that easy, someone would have done it ages ago. It wasn’t as if the man was winning hearts and minds wherever he went.

“That is the Morning Gate,” Ismaël informed them. “There are two more. One to the north, one to the west. The walls are patrolled at all times by the town guard.”

Illyan rolled his eyes, but didn’t verbally protest his brother continuing the old argument. “So, what? They gonna let us in?”

“We don’t want to go in,” Valentina said, leaning her elbows on the side of the Morning Glory. “Irénée and I need to split up for the body double thing to work. And I still want to go back and save Aeon’s friend, don’t you?”

“...I do…” Aeon agreed.

“If we go in, we may draw unwanted attention,” Oskar said. “Ismaël and Irénée alone may be able to sneak in unseen.”

The three Imbert siblings exchanged glances. Sadly, Irénée said, “It makes the most sense.”

She hopped out of the wagon while the other two dismounted. Drawn by the same magnetic pull, all three collided in a messy, squeezing hug. Illyan’s hair tickled warmly against Ismaël’s neck, while Irénée’s cheek pressed against theirs. They had said goodbye to one another countless times throughout their childhoods, every time Illyan and Marie Séraphine returned to the road with their clan. This one felt different. Far more final. The hush of the foggy forest around them and the looming despair of Strahd lifted the fine hairs on Illyan’s arms. They had already lost their father. Would they lose their sister, now, too?

“Viens.” Lifting their cheek from Irénée the bare inch necessary to speak, Illyan wiggled one arm free to gesture at the circling shape of Ivoire. The homunculus alighted neatly on their hand, only to be placed upon Ismaël’s shoulder. At last, the siblings drew apart. “Watch till they’re somewhere safe, Ivoire. Then come back to me. You two… be smart. Stay safe.”

Ismaël clapped both hands on Illyan’s shoulders and smiled all across his goofy face. “Be smart yourself. No more dying, frèrot.”

Irénée seized Illyan’s face in her hands, planting a kiss on either cheek. Not a greeting kiss, but a true one. “I love you, frèrot. Take care of yourself.”

“Love you, too, Irénée. Love you both. I’ll come find you soon-soon.”

They swung up onto Beignet together. He watched them trot down the road, almost swallowed by the fog until they reappeared at the iron gates. He watched them exchange a few words with the guards, then slip through the gates and out of sight.

“We’ll camp out here tonight,” Valentina decided. “Come on, Aeon. You can have Noël now.”