Chapitre Trois: La Malédiction de les Vistani

The five of them stumbled past Mad Maryse’s house, Oskar and Ismaël supporting Sveta on either side. The woman could barely keep her eyes open, a migraine splitting through her skull like a pinewood stake driven into her temple. Her legs wobbled beneath her like a newborn colt’s. With her eyes open to bare slits, it was all she could do to stay upright even with her arms linked to the men on either side of her.

“What is… happen…?” She managed with a tongue that felt swollen.

“Vistana curse,” Ismaël grunted, hitching her higher against him. “Soulange there took exception to our talk, if I ‘ad to guess. Illyan, what gets rid of this?”

Illyan hovered around the three, looking concerned. “Needs magic to get rid of it. A restoring spell. Valentina, you got one of those?”

“No, sorry. Curing diseases, removing curses… that’s more advanced magic than what I know right now,” she admitted.

Illyan swore. “Same ‘ere.”

Sveta huffed, weakly. “She could have just said she was not interested.”

“We have to get her to the house,” Oskar urged.

“What about Jinghua?” Valentina fretted.

“Her real body must have woken up.”

The threatening, exposed ring of open space around Château Imbert suddenly seemed like a welcome sight, indicating the final stretch of their journey. The mud slipped beneath Sveta’s feet, nearly pulling all three of them down. Ismaël and Oskar grunted and hoisted her even higher, until the two were all but carrying her with her toes barely skimming the ground. Like the world’s strangest three-legged race, they stumbled onto the lowest of the château’s front steps. Pure momentum carried them forward, despite Sveta’s valiant efforts to arc into a backflip. Valentina and Illyan scurried in their wake, hands up and ready to catch anyone who seemed in danger of toppling backwards down the stairs. At last, all five crashed against the splintered front door.

Ismaël called out, “Irénée! It is Ismaël! Let me in!”

Behind them, the sun was sinking low and orange beneath the omnipresent cloud cover. Its remaining lifespan was measured in a matter of hours. A flock of black birds chattered in the trees beyond the barren stretch of mud.

Within the house came the sound of rapid footsteps, followed by a series of heavy scrapes and clanks. From the sounds of it, the door was not only locked or barricaded but both several times over. At last, it swung open a bare few inches and a single, blue eye peered out. As soon as this eye landed on the gathered people on the front stoop, the door was flung open.

“Illyan!” A blur of blonde hair and blue dress flew across the threshold to seize Illyan. This woman was taller than him as well, but not by much. Her hair tumbled down her back in a waterfall of shining, golden curls contained at the back with a cobalt ribbon. She was dressed in a pale blue dress trimmed in white lace frills at the neck and hem, the front split to reveal a white petticoat. The sleeves billowed out in a froth of tiered white lace and the neckline dipped low enough to display the linen bandages wrapped around her throat. The shape of the skirt was rounded by the petticoat beneath and bunched into the smallest suggestion of a bustle at the lower back. Despite this concession to fashion, the skirt itself was eminently practical, made only of two light layers which she could easily run in.

Her face was almost identical to Valentina’s. The only immediately visible difference was the darker shade of red she had tinted her lips and the lack of beauty mark beneath her mouth. Her face beneath the rouge was as pale as porcelain.

Irénée Imbert pulled back from her hug to clasp Illyan’s hands in both of her own. She leaned forward, kissing the air next to one of his cheeks, then the other.

“Frèrot, I am sorry,” she gasped. “I ‘eard you before, but I thought it was a trick.”

“S’alright,” Illyan assured her. “‘Ow you feelin’?”

“Let us get inside,” Ismaël urged. They stumbled into the foyer together, Irénée pausing to re-barricade the door behind them. Sure enough, on this side there were no fewer than three wooden planks and four locks-and-chains holding the doors shut. Irénée moved these into place with practiced ease.

The foyer was similar to the façade of the building in its disrepair. Once, a grand fireplace had stood between two spiral staircases leading up to a second-floor gallery lined with thin, ornately decorated pillars. Great tapestries hung all the way from this second story to the floor in between doorways leading deeper into the château, depicting flowers, unicorns, and bright suns. Spindly furniture gathered around the hearth, ready for guests. Above, a glass skylight showed the darkening clouds. In here, things were not clawed up or scorched like the outside of the building. However, it was clear enough that the people within had been living like squatters in an abandoned home for quite some time. Everything was coated with dust and left in disarray. The rug had been rolled aside to reveal the bare, wood floorboards. The candles in the sconces were all burned down to the final inches, the wax left to drip all over the walls beneath them. A few scattered bookcases taken from elsewhere in the house were left in splinters across the floor, their shelves cannibalized to form the bolts on the front doors. The books these shelves had once contained were left scattered and torn throughout the wreckage, many with muddy boot-prints stamped across their covers.

Finally, in the center of the room, there was another structure clearly cobbled together from wooden furniture which had been taken apart and nailed back together. This was a simple, rough box around six feet long. Its lid bore a series of crooked nails keeping it shut.

Illyan stopped dead, staring at this box.

“Irénée, this…”

Irénée came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. “I am so sorry. This was all I could do for ‘im.”

“Père?” Illyan choked.

“Yes.”

The fire genasi staggered forward, almost catching himself with both hands on the makeshift coffin before snatching them away. He wrung them up by his chest. Irénée followed, gathering him into an embrace. Ismaël stepped up and grabbed both together.

Sveta used the wall as support to sink dizzily down, legs folded beneath her.

“Alright, alright,” Illyan finally broke free, swiping at his eyes. “Irénée, we’re ‘ere to take you somewhere safe. Ismaël explained what was going on.”

“I ‘ave told ‘im,” she began, “I am not going anywhere until Père is buried in the churchyard.”

“Irénée…” Ismaël began, pleading.

She glared, arms folded beneath her bust. “Ismaël! I am not leaving our father on the floor and neither are you!”

“Okay, okay,” Valentina intervened. “That’s reasonable, but we have to move fast. We need to get you out of Barovy before nightfall.”

Irénée glanced sideways, then did a double-take. Her mouth dropped open. “You are…?”

“Valentina Delarossa.”

“Why do you look like me?”

“The better to fool Strahd, my dear,” Valentina said. From her pocket, she withdrew a clam-shaped makeup bag. “Here’s what we’re going to do: I am going to be you, and you are going to be someone else. That way, if Strahd or his minions approach us en route, they’ll go after me.”

“This is… are you sure?” Irénée asked.

Illyan said, “Trust us, cher.”

She submitted to Valentina’s ministrations. The first thing she did was remove Irénée’s ribbon. From within a vial, Valentina poured out a dark oil which she first rubbed between her hands before combing her fingers through Irénée’s hair. The oil made the golden strands a dull, dishwater-brown color. Valentina then pulled it back into a tight bun. Next, she used a stick of charcoal to add a beauty mark beneath Irénée’s mouth. Finally, she directed Irénée to go into a side room and replace her outer dress with a spare one of Valentina’s. When she emerged, Irénée looked like a mousy brunette in a ruffled white dress and petticoat. She had even retrieved her father’s pince-nez and clipped them to the bridge of her nose.

For Valentina’s part, she simply used a pale powder to cover the beauty mark on her chin and darkened her lips to red. She bound up her hair in Irénée’s blue ribbon, but kept her dress and armor. Their faces were so identical that with the mole hidden, she looked just like Irénée wearing something ostentatious. Between the two of them, the one covered in silver sparkles and decorative feathers looked more like the daughter of a Vicomte. Irénée, meanwhile, looked like a lady’s maid in plain white linen.

Irénée stared at her doppelganger. “You are sure we are not…”

“Absolutely not,” Valentina said, breezily. “Okey-dokey, how are we gonna get the coffin to the church?”

“Can’t we just…” Oskar mimed hoisting it up onto his shoulder, then walking.

“Sveta can’t defend ‘erself right now,” Illyan pointed out. “If you’re ‘olding the coffin, it’s just me and Valentina if we’re attacked.”

“I can drag it,” Ismaël offered. “Give me a moment to tie an ‘arness. Then only I will be occupied.”

“Alright,” Oskar conceded, looking obscurely disappointed. Valentina and Illyan helped Sveta over to a chaise longue where she could lie down while Ismaël worked on sourcing and rigging up a length of rope. He got it into two loops coming out of a loop around the box’s center, slipping his arms through these. One end of the coffin rested on his lower back, the other end dragging along the ground behind him. Oskar could only hope that the poor man inside was feet-down instead of head.

“Sveta, Irénée, you two wait here,” Valentina instructed. “You rest, and you gather anything you’ll need to travel. As soon as we’re back, we’re taking you to safety.”

With no more said, the four of them set out. Irénée bolted the doors behind them as they set out once more across the no-man’s-land. Ismaël struggled, pulling the coffin through the mud with a thick slurping sound. Oskar led the way directly ahead, with Valentina and Illyan taking either flank.

“Where is the church?” the tabaxi growled.

“The north side of town,” Ismaël answered. “Go back past Le Sang sur la Vigne then swing north.”

Within town, the coffin rattled over the cobblestones. Sometimes, it caught when the grooves between were particularly deep. The majority were thankfully smoothed by wear and weather, so that most of the time it simply bumped along with a repetitive, teeth-rattling thump. The hair on Oskar’s nape stood on end with the racket. If any spies had been unaware of their movements before, they surely weren’t anymore. A blind spy could pinpoint their location right now. Occasionally, as they passed, a curtain in an upper window would flick aside to reveal a curious, wan face. Most of the time, though, there was nothing.

When they were almost back to the tavern, another sound joined theirs. Something creaked and rattled across the cobbles far more quietly than the coffin, accompanied by a softer, shuffling noise. The waist-deep mist swirled aside to reveal the only other person the group had yet seen traveling the streets of Barovy. She was an old woman, bent almost double beneath a thick, wool cloak which covered her from head to toe. Her gnarled hands poked out from beneath it to clutch the handles of a wheeled hand-cart, which creaked over the cobblestones in time with the shuffle of her feet. The basket of the cart was piled high with little packages wrapped in brown paper and sealed with twine.

As Oskar passed, he made eye contact with the crone beneath her hood. The eye that peered back at him was sharp and silver as a sewing needle. Her face was the color of congealed grease, with swirled furrows and random lumps of fat throughout. She looked just like any other old woman in any other town, only notable for being the first fellow pedestrian they had met in the street. Oskar scrutinized her as she passed, then turned to look over his shoulder after they had. He saw her approaching a house, lifting one hand off of her cart to knock at the door. Then, the mists swallowed her.

Odd, but nothing that required their immediate attention. They pressed on.

The church turned out to be an extremely dilapidated building on the edge of town. Its construction was mainly brick, once a simple single-story building with a sole bell tower rising at the back like an accusing finger. That finger had been severed at the first knuckle, only a nub of the old tower now visible above the gabled roof. The roof itself was almost more hole than shingle, and the once-glass windows now gaped emptily in the sides of the building. The church was about a minute’s walk outside of town, the path fading to dirt and shaded by trees. Those trees had shed absolute drifts of slimy, rotting leaf-litter around the church, as well as scattered seeds. The door hung at an odd angle, not quite fitting into the frame.

Oskar hesitated on the approach. Valentina, much more used to approaching strange churches, breezed ahead and knocked on the crooked door.

“Yoo-hoo! Visitors!”

There was no answer. With a shrug, she pulled the door open. It wasn’t locked or secured in any way. When it swung limply open, it revealed a hallway almost as covered in leaves and dirt as the exterior path. Shafts of evening light shone through the patchy roof. A squirrel scampered out of sight at Valentina’s entrance. Cautiously, all four entered, dragging the coffin along the floorboards. There were doors to either side which Valentina ignored, making directly for the larger room at the back of the church visible at the end of the hallway.

When she stepped in, it became clearer than ever that this church had not seen worshippers in a long time. There had once been wooden pews lining the aisle, now smashed to splinters. Here, the narrow glass windows let in swirls of mist and chilling air. While the roof’s state might have simply been caused simply by neglect, the windows and these pews told a different story. This was vandalism. Someone had come in and smashed every window and stick of furniture in the place. There had once been a pulpit and an altar at the front of the room, now toppled and hacked to pieces. In the wreckage of this knelt a middle-aged man in black vestments, his back to the intruders. Beside him stood a younger man, also in black, with one hand on his shoulder. From somewhere neary, there seemed to be the muffled sound of sobbing.

“Père Donatien?” Ismaël said, quietly.

The kneeling man started and turned. He revealed thinning brown hair and a trimmed brown beard threaded in silver. His face was pale and sunken, like a man not receiving proper rest and food. His limbs were skinny in the odd way of a robust man fallen on hard times, his bones heavy and the joints standing out beneath prominent blue veins. His black robes were sewn with the white moon emblem of Mother Night. The expression on his face was briefly fear, before moving towards recognition.

“Ismaël le Moindre!” he greeted. With the younger man’s help, he levered himself upright one knee at a time. He staggered forward, greeting Ismaël with clasped hands. “It ‘as been some time, mon fils.”

“It ‘as. Who is this?”

“This…” Père Donatien patted behind himself, finding the younger man’s shoulder and pulling him forward, “...is Chevalier Aeon Spellblade. ‘E is a family friend.”

Aeon nodded. “...Good to meet you…” Though his accent marked him as local, it was somewhat different from Donatien’s or Ismaël’s. Each sound was clearly but quietly enunciated, even the hs, like the whisper of crisp leaves underfoot. He was a young man of average height and broad shoulders. His hair was waist-length, falling down his back in a sinuous tail the color of cornflowers. His skin was pale in a similarly haggard way to the priest’s, like a man who had gone through a long period of hunger and privation. Pale blue bags hung beneath each eye. His clothes were dark beneath black steel armor enameled with white moons.

“What happened in here?” Oskar demanded. He suppressed the observation that it looked like the congregation had partaken too heavily of the sacramental wine.

Père Donatien shifted, uneasily. “Unwelcome visitors. It is of no importance. What brings you ‘ere today?”

“Sad news, I am afraid.” Ismaël shrugged the ropes off of his shoulders, easing the coffin to the ground. He stepped aside to reveal it. “My father, the Vicomte, ‘as passed away.”

Père Donatien breathed out, long and slow. “I am sorry, Ismaël. ‘E was a good man.”

“We hoped he could be buried and given last rites,” Valentina piped up. “You follow Mother Night?”

“We do. Yes, of course, ‘e must be laid to rest in the yard with ‘is ancestors. There is an Imbert family plot. We can lay ‘im to rest at dawn.”

The others took a moment to process this.

“Is there any chance we could lay him to rest now?” Oskar all but snarled.

Père Donatien flinched, wrung his hands. “Well, the rites… We ‘onor Mother Night and the Morninglord… Burials are always done at dawn.”

Valentina nodded. “That’s normal.”

The others all fidgeted, gauging the height of the sun through the patchy roof.

“We ain’t got time for that,” Illyan decided.

Valentina bit her lip. “So… what? It’s your father we’re talking about.” Then, remembering her disguise, “I mean, our father.”

“We don’t need to be ‘ere for the burial part,” Illyan said, looking at Ismaël for approval. “Far as I’m concerned, ‘is soul is already where it needs to be. On the other ‘and, our souls need to be makin’ tracks to safety. Père Donatien can do the rites and put ‘im in the ground tomorrow, we’ll go now.”

Ismaël braced himself. “You’re right, frèrot. We can say our goodbyes and go.”

“Ismaël, these are…?” Père Donatien looked between them.

“Oh, my younger brother, Illyan. Illyan ‘as a different faith than us, so ‘e’s never come by for service.”

Valentina said, brightly, “I’m Irénée, their sister. I don’t get out much.”

The stark difference in accents was almost too much to take. Père Donatien looked between them, but the resemblance could hardly be denied. Between the three of them, it was Illyan who looked least like a blood sibling, with his vastly different coloration and ostentatious hair and clothes. Frankly, Valentina judged with the eye of someone who had grown up without blood siblings, there wasn’t much resemblance in the shape of the face or bones, either, except for the nose. For all that Irénée was the adopted one, she looked more related to Ismaël than Illyan did.

Père Donatien didn’t seem to know how to react. “Eh bien, yes, I believe your father ‘as mentioned you… Enchanté, Mademoiselle…”

The muffled sobbing, which had risen and fallen vaguely beneath the entire conversation, suddenly rose to a plaintive shriek. “Père! I am ‘ungry! Père, please!”

All blood drained from Père Donatien’s face. He swayed where he stood. Chevalier Aeon reached out to steady his elbow.

Ismaël hesitated. “Père Donatien, who…?”

“Oh, that? That is only my son, nothing to worry about. ‘Ave I introduced you to Chevalier Aeon yet?”

“Uh, is your son okay?” Valentina asked

Père Donatien mopped at his forehead with a sleeve. “Bien sûr, bien sûr. All is well. Ah, like you said, I will bury the Vicomte at dawn with all proper ceremonies. Aeon, you are welcome to stay as long as you like but, of course, if you ‘ave other business…”

Aeon was looking between Père Donatien and the others with a furrowed brow. “Dorian…?

“Pas des soucis, Dorian will be just fine. You ‘ave been a great comfort, my friend. Weren’t you going to look for a job?”

Still frowning, Aeon said, “...I was...”

“What good fortune! I was looking to ‘ire someone.” Ismaël stepped forward, taking Aeon’s hand and shaking it. “You look like a capable man. A chevalier! I take it you can use the sword on your ‘ip?”

There was indeed a longsword at Aeon’s side, the sheath made of black, lacquered wood embedded with a constellation of tiny pearls.

Looking uncertain, he nodded.

“Wonderful! In that case, ‘ow would you like to earn some coin escorting my sister from ‘ere to Vallac?”

“Vallac again?” Illyan muttered. So much for their being in charge.

Aeon looked between Ismaël and Irénée. “...I could do that…” he agreed. “...I was looking to lie low for a while…”

“Bon, très bon!” Ismaël let go and fished out two gold coins, stuffing these into Aeon’s hand as he pumped it again. “We will get along very well!”

Still looking somewhat baffled, the chevalier was swept up by Ismaël and ushered towards the door. Oskar, Illyan, and Valentina followed. When all of them were on the stoop, there was another muffled cry from somewhere behind them.

“Are we really going to just ignore the way that man was keeping ‘is starving son locked in a basement?” Illyan appealed to the others.

“We’re on a deadline,” Oskar replied. “We can come back later.”

“Mister Aeon,” Valentina piped up, leaning around to stare the man straight in his eyes, “did you know they were keeping Dorian locked in that basement?”

“...Yes,” he said, firmly. Looking deeply into Valentina’s eyes, he blinked twice. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. His lips pressed together until they blanched, and his hand clenched on the pommel of his sword.

“You are a terrible liar,” she lamented.

He let out a breath. “…I know. But Donatien and Dorian were my friends…”

“Were?”

“I… thought they had died…” Aeon admitted. “...I came by to visit and Donatien was alright, but Dorian… I still don’t know. Donatien said he was ill…”

“Well, he sounded pretty upset.”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Ismaël contributed, “but we need to get Irénée out of Barovy tonight.”

“Vallac, again?” Illyan repeated, louder.

Ismaël groaned, “Anywhere, frèrot.”

“...I am hired to escort you… anywhere…?” Aeon asked Valentina.

“No, no. I’m not Irénée,” she smiled. “I’m Valentina Delarossa, her body double. This is Illyan Imbert and Oskar Hill. And Ismaël Imbert. The real Irénée is waiting for us at the château along with Sveta.”

“...And… all of us are going…?”

“To Maman,” Illyan decided. “We ‘ave to tell ‘er about Père. Then we can decide. Quickly, we are losing daylight.”

With one baffled chevalier in their midst, the group hurried back to the château. There, they gathered Irénée and Sveta. The pale woman lolled between Oskar and Aeon, now, while Ismaël took Irénée’s arm. She carried two quickly-packed satchels full of necessities for herself and her brother with her. Or, she did briefly, before her brother relieved her of both.

Before long, the call was going back up throughout the Vistani camp outside of Barovy.

“Illyan’s back! Séraphine, your chil’!”

Long before they got to her, Marie Séraphine was ready for their arrival. She rushed forward as soon as they approached the Imbert wagon, arms spread. She seized Ismaël by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to either cheek, then did the same to Valentina. Before anyone could correct her, she had both of them captured in a hug that was inescapable for all the massive height difference.

“Irénée, Ismaël, I was worried sick! Look at you two, ‘ow is it you’re grown and still growin’? Oh, I’m so glad you’re alright.” She rocked back and forth with her armful of siblings. Illyan stepped forward, awkwardly intending to extract Valentina, only to find himself pulled in as well. Quietly, from within the group huddle, Marie Séraphine asked, “Kilian?”

“I am sorry, Séraphine,” Ismaël said, into the top of her bald head. “‘E’s no longer with us.”

She drew in a deep breath through her nose. “Then ‘e’s with the ravens. C’est la vie. I am sorry for you both.” This time, each one was pulled down until she could press a kiss to their foreheads, including Illyan. Then, at last, all were freed to step back.

Valentina folded her lips in, unsure. Irénée appeared at her shoulder.

“Séraphine, it is me,” she said.

The Vistana did a double-take. “It’s…? Que diable?”

“I’m in disguise,” Valentina explained. “To protect Irénée from the Strahd guy who’s harassing her. That’s why we look so alike and nothing else.”

“Eh bien…”

“Maman,” Illyan said, “we need to get Irénée out of Barovy. Can the clan take ‘er back to Daggerford?”

Marie Séraphine hesitated. “You know Barovians can’t leave through the mists.”

“Isn’t there some way we can sneak ‘em out? I ‘eard before, some Vistani say there is a potion…”

With a look of supreme regret, Marie Séraphine explained, “That’s a grift. Vistani tell Barovians that to get money out of ‘em. The potions are just water, mon cœur. Lord Strahd is the only one who can bestow the power to leave, and if ‘e ‘as ‘is sights on Irénée…”

Illyan subsided, warmth spreading across his face. His bun danced in agitation. It was absolutely humiliating, to be discovering this in front of all his companions and his older siblings, too. For one of the first times in his life, Illyan felt ashamed to have a different culture than them. He felt ashamed to be associated with Vistani who would run a scam on the poor and the desperate.

“You wouldn’t ‘ave known that,” his mother continued. “Clan Rambeaut doesn’t run such schemes. But, Illyan, some Vistani like the way it is ‘ere. The way Lord Strahd supports ‘em, the way those without souls can’t defend themselves… We ain’t like that. You remember: Clan Rambeaut is better than that. We respect those less fortunate than us, we don’t trick ‘em.”

“Yes, Maman.”

“So that means we can’t take her out through the mists?” Oskar sought confirmation.

Marie Séraphine nodded. “Ouais. Lord Strahd don’t let anyone through but us Vistani.”

“So that means… you brought us in here to become trapped?” the tabaxi’s voice rose to a snarl.

“You decided to come, I didn’t trick you. All of you ‘ere agreed to it so don’t act like I kidnapped nobody!” The embers beneath Marie Séraphine’s scalp began to glow dull red. The air around her head wavered with heat in an invisible halo.

Irénée patted her hand. “It is alright, Séraphine. They are not accusing you, they just did not know.”

“This is the case for anyone who enters the valley?” Oskar continued to demand.

“Should be,” Marie Séraphine’s answers were now clipped.

The tabaxi whirled away from the group, struggling to contain the growl in his chest. His shoulders rose and fell with deep, deliberate breaths as he clawed for control. He was fine, for his own part. There was nothing and no one waiting for him on the other plane. His home was any wilderness with monsters he could kill for coin, which Barovy had plenty of.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

No, his anger stemmed from a personal hurt. Years of it. Years of waiting in an empty home, so sure they’d be back at any moment for him. The slow realization that they never would. That if he ever got the reunion he craved, the happy ending he longed for, it would mean they had chosen to stay where they were rather than come back for useless Oskar.

It hadn’t been a choice. His family had been trapped. All those years of hurt were burning away in clean anger.

“Sooo…” Valentina began. “That’s not an option. Any other ideas?”

“Vallac,” Ismaël said, immediately.

“D’ac! D’ac, I agree, Vallac!” Illyan burst back, throwing up their hands. “But we will stop at Clan Mercier on the way! Maybe Madame Eva will foresee a better ‘iding place!”

Ismaël did not look happy to have won. Irénée slapped him lightly on the arm. “Gentil!”

“I am nice,” he grumbled.

“Illyan, you too!”

“I will, if ‘e is.”

“Bêtises, you both…!”

“...I can escort her to Vallac…” Aeon broke in, peering out from beneath Sveta’s swooning form, seeming relieved to have an actual destination. “...It’s not far…”

“Nothing is, round ‘ere. ‘Old on.” Marie Séraphine left briefly, returning with one of the horses that pulled her wagon. It was camel-colored with fuzzy white spots across the face and hindquarters as if dusted with sugar. That dusting had spread with age into a white grizzle around the nostrils and eyes and above the hooves. The flanks were patchy with old bite marks that scarred the flesh there. It moved with a purposeful plod, muzzle drooping towards its knees as if bowing.

“Beignet is all I can spare,” she said, apologetically.

“Better than nothing,” was Oskar’s opinion.

“Ma’am, can you or anyone here remove a Vistana’s curse?” Valentina wondered.

Marie Séraphine shook her head. “Ain’t no cure for that but restorative magic. We can’t remove our own curses.”

Sveta groaned. “Otlichnyy…”

She attempted to mount Beignet herself, but even trying to move upwards felt like plunging downwards into swirling water. Sveta lost all sense of direction, only able to go limp and hope gravity got her where she needed to be. It took Oskar, Aeon, and Ismaël working together (the only three tall enough to reach) to boost her dead weight to where she could drape across the saddle. In the meantime, Illyan hurried into the wagon, emerging with a new bag of essentials in addition to their many pockets and boxes.

At last, the little patchwork family separated with another group hug and a round of kisses. This time, Irénée took over her rightful place, while Valentina watched. The sight cooled some of Oskar’s anger that still lingered. Illyan was putting on a brave front, but it was obvious to anyone he was a Maman’s boy who had never gone away from his family longer than a day trip. For all this valley was his home, he was almost as stranger to it as they were. It wasn’t like Oskar didn’t know how hard it was to lose family, or how hard it was to watch them leave.

He laid a hand on the genasi’s shoulder once they had extracted themselves from the hugs. A two-toned eye peered up, curiously.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Oskar said.

“Oh. Merci.”

“...We should go, we’re losing daylight…” Aeon urged.

“I’ll be right ‘ere,” Marie Séraphine said once more as they parted. “You come right on back if there’s any danger! Take care of each other!”

Ismaël, Irénée, and Illyan all waved until the mist swallowed Marie Séraphine and the Vistani camp behind them. Valentina and Irénée walked together, Aeon and Ismaël close behind, while Illyan led Beignet and Sveta along. Oskar walked a few yards out front, scanning the road ahead for any danger.

They passed through Barovy once more, this time going right through. On the other side of the village, the Old Savaliche Road curved in a broad loop that first led south before curling back north. The western side of Barovy had the majority of the farmland, currently barren and browned with the onset of winter. The brown stubble of corn, wheat, and barley fields patched the land between potato rows that were currently nothing more than mounded dirt. A cluster of cows snuffled through their pen, searching for grazable grass. Far away, only sometimes visible through the mist, there was the glint of the River Ivoire to the southwest. To the north, there was a wall of dark trees which formed the Savaliche Woods. Overhead, a single raven circled like a vulture.

It was into these woods that the dirt road eventually took them. The air here was damp and cold, scented with maple and oak. White, star-shaped verbena dotted the undergrowth. Squirrels rustled through the branches overhead. Altogether, it was not too unlike a forest anywhere outside of the valley. The mist wisped like delicate curls of wool around the lower branches. The main difference between the Savaliche Woods and any other was the omnipresent hush, mist and fear muffling all of the creatures who lived within.

At one point when walking, Oskar’s round ears flicked forward, alert. “Get off the road,” he growled. “Something is coming from the trees.”

Quiet and grim, the group obeyed. Illyan pulled a reluctant Beignet into the bushes just inside of the treeline, hoping that they would be enough to cover him. Ismaël plucked off his dark cloak and flung it over the horse and Sveta both, hoping to disguise their pale colorations among the dark foliage. Oskar readied his bow, standing with his back to a trunk near the road. Valentina was likewise concealed, a knife held lightly between her fingers. The Imbert siblings went down on their bellies in a line beneath a thorn bush.

Soon enough, all could hear the same thing Oskar had: slow, rhythmic hoofbeats. There was no accompanying jingle of tack, but instead a strange almost musical clatter as well as the crunch of leaves. It was clear that this rider was not traveling on the road, but through the depths of the woods themselves for some reason. From within the mist, a blue light winked into sight, growing larger by the moment.

At last, the rider stepped onto the road.

Towering above them was a massive, skeletal horse. Its bones were pure, bleached white with nothing seeming to hold them together as it moved. It kept up a steady, almost stately pace, unbothered by the underbrush parting before it. On its back was a similarly skeletal rider, the only things left of its humanity the helmet on its head and the lantern lifted in one bony hand. It was from this little iron lantern that the eerie blue glow emitted. The skeleton’s head turned very slowly, scanning from side to side as if on patrol.

Oskar’s whiskers crinkled as he inhaled deeply through his mouth. “A wandering spirit,” he reported in a low whisper. “It shouldn’t be intelligent. I doubt it will attack unless we do.”

Sure enough, even as they watched, the skeletal rider was crossing the open space of the road, making for a spot among the trees only a few yards down from their hiding place. It didn’t seem to be aware of their presence at all.

Illyan jolted in surprise, barely biting back a noise as his brother jostled his shoulder.

“What?” Illyan hissed.

“We wanted another ‘orse, didn’t we?” A strange smile played around Ismaël’s mouth, his eyes remaining fixed on the blue light of the lantern.

Illyan took a second to catch on. “You can’t be serious.”

Ismaël glanced back, smiling for real now. “It would be badass, non?”

Before Illyan could formulate a response to this foolishness, Oskar interrupted. “Let’s not invite trouble. We’re not in dire need yet.”

Ismaël subsided. Illyan, out of words, simply smacked him on the shoulder. On his other side, Irénée sighed deeply.

The skeletal rider vanished into the trees, moving past them and away until the light from its lantern was swallowed by mist and the beat of its hooves were beyond hearing. The group returned to the road in a wincing shuffle.

After twenty more minutes of uneventful walking, the group reached a crossroads. In the fork of the road, a post stood with three wooden planks nailed to it. The one pointing northwest read Vallac. The one pointing northeast read Chȇnier Falls. The last, pointing west, read Barovy. In a cleared space across from the signpost stood an old, creaking gallows. Weeds sprouted through its scaffolding, a frayed noose swaying in the slight breeze.

“Which way?” Oskar asked, surveying the sign.

“Chȇnier Falls,” Illyan answered. “It ain’t far along.” This was good news, since what little daylight Barovy saw was fading fast. Everything was painted shades of blue and black and white as they resumed their trek beneath the trees.

As they passed the gallows, Illyan glanced up.

Their own face looked back.

Illyan wasn’t aware of it, but they must have made some noise of shock or horror. The others all whirled or gathered to them, but their eyes were fixed on the horrible sight. Their own body, hanging from that noose, bloated and discolored with suffocation. Their red hair loose, their boots and jewelry gone just like any corpse left at a crossroads for looters to pick at. Their eyelids were closed but sunken, clearly with no eyeballs beneath, the sockets shredded by scavenger birds’ beaks.

Irénée ended his staring by forcibly pressing his face to her shoulder. She made soothing sounds into his ear. “Chut… chut… It can’t ‘urt you, frèrot. Just an old dead thing.”

“‘Ow can you…” say that. Illyan’s voice was strangled in their throat. An old dead thing. Is that what he was?

He’d really been trying to think of it as a dream. The others didn’t seem like they were having any trouble with that shared astral dream walk. They’d just gone to sleep and woken back up, by the sounds of it. No muss, no fuss.

For Illyan, it hadn’t been that simple.

I remember dying.

Everything felt different, now. Illyan felt different. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Aside from the obvious, anyway. His thoughts weren’t familiar anymore. His thoughts, the one thing he’d always been able to count on, slithered away from him like his leeches and came back filled with strange blood. Blood, blood, it soaked his thoughts. Once, he’d been too squeamish to slaughter chickens. His Maman or one of his older clan-sisters would come and help. Once he’d gotten a bit older, he could do it, but it always bothered him. This morning, he’d felt… mature. Grown-up at last. He slaughtered his own chickens and he didn’t feel a hint of sadness. Only a glowing pride at his own maturity.

But it wasn’t just the chickens. Illyan couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t predict his own emotional reactions to things anymore. Things he thought should bother him, didn’t. He found himself dwelling sometimes on violent thoughts and images way further or longer than he normally did, as if some warning reaction to switch tacks was no longer functioning. Some impulse, like whatever made you pull back from a hot surface, was no longer there. His thoughts and his emotions weren’t speaking to one another. He’d died and they were fighting about it, he supposed.

Illyan had grown up knowing there were some in Barovy who simply were born, lived, and died without a soul, but only now was he starting to wonder if a soul could be cracked. If it had been his soul that had died in that dream without the rest of him. If that was why his thoughts had changed.

“‘Ow can you say that?” he eventually got out. “Can’t you see it?”

The others all looked again at the source of their companion’s breakdown. It was a nameless Barovian. It was impossible to tell age or gender beneath the incredible bloating of the face, but they were dressed in a burlap smock and little else. The appearance of the body was eerie, yes, but nobody could see why it would distress Illyan this much.

“It’s just a corpse,” Valentina ventured. It wasn’t the first one she’d seen. Churches were often the front lines of health care for the common man.

Oskar inhaled deeply through his nose, whiskers flexing. “It’s not undead. It can’t move.”

“...It’s not anybody I know…” Aeon offered. In his usual soft monotone, it was hard to tell if this was a joke or not.

“What do you mean?” Illyan fought free of his sister’s embrace. “It’s me!”

Another round of glances.

“No, it isn’t,” Oskar said.

“I’m looking right at it! That’s me on that gallows!” Illyan insisted.

“Illyan, it really isn’t!” Valentina protested.

“Is not.”

“...They’re right…”

“It is not you.”

“Really.”

The confirmations flooded in, eroding Illyan’s confidence. He faltered. “It… looks like me to me. Why would it look different?”

“Is it an illusion?” Valentina wondered.

“I’ll check.” Without hesitation, Oskar swung himself onto the gallows platform. It creaked beneath his weight, but did not move. He reached out to prod the body testingly.

It dissolved beneath his finger like morning mist.

Illyan shuddered. “Didn’t like that none.”

“Why only Illyan?” Sveta asked weakly, from Beignet’s back.

“Because I’m the only one who’s died?” Illyan suggested.

Both of their siblings rounded on them with wide eyes.

“Illyan, what?”

“Died? ‘Ow?”

Illyan threw up his hands. “I didn’t mean to!”

“Did you die, or just get knocked out?” Valentina asked. “You said you died before, but I guess I just thought it was a metaphor. We all lost consciousness and woke up again. You didn’t really die-die.”

“I really die-died,” Illyan corrected. “That shitmonster knocked me for a loop and I fell in the water. I ‘eard it go over, chasing you and Oskar down, but I was ‘urt bad and I couldn’t get up. The water went down my nose and my mouth and I… I’m telling you, I died. I felt it. Then I woke up.”

“Maybe you were just scared,” Oskar suggested, not unkindly.

“Scared don’t scar.” Illyan patted his chest.

Quicker than Illyan could stop him, Ismaël was there, seizing one arm in an iron grip and the hem of their shirt in the other. Ismaël yanked the shirt up, revealing Illyan’s gray-skinned torso.

There was something very wrong with the shape of the genasi’s ribcage. It caved in on the side, a dent in the bone. There was no sign of bruising or abrasions anywhere, no broken blood vessels or swelling. The flesh covering this dent was smooth and healthy, gray and warm like the rest of him. The ribs gently expanded and contracted with each breath, the stomach below flexing with discomfort. Except for the weird shape, the organs within were working normally.

Valentina and Oskar both had the same vision, of the shambling mound’s muddy limb swiping Illyan off the gate like a cat swatting a feather. It had hit him in exactly that spot.

Ismaël stared, devastation clear on his face. It was Irénée who had to pull the shirt from his grip and smooth it back down. Her expression was little better. Eventually, the eldest regained himself, clearing his throat.

“I really can’t believe you weren’t kidding. Does it ‘urt?”

“No. Thank you.” Illyan smoothed his shirt again, waspish. “I just maybe would have preferred not to flash everybody ‘ere.”

“You flash us all the time.” Ismaël summoned a facsimile of his usual grin, reaching up to flick at Illyan’s softly-glowing bun. “‘Ey, did this go out when you died?”

“It did n…!” Illyan began to reply, blinked, and turned towards Oskar. “Did it?”

“It didn’t,” Oskar confirmed.

The dead Illyan on the gallows had still had his hair, too. Illyan nodded. “Well, there you ‘ave it.”

“I don’t know what’s ‘appened to you…” Irénée put a hand on each of her younger sibling’s cheeks, meeting their two-toned gaze gently. “...But you need to take care of yourself, Illyan.”

“Don’t let it ‘appen again,” Ismaël added, half-joking.

“That’s the plan.” Illyan shook them off. “Allons-y. The Chȇnier Pool is just ahead.”

Leaving the strangeness of the crossroads behind, the group proceeded onwards. Fifteen more minutes took them onto a stretch of road lined with trees on one side, the other opening up to a stretch of bare field until it ended at the shore. The body of water here was some size between lake and pond, less than fifty feet across at its widest point. In the space between the Old Savaliche Road and the Pool, filling up the field, was the rapidly-becoming-familiar sight of a Vistani camp.

This camp, unlike Clan Rambeaut’s, had permanent installations. A few of the wagons had additions built onto them in timber or canvas, locking the wagons in place. Next to one, a pen of pigs snorted softly while a child sat on the fence and watched them. Some of the fire pits between the wagons stood within deep, actual pits ringed with embedded stones. Wooden benches had been dragged up to the edges. Interspersed across the field were a handful of round, canvas tents. One particular tent, larger than the others, was set apart on the east side of the pool, a drooping pennant attached to its highest point. Along the shore of the pool, a line of six pure black draft horses lowered their muzzles into the water.

And, of course, Vistani were everywhere. Clan Mercier was much like Clan Rambeaut at first glance. The usual motley and proliferation of jewelry, the same cheerful air and buzzing of activity. On a closer inspection, however, these Vistani wore far more jewelry than anyone in Clan Rambeaut, to the point of absolute gaudiness. Oskar could see one Vistana with a chain running from their nose stud to their earring, then dangling down to their shoulder and capped with a huge, pointed crystal. Another wore a necklace that went from chin to pectorals in a complex web of gold studded with pearls. For another thing, nearly every Vistani in this camp that Oskar could see was a human. One single Vistana bringing a bucket of water from the pool was a tiefling. In Clan Rambeaut, though there was an obvious human majority, it hadn’t been odd to see Vistani of other races as well. Oskar supposed this population had less contact with non-human races. Marie Séraphine had mentioned that it didn’t travel out of Barovy.

By now, the sun was all but slipped beneath the horizon. Strong orange light slanted across the world, the sunset low enough that the clouds could no longer cover it. The rays reached desperately between the trees like the sun’s dying gasps. The Vistani who had been working had mostly abandoned their places in order to gather around the roaring firepits. Bowls of food were passed around as well as jugs of alcohol.

Sveta all but slithered backwards off of Beignet. Oskar stepped hurriedly forward to lift his hands, catching her around the waist as she dropped and saving her from flopping directly off of her feet like a ragdoll as soon as she landed. She left the horse to nose the grass by the side of the road peacefully and leaned on Oskar as they walked. The group approached the nearest firepit. The Vistani at the edges gave them looks, but did not speak or interfere with their approach. Most of their attention was taken up by a particular Vistana standing on a bench at the head of the fire circle. He held a clay jug loosely in one hand, its contents sloshing as he used it to gesticulate after every sentence. His voice rang across the crowd, commanding their attention.

“Listen, mecs, I’m gonna tell you about the wizard! Bout a year ago, there was a wizard come to Barovy, started talking up the people. Telling ‘em Lord Strahd was only one man, telling ‘em they could beat ‘im if they worked together. The angry and un’appy people of Barovy ‘eard ‘im and started telling each other the same! ‘E got a big group of ‘em all together and they marched on Castle Ravenloft with swords and torches! Well, Monseigneur routed ‘em all, of course. Them peasants were no match for the devil Strahd! ‘E killed ‘em one and all, and then ‘e faced the wizard who lead ‘em. They fought each other right atop a cliff outside Ravenloft. Lightning flew and wolves ‘owled! In the end, the wizard was no match for Lord Strahd either. ‘E was thrown from the cliff and fell all the way down the Chȇnier Falls.”

At this point in the story, the teller was heckled with a few razzing cries from his audience.

“Prove it!”

“Ain’t no way!”

“I never saw that!”

The storyteller took a fortifying quaff of alcohol and pointed sternly back at his accusers. “Saw it with my own eyes, me! I even went down the cliff after ‘im… to check ‘is pockets, of course!” There was a small cheer at this. “...But the wizard’s body ‘ad washed right away. Lord Strahd alone knows where it might be, now.”

One by one, the members of Illyan’s motley group became aware of the strange behavior of their newest addition. Aeon Spellblade, soft-spoken chevalier, was shaking. The hand at his hip was clenched around his sword’s pommel, the blade rattling faintly with the tremors in his hand. He stared at the storytelling Vistana with his lips pressed together in a thin, white line. As they watched, he stepped forward.

“…The wizard died…?”

The crowd of Vistani quieted somewhat. Many faces now turned towards the newcomers. The storyteller among them.

“‘E sure did, mec. Saw it myself.”

“…You were there…?”

“Sure was.”

“…So was I. I was one of those rebelling peasants. The ones you said were all killed…”

Some of the Vistani reacted as if this was a great joke, laughing smugly at the wrong-footed storyteller or booing him.

“‘E got you there!”

“What was that, Jean-Paul?”

Jean-Paul the storyteller shrugged. “Looked like all of ‘em from where I stood, but I guess I was wrong.”

“…You said the wizard went over the Chȇnier Falls…?”

“I did and ‘e did. Just up the stream from our pool.” The Vistani pointed west. “No way ‘e survived, mec. That fall is a thousand feet easy and it was lights out when ‘e went over.”

Aeon was visibly troubled by this. His lips parted as if to answer, then closed again without a sound. His eyes were clouded with memories like the white mists which covered the Barovian sky.

When it became clear that he had nothing else to say, Illyan stepped forward and cleared their throat. “Is Madame Eva around, by any chance?”

“Ah, Clan Rambeaut, welcome! Madame Eva is in ‘er tent,” Jean-Paul pointed at the largest tent standing on its own. “She’s expecting you soon-soon!”

“Merci, mec.” Illyan ushered the others ahead of them.

Madame Evangeline’s tent was lit from within by the wavering glow of candles. The flap leading into it was half-pinned back, leaving an open triangle through which the warm orange glow fell onto the shadowed ground beyond. The smell of incense greeted them long before they reached the tent. It was a sweet smoke, scented with lavender.

Valentina led the way, ducking through the tent flap. “Good evening! Madame Eva?”

A rasping voice greeted her. “Valentina, cher, entrez-vous.”

The others filed in quickly behind, crowding into the entryway. Within, the tent was a chaotic clutter of mismatched items. The contents of this tent somewhat resembled an antiques shop more than a living space. A taxidermied wolf snarled where it stood beside a glass-fronted armoire stuffed with tasseled fabric. A vanity with a silver mirror took up one area, its surface littered with cosmetics and brushes and a heavy, silver incense burner. There were cushions and furniture everywhere. Colorful stones spilled out of a velvet bag across the cushion of a chaise longue. A carved folding screen shielded what must have been a sleeping area, the design on it completely covered by dozens of dresses draped over its top.

Just within, facing the entryway, was a cloth-covered table and a wing-backed chair. In that chair was possibly the oldest woman Valentina had ever seen. Her face was as wrinkled as the sole of a man’s foot, her skin translucent and blue with age. Liver spots speckled her cheeks like freckles. Her body was wrapped in innumerable shawls that caused her to be as round as an apple, and her gray hair was pulled back by an embroidered cap. Crystals glittered from every inch of fabric, as if she had just been caught in a drizzle outside which still lingered on her clothes. The dark eyes which fixed upon Valentina, however, were unclouded and sharp as a newborn’s.

“You really must listen to your friends, my White Widow,” Madame Eva continued. “Not just any man will do, for the marriage you ‘ave in mind. Ah, mon petit corbeau, Ti-Illyan, when last I saw you, you were no bigger than a pea! ‘Ow is your Maman, cher, is she ‘olding up well?”

Illyan half-shrugged. “Well as she can be, Madame, after today’s shock.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Good evening, Ismaël le Moindre, Vicomte of Barovy.”

Ismaël looked like a deer in the headlights. “...Good evening.”

“Oskar ‘Ill, ‘ave you found any word of your parents yet? Your sister?”

The tabaxi, too, was struck dumb. His golden eye gleamed in the candlelight. “...No.”

“A pity. And your brother, Sveta Kresimir? Oh, cher, Soulange did a number on you, didn’t she? She’ll be feeling that later for sure.”

“I have… not seen brother yet. You know him?” Sveta peered up from where she was leaned against Oskar’s chest.

Madame Eva smiled, displaying a grin that was more gap than tooth. “Everyone in Barovy knows your brother, ma fille.”

“...This is unfortunate.”

That provoked an outright laugh. “Brothers are like that!”

“...Am I next…?” Aeon murmured.

He was fixed with a sharp eye. “Do you want to be? Are you not lying low, ‘oping the eyes of Strahd pass over your rebellion? ‘Ave you wondered why ‘e left only you alive?”

A pause, a swallow. “...Fair enough…”

“And last of all, Mademoiselle Imbert. What danger ‘as brought you to my tent tonight, ma belle?”

Irénée held her hands folded to her chest. “Don’t you know?”

“Indeed I do, but it’s polite to ask. I ‘ear that you are receiving unwanted attention from the Lord of the valley, yes? And you ‘ave come to Madame Eva to seek information?”

“Yes,” Irénée nodded. “Please.”

Madame Eva gestured to the small table before her. Upon the cloth surface sat a deck of cards. The backs gleamed, glossy card stock with intricate patterns of gold leaf painted on. “If one of your number would step forward, Madame Eva will read your future.”

“All of us?” Illyan asked, ironic.

“You know full well I cannot read for a Vistana. But in any case, I feel the fate of this group before me is intertwined. The fate for one will be the fate for all.”

Sveta stepped forward on unsteady legs. “I will sit.”

Valentina winced. “That’s probably for the best.”

The pale woman dropped into the much more spindly wooden chair on their side of the table. Valentina hurried to support her shoulders before she could topple out of it, since there were no arms. Despite the weakness of her body, her eyes were clear and resolute as they met Madame Eva’s over the candle on the table.

Madame Eva picked up her deck and shuffled it with careful, slow motions. Her fingers moved dexterously, for all that they looked like the knotty roots of some subterranean vegetable. The nails had been affixed with a kind of artificial claw made out of the thinnest gold filigree imaginable, gleaming as the fingers moved beneath the candlelight. With deliberation, the old Vistana placed five cards facedown on the table, starting from the left side, then tracing a diamond shape before finally laying a card at the center.

She flipped the first card on the left side of the diamond. “This card tells of history. Knowledge of the ancient will ‘elp you better understand your enemy.” The card flipped over was painted with an image of two severed heads, one with his mouth open pouring blood. An ax rested behind them. At the top was a scroll inscribed with the words The Berserker. “The Six of Swords. Find the Mad Dog’s crypt. The treasure lies within, beneath blackened bones.”

The second card to be flipped was at the top of the diamond. It looked like a woman fencing with a foil, her hair flying, her off hand showily flipping a single coin over her head. “This card tells of a powerful force for good and protection, an ‘oly symbol of great ‘ope. One of Coins—The Swashbuckler. I see the skeleton of a deadly warrior, lying on a bed of stone flanked by gargoyles.”

About the third card, on the right side of the diamond, she said, “This is a card of power and strength. It tells of a weapon of vengeance: a sword of sunlight.” When flipped, it looked like a shadowy figure with both hands raised. Beneath the palm of each rose a withered ghoul, eyes alight, arcane symbols glowing on their foreheads. It was labeled The Necromancer. “The Eight of Stars. A woman ‘angs above a roaring fire. Find ‘er, and you will find the treasure.”

The fourth card, at the bottom of the diamond, was flipped to reveal The Beast. A terrible monster clawed apart a wrought iron gate, covered in knobbly horns and screaming with a maw full of rows of teeth. “This card sheds light on one who will ‘elp you greatly in the battle against darkness. A werewolf ‘olds a secret ‘atred for your enemy. Use ‘er ‘atred to your advantage.”

Before flipping the final card, Madame Eva rested her fingers upon it, breathed in deeply, and closed her eyes. “Your enemy is a creature of darkness, whose powers are beyond mortality. This card will lead you to ‘im!” She flipped it decisively. It was titled The Darklord. The painting was of a horned creature seated upon a throne, a crown embedded in his upper horns, his face withered as if mummified. “‘E lurks in the depths of darkness, in the one place to which ‘e must return.”

Sveta looked across at Illyan “...I hope you got all that.”

At some point during the reading, the fire genasi had brought out a small pocket notepad and charcoal pencil and begun to take rapid notes. He looked over them now, half-shrugging. “Think so.”

“Madame,” Sveta returned her attention to the fortune-teller, “can I ask more questions?”

“Go on.”

“Can you see where my brother is right now?”

“Mm, no. ‘E spends most of ‘is time in the Castle Ravenloft. I cannot see in there in real-time, only in future visions. I suspect it is no great surprise to you that you and ‘e are fated to meet soon enough.”

Sveta’s annoyance manifested itself as a throbbing headache. Still, no way to confirm or deny that her worse half was in fact the devil Strahd. At this point, she might be forced to walk right up to Castle Ravenloft and just see who answered the door when she knocked.

…Well. She could only imagine her brother’s reaction, if it really was him at the door. Maybe it would be wiser to convince one of the others to knock while she stood at the back. Actually, perhaps she should give up being the first one to enter any building while they remained in the valley.

“Hey, hey, I have a question!” Valentina raised her hand, the other propping her up as she leaned over the table like an eager pupil in a classroom. “When and how am I going to get rich?”

“You seek a companion, do you?” Madame Eva grinned, the lines around her eyes growing deeper. “I think I may see something for you.” Once more, she shuffled her cards. This time, the card she drew she placed faceup on top of the card already dealt in the lowermost position. It was painted with an image of a skull floating within a glass bell, supported by five spindly legs. “The Artifact. Look for an entertaining man with a monkey. This man is more than ‘e seems.”

The display had all the effect of playing the zither for a cow. Valentina stared at the card with wide eyes, as if to absorb every clue it might hold. “And is he rich?”

“...Richer than ‘e seems as well, yes.”

“Alright! Wait for me, Monkey Man!” Valentina straightened and clenched her fists in an attitude of resolution. Madame Eva was briefly overtaken by a fit of dry chuckles that transitioned into light coughs.

“Ah, la jeunesse… Is there anything else you would know of Madame Eva?”

Ismaël cleared his throat. “Will my sœurette be safe in Vallac?”

Madame Eva’s mirth faded. “There is nowhere in this valley that is safe from Strahd. You may evade ‘is spies there for a time, but ‘e will eventually find you again. The devil Strahd will not give up easily on you, Irénée, ‘is Black Bride.”

Ismaël bit his lip in frustration, aiming an apologetic look at his sister. “Why ‘er?”

“It ‘as always been ‘er,” Madame Eva replied. “All these centuries, she ‘as been the one ‘e ‘as sought.”

“Cryptic,” Valentina noted. Her comment drew Sveta’s attention once more.

“And Valentina? You know why she and Irénée look alike? Are sisters, yes?”

“Are sisters, no!” Valentina began to protest.

Madame Eva spoke over her, gesturing broadly with one gnarled hand. The crystals sewn into her shawl’s fringed hem clinked together softly. “I cannot see beyond the mists, so Irénée’s past is unknown even to Madame Eva. I cannot say whether they are sisters of blood. ‘Owever, there are sisters of blood, and there are sisters of soul. Per’aps Valentina and Irénée are the latter.”

“Soul sisters?” Sveta made a face. There were two ways to read that, as far as she was concerned. The first was far too similar to herself and her beloathed brother. The second… “Like soulma…?”

“Don’t say it,” Valentina cut her off. “I have a Monkey Man waiting for me.”

“I am very grateful to you for your ‘elp,” Irénée said, earnestly, to Valentina. “But I am not in a frame of mind for dating right now.”

The unexpected joke cut right through Valentina’s defensiveness. She blew an amused raspberry, bringing up both hands to hide her smile. Her twinkling blue eyes met their match in Irénée’s face as both girls shared a giggle.

“Is there anything else Madame Eva might ‘elp you with?” Madame Eva asked. “We are approaching bedtime for all those over the age of four ‘undred.”

“Speak for self,” Sveta muttered.

“I would like a word alone, if possible,” Oskar said.

The others shared glances. There was a scattering of nods and noises of assent. Slowly, everyone filed out of the tent, leaving only Oskar and the old Vistana within. Illyan lingered just outside the doorway, busying himself looking at his notepad.

From within the tent, he heard Oskar’s rumbling voice. “What do you know about my family?”

“The ‘Ills were mighty slayers of monsters, once. I know they came in search of Lord Strahd many years ago.”

“Do you know where they are right now? Are they still here?”

There was a long pause, the sound of a deep inhale. “...I cannot see them.”

“So… they’re dead.” Oskar sounded grimly resigned.

“If they were dead, I could see their bodies. Alive or dead, they are somewhere ‘idden from my sight.”

“The castle?”

“That is one place. There are some ‘oly places in the valley also hidden from me. Some magic that can disrupt my visions. And, of course, I cannot see the Vistani. Any of these things may be interfering.”

“...Can you see my future? Will I find them?”

Madame Eva spoke sternly. “Oskar ‘Ill, do you need me to see the future for that? If I say you will not, will you stop looking? Is there anything in this world which could make you give up? I do not need to look forward to see that you will find them; looking at you now is enough.”

“...Right. Thank you.”

Illyan hurried to step away from the tent, stowing his notepad. The pages which he flipped in order to close it were chock full of notes not only on the reading, but separate pages titled with the names of his companions. Oskar’s page was halfway full, now.

“...camp here for the night,” Valentina was saying, when Illyan caught up.

“I brought a tent,” Irénée volunteered.

“...Me too…” Aeon said.

“We can set up in clear space by Madame Eva,” Sveta decided. “I do not like to sleep so close among strangers.”

“Good plan,” Illyan said, breezing past. “I’ll see if we can buy any more ‘orses. ‘Ey, Jean-Paul!”

The storytelling circle had mostly devolved to drinking and smoking. Jean-Paul the storyteller was still among them, and looked up at the sound of Illyan’s call. “What can I do you for, mec?”

“Any of those ‘orses for sale?” Illyan pointed at the draft horses watering from the pool. “We need about two, and a cart.”

“Well.” Jean-Paul rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “We don’t move much, Clan Mercier. I suppose we could part with a few beasts, for family. I’ll even give you a deal. ‘Ow about we call it four gold pieces and two for the cart?”

“Four each?” Illyan folded his arms. “Pas question! That’s your discount? Four total and one for the cart!”

Jean-Paul laughed. “D’ac, d’ac, five gold pieces total. Wait ‘ere, mec, I’ll get em.” He rose on unsteady legs, tottering towards the pool. Illyan watched intently, but there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with either horse which he gathered up. They were both young, glossy black geldings, each easily towering over the Vistana leading them. One had a white blaze on his muzzle, while the other did not. Both went with Jean-Paul easily, and waited while the gold exchanged hands. Illyan uncertainly took each by the simple twine bridle they wore and began to turn towards the rest of his group.

He had only gotten a step away before Jean-Paul spoke behind him. “Oh, mec, that reminds me. You got tack for them ‘orses?”

Illyan turned back, hair lashing in irritation. “No, obviously!”

Jean-Paul held up his hands. “No fuss! Just checking! We got some spares you could ‘ave.”

“‘Ow much?”

“Call it two gold for each ‘orse.”

Illyan reached into his pocket with bad grace, fishing out four more gold pieces. Once more, he turned back to his group.

This time, he got two steps away before Jean-Paul spoke. “Oh, and about shoes…”

“Alright! Alright! ‘Ow much, now?”

The smile on Jean-Paul’s face was innocent as a summer sky. “Just about one gold piece per shoe, I’d say.”

Too furious to speak, Illyan shoved the additional coins in his direction. Jean-Paul winked and took control of the bridles once more. “I’ll ‘ave a word with our farrier to get those on ‘em and to get your cart ready. They’ll be ready for you to move out in the morning. Pleasure doing business, mec!”

The gesture which Illyan made as they stormed back to the group caused all of the watching Vistani to roar with laughter. Oskar and Aeon were lingering outside of the two tents, clearly on first watch for the night. In one tent, Irénée, Valentina, and Sveta were bedding down. The bun on Illyan’s head crackled like a bonfire as they crawled into the other one, where Ismaël waited.

“We’ll be ready to get to Vallac tomorrow,” Illyan hissed.

“Bon. I sure ‘ope Madame Eva was wrong about ‘iding.”

“She won’t ‘ave to ‘ide long. Soon as we’ve tossed you two over the walls, we’re going after Strahd. I got some aggression to work out. Stupid grifting casses couilles. Stupid secret-keeping weirdos.”

“Don’t push yourself, frèrot.”

“Strahd first, then whatever was goin’ on with Père Donatien.”

“Good priorities.” A pause. “Then after that, the skeleton ‘orse?”

“What for? We got three, now.”

“Really badass.”

“Go to sleep, neuneu.”