discovered the hoofprints of their horses appearing in the middle of an otherwise empty and unmatched patch of earth, as though they had appeared out of nowhere. He maintained that is very likely what happened, but this is not so, since they obviously came from somewhere.
The shepherd reported the men as being unused to the sight of mountains and they frequently made a type of warding gesture against them. From the description of their clothing, artifacts, and attitudes one might deduce they were from a flat, grassy country, their culture primitive in their devotion to random violence and strong superstitious beliefs. Von Zarovich's vulnerability to religious faith is yet another powerful tool that could be employed against him, but Barovia's isolation has diminished that as a feasible ploy at this time. His adverse reaction is worthy of note, though I find anything to do with religion to be distasteful and can agree with his reactions.
Von Zarovich was quite right to dispose of the invaders, but he should have more closely questioned them. Perhaps he did and has simply not snared that information with me. Not wise, since the smallest detail might be able to aid me in my escape.
He had done some minor research into the nature of the Mists soon after the isolation event. He recounted one occasion of taking the obvious ploy of tying a string to a tree just outside the misty barrier and walking in, trailing the string out behind him, keeping it stretched tight so as to hold a straight path. He continued to walk, slowly playing out the line until the Mists parted. He discovered that he had emerged but a few yards from his starting point, one end of the string leading in still tied to the tree and taut, the other in his hand coming out of the Mists… and taut.
The fool then said after this entirely minor setback that he gave up in disgust for the greater part of a decade, thus losing valuable research time. He did manage to make up for the lack in some small way by scouring his land for any and all books on magic that might contain even a kernel of usable knowledge on Barovia's unique isolation.
Though that quest did increase the contents of his library, it did not substantially improve his situation. The chief result of his exploration was an extensive familiarity with the geography of his land. Not that this was so difficult a thing to master, for the country is little more than twenty-five leagues in length at its farthest points and but ten leagues in width. He knows every stone and has bolt holes from the ravaging effects of the sun everywhere, another detail not to be underestimated in any plan for his assassination.
In summation, he knows much about his land, but little about the true nature of the Mists that brought him to this pass. His chief concern with newcomers is to question them about the circumstances of their departure point and be satisfied with that information. He then quickly loses interest in them except as nourishment. I wonder if the Mists themselves have anything to do with this other apparent blind spot or if this is one of his childish deceptions.
The newcomers did get in, and if I could understand how that was accomplished, perhaps I could discover a way to get out.
End of excerpt.
CHAPTER TWO
Winter Solstice Night, 469 Barovian Calendar, Barovia
All others mark the death of the year in midsummer, when the longest day passes and the slow slide of ever- shortening days ends in midwinter when they celebrate the return of the light. Not so for me. The death of the year occurs when the longest night is done, giving me less and less time to walk in its protecting shadows.
Not that a shortage of time was a burden-eternity was before me, it seemed, but broken up into such brief increments between the sun's setting and rising that I greatly resented having to stop my studies to retreat to my crypt every few hours. Those studies consumed me completely, like the fever that had taken Tatyana nearly a quarter-century ago.
Because of it no book in my library was unread, and many I pored over again and again for weeks at a time, particularly the ones on magic. I catalogued their various ideas, trying to index everything into a recognizable pattern that could be exploited to help me escape my prison.
One portion of the pattern had to do with the occasional trespassers who entered the country at irregular intervals. As the newcomers were universally a bad lot, I used to kill them as I found them, but I'd since learned the wisdom of taking them alive so that I might closely question my prisoners on their lives beyond the Mists, trying to build a picture of the lands and peoples there. This was oftentimes easier said than done. Occasionally such trespassers spoke a similar tongue to my own-often startlingly similar-and communication was relatively easy. Other times trespassers had languages so unintelligible that I was forced to cast an appropriate spell in order to communicate even the most basic questions. By these interrogations I learned of many wonders, adding each piece of information to my index, though some of it was contradictory.
Two prisoners had arrived separately at different times, but-and this had not happened before-they were apparently from the same country. They each claimed it to be the same year as time was reckoned there, but each acknowledged a completely different liege lord ruling the place. By this I could deduce that there might be far more worlds out there than I had ever imagined, perhaps piled on top of one another in some manner that left them unaware of their nearly identical neighbors. It was intriguing to think on, though I was not quite ready to believe it yet, not until I obtained more proof than the word of two argumentative murderers, but perhaps there were multiple worlds beyond my borders. I wanted to reach those worlds, break through the Mists to the other side. Perhaps if these other worlds did indeed exist, then it was not inconceivable that in one of those worlds my dear Tatyana yet lived. The Barovia I knew had come about because of my own violent acts, the imprisoning Mists rising high and spreading far from its center at Castle Ravenloft. How then was I to reverse it and escape? Commit something unutterably altruistic and self-sacrificing and hope for the best?
I doubted it would be that simple.
Magical books were far too few, though, and none, save one, appeared to have any information in regard to my plight. The exception was the book Alek Gwilym, my long dead second-in-command, brought me that final year before everything changed. He had never approved of my studies in the Art, probably a wise foresight of his since it had later indirectly led to his death at my hands.
In that book I'd finally found what I had been searching so long for: A Spell For Obtaining the Heart's Desire. Ideal-except I wasn't far enough along in my studies to be able to read it. That had come to me when Death, summoned by my anger, frustration, and despair, made its visitation and offer, and we sealed our hellish pact. I'd gotten everything I'd wanted, but each desire had its own terrible price.
Age ceased to be a problem for me-though I often had to feed off gutter leavings and luckless peasants to stay alive. Sergei ceased to be my rival-after I had murdered him with the blade of a Ba'al Verzi assassin. And Tatyana became mine-for a few moments of bliss until she…
It is indeed true that one should be very careful with one's wishes, as they are likely to manifest themselves in a most unpleasant manner.
Since then I hadn't opened that particular book.
Common sense told me it was now no different from any of the other magic books in my possession; it had only been used as a tool to lure me into this velvet-barred cage. I was a prisoner with nothing left to offer Death. Possibly I did have one thing of value to bargain with: myself, my life, or the emptiness that was my life. I was reluctant to ask, lest I end up in a worse situation than the one I presently endured.
Was I afraid? I would be a fool not to be.
But this night, the longest in the turning of the year, when powers are afoot and endings and beginnings are all one, with trembling fingers, I carefully opened the book that had started it all. And as before, I flung it across the room with a roar of frustration.
It was unreadable. Useless. Every single page in it had gone black.
Somewhere behind me I heard that damned thing laughing as it had on the night of our bargain. I did not bother to turn, knowing there would be nothing to see. There never was. Death was very good at hiding its face from me.
Midnight drew closer, not the midnight which was marked by any clock, but the true midpoint of the year, the
