I, Strahd: The War Against Azalin (Ravenloft #19) - Page 7

542 Barovian Calendar, Barovia

Azalin elected to make the manor house his home for the duration of his stay, a decision I met with mixed feelings. On the one hand it was a place of sorrow for me, on the other, I could not have picked a better location in which to put him.

It was little more than an hour's flight from Castle Ravenloft, yet nearly half a day's journey for him by horseback along the twisting roads of the mountain – when the weather was good.

I liked the disproportion. He'd be close enough to watch, but far enough away that I could feel moderately secure in the castle from immediate danger. I would set up so many magical defenses that even if he tried a spell for disappearing from one place to appear in another he would not find it a great success.

Years before I had devised an invisible buffering wall around the castle for just that purpose to foil other, lesser mages who had had grievances with me.

When any of them tried to effect an entry into the keep, the force of their spell reflected off the buffer wall, sending them elsewhere. I heard one was lucky and ended up in Krezk on the far western border; another landed in isolated Immol. A third had the very bad fortune to reappear in the cave den of some of my mountain wolves. I only discovered this incident by accident when I happened to use that cave for daytime shelter once and found the remains of his shredded clothing and distinctive jewelry amongst the gnawed bones. My four-legged children had made quite a thorough celebration of their unexpected feast.

But for all that, I still felt only moderately secure. Azalin was cut from a different bolt of cloth than the other mages I'd faced. He would be far away in the manor, yet not nearly far enough. That would only happen by getting him out of Barovia entirely.

Because of its past tragedy the house had enjoyed an evil reputation for a very long time and most of the locals – barring that one idiot scion and his three henchmen – avoided it. The town council of Berez had never needed to approve of any new construction within a mile of the grounds, for its people found other sites more appealing. I was glad of this, wanting to keep Azalin as removed from the Barovians as was possible.

The edicts I unofficially passed down to them through Zorah Latos would make an impression, but whether it would last I did not know. Ambition can cause people to be incorrigibly half-witted at times. Sooner or later someone might put me to the test, and I would have either another addition to my larder or a head on a pike, depending on the state of my temper at the time. I could also have a political problem as well depending on the importance of the transgressor. I would just have to wait and see and let things work themselves out in my favor as they usually did.

Massive repairs to the house were required, of course. Azalin made it very clear that if he was to have any success at all in finding an escape for us he would need a properly equipped working area, or laboratory as he called it, an unfamiliar word to me, though the root word of "labor" helped to clarify its meaning.

He made no secret of his opinion that my own chambers in Castle Ravenloft were wholly inadequate to the task. If his purpose was to annoy me he did not succeed. I came to expect the worst from him at all times, therefore he was hard-pressed to surprise me with such petty complaints. Besides, I had the idea that much of his criticism was derived from some deeply hidden pang of inadequacy within. Caviling away on this point or that was probably how he made himself feel better, irksome for me to listen to, but if that was part of the price of my freedom, then so be it.

The one thing he could not find fault with was my library. In two centuries I'd amassed a respectable number of books on the Art, many of which he'd never heard, so the flow of disparaging comment stopped the moment he entered the room. His silence as he surveyed the ranks of volumes was compliment enough.

Out of necessity I gave him the run of the library. He needed all the knowledge at my disposal to help him understand the nature of the magic (or whatever it was) that brought him to Barovia. His initial interest had to do with how the Mists had come about in the beginning, though I was loath to give him the full and true story. I referred him to the public record of that night for the time being, hoping its dry wordage would encourage him to seek information from actual observation of the Mists rather than simply reading about them. It was more preferable to me that he should –  with his current superior ability in the Art – devise an escape without having to know the sad business of my Tatyana's death.

There were a few select tomes he did not come into contact with, which I hid elsewhere in the castle – like the book with the black pages Alek Gwilym had brought. Just because the thing was no longer forthcoming with information for me did not mean it would be the same for another. I was not about to take the chance. I also denied him the knowledge of the existence of my private journals.

Though they contained many important details on Barovia's history and my own magical observations, they were my personal records, holding thoughts sacred to myself that I would share with no one. Not that he noticed any of this or was ever given a hint of a chance to do so.

With a portion of the recently collected taxes to finance the project, I arranged for the hiring of workers to begin massive repairs to the manor house.

Azalin had some very specific changes to make to the structure, including the complete gutting of one wing and the use of its foundation to support a large circular tower.

The shape of it was not lost on me; the image I'd seen in Ilka's crystal ball was yet fresh in my mind. I wondered just how far in the future that event might be.

Azalin required that the tower be massively reinforced, and I first thought it was also meant to serve as a keep until a talk with the engineers and master builders cleared my suspicions. The stress points in the construction were designed to withstand force from within and keep it contained rather than assaults from without. I either had taken on an insane dreamer as a guest or he was indeed some sort of genius when it came to applied spell work.

The short summer months progressed, and the future rapidly became the present as the walls went up, course by course. By the end of autumn the tower was finished, other outside repairs were complete, the roof solid, and the walls intact. Interior modifications could proceed when the winter weather abated enough to allow the carpenters to travel. Azalin supervised much of the work himself, and I made frequent visits, presenting him with many questions about the dimensions and purpose of his design.

"The exact placement of the stones in this pattern is necessary to maintain the integrity and power of the spells," he said rather haughtily, as if I should know this fact. "Your own facilities lack this; I'm surprised you've accomplished as much as you have."

"It is not as though any of it is especially difficult for me," I murmured.

"Because the spells you have are not especially difficult."

"They tend toward action, not reaction, as would seem to be your intent with this project."

"The reaction we'll achieve here will be greater than any you've known before."

"One would hope so, considering the effort involved."

To this he gave out with a snort bordering on contempt, this implication being that what I viewed as effort, he thought of as trivial. Fortunately – and far too often – I practiced the habit of shrugging off my personal reactions to his slights, for it would seem a shame to begin a war based solely on my losing patience with his bad manners.

He had overlookedor rather left outthe fact that my kind of spell work was quite different from his own, relying less on props and cumbersome constructions and more on verbal commands to summon and manipulate power. Not that he lacked in knowledge of that particular school, this was only his grating boorishness showing.

Most of the time he was not such trying company, which was fortunate when winter set in, effectively restricting him within the castle walls as the snow drifts smothered the mountain roads for weeks at a time. Then would he – in keeping with our pact – impart to me detailed instruction in the Art. I was glad to have had the wisdom to persuade him to abide by the sacred custom of host and guest else things might have gone badly for me. In a very short while I came to see his magical skills were vastly superior to mine. Without our agreement I would have come to a swift end, for he was of a type to be bold enough to take advantage of a convenient opportunity. The rule of Barovia – and my subsequent removal as a threat – must have certainly tempted him.

Beyond that, though, he was an excellent teacher and I became his apt student.

Once past personal animosities and entrenched in the intricacies of the Art he was a transformed personality. There we found common ground based on a fascination for the successful weaving of spells. My self-taught ways had barely been adequate to the task, now did I begin to truly fulfill my potential. After a few months under his tutelage I tripled my learning, taking myself to new heights I hadn't dreamed myself capable of reaching before.

All my waking time I devoted to the practice and perfection of what he imparted, discovering as I mastered each new casting that my proficiency over the spells I already knew increased by that much more in effectiveness and surety. So far did I pursue my knowledge that more and more I delved into the realms of devising and developing new magicks. They were often based on the spells learned from him, but carrying them a few steps beyond what he gave me. He was not adverse to this and watched my work closely, but was strangely reluctant to experiment as well, even with those that he designed himself. He would pass the experiment to me to run for him.

"Why not test it yourself?" I once asked when he gave me a sheet of fine vellum, the new spell he had composed inscribed on it in gold lettering. I was to follow its instruction and see if it succeeded.

"Is it too complicated for you to learn?" he snapped back.

"Hardly, but I have never heard of any master of the Art who was so willing to give his work to another to try."

In all the dissertations in the treatises I'd read and according to the few people I'd spoken with on the subject, such deference was comparable to having someone substitute for you on your wedding night. Most spell-casters are bluntly penurious about sharing their secrets with any but their chosen apprentices and even then are careful over how much they are willing to bestow when it comes to new castings, but Azalin seemed unconcerned with such restraints.

"I am busy enough with other projects," he said. "I have taken it this far, now it is your turn to convey it to completion or to failure. Execute the spell and then report to me the results, but until then bother me not with your idle questions."

Indeed, he was extremely busy laying the groundwork for our escape, so I pushed my puzzlement and annoyance aside for the moment. After all, I too had better ways to spend my nights than to ponder all his eccentricities. As long as his peculiarities did not seem to be a threat to our balance of power I was content to hold my questions for a more propitious occasion, though more often than not I simply forgot to raise them again.

When not instructing me he spent nearly all of his time in the library poring over my books. I was uncomfortable about it, but it was necessary and one sure way of keeping an eye on him and discovering his areas of interest. I couldn't help feeling I was arming him with knowledge he could use against me, but at this point I was the only one who knew of the possibility of a future conflict.

He, as yet, did not. I hardly need mention that no hint of this ever came to his ears from my lips, and I could trust the Vistani to keep quiet about it.

Over the dark winter months I studied Azalin as he studied the books. Certainly he must have returned the favor, for he was very interested in the history of Barovia and my place within it. When he wasn't in one of his superior moods, he would ply me with questions about this point or that, always the ones not covered in the official history of Barovia, which I filled in as best as memory would allow. He was particularly interested in the blood-letting ceremony I'd performed to take possession of Castle Ravenloft along with the rest of the country.

"It is a very ancient custom," I told him in response to a question he put to me on the subject one especially chill evening.

Though unable to feel the cold, I had a great blaze going in the library fireplace to take the damp from the air, as well as add to the lighting of the chamber. We worked on opposite sides of my vast study table on the preparation of a future magical experiment. Each of us had pen, ink, and parchment at hand to make notes, and between us lay a formidable collection of bottles and jars containing an assortment of rare ingredients necessary to the spell Azalin had in mind to try.

Outside an utterly freezing wind blew steadily and strongly through the towers and battlements of the castle. I was thankful not to have to be abroad on wing or afoot in search of food, having supped in the dungeons already. Azalin was not given to any form of socializing or making idle questions for the sake of conversation, so I assumed he had some hidden purpose of his own in trying to draw me out on this and cautiously played along.

"The ritual has been modified and gentled over the centuries," I continued. "In the dim times before history was properly recorded the ceremony was said to be a much more… strenuous… observance."

"Most things were," he observed. "Our progenitors often went to great lengths to portray themselves as being an improvement over the previous order."

"That is the way of things, but only if they were vain enough to bother."

"Not so much vanity as an easier means of placating the rabble. If the new ruler is viewed as being better than what came before, then maintaining control over them is one less concern for him to deal with."

"Particularly if it's the truth. Was that the case with your own rule?"

"Mine was – is – a hereditary office, but it was true. I was looked on as a savior to the land – indeed, as an extension of the land itself. I brought order and the word of my law to the chaos I found, winning the favorable acclaim of everyone there."

"Not everyone if you were forced to flee into the Mists."

I absolutely could not resist throwing that imaginary gauntlet on the floor between us. He'd told me very little about the exact circumstances that compelled him to blindly run into the Mists seeking refuge and finding entrapment, but I knew enough to be able to prod him about it – and perhaps by his reaction learn more. That he was unpopular with at least some portion of his people I had no doubt; his personality was not such as to inspire unconditional love and loyalty even from the most simple-minded of traditionalists.

"Those traitors were an aberration," he said, all righteous disdain.

"Yet their numbers must have been great for them to dare to challenge you."

"Numbers are no match for sheer foolishness of intent. The greater the fools the greater their delusion they could truly harm me. Had I but a few more moments of time to plan a course of action, things would have gone quite differently for me. In order to gain that time I had to seek concealment in the Mists… and you know the rest."

"One's enemies are rarely accommodating to one's needs. Had they been planning this assault against you for long?"

Before answering he took time to write something onto his top sheet of parchment. "They did not precisely confide to me the workings of their plans."

"You must have had some hint. Usurping a throne, no matter how minor, is not a light task."

"I didn't rule some petty principality," he snarled. He gave a slight lift to his chin, a sneer curling the edge of his mouth, and if I read the meaning aright the implication was that Barovia was just such a place.

I held my face in a blandly amused expression, which seemed to annoy him.

Barovia might be small compared to what he had left behind, but at the moment it was the only place around, which made it the center of all existence for us both.

"If any hint of their intent had come to me earlier, I would have dealt with it then," he added, but there was a defensive tone – albeit a highly suppressed one – in his harsh voice. I had, it seemed, stung a tender spot.

"No doubt," I said. "Happily such problems don't plague me here. I can count on the loyalty of my subjects."

"Even the ones in your dungeons?"

"They forsook any privilege of my protection when they broke my law, but their crimes have to do with murder and thievery and the like, not treason. Treason is not unknown here, but it's very rare. I haven't seen a case of it in some two hundred years."

"Then you are a most fortunate ruler, that, or your people have no spirit to them."

To this blatant insult I simply smiled – or rather showed my teeth. "They have spirit enough, their blood is hearty with the very life of the land beneath them."

"And if my reading on the subject is correct, then you are yourself part of the land?"

"What do you mean?"

"The possession ceremony?" he prompted. "Does it mean they feed as much from you as you do from them?"

"Only in a philosophical sense, and I have no desire to put much effort into such musings. The ceremony was for the sake of symbol only. The meaning is to indicate that by binding my blood to the land, I willingly defend it from all invaders."

"Yes, I have seen how you have dealt with past intruders. I suppose I should count myself fortunate you did not attempt the same policy with me." Emphasis on the word "attempt." Hardly subtle of him.

"Those others were the same as the filth in my dungeons, deserving of their fate."

"But I was an exception."

"Because you chose not to violate my laws and wisely sought my protection."

Here followed a long silence on his part. I glanced up at him from tipping some spider dust into a small measuring spoon. Azalin's face was quite unreadable, yet the impression I got had to do with strongly repressed anger. The only obvious sign of his inner agitation was the way his gloved fingers clenched a bottle full of rat's blood as though to break it. With me suddenly looking on he immediately relaxed his grip and kept quite still, but he could not hide the searing fire in his red glazed eyes. Another tender spot stung.

I pretended not to notice, though it was a solid confirmation to me of something I'd long surmised, based upon how my own reaction would be were our positions reversed. I was thankful that they were not, for he would not have been so kind a host to me.

"But you were asking me about the origins of the ceremony were you not?" He made no reply. I continued. "That in which I engaged was much more restrained than past efforts, if one is to believe the early historians and earlier legends. In very ancient times a new ruler was expected to provide a much greater blood sacrifice to mark the occasion."

"Such as?" he asked after a moment, having apparently mastered himself.

"Oh, animals large and small, anything from birds to bullocks; the number varied, it all varied according to the specific culture involved or the whim of the ascending monarch. I suppose it made it convenient to the cooks, providing them with the necessary supplies of meat for a celebratory feast afterwards."

"So long as the animal in question was edible. How did human bloodletting come into it?"

"Of that I have no knowledge, but again it depended on the culture involved.

Some forms were no more than that: form, involving only a symbolic sacrifice and some play-acting. Others were much more graphic, requiring the actual taking of a life."

"Not the life of the ruler."

"Sometimes that was done."

"You jest!" Anger of a different sort from him now, and for once not aimed at me. Refreshing, that.

"It was understandably uncommon, but not unheard of. If the priests of that ruler's faith were up to the task, then they would be able to resuscitate the corpse soon after. If life was restored, then it was seen as a sign from the gods that the right person was on the throne."

His hands were steady as he poured dried beetles into a large mortar and began grinding them into dust with a pestle, but there was an abstracted air about him. It would have been interesting to find out what he was really thinking about beyond the needs of his work.

"Foolishness," he finally grunted.

"One may assume that those whose faith was somewhat questionable were careful to either make sure the priests were wholly loyal, or willing to do some pretending themselves by faking the ceremony. It was from this I rather suspect the custom grew of turning it into an act rather a genuine sacrifice."

"I would have abolished such mummery altogether."

"For you are accustomed to more enlightened behavior. Others' ancestors were often raised in a brutal world and had to abide by its brutal decrees."

"Which may be changed if one is strong enough to the task."

"Not without difficulty. The broad fact is that the bulk of the population of any one country is likely to be undereducated in anything new, therefore they cling most determinedly to the little they do know, for the unfamiliar is a threat, and the familiar – no matter how absurd we may see it to be – is their greatest comfort."

"To bow before the pressure of the ignorant is weakness."

"Not bow, employ it to one's own ends. Hence my willingness to proceed with the ceremony when I took up my rule. It was a trivial thing to me after all. A moment's stinging from the knife cut, the reciting of a few words, then a healer to knit the skin together again. But the impact of this upon the common folk was all important. To them it meant I was bound to the land as their protector for all of my life."

"But would you have been willing to sacrifice your life for the sake of possessing the land as they did of old, trusting the priests to bring you back?"

"Of course I'd have done so." Back then I would have. Now that ploy might be more difficult to carry out.

He seemed mightily surprised. "You would have been mad then!"

"Hardly. I was on the battlefield each day and subject to the same peril of sudden death as any in my army. At any time I could have been killed in the struggle to obtain the rule of Barovia, and perhaps the priests could not have brought me back – but that threat did not deter me from my goal. I would have done no less in facing the feeble requirements of political protocol."

"Your determination must have been very great."

"It still is. The land is mine." I thought he might want to debate that point, but he eschewed the opening for a slight turning in the topic.

"So though much mitigated from past barbarities of custom the cutting of your wrist and letting the blood flow onto the earth was a powerful symbol."

"Indeed, or else it would not be part of the ritual." My court at that time had been very concerned with such trivialities. Now nearly all of it was forgotten.

"Symbol is the very heart of spell work," he continued, now as if instructing a slow student, and stating that which was as familiar to me as my own skin. "Had you been casting a spell at the time it would have effectively bound you to the land."

"I was bound already by word and deed; no magic was necessary. It was but a formality, something to give work to the scribes."

"There is more to it than that. In all your time here you must surely have noticed how the weather reacts to your state of mind."

I dismissed the idea with a wave. "Mere coincidence. I rather think it is the other way around, the same as for most people."

In actuality, he did have a point. I'd long noticed how the weather often reflected my strongest emotions with storms, clear skies, or biting winds. The Mists, of course, were quite something else again. Perhaps I could have admitted to it, but I had good reason to always lead him into underestimating me.

"What about this second ceremony, though?" he asked.

"Second ceremony?"

"The one performed with the Ba'al Verzi knife."

"Where did you read of that?" That incident was not in the official record. I pretended to search the table for something, hoping my reaction was casual.

"I found it in the appendices of two different histories. One was a mere reference; the other had a more detailed account of how you foiled an assassination plot against you, but not before being wounded by the culprit's knife, then repeating the ritual words as you bled."

"He wounded me slightly with only a scratch along my ribs." Damned historians, they never do get things right.

"And the repeating of the words?"

That had been my antic humor getting the better of me. The witnesses to what had happened in the castle garden had been so wide of eye and in awe that I had given in to temptation and shocked them even more.

"What happened?" he pressed.

"I took possession of the knife – no others were willing to touch it. A moment later I cut myself on the hand by accident, forgetting how sharp the blade was."

"By accident? I do not believe in them, not when it comes to magic."

"Believe as you like." I was growing irritated at the direction he was taking.

"But it was a magical knife, and you spoke the ritual words. Perhaps far back in the darks of time they were truly magical in origin – "

"I did, and I see where you wish to go with this and concede the possibility of a connection. I think it most unlikely, though. Why should it even interest you?"

"Because if your tie to the land is too strong, then you may never be able to escape Barovia."

I met this statement with a long silence and a stony face. What is his game? was my first thought. Was he trying to prepare me for a future failure in this proposed escape? If he broke free of this plane and left me behind… I would not be able to do a damned thing to stop him. Not unless I watched him much more closely than I was already.

"Of course, there may be ways around such a tie," he added.

"If it exists."

"I have no doubt that it does. I'm thinking that if you have any valedictory ritual that we can employ, it might serve to negate the tie you established at the time, freeing you to escape."

I had a mental picture of him holding out a carrot with his right hand, and the instant I took it I would then discover the stunning effect of the stick hidden in his left. Such a ritual as he conjectured existed, but to initiate it was not a light matter.

As though hearing my very thoughts he went on. "In fact, a severance might be absolutely necessary for our success."

And weaken my hold on the land. All those questions about the country and its history made great sense if they were part of his first step toward supplanting me. But even if he had no ambition to take my place… how could I truly sever myself from Barovia? I longed to leave it and be free, but not forever. Tatyana was here. I could never abandon her, and should I perform such a separation ceremony it might also end any hope of my finding her again.

"I shall investigate the idea," I said, trying to sound indifferent. And I would, exhaustively, before making so irrevocable a decision.

"Excellent." He sounded most pleased with himself, which did nothing to negate my distrust of him.

"But I promise nothing."

He made a slight gesture of dismissal as though to belie the importance of the subject. "Now about this other incident concerning your brother and his bride – "

"A family tragedy that I would prefer not to go into," I said shortly, growing tired of his delving.

His gaunt face gave away nothing, but his mouth did twitch. He knew he had finally stung me in turn.

He repeated the dismissive gesture. "Perhaps another time, then. The night is passing and we should be at work."

So saying, he focused himself upon the task before him, blending diverse items together and noting down the details. The smugness fairly dripped from him. Yes, he'd gotten to me, but anything to do with Tatyana was none of his damned business.

He was just as closed-mouthed about his personal past, though ever eager to recount his endless magical exploits and triumphs, sometimes in exhaustive detail. He claimed to have destroyed many less knowledgeable mages, defending his actions by saying it was their own fault. They lacked his experience and talent, but were full of self-delusion about their powers, attempting to challenge him when they should have known better than to try. I took this as a not too terribly subtle warning to take care not to repeat their mistake.

He had nothing to worry about on that account, for I would not be so foolish as to attempt an open attack against him, being wise enough to seek other means should they become necessary.

He could be quite the bore about his adventures unless I could sidetrack him into topics more to my liking. Perhaps he lacked social skills, but he could also discuss magical theory for hours, which I had to admit I enjoyed greatly.

Though insufferably conceited he did know his Art. I learned much from him. The work was anything but easy, but I kept at it. With a war looming I would need formidable defenses to survive.

Gradually, under the terms of our agreement, he taught me many of the spells he knew. Like my sharing of the library, it was a necessary evil, since the process of the research and work ahead required we have an equality of knowledge. Though snappish and overbearing, he was fairly cooperative at parting with his secrets (those he chose to share), all of which I carefully recorded away in my own spell books. We both came to think – even take for granted – his sojourn in Barovia was but a temporary inconvenience, and he would be gone to distant lands soon enough, so it seemed safe for the time being.

In regard to the exchange of information I did wonder about his own studies.

Though he was always at my books, like the new spells he developed, he showed little interest in trying the spells contained in them – at least while