Chapitre Six: Pas de Vrai Vistana
The day stretched eternally on, dark and cheerless as a winter night. The danger and darkness, detours and delays had made a trip of at most two hours into an event that spanned the majority of the day. It was approaching evening when the River Ivoire crossroads were in sight. From there, it was only fifteen minutes to reach Barovy proper. Battered and exhausted, the longing to reach the village and collapse into their sleeping rolls was old and burning as a torn-open scar. Sveta had collapsed to the bed of the Morning Glory after their fight with the scarecrows, complaining of a splitting migraine induced by the vertigo. Illyan would have happily sunk a dagger to the hilt in the chest of his brother in order to finish this trip without any further living contact. Probably not his sister’s, though.
The crossroads, unfortunately, as they approached, were far from devoid of life. Light and voices spilled many yards beyond the bend in the road. Remembering the ghastly apparition which had appeared to him at these crossroads the last time, Illyan felt sick unease pooling like oil in the pit of his guts. He, Valentina, and Oskar shared sidelong looks over the heads of their teammates in the cart bed, but nobody said anything. In an agony of anticipation, they approached.
At the crossroads, a half-circle of people awaited them. The Morning Glory rolled to a stop as the group took in the sight. Vistani of the Clans Mercier and Rambeaut were arrayed so as to block the roads towards Barovy and the Chȇnier Pool. Long torches had been thrust into the ground all along the edges of the roads, seeming to lead the dark forest in a sinister dance. Atop the platform of the creaking gallows stood Madame Eva, leaning on a carved bone cane. On her left was Arceneaux, handsome and bedecked as always in bright jewelry and brighter colors. On her right stood an elderly Vistana woman with a smooth, protruding forehead like an eggshell beneath a cloud of white hair. Illyan knew her to be Bernadette Ariane, the elder of Clan Rambeaut. He scanned the crowd, but Marie Séraphine was still nowhere to be seen. Arranged at the feet of these three figureheads were four unmoving bodies, wrapped in linen shrouds.
Madame Eva spoke. “Illyan Imbert of Clan Rambeaut, you are accused of a grave crime against your people. You ‘ave stolen the belongings of Clan Mercier, you ‘ave been involved in the murder of four full-blooded Vistani, and you ‘ave spoken sedition against our Monseigneur Strahd. The penalty for these crimes is excommunication and death. Representatives from Clans Rambeaut and Mercier of Barovy and Clan Fontenot of Vallac ‘ave converged to determine your guilt. Do you ‘ave anything to say before the clans in your defense?”
Illyan’s mouth dropped open. After a few tries, spluttering, they managed to get out, “I didn’t do none of that! Not just because… There were circumstances! I ‘ad to defend myself!”
“Illyan,” Valentina hastened to say, “as your legal counsel, I advise you to stop talking.”
“Since when are you legal counsel?” Oskar asked.
“I’m ordained, it’s basically the same thing. Anyway, my client pleads not guilty, ma’am!”
“Then the clan elders shall present their evidence and judge ‘im,” Madame Eva pronounced, solemnly.
“You? You’ll present evidence and judge his guilt?” Oskar’s lips peeled back. “What kind of kangaroo court is that? How can we trust that you’ll decide fairly?”
Arceneaux, who was smiling as if he stood at the head of a dinner party rather than a murder trial, waved a hand casually at the surrounding crowd. “Aside from one of the judges being ‘is own elder… me. As an elder of Clan Fontenot, I am a neutral arbiter ‘ere to make sure the tribunal proceeds fairly.”
“You? Neutral?!” Illyan burst out. His flickering bun of hair flared and danced as if fed with oil. “And ‘old on, I thought you were Clan Mercier!”
“By birth, yes, but I ‘ave the authority to represent Fontenot on behalf of Agobard Loïc, their clan elder. I’ll be fair-fair, don’t you worry none.” He threw in a wink. Illyan felt that wink hit like a javelin to the chest. All of his exhaustion was wiped away in a flood of adrenaline. He thought he could have easily flown across the space between them in that moment to commit a murder in front of the entire tribunal, regardless of the consequences. Luckily, Valentina was there to talk over him and prevent any incriminating violence.
“Okay, well, don’t we get a chance to prepare our own evidence and arguments before the trial starts? I’m pretty sure we should get one of those.”
Madame Eva frowned. “If you are telling the truth, you should need no time to prepare.”
Valentina all but leaped from the driving bench. “I object!”
“Giving ‘im time to talk to ‘is friends would be reasonable, Madame Eva,” Bernadette Ariane said, tremulously. “If ‘e’s innocent, this must all be quite a shock.” She was wringing her shaking hands, aiming a look of distinct pity at Illyan.
Arceneaux nodded. “I agree, what’s the ‘arm? Though, we wouldn’t want the accused to just run for the mountains. ‘Ow about this, mec: You can consult with your ‘legal counsel’ while your friends in the cart there sit a spell over ‘ere with us?”
Ice spilled down Illyan’s spine. What? He looked over his shoulder at Sveta and Aeon, in the bed of the Glory. Sveta seemed unbothered by the prospect. She squinted one eye open against the pain in her head, but held her staff in a tight, ready grip. It was Chevalier Aeon who now seemed the worse off of the pair. Where before, he had simply been staring quietly at his hands, his eyes were now affixed on the frame of the gallows. There was no color in his face except for the shadows around his eyes. His lips were pressed together so tightly that they, too, were entirely pale, in the attitude of someone holding back the urge to scream or vomit. The torchlight danced in his dark eyes like the fires of Hell.
“I will watch him,” Sveta promised. “Do not worry for Grandma. Focus on defense.”
“Are you sure?” Valentina whispered.
“Da. This pain in my head… Cannot think well. You young people are smart. Will think of something.”
Illyan didn’t like it one bit, but he and Valentina slipped down from the driver’s bench. Arceneaux himself came forward to take Crème Brûlée’s halter and lead the cart over to the base of the gallows’ scaffolding. The Vistani of Clan Mercier closed ranks around it, mostly concealing it from view as Arceneaux re-mounted the gallows. Low conversation erupted on all sides.
With a jingle, Oskar too slid down the side of his mount and joined Valentina and Illyan to form a small, sad huddle. With only the three of them, Illyan suddenly felt… alone. Distinctly. It felt different than it had when he’d been a loner as a kid. Back then, he’d had visits to his siblings and the constant presence of Maman by his side. Even, in a distant way, his whole clan, which he knew he could trust to shield him against any outsiders. Now, despite the pitiful and anxious looks Bernadette Ariane was sending his way, his clan was gathered among his opponents. His siblings were miles away from here. The sundering of half of his friends, now, even at such a short remove, felt like the tightening of a noose around his throat already. Three, which had always been the number of his childhood, he and Irénée and Ismaël fooling around while the adults talked, now seemed painfully small. He looked helplessly at Oskar and Valentina. Just as his older brother would have, Oskar took the lead.
“First things first. Who are those four bodies? Let’s get our story straight.”
“I don’t know ‘em personally,” Illyan spread their hands. “I guess they’re the Vistani Aeon chopped up and the one who got et by bats?”
“I got one of them,” Valentina pouted.
“Is that our legal strategy, cher? To say that?”
“Well, I don’t want to be hanged, either. Do you think they’d go along with it if we asked them to try the bats for murder instead?”
“I don’t think saying Strahd killed them is a winning strategy, either,” Oskar growled. “That Arceneaux at least works for him, and he’s one of the judges. Maybe all of Clan Fontenot is on Strahd’s side. At this point, I’m not sure we can count on Clan Mercier either.”
Illyan’s heart was galloping in his chest. The squeeze of it was so intense it was almost painful. He genuinely couldn’t tell if this feeling was rage or terror. He kept seeing his own face again and again, hanging from that very gallows. An old, dead thing. He remembered every moment his brother had said something so casually bigoted–Don’t worry, Illyan, Rambeaut are the good ones, not like the other Vistani–and every time he’d snapped back with fire and fury, defending them. They couldn’t count on Clan Mercier or Fontenot, the largest and most established clans in the valley. Illyan couldn’t even count on his own clan elder to stand up for him. This wasn’t random scattered bandits by the roadside; his own people were trying to kill him systemically. His own people! “Fils de putain, if the truth won’t work, then what’s left?!”
“Optics!” Valentina seized Illyan’s shoulders and spun him around to face her. A quick rummage through her bodice brought out her makeup kit. “We’re going to make you look like a perfect little angel. Too pure to commit murder.” She began to defly apply cosmetics, frowning and testing shades against her wrist at lightning speed.
“Here.” All of a sudden, Oskar’s hands were on Illyan’s waist. He flinched forward, caught and pushed back by Valentina who cried out sharply for him to stay still. He stood rigidly while Oskar rifled through every pouch on their belt. Crossbow bolts, daggers, and a few sharp tools as well were all retrieved and squirreled away into Oskar’s pockets instead. “No murder weapon, no crime. The burden of proof should be on them.”
“Valentina, Oskar,” Illyan pleaded, endeavoring to do so without moving his lips excessively, “please do the talkin’. I don’t trust myself. I ain’t good with people and I ain’t good at lying.” He’d trusted them. He’d trusted Madame Eva. He’d trusted Clan Mercier and Clan Rambeaut. His whole life, he’d defended them…
Oskar snorted. “You sure about that? The wild woodsman and the horny cleric are your ideal spokespeople?”
“I’m not exactly spoiled for choices here, mec. But… I do trust you. Both of you.”
“That’s sweet.” Valentina pulled back to admire her handiwork. She pulled a pinch of moss from her spell components pouch and ground it into the back of Illyan’s head. “Sole lord am I of all this realm of sight!” A diffuse, gentle halo of light dawned behind the genasi’s skull, casting an angelic, rosy glow to offset the flickering scarlet of his fiery hair. “Good to go! If you get executed, it’s not my fault!”
“Filling me with confidence, cher.”
“Yoo-hoo, prosecution! We’re ready!”
Madame Eva raised one hand. Silence fell across the watching crowd, though it was not total. Many of the spectators sneered and muttered to one another, elbowing their neighbors and passing around bottles of wine. “Let the first evidence be presented.”
A member of Clan Mercier stepped forward, holding a length of rope which had been sawn off on one end. “As you can see, this rope was cut with a knife. It was discovered next to Jean-Paul’s body at the bottom of the Chȇnier Falls, just after Illyan Imbert of Clan Rambeaut and ‘is accomplices passed over the bridge over’ead. This is a clear sign of murder!”
Illyan’s heart beat one hard, painful squeeze. He hadn’t considered the bodies might not all be from the roadside fight. So it had been Jean-Paul on that rope after all. Following them? Trying to ambush them? Even as he acknowledged that this was logically the least defensible of his kills… Illyan still couldn’t muster any regret for his actions. In fact, despite all the danger, he still found the memory… funny!
Illyan had long noticed the disconnect between his logic and his emotions. Ever since he’d woken from that dream of dying, he’d wondered at the violent turns of his thoughts and the total lack of interest he had in dwelling on the lives he took. He’d wondered before if his soul had cracked, somehow, and left him a slightly different person. Now, fighting back a smile even as his heart throbbed terror for his life, he wondered if he had actually simply gone insane.
The jeers briefly intensified, before a susurrus of shushing restored silence. Dozens of eyes stared eagerly at Illyan for his response. It was Valentina who spoke.
“Nonsense. My client doesn’t carry a knife! He’s an intellectual.”
“‘You’re traveling in the wilderness without any form of blade? That seems reckless, little brother.” Arceneaux cocked an eyebrow. “Well, if that’s the case, you won’t mind if we search your pockets, non?”
Illyan nodded furiously. “Fais-le! Not a blade on me!”
He held out his arms and obligingly held still while the Vistana who had brought forward the rope stepped up to frisk him. Good thing Oskar had removed all the knives. That was brilliant forethought. Go right ahead and look, Arceneuneu, there was nothing to find!
“I found somethin’!”
“Que diable?”
Illyan reeled back. The Vistana frisking him held triumphantly aloft a thin, silver implement. A penknife. The crowd exploded in whoops and hollers.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“It was in ‘is calligraphy tools,” the Vistana explained, handing the tiny knife up to Arceneaux. He flipped it over his fingers in a showy way, holding it up to the torchlight as if inspecting a jewel for flaws. It was all completely unnecessary but the crowd was oohing and aahing as if they’d found a glove covered in blood. Illyan gritted his teeth. He had never hated a single person in his life more than he hated Arceneaux right now.
“You think I killed someone with a penknife? La folie! That blade ain’t two inches!”
“The blade does not need to be long, to cut a rope,” Madame Eva said. “We shall bring forth the next evidence, now.”
A Vistana woman stepped forward from the crowd. “I saw Illyan Imbert of Clan Rambeaut arguin’ with Jean-Paul the night before the murder. Jean-Paul talked ‘im into a bad-bad deal and ‘e was angry. The next morning, I woke up and someone ‘ad been through my tent and taken all the jewelry in it! I’m sure Illyan was gettin’ ‘is revenge by robbin’ us blind!”
Valentina cringed and met his gaze sideways. Purely through eye contact, they conveyed their gratitude that Sveta was unable to continue wearing her stolen goods lest the metal interfere with her returning powers. The only sign of their archeological spree was a few stray rings and earrings between the two of them.
“That’s circumstantial,” Oskar growled. “You don’t have any proof it was Illyan.”
Valentina took that and ran with it. “Objection! It’s not even related to the murders!”
“Theft among the Vistani is also a serious crime,” Arceneaux informed them. “We live together in a community. We gotta be able to trust one another.”
“Illyan? ‘Ave you anything to say in your defense?” Madame Eva asked.
Illyan clenched his fists. “I can’t! You’re askin’ me to prove a negative!”
Another wave of noise passed over the onlookers. Arceneaux lifted his arms theatrically, as if showing off Illyan’s answer to them.
“‘E can’t, by ‘is own admission.”
“That’s not what I said! That’s not what it meant!” Illyan’s indignant shout was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Many were cupping their hands around their mouths and baying like dogs in triumph. It struck Illyan with sickening certainty that nobody here, not even Bernadette Ariane, was on his side. None of his clansmen would do anything but laugh and cheer while he was sentenced to death. The only, only people willing to help him were these outsiders he’d met in a dream.
The thought made him so very angry.
“Our next evidence?” Madame Eva’s reedy voice pierced the chaos.
This time, the three Vistani who stepped forth were more than familiar to Illyan. Marie Soulange, Jeanne Alizée, and Rose Mirabelle, the three proprietresses of Le Sang de dans la Vigne. They wore identical, shit-eating smirks on their painted lips. Soulange twirled a lock of hair around her finger and cocked her hip as she spoke. “We ‘eard Illyan and ‘is brother discussing plans to kidnap their sister to prevent ‘er accepting Monseigneur Strahd’s marriage proposal. Ismaël le Moindre ‘ad been keeping ‘er imprisoned in their family ‘ome for days–‘e even slew ‘er father to prevent ‘im from setting ‘er free! Then, le Moindre said ‘e ‘ad been training specifically to kill Monseigneur Strahd! I got so mad, I cursed ‘is friend as they passed by. Ain’t that right, les filles?”
“Sure is!”
“I ‘eard it all, too!”
Within the Morning Glory, surrounded by Vistani, Sveta was heard to utter a string of weak invectives. Marie Soulange shrugged and waved a hand, which then flew to massage her temple as she winced. Illyan guessed that was her suffering the backlash of her curse. He hoped it gave her adult incontinence. Putain.
Valentina, however, was smiling all over her face, as if butter would not melt in her mouth. “Oh? You three all heard our conversation?”
“We ‘eard it all, fillette,” Soulange confirmed.
“So you were in the tavern with us? What were you doing in there?”
“We were at our own table.” She was still answering obligingly, though her thick brows crept closer with every opaque question.
“At your own table? Sharing a pot of tea?”
Then Marie Soulange got it. She pressed her lips together like a furious violet bud. Unfortunately, her younger sister wasn’t so savvy.
“Ha! Tea? You think our La Vigne serves tea?” Jeanne Alizée jeered. She was a tiny, plump woman with a frizzy bob of hair that had been dyed a deep plum color.
“Oh, my mistake, you’re right! It must have been wine you were drinking, then.” Valentina beamed.
Scattered laughter erupted from the spectators. Jeanne Alizée flushed an immediate, furious scarlet, but couldn’t take her words back. Rose Mirabelle, sturdy and straighter than either of her voluptuous siblings, pinched her viciously in the side. Marie Soulange merely let the curl she had been twirling drop to fold her arms beneath her bosom.
“So what if we were? What’s that prove?”
Oskar shook his head slowly. “Your three witnesses were that many sheets to the wind, Madame.”
Illyan found his voice. Squeakily, he managed to shout, “That’s your word against mine sayin’ we didn’t say none of that! And everyone in Barovy knows you three do nothing all day but sit in that tavern, drink, and talk merde!”
The laughter intensified. A few people called out now, accusing the sisters of various incidents of gossip or drunken antics. Jeanne Alizée and Rose Mirabelle split off to begin shouting back shrill, vulgar counterarguments, visibly mortified. Marie Soulange only stood there, clenching her jaw, but even she had gone red in the face and seemed to have nothing more to say.
For a brief, shining moment, the tide seemed to be turning in Illyan’s favor.
And then he heard someone approaching from the road to Barovy, bellowing at the top of their lungs. The crowd heard it too, quieting down in uneven spurts and turning to peer in the direction of the commotion. The half-circle of onlookers had never quite closed behind Illyan, Valentina, and Oskar, so their view was unobstructed except by the lingering mist. That mist kept them from making out who exactly was the source of that voice until they were almost upon the crossroads. Then, all at once, the mist parted.
Up the road roared Marie Séraphine.
“ARIANE, ‘OW DARE YOU TRY TO KEEP ME FROM THIS?!” She was glowing with fury, red embers showing through her brown scalp. Even as she emerged from the mist, she remained wreathed in the curl and billow of smoke which poured from her scalp and haloed her body. Her teeth were bared like a wild wolf’s, and her every step fairly shook the earth. Her voice was a pyroclastic blast. “‘OW DARE YOU ALL ACCUSE MY CHIL’ OF SUCH A THING? THEY AIN’T ‘URT A LIVING SOUL IN THEIR LIFE! PUTAIN, IF THEY AIN’T ALWAYS HATED KILLIN’ CHICKENS! JUST YOU FILS DES PUTAINS TRY AN’ TOUCH THEM!”
“Maman…!” Illyan reached out as his mother passed him, but Marie Séraphine was unstoppable as volcanic flow. She didn’t even seem to see the child she was defending. She stormed past him, past Marie Soulange and her sisters, past the Morning Glory parked at its base, and right up the steps of the gallows. It was about then that the stunned crowd realized that she did not intend to stop at all, and that she was, in fact, reaching out for Madame Eva’s neck with her bare hands.
Absolute pandemonium reigned for several minutes. Bernadette Ariane latched onto her clanswoman’s arm, feebly pleading with her to stop. Arceneaux dipped a shoulder to circle his arms around Marie Séraphine’s waist and bore her back down the steps. Sveta half-rose on her knees in the bed of the Morning Glory, but was too far away to reach without climbing down; the throng of Vistani now pressing forward precluded that. Dozens of hands caught Marie Séraphine’s arms, shoulders, clothes, and pulled her away from the gallows so that Arceneaux could step back onto them. Madame Eva patted him while he combed his hair back to rights with his fingers, searching for injury. Bernadette Arianne hovered, darting forward and back, wringing her hands so hard her nails left welts on the skin.
“Oh, Séraphine, I didn’t want you ‘ere!” she quavered. “I didn’t want you to see this!”
“I UNDERSTOOD THAT FROM THE LOCKED VARDO.”
Madame Eva pulled herself as upright as she was able, lifting her lip in a sneer. “Mes proches, you see. Illyan Imbert comes from a savage lineage! With such an upbringing, so far from the ‘eart of our clans, it’s no wonder ‘e was not properly educated as a Vistana should be. ‘Is relatives are traitors and barbarians. ‘Ow can ‘e be any better?”
“I’LL SHOW YOU SAVAGE, VIELLE DE MERDE!”
“Séraphine, you’re not helping!” Oskar bellowed.
Valentina had her own arms around Illyan’s shoulders, preventing him from wading into the melee. “Get your ‘ands des putains off my Maman! You let ‘er go, she ain’t on trial!”
“Illyan! You’re not helping, either!”
“Tout le monde! Vistani! Du calme!” Arceneaux let out his own roar. When this failed to work, he made a sign around his eye, which flashed as he met Marie Séraphine’s gaze. All at once, she was limp in the hands that held her. Still panting and smoking with fury, but no longer shouting or trying to claw her way back onto the gallows. She shook off the grasping hands and stood in the center of the crowd, blowing like a bull. Having quieted the main source of the disturbance, the rest of the crowd still took some seconds to settle, outraged and gleeful in turns by the dramatic happenings. At last, Illyan broke free of Valentina and flew to his mother’s side.
“Maman, are you ‘urt?”
“No, no, loulou, I’m alright.” For the second time in his life, Illyan saw tears glittering in the eyes of his indomitable guardian. She patted his shoulder with a hand as heavy and hot as a fire poker. “This is a shame. A farce. ‘Ow dare they even suggest…”
“Maman…” Illyan whispered. For the first time since roaring onto the scene, Marie Séraphine looked her offspring in the face. By furious degrees, her face contorted as she read the guilt and the pleading there as clearly as if it were printed on paper.
Through her teeth, she said, “No. Illyan, no, ‘ow…?”
“They were trying to kill me, Maman!”
“Then they deserved it,” she decided. “And they don’t deserve you. This whole, rotten valley, they don’t deserve you!”
“Séraphine, cher, are you quite finished, now?” Madame Eva’s voice, like a calling crow, resounded into the sudden quiet. “You ‘ave both shamed your lineage. Illyan Imbert, you ‘ave committed the worst sins a Vistana can imagine. You are no true Vistana at all.”
Mother and child clutched one another in furious reassurance and glared up at the three figures on the gallows. Behind them crowded Oskar and Valentina, bristling and ready at any moment to draw arms and defend themselves. The gallows above loomed large. Strangely, into the fraught silence after her words, Valentina had one, lingering thought, which she whispered into Illyan’s ear.
“Hey… Isn’t her accent wrong for a Vistana?”
It struck him like a thunderbolt. It was, it was! Her “cher” went up into the nose like her ns and rs, unlike a Vistana’s accent which rendered it “sha”. It was the same accent as Père’s, as Irénée’s and Ismaël’s and even Aeon’s! A Barovian accent! Not only was her accent clearly different from all those here, her very demeanor was as well. There was a glint in her eye, a vicious poison in her voice, when she talked about Illyan’s lineage. Hadn’t she said something like that, back when she’d read their cards for them, as well? Something about siblings, or blood…
“Can you even judge me?” Illyan found himself saying. “Are you even Vistana yourself, old ‘ag?!”
A jeer ran around the crowd. Arceneaux threw back his head to laugh. “What are you saying now, little brother? Madame Eva ‘as led the Vistani clans for nigh a century!”
“Vistana don’t live that long! Ariane, ‘ow old was she when you were my age?”
Bernadette Ariane fairly wheezed for breath like a brachycephalic dog, her eyes going back and forth between her companions on the gallows and her clansmen down below. “I… I suppose… she was as old then as she is now.”
“So she just ain’t aged in sixty years? Vistana blood don’t do that! You ain’t an elf, but you sure ain’t no Vistana, either! What kinda lineage are you hiding, Evangeline?!”
“Ça suffit!” Madame Eva snapped. “You are slinging mud to distract us from your own crimes! I am not on trial ‘ere! I am clan elder of Mercier, Rambeaut, and Fontenot alike! You are a murderer, a thief, and a traitor!”
“But, Madame Eva, we all three must find ‘im guilty!” Bernadette Ariane protested.
“Are you a traitor alongside ‘im, then, Ariane?”
The old woman flinched back but then, tremblingly, lifted her chin. “Clan Rambeaut are not traitors, nor are we ‘alf-bloods or savages. We are Vistana, same as you! Maybe… Maybe more than you!”
“Do not grow a spine now,” Madame Eva hissed. “Cher Arceneaux, pronounce your verdict. You break the tie.”
Before Arceneaux could do more than stroke his goatee, a bored tenor silenced the whole crowd with a single sentence.
“He does not.”
Illyan had thought that his heart could not beat any harder. He’d been wrong. His eyes slowly tracked up the frame of the gallows, to the slender figure now standing on top. It seemed to take hours, as if the gallows had been growing an inch for every second they spent arguing. A ruby glinted at his throat, and his dark cape billowed in the breeze. Pale and indifferent as death, there stood the devil Strahd. His figure was somehow a patch of pure darkness against the lesser darkness of the glowering thunderclouds and the pitch-black forest.
“Strahd!” Oskar snarled. He lunged forward, only to be blocked by the crowd of Vistani. He coiled up as if to leap straight up to where the vampire stood, but found himself weighed down by Valentina clinging suddenly to his back and beaming upwards.
“Honey boo! You came for me!”
Silently, Strahd tossed a small object in her direction. Valentina caught it like a wedding bouquet, squealing in delight when she opened it to find a small fortune in gold. All the while, the vampire lord did not remove his eyes from Illyan.
“I have heard this Vistana speak treason through the ears of my spies. His brother has opposed and publicly denounced my rule. They scheme to keep what is mine…” A significant look here at Valentina, gleefully counting her new riches. “...away from me. Illyan Imbert keeps company with known traitor Aeon Spellblade…” The eyes moved to fix on the cart. In the bed of the Morning Glory, Aeon lay in the fetal position, hands wrapped around his head, shaking in every limb. “...as well as those dedicated to harming myself and my servants.” Finally, they came to rest on Oskar. “He has willfully slaughtered those servants and stolen from them as well. I pronounce him guilty on all counts. There is only one punishment for a Vistana who has committed such sins. I trust you to see the sentence out, Evangeline.”
“Oui, Monseigneur.” She curtsied deeply.
“Irénée, mon amour… I await you.” He shifted his gaze to the young cleric, who was practically bouncing on her toes.
“Me, too! I’ll meet up with you later, okay?”
“I shall count the hours.” Strahd de Varius bowed from atop the arm of the gallows. Then, his body dissolved into a cloud of dark, shrieking bats which flowed into the mist and disappeared. Oskar released an inchoate noise of fury.
Madame Eva spoke before anyone could rally. “Illyan Imbert, you and your Clan Rambeaut are banished from Vistana society. Any Vistana who meets you in the valley may kill you with impunity. Any of Clan Rambeaut who leave this valley may never find their way back through the mists again. You may no longer call yourselves Vistani.”
A general call of acknowledgement went up from the gathered clans, mingled with despairing wails from those present who belonged to Clan Rambeaut. Illyan was numb with rage. He had expected those gallows to be put to use. He’d expected to go down fighting, maybe to have to insist that his friends run and save themselves. This, he had not expected. This was worse.
“No. I don’t accept it. I don’t accept that you ‘ave the authority to banish Clan Rambeaut at all! You’re nothing but an imposter! I’ll expose you if it’s the last thing I ever do, Evangeline!”
“I ‘ave spoken.” So said, Madame Eva descended the gallows steps with the aid of Arceneaux’s hand and began to lead her clan up the path back to their camp at the Chênier Pool. A few others broke off to walk back towards Barovy, discussing matters intently in small groups as they went. Arceneaux grimaced sympathetically in Illyan’s direction.
“Tough break, little… Well. Tough break, mec. This is goodbye for us, then.” He set off alone down the fork which led to Vallac, picking up his own glossy, black horse along the way and spurring it into a trot. The Vistana who remained were Clan Rambeaut, lost and shattered, pleading with one another for reassurance that none of them could provide. Least of all Elder Bernadette Ariane, who had bitten her lower lip straight through and was staring with tearful eyes at the embracing mother and son.
“What are we going to do, Séraphine?” Bernadette Ariane whispered.
“You’ve done more than enough,” Marie Séraphine returned. “Don’t you listen to them, Illyan. We don’t need them. Our clan ‘as never been like the others. Clan Rambeaut flies free.”
“Well, they were right about one thing. Bad blood will out.” Illyan shook himself. “C’mon. Let’s get you all back to camp.”
Not all of the clan was willing. Many were furious with Illyan and with Bernadette Ariane for dragging their clan into Illyan’s sentencing. Many lingered at the crossroads while The Morning Glory was collected, shouting and raging and spitting on the bodies left at the foot of the gallows. Some spat on Illyan’s boots instead. Valentina crammed into the cart bed alongside Sveta so that they could both pat the still-stunned Aeon and reassure him that Strahd was gone. Oskar drove, leaving Illyan and his mother to lead the horses on foot. Bernadette Ariane drifted off the gallows and past her furious kinsmen, seeming deaf to their tumult. The only person her eyes truly seemed to see was Valentina, who she passed by while the girl was climbing into the cart.
To Valentina’s confusion, the elder peered deeply into her face before saying with a sigh, “‘Ere you are. All for nothing, in the end, ma petite.” She kissed Valentina’s cheek and wandered away. Valentina, stunned, shrugged and resumed her climb.
The group spent an uneasy night with Clan Rambeaut on the outskirts of Barovy, listening to the sounds of Marie Séraphine and Bernadette Ariane arguing in the elder’s vardo and the desolate sobs of the new exiles throughout camp.