Chapitre Dix: La Tour d'Evil
Between the larger Vistana and their new, smaller one, the hike south was not a quiet one. The larger, Illyan, walked with their notebook open in front of them, jotting down questions they had for Clan Fontenot and musing aloud about the specifics. The smaller, Marcel Arthémise, had a comment for everything he said, whether she understood it or not, as well as one for every bush and tree they passed, every cloud in the sky, and every stray thought that crossed her mind. She did not often pause long enough for her questions to be answered, preferring to chatter on. Her comments were not always related to the things being said to her, either. She was especially fascinated with Ivoire, who dipped and swooped ahead in an Illyan-directed effort to distract the child. The crux of Illyan’s frantic planning was his inability to enter the Clan Fontenot camp, as a new exile. Rather than force the issue and discover whether anyone there truly wished to slay him where he stood, he preferred not to show his face at all.
With that decided, however, the question came up: What were they going to do with the tiger?
“It’s like one of those boat riddles,” Valentina commented. “Where you’ve got a fox, a goose, and a bag of grain and only one fits in the boat at a time. If we leave the tiger in the woods with Illyan, he’ll get eaten. If we take the tiger into the Vistani camp, they get eaten. If we take Illyan into the Vistani camp…”
“I’m good at riddles! Papa says I’m a genius, me.”
“We get it, Nini,” Illyan groused.
“Your ‘air looks funny. Is it warm if you touch it?”
“...I’m willing to stay in the woods with them both…” Aeon volunteered.
“You oughta tell your tiger that eating people’s bad-bad.”
“Is that going to be enough?”
“Papa told me you can tell what way you’re walking by looking at moss.”
“...I think I can handle it…”
“Does your bird need to eat? Can she eat worms? You should get ‘er a worm to eat.”
“If walk takes much longer, I will leave child alone in woods with tiger,” Sveta said, flatly.
The walk took about twenty minutes. They bypassed the Evening Gate in Vallac’s western wall and followed the split path south. Before long, the woods parted to reveal the swell of a large, grass-covered hill. It was fairly high at its peak, but it hardly seemed so due to the gentleness of its slope and the large area which it covered. Though the forest and the sky around were just as bleak and sapped of color as the rest of the valley, this round little hill had an almost charming aura to it.
Adding to this fairytale image was the ring of houses built directly into the sides of the hill’s base. It was hard to see on approach how many there were total, but Oskar counted at least four visible from this side. The buildings were carved with elegant, decorative scrollwork, the eaves curling up like autumn leaves at the corners. From these eaves hung painted lanterns, glowing warmly through the thin fog. All of the houses were closed up, even as the day passed through noon.
Above the level of the fog, the hill was crowned by a ring of Vistani vardos. Between the wagons, flashes of grazing horses and canvas tents could be seen. Much like the houses below, the Vistani camp was lit up despite the time of day, as if to create their own noonday sun beneath the glowering clouds. A blaze in the center of the camp threw up a column of fragrant smoke which seemed to pour upwards into and merge with the clouds, as if the grand hill were actually a grassy little volcano.
Marcel Arthémise picked up her pace at the sight of the hill, grinning all over her face. Her drying hair bounced around her face and her little legs pumped as she followed the worn footpath between the buildings and up the side of the hill. As the others followed, they came to see that the source of the smoke was coming from a large tent at the very center of the ring of vardos. The camp was all but abandoned of people. A pile of hunting dogs lay napping in the grass, and hens pecked around between empty tents and vardos. What few people they passed (flying by at Marcel Arthémise’s pace) were also children or young teens. They hardly had time to look surprised at the sudden intruders in their camp. Marcel Arthémise made a beeline directly for the central tent.
Piled outside the entrance flap was a small pyramid of empty wine casks. This was not the most disturbing detail that became apparent as they approached. Ssss-CRACK! went something inside the tent, followed quickly by the pained howls of a man.
Heedless of this ghastly sound, Marcel Arthémise threw open the tent flap and marched in. “Papa! Pap Arceneaux! I’m back!”
The blaze was apparently not one large fire, but three of them filling the tent with smoke and sweltering heat. The tent had no floor, only dirt and dead grass. At least six adult Vistani lay in this grass in various poses of dissipation, apparently passed out drunk. The smell of wine and sweat was strong. A barely conscious and shirtless teenager hugged the central tent pole, his wrists bound with rope and his back streaked with blood. The cause was clearly the hulking man in leather armor standing over him, holding a horsewhip. The man had deep, brown-black hair slicked back and a pointed mustache and beard. Standing in the bigger man’s shadow was a familiar face, arms crossed, smirking as usual.
“Easy, beau,” said Arceneaux to the whip-wielding brute. “I think André ‘as learned his lesson, me.” The smarmy look faded to one of genuine fondness as Arthémise rushed to join the two men. He slapped the brute on the chest with the back of his hand. “‘Ey, look ‘ere! Tit-Arty’s back!” Arceneaux swept up the little girl into his arms and briefly bounced her on his hip. He didn’t get to hold her for long before the other man had dropped his whip and swooped her into his own arms with a cry of delight, peppering kisses all over her giggling face.
“Ma fille! Are you safe? Are you ‘urt?”
Arceneaux blinked in surprise to find Oskar, Sveta, Jinghua, and Valentina standing by the entry flap behind Marcel Arthémise. “Well, this is a surprise. Didn’t expect I’d run into you all so soon after our parting at the crossroads. Where is pauve Ti-Illyan?”
“Safe, despite your best efforts,” Oskar growled.
Arceneaux shrugged broadly. “Didn’t get a chance to vote, did I? Guess we’ll never know which way it would’ve gone. I didn’t call the tribunal, neither. That was Madam Eva.”
“We are not here to fight about tribunal,” Sveta broke in. “We are here to return girl. She is this man’s daughter?”
Arceneaux nodded, a twinkle returning to his eye. “Ouais, sure is. This here’s Agobard Loïc, elder of Clan Fontenot and my ‘usband. I thank you sincerely for returning my stepdaughter.”
“Husband?!” Valentina burst out. “You were flirting with me!”
“Was ‘e, now?” Agobard Loïc joined the discussion, still cradling Marcel Arthémise on his hip. His facial features tended towards what Oskar could only describe as wicked, between his prominent widow’s peak, aquiline nose, and dark, narrow eyes. Even softened by the obvious joy of seeing his daughter safely returned, he still looked as if he could coldly cut someone down on the spot. His normal speaking voice was a growl that rivaled Oskar’s. It made it hard to tell if he was teasing Arceneaux or threatening him.
Arceneaux himself didn’t seem bothered. He smiled at his apparent husband. “A flirt ain’t no ‘arm, cher.”
Agobard Loïc grunted, apparently satisfied with this. “It was a political union, anyway. After our elders all passed and left me in charge of the clan, Madam Eva sent one of ‘er own clansmen over to ‘elp run the place. Show of friendship that just so ‘appened to keep us in the fold.”
“Why you?” Valentina asked Arceneaux, still somewhat floored.
“Only unmarried, direct descendant of Madam Eva who likes men, too, me. No choice. ‘Usband may not be much but I stick around for the li’l chicky. What ‘appened to you, cher?”
Marcel Arthémise piped, “Stupid Boleslas put me in a sack and tried to throw me in the lake to make the fishies come back.”
“And where is Boleslas now?” Agobard Loïc asked, dangerously.
“Cat man put ‘im in the lake to feed the fishies!” she giggled.
“Can’t say anyone’ll miss ‘im.” The man turned his attention back to the adults. “You’re friends of my no-good ‘usband and you’ve returned my Arthémise to me. I’ll see you rewarded. Go by the vardo on the north side of camp and tell Joseph Laurens I said you can pick whatever you want from it as payment.”
Sveta inclined her head. “Very kind.”
“Oh, hold on.” Valentina flipped open Illyan’s notebook and squinted through the smoke-haze at the written questions. “What reason did Boleslas have for doing that to Arthémise? Do you think he was acting under orders?”
Agobard Loïc spat on the ground. “That fils de putain ain’t got the brains to be part of some conspiracy. ‘E’s one of them soulless ones. ‘Ardly two thoughts to rub together. Always ‘anging around begging for wine ‘cause ‘e’s too stupid to make any money selling ‘is fish. I’m only surprised ‘e worked up the initiative to try something. And,” he added, to the little girl on his hip, “that my daughter was couillon enough to wander off on ‘er own.”
“I was ‘unting rabbits,” Marcel Arthémise whined. “Everyone else is too loud. I ‘ad to go on my own.”
The four non-Vistani shared a speaking look. His attitude didn’t seem suspicious enough to press the issue. Illyan was probably just being paranoid by asking. Valentina moved down to the next question on her list.
“Uh, why did your clan send Arcen–oh, we covered that one. Marriage alliance, got it. Okay, do you know a Vistani woman named Esmé d’Avenir?”
“No. Arceneaux?”
“Neither.”
“Cool. How about ‘a bed of stone, flanked by gargoyles’? Mean anything to you?”
This time, it was the Vistani who shared a speaking look. The look mostly seemed to speak of confusion. Slowly, Arceneaux said, “...Could be the ol’ Château. Lots of statues and gargoyles on that one.”
“Château?” Oskar prompted.
“It’s called the Château d’Arquette. Some old ruin that was ‘ere before Monseigneur Strahd conquered the valley. Long-long before our time. Follow the road west till the La Lune crossroads, then south-southwest ‘til you come to the big, ruined mansion. Can’t mistake it.”
“We’ll check it out, probably. Thanks.”
“If you’re going that way, stop by the vineyard, the Wizard of Wines,” Arceneaux advised. He gestured to the tent flap and the pile of empty casks out front. “It’s on that same south-southwest road. We get a delivery every week, normally, but they ain’t come in a while. That place supplies the whole valley. We’re gonna have a big problem on our ‘ands if the wine’s dried up! Only damn thing to do in this valley.”
Valentina gasped. “Oh no. That’s very serious. We will definitely go save the wine!” She looked back at the others. “Anything else before we go?” She was met with three shaking heads. Brightly, she turned back to Arceneaux. “Well, goodbye, then. It’s a shame that you and I could never be!”
Arceneaux kissed her hand before she could walk away, smirking once more. Agobard Loïc watched with an unreadable face of stone. “We walk a different road, cher. Shame it ‘ad to be so.”
“À r’oir! Thanks for saving me!” Marcel Arthémise waved from her father’s arms as they exited the tent.
“Nobody asked about the whipping thing,” Oskar noted, as they made their way towards their promised reward on the north side of camp.
“I was not going to ask about the man’s hobby of whipping boys,” Valentina said, decisively. “One of you should have, if you wanted to know. I don’t pry.”
Thinking of every time they had ever sent Valentina to gather information from someone, Oskar snorted, but didn’t challenge her. Truth be told, he didn’t particularly want to pry into that particular issue, either. Between this camp and Vallac, it was becoming increasingly clear that corporal punishment was simply a way of life in this valley.
“Have you noticed that every time we talk to someone, we acquire another item on our to-do list?” Jinghua wondered. Valentina, flipping through Illyan’s notebook again, whistled.
“That list is no joke. He’s got twenty-four things written here. …Of course, one of them is ‘throw hands with Arceneaux’.”
“Why he did not come, then?”
“I didn’t know Arceneaux was going to be here.”
The indicated vardo was apparently some sort of treasure storehouse. The nervous teen boy who unlocked it for them stepped back to allow them to put their hands on everything inside as they made their decision, apparently afraid of interfering with his elder’s guests. There was a wooden throne inlaid with gold and twinkling gems, a crate of twelve stoppered potions, an exquisite tapestry rug worked with a silver unicorn, an onyx jewelry box filled with jewels, a small, iron chest overflowing with gold, and a large, wooden chest overflowing with what at first seemed to be gold. Sveta pulled a face of distaste when she picked up one of the coins and discovered it to be electrum.
“Was same in other Vistani camp,” she complained. “Who is minting this much electrum? Pointless metal. Should be gold or silver or nothing.”
Their choice in the end was the box containing twelve glass bulbs, each filled with a glowing, swirling white substance that almost appeared more gaseous than liquid. It was as if each one contained a piece of the omnipresent mist which surrounded the valley. According to Joseph Laurens, these were potions which would allow the drinker to pass through the mists surrounding Barovy without Strahd’s permission, as the Vistani did. He seemed oddly hesitant to part with them, despite clearly understanding who had sent them.
“Please,” Joseph Laurens begged, “take something else as well. Loic won’t mind.”
“If you insist!” Valentina said, and chose to take the unicorn rug as well.
“Was not necessary. Illyan likes magic potions,” Sveta said. “Illyan will like.”
----------------------------------------
“You picked what?” Illyan squawked. “Over gold and treasure?”
“Electrum and treasure, but yeah.”
The expression the young genasi made was complicated. “You… know those are maybe. I mean, it’s possible they won’t. Work.”
There was a short silence as everybody present processed the fact that they had chosen the single most useless reward from an entire treasure wagon filled with valuables.
“Oopsie.”
“Not our finest hour.”
The conversation was being had as the group traversed the length of Vallac from west to east, having entered back through the Evening Gate with the intention of collecting their horses and wagon once more. The new group goal was to investigate this mysterious, ruined chateau and the troubled vineyard. Lost in discussion as they planned this venture and reviewed what they had learned, they were caught off-guard by the figure awaiting them with crossed arms in the gateway to the stockyard. A slim but tall figure with sandy-blond hair and a scarlet and white outfit, lute slung across his back. Romaric, the traveling circus ringmaster. One by one, they fell still and silent as they caught sight of the one barring their way.
For a long time, the only sound was the call of ravens as the two groups stared one another down. As goofy and charming as he had always appeared until now, there was something steely now in Romaric’s eyes and bearing. His feet were planted shoulder-width apart, as if ready to fight all of them himself. There was no trace of apprehension at the prospect in his demeanor, either. He was chillingly confident as he demanded, “Where ees my tiger.” Even his overblown accent was slightly diminished by the gravity of his current mood.
Valentina bit her full lower lip. “Um. About that.”
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“Why do you think we have it?” Oskar mirrored his folded arms. Once more, they stared each other down. What should have been a comical size difference was hardly noticeable, in this atmosphere.
“Because your ‘orses are ze only ozair ones stabled in zis stockyard. Because you are ze newest arrivals to town. And because Monsieur Edgar saw you ‘ere after I ‘ad been by to give ze tiger ‘is breakfast. And because I am not stupid; I know Irenee and yourselves travel togezair.”
Nobody answered. The staredown continued.
At last, Romaric sighed through his nose. “Per’aps we put our cairds on ze table, oui? I zink you suspect I am not a mere circoos ringmaster. I wondair eef you might be more zan anozer group of outsiders destined to die een Castle Ravenloft. What I know for sure ees zat you ‘ave endangered yourselves, me, and zis town by releasing that tiger.”
“The town’s safe,” Illyan assured him, somewhat sourly. “Stripes is in the woods with our druidic friend and the chevalier. Come to that, is one of your cards gonna explain why you got a tiger you trained to kill people like me and no one else? Or where exactly your Vistana apprentice ended up?”
“Illyan…” Valentina began, weakly.
“You think that I…?!” For a brief moment, the man’s voice was entirely different. It was lower, deeper, and altogether refined. As quickly as it had come, the voice was gone, and Romaric was once again half-lilting, “I did nozing to Esmé. I would nevair and I did not! Eet ees as I told you; she left me before I came eento ze valley.” Though the ridiculous accent had reappeared, his demeanor had done nothing but sharpen. The look in his eyes was the glint of an unsheathed rapier; the promise of blood if pushed too hard.
“I don’t believe you,” Illyan shot back.
“Why should we trust you?” Oskar curled his lip.
“You are an extremely suspicious character,” Jinghua agreed.
Valentina fluttered. “I don’t think he’s bad! Guys, can’t we just talk? Romaric? Can we talk?”
At last, a softening. Romaric closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “...Not ‘ere. I can take you somewhere eet ees safe to talk. Somewhere we cannot be over’eard. Do you trust me zat far?”
A group look was shared. “No matter where we go, we will still outnumber him,” Jinghua pointed out. Oskar nodded. Illyan scowled.
“Fine.”
“Zen meet me at ze Evening Gate een fifteen minutes. I ‘ave to collect Drusille from ze eenn.” Nobody moved as Romaric strode away. Again displaying his unexpectedly steely spine, he walked directly towards the group of them in total confidence that they would part to allow him by. So strong was this conviction that Oskar had given way before he’d realized it. The man with the presence of a sword continued up the road until he was lost around a corner to them.
“He didn’t put a single card on the table,” Oskar noted, grumpily.
“He’s going to,” Valentina assured him. “I’m sure he’ll have a very good reason for the racist tiger. I can’t believe you all think he killed Esmé! It’s obvious he adores her.”
“Not obvious to me, cher.”
“I really want to find out what that man’s deal is,” Jinghua said.
“I guess we will soon enough. Let’s collect Sveta and Aeon on the way.”
Drusille turned out to be a round, gray mare with a pink nose. Her tack was as bedecked with gilt and tassels as the circus wagon she had probably been in charge of pulling. Once more, the dangerous aura that surrounded him was the only thing preventing the sight of such a lanky man atop such a rotund steed from being utterly farcical. He only relaxed slightly once Aeon, Sveta, and Stripes melted out of the underbrush and onto the road. Stripes trotted right up to Drusille, who seemed unphased by the proximity of the predator, to receive chin scratches from his former master. Romaric mainly seemed relieved that Stripes was not out mauling Vistani across the countryside.
They traveled west well into the afternoon. It was a tense, silent ride for the most part. Nobody felt much up to their usual bickering or bantering. They focused on the road ahead, winding downwards through mountains and forest. Eventually, the road came to a crossing across La Lune, which ran swift and narrow towards Lake Varius in the north. Just beyond the west bank, the road split three ways. There was a signpost pointing west which read “Kresiquer”, one pointing east which read “Vallac”, and one pointing south which read “Wizard of Wines”. The road to the north had no signpost at all, and was far smaller. It looked more like the footpaths leading to the Fontenot camp than the roads connecting Vallac to the winery or its sister city.
Naturally, it was to this northward path that Romaric turned his steed.
The trees closed overhead. Though they remained on the road, they might as well have been traversing the wilderness. Eventually, they came to a clearing.
The lake spread out before them like a dark mirror. Though it was not half the size of Lake Varius, it was breathtakingly beautiful in its stillness. Within this lake, the clouds and the forest were mirrored as perfectly as if the lake had been made of glass and backed with polished silver. The ruined tower which stood up from the center of the lake was likewise reflected across its surface, reaching from the central island it stood upon all the way to the shore. Collapsing scaffolds clung to one side of the tower where a large gash had split the wall. Timeworn griffon statues, their wings and flanks covered with moss, perched atop buttresses that supported the walls. The flat, marshy island it stood upon was only twenty feet across in any direction, barely larger than the tower at its center. It was reachable by a hundred-foot-long causeway like a stripe of grass across the lake. This land bridge was only raised a foot or so above the water’s surface, but it was solid and didn’t sink beneath the horse’s hooves or the Glory’s wheels as they advanced.
Romaric reined in Drusille in surprise as he reached the island proper. Following his gaze, the others saw a mud-splattered Vistani vardo parked before the foundations of the tower. There was no mistaking the size or distinctive, colorful decorations of it. Under layers of mud, this wagon sported a fresh coat of purple paint, and its wheels were trimmed in gold. A brass lantern hung from each corner, and red drapes covered a tombstone-shaped window on each side. A steel padlock secured the back door, hanging from which was a cheap wooden sign that read KEEP OUT. It lacked a horse, the empty yoke simply resting on the grass. Romaric looked not only surprised to see this vardo, but haunted.
“That is Esmé’s…” he said. Then, with heat, “Bloody buggering hell, she must have followed me after all!”
They’d heard it briefly back in Vallac, but there was no mistaking it now. Gone was the ludicrous air that colored Romaric the ringmaster’s words. His accent was refined, speaking of upper class education. Most distinctly, it was neither Barovian nor Vistani.
Shaking his head in frustration, Romaric dismounted and gestured for them all to follow suit. They left their horses grazing on the island and approached the single most intact part of the crumbling tower together: the slab of iron that was its door. There was no visible handle or hinges; no visible means to open it at all. Instead, affixed to the center was a beaten brass circle embossed with a web of lines connecting eight esoteric symbols around the perimeter of the disk. Carved into the lintel was the word Khazan.
Romaric stood resolutely before this door. Then, with his usual flair for combining the deadliest of moods with the most ridiculous of actions, he began to dance.
There was hardly time to be astonished. He moved smoothly between half a dozen poses in the span of a second. Then, without having touched it at all, the door was swinging open. “Follow me, if you please. Mind your step.”
The flagstone floor of the tiny vestibule was strewn with debris. A torn curtain partially obscured the ground floor of the tower beyond. The tower’s interior was not roomy even beyond the vestibule. A five-foot-square indentation in the center of the floor contained four pulleys attached to taut iron chains that stretched up through a similarly-sized hole in the rotted wooden ceiling. Taking up what free floorspace there was were four human-sized clay golems at each corner, frozen in an attitude of pulling on these chains. Further cluttering the space, a few old crates lay stacked against the east side of the round room. Light came in unevenly through the narrow windows on this floor as well as from holes in the walls and ceiling on higher levels.
Stripes slunk immediately to the back of the tower to thump down in the shade of a golem and lick his shoulder, tongue scraping against the edge of his armor. Romaric turned to them, dappled by this uneven light, eyes gleaming like his tiger’s. Between one moment and the next, he became a different person.
He remained tall and leanly muscled, still appearing to be in his mid to late thirties, but his face entirely lost its youthful charm. Instead, before them stood a warrior. His motley circus outfit was in fact a leather-armored coat over practical traveling clothes, all in shades of cream and brown. The decorative baton in his belt had become a sturdy, wooden cane capped with silver which hung alongside rows of sharpened, wooden stakes and glass vials of water. Perched upon his nose was a pair of round, smoked-glass spectacles. Though his hair remained sandy blond, it was straight as a pin and combed back to reveal two leaf-shaped, half-elven ears. That bared-rapier look sat much more naturally upon this visage than on what had clearly been a magical disguise. Incongruously, the lute remained. When he spoke, his voice and face clicked together like pieces of a puzzle finally united.
“Very well,” he began. “I think by now you have guessed that I am not the traveling circus ringmaster, Romaric. My name is, in fact, Rudolphe de la Rosaire.”
Oskar sucked in a sharp breath, ears going flat. “The de la Rosaire? Of De la Rosaire’s Guide to Monsters?”
“The very same. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“You’re famous?” Valentina’s eyes began to shine. “That almost makes up for your name being Rudolphe.”
“Da, have also heard of him. Famous vampire hunter. Has good body count, but strange personal life.”
Rosaire reached up to adjust his glasses. “Yes, thank you for that assessment. You’re not the first to say so. I have, in fact, dedicated my life to the study and eradication of dangerous monsters. Vampires being a particularly hated foe.”
“As well as Vistani?” Illyan challenged.
“...I cannot deny I have little fondness for the culture as a whole.”
“Oh, well, then feed as many of ‘em to a tiger as you want! Shall I go fetch my Maman for you?”
“It was never my intention to set… Stripes… loose indiscriminately among the clans. What I told you in the inn was only partially true. I was lurking in Vallac in order to research two things: the Keepers of the Feather, what the locals call the Gardiens de la Plume, and Clan Fontenot. Both in the service of eventually killing Strahd and freeing this land of his tyranny. Now, with that card on the table, who are you and what are your intentions for the vampire? Because if you are anything other than enemies of his, you become enemies of mine.”
“I am Oskar Hill. I will kill Strahd to avenge my family,” Oskar snarled.
Rosaire raised his eyebrows. “I have heard of your family. A great loss, in the fight against evil.”
“Illyan Imbert of Clan Rambeaut. I plan to take back this valley and restore my culture free from ‘is foul influence,” Illyan said.
“Sveta Kresimir. Is my job to kill vampires,” Sveta put in.
“...Chevalier Aeon Spellblade… I also wish to free my home from tyranny and avenge my family…” Aeon said, quietly.
“You may call me Xiao Jinghua. I have no personal stake, but I support the just causes of my companions,” Jinghua added.
Valentina, for whom the situation was more complicated, hesitated. “I… I want him to end up dead, as well. Though I do need him alive for a little while, to complete my own ambitions.”
“Then it seems as if we have common goals, even aside from the destruction of Strahd.” Rosaire inhaled, then exhaled a large portion of the rigidity in his shoulders and back. “I, too, have noticed the corrupting influence of Strahd among the Vistani peoples. I had intended to discover the identities of those that served him within Clan Fontenot and set Stripes upon them.”
Illyan thought of Arceneaux, undoubtedly a servant of Strahd, and the way he’d lured them into the valley, charmed and flirted with them, then turned around at that fucking tribunal and exiled Illyan’s whole clan. Then, he thought of the way Arceneaux had lavished kisses upon his giggling stepdaughter, and imagined the man being torn to pieces by a tiger in front of her. He swallowed hard. “...I don’t know if that’s a feasible way to keep the moral ‘igh ground, either, me. Separating people into ‘the good ones’ and ‘the bad ones’... it ain’t so easy as all that.” No matter how much Illyan wished it was.
“I understand. Believe me, between yourself and my protégé, I do understand that not all Vistana are evil like Strahd. They are people. Just like anyone else.”
“So you didn’t have nothing to do with your apprentice losing all her kin, either?”
“Well.” His eyes flashed. “I had something to do with it. Not because of their culture, mind, but because of their hand in the kidnapping and eventual death of my son, Erasmus, fifteen years ago. Esmé was instrumental in helping me bring them to justice.”
“You… had a kid?” Valentina wasn’t sure how many more shocks like this she could receive. Were all the men in her life hiding secret families? “I mean, I’m open-minded but what happened to his mother?”
Grimly, Rosaire said, “Also dead. Fifteen years ago. So you begin to understand the shape of the grudge I bear.”
“All the same,” Illyan interjected, “I think we’re gonna veto the tiger plan.”
“Very well. I am not incapable of adapting to changing circumstances. Stripes shall stay with you.”
“So where does this leave us?” Oskar demanded. “Allies against Strahd?”
“In a sense, certainly.” Rosaire again adjusted his glasses, glancing to the side. “My preference, however, is to work alone. I only brought you to this tower in order to speak without fear of being overheard by spies.”
“What makes this tower safe?” Jinghua wondered.
“It is surrounded by an anti-magic field, left by the previous master of the tower, the archwizard Khazan. Within ten feet of the foot of the tower, all spells fail. Here, our conversations are safe from divination, though not necessarily from the eyes of his living servants. I discovered it when I arrived in this valley a month ago. Esmé, apparently, discovered it more recently.”
“Anti-magic…” Jinghua repeated, slowly. She didn’t have a problem manifesting here, though. It felt just like any other part of the valley, to her. She supposed that a cultivation technique did not count as a magical effect, which was lucky.
“If you work alone, then what is protégé?” Sveta pestered.
“Obviously, an attempt was made on my part to work alone from her. We aren’t together all the time. She thought it would be safer in the valley together, but I disagreed. Clearly, she thought it best to sneak in behind me and put herself in danger anyway.” The half-elf gritted his teeth and began to pace. “I keep her at arm’s length for a reason.”
“On account of ‘er relation to those that killed your son?” Illyan guessed.
“Esmé was a child, then. She is blameless in the matter. No, on the contrary, she stood for the right thing in aiding me even against her own family. She showed great courage and conviction. No, despite my regard for her, the reason I hold myself apart is to protect her from my curse.”
Valentina thumped down to sit on the corner of an empty crate. One hand cradled her temple, the other lifting as if to forestall any further revelations. “Okay. That’s definitely a disclosure that needed to be made before we took things any further. What kind of curse?”
“A Vistani death curse, bestowed upon me as I exacted justice from the ones who took my son from me. It’s not one I’m likely to forget.” Rosaire drew in a strengthening breath. “Dwell you always amongst monsters and watch those you love fall to the same.” When his expression and body fell loose, he didn’t quite regain the carefree cheer he had displayed in the guise of Romaric, but hints of it showed through. Rather than a hardened warrior, it was a vulnerable man who added, “Irénée, I promise, I would not have kept any curse which affected my partners to myself. I do not imagine that our flirtation will activate it, otherwise I would never have begun it.”
She peeked up at him through her hair. “Our flirtation… present tense?”
The smile which broke across his face was small, but it lit up his eyes like the dawning sun. “Very much so. If you are still amenable.”
“Well… I could be persuaded…” Valentina returned the smile, toying with a lock of her hair. “Oh, but, I guess I also have a confession to make: I’m not Irénée. My name is Valentina Delarossa.”
“Irénée is my foster sister,” Illyan explained. “Strahd’s after ‘er, so Val’s acting as ‘er body double while she ‘ides in Vallac.”
Rosaire snorted a brief, dry laugh. “That does somewhat reassure me, in that I do not look forward to what a vampire lord may do to one he believes to be cuckolding him.”
Illyan immediately threw up his hands. “I ain’t touchin’ that. Nini, you gotta tell ‘im.”
“I’ll tell you later,” Valentina said, infusing the phrase with a sultriness which it did not in the least deserve.
Rosaire was visibly confused, but he shook his head and let it pass. “I will go this far: You may stay the night here, rather than traverse the road back to Vallac in the night. I do intend to remain at my usual base of operations to conduct my investigations, but perhaps we may… co-share the tower while you conduct your own. Pool our information, at the very least.”
“That sounds very helpful,” Jinghua nodded. “I think we should accept.”
Oskar rumbled a low, thoughtful sound. “Having a safe base within the valley would be invaluable. Having access to your knowledge would be, as well.”
Rosaire sketched a bow. “Great flattery, from a Hill.” He turned his attention to Valentina. “Would you care to accompany me upstairs tonight?”
She thrilled, leaping instantly to her feet. “I would indeed care!” Linking hands, Rosaire led her onto the elevator platform. The clay golems at the corners came to life, mechanically hauling the iron chains so that they rattled through the pulleys, lifting the elevator up and away into the tower. The rest of her companions watched her go with expressions ranging from wry to grumpy.
“Maybe we sleep outside,” Sveta suggested. “I do not wish to overhear… things.”
“They don’t need the whole tower,” Oskar protested. “It’s wet outside.”
“I ain’t sleeping near that tiger, me. But are we sure it’s safe to leave Nini with that guy? ‘E could do anything.”
“And Grandma is sure he wants to.”
Despite her fussing, Illyan brought Ivoire off of his shoulder and instructed her sternly to go perch in an arrowslit. She was to watch Valentina and to come get him only if Rosaire did anything threatening. The clockwork homunculus soared up through the elevator-hole to obey.
“Satisfied now? We can put up tents as usual. Tiger will stay on other side of iron door. Go on, shoo shoo.” Sveta herded the rest of them out the iron front door, which clanged shut behind them with finality. They left within all non essential camping gear, so that it, at least, would remain dry, including Valentina’s unicorn rug.
On the elevator, Valentina was treated to a slow tour of every floor of the tower on the way to the top. The second floor was entirely empty except for dust and cobwebs, its wooden floor badly rotten. The third floor sported a gash in its northwestern side, slimy black mildew on the walls, and an increasingly rotted and collapsed floor. It was not precisely an impressive tour. She heaved a huge sigh of relief as the elevator lifted them into the fourth and final floor.
Unlike the others, this one was habitable. It still smelled of mold, but with an overlay of dried lavender showing an attempt to improve things had been made. The furnishings underlined this: a cozy bed, a desk with a chair, woven tapestries on the wall, a cedar chest, and a large-bellied iron stove filling the room with warmth. In one corner stood a full suit of armor as if standing sentinel. The natural light wasn’t much, only what managed to fight its way through the thin arrow slits and the dirt crusting the larger windows. The reassuring part of that was that the roof overhead remained entirely intact, supported by hefty wooden rafters to which the elevator’s pulleys were screwed in. A few lanterns had been hung from these rafters to supplement the weak light.
Currently, though, the room did look somewhat as if it had been tossed by robbers. A book upon the desk lay open with pages ripped out of it, other papers left scattered on the floor. The bedding lay partially dragged off of the mattress. Clothing and bits of lavender spilled out of the cedar chest, pinched beneath its lid which had been carelessly dropped.
Rosaire heaved a sigh of his own. “Esmé, no doubt. The imp.”
Valentina sashayed over to flounce onto the edge of the bed. “I think it’s sweet that she’s worried about you. And that you’re worried about her.”
Rosaire, following her, began to speak, only to be interrupted by a sharp poke on the nose. “Don’t lie to me! I know you are. Really, it’s sweet. I grew up without a family, in an orphanage dedicated to Lathander. The closest thing I have to family worrying about me is prayer.”
“That is… not nearly the same. I am sorry to hear it.”
“No, it’s not. Divine love lacks a certain little… touch.” Valentina leaned back on her hands and did her best to make her eyes smolder.
“Indeed it does.” Perching his hip beside hers, Rosaire leaned in until they were sharing breath. Valentina felt her skin tingle all over, everywhere she was aware of him pressing close. She rose to meet him like the soft, warm rising of the dawn.
Below, Illyan paced around the purple-painted vardo with an appraising eye. It was good work, sturdy and beautiful. Despite her non-traditional name, the woman was probably a Vistana after all. They’d love to see what kind of setup she had inside. Ten feet away, the others sat around a miserable little fire pit which Oskar was failing to coax to life. The horses cropped at the muddy grass near the base of the tower, close to Illyan and to where they had left the Morning Glory. Theirs did, anyway. Drusille had wandered a little down the causeway.
“...Do you think these stone griffons could be the gargoyles from the fortune-reading…?” Aeon wondered, looking up at the buttresses.
Sveta considered this. “Could be. Only thing is flanking is tower, though. I think we need dead warrior as well as gargoyles.”
“...Weren’t the bones the other one…?”
“Too many prophesied tombs. I cannot keep all these things straight.”
“Are you going to help cook? Or are we going to be committing some archeology on the wheels? Leave her vardo balanced on some bricks?” Oskar called over to him. The tents had been pitched beneath the nearest buttress. Their poles sagged sorrily in the soggy ground. Oskar was not looking forward to sleeping in them.
“I would not mind taking wheels,” Sveta volunteered.
“I was being sarcastic. We’re not stealing her wheels.”
Not moving from his inspection of the vardo, Illyan called back, “Put your ‘ackles down, mec, I’m just admiring.”
“You could pick lock and admire inside, too.”
“What? Tonnerre mes chiens, I’m not trying to rob ‘er.”
“...There’s a sign that says Keep Out…”
“She probably has bed in there. Is no harm in looking,” Sveta argued. “Aeon, give him your picks.”
Aeon, though reluctant, obediently withdrew his fold of velvet containing his set of picks and passed them over to Oskar, who took them in two fingers like a dead rat.
“You’re becoming addicted to stealing from Vistani. No wonder you and that tiger get along,” he accused. Sveta shrugged philosophically.
“I am fine meditating on the ground,” Jinghua volunteered.
“I would rather have bed for old back.”
“Non,” Illyan called back. “That’s Barovian for ‘no’.”
“You are not only one who can pick locks. Kotyonok?”
With an exasperated growl, Oskar pushed himself up and abandoned the futile attempt at a campfire. The picks were shoved into his belt carelessly. He joined Illyan with long strides. “This was stupid. I’m going back inside.” He was stymied by the iron door, and its lack of handle.
“Do you remember the dance?” Jinghua wondered.
Growling again, he tore himself away and marched around the northwestern side of the tower, heading for the rickety scaffolding scaling up towards the gash. If he couldn’t get in through the front door, he’d climb in through that hole in the wall. He was willing to endure whatever he overheard, just as long as he had a dry place to sleep.
He placed a single boot onto the scaffolding. It creaked, but held. The second boot sent the whole thing collapsing with a crash. Oskar flung his arms over his head to protect it from the cascade of loose planks. When it stopped, he shook himself with a dramatic flare of mane that threw splinters all over.
Sveta snorted a laugh. “Ready for archaeology yet, kotyonok?”
“Fine, I will look at the goddamn padlock!” he roared. “Just shut up!”
Illyan held up both hands, turning away from the vardo. “I ain’t part of this. Y’on your own.”
“It’ll be fine,” Oskar snarled, in dire tones, stomping back over to the vardo. The padlock wasn’t especially complicated. It wasn’t his specialty, but even he could see how to have it open in seconds. He pulled out Aeon’s pick set and set to work. Sure enough, in seconds the padlock gave a tiny, satisfying click. Oskar reached out to untangle the chain and swing open the door.
There was another tiny sound, the twang of a taut string.
Valentina and Rosaire started apart as, from the base of the tower, there was an earth-shattering explosion.